by Daisy Dunn
AESCHINUS. Then don’t you think that’s right?
MICIO. No, I don’t.
AESCHINUS. You don’t? And will he really take her away, father?
MICIO. Why on earth shouldn’t he?
AESCHINUS. [In a passionate outburst] It was cruel of you both, it was heartless, and if I must speak plainly, father, it was – it was – downright dishonourable!
MICIO. But why?
AESCHINUS. You ask me why? What about the unhappy man who first loved her and for all I know, poor wretch, still loves her desperately? What do you suppose he will feel when he sees her torn from his arms and carried off before his very eyes? I tell you, father, it’s a sin and a scandal!
MICIO. How do you make that out? Who promised this girl in marriage and who gave her away? Who was the bridegroom and when was the wedding? Who witnessed it? She was meant for another – why did this man take her?
AESCHINUS. Then was this girl to sit at home, at her age, waiting for a relative to turn up from heaven knows where? You could have said that, father, and stuck to it.
MICIO. Nonsense! I had come to help a friend; was I to turn against him? In any case, Aeschinus, the girl is no concern of ours. Why should we bother about them? Let us go… But what’s the matter? Why are you crying?
AESCHINUS. Father, please listen…
MICIO. [Gently] My son, I have heard the whole story; I understand, for I love you, so all you do touches my heart.
AESCHINUS. Then I’ll try to deserve your love in future all your life, father – I feel so guilty and ashamed of what I’ve done that I can’t look you in the face.
MICIO. I believe you; I know you are honourable at heart. But I worry about you and your heedless ways. What sort of a country do you think you live in? You seduced a girl you should never have touched. That was your first fault, and quite bad enough, though no more than human: honest men have done the same before you. But afterwards, tell me, did you give it a thought? Or did you look ahead at all and think what you should do and how to do it? If you were ashamed to confess to me yourself, how was I to find out? You delayed and did nothing while nine months went by. This was the greatest wrong you could do, to yourself, to that poor girl, and the child. Well: did you think you could leave everything to the gods and go on dreaming? And that she would be brought to you as a bride without your lifting a finger? I trust you are not so thoughtless in all your personal affairs. [Changing his tone, after a pause] Cheer up, you shall marry her.
AESCHINUS. What?
MICIO. I said, Cheer up.
AESCHINUS. Father, for pity’s sake, are you making fun of me now?
MICIO. No, I’m not. Why should I?
AESCHINUS. I don’t know, except that I’m so desperately anxious for this to be true that I’m afraid it isn’t.
MICIO. Go indoors, and pray the gods to help you bring home your wife. Off with you.
AESCHINUS. What? My wife? Will it be soon?
MICIO. Yes.
AESCHINUS. How soon?
MICIO. As soon as possible.
AESCHINUS. [Hugging him] Damn me, father, if I don’t love you more than my own eyes!
MICIO. [Gently disengaging himself] What, more than – her?
AESCHINUS. Well, just as much.
MICIO. [Ironically] Very kind of you.
AESCHINUS. [Suddenly remembering] But where’s that man from Miletus?
MICIO. [Airily] Lost, gone, on board his ship… Now what’s stopping you?
AESCHINUS. Father, you go, you pray to the gods. They’ll be more likely to listen to you, I know; you’re so much better than I.
MICIO. I am going in: there are preparations to be made. You be sensible and do what I say. [He goes into MICIO’s house.]
AESCHINUS. [Coming forward] What do you think of that? Is this what it means to be a father or a son? A brother or a friend couldn’t do more for me. Oh, he’s a man to love and cherish in one’s heart! Wonderful! If he can be so kind I’ll be sure never to be foolish again or do anything he doesn’t like.
PHILOCTETES
Fabulae
Hyginus
Translated by R. Scott Smith and Stephen M. Trzaskoma, 2007
In his Fabulae, the Latin writer Hyginus (64 BC–AD 17) reduced hundreds of ancient myths to a paragraph or two each. The Fabulae may lack the colour of the Greek epics and tragedies, but they provide useful overviews of their plots. The playwright Sophocles had written at length of the wretched plight of the Greek warrior Philoctetes in a tragedy in the fifth century BC. The story is set during the Trojan War and brings home just how unsympathetically the ancients looked upon physical disabilities.
