Such were Alcmena’s words, and then she moaned,
remembering her faithful serving-girl.
And as Alcmena grieved, this was the way
her daughter-in-law spoke:
“What moved you so
is, after all, a change of form that struck
someone outside our family. But what
if I should tell the stupefying tale
of my own sister? Though—to speak—I must
contend against the tears that choke my words.
For Dryope, her mother’s only child
(our father had me from another wife),
was famous for her beauty, unsurpassed
among the women of Oechalia.
Latin [312–31]
After the loss of her virginity
(against her will) to Delphi’s deity,
Andraemon married her—and he was happy.
But one day Dryope was visiting
a lake whose sloping shoreline formed a sort
of inclined beach, which at its top was crowned
with myrtle shrubs. She came not knowing what
would be her fate: and—what is even more
disturbing—she had come to gather garlands
as offerings to the nymphs. My sister bore
a welcome weight, her infant son, not yet
one full year old; and at her breast she nursed
the boy with her warm milk. Not too far off,
there grew a water-loving lotus plant,
with buds whose hue resembled Tyrian purple;
its branches promised to show berries soon.
And from this lotus, Dryope had plucked
some blossoms to delight her infant son;
I thought I’d do the same (yes, I was there)
but stopped when I saw drops of blood that dripped
down from the blossoms as the branches shuddered.
The truth (slow-witted rustics would explain—
but later, much too late to help) was this:
once, lewd Priapus was in hot pursuit
of Lotis, and in order to escape,
the nymph had changed into this plant: her name—
though not her form and features—had remained.
My sister did not know of this; afraid,
she tried to hurry from that place; she prayed
unto the nymphs, but now her feet were stayed
like roots within the ground. She tried to shake
earth’s grip, but it was just her upper limbs
that moved. The bark climbed slowly from below
and gradually covered all her loins.
When Dryope saw that, she tried to tear
her hair, but leaves were all she clutched: her head
had flowered now with boughs. The boy Amphissos
(the name that his grandfather Eurytus
Latin [331–57]
had given him) could feel his mother’s breasts
grow stiff; however hard he sucked, he drew
no milky fluid. I myself was there,
dearest sister, at your cruel end
but could not help you; I brought all my strength
to bear: I clasped you, trying to delay
the trunk, the branches on their upward way;
and yes, I wanted, too, to disappear
beneath that bark with you.
“And now Andraemon
and her sad father, Eurytus, have come
to search for Dryope. It’s Dryope
they seek, and I show them the lotus plant.
They kiss the warm wood; prone along the ground,
they clasp the roots of their dear plant. By now,
dear sister, just your face remains unchanged;
and tears rain down upon the leaves that sprout
from your poor body. But as long as she
can speak, as long as her poor lips allow
her voice to pass, my sister tells her sorrow:
“‘If even sorry wretches have the right
to be believed, I swear upon the gods
that I did not deserve this horrid end.
I have no fault yet suffer punishment.
In life I injured no one: if I lie,
may I be parched with drought and lose my boughs,
be cut down by the ax and burned to ash.
But take my baby from his mother’s leaves;
entrust him to a nurse. And see that he
comes often to my tree and takes his milk
and plays beneath these branches. When he learns
to speak, be sure to teach my son to greet
his mother. Let him say in sadness: “She
is here—my mother hides within this trunk.”
But keep him far from pools; and he must not
pluck any flowers from trunks; and any bush
Latin [357–80]
he sees—he must remember this—may be
the body of a goddess. Now farewell,
dear husband; you, my sister; and my father.
If you still feel fond piety for me,
protect my branches from sharp pruning hooks,
my leaves from browsing sheep. I’m not allowed
to lean toward you; instead, reach up, receive
my kisses for as long as I can give them,
and lift my little boy up to my lips.
Now I can say no more. The soft bark creeps;
it twines around my white neck, hiding me:
I’m sealed beneath its fold. There is no need
to close my eyelids with your hands: just let
the bark—and not your act of piety—
now veil my dying eyes.’ Both life and speech
were done in one same instant. And for long,
the new-made leaves and boughs of the transformed
body of Dryope still kept their warmth.”