Byblis & Caunus

Now, even Minos’ name alone, when he

was in his prime, could terrify great cities.

But he had grown infirm with age—afraid

Miletus, son of Phoebus and Deione,

proud of his parentage and youthful strength,

would head an insurrection, take his place.

Though he was sure of this, he did not dare

exile the youth. But on your own, Miletus,

you sailed off in a rapid ship across

the waves of the Aegean; on the coast

of Asia, at the mouth of the Meander,

you built a city that still takes its name

from you, its founder. Even as you wandered

along the river’s winding banks, you found

Cyanee, the daughter of Meander,

whose course so often turns back on itself.

Her body was stupendous; you knew her.

The nymph gave birth to twins, Byblis and Caunus.

 

The fate of Byblis teaches us indeed

that when girls love they should love lawfully:

for Byblis loved her brother, Phoebus’ grandson,

but with a love that was not sisterly.

 

In fact, the girl at first was unaware

of what fire burned in her; again, again,

she kissed her brother, twined her arms around

his neck—but she could see no sin in that;

she did not know that love can play the part

of simple fondness—she deceived herself.

But step by step, her love takes its own path;

and now, when she prepares to see her brother,

she dresses with great care: she is too eager

for him to find her fair; and if another

more lovely than her own self visits Caunus,

Byblis is jealous. But she does not know—

 

Latin [441–64]

 

not even now—the nature of her throes:

for though she does not plead or pray or wish

for a fulfillment, hidden fires burn

within. Now she begins to call him lord;

she hates those names that speak of their shared blood;

she’d have him call her “Byblis,” not “dear sister.”

And yet, when she’s awake, she does not dare

to let her obscene hopes invade her soul.

But when she’s sunk in peaceful sleep, again

the girl can see the one she loves; and when

their bodies meet, she blushes in her sleep.

When sleep retreats, the girl lies still for long

and, thinking back on what she’d seen in dreams—

her mind beset by doubts—begins to speak:

 

“What misery is mine! What does it mean,

this vision in the silence of the night,

this scene I’d never want to see in daylight?

But why this dream? Yes, he is fair indeed—

even unfriendly eyes would grant him that;

he pleases me, and I could love him if

he weren’t my own brother; he would be

most worthy of me. To my grief, I am

his sister! Yet, if I, awake, do not

attempt such things, then let me see that dream

again in sleep—the same beguiling scene.

In dreams, no one can see you, and delight

does not seem feigned. O Venus, tender mother,

with your winged Cupid at your side, what joy

was mine! How true it seemed—so full, so deep,

it reached my marrow! Memory is sweet,

although the pleasure that I had was brief

and Night too quick to leave—she must have envied

what we were doing. Oh, if I could change

my name, o Caunus, and your father gain

so fine a daughter-in-law, even as mine

would gain in you so fine a son-in-law!

Oh, if the gods had only let us share

 

Latin [464–90]

 

all things in common—but for our parentage!

I’d have you born of higher lineage!

Instead, my fairest Caunus, you’ll beget

a son by someone else whom you will wed;

for me, who had the evil fate to share

your father and your mother, you will be

no more than brother. All we’ll have in common

is what has blocked our love. But then, these scenes

that I have often dreamed—what do they mean?

Do dreams have any weight at all? I call

upon the blessed gods to curb my love. . . .

Yet . . . yet . . . it is the gods themselves who wed

their sisters: Saturn married Ops, his kin

by blood; and Tethys married Oceanus;

and he who rules Olympus married Juno.

But gods have their own laws: why do I try

to seek another measure for the rites

of humans? Heaven’s ways are different.

I can expel this passion from my heart

before I’ve taken that forbidden course—

but if I lack such force, may I die first!

And as they lay me—dead—upon the couch,

and I lie there, stretched out, may Caunus come

to kiss my lips! But, after all, not one

but two must will such things. What pleases me

may be what he would deem depravity.

 

“And yet the sons of Aeolus were not

ashamed to wed their sisters. Why do I

bring this to mind? Why do I cite such things?

Where am I veering now? Have done, have done

with these obscene, foul fires; let me love

my Caunus as a sister should. And yet

if he had chanced to be the first of us

to feel this flame, I might have seconded

his frenzy. And, if I would not have scorned

his wanting me, should I now seek him out?

And can I speak to him—confess in full?

 

Latin [490–514]

 

Urged on by love, indeed I can. Or if

my shame won’t let me speak, I still can write

a secret letter, and the love I hide

will be revealed to him.”

