The regions close
to Thebes now sent their chieftains; many kings
were urged to visit stricken Thebes, to bring
their words of solace, words of sympathy
for its calamity. And all these cities
brought comfort: Argos, Sparta, and Mycenae
from the Peloponnese; and Calydon
(Diana’s wrath had not yet struck it down);
and Corinth, famed for bronze; Orchomenos,
the fertile land; and Patrae, proud Messene,
and flat Cleonae; Pylos, Neleus’ city;
and Troezen, which was not yet ruled by Pittheus;
and all those other towns that are enclosed
Latin [398–419]
inside the Isthmus bathed by the two seas,
as well as those south of its outer coast.
And, Athens, only you—who would believe
that you would not pay homage unto Thebes!—
did not appear: you were beset by war;
barbarians—attacking from the sea—
were threatening your walls.
But you were saved
by Tereus, who had brought his troops from Thrace,
defeated the invaders, won great fame.
His wealth was great, his fighting men were many:
he had much power—and traced his line to Mars.
And so, Pandion, Athens’ king, allied
himself to Tereus, giving him as bride
Pandion’s daughter, Procne. But the patron
of weddings, Juno, was not present, nor
did Hymen or the Graces bless the pair.
The Furies were the ones who bore the torches
that they had stolen from a funeral;
it was the Furies who prepared the bed;
a sacrilegious screech-owl built its nest
and brooded on the rooftop, overhead.
It was beneath such signs that they were wed,
beneath such signs that they conceived a child.
Of course, all Thracians shared their happiness,
and they themselves were grateful to the gods.
Indeed, the Thracians made the day that saw
Pandion’s daughter wed their mighty king
a yearly festival, just as they made
the day of Itys’ birth a holiday.
How we, in judging things, are led astray!
Five autumns had already gone; the Sun
had led the wheel of years through five full turns,
when Procne spoke—endearingly—to Tereus:
Latin [419–40]
“If you are somewhat fond of me, then either
send me to see my sister, or have her
come visit me in Thrace—you can assure
my father that her visit will be brief.”
So Tereus had them launch his ship; with sails
and oars, he reached Piraeus, Cecrops’ port.
Pandion’s welcoming was warm, most cordial;
they joined right hands and wished each other well.
And Tereus had begun to tell just why
he’d come, and what his wife so wanted, and
to promise that her sister, if she went
to Thrace, would come home quickly, sound and safe,
when Philomela entered: she was dressed
magnificently, but her loveliness
was still more splendid, like a Naiad’s or
a Dryad’s when—so we are told—they roam
the deep woods, if they could be garbed as well—
as tastefully, as richly—as this girl.
That sight was quite enough; the flame of love
had taken Tereus, as if one had set
afire ripe grain, dry leaves, or a haystack.
It’s true she’s fair, but he is also spurred
by venery, an inborn tribal urge.
The vice inflaming him is both his own
and that dark fire which burns in Thracian souls.
His impulse was to buy his way to her,
to bribe her closest friends or faithful nurse
and then, when he’d corrupted them, to tempt
the girl himself, though that might cost his kingdom;
or else to ravish her, and then defend
his rape by waging unrelenting war.
There’s nothing he’d not dare to do; his love
cannot be checked, his heart cannot contain
the flames within; and now the least delay
weighs heavily; his avid tongue again
repeats what Procne urged, but with those words
it is his secret need of which he speaks.
Latin [441–68]
Love makes him eloquent, and when his plea
might seem excessive, he is quick indeed
to say he’s just relaying Procne’s wish.
He even garnishes his plea with tears,
as if his wife had asked this, too, of him.
O gods, how dark the night that rules men’s minds!
Precisely when he weaves his plot, he seems
a man most dutiful; he wins much praise
for what is wickedness. Does Philomela
not urge the visit even as he does?
She winds her arms around her father’s neck,
entreating him to let her make the trip;
she says that it will do her good (but it
will do the opposite) to go and visit
her sister. Tereus watches her, and as
he looks, he feels delights that will be his;
those kisses and embraces that he sees
are food and fuel that goad his lechery;
she hugs her father—Tereus wishes he
were in Pandion’s place—indeed if he
were Philomela’s father he’d not be
less sacrilegious than he is. Panction
gives way; he grants just what his daughters want.
And Philomela thanks him—poor thing, she
is glad—and what she thinks is victory
for both her sister and herself will be
a sad defeat.
By now the Sun is left
with little more to do; his horses pace
along Olympus’ slopes—their downward path.
A royal feast is readied; golden cups
now brim with Bacchus’ gift. Then, as is just,
their bodies yield to peaceful sleep. But Tereus,
though Philomela has retired, lusts:
he can recall her face, recall her hands,
her gestures, and at will imagines what
Latin [469–92]
he’s not yet seen; and in himself he feeds
the flames—his torment will not let him sleep.
Day breaks, and as his son-in-law prepares
to sail away, Pandion clasps his hand
and tearfully confides his daughter to him
and says: “Dear son-in-law, compelled by fond
and tender pleas, as both my daughters want
(and you, too, Tereus, wish), I now entrust
to you my Philomela; but I call
upon your loyalty, our binding ties,
and on the gods, as I enjoin you: guard
her lovingly, as would a father; send
my daughter back as quickly as you can;
for me, the least delay will seem so long:
in my old age, she is my consolation.
