The land that lies between Boeotia
and Oeta’s fields is Phocis—fertile land
as long as it was land, but now a mass
the sudden surge had changed into a vast
sea-tract. There, Mount Parnassus lifts, star-high,
its two steep peaks that tower over clouds.
And here (the only place the flood had spared)
Deucalion and his wife, in their small skiff,
had landed. First, they prayed unto the nymphs
of the Corycian cave, the mountain gods,
and Themis—she, the goddess who foretells
the future, in those early days, was still
the keeper of the Delphic oracle.
One could not point to any better man,
a man with deeper love for justice, than
Deucalion; and of all women, none
matched Pyrrha in devotion to the gods.
And when Jove saw the flooded world—by now
a stagnant swamp—and saw that just one man
was left of those who had been myriads,
that but one woman had escaped the waves—
two beings who were pious, innocent—
he rent the clouds, then sent out Boreas
to scatter them; the sky could see again
the land, and land again could see the heavens.
Latin [307–29]
The fury of the sea subsided, too.
And Neptune set aside his three-pronged weapon;
the god of waters pacified the waves
and summoned sea-green Triton, bidding him
to blow on his resounding conch—a sign
for seas and streams to end the flood, retreat.
And Triton, as he rose up from the deep—
his shoulders shell-encrusted—held his conch:
a twisting hollow form that, starting from
a point, then spiraled up to a wide whorl—
the conch that, when it’s sounded in midsea,
reechoes on the shores to west and east.
Now, too, when Triton drew it to his lips—
wet with sea brine that dripped from his soaked beard—
and, just as Neptune ordered, blew retreat,
the sound reached all the waters of the sea
and those that flow on land—and having heard
his call, they all obeyed: they curbed their course.
The rivers fall back, and the hills emerge;
the sea has shores once more; the riverbeds,
however full their flow, now keep it channeled;
the land increases as the waters ebb;
the soil can now be seen; and then, at last,
after that long night, trees show their bare tops
with traces of the flood—slime on their boughs.
The world had been restored to what it was.
But when Deucalion saw earth so forlorn,
a wasteland where deep silence ruled, a bare
and desolate expanse, he shed sad tears
and said to Pyrrha:
“O my wife, dear sister,
the only woman left on earth, the one
to whom I first was linked as a dear cousin
and then as husband, now we are together
in danger: all the lands both east and west
are empty now—and we alone are left:
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the sea has taken all the rest. And we
may not survive: we have no certainties—
that vision of the clouds still haunts my mind.
How would you feel, sad heart, if you’d survived
the fatal flood, but I had lost my life?
How would you, all alone, have borne the fear?
With whom would you—alone—have shared your tears?
For if the sea had swallowed you, dear wife,
I, too—believe me—would have followed you
and let the deluge drown me, too. Would I
were master of the arts my father plied;
then I, son of Prometheus, would mold
and so renew mankind—its many tribes.
But now the race of men has been reduced—
so did the gods decree—to me and you:
We are the last exemplars.”
So he said;
together they shed tears and then resolved
to plead with the celestial power, to pray
unto the sacred oracle for aid.
Then, side by side, they went without delay
to seek the waters of Cephisus’ stream;
although its waters were not limpid yet,
the river flowed along its normal bed.
They took some water and, upon their heads
and clothing, sprinkled it, then turned their steps
to holy Themis’ shrine. The roof was grimed
with pallid moss, the altars had no flame.
They reached the temple steps, and there they both
kneeled down, bent to the ground; in awe, they kissed
the cold stones, saying: “If the gods are pleased,
by righteous prayers, and their wrath can be
appeased, then tell us, Themis, by what means
the ruin of our race can be redeemed;
and, kindest goddess, help this flooded world.”
The goddess had been moved; her oracle
gave this response: “Now, as you leave the temple,
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cover your heads and do not bind your clothes,
and throw behind you, as you go, the bones
of the great mother.”
They are stunned, struck dumb;
and Pyrrha is the first to break their long
silence: she says she cannot do as told;
with trembling voice she begs the goddess’ pardon,
but she cannot offend her mother’s Shade
by scattering her bones. Again, again,
they ponder all the oracle had said;
those words—obscure and dark—leave them perplexed.
At last, Prometheus’ son speaks words that would
allay the fears of Epimetheus’ daughter:
“I may be wrong, but I think Themis’ answer
did not involve impiety or ask
for any sacrilege. By the great mother,
the earth is meant; and bones, I think, mean stones,
which lie inside earth’s body. It is these
that we must throw behind us as we leave.”
Her husband’s explanation solaced Pyrrha;
yet hope was not yet firm—for, after all,
they both were doubtful of the oracle.
But what is wrong in trying? They set out;
they veil their heads, they both ungird their clothes;
and they throw stones behind them as they go.
And yes (if those of old did not attest
the tale I tell you now, who could accept
its truth?), the stones began to lose their hardness;
they softened slowly and, in softening,
changed form. Their mass grew greater and their nature
more tender; one could see the dim beginning
of human forms, still rough and inexact,
the kind of likeness that a statue has
when one has just begun to block the marble.
Those parts that bore some moisture from the earth
became the flesh; whereas the solid parts—
Latin [382–409]
whatever could not bend—became the bones.
What had been veins remained, with the same name.
And since the gods had willed it so, quite soon
the stones the man had thrown were changed to men,
and those the woman cast took women’s forms.
From this, our race is tough, tenacious; we
work hard—proof of our stony ancestry.