by Longus
The rites had been accomplished and they were reclining on the grass and feasting when Philetas the herdsman came there by chance, bringing with him, as offerings to Pan, some garlands of flowers and leafy vine-branches from which bunches of grapes were suspended. Tityrus, his youngest son, a golden-haired, blue-eyed, fair and sportive lad tripped lightly behind him like a young kid. At the sight of Philetas, Daphnis and Chloe sprang from their grassy couch, assisted in crowning Pan and in suspending the vine-branches to the tree, and then made Philetas seat himself beside them and partake of the banquet. When the old men were moistened with the wine they began to talk of their youthful adventures, of the flocks which they had tended and of the marauders and pirates from whom they had escaped. One prided himself on having slain a wolf, whilst another boasted that in piping he had formerly yielded but to Pan alone. This was the boast of Philetas.
Daphnis and Chloe thereupon urgently entreated him to display his proficiency in honour of Pan, to whom they had been sacrificing, and who delighted in the melody of the pipe. The old herdsman complained that age had weakened his breath, still he consented to comply with their request, and took up Daphnis’s pipe. But this was a pipe only fit for boys, too small to admit of any great display of skill and art; and accordingly Philetas sent Tityrus to bring his own pipe from his cottage, which was about half-a-league distant. The boy threw aside his cloak, and darted off like a young roe, whilst Lamon entertained the others by relating the legend of Syrinx, the pipe, as he had heard it from a Sicilian shepherd, to whom he had given a he-goat and a pipe as the price of his tale.
“Syrinx,” he said, “was not always a pipe. Syrinx was once a virgin of beautiful form, and melodious voice. She fed her flocks, and sported with the Nymphs; and the sound of her voice was sweet as it is now. One day when Pan beheld her sporting, singing and tending her flocks, he approached her and endeavoured to entice her, promising her as an inducement that all her she-goats should bear two kids at each birth. But the maiden laughed at his suit, and replied that she could never think of taking as her lover, one who was neither man nor goat, but half of each. Then, as Pan prepared to offer violence, she fled from him, till growing weary with running, she darted among the reeds of a lake and vanished from sight. In his fury her pursuer cut down the reeds; and finding no damsel among them he realised what had happened. She had indeed turned herself into a reed. In memory of her, Pan formed this instrument. By means of wax he joined together reeds of unequal sizes as symbolical of the inequality of their love; and thus she, who had been a beautiful maiden, is now this musical pipe: her name remaining to the instrument.”
While Philetas was commending Lamon’s fable, which, he said, was more pleasing than any song, Tityrus appeared with his father’s pipe, a large instrument formed of the largest reeds, and ornamented with brass over the wax fixtures. One might have imagined it to be the very pipe whose reeds had been compacted by Pan. Philetas now rose to a sitting posture on his couch, and began to try in turn each reed of his instrument to see whether it was clear. The air passed freely through one and all; and then, with as much energy as if he had still been in the prime of youth, he blew so loud and full a note that it seemed as if a band of pipers were playing together in concert. By degrees he blew with less force and played a softer strain, running indeed through all the variations of pastoral melody. He played the tune which the oxen obey; the tune which attracts the goats, and that in which the sheep delight. The notes for the latter were sweet, those for the oxen were deep and sonorous, and those for the goats were shrill. In short, his pipe could express the tones of every pipe that is played.
Those present reposed, listening in silent ecstasy; when Dryas arose and requested Philetas to strike up a Bacchanalian strain. Philetas complied, and Dryas began the vintage dance, in which he represented the plucking of the bunches, the bringing of the baskets, the treading of the grapes, the filling of the jars, and the drinking of the new-made wine. So natural was his mimicry that those present could fancy that the wine, the press, and the jars were actually before them, and that Dryas was really drinking.
