35. Seeing that Menelaus was greatly dejected at the memory of his sorrows, and that Clinias too was secretly weeping when he recalled Charicles, I was anxious to banish their grief, and embarked upon a discussion which would divert the mind by a love-interest. Leucippe was not present, but was asleep in the ship’s hold. I remarked to them with a smile, “How much more fortunate than I is Clinias: he was doubtless about to declaim against women, as is his wont, and now he can speak with the greater freedom, because he has found another that shares his ideas in love. I know not how it is that this affection for youths is now so fashionable.”
“Why,” said Menelaus, “is not the one sort much preferable to the other? Youths have a much simpler nature than women, and their beauty is a keener stimulant to delight.”
“How keener,” said I, “considering that it has no sooner blossomed than it is gone, giving the adorer no opportunity of enjoying it? It is like the draught of Tantalus; often in the very act of drinking it disappears, and the lover must retire thirsty, and that which is actually being drunk is whisked away before the drinker has had his fill. Never can the lover leave the object of his affection with unalloyed delight; it always leaves him thirsty still.”
36. “You know not, Clitophon,” said Menelaus, “the sum of all pleasure: the unsatisfied is the most desirable of all. The longer a thing lasts, the more likely is it to cloy by satiety; that which is constantly being ravished away from us is ever new and always at its prime — delight cannot grow old and the shorter its time the greater is its intensity increased in desire. This is why the rose is of all flowers the most beautiful, because its beauty is so fleeting. I hold that there are two different kinds of beauty conversant among men, the one heavenly, the other vulgar [presided over by their respective goddesses]; the heavenly sort chafes at being fettered by its mortal habitation and is ever seeking to hurry back again to its heavenly home, while the vulgar kind is diffused on our earth below and stays long in association with human bodies. If one may quote a poet as a witness of the flight of beauty to heaven, listen to Homer, who tells how The gods to be Jove’s cup-bearer in heaven him (Ganymede. Iliad, xx. 234.) did take, To dwell immortal there with them, all for his beauty’s sake.
But no woman ever went up to heaven by reason of her beauty — yes, Zeus had dealings with women too — but the fate of Alcmene (The wife of Amphitryon, in whose semblance Zeus visited her and begat Heracles.) was sorrow and exile, of Danae (The daughter of Acrisius, visited by Zeus in the form of a shower of gold. Her father in anger put her and her baby (Perseus) into a chest or ark and sent them adrift at sea; they finally arrived at the island of Seriphus.) an ark and the sea, while Semele (The daughter of Cadmus, who foolishly prayed that Zeus might visit her as he visited Hera. He came therefore with fire and lightning, by which she was destroyed; but her offspring was saved, the god Dionysus.) became food for fire. But if his affections fall upon this Phrygian youth, he takes him to heaven to be with him and to pour his nectar for him; and she (Hebe.) whose was formerly this duty, was deprived of the honour — she, I fancy, was a woman.”
