Metamorphoses

by Ovid

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  they turned into stones—a very small difference, really.

  Pygmalion

  “Pygmalion observed how these women lived lives of sordid

  indecency, and, dismayed by the numerous defects

  of character Nature had given the feminine spirit,

  stayed as a bachelor, having no female companion.

  “During that time he created an ivory statue,

  a work of most marvelous art, and gave it a figure

  better than any living woman could boast of,

  and promptly conceived a passion for his own creation.

  You would have thought it alive, so like a real maiden

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  that only its natural modesty kept it from moving:

  art concealed artfulness. Pygmalion gazed in amazement,

  burning with love for what was in likeness a body.

  “Often he stretched forth a hand to touch his creation,

  attempting to settle the issue: was it a body,

  or was it—this he would not yet concede—a mere statue?

  He gives it kisses, and they are returned, he imagines;

  now he addresses and now he caresses it, feeling

  his fingers sink into its warm, pliant flesh, and

  fears he will leave blue bruises all over its body;

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  he seeks to win its affections with words and with presents

  pleasing to girls, such as seashells and pebbles, tame birds,

  armloads of flowers in thousands of different colors,

  lilies, bright painted balls, curious insects in amber;

  he dresses it up and puts diamond rings on its fingers,

  gives it a necklace, a lacy brassiere and pearl earrings,

  and even though all such adornments truly become her,

  she does not seem to be any less beautiful naked.

  He lays her down on a bed with a bright purple cover

  and calls her his bedmate and slips a few soft, downy pillows

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  under her head as though she were able to feel them.

  “The holiday honoring Venus has come, and all Cyprus

  turns out to celebrate; heifers with gilded horns buckle

  under the deathblow and incense soars up in thick clouds;

  having already brought his own gift to the altar,

  Pygmalion stood by and offered this fainthearted prayer:

  ‘If you in heaven are able to give us whatever

  we ask for, then I would like as my wife—’ and not daring

  to say, ‘—my ivory maiden,’ said, ‘—one like my statue!’

  Since golden Venus was present there at her altar,

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  she knew what he wanted to ask for, and as a good omen,

  three times the flames soared and leapt right up to the heavens.

  “Once home, he went straight to the replica of his sweetheart,

  threw himself down on the couch and repeatedly kissed her;

  she seemed to grow warm and so he repeated the action,

  kissing her lips and exciting her breasts with both hands.

  Aroused, the ivory softened and, losing its stiffness,

  yielded, submitting to his caress as wax softens

  when it is warmed by the sun, and handled by fingers,

  takes on many forms, and by being used, becomes useful.

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  Amazed, he rejoices, then doubts, then fears he’s mistaken,

  while again and again he touches on what he has prayed for.

  She is alive! And her veins leap under his fingers!

  “You can believe that Pygmalion offered the goddess

  his thanks in a torrent of speech, once again kissing

  those lips that were not untrue; that she felt his kisses,

  and timidly blushing, she opened her eyes to the sunlight,

  and at the same time, first looked on her lover and heaven!

  The goddess attended the wedding since she had arranged it,

  and before the ninth moon had come to its crescent, a daughter

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  was born to them—Paphos, who gave her own name to the island.

  Myrrha

  “She had a son named Cinyras, who would be regarded

  as one of the blessèd, if he had only been childless.

  I sing of dire events: depart from me, daughters,

  depart from me, fathers; or, if you find my poems charming,

  believe that I lie, believe these events never happened;

  or, if you believe that they did, then believe they were punished.

  “If Nature allows us to witness such impious misdeeds,

  then I give my solemn thanks that the Thracian people

  and the land itself are far away from those regions

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  where evil like that was begotten: let fabled Panchaea

  be rich in balsam and cinnamon, costum and frankincense,

  the sweat that drips down from the trees; let it bear incense

  and flowers of every description: it also bears myrrh, and

  too great a price was paid for that new creation.

  “Cupid himself denies that his darts ever harmed you,

  Myrrha, and swears that his torches likewise are guiltless;

  one of the three sisters, bearing a venomous hydra

  and waving a Stygian firebrand, must have inspired your passion.

  Hating a parent is wicked, but even more wicked

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  than hatred is this kind of love. Princes elected

  from far and wide desire you, Myrrha; all Asia

  sends its young men to compete for your hand in marriage:

  choose from so many just one of these men for your husband,

  so long as a certain one is not the one chosen.

  “She understood and struggled against her perversion,

  asking herself, ‘What have I begun? Where will it take me?

  May heaven and piety and the sacred rights of fathers

  restrain these unspeakable thoughts and repel my misfortune,

  if this indeed is misfortune; yet piety chooses

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  not to condemn this love outright: without distinctions

  animals copulate; it is no crime for the heifer

  to bear the weight of her father upon her own back;

  daughters are suitable wives in the kingdom of horses;

  the billy goats enter the flocks that they themselves sire,

  and birds are inseminated by those who conceive them:

  blessèd, the ones for whom such love is permitted!

