Arachne

THEIR TALE WAS DONE. And now the Muses won

Minerva’s praise. She had listened carefully,

and she applauded all their artistry

in song—and justified what they had done

in striking down their rivals’ spite and scorn.

But to herself she said: “To praise is less

rewarding than receiving praise: just as

the Muses punished the Pierides,

so, too, must I exact a penalty

from anyone who dares disparage me.”

Her mind was set, intent on punishing

Arachne, for the goddess had indeed

heard that the Lydian girl would not concede

Minerva’s mastery in working wool:

she claimed that she surpassed the goddess’ skill.

 

Arachne was renowned—but certainly

not for her birthplace or her family.

Her father, Idmon, came from Colophon;

he dyed her porous wool with Phocaean purple.

Her mother now was dead; but like her husband,

she was lowborn: in sum, a simple couple.

Arachne’s home was in a humble village,

Hypaepa. Yet consummate work had won

the girl much fame: through all the Lydian towns,

her name was known. To see her wondrous art,

the nymphs would often leave their own vineyards

along Timolus’ slopes, and water nymphs

would leave Pactolus’ shores. One could delight

not only in her finished work but find

enchantment as her art unfolded: whether

she gathered the rough wool in a new ball,

or worked it with her fingers, reaching back—

with gesture long and apt—to the distaff

for more wool she could draw out, thread by thread—

wool that was like a fleecy cloud—or twisted

her agile thumb around the graceful spindle,

 

Latin [1–22]

 

and then embroidered with a slender needle,

one knew that she was surely Pallas’ pupil.

 

And yet the girl denied this; and instead

of taking pride in following so fine

a mentor, she’d reply, as if offended:

“Let her contend with me; and if I lose,

whatever she demands of me, I’ll do.”

To warn the girl against such insolence,

Minerva took the form of an old woman:

the goddess put false gray hair on her temples;

to prop her tottering limbs, she gripped a staff

and, in that guise, approached the girl and said:

“Not all that old age offers is mere chaff:

for one, the years bestow experience.

Take my advice: it is enough to be

supreme among all mortals when you weave

and work your wool, but never do compete

with an immortal goddess. Go, beseech

Minerva’s pardon for the words you spoke;

ask humbly and she will forgive your boast.”

Arachne scowled; abrupt, aggrieved, morose,

she dropped her threads; and though she kept her hand

from striking out, her rage was clear—it showed

upon Arachne’s face as she replied

to Pallas (who was still disguised): “Old age

has addled you; your wits are gone; too long

a life has left you anile, stale, undone.

Your drivel might appeal to your dear daughter—

in-law, if you have one, or else your daughter,

if you have one. As for advice, I can

advise myself. And lest you think your warning

changed anything, be sure of this: I am

still sure of what I said before. Your goddess—

why doesn’t she come here? Why not accept

my challenge?” Pallas answered: “She has come!”

She cast aside disguise, showed her true form.

 

Latin [23–44]

 

The nymphs bowed down before the deity,

as did the Lydian women. Only she,

Arachne, showed no fear; she stood unawed.

And yet, despite herself, her cheeks were flushed

with sudden red, which faded soon enough—

as when the sky grows crimson with firstlight,

but pales again beneath the bright sunrise.

Arachne still insists upon the contest:

her senseless lust for glory paves her path

to ruin—for the goddess does not ask

for a delay, or warn her anymore.

 

Now each is quick to take her separate place

and, on her loom, to stretch her warp’s fine threads.

On high, onto a beam, each ties her web;

the comblike reed keeps every thread distinct;

sharp shuttles, with the help of fingers, serve

for the insertion of the woof; notched teeth

along the slay, by hammering, now beat

into their place weft threads that run between

the fleece that forms the warp.

 

          Both women speed:

their shoulders free (their robes are girt about

their breasts), they move their expert hands; and each

is so intent that she ignores fatigue.

Into the web they’ve woven purple threads

of wool that has been dyed in Tyrian tubs,

and hues so delicate that they shade off

each from the other imperceptibly—

as, when a storm is done, the rays of sun

strike through the raindrops and a rainbow stains

with its great curve a broad expanse of sky;

and there a thousand different colors glow,

and yet the eye cannot detect the point

of passage from one color to the next,

for each adjacent color is too like

its neighbor, although at the outer ends,

 

Latin [44–67]

 

the colors shown are clearly different.

 

Each rival weaves her pliant golden threads

into her web—and traces some old tale.

Minerva chooses to portray the hill

of Mars, a part of Cecrops’ citadel,

the icon of an ancient controversy—

which god would win the right to name the city.