37. Here I interrupted him. “Woman’s beauty,” said I, “seems the more heavenly of the two, because it does not rapidly fade; the incorruptible is not far from the divine, while that which is ever changing and corruptible (in which it resembles our poor mortality) is not heavenly but vulgar. Zeus was fired with a Phrygian stripling; true, and he took his Phrygian up to heaven; but women’s beauty actually brought Zeus down from heaven. For a woman Zeus once lowed as a bull; for a woman he danced the satyr’s dance; for another woman he changed himself into gold. Let Ganymede pour out the wine; but let Hera drink with the gods, so that a woman may have a youth to serve her. I am even sorry for him in the manner of his assumption — a savage bird swooped down upon him, and when he had been seized by it he was placed in an ignominious position, looking like one crucified. Can one imagine a viler sight than a youth hanging from a beast’s talons? But Semele was caught up to heaven — not by a savage bird, but by fire. It is no matter for surprise that any should ascend to heaven through fire: that is how Hercules ascended. You laugh at Danae’s ark, but you say nothing of Perseus. (Danae’s hero son — a worthy scion of Zeus.) As for Alcmene, this compliment alone is enough for her, that for her sake Zeus stole away three whole courses of the sun. (“Tam libens cum ea concubuit, unum diem usurparet, duas noctes congeminaret, ita lit Alcumena tam longam noctein admiraretur.” — Hyginus, Fabulae, 29.) But it is time to leave mythology and to talk of the delights of reality, though here I am but a novice; I have only had the society of women to whom love is a profession; perhaps somebody else who has been more deeply initiated might have more to say; but I will make an attempt, though my experience has been so small. Mulieribus ergo lubricum corpus in concubitu, mollia labra ad osculationes, quare et in amplexu brachiorum suorum et in teneritudine carnium corpus suum praebet, quod et juxta amautem jaceus voluptatem circumfundit: oscula autem tanquam sigilla labris ejus imprimit, artificiose enim osculatur et de industria suavius osculum facit. Non labris enim tantum osculatur, sed etiam dentibus convenit et circa os amantis pascitur et basiis suis mordet; cujus et papilla tacta propriam voluptatem affert. In summo vero Veneris discrimine bacchatur voluptate concitata, inhiat dum basiat, et furit; coeunt interea inter se linguae et invicem, quoad licet, osculari volunt:
majorem autem efficis voluptatem ore ad oscula aperto. Tunc Veneris ad ipsum culmen anhelat propter ardentem voluptatem, natura ipsius cogente, mulier; cujus anhelitus cum amatorio spiritu usque ad labia oris surgens, vaganti occurrit osculo et intus descendere desideranti; quod reversum et post anhelitus mixtionem subsequitur et cor vulnerat. Cor vero cum osculo turbatur, subsalit; et nisi ad ipsum corpus esset religatum, secutum per talia oscula sese in altum ferret. Puerorum contra minime instructa oscula, carens arte concubitus, tarda Venus; in iis denique nihil est voluptatis.”
38. Tunc Menelaus: “At enim tu mihi videris,” inquit, “tiro minime sed inveteratus in rebus Veneriis esse, quippe qui tantas mulierum industrias nobis narraveris; nunc contra et res pueriles audi. Apud mulieres omnia fuco illita sunt, et verba et facta, quarum si qua videtur pulchra, nihil est nisi pigmentorum artificiosa colluvies; illius pulchritudo aut murrae aut capillorum tinctorum aut fucorum est: — quibus dolis mulierem si privas omnibus, similis graculo est pennis, qualiter in fabula, denudato. At pulchritudo puerilis non madet olenti murra neque odoribus fallacibus et sui alienis; sudor vero puerilis suavius olet quam omnia mulierum unguenta. Necnon multo ante ipsum concubitum licet pueris in gymnasio occurrere, et palam amplecti, et tales amplexus verecundia non afficiuntur; neque ipsam rem Veneream nimium molleficant lubricae carnes, sed corpus corpori resistit et de voluptate invicem contendit. Oscula vero arte muliebri carent, neque in labris dolos meretricios congerit puer; sed ut novit osculatur, ut basia non sint artis sed naturae: imago basii puerilis, si nectar concretum esset et labrum factum; talia habuisses basia. Osculans denique puerum nunquam satiareris: sed quo magis implereris, eo etiam osculari sitires, neque os ab ore detraheres dum prae ipsa voluptate oscula refugeres.” (p. 123, mention may also be made of a medieval example, the “Ganymede and Helen” (Zeitschrift far Deutsches Alterthum, xviii p. 124), and, in Oriental literature, Arabian Nights, 419 sqq. The curious may find a full investigation of our author’s sources for this dialogue by Friedrich Wilhelm, in vol l vii of the Rheinisches Museum.)
