Cyparissus

The Cypress Tree
Painting by Vincent Van Gogh

Considered the iconic tree of the Mediterranean, the symbol of the rolling hills of Tuscany or the rugged mountains of Greece, the humble cypress tree had a far more potent, and sinister, meaning to the Ancient Romans. Even today, journeying through Italy, you will find many a shadow of a cypress falling across a graveyard, a silent sentinel watching over the darker places of the world. Its characteristic pencil like form is never far away in this land, and rarely absent from the tourist's photograph. But why this mournful association? Why the favoured foliage of the afterlife? It all began with a story nearly two thousand years ago, the story of a young boy who would give the cypress its name, and its story...




Long ago, on the idyllic pastures of the island of Caea, there was bred a mighty stag, its stature and beauty never before known. In majesty and power, all of his kind he excelled. A wonder to behold, to the nymphs of Cartha he was sacred held. Dignity was written in his face, vast were his antlers, enough to grant him ample shade. The horns gilt seemed, as the sun beams danced of their shining points, casting all around in their radiant glow. So brilliantly burnished was his coat, it seemed as though all the precious stones of the world were embedded in every lock. Nature itself seemed to bow before his stride, and soon the fear of the locals was lost, and even strangers would come forth to pat his proffered neck.

But there was a young boy among the Caeans who adored him most. By all accounts an ordinary boy, blessed with no great strength of arm, divine beauty nor unearthly wit, but a heart of gold he hid within. A country boy, he cared nothing for the grand affairs of the world, but cared in abundance for what his eyes could see and ears could hear. An uncommon empathy he held too for all living things, for in the wild he lived, and learned to reside in peace with the creatures, and spirits of the forest. Then one day, came the regal stag, and all was changed:


       " Much was the beast by Caea's youth caress'd,
         But thou, sweet Cyparissus, lov'dst him best:
         By thee, to pastures fresh, he oft was led,
         By thee oft water'd at the fountain's head:
         His horns with garlands, now, by thee were ty'd,
         And, now, thou on his back wou'dst wanton ride;
         Now here, now there wou'dst bound along the plains,
         Ruling his tender mouth with purple reins. "
              - CYPARISSUS AND THE STAG

Cyparissus, Apollo & Hyacinthus
Painting by Alexander Ivanov

Many came before the stag awed by the beauty of its form. Cyparissus came, drawn by the beauty within, for he sensed a grace within, bound with his adoration of nature and al living things. Soon both boy and beast began a friendship such that man and loyal animal only can, like the shepherd and his faithful hound. Many a lazy afternoon could you find them, resting by a pool in the forest glades, retreating from the burning rays of Apollo's sun. Across the far reaching plains the boy and his stag would race, their contest the amusement of the gods high on Olympus. The villagers were puzzled, but delighted for young Cyparissus and his unconventional friendship, sensing the hand of the divine at work.


Then one day, Cyparissus went into the forest hunting, hoping to bring back some prize boar for his family, a spectacular feast indeed. A scorching summer day, the burning arms of the Sun pierced the foliage, and sweat fell from the boy's brow. His faithful companion had bounded joyfully ahead into the brush, bidding the boy on. But, suffering from the heat too, the mighty stag sought refuge in the shade of the bushes, laying his weary limbs across the grass. Suddenly, distracted, the boy heard the snort of a boar close by. Not twice does opportunity strike, not two moments does one wait when hunger strikes. Cyparissus levelled his spear and took his aim, wary of his nearby friend. Bringing back his hunting arm, he launched with all his might, but no! A bead of sweat brought forth from the fiery Sun fell into his eye. A stinging sensation swept his eye, and the boy blinked, and his aim went awry. A blood chilling cry rose to the skies, as Cyparissus rubbed his sore eye. The pain passed, he looked up, excited to find his quarry.

Cyparissus mourns
Painting by Jacopo Vignali

Horror swept through his mortal frame, and cold dread, when he saw no boar thrashing at the foot of the tree. Unknowingly, unwillingly, oblivious, Cyparissus had cast the deadly dart, but his worst nightmare had it transfixed upon its brazen point. There lay the mighty stag, and never a more tragic sight there lay. The hideous truth of his error laid bare, the young boy fell to his knees, tears welled up inside. The stag writhed in pain, blood spattering the forest floor, its cries rending the air. Frantically, Cyparissus tried to staunch the wound, but the hands of a boy are scarce enough to stem the flow of blood that gushed forth that day. Calling out in desperation, the folly dawned upon him, and his heart began to break. At last, the cries grew silent, the body still, and the stag lay motionless, its staring into the wilderness. Cyparissus howled to the skies. He would have taken his own life there and then, had not Phoebus Apollo, lord of the Sun, taken pity on the boy. Had not his burning rays caused the boy's aim to go wide... Cyparissus, determined to feel his guilt for all time, and expiate his crime, asked the god to allow him to mourn for all time. Himself fighting back his tears, Apollo granted his final wish, moved was he. The blood drained from the boy, his legs fused together, and leaves grew where one was his skin, and hard weeping bark underneath. A thin and lanky young boy, so too was the form of the tree which he took.

Apollo looked on in grief, and declared that this was ever after to be present at the ritual of mourning, and the tree was named. Cypress, the tree of mourning. Still today it watches over graves...



United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Arachne

It is often falsely believed that our ancestors of the ancient world lived in slavish devotion to their gods, that they prayed daily, sacrificed often and repented frequently, and that the fate of nations lay in the words of Heaven. But like any other culture, there were rebels. Here is the story of one such rebel.

Arachne's admired craft
Fresco by Francesco del Cossa,
Palazzo Schifanoia, Ferrara

There once was a young maiden, skilled in craft. Sacred was her gift, profane her piety. "Low was her birth, and small her native town, she from her art alone obtain'd renown". Dead was her mother, a dyer of Tyrian purple, her father. Content in their small hamlet until Arachne's adolescent years, when the daughter first turned her hand to her immortal craft. Immensely skilled at the loom, the most dazzling displays of weaving were the maiden's forte, and it was not long before her fame began to spread far from her home. Across the plain word spread, over the hills and far through Lydia and beyond her legend grew. From the mortal to the immortal plain her name spread, and oft would the nymphs of the fountains, trees or hills take leave of their hiding places. From the golden rivers the Naiads came, all of them drawn by her legendary art. For the spirits of nature there was little finer that to observe the shapeless wool she wound with fluid motion on the spindle, as the masterpiece took slow but mighty shape. The goddess Minerva, weaver of the gods on high, was woven into every thread, yet scorned was the mistress by the maiden. Never once did Arachne honour the goddess nor reveal the source of her knowledge, neither praising nor cursing, pure and plain silence.