  “‘Human morality gives us such stifling precepts,

  and makes indecent what Nature freely allows us!

  But people say there are nations where sons and their mothers,

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  where fathers and daughters, may marry each other, increasing

  the bonds of piety by their redoubled affections.

  Wretched am I, who hadn’t the luck to be born there,

  injured by nothing more than mischance of location!

  “‘Why do I obsess? Begone, forbidden desires;

  of course he is worthy of love—but love for a father!

  So, then, if I were not the daughter of great Cinyras,

  I would be able to have intercourse with Cinyras:

  though he is mine, he is not mine, and our nearness

  ruins me: I would be better off as a stranger.

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  “‘It would be good for me to go far away from my country,

  as long as I could escape from my wicked desires,

  for what holds me here is the passion that I have to see him,

  to touch and speak to Cinyras and give him my kisses—

  if nothing more is permitted. You impious maiden,

  what more can you imagine will ever be granted?

  Are you aware how you confuse all r
ights and relations?

  Would you be your mother’s rival? The whore of your father?

  Would you be called your son’s sister? Your brother’s own mother?

  Do you not shudder to think of the serpent-coiffed sisters

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  thrusting their bloodthirsty torches into the faces

  of the guilty wretches that those three appear to and torture?

  “‘But you, while your body is undefiled, keep your mind chaste,

  and do not break Nature’s law with incestuous pairing.

  Think what you ask for: the very act is forbidden,

  and he is devout and mindful of moral behavior—

  ah, how I wish that he had a similar madness!’

  “She spoke and Cinyras, whom an abundance of worthy

  suitors had left undecided, consulted his daughter,

  ran their names by her and asked whom she wished for a husband;

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  silent at first, she kept her eyes locked on her father,

  seething until the hot tears spilled over her eyelids;

  Cinyras, attributing this to the fears of a virgin,

  bade her cease weeping, wiped off her cheeks, and kissed her;

  Myrrha rejoiced overmuch at his gesture and answered

  that she would marry a man ‘just like you.’ Misunderstanding

  the words of his daughter, Cinyras approved them, replying,

  ‘May you be this pious always.’ Hearing that last word,

  the virgin lowers her head, self-convicted of evil.

  “Midnight: now sleep dissolves all the cares of the body;

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  Cinyras’ daughter, however, lies tossing, consumed by

  the fires of passion, repeating her prayers in a frenzy;

  now she despairs, now she’ll attempt it; now she is shamefaced,

  now eager: uncertain: What should she do now? She wavers,

  just like a tree that the axe blade has girdled completely,

  when only the last blow remains to be struck, and the woodsman

  cannot predict the direction it’s going to fall in,

  she, after so many blows to her spirit, now totters,

  now leaning in one, and now in the other, direction,

  nor is she able to find any rest from her passion

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  save but in death. Death pleases her, and she gets up,

  determined to hang herself from a beam with her girdle:

  ‘Farewell, dear Cinyras: may you understand why I do this!’

  she said, as she fitted the noose around her pale neck.

  “They say that, hearing her murmuring, her faithful old nurse

  in the next chamber arose and entered her bedroom:

  at sight of the grim preparations, she screams out, and striking

  her breasts and tearing her garments, removes the noose from

  around the girl’s neck, and then, only then, she collapses,

  and weeping, embraces her, asking her why she would do it.

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  “Myrrha remained silent, expressionless, with her eyes downcast,

  sorrowing only because her attempt was detected.

  But the woman persists, baring her flat breasts and white hair,

  and by the milk given when she was a babe in the cradle

  beseeches her to entrust her old nurse with the cause of her sorrow.

  The girl turns away with a groan; the nurse is determined

  to learn her secret, and promises not just to keep it:

  “‘Speak and allow me to aid you,’ she says, ‘for in my old age,

  I am not utterly useless: if you are dying of passion,

  my charms and herbs will restore you; if someone wishes you evil,

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  my rites will break whatever spell you are under;

  is some god wrathful? A sacrifice placates his anger.

  What else could it be? I can’t think of anything—Fortune

  favors your family, everything’s going quite smoothly,

  both of your parents are living, your mother, your father—’

  Myrrha sighed deeply, hearing her father referred to,

  but not even then did the nurse grasp the terrible evil

  in the girl’s heart, although she felt that her darling

  suffered a passion of some kind for some kind of lover.

  “Nurse was unyielding and begged her to make known her secret,

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  whatever it was, pressing the tearful girl to her bosom;

  and clasping her in an embrace that old age had enfeebled,

  she said, ‘You’re in love—I am certain! I will be zealous

  in aiding your cause, never you fear—and your father

  will be none the wiser!’