When Philoctetes, the son of Poeas and Demonassa, was on the island of Lemnos, a snake bit him on his foot. This snake had been sent by Juno, who was angry at him because he was the only one who had the nerve to build a pyre for Hercules when he discarded his human body and was made immortal. In return for his service, Hercules bequeathed to him his divine arrows. But when the Achaeans could no longer put up with the foul odor that was coming from the wound, on King Agamemnon’s orders he was abandoned on Lemnos along with his divine arrows. A shepherd of King Actor named Iphimachus, the son of Dolopion, found him abandoned and took care of him. Later it was revealed to the Greeks that Troy could not be taken without Hercules’ arrows. Agamemnon then sent Ulysses and Diomedes to find him. They convinced him to let bygones be bygones and help them sack Troy, and they took him back to Troy with them.
SLAUGHTER OF THE HUSBANDS
Thebaid, Book V
Statius
Translated by William Lillington Lewis, 1767
The Aegean island of Lemnos, where Philoctetes was abandoned in the previous story, also features in the Thebaid of Statius (c. AD 45–c. 96). A Latin epic composed in the 80s or early 90s AD, the Thebaid retells the legend of the struggle of the sons of Oedipus for the throne of Thebes – dramatized some five centuries earlier by the Greek tragedian Aeschylus in his Seven Against Thebes. In Book V, Hypsipyle, daughter of the Lemnian king, tells her story to Adrastus, King of Argos. She describes how Venus took vengeance on the Lemnians for their failure to worship her by inspiring the women to murder the men. Hypsipyle alone saved her father. William Lillington Lewis’s verse translation of 1767, dedicated to Henry, Duke of Beaufort, brings out the sheer horror of the ensuing bloodbath.
Encircled by the Deep fair Lemnos lies;
Here weary Vulcan wastes his leisure Hours,
And recollects in Sleep his scatter’d Pow’rs.
The Cloud-capt Athos from his length’ning Steep
O’erlooks our Isle; his Groves o’ershade the Deep.
Each fronting Tract of Land the Thracian plows,
The Thracian, fatal to each Lemnian Spouse.
Once great in Arms and useful Arts it shone,
Fertile in Chiefs of Valour and Renown:
Not Delos, or the Samian Isle could claim
A greater Share of Riches and of Fame;
Till Heav’n to punish our Offence decreed.
Nor were we wanting to promote the Deed:
No Temples to the Queen of Love were rais’d,
Nor Incense on the sacred Altars blaz’d.
Thus sometimes Anger stings a heav’nly Mind,
And Vengeance sure, tho’ tardy, creeps behind.
From Paphos, where a hundred Altars smoke,
And love-sick Votaries her Aid invoke,
Careless of Dress and Ornament she moves,
And leaves behind her Cestus and her Doves.
The Moon had measur’d half the starry Frame,
When the fierce Goddess with the Furies came:
Far other Flames, than those of Love she bears,
And high in Air the Torch of Discord rears.
Soon as the Fiend-engendred Serpents roam,
Diffusing Terrors o’er each wrangling Dome,
The Loves, or willing, or compell’d by Force,
From guilty Lemnos bend their airy Cou
rse;
Lemnos, which dearer to her Consort stands
Than all the Cities rear’d by mortal Hands.
Thus
Urg’d by no Cause, the sullen Bridegroom fled
From blooming Beauty, and the genial Bed;
No more he pays the pleasing Debt of Love,
When conscious Cynthia rules the Realms above:
Nor Sleep surprizes with unnotic’d Pace
The clasping Pair, and strengthens their Embrace:
But Rage and Hate in every Breast arise,
And with his Torch inverted Hymen flies.