The Spinning Contest
Painting by Diege Velázquez

Upon Arachne Minerva bent her "vengeful mind", angered by the indifference of the maiden toward the gods gion high. "Let us, she cries, but to a trial come, and if she conquers, let her fix my doom". The goddess took the form of a woman bent with age, and came to the house of Arachne. Coming before the prodigal girl, the old woman declared "Young maid attend, nor stubbonly despise the admonitions of the old, and wise; for age, tho' scorn'd, a ripe experience bears". Her experience could lend the girl skill greater still, but only if she petition the gods on high, and pardon her bold presumption that she be greater than the gods. With temper fired Arachne rose, and to the veiled goddess she spoke. She despised the elderly counsel and her blasphemy grew. "If your skilful goddess better knows, let her accept the trial I propose!". "She does", wrathful Minerva replies, "and cloth'd with heavenly light, sprung from her disguise". The nymphs of the plains leapt back in fright, the ladies of hamlet trembled before the awe of divinity. Only the maiden stood unafraid, confident of her earthly, human talents. A brief blush in the cheek she allowed, but swiftly her composure regain'd. Across from each other the board was set, and the looms deployed, both ready to test their skills before the other, and all looked on in apprehension.


At once skilled fingers darted hither and thither across the mantle, human and inhuman, plying their trades as never before. Shining colours lit up the room, finest golds shimmering from the Minervan loom, royal purple from the maiden's mantle, gift of her father. Shades and light were wed on the wool, "as when a show'r transpierc'd with sunny rays, its mighty arch along the heav'n displays". Minerva the glories of the gods on high wove, high on Olympus on lofty thrones. Jupiter the subject, seated proud, and the centre of heaven and the centre of her loom. With awing majesty he all the rest excell'd, but there tood were woven his kin and those of heaven. There too was the hoary lord of the seas, Neptune the son of Saturn, wielding his three pronged trident high, ready to smite the jagged rocks, his steed the hippocampus ready for its master. There herself even, Minerva wove the very image of her own. Blazoning with glory, with glittering arms. With lavishly crested helm and braided hair, shining cuirass and shield resplendent, the image of the goddess stood poised, lance ready at the tilled earth. There the blade struck, and a towering olive blossomed into glorious life. Then, to warn the maiden Arachne,a  rival now, the goddess wove, and wove well. In all the corners four she wove a tale of mortals past, mortals who dared provoke the wrath of gods. In one there was spun Rhodope, King of the warlike Thracians who dared assume the titles of Jupiter, transfigured to a mountain for his pride. In the second corner there lay the image of the venomous Pigmaean dame, who dared profane Juno's holy name, now no more than a feathered crane. To the third Minerva's hands flew, whence the pride of young Antigone grew. Another to scorn the wife of Jove, with her self admired beauty she vyed with the Empress of the Skies. At last to the final corner Minerva flew, and there the image of weeping Cinyras drew. To crown it all at the centre stood, the mighty olive tree woven finer than any mortal could.

Arachne meanwhile chose triumphs of the divine, yet of a somewhat different kind. To the vices of on high she turned, and of the dalliances of Jove she wove. Through the rising surf and roaring tide, Zeus the Thunderer bore Europa upon his stride. Fearful of the ocean deep, up drew the feet of the maid, as though of Poseidon's domain she was afraid. Their too lay Leda a resplendent swan, for whom Jove could be the only one. Appear'd in a shower gold, came the god to Danaë's hold. To Neptune next the maiden turned her hand, casting the hypocrisy of heav'n across the land. Then upon a bursting scene, Arachne wove a valley pristine. Apollo next, roving through the plain, rousing song to banish all pain. Bacchus too could not escape his fate, as ever a slave to the accursed grape.

Minerva's Wrath
Painting by Rubens

All this the bright eyed goddess saw, and grew worried at the outcome of this war. Minerva was moved, great was her anger yet inwardly she approv'd. Magnificent was the maiden's taste, yet greater still Minerva's haste. The scenes she saw of heavenly vices made her wonder, but not before her wrath tore the loom asunder. Upon the terror struck maiden the goddess lunged from great height, retribution for her insubordinate spite. In fear and grief Arachne resolved, to be be of this life absolved. So Minerva watched as Arachne from the beam hung, pity rising as she swung. Calming now, the goddess her regret did announce, though swift was her judgement to pronounce:


     " Live, but depend, vile wretch, the goddess cried, doomed
       suspense forever to be tied; that all your race,
       to utmost date of time, may feel the vengeance, and detest the crime "
              - MINERVA'S CURSE


Turning to leave, Minerva upon the girl a potion poured, and before her eye's was Arachne's new body formed. Not two but eight legs now, the array wondered but knew not how. Her body a spider's now "from which she a thread gives, and still by constant weaving lives".

So came the spider into name, and how their family name 'Arachnid' became...


United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Pygmalion's Statue

Mythology is not lacking in tales of punished vice. But so too is it abundant with tales of rewarded virtue. Humility could as readily reward you with joy as Pride could punish you with retribution. This is the story of one such humble man who harboured a dream which came true.

Pygmalion at work in his studio
Painting by Jean Baptiste Regnault

There was once on the isle of Cyprus the seedling of a dangerous idea. In the city of Amathus there lived an accursed crowd, the Propoetides by name. A godless crew, drunk on the riches that the veins of gold in the Earth had bestowed upon them, they soon began to turn away from their gods. Numberless were their heresies, but one graver than all the rest. An array of women, the daughters of Propoetus, dared to deny the existence of the goddess Venus, the lady of desire. To Venus, this was deeply blasphemous. "With just abhorrence, and with wrath purs'd", the goddess was unleashed. But seeing no reason to inflict vengeance on the innocent pastures and cities of her former lands, she bent her anger on the daughters, the sinners themselves. Blasted from their mind was their remaining sense of dignity, honour and shame. Outcast from the people, and shunned by society the Propoetides took to prostitution, the first to do so, and the first to feel the blind eye of fellow men and women, "the first that sold their lewd embraces for gold... unknowing how to blush, and shameless grown."

There was, however, one man in particular who bore witness to their dread crimes. A lonely but noble spirited young man, Pygmalion was his name. A poor sculptor, Pygmalion spent his life crafting the forms of the divine, his chisel hewing perfection out of the coarse stone. While his craft was widely admired, and his skills with marble adored, he lived a life cut off from society. One day in Amathus, Pygmalion caught a glimpse of the apostate Propetides. Rarely entering the city, he was appalled at the heinous debauchery on display that day. Shocked to his very core, he resolved never to have anything further to do with womankind, and abhorred marriage, convinced that there was not one well spirited woman in all the world.