And Philomela, I do urge you, too,
if you indeed love me, return as soon
as possible (I miss your sister so—
I need no greater load).” And as he spoke
these final words, between his last requests
he kissed his Philomela, and he shed
soft tears. And then he asked them both to pledge
her quick return by offering their right hands;
he joined their hands together, and he begged
that they might bear his greetings to dear Procne
and his grandchild, whom he remembers always,
though they are distant. It is hard for him
to say farewell; he struggles with his tears,
and sobs—a sad foreboding stirs his fears.
Once Philomela is embarked upon
the painted ship, as Tereus’ oars advance
across the sea, the land is left behind.
“I’ve won! What I have dreamed on now is mine!”
cries Tereus. That barbarian exults;
it’s hard for him to hold off his delights.
His eyes are set on her, they never swerve;
Latin [492–515]
he’s not unlike the sacred bird of Jove,
who, in his nest on high, sets down the hare
he’s caught with his hooked claws; the captor stares—
his eyes are fixed upon his helpless prize.
The voyage now is done, and all have left
the weary ship and gone ashore. On land,
King Tereus drags the daughter of Pandion
into a hut that’s hid in ancient woods:
and there he locks her up—she shakes with fear;
and pale, in tears, she asks to see her sister.
And he confesses to her his foul passion
and rapes her—she’s a girl, and all alone;
again, again, she calls upon her father,
her sister, and—above all—the great gods.
She trembles like a lamb that’s terrified,
that, wounded, cast off from a gray wolf’s jaw,
cannot feel safe; or like a shuddering dove
whose feathers now are drenched in its own blood,
that still recalls the avid, clutching claws
that caught it. With her senses back, she tugs
at her disheveled hair; like one who mourns,
she beats her arms and then, with outstretched hands,
she cries:
“What have you done, barbarian!
My father’s plea and his fond tears, the love
my sister feels for you, and, too, my own
virginity; your bonds of marriage—none
of these could move you. All is now askew.
I am a concubine, and you’ve become
a bigamist: it’s only right for Procne
to punish me like any enemy.
Why don’t you, to complete your treachery,
tear out my soul? Would you had murdered me
before this wretched coupling! Then, at least,
my Shade would be unstained. But if the gods
of heaven see these things, if deities
Latin [516–43]
still have some power, if my loss of honor
does not mean all is lost, then you—someday—
will pay. I’ll cast aside my shame, proclaim
your crime. If that be possible for me,
I’ll tell my tale where many people crowd.
And if I’m shut up in these woods, I’ll shout
unto the trees; I’ll move the rocks to pity.
My tale will reach the heavens and—if they
are still in heaven—it will reach the gods.”
Her words have angered him, but the fierce king
feels, too, a fear whose force can match his wrath.
Urged on by both these goads, he now unsheathes
the sword he carries at his side; he grabs
poor Philomela by the hair; he twists
her arms behind her back and binds her fast.
And Philomela offers him her throat—
she’s seen the sword, and death is her dear hope.
But it’s her tongue he seizes with a pincer;
and even as it calls upon her father,
protests and struggles hard to speak, he lifts
his blade and—without mercy—severs it.
Its root still quivers, while the tongue itself
falls to the ground; there, on the blood-red soil,
it murmurs; as a serpent’s severed tail
will writhe, so did that tongue, in dying, twist
and try to reach its mistress’ feet. Though this
indeed defies belief, it’s said that Tereus
again, again, gave free rein to his lust
upon that mangled body.
After such
a foul exploit, he still was bold enough
to face his wife. And Procne asked at once
where her dear sister was. And Tereus groaned
and spun a cunning story of her death:
to make his fiction credible, he wept.
Then, from her shoulders, Procne tore away
Latin [543–67]
the robe whose ample border gleamed with gold;
she put on mourning clothes, and she erected
an empty sepulcher, to which she brought
expiatory offerings, the sort
of sacrifices that the Shades deserve—
but Philomela was not dead. And so
dear Procne mourned her sister’s fate, although
there was no Shade to whom such rites were owed.
The Sun had passed through all the twice-six signs,
and now a full year’s journey has gone by.
And what shall Philomela do? No flight
is possible: a guard had been assigned
to watch her; and around the hut, walls rise—
they are of solid stone; her lips are mute;
there is no way she can reveal the truth.
But desperation can indeed invent;
in misery the mind is keen. She hangs
a web upon a crude—a Thracian—loom
and, on a white background, weaves purple signs:
the letters that denounce the savage crime.
When that is done, she gives her servingwoman
the cloth—she’s rolled it up—and, gesturing,
asks her to bring it to the queen. As bid,
but ignorant of what the message is,
the servingwoman takes the cloth to Procne.
The savage tyrant’s wife, unrolling it,
soon reads her sister’s tale, the dread misdeed,
and then—a fact that cannot be believed—
she does not speak: her mouth is blocked by grief.
