The river-god was done. The miracle
that he’d recounted stirred the hearts of all
but one—Pirithous, Ixion’s son.
He found his friends too gullible; he scorned
such tales; he mocked the gods; he disbelieved
and doubted most ferociously: “But these
are fictions: Achelous, you concede
too much if you allow the gods to be
so powerful, if you think they can give
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and take away the forms of things.” Such words
shocked all that company—no one concurred;
and Lelex, he who was the most mature
in mind and years, began to tell this tale:
“The power of the heavens is immense
and limitless; whatever gods may wish
is soon accomplished. I have evidence
for this: my tale will help to credit it.
“Among the Phrygian hills there stands an oak
together with a linden; round them both
a low wall runs. And I have seen this spot,
for Pittheus sent me there (his father, Pelops,
before he came to Troezen, ruled in Phrygia).
Close to that spot, there is a stagnant marsh;
a place that once had welcomed crops and men,
it now has water birds—loons and marsh hens.
And Jupiter came there in mortal guise;
and with his father, though he’d set aside
his wings, came Mercury, Atlas’ grandson,
with the caduceus, his wondrous wand.
They asked for shelter at a thousand doors;
and at a thousand they were shunned and spurned.
But one house took them in: a modest place,
its roof was thatched with simple straw and reeds.
And, in that hut, there lived an aged woman,
the pious Baucis, and with her, Philemon,
as old as she was; they were wed when young
within that hut; and there they had grown old,
serene in poverty, not seeing it
as taint or tarnish, something to be hid.
You need not ask who was the master, who
the servant in that house, for only two
lived there—that pair commanded and they served.
And when the two gods from the sky arrived,
they stooped on entering—the door was low.
The old man, setting out a bench on which
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his Baucis had been quick to spread rough cloth,
invited them to sit, to rest their limbs.
The coals of yesterday were covered by
warm ashes; Baucis, raking these aside,
now fanned the coals and added leaves, dry bark;
then, on her hands and knees, with all the breath
she had, she breathed new life into the hearth.
That done, from underneath the roof, she took
wood splits and dried-out twigs and broke them up
into still smaller pieces—small enough
to set beneath a little copper pot.
She took the greens Philemon had brought in
from their well-watered garden; and she cleaned
a cabbage, lopping off the outer leaves.
Meanwhile her husband used a two-tined pole
to spear a chine of smoked ham hanging from
a rafter’s blackened beams and, slicing off
a modest portion of that well-kept pork,
he put it in the boiling pot to cook.
And they beguiled their waiting-time with talk—
and readying the table. Baucis shook
a cushion made of marsh grass, placing it
upon the dining couch, with feet and frame
of willow wood. And over this they draped
the cover the old couple kept for feast days;
but even this was worn and plain, a cloth
quite in accord with such a willow couch.
“The gods recline. Old Baucis, with her skirts
tucked up—and hands that shook a bit—sets out
the table; one of its three legs was short—
but then the piece of broken pottery
she jams beneath the shorter leg adjusts
the slant—at last it’s level. And with green
mint leaves, old Baucis wipes the table clean.
She offers dappled olives—green-and-black—
the berries frank Minerva cherishes;
wild cherries, pickled fruits of autumn, kept
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in lees of wine; endive and radishes;
and curdled cheese; and—taken from warm ashes—
some very delicately roasted eggs.
And all of this is served on earthen dishes.
That same rich ware is matched by the embossed
wine bowl they have set out with beechwood cups
whose cracks and holes were patched with yellow wax.
And soon the steaming ham and cabbage come
from off the hearth; and wine of no great age
again is served, then set aside: the space
is needed for the final course—dried dates
and nuts and figs and plums and purple grapes
straight from the vine, and fragrant apples heaped
in ample baskets; and the centerpiece—
a comb of honey that is pale and clear.
And to all these are added liveliness,
good cheer, kind faces—willing, generous.
“Meanwhile the aged couple noticed this:
the wine bowl, which had served so many cups,
seemed to replenish its own self, fill up
again, again with welling wine. Dismayed—
this sight was unbelievable—afraid,
both Baucis and the old Philemon prayed
with hands—palms up—to heaven, begging pardon
for food so meager, and so scant a welcome.
Then they got set to kill their only goose,
the guardian of their poor patch of land—
they planned to serve it to their godly guests.
But that was no slow goose; he tired out
the aged couple as he flapped about;
he slipped the chase until at last—it seems—
he landed safely, near the deities.
And then the gods told Baucis and Philemon
that they were not to kill the goose. They said:
‘We’re gods indeed; your sacrilegious neighbors
have earned the punishment they will receive,
but you’ll be saved from that catastrophe.
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And now, come, leave your hut, and go with us
to the tall peak that you can see far off.’
They both obeyed, and taking up their staffs,
they made their slow way up the mountain path.
When they were just a bowshot from the top,
they turned around and saw, below, a swamp
that covered everything—but their own hut.
And while the aged couple watched, amazed,
and weeping for their neighbors’ fate, that hut
in which they’d lived so long—a home that was
small even in their eyes—became a temple:
in place of those forked poles that had sustained
the roof, now marble columns stood; the straw
now gleamed with gold; carved panels graced the doors;
and on the ground there stretched a marble floor.
Then Jove, the son of Saturn, said with calm:
‘You, just old man, and you, his worthy wife,
tell me what you desire most.’ Philemon
spoke briefly to his Baucis, then declared
unto the gods their choice, the wish they shared:
‘We want to be your priests, to guard your shrine;
and since, for such long years, we two have lived
in harmony, we pray that the same hour
in which one dies, may also take the other,
that I may never see her sepulcher
and she may never have to bury me.’
Their wish was honored. And as long as life
was granted them, they served within the shrine.
But weary with their long, long years, one day
as they were standing near those sacred steps,
recounting times gone by in that dear place,
old Baucis saw that boughs were covering
Philemon, even as the old Philemon
saw his dear Baucis covered by green boughs.
One treetop covered both their faces now;
but they—as long as they still could—called out
in unison, ‘Farewell, dear mate, farewell . . .’
until at the same instant, bark had sealed
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their lips. And Phrygian farmers still will show
two trunks that stand beside each other, two
that once were Baucis’ and Philemon’s bodies.
“These things were told to me by sound old men
who had no need to trick me, to invent.
And, too, I saw the oak and linden wreathed
with votive flowers; and I even set
such garlands on the boughs myself. I said:
‘May those the gods have loved become divine;
may those who have revered, now be enshrined.’”