Pygmalion admires his work
Sculpture by Étienne Maurice Falconet 

Wracked with hopeless longing, Pygmalion turned to his one true solace. Taking up his chisel and hammer, he began to hew a new ivory block. Tears came as he struck the matter, the artist carving out some new image of perfection. Working day and night, Pygmalion, fearing idleness lest it remind him of his plight, worked harder and harder, and shards of ivory flew hither and thither across the master's workshop. Scarcely could Nature herself have bettered Pygmalion's craft, so fine were his cuts and smooth the polished surface. Ever pious to the deities on high, the sculptor made sure that the summit of the sculpture was carved finely too, where man could not see but the gods could. "Pleas'd with his idol, he commends, admires, adores; and last, the thing ador'd, desires". At last, Pygmalion set down his chisel and hammer, and stepped back from his masterpiece. So great had been the sculptor's skill, he was taken in by his own art. Stood before him was the image of a perfect maiden, pure and serene, untroubled by vice, unburdened with guilt. At any moment she might have stepped down from her pedestal, so incredibly lifelike was she. Such perfection was there, and such pollution in the real world! With this realisation, Cupid's arrow struck, and Pygmalion could never look at his beloved statue with anything but deep longing.

The day soon came, however, for the feast of Venus on Cypriot shores. A sombre day to which quiet prayers were owed, the day was a chance for all Cypriots to honour the goddess they had once scorned. Gild horned bulls were lead through the streets, slaughtered and by the high altars they bled. Pygmalion, however, shunned the procession and came to the shrine of Venus, and bowed before the image of the goddess.


            " Almighty Gods, if all we mortals want,
              If all we can require, be yours to grant;
              Make this fair statue mine, he wou'd have said,
              But chang'd his words for shame; and only pray'd,
              Give me the likeness of my iv'ry maid... "
                   - PYGMALION'S PRAYER

Galatea born
Painting by Jean Raoux

Terrible was the sound of Pygmalion's grief. Mere silence, as a tear rolled down his grizzled cheek. But high on Olympus' lofty heights, Venus heard his sadness, and her divine heart was moved beyond pity.Hearing his prayer, and knowing the true prayer that lay in Pygmalion's heart, the goddess recognised that there was one in that accursed land who was a true and noble servant of Heaven. The altar flame roared, and the fire rose high, and Pygmalion leapt back, suddenly afraid. Daring to hope, longing perhaps, he dashed back home. There she was still, in harmony, glazed eyes and fixed stare, his beloved statue. So afire was Pygmalion, he ran to embrace the statue. Feeling at first the cold hard ivory he despaired. But swiftly did his despair turn to ecstasy. For at his touch, he felt the ivory soften, saw the whiteness lessen, the cold white lips redden, the coldness warm. The Blessing of Venus passed to the statue, as the goddess's gift was bestowed upon humble Pygmalion. Ivory no more, but living flesh. Stony silence no more, but beating pulse. Frozen stance no more, but animated form. The transformation complete, Pygmalion and his statue stared at each other, robbed of words. Barely a moment of tranquillity passed before each ran to embrace the other, and Venus smiled. Pygmalion, his deepest wish granted, gave the woman a name, Galatea. The two were wed, and scarcely has such devotion been seen among the domains of men. Pygmalion and Galatea had a son, Paphos, and the House of Pygmalion lived a life of joy 'till the end of days.

United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

The Blood of Adonis

Many a time in ancient lore did a mortal fall afoul of the gods, for offences slight or grievous. Often did the Olympians strike back with overwhelming vengeance, so as to discourage insubordination in the future, and preserve the pristine honour of Heaven. But just sometimes, that vengeance rebounded upon its creator, and gods would know the pain of mortals. The story of Adonis is one such example.

The Birth of Adonis
Painting by Marcantonio Franceschini

There was once Cinyras on the throne of Assyria, with his adoring Queen Cenchreis. The family had just one heir, their young daughter, Princess Myrrha. As they watched their daughter grew, the Royal Family and the Assyrians marvelled at her beauty. Some called it Heaven bestowed. Others good fortune. But when the time came when Myrrha came of age, Queen Cenchreis proudly boasted that her daughter's beauty surpassed even that of Venus herself. A glowing compliment for a daughter. A blasphemous offence to a goddess. High on Mount Olympus, the goddess heard her. Never had so terrible a wrath been wrought upon so innocent a crime. Such fury behind the fair face of Heaven's most beloved daughter. The goddess' righteous fury sped down from Olympus as a flash of lightning, delivering forbidden passion into the mind of the Princess. Venus condemned her, rebounding her natural passion upon her own family, and thereafter she would forever have eyes for only her father. Overcome with frenzied passion, disguised by her loyal maids, Myrrha pursued her father with all her energy, employing every trick of deception to fool him of her true identity. Dark was the hour of man when at last she caught her quarry. The following day, when King Cinyras discovered the identity of his seducer, he tore the sword from his scabbard and pursued her, devastated and outraged by her perverse corruption.

Maddened by grief and the affliction that cursed her mind, Myrrha resolved to end her life. She had just prepared the rope from which she would swing when her handmaiden stayed her hand. High on Olympus, Vengeful Venus at last knew pity, and decided to end her suffering. At the goddess' command, the Princess shifted and became a beautiful tree. Ever after mortals would call it the fairest in the grove, the most beautifully scented, the myrrh tree.

The Birth of Venus
Painting by  Nicolas Poussin

Eight months passed, and the world it seemed, lay in peace. Then, on the ninth, the tree burst asunder, revealing a baby boy who would be the envy of all men - Adonis. Pity still afflicted Venus, but when she cast her godly eye over the myrrh tree, all was forgotten when she saw the boy. Knowing immediately that he would grow to become the most handsome man who ever lived, she was at once obsessed with the boy. Fearing for harm that may come to the boy, she bound him in an adamant casket and entrusted it to Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, for there was no safer place than the Underworld, where all the bounty of the Earth ultimately hails. For many a year, young Adonis grew up and grew strong away from the light, but safe.

Adonis in glory
Painting by Benjamin West

Time soon passed, and a boy he was no more. Venus made the journey to reclaim the boy, but found trouble lay ahead. For Persephone fell immediately for Adonis' astonishing beauty, and had no intention of relinquishing her charge. But when Venus saw Adonis, man at last, she was stunned. The goddess of love felt her own power take hold of her, as Cupid's arrow struck her with irresistible force - a thing never to happen before. Profane love indeed, for Adonis was a cursed man. Conceived through incest, a violation of nature, the Fates had spun a finite thread for the fairest of all men. Both goddesses quarrelled intensively over him, until Jupiter the Thunderer, lord of Heaven and Earth, was forced to intercede. The King of the Gods ruled that for Adonis, the year would be divided three ways. Four months he would spend in the Underworld with Persephone, four with Venus, and four were to be given to him to do as he will. Both goddesses bowed at this compromise and eagerly prepared for their turn.