There twice-six gods—and one of them is Jove—

majestic and august, sit on high thrones.

Each god is shown with his own well-known traits;

thus, Jove has regal features; and the god

who rules the sea stands tall; with his long trident

he strikes the hard stone cliff; and from that rock

a fierce horse leaps, as if to urge the city

to take the name of Neptune. When Minerva

shows her own self, she has a shield, a lance,

a helmet on her head; to guard her breast

there is her aegis. When the earth is struck

by her sharp shaft, an olive tree springs up,

pale green and rich with fruit; this prodigy

astonishes the gods; and finally,

we see Minerva crowned by victory.

 

To these, Minerva added at each corner—

so that the girl be warned of what awaits her

audacity—a painted scene of contest.

Each pictured warning had its own bright colors

and figures—each distinct—in miniature.

One corner shows the Thracian Rhodope

and Haemus:these are now bleak mountains, but

they once were mortals who—presumptuous—

took as their own the names of the highest gods.

The second corner shows the sorry fate

of the Pygmaean queen who challenged Juno:

defeating her, the goddess changed that queen

into a crane and had her war against

the very people who had been her subjects.

 

Latin [67–92]

 

The third displays Antigone, who once

dared set herself against great Jove’s consort;

Queen Juno changed her shape, made her a bird.

Though she was daughter of the Trojan king,

Laomedon, that did not help: the girl

was forced to wear white feathers and compelled,

with clattering beak—a stork—to applaud herself.

The final corner pictures Cinyras

bereft of all his daughters, who had boasted,

too recklessly, of their great beauty: Juno

changed them into her temple’s marble steps;

and clinging to those steps, King Cinyras

embraces what were once his daughters’ bodies,

and weeps. Minerva, as a sign of peace,

around the border of her work, now weaves

a wreath of olive branches, and with that—

her sacred tree—she finishes her task.

 

Arachne’s scenes displayed Europa fooled

by the feigned image of a bull: and you

would think that both the bull and waves were true.

The girl is shown as she looks back to land

and calls on her companions, even as,

in fear of spray, she timidly draws back

her feet. She also draws Asterie

gripped tightly by the eagle; she shows Leda,

who lies beneath the swan’s wings. And she adds

those tales of Jove, who, in a Satyr’s guise,

filled fair Antiope with twin offspring;

who, as Amphitryon, hoodwinked you, too,

Alcmena; who, become a shower of gold,

duped Danae; and in the form of fire

deceived Aegina, daughter of Asopius;

and as a shepherd, gulled Mnemosyne;

and, as a speckled snake, Proserpina.

 

And, too, she showed you, Neptune, in the guise

of a grim bull who takes the virgin daughter

 

Latin [93–116]

 

of Aeolus; and as Enipeus, you

beget the Aloids; and as a ram

you bluff Bisaltes’ daughter. The kind mother

of harvests, golden-haired, knew you as stallion;

whereas the mother of the winged horse—she

whose hair was wreathed with snakes—knew you as bird;

and when you took Melantho, you were dolphin.

And each of these—the actors and the settings—

is rendered to perfection by Arachne.

Here’s Phoebus, too, dressed like a countryman,

and then she shows him decked out in hawk’s feathers,

then, in a lion’s skin: and we can see

how, in his shepherd’s guise, he baited Isse,

the daughter of Macareus. And here is Bacchus,

who fools Erigone with his false grapes;

and we see Saturn, in a horse’s shape,

begetting Chiron. Then, to decorate

her web’s thin border at the edge, Arachne

fills it with flowers interlaced with ivy.

 

Not even Pallas, even Jealousy,

could find a flaw in that girl’s artistry;

but her success incensed the warrior-goddess.

Minerva tore to pieces that bright cloth

whose colors showed the crimes the gods had wrought;

a boxwood shuttle lay at hand—with that,

three and four times she struck Arachne’s forehead.

That was too much: the poor girl took a noose

and rushed—still bold—to tie it round her neck.

But when she saw Arachne hanging there,

Minerva, taking pity, propped her up

and said: “Live then, but, for your perfidy,

still hang; and let this punishment pursue

all who descend from you: thus, you must fear

the future—down to far posterity.”

That said, before she left, the goddess sprinkled

the juices of the herbs of Hecate

over Arachne; at that venom’s touch,

 

Latin [116–40]

 

her hair and then her eyes and ears fell off,

and all her body sank. And at her sides,

her slender fingers clung to her as legs.

The rest is belly; but from this, Arachne

spins out a thread; again she practices

her weaver’s art, as once she fashioned webs.