Cephalus, Procris, Aurora

And as they sit together, Phocus sees

the lance that Cephalus is carrying:

its point is gold, its shaft from strange tree.

At first, young Phocus speaks of this and that,

but in the middle of such small talk, asks:

“I study woods and wild game with much care,

yet I am puzzled by the shaft you bear:

of what wood is it made? If it were ash,

it would be blond; and cornel would show knots.

 

Latin [656–78]

 

I don’t know where it comes from, but my eyes

have never seen a javelin so fine.”

And one of Pallas’ pair of sons replied:

“Even the beauty of this lance can’t match

the wonder of the way in which it acts.

When it flies off, it catches—not by chance—

whatever mark it tracks; then it flies back,

with no guide but itself—a bloodied shaft.”

And then the Nereid’s son, young Phocus, asked

just why that shaft was so miraculous

and who had given it to Cephalus.

And this was the Athenian’s reply

(though when it came to telling what he paid

to get that gift, he held his tongue, ashamed),

a tale he told as tears burst from his eyes,

even as he remembered his dead wife:

 

“This spear that you, son of a goddess, see

(however hard it is to lend belief

to what I say), compels me now to weep

and will yet make me weep in time to come,

if fate allows my life to be prolonged.

This shaft destroyed my precious wife—and me.

Would that this gift had never been received!

My Procris, who was Orithyia’s sister

(and you may well have heard of Orithyia,

whom Boreas had carried off), was far

more graceful and more gracious than her sister:

she was a richer prize for ravishment.

It’s Procris whom her father joined to me;

it’s Procris who was joined to me by love.

Men said that I was happy—and I was.

But such good fortune did not please the gods;

for if it did, I’d still be happy now.

 

“No more than two months after we were wed,

when I, at break of day, as darkness fled,

had spread my nets to catch the antlered deer,

 

Latin [679–701]

 

the golden goddess of the dawn, Aurora—

who’d reached Hymettus’ ever-flowering peak

set eyes on me: she carried me away

against my will. The simple truth is this—

I only pray the goddess will forgive

my telling it: my only love was Procris.

Aurora may indeed be marvelous

at break of day, with her rose-colored blush;

and she may be the keeper of the gates

between the light and night; Aurora sips

celestial nectar—but I wanted Procris:

she was the one on whom my heart was bent,

the one who was forever on my lips.

I kept on speaking of the sanctity

of marriage, of the joys that she and I

had known so recently, of the dear ties

that had been knitted with my cherished bride

upon the couch that I had left behind.

The goddess felt the goad of my laments;

she shouted: ‘Stop your whining! You can keep

your Procris! But if what my mind foresees

is true, you will regret your loyalty!’

Enraged, she sent me back to my dear wife.

 

“Along the road to Athens, as I weighed

Aurora’s warning, I became afraid

that Procris had betrayed her marriage vows.

Her loveliness, her youth might well abet

adultery; but on the other hand,

her probity was proof against that threat.

But I had been away—and I had stayed

with one quite famed for infidelities;

in any case, we lovers fear all things!

So I decided to torment myself,

to test her honor and her faithfulness.

Delighted by my doubts, Aurora helped

my plan; she changed my face. In that new guise

(I felt the difference), unrecognized,

 

Latin [702–23]

 

I entered Athens, Pallas’ sacred town.

There were no signs of guilt within my house,

only an air of chaste expectancy

of waiting for the absent lord’s return.

It took a thousand wiles, astute deceit,

for me to gain the presence of my Procris.

The sight of her so captivated me

that I was almost ready to retreat

from any test of her fidelity.

It was so hard to hold myself in check—

not to embrace my wife, not to confess

the truth. She grieved; but there will never be

a woman who can match the loveliness

of Procris standing there in her deep sadness,

her longing for the husband snatched from her.

How often my petitions were repelled;

how often she replied: ‘I save myself

for one alone; wherever he may be,

it’s he who’ll share my joy!’ Could any man

whose mind was not awry have failed to see

in that, firm proof of her fidelity?

But I was still not satisfied. I kept

insisting (harming only my own self);

for just one night, I promised countless wealth;

and then I added gift on gift—until

I forced her to the point where she might fall.

At that, I shouted: ‘He who faces you

is one who, sad to say, is not a true

adulterer! Beside you now, it’s I—

your husband—whom you see! And it is these—

my own eyes—that have spied your treachery!’

My wife did not reply; in silence, she—

ashamed—abandoned our insidious house

and her disloyal husband. My offense

led to her hate for all the race of men;

she roamed the mountain slopes—she was intent

upon the skills for which Diana cares.

She’d left me: in my loneliness the flame

 

Latin [723–47]

 

of love burned even more—deep in my bones.

I begged for pardon, and I recognized

that I had sinned; I, too, if tempted by

such splendid gifts might well have set aside

my scruples and succumbed. Once I’d confessed

and she had no more need to seek revenge

for her offended honor, she came back;

and then, in love and fond accord, we spent

sweet years together.

 

          “And as if the gift

of her own self was not enough, she gave

as gift to me a hound she had received

from her Diana, who had said: ‘This beast

will outrace all the rest.’ And to that,

she added this: the javelin I carry.

The fate of that first gift was so prodigious

that it will stun you. Would you hear it now?

 

“When the dark riddle that the Sphinx had set

was solved by Oedipus (no Theban’s wits—

until he came—had ever passed her test),

the monstrous Sphinx leaped headlong from a cliff:

there—enigmatic prophetess—she rests,

dead even to the questions she had asked.

But kindly Themis—do be sure of this—

would never let such action go unpunished.

And so she sent another pest to plague

the Thebans: a ferocious fox that filled

the countrymen with terror, threatening

their herds and their own lives. And to their aid,

we came, young warriors, from the lands nearby.