Venus and Adonis
Painting by Francois Lemoyne

Over time, however, it became apparent to which goddess Adonis himself preferred. Having grown up neverknowing the feel of the sun, the touch of grass nor the sound of birds singing, he could not wait to escape the world of Underland. The four precious months of his very own he therefore decided to spend with Venus too. Persephone fumed in Hades, Venus rejoiced on Earth. Many an hour did man and goddess spend together walking the pastures and forests of the Earth. A naturally athletic man, Adonis took to hunting, a noble pastime for men of the age. Soon both men and gods began to envy him. Mortal men longed for his looks and his muscles. Gods resented the affections of a goddess directed at a mortal. Jealous of Venus, Persephone revealed the affair to Mars, god of war and deeply smitten with Venus. Furious, the lord of battles and bloodshed plotted his vengeance on this upstart mortal. But far down on the Earth, Venus and Adonis were oblivious to all others, each perfect in all ways. Venus liked to watch Adonis hunt, but feared for him as his quarries grew mightier and mightier in stature. Eventually, fearing for his safety, she begged him not to hunt the wildest and most dangerous beasts. "Thus cautious Venus school'd her fav'rite boy; but youthful heat all cautions will destroy... his sprightly soul beyond grave counsels flies..."

The Death of Adonis
Painting by Luca Giordano

One hot summer's morning, Adonis awoke bright and early for the day's hunt. As the Sun rose higher in the day, the dogs caught a strange new scent, barking loudly. Adonis, eagerness peaked by the sound, seized his spear and set off on the chase into the scrub. The smell of sweat drew the hounds near, and there the object of his hunt lay. A mighty boar, powerfully built and sharply tusked, stood defiantly in the forest clearing. As soon as Adonis looked upon it, he was overcome with an urge to hunt it, claim it as the trophy of his prizes. No finer a beast had ever he seen, let alone caught. Some magic or other ill was at work that day, as thirst for glory drove the warnings of his beloved far from his mind. With a heart of valour, Adonis lifted his faithful spear, and with the strength of a hunter of prodigious skill, he hurled the metalled barb at the beast. A strange boar this war, for boar it was not. Shadow covered the glade, and in that moment the deception was laid bare. It was no common boar, nor any other beast of game, for there lay the war god himself in disguise. Terror chill gripped Adonis. Too late did he recall the words of Venus, and he turned to run. But one does not attack a god without consequence:


            " The trembling boy by flight his safety sought,
              and now recall'd the lore, which Venus taught;
              but now too late to fly the boar he strove,
              who in the groin his tusks impetuous drove,
              On the discolour'd grass Adonis lay,
              The monster trampling o'er his beauteous prey... "
                   - MARS' REVENGE

The Adonis River
Photograph taken by Adrien Valentine

A piercing scream rent the air apart and echoed through the valleys. To the godly bone it chilled Venus. Knowing all too well the voice, her heart froze. Fear gripped her fair body, an emotion few gods could say they knew, a terrible sensation at all times, yet worse when it is new. Immediately she sped to his side, as quietly Mars triumphantly stole away into the forest. Blood leaked from the tusk wound in the boy's side, and deathly was his pallor. Gentle groans emanated from his lips, tears from the eyes of Venus. The blood of Adonis ran through the nectar of the flowers, and where the droplets fell upon the earth, the anemone burst into life, brimming with colour. The river near where he lay ran red for many ages after, and to this day bears his name. So the curse of Adonis' family came to pass, and the ultimate revenge of Myrrha upon her tormentor. Ever after was Venus broken, though nine months later, she too gave birth, this time to daughter, Beroe. It is after this daughter that the city of Beirut is named...

United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Orpheus and Eurydice

The son of the Thracian King Oeagrus, Prince Orpheus, seemed to many who met him an unremarkable man, neither tall of stature like Hercules, nor divinely handsome as Adonis. He was not a renowned warrior, as Achilles, or even notably silver tongued as Odysseus. The son of a King, and the Muse Calliope, Orpheus did however possess two qualities so rare in the great men of his time. For the Thracian Prince was blessed with a heart of gold, and was gifted lyre player, a trait handed down from his mother and grandfather - the god Apollo. Both of these things would be his greatest asset, and his ultimate ruin...

Orpheus serenades the Nymphs of the Forest
Painting by Charles Jalabert

While the lyre was the creation of the god Hermes, it was Orpheus who perfected it. As a young child Apollo gifted his favoured grandson with a lyre of burnished gold, and his mother, the patron of lofty poetry, taught him many a verse of heroic lore, and the Prince set it all to heart-warming music. Any doubts old King Oeagrus may have had at his son's disinterest in military pursuits were at once silenced the moment young Orpheus began to play, for the hearts of the King and all his court were moved by the heavenly notes. Many a summer's afternoon would young Orpheus spend in the wild forests of Thrace, his refuge of body, his music, his sanctuary of mind. Oblivious he was too, to the enchanting power of his tunes. The nymphs of the forest lay all around, entranced by the Prince's songs, as they had been for his brother Marsyas. The beasts of the glades, boars, wolves and the like all stood alert and spellbound. Even the stones of the forest floor lent their attention to the sound that soothed the air, such was the power of the music that Orpheus created. The Prince's quiet life, however, did not endure for long. As a young man, Orpheus volunteered to join Jason and his fellow Argonauts on their arduous quest to the ends of the Earth for the Golden Fleece (a story which shall be told in the future on this site). The crew of heroes, including mighty Hercules himself, grew to respect and admire Orpheus, whose humble demeanour and beautiful compositions came to their rescue on many an occasion when morale was low, saving the lives of the whole crew when faced with the deadly Sirens.


When at last the voyage was over, Orpheus returned a grown man to his native Thrace, desiring a quiet life as of old. He soon grew to care for a nymph, Eurydice, a spirit who once admired his songs deep in the forest. Over time both Orpheus and Eurydice became deeply attached to one another, and the Prince was overjoyed when she agreed to wed him. The day arrived, and it was wondrous to behold, such was the array of beings present. Apollo made the rays of the Sun touch all the fields and faces that day, his grandson's wedding day. In their tens and hundreds the dryads and naiads marched forth from their abodes, bedecked in garlands and fine robes. It was a happy day, and even high on Olympus the joy was felt. Alas that such calamity would strike utopia that day. In the commotion and revelry, a drunken Satyr chased the bride through the party. Eurydice, surprised, fled into the fields, but ruinous was her fortune. Into the long grass of the meadow she fled. She turned to try and catch a glimpse of her pursuer, but in that moment she felt a lethal pain in her foot. She screamed and looked for the source of her doom. There at her feet, a viper. A glance she stole at Orpheus, face white with raw terror, before death moved to claim her on her wedding day.