 

                        And she decides

on this: her mind had wavered—but she likes

this plan; and now she lifts herself and leans

on her left elbow, as she says: “Let him

decide! Let me confess this insane love.

Ah me, where am I bound? What flames erupt

within my mind?” And she begins to write,

composing words with care, though her hand shakes.

Her right hand grips the iron stylus, while

her left holds fast a slab of wax—as yet

untouched. And she, unsure, begins; she writes,

then cancels; traces letters, then repents;

corrects, is discontent, and then content;

picks up the tablets, lays them down; and when

they are at rest, she picks them up again.

She knows not what she wants; about to act,

she cancels her resolve. Upon her face

audacity is plain—but mixed with shame.

She has already written “sister” on

the tablet but decides to blot it out.

She cleans the wax and then inscribes these words:

 

“Here one who loves you wishes you good fortune,

that fortune she will never gain unless

you grant it to her. I’m ashamed—yes, yes—

I am ashamed to tell my name. One thing

I’ve wanted so: to plead my cause but hide

my name—I did not want to let you know

that I am Byblis till I could be sure

that what I want—and hope for—was secured.

In truth, the signs of my heart’s wound were clear.

I was so pale, so drawn, so prone to tears;

I sighed but showed no cause; and often I

 

Latin [515–38]

 

embraced you, and my kisses were indeed—

had you but noticed them!—not sisterly.

But I, despite a wound so harsh, so deep—

for fiery frenzy burned within me—tried

by every means (the gods will testify)

so long against tremendous odds: I sought

to flee—in misery—from Cupid’s shafts.

You’d not have thought a girl could bear that task.

But now I’m overcome, I must confess:

it is your help that—trembling—I must ask.

You are the only one who can decide

if I’m to be delivered or destroyed:

it’s you who now must choose. No enemy

beseeches you but one who, though already

close-linked to you, longs for still closer ties.

Let those who are our elders seek and find

what is permitted; let them analyze

the niceties of law—the wrongs, the rights.

But we are young: it is audacity

that’s opportune in love. We’ve yet to learn

what’s licit: we think nothing is forbidden;

we take as our examples the great gods.

Our father is not harsh; we are not blocked

by scruples for our good name; fear cannot

curb us. In fact, what need we fear? We’ll hide

our meetings under the sweet names of sister

and brother. I am fully free to meet

alone with you, to speak in secret—we

already kiss, embracing openly.

What’s missing still, can easily be reached.

Have mercy on the one who has confessed

her love—who’d not have written this unless

the ardor driving her had been relentless.

Don’t let them write upon my sepulcher

that I have died because of you.”

 

                        Her tablets

were full; she had no more on which to trace

 

Latin [538–65]

 

her futile message. Byblis had to run

the last line she inscribed along the margin.

 

At once she seals her sinful words: she takes

her ring, which she can only wet with tears

(her tongue is much too dry to moisten it),

and presses it into the wax. Ashamed,

she calls a servant; when he hesitates,

she uses honeyed words to urge this task:

“O you, who’ve been so faithful, take these tablets

to my . . .” and here the girl paused long before

she added, “brother.” As she handed them

to him, the tablets slipped; down to the ground

they fell. That omen troubled her, and yet

she sent them on. The servant left and, when

he found a moment that was suitable,

consigned to Caunus that confessional.

 

Her brother is astonished, furious;

he flings aside the tablets, just half-read,

and even as he finds it hard to check

his hands—he wants to beat the servant—says:

“Be off, before it is too late, foul pimp,

you filthy go-between for lust and sin;

for if your death would not mean my disgrace,

your life would be the price I’d make you pay!”

 

The messenger runs off—he’s terrified—

to tell his mistress of that fierce reply.

And when you hear that Caunus has repulsed

your love, pale Byblis, you are petrified;

your body is invaded by chill frost.

But when her mind has been restored, the force

of frenzy, too, returns; and though her voice

finds speech is hard indeed, these are her words:

 

“This is what I deserve! Why did I rush

to bare my wound, my love? Why did I trust

 

Latin [565–86]

 

a letter—sent in haste—to bear what’s best

left secret? There were better ways to test

his bent: with ambiguities and hints—

I could have spoken. To avoid the risk

of his not seconding what I so wished,

at first I should have kept my sails close-reefed,

seen what the wind was like, and faced the deep

only when I was sure I had safe seas;

but now I’ve spread my sails, and they are filled

with winds I did not chart before I sailed.

