The straits that bathe Messina’s coast are kept
by Scylla, who infests them to the east,
while to the west Charybdis never rests.
Charybdis sucks the ships into her depths,
then spews them up again; while Scylla’s waist
is strange and dark and girdled by fierce dogs.
Yet Scylla wears the face of a young girl,
and if the tales the poets tell are more
than fictions, Scylla was indeed—before
she suffered such a monstrous change—a girl.
Young men would come—in crowds—to court her: she
disdained them all—then let the company
of sea-nymphs (they were fond of Scylla) hear
how she had spurned her suitors.
Galatea
was one of those sea-nymphs. And once, while Scylla
was combing Galatea’s hair, she heard
the goddess sigh these melancholy words:
Latin [720–39]
“Dear Scylla, you are sought by gentle men:
you face no danger in rejecting them.
But I, though one of Nereus’ fifty daughters,
I, who have sea-green Doris as my mother,
I, with so many sisters as my keepers,
was only freed from Cyclops’ love for me
by way of unrelenting misery. . . .”
Her words were curbed by tears. But Scylla dried
those tears with her white fingers, comforting
the goddess Galatea. Scylla said:
“Dear friend, why do you grieve? You need not hide
the cause—you can trust me, you can confide.”
This tale was Galatea’s sad reply:
“My Acis was the son of woodland Faunus
and one of the Simeto’s river-nymphs.
Both parents took much joy in such a son,
but my delight was even greater: none
but Acis knew my undivided passion.
Acis was handsome and, at sixteen years,
his cheeks were lightly marked by a soft beard.
Even as Polyphemus longed for me,
so I desired Acis—endlessly.
And should you ask what feeling had more force—
my love for Acis or my hatred of
the Cyclops—I could not reply: I was
possessed by equal powers. Generous
Venus, what force you can command! The Cyclops—
who frightens even wildest forests, demon
who brought disaster to all strangers, one
who scorns august Olympus and its gods—
now that same Cyclops feels love’s mastery.
The prey of passion’s force and fire, he
forgets his caves and cattle. Polyphemus,
you tend to your appearance now, you care
to see how handsome you can be, you take
a rake to comb your shaggy hair, you shave
Latin [740–66]
your rough beard with a scythe, and you are pleased
to mirror your crude features in a pool,
to temper them with tenderness. Your taste
for blood, which never could be quenched, abates;
and now, along your shoreline, ships are free
to sail in safety and tranquillity.
“One day, along the coast of Sicily—
just at the foot of Aetna—Telemus,
the son of Eurymus, had disembarked.
He was an augur never known to err
in his interpreting the flights of birds.
He met foul Polyphemus. He predicted:
‘That lone eye in the middle of your forehead—
Ulysses will yet steal it from you.’ But
the Cyclops howled with laughter, and he scoffed:
‘You, stupid seer, are wrong—for someone else
has blinded me already.’ So he mocked
a warning that was true. Then Cyclops stalked
away; with his tremendous steps, he crushed
the shore, then—tired—returned to his dark grottoes.
“There is a hill that juts into the sea—
the pointed wedge of a long promontory.
Waves bathe that cliff on both its sides. The brutal
Cyclops had climbed up to the very middle;
he sat upon that hill. His woolly sheep—
though he neglected them—had followed him.
Then, at his feet he laid his walking-stick—
a pine trunk meant as mainmast for a ship.
He lifted up his flute—one hundred reeds.
And when he played his shepherd melodies,
all of the peaks could hear—all of the sea.
I, too, could hear him. In my Acis’ arms
and sheltered by a rock, I heard him—far
away. I still recall the words he sang:
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“‘O Galatea, you are whiter than
the snowy buds upon the privet hedge;
the blossoming of meadows cannot match
your blossoming; you are more slender than
the alder, brighter than clear crystal, and
more playful than a young goat, smoother than
the seashells polished by unceasing waves,
more welcome than the sun in winter or
than shade in summer, more exquisite than
the fruit of orchards, more majestic than
the tall plane-tree, more clear and radiant
than ice, more sweet than ripened grapes, more soft
than feathers of the swan or curdled milk;
and if you did not flee from me, you would
be lovelier than a well-watered garden.
“‘Yet you—the selfsame Galatea—are
more nasty than an untamed ox, more tough
than aged oak; you are more treacherous
than waves, more slippery than willow or
white bryony, more difficult to budge
than are these boulders, more tumultuous
than torrents, prouder than a praised peacock,
more fierce than fire, sharper than the thorns,
more savage than a she-bear shielding cubs,
and deafer than the sea, and with less pity
than snakes when stepped upon; and finally—
your worst defect, the fault that I would cure—
whenever you retreat from me, you are
not only swifter than the stag that flees
from barking hounds, but swifter than the breeze
that fleets, and winds that gust. And yet—were you
to know me somewhat better—you might then
regret your having fled: you would condemn
yourself for having kept me waiting—and
would try to hold your Polyphemus fast.
Latin [789–809]
“‘This mountainside is mine—this living rock
serves as my grottoes’ roof: there, one need not
endure the dog-days’ sun, the winter’s cold.
