Arachnē

Ovid, Metamorphoses 6.1-145

PALLAS had listened to the tale she told
With warm approval of the Muses’ song
And of their righteous rage. Then to herself—
‘To praise is not enough; I should have praise
Myself, not suffer my divinity
To be despised unscathed.’ She had in mind
Arachne’s doom, the girl of Lydia,
Who in the arts of wool-craft claimed renown
(So she had heard) to rival hers. The girl
Had no distinction in her place of birth
Or pedigree, only that special skill.
Her father was Idmon of Colophon,
Whose trade it was to dye the thirsty wool
With purple of Phocaea. She had lost
Her mother, but she too had been low-born
And matched her husband.Yet in all the towns
Of Lydia Arachne’s work had won
A memorable name, although her home
Was humble and Hypaepae where she lived
Was humble too. To watch her wondrous work
The nymphs would often leave their vine-clad slopes
Of Tmolus, often leave Pactolus’ stream,
Delighted both to see the cloth she wove
And watch her working too; such grace she had.
Forming the raw wool first into a ball,
Or fingering the flock and drawing out
Again and yet again the fleecy cloud
In long soft threads, or twirling with her thumb,
Her dainty thumb, the slender spindle, or
Embroidering the pattern—you would know
Pallas had trained her. Yet the girl denied it
(A teacher so distinguished hurt her pride)
And said, ‘Let her contend with me. Should I
Lose, there’s no forfeit that I would not pay.’
Pallas disguised herself as an old woman,
A fringe of false grey hair around her brow,
Her tottering steps supported by a stick,
And speaking to the girl, ‘Not everything
That old age brings’, she said, ‘we’d wish to avoid.
With riper years we gain experience.
Heed my advice. Among the world of men
Seek for your wool-craft all the fame you will,
But yield the goddess place, and humbly ask
Pardon for those rash words of yours; she’ll give
You pardon if you ask.’ With blazing eyes
Arachne stared at her and left her work.
She almost struck her; anger strong and clear
Glowed as she gave the goddess (in disguise)
Her answer: ‘You’re too old, your brain has gone.
You’ve lived too long, your years have done for you.
Talk to your daughters, talk to your sons’ wives!
My own advice is all I need. Don’t think
Your words have any weight. My mind’s unchanged.
Why doesn’t Pallas come herself? Why should
She hesitate to match herself with me?’
Then Pallas said, ‘She’s come!’ and threw aside
The old crone’s guise and stood revealed. The nymphs
And Lydian women knelt in reverence.
Only Arachne had no fear. Yet she
Blushed all the same; a sudden colour tinged
Her cheeks against her will, then disappeared;
So when Aurora rises in the dawn,
The eastern sky is red and, as the sun
Climbs, in a little while is pale again.
She stood by her resolve, setting her heart,
Her stupid heart, on victory, and rushed
To meet her fate. Nor did the child of Jove
Refuse or warn her further or postpone
The contest. Then, with no delay, they both,
Standing apart, set up their separate looms
And stretched the slender warp. The warp is tied
To the wide cross-beam; a cane divides the threads;
The pointed shuttles carry the woof through,
Sped by their fingers. When it’s through the warp,
The comb’s teeth, tapping, press it into place.
Both work in haste, their dresses girdled tight
Below their breasts; the movements of their arms
Are skilled and sure; their zeal beguiles their toil.
Here purple threads that Tyrian vats have dyed
Are woven in, and subtle delicate tints
That change insensibly from shade to shade.
So when the sunshine strikes a shower of rain,
The bow’s huge arc will paint the whole wide sky,
And countless different colours shine, yet each
Gradation dupes the gaze, the tints that touch
So similar, the extremes so far distinct.
Threads too of golden wire were woven in,
And on the loom an ancient tale was traced.
