Atalanta

Ovid, Metamorphoses 10.560-739

“You may perchance have heard how in the races
A girl outran the men who ran to win.
That was no idle tale; she always won.
Nor could one say her gift of glorious speed
Was more surpassing than her loveliness.
An oracle that once she had consulted
About a husband had declared ‘No husband,
Fair Atalanta, is for you; refuse
A husband’s kisses; yet you’ll not refuse,
And you, while still you live, yourself shall lose.’
The fate foretold appalled her, and she lived
Alone, unwedded in the shady woods,
And angrily repulsed the pressing throng
Of suitors with a challenge: ‘No man’s wife
Am I”, she said, ‘unless he wins the race.
Contend with me in speed. For speed the prize
Is wife and wedlock; for the slow the price
Is death: upon that rule the race is run.’
Her heart was pitiless, yet, such the power
Of beauty, on that rule rash lovers thronged.
To watch the unequal race Hippomenes
Sat in his seat and scoffed ‘Would any man
At such dire peril wish to win a wife?’
And blamed the young men for their love’s excess.
But when he saw her face and, now unrobed,
Her body’s beauty, beauty such as mine,
Adonis, or as yours were you a girl,
He marvelled and, with hands upraised, exclaimed
‘Forgive my censuring words; I had not known
The peerless prize you seek.’ And with his praise
Love burgeoned and he prayed that none would run
Faster than she, and fear and envy filled
His heart. ‘But why’, he thought, ‘do I not try
Myself my fortune in this rivalry?
The gods help those who dare.’ And, while he mused,
On winged feet the glorious girl flew by.
And though her speed seemed like an arrow’s flight,
Yet more he marvelled at her glowing grace—
And running gave her grace; the breeze blew back
The ribbons from her ankles and her knees
In fluttering colours; down her ivory back
Her long hair streamed behind; a rosy flush
Painted the girlish pallor of her limbs,
As when a scarlet awning in the sun
Is drawn above a marble vestibule
And dyes, or seems to dye, the coloured shade.
These things the newcomer Hippomenes
Marked well; and then the final lap was run
And Atalanta with the festal wreath
Of victory was crowned; the losers groaned
And duly paid the appointed penalty.
But young Hippomenes was undismayed
By the others’ fate and in the midst stood forth
And fixed his eyes upon the girl, and said
‘Why seek an easy fame defeating sluggards?
Contend with me. If fortune favours me,
There’ll be no shame to yield the victory.
My father’s Megareus of Onchestus;
His grandfather was Neptune; great-grandson
Of Ocean’s king am I, nor does my birth
Exceed my prowess—or, if I should fail,
The victor of Hippomenes shall win
A memorable name, a great renown.’
And as he spoke King Schoeneus’ daughter gazed
With tender eyes and doubted in her heart
Whether this time she wished to win or lose.
‘What god’, she thought, ‘who envies beauty’s charms,
Desires his death and bids him seek a bride
At hazard of his own dear life? So much
Is more than I am worth. It’s not his beauty
That touches me (though that could touch me too);
But he is still a boy; it’s not himself
That moves me but his tender years, his youth.
Think of his courage, unafraid of death,
His lineage, fourth from Ocean’s mighty lord,
His love that counts our wedlock worth so much
That he would die, if fate denied my love.
Go, stranger, while you may! Blood stains my bed;
Oh cruel bane were I your bride! But you
None will refuse; some wiser girl than I
One happy day will wish to be your bride.
But why do I care for you, when other men
Have died before, so many, for my sake?
So fend then for yourself! Yes, let him die
Since by so many deaths he is not warned
And wearies of his life! Then shall he perish
Because he longed to live with me, and pay
The price of love in death so undeserved?
My victory will bring more bitterness
Than I can bear! And yet the fault’s not mine!
Would that your heart might change, or, since your heart
Is crazed, you might outrun me in the race!
Oh, how his boy’s fair face is like a girl’s!
Oh, poor Hippomenes, that you should ever
Have looked on me! How you deserved to live!
Were I not so ill-starred, would fate but yield
And not deny me marriage, you alone
I’d choose to be companion of my bed.’
Artless she was, and when at last love came,
She burned, but never thought it was love’s flame.
And now her father and the townspeople
Called for the usual race, and Neptune’s prince,
Hippomenes, with anxious voice, invoked
My help and prayed: ‘Come, lovely Cy therea,
Prosper the deed I dare and with thy grace
Nourish the flame of love that thou hast lit.’
A kindly breeze wafted his charming prayer;
It moved me, I admit, and little time
Was left to succour him. There is a field
The people call the close of Tamasus,
The richest part of all the isle of Cyprus,
Which long ago was in my name
And added as endowment to my shrine.
