Word of this prodigy might well have stirred
all Crete—its hundred towns—if Crete itself
had not—so recently—produced its own
great miracle: when Iphis changed her form.
In Phaestus, close to Gnossus’ royal city,
there lived a man called Ligdus. Though the son
of humble parents, Ligdus was freeborn.
And like his lineage, his property
was modest; but he’d lived most honestly—
he bore no stain, no blame. And when his wife
was just about to have their child, he turned
to her with these admonitory words:
“There are two things for which I pray: the first,
that you may suffer little in childbirth;
the second, that your child may be a boy.
Our means are meager—girls require more.
So, if by chance (I pray it not be so)
you bear a female, I would have you know
that (hateful as it is—and may the gods
forgive me) I shall have her put to death.”
Such were his words. They both were bathed in tears:
he who had ordered this, and she who must
obey. Though Telethusa, his dear wife,
Latin [658–82]
entreated Ligdus not to set such limits
upon the birth they both had longed for so,
she prayed in vain. He would not change his course.
And now the hour of birth drew close; her womb
was full—a burden she could hardly bear—
when at midnight she saw—or thought she saw—
an image in her dreams: before her bed
stood Isis and her train of deities.
Upon her forehead she bore lunar horns
and, round her head, a yellow garland—
stalks of wheat that had been wrought in gleaming gold;
and she had other signs of royalty.
Beside her stood the barking god, Anubis;
sacred Bubastis; Apis, in his cloak
of many colors; and Osiris’ son,
who checks his voice and, with his finger on
his lips, urges our silence. There were sistrums;
and there, at Isis’ side, Osiris, he
who always is longed for; and the Egyptian
snake swollen with his soporific venom.
And Telethusa, who saw all of this
as if she were awake, heard Isis say:
“O Telethusa, you, who worship me
so faithfully, can set aside despair:
there is no need to heed your husband’s order.
And once Lucina has delivered you,
don’t hesitate to let your newborn live.
I am the goddess who, when called upon
for help and hope, bring comfort: I respond.
No, I am not a thankless deity.”
Her counsel ended here. The goddess left.
The Cretan woman rose up from her bed,
rejoicing; stretching out her blameless hands
unto the stars, she prayed—a suppliant—
that what she’d seen in dreams would be confirmed.
Her labor pains grew more intense, and soon
Latin [682–704]
she’d given easy birth: a girl was born.
Now, to deceive her husband, Telethusa
gave orders to the nurse (for she alone
knew of this guile) to feed the newborn child
and to tell everyone it was a son.
And Ligdus thanked the gods, and to the child
he gave the name of Ligdus’ father: Iphis.
And Telethusa was most pleased with this:
it was a name that suited male or female—
a neutral name, whose use involved no tricks.
No one unmasked the pious lie. She dressed
her Iphis as a boy—and whether one
assigned them to a daughter or a son,
the features of the child were surely handsome.
Some thirteen years had come; thirteen had gone.
O Iphis, now, for you, your father found
a bride, the blond Ianthe—there was none
among the girls of Phaestus who had won
more praise for the perfection of her form.
Her father was a man of Crete, Telestes.
Iphis and she were equal in their age,
their beauty; and the two of them were trained
by the same tutors; they had learned—together—
the basic rudiments of arts and letters.
In sum, they had shared much; and so when love
had struck their unsuspecting hearts, they both
shared one same wound—but not with equal hopes.
Ianthe waits impatiently to wed;
she longs for what was promised and accepted,
her wedding one she takes to be a man;
while Iphis is in love with one she knows
is never to be hers; and just for this,
the flame is still more fierce; and now she burns—
a virgin for a virgin. It is hard
to check her tears.
Latin [705–26]
“What end awaits me now?”
she says. “I am possessed by love so strange
that none has ever known its monstrous pangs.
If heaven meant to spare me, then the gods
should have done so; and if the gods’ intent
was to destroy me, then the means they chose
could have been natural—a normal woe.