  “Myrrha in frenzy leapt up

  and threw herself onto the bed, pressing her face in the pillows:

  ‘Leave me, I beg you,’ she said. ‘Avoid my wretched dishonor;

  leave me or cease to ask me the cause of my sorrow:

  what you attempt to uncover is sinful and wicked!’

  “The old woman shuddered: extending the hands that now trembled

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  with fear and old age, she fell at the feet of her darling,

  a suppliant, coaxing her now, and now attempting to scare her;

  threatening now to disclose her attempted self-murder,

  but pledging to aid her if she confesses her passion.

  “She lifted her head with her eyes full of tears spilling over

  onto the breast of her nurse and repeatedly tried to

  speak out, but repeatedly stopped herself short of confession,

  hiding her shame-colored face in the folds of her garments,

  until she finally yielded, blurting her secret:

  ‘O mother,’ she cried, ‘so fortunate you with your husband!’

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  and said no more but groaned.

  “The nurse, who now understood it,

  felt a chill run through her veins, and her bones shook with tremor,

  and her white hair stood up in stiff bristles. She said whatever

  she could to dissuade the girl from her horrible passion,

  and even though Myrrha knew the truth of her warning,

  she had decided to die if she could not possess him.

  ‘Live, then,’ the other replied, ‘and possess your—’ Not daring

  to use the word ‘father,’ she left her sentence unfinished,

  but called upon heaven to stand by her earlier promise.

  “Now it was time for the annual feast days of Ceres;

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  the pious, and married women clad in white vestments

  thronged to the celebration, offering garlands

  of wheat as firstfruits of the season; now for nine nights

  the intimate touch of their men is considered forbidden.

  Among these matrons was Cenchreïs, wife of Cinyras,

  for her attendance during these rites was required.

  And so, while the queen’s place in his bed was left vacant,

  the overly diligent nurse came to Cinyras,

  finding him drunk, and spoke to him of a maiden

  whose passion for him was real (although her name wasn’t)

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  and praising her beauty; when asked the age of this virgin,

  she said, ‘the same age as Myrrha.’ Commanded to fetch her,

  nurse hastened home, and entering, cried to her darling,

  ‘Rejoice, my dear, we have won!’ The unlucky maiden

  could not feel joy in her heart, but only grim sorrow,

  yet still she rejoiced, so distorted were her emotions.

  “Now it is midnight, when all of creation is silent;

  high in the heavens, between the two Bears, Boötes

  had turned his wagon so that its shaft pointed downward;

  Myrrha approaches
her crime, which is fled by chaste Luna,

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  while under black clouds the stars hide their scandalized faces;

  Night lacks its usual fires; you, Icarus, covered

  your face and were followed at once by Erigone,

  whose pious love of her father merited heaven.

  “Thrice Myrrha stumbles and stops each time at the omen,

  and thrice the funereal owl sings her his poem of endings;

  nevertheless she continues, her shame lessened by shadows.

  She holds the left hand of her nurse, and gropes with the other

  blindly in darkness: now at the bedchamber’s threshold,

  and now she opens the door: and now she is led within,

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  where her knees fail her; she falters, nearly collapsing,

  her color, her blood, her spirit all flee together.

  “As she approaches the crime, her horror increases;

  regretting her boldness, she wishes to turn back, unnoticed,

  but even as she holds back, the old woman leads her

  by the hand to the high bed, where she delivers her, saying,

  ‘Take her, Cinyras—she’s yours,’ and unites the doomed couple.

  The father accepts his own offspring in his indecent

  bed and attempts to dispel the girl’s apprehensions,

  encouraging her not to be frightened of him, and

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  addressing her, as it happened, with a name befitting

  her years: he called her ‘daughter’ while she called him ‘father,’

  so the right names were attached to their impious actions.

  “Filled with the seed of her father, she left his bedchamber,

  having already conceived, in a crime against nature

  which she repeated the following night and thereafter,

  until Cinyras, impatient to see his new lover

  after so many encounters, brought a light in,

  and in the same moment discovered his crime and his daughter;

  grief left him speechless; he tore out his sword from the scabbard;

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  Myrrha sped off, and, thanks to night’s shadowy darkness,

  escaped from her death. She wandered the wide-open spaces,

  leaving Arabia, so rich in palms, and Panchaea,

  and after nine months, she came at last to Sabaea,

  where she found rest from the weariness that she suffered,

  for she could scarcely carry her womb’s heavy burden.

  “Uncertain of what she should wish for, tired of living

  but frightened of dying, she summed up her state in this prayer:

  ‘O gods, if there should be any who hear my confession,

  I do not turn away from the terrible sentence