BOOK III
1. ON the third day of our voyage, the perfect calm we had hitherto experienced was suddenly overcast by dark clouds and the daylight disappeared, a wind blew upwards from the sea full in the ship’s face, and the helmsman bade the sailyard be slewed round. The sailors hastened to effect this, bunching up half the sail upon the yard by main force, for the increasing violence of the gusts obstructed their efforts; for the rest, they kept enough of the full spread to make the wind help them to tack. As a result of this, the ship lay on her side, one bulwark raised upward into the air and the deck a steep slope, so that
most of us thought that she must heel over when the gale next struck us. We transferred ourselves therefore to that part of the boat which was highest out of water, in order to lighten that part which was down in the sea, and so if possible, by our own added weight depressing the former, to bring the whole again to a level; but all was of no avail: the high part of the deck, far from being weighed down by our presence, merely lifted us higher still away from the water. For some time we thus ineffectually struggled to bring to an equilibrium the vessel thus balanced on the waves: but the wind suddenly shifted to the other side so that the ship was almost sent under water, and instantly that part of the boat which had been down in the waves was now violently thrown up, and the part formerly raised on high was crushed down into the waters. Then arose a great wailing from the ship, and all changed their station, running, with shouts and cries, to the position in which they had been before they moved; and the same thing happening a third and a fourth, nay, many times, we thus imitated the motion of the ship; and even before we had finished one transmigration, the necessity for a second and contrary one was upon us.
2. The whole day long then we carried our baggage up and down the ship, running, as it were, a long distance race a thousand times, with the expectation of death ever before our eyes. Nor did it seem far off, for about mid-day or a little after the sun totally disappeared, and we could see one another no better than by moonlight. Lightning flashed from the sky, the heaven bellowed with thunder so that the whole air rang with the din; this was answered from below by the turmoil of the waves, and between sky and sea whistled the noise of contending winds. In this manner the air seemed to be turned into one vast trumpet; the ropes beat against the sail, creaking as they crossed one another, and there was every reason to fear for the broken planks of the ship that the rivets would no longer keep together and that the whole would fall asunder. The wicker bulwarks were actually under water the whole ship round. For much rain fell too, washing over the decks, so we crept under the wattlings as if into a cave, and there we waited, trusting to luck but giving up all hope. Great waves came from every quarter; some from the bows, some dashed against one another at the ship’s stern. The vessel rose first as the wave heaved beneath it, and then sank deep as it retired and sank low down; the billows were now like mountains, now like valleys. More terrifying still were those which struck us athwart from either side. For the water rose up, rolled over the bulwarks, and deluged the whole vessel; even from a distance the wave could be seen lifting its head on high so as almost to touch the clouds, and threatening the ship, as large as [a mountain]; and when one saw it as it approached nearer, one would think that it would swallow it up altogether. It was a fight between wind and water: we could never keep still in one spot owing to the shocks imparted to the vessel. A confused noise of all kinds arose — roaring of waves, whistling of wind, shrieking of women, shouting of men, the calling of the sailors’ orders; all was full of wailing and lamentation. Then the helmsman ordered the jettison of the cargo. No difference was made between gold and silver and the cheapest stuff, but we hurled all alike from the ship’s sides; many of the merchants themselves seized their goods, on which all their hopes were centred, and hastened to pitch them overboard. Now the ship was stripped of all its contents; but the storm was still unabated.
3. At length the helmsman threw up his task. He dropped the steering oars from his hands and left the ship to the mercy of the sea; he then had the jolly-boat got ready, and bidding the sailors follow him, was the first to descend the ladder and enter her. They jumped in close after him, and then was confusion worse confounded and a hand-to-hand fight ensued. They who were already in the boat began to cut the rope which held her to the ship, while all the passengers made preparations to jump where they saw the helmsman holding on to the rope; the boat’s crew objected to this, and, being armed with axes and swords, threatened to attack any who leaped in; many, on the other hand, of those still on the ship armed themselves as best they might, one picking up a piece of an old oar, another taking a fragment of one of the ship’s benches, and so began to defend themselves. At sea might is right, and there now followed a novel kind of sea-fight; those already in the jolly-boat, fearing she would be swamped by the number of those desiring to enter her, struck at them as they jumped with their axes and swords, while the passengers returned the blows as they jumped with planks and oars. Some of them merely touched the edge of the boat and slipped into the sea; some effected their entry and were now struggling with the crew already there. Every law of friendship and pity (αiδώs, Latin pittas. The dutiful affection felt by children to their parents, or between relations generally; or the respect due from a younger to an older man.) disappeared, and each man, regarding only his own safety, utterly disregarded all feelings of kindliness towards his neighbours. Great dangers do away with all bonds, even the most dear.