The branches in my orchard bend beneath
the weight of apples; on my trailing vines,
some of my grapes are tawny gold, and some
are purple—I want you to have both kinds.
And, Galatea, your own hands will find
tender strawberries in the shaded woods,
and cherries in the autumn, and two sorts
of plums—the purple ones with their dark juice
and plums more prized, as yellow as new wax.
If you would only marry me, you would
not lack chestnuts or fruits of the arbutus:
each tree would serve your pleasure and your use.
“‘And, Galatea, all the herds you see
are mine; and many more are wandering
across the valley, many more are safe
within the woods, or sheltered in my caves.
Were you to ask me what my flocks may number,
I could not answer you—only the poor
have need to count their cattle. But if you
should ask about their quality, you need
not trust my word: see for yourself—you judge
how, pushing past their thighs, their udders bulge.
As for the young, my lambs are in one fold,
my kids are in another—all well-warmed.
My snow-white milk is always in abundance:
some of that milk is best for drinking, some
is to be hardened by dissolving rennet.
“‘And, Galatea, when I give you gifts,
they will not be the common, easy things—
like does or hares or goats or doves in pairs
or simple birds’-nests stolen from a treetop.
What I shall give, I found among the peaks:
a pair of cubs born of a shaggy bear,
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a pair for you to play with—so alike
that each can be mistaken for the other.
I found them and I told myself: “These are
a present for my lady.” Galatea,
come now and, from the blue sea, lift your head;
come now, do not disdain my gifts. Surely
I know what I look like: just recently
I saw my likeness in a limpid pool,
and what I saw I liked. Just look how huge
I am, for even Jupiter above
can claim no bigger body (since you speak
of some Jove or another who is king
in heaven). And my hair—abundantly—
pours down on my severe face, and it shades
my shoulders—just as if it were a grove.
And do not think that there is anything
ugly in rough and thick hair covering
my body: without leaves a tree is ugly;
a horse is ugly if it lacks a thick
mane on its sorrel neck; the birds are dressed
with feathers; wool enhances sheep; and thus
a man is more beguiling if he wears
a beard and, on his body, shaggy hair.
Yes—in the middle of my forehead I
have but one eye, yet that one eye is like
a massive shield. And, after all, does not
the giant sun see everything upon
this earth from heaven? And his eye is one!
“‘And do remember this: my father is
the ruler of the sea in which you live—
Neptune will be the one whom I shall give
to you as father-in-law. I ask you this:
to show a bit of pity, hear my prayer;
to you alone I kneel. I, Cyclops, who
have nothing but disdain for Jupiter—
who scorn his skies, deride his thunderbolts
that shatter everything—I do fear you,
Latin [834–58]
o Nereid, for your anger is more fierce
than lightning. Yet if your contempt were meant
for all, were you to flee from every man—
I could endure your scorn. But why—instead—
do you disdain the Cyclops but accept
the love of Acis? Why do you prefer
Acis’ embraces to my own? But let
him please himself and please you, too (and yet,
would he could be the one whom you reject).
But have him keep himself out of my hands!
For if he falls into my grip, that chance
will let me show my strength—just as immense
as is my body. I shall disembowel
the living Acis. I shall cast his limbs
across the fields and—that you two may mingle—
across the waves in which you live. I burn,
I burn, and my offended longing, stirred
to frenzy, rages in me more intensely:
it is as if, within my chest, I carried
a penetrating, an erupting, Aetna.
But you—you, Galatea—are unmoved.’
“These were his worthless ravings. Then he rose
(I saw it all) and—like a raging bull
who, having lost his cow, cannot stand still—
across the valleys and familiar hills,
he wandered. Then that savage being found us
unexpectedly, surprising me
and Acis. And he howled: ‘My eye has seen:
this is your last sweet clasp, your final fondling.’
The howl erupting from him had the power
and size that suits a Cyclops’ rage. That roar
left Aetna shuddering. I—horrified—
dived back into the nearby sea. In flight,
Acis, son of Simeto’s line, implored:
‘O Galatea and my family,
receive your dying Acis; let me cross
into your realm of waves and water.’ Cyclops,
Latin [858–82]
pursuing Acis, heaved a massive rock,
a piece of mountain that he had torn off.
Only the merest edge touched Acis, but
the corner of that rock was quite enough
to bury him completely. And the only
thing fate permitted me was to restore
Acis to his ancestral powers. Blood
flowed crimson, dark, down from the mass of rock;
but soon its crimson faded; it became
the color of a stream that early rains
have swollen; then the torrent slowly gained
more purity. The rock that Cyclops cast
now split wide open, and a tall green reed
rose through the crack; the hollow opening
within the rock resounded. Waters leaped
and—suddenly—a young man stood, waist-deep,
up from the waves; his new-sprung horns were wreathed
with supple rushes. That young man was Acis.
Though larger now, and with a dark-blue face,
Acis had certainly not been erased:
a river-god—that was his newfound shape—
a river that retained his former name.”
This was the end of Galatea’s story.
The company of Nereids—scattering—
now leave, to swim within the tranquil seas.