And Thebes has flourished: even in your exile,
o Cadmus, you might seem content and tranquil:
the parents of your wife were Mars and Venus;
and she, Harmonia, has given you
dear sons and daughters, and dear grandsons, too,
past boyhood now. But it is surely true
that we must never count a man as blessed
until we see his final day, his death.
O Cadmus, in the midst of all your gladness,
the cause of your first sorrow was Actaeon:
for strange horns sprouted on your grandson’s brow,
Latin [115–39]
and then his blood was lapped by his own hounds.
But if you probe with care, you will not blame
your grandson; for the one to fault is Fate—
there is no crime in making a mistake.
A mountainside was where it all began.
All morning, young Actaeon and his friends
had hunted, killing beasts of every sort;
and now the mountain slopes were stained with blood.
But noon had come; all shadows had grown short;
the sun was at the midpoint of his course.
And to his hunting band that roamed across
the pathless slopes, Actaeon spoke calm words:
“Our nets and spears are soaked with wild beasts’ blood;
we’ve had good luck, my comrades: that’s enough.
Aurora on her saffron chariot
will bring a new day; we’ll renew the hunt.
But Phoebus now stands high, a point that lies
midway along his path across the sky;
he cracks the fields with scorching heat; it’s time
to stop: come, carry back our knotted nets.”
They do as asked: they interrupt the chase.
A valley lay nearby: in its dense woods,
the pointed cypress and the pitch-pine stood.
That site was called Gargaphia, a grove
Diana, goddess who wears tucked-up robes,
held sacred. And within the deepest shade,
the innermost recess, there lay a cave
most perfect. Though no mortal art had shaped
that grotto, Nature’s craft can imitate
the ways of art; here she had shaped an arch
of what was native there—of porous rock
and of light tufa. To the right, there glowed
a clear, thin spring that widened as it flowed
into a pool surrounded by a meadow.
And here, when she was weary of the chase,
the virgin goddess of the woods would bathe
Latin [140–63]
her limbs within the crystalline, cool waves.
On this day, too, Diana reached her cave;
and to her armor-bearing aide, she gave
her lance, her quiver, and her unstrung bow.
And when she sheds her robe, another holds
what she had put aside; two nymphs unbind
the sandals from her feet, while Crocale—
the daughter of Ismenus—more adept
than they are, gathers up Diana’s hair,
where it trails loose upon the goddess’ neck,
and knots it neatly, although Crocale’s
own hair hangs free. And Psecas, Phiale,
and Ranis, Nephele, and Hyale
fill ample urns with water, which they pour
over Diana, daughter of the Sun.
And while the goddess, as she’s always done,
was bathing in her pool, Cadmus’ grandson,
now that his hunting tasks had been postponed,
had chanced, while wandering, to reach that grove,
a place he did not know: and now he found
the sacred cave, for Fate would have it so.
No sooner had he come into that grotto,
whose walls were sprayed with water from the spring,
than all the naked nymphs on seeing him—
a male—beat on their breasts. They filled the grove
with sudden cries; they crowded round Diana,
trying to hide her body with their own.
But taller than her nymphs, above the rest,
the goddess could be seen—up from the neck.
Diana, so dismayed, without her clothes,
upon her cheeks displayed the colors shown
by clouds when struck aslant by sunlight or
by Dawn—the color crimson. Though her band
of nymphs pressed close around her, she did turn
aside, avert her face; she had at hand
Latin [164–88]
no arrows—shafts she would have liked; instead,
she used just what she had: Diana took
and flung the water, and his face was drenched.
And as she cast the water of revenge
that soaked the young man’s hair, the goddess said,
in words that were an ominous presage:
“Now go, feel free to say that you have seen
the goddess without veils—if you can speak.”
There were no other threats. But then she set
a long-lived stag’s horns on the head she’d drenched;
she made his ear-tips sharp, stretched out his neck,
and changed his hands to feet, arms to long legs,
and cloaked his body with a spotted hide.
That done, timidity was added on.
And now Autonoe’s heroic son
takes flight and, as he races, he’s amazed
at how much speed he has. Then, when he sees
his features and his horns in a clear stream,
he tries to say “Poor me” but has no words.
He moans—that’s all his voice can summon now—
and tears flow down a face that’s not his own.
But while he stands in doubt, he sees his hounds—
and they sight him. The first to bark aloud:
the Cretan dog, Ichnobates, so quick
to scent a quarry; and the Spartan dog,
Melampus. Then the others in the pack,
swift as the wind, rush to attack: Laelaps,
fierce Theron, and the stout Nebrophonus;
Dorceus, Pamphagus, Oribasus—
all three Arcadian dogs; swift Pterelas,
keen Agre, and Hylaeus, battling dog—
just lately he’d been ripped up by a boar;
Harpyia with her two pups; Nape born
of a she-wolf; Polmenis, who—before—
had served as shepherd dog; and with thin flanks,
the Sicyonian Ladon; Canace
and Dromas, Sticte, Tigris, Alee; Leucon,
Latin [188–217]
whose coat was white as snow, and Asbolus
with pitch black hairs; and famed for sturdiness,
stout Lacon, and the racing hound, Aello;
and Thous, and Lycisce with her brother,
Cyprius; Melaneus and Harpalos,
who in the middle of his black brow bore
a white sign; shaggy Lacne; and two brothers,
Agriodus and Labrus—though their father
was Cnossian, their mother was from Sparta;
Hylactor, with his piercing bark; and others—
to tell their names in full would be past measure.
That pack is keen for prey: along the crags
and cliffs and rocks so hard to cross, where paths
are rough and where there is no path at all,
they rush. On those same slopes where he once gave—
he now is given—chase: he has to race
away from his own hounds. He wants to shout,
“I am Actaeon! Don’t you recognize
your master?” But his heart has been denied
all speech. Their barking echoes through the sky.
While Melanchoetes is the first to fix
his fangs in his own master’s back, the next
is Theridamas, while the one to clutch
his shoulder fast is Oresitrophos.
Those three had started later than the rest
but, by a mountain shortcut, had outstripped
the others. Now they check their master’s flight,
till all the pack collect and sink their fangs
into his body; there is no place left
to wound. Actaeon groans. And though the sounds
he utters are not human, they are not
the sounds a stag could voice. He fills the heights
he knows so well with his laments and cries;
he sinks down on his knees; he seems to plead;
dismayed, his eyes look round, he would beseech
like those who hold their arms outstretched, in need.
Latin [218–41]
But since Actaeon’s friends are ignorant
of what had happened, all his hunting band—
as usual—incite the savage pack
with cries. They miss Actaeon; they look round
to see where he could be; they call aloud
his name—and each outdoes the other’s shouts
(Actaeon hears his name and turns around).
But when they see he’s absent, they complain;
they say that laziness keeps him away;
he’s missed the spectacle that ends the chase—
the sight of such a splendid stag at bay.
He would, in truth, be absent, but he’s here;
he would delight to see—not feel and fear—
the sight of his own hounds’ ferocity.
Upon all sides, his hounds have hemmed him in;
they sink their muzzles into every limb—
the flesh of their own master in false guise
as stag. Diana was not satisfied
until, so mangled, young Actaeon died;
for—so they say—that was the destiny
the quiver-bearing goddess wished to see.
Men heard his fate—and disagreed: some thought
Diana was too cruel, too unjust;
while others said her action, though severe,
was worthy of a virgin so austere.
Both sides brought suasive arguments to bear.
And only Juno neither blamed nor cleared
Diana: she was simply glad to hear
that now Agenor’s house had met disaster.
The rage that Juno’s rival had provoked
was aimed at all who shared Europa’s blood.