A tree stands in the close with leaves of gold
And golden branches rustling in the breeze.
On my way thence it chanced that in my hand
I held three golden apples I had picked
And I stood by Hippomenes, unseen
Except by him, and taught the apples’ use.
The trumpets sound the start; both crouching low
Flash from their marks and skim the sandy course
With flying feet; it seemed that they could race
Dry-shod across the surface of the sea
And over the standing heads of harvest corn.
The shouting crowd cheered on the newcomer;
‘Run, run, Hippomenes! Now is your chance!
Now! Faster! Faster! Run with all your speed!
You’re going to win!’ And hard it was to know
Who liked their words the more, Hippomenes
Or Atalanta. Many a time she slowed
When she might pass and gazed into his eyes,
And with a heavy heart left him behind.
And now he flagged, his breath came fast and dry
And there was far to go; so then he threw
One of the three gold apples from the tree.
She was amazed and, eager to secure
The gleaming fruit, swerved sideways from the track
And seized the golden apple as it rolled.
He passed her and the benches roared applause.
She with a burst of speed repaired her waste
Of time and soon again left him behind.
He threw the second apple and again
She stopped, and followed, and again ran past.
And so the last lap came. ‘Be with me now,
Goddess’, he prayed, ‘who gavest me the gift.’
And then with all the strength of youth he threw
The shining gold far out across the field,
The longer to delay the girl; and she
Seemed undecided, but I made her chase
The rolling apple and increased its weight,
And by its weight alike and loss of speed
I hindered her. And, not to make my tale
More lengthy than the race, she lost the day
And he, victorious, led his prize away.
And I, Adonis, did I not deserve
Especial thanks and incense in my honour?
But he forgot; he gave no thanks and burnt
No incense; then to sudden wrath I turned.
Stung by his scorn and lest I be despised
In days to come, I set my heart against
Them both, to warn the world by their example.
A temple stands hidden in shady woods,
Which once Echion to fulfil a vow
Had raised to the great Mother of the Gods.
There they had journeyed and were glad to rest;
And there ill-timed importunate desire,
Roused by my power, possessed Hippomenes.
Beside the temple was a dim-lit grotto,
A gloomy cavern, roofed with natural rock,
An ancient holy shrine, filled by the priest
With wooden statues* of the gods of old.
He entered here and with forbidden sin
Defiled the sanctuary. The holy statues
Turned their shocked eyes away and Cybele,
The tower-crowned Mother, pondered should she plunge
The guilty pair beneath the waves of Styx.
Such punishment seemed light. Therefore their necks,
So smooth before, she clothed with tawny manes,
Their fingers curved to claws; their arms were changed
To legs; their chests swelled with new weight; with tails
They swept the sandy ground; and in their eyes
Cruel anger blazed and growls they gave for speech.
Their marriage-bed is now a woodland lair,
And feared by men, but by the goddess tamed,
They champ—two lions—the bits of Cybele.
And you, my darling, for my sake beware
Of lions and of every savage beast
That shows not heels but teeth; avoid them all
Lest by your daring ruin on us fall.”
Her warning given, Venus made her way,
Drawn by her silver swans across the sky;
But his bold heart rebuffed her warning words.
It chanced his hounds, hot on a well-marked scent,
Put up a boar, lying hidden in the woods,
And as it broke away Adonis speared it—
A slanting hit—and quick with its curved snout
The savage beast dislodged the bloody point,
And charged Adonis as he ran in fear
For safety, and sank its tusks deep in his groin
And stretched him dying on the yellow sand.
Venus was riding in her dainty chariot,
Winged by her swans, across the middle air
Making for Cyprus, when she heard afar
Adonis’ dying groans, and thither turned
Her snowy birds and, when from heaven on high
She saw him lifeless, writhing in his blood,
She rent her garments, tore her lovely hair,
And bitterly beat her breast, and springing down
Reproached the Fates: “Even so, not everything
Shall own your sway. Memorials of my sorrow,
Adonis, shall endure; each passing year
Your death repeated in the hearts of men
Shall re-enact my grief and my lament.
But now your blood shall change into a flower:
Persephone of old was given grace
To change a woman’s form to fragrant mint;
And shall I then be grudged the right to change
My prince?” And with these words she sprinkled nectar,
Sweet-scented, on his blood, which at the touch
Swelled up, as on a pond when showers fall
Clear bubbles form; and ere an hour had passed
A blood-red flower arose, like the rich bloom
Of pomegranates which in a stubborn rind
Conceal their seeds; yet is its beauty brief,
So lightly cling its petals, fall so soon,
When the winds blow that give the flower its name.’
Translation by A. D. Melville