The Men (a Plea for Absence) oft complain
Of Thracian Insults, and demand the Plain:
And tho’ from Camp their Eyes with Ease command
Their native City, and the Lemnian Strand,
Tho’ Nature, oft recoiling, chides their Stay,
And their sad Children beckon them away;
Stretch’d on the Banks, they rather wish to bear
The wintry Storm, th’ Inclemencies of Air,
And listen to the hoarse-resounding Roar
Of nightly Surges, breaking on the Shore.
Our Sex in social Converse seek Relief,
And point to Thrace, the Object of their Grief:
From Morn to Night the Stream of Sorrow flows,
And Sol but sets to rise upon their Woes.
How blest was I, a Stranger then to Love,
And all the Pangs, which widow’d Matrons prove.
Now thro’ the Zenith flaming Sol had driv’n
His panting Steeds, and gain’d the middle Heav’n,
When, tho’ no gath’ring Clouds the Day controul
Thro’ Skies serene portentous Thunders roll;
And
The Caverns of the smoky God display
Thick-steaming Flames, and choak the Face of Day:
Tho’ mute each Blast, the rough Aegean roars,
And heavy Surges lash the plaintive Shores:
Then grave Polyxo thro’ the City roves,
And mourns her widow’d Bed and slighted Loves.
Mad as the Thracian Bacchanal appears,
When from afar the vocal Pipe she hears,
Evoe she cries, and shakes the solid Ground,
While ecchoing Mountains answer to the Sound.
Flush’d are her Cheeks, and haggard roll her Eyes,
She rends the desart Town with frantic Cries,
And, while the Gates resound beneath her Strokes,
To join in Aid th’ assembling Dames invokes,
Four death-devoted Babes, (sad Scene of Grief;)
Hung at her Side, and sought to give Relief.
Swift as our Leader, to Minerva’s Fane
We bend our Course, a wild disorder’d Train.
Silence enjoin’d, with Confidence arose
The daring Authoress of all our Woes;
Her better Hand a naked Dagger press’d,
And thus her Speech the wrathful Fair address’d.
Ye Lemnian Dames, dissolv’d in barren Ease,
If Venus yet retains the Pow’r to please,
If empty Marriage-Forms ye disapprove,
And hate the Name without the Joys of Love;
Hear and attend: when Fortune points the Way,
And Heav’n inspires, ’tis impious to delay:
To Vengeance rise; nor let your Sex be known
By Want of Courage, but by Form alone.
Yet Hymen’s Privilege we may regain,
And Love and genial Joys revive again,
Would each the Toil with just Division share,
And join her private with the public Care.
Three Years have past, since each deserted Bride
Has lost the sullen Partner of her Side:
No more each Debt of Love and Duty’s paid,
Nor more Lucina yields her timely Aid.
Prompted by Nature, and by Love inclin’d,
The Fishes, Birds, and Beasts increase their Kind.
Stern Danaus his Progeny could rouse
To Vengeance for the Breach of Marriage-Vows,
And, unrestrain’d with Fears, dismiss the Foe,
In Dreams of Terror, to the Shades below:
But we, a worthless, servile, heartless Train,
Had rather brook tyrannic Hymen’s Chain.
Yet should these old Examples fail to move
Your just Revenge of alienated Love;
Copy the Thracian Dame, who durst explore;
Her Spouse’s Heart, and drink the rushing Gore.
Each Doubt, and each Objection to remove,
Myself will first the guilty Labour prove.
Four Babes, the Boast and Solace of their Sire,
Shall first beneath the ruthless Sword expire:
Nor shall their Blandishments a Respite gain,
But interposing Nature plead in vain:
While yet they breath, the Author of their Birth
Shall crown the Heap, and stain the loaded Earth.
What Heroine dares thus far in Guilt engage,
And second my Design with equal Rage?
Mean while the Lemnian Fleet, in all the Pride
Of swelling Canvass, cleaves the yielding Tide.
This with pleas’d Eyes the fierce Polyxo view’d.
And thus in Height of Joy her Theme pursu’d.
When Fortune calls, what farther can detain,
And shall the Gods afford their Aid in vain.
Our Foes advance, impell’d by adverse Fate,
To stain the Sword, and glut in Death our Hate.