Cows don’t love cows, and mares do not love mares;
but sheep desire rams, and does are drawn
by stags. And birds, too, follow that same norm;
among the animals, no female wants
a female! Would I could annul myself!
Yes, it is true that all monstrosities
occur in Crete; and here Pasiphae
has loved a bull. But even that is less
insane than what I feel; for, after all,
she was a female longing for a male.
Yet she was able to attain her goal:
when she appeared in heifer’s guise, then he—
deceived—appeased her with adultery.
But how can I be helped? For even if
the world’s most cunning minds were gathered here,
if Daedalus himself flew back to Crete
on waxen wings, what could he do? Nothing—
no learned art—can ever make of me
a boy. And it cannot change you, lanthe.
“Why then not summon all your mettle, Iphis?
Return to your own self; extinguish this
flame that is hopeless, heedless, surely foolish.
For you were born a girl; and now, unless
you would deceive yourself, acknowledge that:
accept it; long for what is lawful; love
as should a woman love! What gives most life
to love is hope; it’s hope that lets love thrive—
but it is hope of which you are deprived.
No guardian keeps you from her loving touch;
no jealous husband keeps a sleepless watch,
Latin [726–51]
and no harsh father; nor would she herself
deny you what you seek; yet you cannot
possess her. Though all things may favor you,
though men and gods may help in your pursuit,
you can’t be happy. Even now there’s no
desire of mine that’s been denied; the gods
have been benevolent—they’ve given me
as much as they could give; and what I want
is what my father and Ianthe want,
and what my future father-in-law wants.
It’s nature, with more power than all of these,
that does not want it: my sole enemy
is nature! Now the longed-for moment nears,
my wedding day is close at hand: Ianthe
will soon be mine—but won’t belong to me.
With all that water, we shall thirst indeed.
Why do you, Juno, guardian of brides,
and you, too, Hymen, come to grace these rites
at which there is no husband—just two brides?”
Her words were done. Meanwhile the other virgin,
whose passion matches Iphis’, prays, o Hymen,
that you be quick to come. But Telethusa,
who fears the very thing Ianthe seeks,
delays the date; at times she feigns some illness
and often uses omens seen in dreams
as an excuse. But no pretext is left,
and now the wedding day is imminent—
indeed it looms tomorrow. She removes
the bands that circle her and Iphis’ heads;
with hair unbound, she holds the altar fast
and pleads: “O Isis, you who make your home
in Mareota’s fields and Paraetonium
and Pharos and the Nile, whose waters flow
to seven mouths, I pray you, help us now
and heal the fear we feel. O goddess, I
have seen you: yes, I saw and recognized
you and your regal signs—your mighty band
Latin [752–77]
of gods, the torches, and the sistrums’ sounds—
and I can still remember your commands.
If my dear daughter is alive, if I
have not been punished, we owe all of this
to your advice, your gift. Take pity, Isis:
we two indeed have need of you.” Her words
were followed by her tears.
The goddess seemed
to shake her altar (and Osiris had
in fact done that): her temple doors had trembled;
one saw the glitter of her crescent horns;
one heard the clash and clatter of her sistrums.
Still not completely sure, yet glad to have
such hopeful auguries, the mother left
the temple. Iphis walked behind her, but
her stride was longer than it was before,
and her complexion darker; she was more
robust; her features had grown sharper, and
her hair was shorter, without ornaments.
You are more vigorous than you had been,
o Iphis, when you still were feminine—
for you who were a girl so recently
are now a boy! So, bring your offerings
unto the shrines; set fear aside—rejoice!
They bring their offerings, and then they add
a votive tablet, one on which they had
inscribed these words: “These gifts, which Iphis pledged
as girl, are paid by him as man.” And when
the first rays of the next day’s sun again
revealed the wide world, Venus, Juno, and
Hymen assembled: marriage flames were lit,
and the boy Iphis made Ianthe his.
Latin [777–97]