Thus did the third of the old men gain his share of praise. In his delight he gave Daphnis and Chloe a kiss, and they immediately sprang from their seats, and began a dance representative of Lamon’s legend. Daphnis assumed the character of Pan, and Chloe that of the beautiful Syrinx. Whilst he endeavoured to entice her to his embraces, she smiled in scorn at his attempts. He pursued her, running upon tiptoe, in imitation of the cloven feet of the God; whilst she feigned exhaustion as she ran, and at last hid herself in the wood, which served as a substitute for the reedy lake. Upon losing sight of her, Daphnis seized Philetas’s large pipe and breathed into it first the mournful strain of a despairing lover, then a passionate pleading strain, and finally a strain that appealed for the return of her whom he had lost.
So well did Daphnis pipe that Philetas himself was astonished, and ran and embraced the youth, and kissed him. Then, with a prayer that Daphnis might transmit the pipe to as worthy a successor, he desired him to accept it as a gift. The youth hung up his own little pipe as an offering to Pan, kissed Chloe with as much rapture as if she had really been lost and found again, and then, as night was now coming on, led his goats home to the strains of his new instrument. Chloe also conducted her sheep homeward to the music of her pipe; and the goats kept close to the sheep, as Daphnis kept close to Chloe. Thus did they enjoy each other’s company, till the night closed in; and on parting they agreed to meet at the pasture as early as possible the next morning. Indeed, as soon as the day dawned, they were in the fields. They first paid their adorations to the Nymphs, and afterwards to Pan, and then retired to their wonted seat under the beech-tree, where they played upon their pipes, and kissed and embraced each other. They lay down side by side till they bethought themselves of their meal, at which they both drank wine and milk, mixed in the same bowl.
Heated and emboldened by the juice of the grape they now engaged in an amorous strife, and swore perpetual affection and fidelity to one another. Advancing to the sacred pine, Daphnis called Pan to witness, that he would never live apart from his Chloe — no — not for the space of a single day. Then Chloe hastened to the grotto, and swore by the Nymphs that she would live and die with Daphnis. After that, in the simplicity of her heart, she required that Daphnis should bind himself by a second oath.
“Pan,” said she, “by whom you swore, is a fickle lover, on whom one can place no reliance. He loved Pitys, he loved Syrinx, he never ceases from pursuing the Epimelian Nymphs, he is always pestering the Dryads with his addresses. He who breaks his own vows will but laugh if you betray your faith to me, even should you attach yourself to more damsels than there are reeds in this pipe. Come, my dear Daphnis, you must swear by this herd and by the she-goat who suckled you, that, whilst Chloe is faithful to you, you will never desert her; and that, if she should ever fail in what she has sworn to you and the Nymphs, you will fly from her, detest her, kill her, as you would kill a wolf.”
Thereupon Daphnis, delighted at her jealous mistrust, which testified to the warmth of her affection, placed himself in the midst of his herd, and taking hold of a she-goat with one hand, and of a he-goat with the other, he swore that he would be true to Chloe, whilst she was true to him, and that if she should ever prefer another, he would slay not her but himself.
Thereat Chloe felt happy, for she believed in this oath with all the simplicity of a girl and shepherdess, who considers that sheep and goats are the fitting and peculiar deities of those that tend them.
Book 3
On the inhabitants of Mitylene hearing of the descent made by the ten galleys from Methymna, and being informed by some of the country folk how the invaders had ravaged their land and pillaged their property, they deemed such injuries insufferable, and forthwith raised a force of three thousand infantry and five hundred cavalry. This they placed under the command of one Hippasus, who had orders to proceed by land instead of embarking on board sh
ip, on account of the danger that attended a voyage in the winter season.
The general set out with his men, but he did not ravage the country of the Methymnaeans, nor did he plunder the possessions of the husbandmen and shepherds, for he deemed such petty warfare better suited to a captain of banditti, than to the leader of an army. He hastened his march towards the city itself, hoping to find the gates open and the inhabitants off their guard. But when his troops were within eleven miles of Methymna, a herald came out to them with proposals for a truce. The Methymnaeans had discovered from the prisoners they had taken that the citizens of Mitylene were ignorant of the origin of the affray, and that their own young men had given the first provocation by their insolence. Accordingly they regretted having acted so precipitately, and were desirous of restoring all their plunder, and of renewing friendly intercourse by sea and land. Although Hippasus was entrusted with full powers to act as he thought proper, he ordered the herald to proceed to Mitylene, and meanwhile pitched his camp about a mile from the enemy’s city, to wait for the answer of his fellow-citizens. In two days a messenger arrived with orders that he was to refrain from any act of hostility, to receive the restored spoil, and to return home. Having the choice between peace and war, the people of Mitylene had deemed peace to be preferable. Thus did the war between the two cities begin and end in an equally abrupt manner.