The River Styx
Painting by Joachim Patinir

Devastation was the mere beginning of feeling which struck Orpheus now. Holding her close to him, he grieved terribly, and the whole world grieved with him. Shattered as a man, for an age after, a new song pierced the air, but it was not the tune of joy which touched the soul, it was a lament, a tearful mourning indeed. The spirits of the forest could restrain their pity no more. His heart afire with longing and despair, Orpheus refused to accept his loss of Heaven. At the urging of the nymphs, he decided to take the dark road to Hades himself and plead for mercy. So the Prince set off on his morbid journey, one fraught with danger. Seldom had a mortal ventured into the land of the dead and ever seen the light of day again. But even the hearts of the gods on high were with him that day. At his approach, fearsome Cerberus skulked away in the darkness at the gates of death. Eerie silence fell on the Prince's ears. Such a heavy silence the greatest musician in the world had never before heard, and it saddened him. Taking out his lyre, he did the only thing he knew, he played. Even the monstrous guardian of Hell was soothed by the song, and allowed his passage. Charon, the ferryman of the dead, taking pity too, granted him a journey across the River Styx, the true boundary between the Overworld and Hades. The smell of decay grew overwhelming, and at last, to the throne room of the god of the dead himself he came in humility. Hades and his Queen Persephone were astonished at the sight of the broken man, his robes defiled with filth and tears, and heard his call.


Orpheus came forth and spake his mind, "I come not curious to explore thy domain, nor come to boast... My wife alone I seek, for her sake these terrors I support, this journey take". The gods high on Olympus, powerless in the abode of death, wept for Orpheus. The Prince, wavering at the fearsome gaze of Hades, continued:


             " A hope within my heart prevails...
               Let me again Eurydice receive,
               Let Fate her quick spun thread of life re-weave...
               She, when ripen'd years she shall attain,
               Must, of avoidless right, be yours again:
               I but the transient use of that require,
               Which soon, too soon, I must resign entire... "
                  - ORPHEUS' PLEA TO HADES

Orpheus leads Eurydice
Painting by Jacopo Vignali

The Prince's fingers moved toward his lyre, he couldn't help it, it was his only solace now. He began to play, and even the bloodless shades of the dead turned to see. Far in Tartarus,  Sisyphus laid down his mighty burden to listen, far above Ixion squirmed for a glance, and away in the pool Tantalus forgot his hunger and thirst. Even the vengeful Furies relaxed their snarls, tears stinging their ferocius cheeks. The hand of Queen Persephone tensed. Too well did she know what it was like to be torn from a dear one. To her husband, the lord of death did she intercede, asking pity this one time. Not even the cold heart of Hades remained unmoved that day. To the grieving Prince the son of Kronos turned, and declared that he would grant his wish, and restore Eurydice to life, but upon one condition. The rules of the cosmos were absolute - Hades commanded Orpheus to return to the Overworld, but until both he and Eurydice had crossed the threshold of the land of the living, he was forbidden to look behind him into the deadlands. If he did, the pact would be forfeit, and he would lose Eurydice forever. The Thracian Prince nodded gently, and Hades snapped his fingers. A troop of deathly shades approached from the darkness, bearing in their midst the shadowy form of the his beloved. Wincing slightly from the deadly bite, she stopped perfectly still at the sight of her Prince, joy spreading through her body, reviving now with breath, though as yet unable to speak. It was as though her wretched misfortune had never befallen her, as Orpheus, crying with joy, moved to embrace her. Alas they passed through her, for the ritual was not yet complete. Thanking the dead god and his Queen from the deepest chamber of his heart, Orpheus bid Eurydice come with him quick before the Sun set that day, so they might enjoy anew an evening upon the Earth. Leading the way Orpheus put his first foot upon the deathly stairs, rising high above the Halls of Hell.


Immediately his resolve was tested to breaking point, such was his desire and the temptation to look behind. Lost and again found, alas that he was forbidden to look back at his beloved and that he must lead the way!

   
                     " Now thro' the noiseless throng their way they bend,
                       And both with pain the rugged road ascend;
                       Dark was the path, and difficult, and steep... "
                              - ORPHEUS' ESCAPE


Orpheus found the dread silence agony to bear, unbroken by song. For the laws of the cosmos decreed it easy for a man to enter the realm of the dead, but far harder to leave, and both hands did the Prince require on the ascent. As the sweat poured from his brow, he fought his urge to turn and assist, terrified of breaking his oath. He called to her, naught but heavy silence replied. Not until restored fully to life would breath pass her lips again. Trying desperately to cast his thoughts away from horrid visions of his beloved lost far below in the darkness, Orpheus continued his climb.

Eurydice lost
Painting by Christian Gottlieb Kratzenstein

At last, after what seemed days of silent struggle, the black shroud seemed to ease all around. Colour could be seen again, and the harsh, jagged rocks around the tunnel. They seemed as teeth of the jaws of some infernal beast, binding the dead within that realm, never to leave. Orpheus' excitement grew - at last, redemption lay just over the crest! For hours and hours he toiled against the rock, alone to his ears. As the light grew, hand in hand with it walked his paranoia. Was Eurydice still there? Had Hades deceived him? The desire to look grew painful to resist. With every reserve of will, Orpheus forced his head forward. Up and over the last precipice, the rays of the late afternoon Sun struck his forehead, embracing him with their reassuring heat. Ecstatic, he hauled himself up and over, and rushed into the cool air, blazing with light. In that moment his happiness was absolute, unbroken and willed to live for ever. Puzzled he was, however, when the cry of freedom at his side he could not hear. Doubt racked his mind again - was she there? He wheeled around, seeking Eurydice. There she stood after all, she had followed him all the way from the root of the Earth, but something was amiss. He glimpsed her fair face, near full again, but the expression upon it he would never forget. White as snow, a look of terror on her face, a visage to freeze the soul. The joy of Orpheus stopped dead in its tracks. Cold dread flooded every inch of him, as he saw too late his folly. A mere footstep it was from the mouth of the Underworld his beloved stood. Behind it. His legs and arms began to shake, a soft no all he could utter, and his eyes welled up. The word of Hades rang in his ear, and for the second time Death claimed Eurydice, this time for good. One last look of hopeless longing she gave him, before the darkness took her spirit, as Orpheus fell to his knees...

United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

This Troublesome Priest

The young boy from Cheapside who grew up to be the nemesis of the King of England, and later, a Saint. The life and achievements of St. Thomas Becket are impressive no matter the times. Just as famous as his deeds however, was his infamous end...