The rock of Mars in Cecrops’ citadel
Is Pallas’ picture and that old dispute
About the name of Athens. Twelve great gods,
Jove in their midst, sit there on lofty thrones,
Grave and august, each pictured with his own
Familiar features: Jove in regal grace,
The Sea-god standing, striking the rough rock
With his tall trident, and the wounded rock
Gushing sea-brine, his proof to clinch his claim.
Herself she gives a shield, she gives a spear
Sharp-tipped, she gives a helmet for her head;
The aegis guards her breast, and from the earth,
Struck by her spear, she shows an olive tree,
Springing pale-green with berries on the boughs;
The gods admire; and Victory ends the work.
Yet to provide examples to instruct
Her rival what reward she should expect
For her insensate daring, she designed
In each of the four corners four small scenes
Of contest, brightly coloured miniatures.
There in one corner Thracian Rhodope
And Haemon, icy mountains now, but once
Mortals, who claimed the names of gods most high.
Another showed the Pygmy matron’s doom,
Her pitiable doom, when Juno won
The contest and transformed her to a crane
And made her fight her folk, her kith and kin.
Antigone she pictured too, who once
Challenged the royal consort of great Jove.
And Juno changed her to a bird, and Troy
Availed her nothing nor Laomedon,
Her father—no! with snowy feathers clothed,
In self-applause she claps her stork’s loud bill.
In the last corner Cinyras, bereaved,
Embraced the temple steps, his daughters’ limbs,
And lying on the marble seemed to weep.
All round the border ran an olive-branch,
The branch of peace. That was the end, and she
Finished her picture with her own fair tree.
Arachne shows Europa cheated by
The bull’s disguise, a real bull you’d think,
And real sea. The girl was gazing at
The shore she’d left and calling to her friends,
Seeming to dread the leaping billows’ touch,
Shrinking and drawing up her feet in fear.
Asterie in the struggling eagle’s clutch
She wove, and pictured Leda as she lay
Under the white swan’s wings, and added too
How Jove once in a satyr’s guise had got
Antiope with twins, and, as Amphitryon,
Bedded Alcmena; in a golden shower
Fooled Danae, Aegina in a flame,
And as a shepherd snared Mnemosyne,
And as a spotted serpent Proserpine.
Neptune she drew, changed to a savage bull
For love of Canace; and Neptune too
Sired, as Enipeus, the Aloidae;
Bisaltes’ child he cheated as a ram;
The corn’s most gracious mother, golden-haired,
Suffered him as a horse, and, as a bird,
The snake-tressed mother of the flying steed;
And poor Melantho knew him as a dolphin.
To all of them Arachne gave their own
Features and proper features of the scene.
She wove too Phoebus in a herdsman’s guise,
And how he sometimes wore a lion’s skin,
Sometimes hawk’s plumage; how he fooled Isse,
Macareus’ daughter, as a shepherd; how
Bacchus with bunches of false grapes deceived
Erigone, and Saturn, as a horse,
Begot the centaur Chiron. Round the edge
A narrow band of flowers she designed,
Flowers and clinging ivy intertwined.
In all that work of hers Pallas could find,
Envy could find, no fault. Incensed at such
Success the warrior goddess, golden-haired,
Tore up the tapestry, those crimes of heaven,
And with the boxwood shuttle in her hand
(Box of Cytorus) three times, four times, struck
Arachne on her forehead. The poor wretch,
Unable to endure it, bravely placed
A noose around her neck; but, as she hung,
Pallas in pity raised her. ‘Live!’ she said,
‘Yes, live but hang, you wicked girl, and know
You’ll rue the future too: that penalty
Your kin shall pay to all posterity!’
And as she turned to go, she sprinkled her
With drugs of Hecate, and in a trice,
Touched by the bitter lotion, all her hair
Falls off and with it go her nose and ears.
Her head shrinks tiny; her whole body’s small;
Instead of legs slim fingers line her sides.
The rest is belly; yet from that she sends
A fine-spun thread and, as a spider, still
Weaving her web, pursues her former skill.
Translation by A. D. Melville