About that time the winter set in, whereat Daphnis and Chloe experienced greater concern than on account of the war. The snow fell heavily, blocking up the roads and shutting all the cottagers within doors. Torrents rushed impetuously from the mountains, the ice thickened, the trees seemed dead, and the whole face of the earth disappeared except on the brinks of fountains and margins of rivers.
No one led his flocks to pasture, or even ventured to stir from home; but, lighting their fires as soon as the cocks crowed in the morning, some employed themselves in twisting hemp, some in weaving goats’ hair, and some in making nets and snares to catch birds. At the same time they took care to supply the oxen in their stalls with straw, the goats and the sheep in their cotes with leaves, and the hogs in their styes with holm-berries and acorns.
Being confined within doors by the severity of the weather, many of the labourers and shepherds regarded this season as an interval of rest, and immediately after their morning meal they would lie down and sleep. In this wise the winter appeared to them more pleasant than the summer, the autumn, or even the spring. Daphnis and Chloe, however, cherished in their memory the pleasures of which they were now deprived, — their kisses, embraces, and happy meals together. They passed many a sleepless, sorrowing night, and looked forward to the return of spring as to a resurrection from death. They felt pained whenever chance threw in their way a scrip from which they had eaten, or some pitcher from which they had drunk, or whenever they happened to cast their eyes on a pipe, now thrown aside with neglect, but which had once been bestowed and received as a token of love. Frequently did they pray to the Nymphs and to Pan, to deliver them from their troubles, and once more to let the sun shine upon them and their flocks; and meantime they sought to devise some scheme by which they might obtain a sight of one another. Chloe unaided could contrive no plan, nor contriving one could carry it to success, for her reputed mother was always seated near her, teaching her to card wool and to turn the spindle, and talking to her of marriage. Daphnis, however, had a more inventive mind and more leisure than the maid, and devised the following scheme for procuring an interview.
Two lofty myrtle trees and an ivy grew in front of Dryas’s cottage, close to the wall of the courtyard. The ivy grew between the myrtles, spreading its sprays out like a vine, and forming an arbour by intermingling its leaves with those of the two trees. The berries hung down in thick clusters and were as large as grapes. For lack of food elsewhere, blackbirds, thrushes, starlings, wood-pigeons, larks, and a variety of other birds that live on berries came hither in search of sustenance, and sheltered themselves in the arbour. Now, Daphnis, under pretence of going to catch some of these birds, quitted his home — filling his scrip with honeyed cakes and carrying plenty of birdlime and snares, to remove all suspicion of his real design. The distance was little more than a mile, but the frost and the snow, which had not yet melted, would have rendered the road impassable, were it not that Love traverses all distances and passes through fire and water, and even Scythian snows. Thus Daphnis soon arrived at the cottage, shook the snow from his feet, set his snares, spread some birdlime, and seated himself in the arbour watching the birds, but thinking of Chloe. So many birds were soon caught that he was fully employed in collecting, killing and plucking them. Meantime, not a man, not a damsel, not even a fowl came out of the cottage; the whole family were snugly shut up, gathered around the fire. Daphnis then began to think that he had come at an unlucky time, and that he would not see anyone, unless he found some pretext for knocking at the door.
“But what excuse,” he soliloquised, “can I possibly make? What pretext would appear most probable? If I say I want a light to kindle our fire, they will tell me that I have nearer neighbours. If I ask for something to eat, they will reply, ‘Your scrip is full of victuals.’ If I ask for some wine they will say, ‘You but lately got in the vintage.’ Suppose I assert that a wolf has been pursuing me? But where are the traces of his paws? If I say that I came to snare birds they may reply, ‘Then why not return home if you have caught enough? ‘Shall I confess that I came to see Chloe? Ah! Who can venture to make so bold an avowal to a father and mother? There is not one of my excuses that is not open to suspicion. So it is best to retire in silence. Since it seems decreed by the Fates that I shall not see my Chloe this winter, I must wait patiently till the spring.”