The Angevin Empire at its height
Map created by the author

The twelfth century was a tumultuous time for the young Kingdom of England. Fifty two years before 1118, the year of Thomas' birth, the Saxon dynasty had been overthrown forever, replaced with the iron rule of the Normans. The lives of many, on both sides of the Channel, were changed forever. Around this time, Gilbert Becket decided to move his family from the village of Thierville in Normandy to London, there to seek a new life in the new Norman domain. By the time his son Thomas was born, he was a wealthy and respected London merchant and landowner. Young Thomas spent many a summer on the Sussex estates of the family friend Richer de L'Aigle, whiling away the sunny days hunting and hawking, fine pursuits of a young man. Schooled at Merton Priory and later Grammar School in London, young Thomas received a fine education for the day, thanks to his father's success in business. But dark times were coming. The peaceful days of King Henry I were soon overthrown in a ruinous civil war. After the tragic shipwreck which claimed the life of Prince William Adelin, the broken hearted Henry was left with only his daughter, Matilda, as his hope for an heir. Long did the King try to persuade the English barons to accept her, the first woman to reign in her own right in the history of England. Matilda, whose husband the Holy Roman Emperor Henry V had died not long before, was soon wed to Geoffrey of Anjou, so that Henry I might gain an alliance with the mighty County of Anjou in France. To the relief of the King, the couple produced a male heir, Henry. But when the King died in 1135, the ever suspicious Norman lords refused to acknowledge Matilda, throwing in their lot for Stephen, the Count of Blois, triggering a near twenty year devastating civil war in England between the forces loyal to Matilda, and those loyal to Stephen, in a period infamously known to history as The Anarchy. The war laid waste to vast swathes of Albion, and it was in this destruction that Gilbert Becket once prosperous trade crumbled. Young Thomas took up a job as a clerk to help the family, and soon ended up in the employ of Theobald of Bec, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the most powerful avatar of Christendom in the realm.

King Henry II of England
Image taken from the Manuscipt of the
Historia Anglorum of Matthew Parris

Escaping the turmoil that England had been hurled into, young Thomas marched forth as an emissary of Canterbury to Rome, spending many years in Europe learning the intricacies of many laws of the Church. After what seemed an age without end, there seemed to be hope at last for the dystopic British Isles. In December 1154, after a generation of endless war, the Norman dynasty lay in flames, when Henry the son of Empress Matilda landed on the southern coast of England. On the 19th of December, he was crowned King Henry II of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou, Duke of Aquitaine and Lord of Ireland, alongside his new Queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine. The House of Normandy was over. The House of Plantagenet, a dynasty that would rule England longer than any other, even to this day, had begun. By conquest and by marriage, King Henry now ruled one of the mightiest realms in Europe, a vast state known as the Angevin Empire. In those bygone days, the kings of England ruled more of France than the King of France did. The lawlessness of the Anarchy was over, and once again the people of England enjoyed peace. With order restored, young Thomas returned triumphantly to the British Isles, and was granted the honour of Archdeacon of Canterbury, and offices in Lincoln Cathedral and St. Paul's Cathedral. The merchant's son was rising rapidly within the ranks of Feudal England...

Thomas Becket Enthroned
Nottingham Alabaster

With all the tenacity and determination that so characterised him, Becket hurled himself into his mission, impressing Archbishop Theobald with his whirlwind efficiency. Such was his drive, within a year the Archbishop recommended Becket directly to the King himself. Further up the rungs of the ladder of state did young Thomas go, when the King appointed him Lord Chancellor, arguably the most powerful minister of the kingdom, and custodian of the Great Seal of the Realm, a spectacular honour for one of such relatively humble birth. Fro seven years Thomas shone once more as comptroller of the King's finances, gaining the King's trust to such a degree that the heir to the throne the young Prince Henry was even sent to live in Becket's household. It was once remarked that the Prince once said that Becket became more a father to him than the King himself. When Theobald died in 1162, the mightiest Bishopric in England fell vacant, and to many there was no doubt as to whom should succeed. A deeply pious man at heart, Becket cast aside the Chancellorship and took the cloth on the 3rd of June, taking vows of asceticism, and pledging to champion the cause of Christendom in England. Storm clouds began to gather between the King and his new Archbishop, dismayed as Henry was that Becket had put the Church before State. It began with the rejection of the authority of secular courts over the clergy by Becket, which challenged the power of the state. Alarmed at this sudden thinking, King Henry conspired to turn the other Bishops against him. Yet rumours of treachery ran common, and in 1164, the King decreed, near four hundred years before Henry VIII, that England would not automatically bow to the wishes of the Pope of Rome (due to his fame, one often considers Henry VIII as the man who grappled with the Pope - the truth is that the Kings of England had wrestled with Rome for centuries by the time the Reformation took place). It took all of Henry's charisma and majesty with words to sway the gathered courts at Clarendon, but carry the day he did. Archbishop Becket however, refused to sign the heretical treaty. The board was set. Thomas Becket was ordered to present himself before the royal council on charges of contempt of royal authority. The Council, jealous of Becket's upstart power, convicted him, and the Archbishop was banished from the realm.


Evading the King's men, Becket fled to France where he was given sanctuary by King Louis VII in the monastery of Pontigny. For near two years he resisted in exile, excommunicating his foes in the English Church, for no precedent existed for removing the Archbishop of Canterbury from power. Meanwhile, King Henry seethed. The looming eyes of Pope Alexander III were ever watchful, but when Becket threatened the King of England himself with excommunication (a fate worse than death in the medieval world), the King's frustration turned to anger. When the Pope agreed a truce, Becket returned to England, immune to earthly shackles, and continued to excommunicate all in his path. When he heard that Prince Henry had been crowned in his absence, an act only the Archbishop of Canterbury could perform, he excommunicated the Archbishop of York.