Late slighted Venus in a Dream appear’d,
And o’er my Head a naked Falchion rear’d.
Why waste thus the Bloom of Youth? (she said)
Arise, arise, and purge the Marriage Bed;
On me alone for other Flames rely;
Each vacant Bed will I myself supply.
The Goddess spoke, and on the Pillow laid
This same (believe me) this same vengeful Blade,
But linger on, when fair Occasion calls.
And their Ships ride in Prospect of our Walls:
At ev’ry Stroke they raise the briny Foam,
And bring, perhaps, their Thracian Consorts Home.
Her Words their Hearts with manly Rage inspire,
And spread from Breast to Breast the vengeful Fire.
Not greater Shouts the Plains of Scythia rend,
When the fierce Amazons to Fight descend,
When their stern Patron summons from afar
His Virgin-Troops, and frees th’ imprison’d War.
Nor Discord, rising from a various Choice,
Disturbs their Councils with tumultuous Voice;
But equal was their Will, the fame their Haste
To desolate, and lay each Mansion waste,
To strike the Youth, and Sire with Age opprest
To tear the wailing Infant from the Breast,
And subject to their unexcepting Rage
Each Stage of Life, and each Degree of Age.
There grew a Forest near Minerva’s Fane,
Whose gloomy Boughs obscure the subject Plain,
A steepy Mount o’erhangs the nether Glade,
And Sol is loft between the double Shade.
Here they repair, and at the Rites obscene
Attest Bellona, and the Stygian Queen.
From Acheron their Course the Furies bend,
And, uninvok’d, the Sacrifice attend.
The Paphian Goddess turns on ev’ry Side
Her Steps unknown, and fires each youthful Bride.
Spontaneous then fell Caropeia brought
Her Son (his Sex, alas, his only Fault)
A Throng of armed Priestesses surrounds,
The Victim falls beneath unnumber’d Wounds:
The Life-Blood issuing from a thousand Strokes,
With horrid Imprecations each invokes:
The recent Shade from i
ts dark Prison springs,
And haunts the Mother with encircling Wings.
Struck at the Sight, my Limbs with Horror shook,
The Blood at once my ghastly Cheeks forsook.
Thus fares the Hind, by rav’ning Wolves pursu’d,
As first she seeks the Covert of the Wood;
Much she distrusts a safe Retreat in Flight,
But more her Strength and Fortune in the Fight.
Now, now she seems to feel her seizing Foes,
And hears with Dread their Jaws eluded close.
Mean while, their Anchors dropt, the Ships restore
The Lemnian Warriors to their native Shore:
With Emulation on the Deck they stand,
Contending, who should first attain the Strand.
Far happier! had they press’d the Thracian Plain,
Or sunk beneath the Fury of the Main,
The lofty Fanes are hid in ambient Smoke,
And votive Victims grace the fatal Stroke:
But the black Flame and unsound Entrails prove
Th’ unfav’ring Purpose of the Gods above.
Late and unwilling to his watry Bed
The Sun retir’d, and veil’d his radiant Head,
Detain’d by Jove; nor ever did the Day
So long before survive his letting Ray.
The Stars awhile withheld their gleamy Light,
And sicken’d to behold the fatal Night.
While other Isles enjoy their usual Share
Of Light, and glitter with the distant Glare,
O’er guilty Lemnos gath’ring Clouds arise,
And low-hung Vapours choak the lab’ring Skies.
Lemnos, in circling Darkness lost, alone
Was to the sorrowing Mariner unknown.
Now from the finish’d Rites they bend their Way,
To drown in Wine the Labours of the Day;
And, while the sprightly Essence of the Bowl
Glows in each Vein, and opens ev’ry Soul,
With Rapture they recount their recent Toils,
Their Victories, and long-contested Spoils.
Their Wives alike indulge the genial Hour,
Studious to please, and call forth Beauty’s Pow’r;
Then Love’s soft Queen (to crown the short Repast,
And bless the Night of all their Nights the last)
Breath’d in each Husband’s Breast a fierce Desire
Of am’rous Joys that quickly must expire.