Having indulged in these thoughts he took up his game, and was preparing to depart, when, as if Love took compassion on him, the following occurrence came to pass.
Dryas and his family had spread their table, the portions of meat were distributed, a slice of bread was laid for each, and the goblet was mixed, when one of the sheep-dogs, having watched his opportunity, and finding that no one was observing him, seized a piece of the meat, and escaped out of the house. The stolen meat was the portion of Dryas himself, who forthwith snatched up a club, and pursued the thief, as the dog himself would have pursued a hare. Daphnis had already thrown the birds over his shoulder, and was hurrying away, when Dryas espied him. At the sight of Daphnis he forgot both the meat and the dog, and calling out, “God keep thee, my son!” he ran to the youth, embraced him, took him by the hand, and led him into the house. When the lovers saw each other, they were very near sinking to the ground. They contrived, however, to support themselves, whilst they saluted and clung together: indeed this embrace served them as a stay and prevented them from falling.
Having thus, contrary to expectation, both seen and kissed his Chloe, Daphnis drew near to the fire, and sat down. Then taking the woodpigeons and thrushes from his shoulder he threw them upon the table, and told the family that weary of so long and tedious a confinement at home, he had eagerly set out in pursuit of sport, and had caught the birds with snares and bird-lime, when they came in search of the myrtle and ivy berries. The family praised his activity, declaring that he was a second Apollo, whose aim nothing could escape, and they urged him to eat some of the meat, which the dog had not stolen; at the same time desiring Chloe to pour them out some wine. She gladly complied, and handed the goblet to all the others before presenting it to Daphnis, with whom she pretended to be vexed, inasmuch that after coming to the arbour he had purposed returning home without asking to see her. However, before she held the goblet out to him, she sipped a little from it; and then when she presented it to the youth, he, although extremely thirsty, drank very slowly in order to prolong his pleasure.
The table having been soon cleared of the fragments of bread and meat, the whole company drew close to the fire, and began to inquire after Myrtale and Lamon, who were deemed fortunate in having such an excellent staff for their old age.
Daphnis was delighted at hearing these commendations bestowed upon him in the presence of Chloe, and when her parents insisted upon his remaining with them till the next day, when they intended to sacrifice to Bacchus, he could have adored them in place of the deity. He produced the cakes from his scrip and gave them with the birds, which he had caught, that they might be prepared for supper. A second goblet was mixed; and fresh firing was laid on. Night soon fell and they sat down to another hearty meal, after which they again closed around the fireside, and told tales, and sang songs until retiring to rest. Chloe slept with her mother, and Daphnis with Dryas. Chloe’s one thought during the night was that she should see Daphnis the next morning; and Daphnis experienced a vain satisfaction at sleeping with Chloe’s father, whom he more than once kissed and embraced, imagining in his dreams that he was embracing the maiden herself.
When the day broke, the cold was intense, and the sharp north wind was parching everything. Dryas and his family arose and, having sacrificed a yearling ram to Bacchus, lighted a large fire to boil the meat. Whilst Nape made the bread, and Dryas attended to the meat, Daphnis and Chloe retired to the arbour, where they fixed snares and spread birdlime, and again caught a number of birds whilst exchanging kisses and delightful converse.
“Naught but the hope of seeing you brought me here, my Chloe,” said the youth. “I know it, my dear Daphnis.” “It is solely on your account that these poor birds perish. What place have I in your affections? Perhaps you had forgotten me.”
“No! my Daphnis, I still cherish the remembrance of you. I swear it by the Nymphs whom I invoked in the grotto whither we will again repair together as soon as the snow shall have melted.”
“Ah, Chloe! The snow lies so thick, I fear I shall melt away before it is gone.”
“Do not despair, Daphnis, the sun is very warm.”