King Henry was in Normandy when the news reached him. As news of rifts in his vast empire fell upon his ears, a cry of rage shook the hall, with words that to this day have been in dispute:


                 " What miserable fools and traitors hath I nourished and
                    raised in my household, who grant their Lord be so trifled
                   by so low born a cleric! "
                           - KING HENRY II ON BECKET


Some say his fury was stronger still, and that the King roared in frustration:

                 " Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?! "
                          - KING HENRY II's LETHAL WISH

The Murder of Thomas Becket
English Psalter of 1250,
currently in the Walters Art Gallery,
Baltimore

Legendary was the wrath of the Plantagenet Kings, and all who looked on feared what irrational deeds anger would inspire in the King. Standing there that day were four knights, Hugh de Morville, William de Tracy, Richard le Breton and Reginald FitzUrse, all eager to serve and please their King. Mistaking the King's fiery words for royal command, the four rode forth from court to carry out their terrible deed. On sunset of the fifth day of Christmas 1170, the four knights arrived in Canterbury town, their eyes set on the towering cathedral. As evening fell on Canterbury, the clergy and the Archbishop were celebrating the Vespers service. A certain Subdeacon of the cathedral beckoned the knights in, a name since blackened in history. The monks loyal to the Archbishop moved to bar the doors, but their hand was stayed by Becket. "'Tis not proper", spake he, "that a house of prayer,a church of Christ, be made a fortress". Seizing their chance, the knights burst in in full armour, sharpened swords gleaming in the failing light. "Where is Thomas Becket, traitor of the King and Kingdom", one demanded to the congregation. Silence reigned. "Where is the Archbishop!" they cried aloud. At this Becket rose to his feet and faced his foe. "The righteous will be like a bold lion and free from fear", said he. Into the evenlight he moved, "Here I am, not a traitor of the King but a priest; why do you seek me?". At the altar Archbishop Becket stopped, and turned to face the image of the holy confessor St. Benedict. The four men of steel bore down upon him, "Absolve and restore to communion those thou hast excommunicated, and reconcile those who hath been banished", the knights commanded. "No penance hath been made, so I shall not absolve them", the Archbishop coolly replied. "Then you", spake they, "will now die and will suffer what thou hast earned". "And I", said he, "am prepared to die for my Lord, so that in my blood the Church will attain liberty and peace; but in the name of Almighty God I forbid that thou striketh my men, cleric or layman should he be".


"With rapid motion they laid sacrilegious hands on him", and moved to drag him from the sanctum, for to strike down a man of the cloth was sin enough, but to do so on hallowed ground was the devil's work indeed. But Archbishop Becket was loath to release his grip upon the stone pillar. Seeing Reginald coming near, Archbishop Becket spoke his last command. "Touch me not, Reginald, you who oweth me faith and obedience, you who foolishly follow these men". A burning rage did this spark in the knight, who rounded on Becket, "I owe thee neither faith nor obedience when faced with fealty I owe my King". Seeing Doom coming now, Thomas Becket lowered in prayer when Reginald's blade sang through the air. With one mighty blow, as the heavenly crown was laid on the Archbishop's head, his earthly one was hewn by steel. A second blow met its mark, but not yet over was it. On the third strike he sank to his knees, "for the name of Jesus I am ready to embrace death", said he. So forceful was the knight's blow, the blade of the sword was shattered upon the cold stone below. An accomplice in the Church, loyal to the King, spoke the last. "We can leave this place, knights, he will rise no more".

The Becket Casket
Reliquary made c. 1180-1190,
Currently in the Victoria & Albert Museum, London

Soon after news of the impious deed spread like wildfire through Europe, and with it admiration for the pious Becket. Crowds across the continent chanted his name and called him martyr. two years later, Pope Alexander III declared him a saint. The four assassins fled north to Knaresborough Castle, and holed up for a year. All four were excommunicated by the Pope, yet journeyed to Rome, braving threats of lynching, to plead before the Vicar of Christ. Pope Alexander was merciful, and decreed that each man serve penance for fourteen years in the Holy Lands. To Outremer were they henceforth banished. But it was King Henry who was racked with grief and guilt at the horrible deed. Never truly meaning his death, after all, they had once been friends, the King fell into a desperate sorrow, and a fear for his immortal soul. On the 12th July, 1174, the King performed an unprecedented humility. By the Church of St. Dunstans, the King of England set out barefoot and clad in sackcloth, and undertook his pilgrimage to Canterbury Cathedral, whipped along the road to redemption. The monks, afraid of relic thieves, buried Becket beneath the floor in the East of the Cathedral. Fifty years later, King Henry III, grandson of Henry II, gave them a lavish new setting in pride of place within the Cathedral. There they regally sat until they were destroyed by order of King Henry VIII in 1538. The most intact relic survives today in the so called Becket Casket. Canterbury has ever since been a great pilgrimage site in Christendom, with images of the Saint all over the Christian World. Quite a legacy for the boy from Cheapside...



United Kingdom

The Biography
Thomas Becket: Warrior, Priest, Rebel, Victim: A 900-Year-Old Story Retold
(A grand tale of Becket's life, easy to read and with links to the original accounts)

United States

The Biography

Thomas Becket: Warrior, Priest, Rebel
(A grand tale of Becket's life, easy to read and with links to the original accounts)

The Flute and the Flayed

Ancient lore is ripe with tales of gods and monster, heroes and heroines and their wars, affairs and voyages. Oft is fate written in the stars, virtue praised and pride punished. When mortals rise above their stations, they are punished. But the divine powers are flawed too. Sometimes even the gods could go too far...

Athena
2nd Century AD Roman copy of a Greek original

Legend says that a long time ago, in the Golden Age of the Olympians and heroes, the goddess Athena, daughter of Zeus the Thunderer, was wandering in the sunny vales of the forest of Phrygia. The goddess' chaste ears pricked up at the sound of the birdsong in the breeze, a soothing accompaniment to the percussion of the rustling leaves. Filled with a peculiar joy, she was filled with a passion to make merry in the forest. Taking from the leaf strewn earth the bones of a young doe, the goddess fashioned from them a strange instrument. Whittling a series of pipes from the matter, she lashed them together and considered her new craft. With a modest intrigue, she placed the pipes to her mouth and blew. What a fair sound it was indeed; a soft vibration, a gentle melody and hypnotising note. Spurred on, bolstered by the music of the forest, the virgin goddess could scarcely put them down. Soon her absence was noted on the snowy peaks of lofty Olympus, and gossip flew to and fro, from scheming god and intrigued goddess. All too happy to share her new art, Athena proposed to show them all the sweet sounds at a lavish banquet in Heaven's Halls.


The eve came and the resplendent array of the skies awaited, fascinated by what was to come. When the moment came, the goblets were empty, the ambrosia consumed, the goddess rose to her feet. Brimming with excitement and nerves, she began to play. In the beginning, all was well, as the dulcet tune serenaded the divine array, and seldom were such sweet tones heard in the Palace of Olympus. Zeus the father of gods and men looked merrily on, proud of his daughter's talents. Hephaestus, master of the forge, sat entranced by the music so seldom heard in the roar of the furnace. Ares, lord of war, for whom the screams of the dying were oft his cadence, could scarce hide his delight. But it was then that the eyes of Pallas Athena saw Hera and Aphrodite. Far from listening with rapture, it was with a fits of laughter they returned her song. Though fair and noble, terrible could be the warrior maiden's fury. In anger she departed, seeking solace in the wilderness. When strolling the paths of the Forest of Ida, she stopped by a great pool of glassy water, her joy poisoned by doubt. She took up the pipes once more, and for the last time did she play. In the soft ripples of the water did she see her image cast, and within was held the revelation she sought. She had not noticed until now that as she played, she puffed her cheeks out proudly, their oft white complexion soon a crimson red. Frustrated by the immaturity of her fellow goddesses, with whom she bore a ruinous rivalry, she cast her creation aside. Laying upon the pipes a curse, she vowed calamity upon whomsoever should play them again. Woe that her malediction should have found a mark.