We ringed their fields with nets to trap the fox,

but she leaped over them—across the top.

Then we unleashed our hounds to track her down,

but she—swift as a bird—outraced the pack.

So all my comrades asked me to release

the gift hound I’d received: his name was Laelaps.

 

Latin [747–72]

 

For some time now, he’d strained against the leash—

his neck was tugging hard. I set him free—

and we lost sight of him, such was his speed:

the warm dust showed the imprint of his feet,

but Laelaps’ self was nowhere to be seen.

No pellet from a sling, no slender shaft

sent flying from a Cretan bow, no lance

has ever flown more swiftly than Laelaps.

There is a hill whose summit overlooks

all the surrounding fields; I reached the top;

from there I watched a most uncommon chase:

the fox seems to be caught, but now she slips

away—just when the hound has firmed his grip.

The wily fox seeks no straight-line escape

but twists and turns to trick his jaws, to blunt

the force of his attack. He’s at her heels;

he is as fast; he seems to catch her, yet

he has not caught her: as he bites, his teeth

snap shut on empty air. I now prepared

to use my javelin: I balanced it

in my right hand; my fingers tried to slip

into the loop; my eyes were turned aside

from that strange chase, and when I lifted them

again to take aim with my javelin,

amid the fields I saw a miracle,

two marble statues: one in flight, whereas

the other statue barked—you could have said.

Some god—if any god was there to watch—

had surely seen the pair so closely matched

that neither of the two could win that test.”

 

Here Cephalus broke off his tale. But Phocus

asked: “Why did you accuse the javelin?”—

at which the teller told how it had sinned.

 

“O Phocus, sorrow has its origin

in joys. First I shall speak of my delights:

how fine a thing to call back blessed times!

 

Latin [772–97]

 

In those first years, o son of Aeacus,

I was delighted with my wife, and she

was happy with her husband. Each of us

cared for the other, a fond covenant.

For even if she could have wedded Jove,

she would have chosen me as her dear love;

as for my heart, no other woman could

have tempted me—not even Venus’ self;

in our two hearts there burned one equal flame.

 

“At that hour of the day when the first rays

of sunlight touch the summits, I was used

(as young men often are) to hunt for game.

I would set out alone: I wanted no

escort, no servants and no horses, no

keen-scented dogs, no knotted hunting nets.

I had my javelin—enough defense.

But when I’d had my fill of killing game,

I’d go to seek some cool spot in the shade,

just where a breeze blew up from the deep valleys.

Light winds are what I wanted in that heat;

I prayed for them to free me from fatigue.

I cried out: ‘Aura, come!’ (so—[ recall—

I’d often chant, as if it were a spell);

‘come, dearest aura, find your tender way

into my chest; I beg you to relieve—

as you know how to do—this scorching heat.’

And then I may have added words as sweet

as those before (fate may have prompted me),

words that I would repeat insistently:

‘You are my chief delight; you comfort me,

refresh me; it’s because of you I love

the woods, the solitary glades; my lips

are never weary of your gentle breath.’

Someone—I know not who it was—had lent

his ears to all these ambiguities;

and he mistook the aura that—again,

again—I had invoked, for some nymph’s name,

 

Latin [798–823]

 

a nymph who had provoked in me love’s flame.

That rash informer hurried to my wife

to tell her of my inexistent crime:

to her he whispered every word he’d heard.

And love is credulous. Struck down by grief—

so I am told—she fainted. When she gained

her senses—slow in coming back—she wept,

said she was wretched; and her long lament

mourned her betrayal; in her misery

over a sin that never was, she feared

a nullity, a name without a body;

poor Procris grieved as if she had indeed

a rival. Yet, from time to time, she felt

some doubt and hoped that she had been mistaken;

she would reject the tale of the informer,

refusing to condemn her own dear husband

if she’d not seen him sin with her own eyes.

 

“The next day dawned; and when Aurora’s light

expelled the night, I sought the woods again.

My search for game went well; and as I roamed,

I said: ‘O aura, come, soothe my fatigue . . .’

But suddenly, before I followed that

with my next word, I thought I heard a sort

of groan. But I continued: ‘Dear one, come!’

This time some leaves fell—a faint rustling sound.

I thought some beast had stirred, and then I cast

my speeding javelin. The mark it met

was Procris; as she clutched her wounded breast,

she cried out. And I recognized the voice

of my own faithful wife; headlong I rushed,

as if gone mad, to where my Procris was.

I found her dying, even as she tore

her bloodstained robe in her attempt to draw

out of the wound the very shaft that she

herself had given me—the wretched me.

Upon my arm I lifted up—most gently—

the body dearer to me than my own;

 

Latin [824–48]

 

and tearing from her breast a piece of cloth,

I bound the cruel wound; I tried to staunch

the blood; I begged her not to perish, not

to leave me in my misery forever.

Then, with her final effort, near her death,

these were the last few words that Procris said:

‘Oh, for the ties that join us, for the gods—

those of the sky and those to whom I go—

for any good I may have done for you,

and for the love that brought my death—a love

that I still bear you as I near my end—

I beg of you: do not let Aura take

my place as wife upon our wedding bed.’

And only then did I first understand

what caused the dreadful error. I explained—

but of what use was explanation now?

Her limbs fell slack; what meager strength she had

fled with her blood. So long as she could look

at anything, my Procris looked at me;

and when her sad soul breathed its last, her breath

fell on my lips. And yet she seemed content

in death: her face had gained serenity.”

 

These were the things that, even as he wept,

the hero called to mind. The others shed

their share of tears. Just then King Aeacus,

with his two other sons and the fresh ranks

of soldiers they had mobilized, came in.

And Cephalus received those well-armed men.

 

Latin [849–65]