4. At that point one of the passengers, a sturdy young man, seized the cable and drew up the jolly-boat until it was quite close to the ship’s side, and everybody made ready to jump into it directly it should be close enough. Two or three were successful, though they effected their object not unscathed, and many made the attempt to leap only to fall from the ship into the sea; for the crew cut the rope with an axe, cast the boat off, and set sail wherever the wind was driving them, while the passengers did their best to sink it. Our vessel, after much plunging and tossing upon the waves, drove unexpectedly on to a rock hidden under water, and was utterly broken in pieces; as she slipped off’ the rock the mast fell on one side, breaking up part of her and carrying the rest beneath the water. Those who instantly perished, their lungs full of salt water, experienced the most tolerable fate in our general evil plight, because they were not kept in suspense by the fear of death. For a slow death at sea lets a man suffer all its pangs before the actual moment of dissolution. The eye, satiated with the waste expanse of the waters, prolongs the agony of fear, so that perishing in these circumstances is far more wretched than in any other: the terror of such a death is great in proportion to the size of the ocean. Some tried to swim, and were killed by being dashed by the waves on to the rock: many others fell upon broken pieces of wood and were spitted upon them like fishes; others were swimming about already half dead.
5. The ship thus broken up, some favouring deity kept whole for us that part of the prow on which Leucippe and I were seated astride, and we floated as the sea carried us. Menelaus and Satyrus, together with some others of the passengers, happened upon the mast, and swam, using it as a support. Close by we saw Clinias swimming with his hands on the yardarm, and we heard him cry; “Keep hold of your piece of wood, Clitophon.” As he spoke, a wave overwhelmed him from behind. We cried out at the sight, and at the same time the wave bore down upon us too; but by good fortune when it came near it only heaved us up and passed by beneath us, and we once again saw the spar lifted up on high on the crest of the billow, with Clinias upon it. “Have-pity,” I wailed and cried, “Lord Poseidon, and make a truce with us, the remnants of your shipwreck. We have already undergone many deaths through fear; if you mean to kill us, do not put off longer our end; let one wave overwhelm us. If our fate is to become food for sea-beasts, let one fish destroy us and one maw swallow us, that even in the fish we may have a common tomb.” It was but a short time after I had uttered this prayer that the wind dropped and the savagery of the waves subsided; the sea was full of the corpses of the dead; and the tide rapidly brought Menelaus and his servants to land. (This land was the coast of Egypt, then wholly infested by robbers.) We, towards evening, chanced to come ashore at Pelusium; in joy at our safe arrival we first gave thanks to the gods and then bewailed Clinias and Satyrus, thinking that they had both perished.
6. At Pelusium is the holy statue of Zeus of Mount Casius; in it the god is represented so young that he seems more like Apollo. He has one hand stretched out and holds a pomegranate in it, and this pomegranate has a mystical signification. After adoring the deity and asking for an oracle about Clinias
and Satyrus (we were told that the god was willing to give prophetic answers) we went round the temple, and near the postern door we saw a double picture, signed by the artist; it had been painted by Evanthes, and represented first Andromeda, then Prometheus, both of them in chains — and this was the reason, I suppose, why the artist had associated the two subjects. In other respects too the two works were akin. In both, the chains were attached to a rock, and in both, beasts were the torturers (Lit. “executioners.”) — his from the air, and hers from the sea; their deliverers were Argives of the same (Perseus was the great-grandfather of Hercules. The former’s son, Electryon, was the father of the latter’s mother, Alcmena.) family, his Hercules and hers Perseus; the one shooting Zeus’s eagle and the other contending with the sea-beast of Posidon. The former was represented aiming with his arrow on land, the latter suspended in the air on his wings.
Complete Works of Achilles Tatius Page 6