Marsyas in the Forest
Painting by Pyotr Basin

One day, when the memory of the pipes had passed into legend, there lived a shepherd who made Forest of Ida his serene home. His name was Marsyas the son of Oeagrus, and no man was he, but a Satyr. A servant of the god Bacchus, the Satyrs lived a merry life of revelry, dancing and song, frequently spreading havoc and drunken anarchy where their cloven feet trod. Marsyas, however, possessed a gentler spirit, preferring the solitude of the forest to the chaos of the plains. There came a day, however, that neither the Satyr nor the forest would ever forget. Stumbling upon a clearing in the thick canopy of the trees, where lay a crystal pool of ice cool water, Marsyas stopped to refresh. Throwing the pleasant water over his face, he gave a sigh of satisfaction, droplets from his tangled beard breaking the mirror like reflection of the surface. Turning to dry his face, however, he spotted a strange yet curious thing cast in the bushes at the water's edge. Stained with earth and covered in moss, it seemed a relic of an ancient past. Picking the strange object up, the Satyr, acquainted as all Satyrs are with the ways of merriment, realised at once that it bore the form of an instrument. Scraping aside the grime and muck, dousing it in the clear water, he saw the simple pipes in their fresh glory.


Tentatively, the Satyr put the pipes to his lips and blew. The note was rough, but charming. He blew again. Better, but a shade of the performance of the instruments original creator. For an age did Marsyas obsess over the pipes, unable to resist the allure he could not explain, the will to keep playing. Throughout the hours when the sun drenches the Earth did the Satyr practice anew, studious and assiduous. Day by day the Satyr's prowess grew, and with his talent came music sweeter than ever before. Birds began to perch upon nearby boughs, listening intently to Marsyas' song, the notes fairer even than their own. Creatures and being from far and wide began to marvel at the Satyr's song, but before long the curse began to manifest. Pride, the ruin of the great, wove its intoxicating spell in the Satyr's mind, as his humility could deflect the shower of praise no more. Time passed, and soon Marsyas declared himself a musician beyond compare in the world. The fatal hour arrived when the Satyr challenged Apollo, the god of music himself, to a contest.


High on Olympus, Apollo heard his challenge, and the god was angered by the daring of a mortal. Soaring down from the frozen summit, Phoebus Apollo came before Marsyas, and the admiring crowds scattered in fear and awe. Shaking with rage, Apollo declared the contest begun. The Muses, the spirits of the arts, were summoned to judge, and the terms were set. Whoever showed the greater mastery of music would triumph, and the victor won the right to treat the defeated as he pleased. Alas that Marsyas was deaf to the subtle warning that lay veiled within, as the curse brandished its edge, and the proud Satyr accepted. The stage was set. Marsyas took the pipes his beloved pipes, Apollo the lyre with which he was so skilled. The god played first. What ambience the grove had never known! With each pluck of the god's fingers upon the strings, soothed was the soul of all beings present, and the Muses sighed in awe of their master. When the god finished his piece, all gathered saw the end coming for the Satyr. But Marsyas, spurred on by the curse, boldly raised the pipes to his lips. With a jolt the gathered assembly was stunned into silence. With each honey soaked note, the very forest itself seemed to sing, vibrating with raw power. All earthly woes lay distant and forgotten for all mortals there that day, and warmed were the hearts of the Muses. Incensed by fire, alas, was the heart of Apollo. Just as the Satyr neared the boundary of the grove, victory near at hand, the god called to him. If the Satyr could play as he could now, Apollo would concede defeat. Intrigued, yet proud, Marsyas agreed. Without delay did the sun god spin his lyre around, striking a haunting melody, his instrument upside down. The Muses, delighted, applauded the god's performance, before turning to Marsyas, expectant. With a glint of malice in his eye, well did Apollo know that it was impossible to play the pipes upside down. Too late did the Satyr realise this too. His mouth went dry with terror, as the judges were struck with disappointment. To the son of Zeus was triumph assigned, and to the Satyr, ignoble defeat

Marsyas Flayed
Painting by Titian

Near dumbstruck, the Satyr watched helplessly as the god approached, vengeance that only a god could muster flaming in his eyes. Poor Marsyas searched for words but none could be found, none to quench the fire before him now. Hands grabbed him from all around, and terror flooded his veins. Thus was begun a punishment terrible to behold. Strapped to a nearby oak was the quivering Satyr, and tightly bound. The servants of Apollo seized their blades and descended upon poor Marsyas.







                  " 'Why do you tear me from myself, he cries?
                     Ah cruel! Must my flesh be made the prize?
                     This for a mere pipe?' He roaring said,
                     Meanwhile the skin from off his limbs were flay'd.
                     All bare, and raw, one large continu'd wound,
                     With streams of blood his body bath'd the ground.
                     The blueish veins their trembling pulse disclos'd,
                     The stringy nerves lay naked and expos'd;
                     His guts appear'd, distinctly each express'd,
                    With ev'ry shining fibre of his breast... "
                      - THE PUNISHMENT OF MARSYAS


His muffled screams were the last song of Marsyas, raw muscle and tendon bare to the elements now. Such was the justice of Apollo, so great the price of a mortal daring to raise himself above a god.

But not all beings shared Apollo's wrath. The fauns, silvans, nymphs, naiads and spirits of the forest, once serenaded by the Satyr's song, came to his mutilated corpse. Tears flowed from their eyes at their gaping loss, the knowledge that his pure song might never woo them again. It is said that even vengeful Apollo himself was later moved to regret, and not readily did he string his lyre in ages to come, remorseful of his act. "With their tears that flow'd, a kindly moisture on the earth bestow'd, that soon, conjoin'd, and in a body rang'd, sprung from the ground, to limpid water chang'd; which, down thro' Phrygia's rocks, a mighty stream, comes tumbling to the sea, and Marsya is its name..."

Like poor Actaeon before him, Marsyas felt the terrible fate of stumbling innocently in the path of a god. It was the folly of a fool to violate the laws of Heaven, but to challenge them openly, why only those blind to all other things would dice with such death. Nevertheless, even in the ancient world there were many who questioned the magnitude of poor Marsyas' punishment...

United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)