So I am wrecked upon the shoals; the surge

has ruined me, and I can’t change my course.

But I, in truth, had been forewarned: that omen—

was it not clear that I must not pursue

my love when those wax tablets slipped and fell,

as I was just about to send them off?

Did that not mean my hopes had fallen, too?

I should have waited for a later day

or sacrificed my hopes—although delay

and not denial is the better way.

The god himself had warned me, and the signs

were clear—had I not been out of my mind.

In any case, I should not have relied

on tablets; to divulge my frenzy I

could have confessed it to him face-to-face:

he would have seen my tears, my loving gaze;

I could have told him more than I inscribed,

have thrown my arms around his neck, despite

his protests; and if I was still denied,

I could have seemed like one about to die,

and sunk down to his feet, embracing them

and, stretched along the ground, have begged for life.

I’d have used all these means: if taken singly,

each might be useless; but they would succeed

if I employed them all together—he

could not resist. And, then again, perhaps

some fault lies with the servant I had sent.

He must have made the wrong approach; the time

 

Latin [586–612]

 

he chose was—I am sure—inopportune;

he did not wait until my brother’s mind

was free of other cares. That hurt my cause.

For, after all, my brother was not born

of some fierce tigress; there is no hard flint,

no rigid iron, and no adamant

within his heart; nor did a lioness

give suck to Caunus. I can conquer him!

I will not let him be. As long as I

still have some breath of life, I’ll try—and try

again. Although I know the best course was

never to have begun, what I have done

can’t be annulled; and since I have begun,

the next best choice is, stay until I’ve won.

For even if I should renounce my hopes,

by now he can’t forget how rash I was.

And if I should desist, I would seem heedless

or—worse—insidious, as if I’d tried

to tempt and trap him. And in any case,

I’d seem to him no more than one enslaved

by lust—not one who has indeed obeyed

this god who has deployed his tyrant force

to subjugate and to inflame my heart.

In sum, I cannot act as if I’d done

no wrong: I wrote to him; I sought him out—

and sought what’s sinful. Even if I stop

at this point, he can’t think me innocent.

The way is long if I’d fulfill my hopes;

but to sin more, there’s little way to go.”

 

Such were her wavering words; unsure, disturbed,

her mind is torn by doubts: while she repents

of what she’s done, she wants to try again.

And now the helpless girl has lost all sense

of measure; and she pleads again, again

with Caunus, who rejects, rejects, rejects—

until at last, relentlessly harassed,

. . .

 

Latin [612–33]

 

he flees his native land and her foul pleas

and, in a foreign land, founds a new city.

 

And now Miletus’ daughter, in despair,

loses her mind completely; Byblis tears

her robes and bares her breasts and beats her arms—

in frenzy. Byblis openly declares

her sacrilegious love; she rages, raves.

Then, having lost all hope, the girl forsakes

her country, leaves the home that earned her hate;

she wants to track the fugitive: she takes

the path her brother took when he escaped.

And, Bacchus, even as in Ismarus

your devotees, excited by the thyrsus,

each third year celebrate your bacchanal,

so now, along broad fields, near Bubassus,

the matrons see the wailing Byblis rave,

delirious. The warlike Leleges,

the Lycians, and the Cares see her frenzy.

And she’d already left behind the Cragus,

the Limyre, and Xanthus’ stream; she crossed

the wooded ridge where fierce Chimaera lived—

that monster with a fire-breathing midriff,

whose head and chest showed her as lioness,

but bore a serpent’s tail. Beyond those woods,

you, Byblis, weary of your long pursuit

of Caunus, fell; and there you lay—your hair

streamed out along the hard ground, and your face

was buried in the fallen leaves. Again,

again, the Lelegeian nymphs attempt—

so tenderly—to lift her up; again, again,

they try to teach her how to cure her love;

they offer words of comfort, but she can’t

respond. She lies there; with her nails she grasps

the green grass; and the meadow now is damp

with Byblis’ streaming tears. Upon this flow

of tears—they say—the Naiads then bestowed

this gift: it never dries. What greater gift

 

Latin [633–58]

 

could they have given Byblis? Just as pitch

drips from a slashed pine-bark; or as, from rich,

drenched earth, bitumen oozes, sticky, thick;

or as, beneath the west wind’s gentle breath,

the waters winter froze now melt beneath

the sun; just so is Byblis changed at once

into the tears she shed; she has become

a fountain that, within those valleys, still

retains unto this day its mistress’ name:

just at the foot of a dark ilex tree,

the never-ending fount of Byblis streams.