Her tongue seeks words of scorn to match her wrath
but does not find them. Nor does Procne weep:
she sinks into herself, imagining
both licit and illicit penalties
she could inflict; revenge is what she needs.
The time had come for the triennial feast
of Bacchus, when the Thracian women meet
Latin [567–88]
by night, to celebrate their secret rites.
By night, the slopes of Rhodope resound
with clashing brazen cymbals; and by night,
the queen goes from her house; she is arrayed
just as the frenzied cult demands: her head
is wreathed with trailing vines; a deerskin hangs
from her left side; upon her shoulder rests
a light lance. As she strides the forest paths,
with crowds of followers behind her, Procne,
stirred by her sorrow’s fury—and her rage
is awesome—feigns your frenzy, Bacchus. She
comes to the solitary stall at last.
She shrieks and howls, “Euhoe!,” breaking down
the doors: she grasps her sister, dresses her
in a Bacchante’s full array and hides
her face with ivy leaves; then, at her side
(her sister is amazed), hauls her away,
off to the palace, where she can be safe.
But when the wretched Philomela sees
the dwelling of the man of infamy,
she shudders, pale as death. But patient Procne,
once she has found a proper place, removes
the poor girl’s Bacchic costume; she uncovers
her shamefaced sister and embraces her.
But Philomela will not lift her eyes;
she sees herself as an adulteress;
and staring at the ground, she tries to swear,
to call upon the gods as witnesses,
that she had been the prey of violence;
but after all, she has no voice—just gestures.
But Procne’s rage can’t be contained: she flames;
she scolds her tearful sister; she exclaims:
“No tears are needed here; it’s time for steel,
or if you know of something harder still,
then give me that. I’m ready now to kill
in any way, however criminal:
I’ll fire this palace with a torch and fling
Latin [588–614]
into the flames that artifex of sins;
or I’ll cut out his tongue or else his eyes
and hack the limb that brought such shame to you;
I’ll drive his soul out through a thousand wounds—
however horrible. But I have yet—
of all these deaths—to choose the end that’s best.”
Her words were not yet done when her dear son,
her Itys, entered. At the sight of him,
a notion strikes her; and with cruel eye,
she stares at her own son as she outcries:
“How closely you resemble him—your father!”
She says no more and, as her anger boils
within, begins to plan horrendous things.
It’s true that when her son comes up to her
and greets her, as he throws his tiny arms
around her neck and, in his boyish way,
embraces her, she’s moved, her wrath is tamed,
her eyes grow damp with tears she can’t restrain.
But sensing that maternal love has swayed
her purpose, Procne turns aside her gaze
from Itys to her sister, thinking this:
“And why can he still speak endearingly,
while she is mute, her tongue cut out? If he
can call me mother, why can’t she say ‘sister’?
O, daughter of Pandion, do remember
the sort of man you married! Do you waver?
To pity such a husband is a crime!”
She does not hesitate; she drags her son
away, just as a tigress on the Ganges
hauls off a suckling fawn through the dark woods;
and when, in that vast palace, they have reached
a far-off room, while he, with hands outstretched,
already senses what his fate will be
and cries out, “Mother, Mother,” while he tries
to throw his arms around her neck, her knife
strikes him—she does not turn aside her eyes—
Latin [615–41]
between his chest and side. That blow was quite
enough to kill. But Philomela strikes;
she hacks his throat. And then the sisters slice
his limbs, still quivering with some warm life.
Some pieces fill a boiling copper kettle,
and others sputter on the spit. His blood
drips everywhere in that secluded room.
Such is the feast to which his wife invites
the unsuspecting Tereus. She connives
to keep all their attendants and their slaves
away: the false pretext that she invents
is this—only a husband may partake
of such a sacred feast, an ancient rite
still celebrated in her own birthplace.
So, seated on his high ancestral throne,
he, Tereus, eats alone and, with his own
flesh, fills his belly; and his mind is so
completely ignorant of what he’s done
that he calls out: “Bring Itys here—my son.”
And Procne can’t conceal her cruel delight;
and keen to be herself the one who tells
the news of this calamity, she cries:
“The one you want is with you now—inside.”
He looks around and asks where Itys went;
and when mad Philomela rushes in—
her flowing hair is stained with butchery
and blood—against the father’s face she flings
the bleeding head of Itys. There was never
a time when she longed so to have the power
of speech, to find the words to shout her joy.
The king of Thrace cries out—a giant shout;
he overturns the table, summoning
the snake-haired Sisters of the Stygian pit;
and now he wishes he could rip his chest
and rid his body of the horrid feast,
the innards he had swallowed; now he weeps
Latin [642–65]
and calls himself the miserable tomb
of his own son. And now, his sword unsheathed,
it is Pandion’s daughters whom he seeks.
But you’d have said that those Athenians
had taken flight with wings. There, they are poised;
one sister wings her way into the dark woods,
the other rises to the roof—her breast
still bears the signs of their atrocious crime:
her feathers are bloodstained. And Tereus speeds—
spurred by his grief and need to seek revenge—
and he, too, changes form, becomes a bird,
a bird whose head is crowned with a stiff crest,
whose beak is huge, a long, protruding lance:
the hoopoe—ever ready to attack.