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THE SHADE

You goddess who holds the shades of women beneath the black threshold, showing them to heaven and then leading them back along the shadowy path, though you are cruel to a lover, although you unjustly take back the souls of the fair done in by swift death, be you friendly to me. Only the Thracian with his resonant plectrum was able to bring the loves that had been stolen from him, and to show them to the light, yet he was unable. Whatever is fair and born not unlovely is whirled down to the sad shades. O holy Persephone, may a singer be permitted to reveal the light-shunning shades, the laws hidden in earth, the secret arcana of the silent shadows. You who binds your radiant brows with green laurel, pay heed: I sing of treacheries, of furtive marriages, and of a bride, but one who wed you while betrayed in sleep, made a mother, even if she believed herself a maiden.
In the bowels of the earth there is a hollow dell, impenetrable to all men, painted with roses and flowers of many a shape, watered by fountains and stony brooks; a thousand caves are hidden beneath, and the same number of bowers woven from greeny myrtle, for which the solicitous band of nymphs deck with flowers and wondrously color. The Berecynthian Mother is no less bent on this work, planting her seedling bushes when the stars rise on that time of year when they can entrust their waving heads to heaven’s air. She warns them of unseasonable winter, of chill frost, of the rain-bringing southerlies and howling northerlies; she forbids hail-stricken Rhodope, snowy Taurus, and the mountains congealed with ice to pass over them. The careful goddess entrusts her growth of trees to you alone, West Wind who blows with your gentle mouth. She bids strawberries, roses and violets to lurk in the shadows. Their beauty gives greater courage to the roses, which dare lift up their ruddy faces and look down the violets, livid with hatred, covered with shame. The goddess gently chides the roses, warning them of their transitory life; you could see their leaves blush red and their flowers hang their nodding heads.
The nymphs come hastening, in hurried disarray, showing the Mother their handiwork; Iole, of these the fairest, carries in her bosom her particolored weaving. Once comely Apollo wooed her in secret, tempting her with gifts, and with whatever converse he might sway her. Often he applied gentle violence, and often in his desire he applied lovers’ flatteries, but the girl was not desirous. He threw his arms around her neck, immediately she cast them off; he insisted, she fled, and her reluctance doubled his fires. He burned no less than did Semele’s child when he fell from the glowing chariot and set the whole world afire. But when the god perceived his hopes to be cheated, and none of these things capable of bending the girl’s unwilling mind, he immediately vowed dire things, perverting right and wrong. He prepared an illicit remedy for love rejected, damp leaves of lettuce and numbing poppy, and at the same time he grated the earthbound roots of Circe’s mandrake, hiding the secreted juices in a box.
It was night, and Phoebus made his entrance without a sound; visible to no man, he entered the girl’s cavern. She lay lightly on her rose-covered couch, by herself strewing the flowers which she had arranged with varied art. A torch shone bright, Apollo first covered it with a darkling cloud, then with a sprinkling of the drugged juice he anointed her light pillows and the coverlet of her decorated bed. And thrice with his thumb the lord of the plectrum struck a sleep-bringing chord, and wove sleep with a chant borrowed from Hecate. Mist covered her girlish eyes, deep peace overcame her body, and her limbs lay collapsed on the couch. The god saw and marveled. Poised between hope and fear he came near, then drew back again. From deep in his breast he sighed. Neither piety, or the girl’s starlike face allowed him more. But on this earth what does love and unrestrained love leave chaste and untested? He planted unrequited kisses, he touched her, he pressed her. As one does in sleep, she uttered unclear murmurs, like to one complaining and suffering unworthy things. Though slumbering, with her hand she often fought off him off in his urgency - in vain, for her ravisher clung with tight embraces, by his deceits he did violence to her, and indulged his madness. It was not enough to feast his eyes, to have touched and enjoyed her, whatever crime remained hidden was unwelcome. And because she seemed not to feel the shameful disgrace she suffered, he went away sadness when the daylight summoned him, and possessed the spoils of her chastity as if against his will. Ingenious love always finds something more to seek, and grows by its indulgence.
At length his new bride awoke, sleep cast aside, yet no bevy summoned her, nor no distinguished band of lads stood before the doorway of the famous wedding-god, peacefully intermingled with their darling girls. All stood mute, and so would have Iole, but that some symptoms of disease frightened her. She was not well in the stomach, a chill tremor shook her limbs. Prostrate on her couch she anxiously addressed herself thus: “What is this sickness? For what change is assaulting my powers of health? Those things did not please me which I fearfully saw last night in my sleeplessness. What floods I passed over! What battles did I sense in my dreams! By what shafts, o gods, did I lie pierced! I fear lest an angry Apollo has plunged in me his arrows that deal out dire plagues. But here in my heart my modesty pays no heed to Apollo’s plagues, nor his anger. You always have this balm, Iole, that you may die, but that you will die a chaste girl. She arose and girt herself for her work. She made white lilies, which she desired to taste, since she had made them white. Whatever the eyes see the spirit craves: she did not know that her diseased breast carried obstructions, or that it was freed of its vows. In her ignorance she bore each thing which pregnant women can, exhausted by heavy torpors, aversions, sadness; her eyes grew afflicted, she thought this was by straining her sight: thus she invented empty explanations. But as soon as she felt her womb to be filled, and felt something living being moved, and could feel the motion with her hand, senseless with fright she sadly sought the trackless protections of the forest, so that her heart might get its fill of miserable lamentation.
“Cruel gods, you implacable race, what sufferings of mind and body have I undeservedly experienced? New monstrosities are arising: my womb is a-swelling, now I am a childbearing virgin. Nor does Nature hesitate to pervert her laws so that I can be all the more tormented and become a hideous sight, and so I may pay the penalty for my chastity, though in the name of sinfulness. Where shall I flee? What shadows, what clouds can hide my face, or what cypress will hide my dead spirit’s tomb? How right it is for me to be with the darkness! I shudder at the sun, now I can be free of shame, but not of fear. My inborn modesty is shattered, and dies in the very suspicion of wrongdoing: it runs from the appearance of crime, as if fleeing wan shades it has seen. Unhappy child, unless there is something more monstrous than this: you arrive without your father and, should anyone ask your paternal name, you have none. First claim a father, then I shall follow you, your grieved and most miserable mother.”
A malign witness laughed at her crying such things to the winds, a jealous Naiad hiding behind the bark of a poplar tree; happily she crept through the brambles and the slender tamarisks. But as soon as she disentangled herself, with arrogant treachery and hasty step she walked throughout her familiar haunts, catching all the nymphs, and repeating what she had heard. Nor was this enough in itself, she exaggerated it in the telling, playing the role of a sympathizer, put on an amazed face, shuddered at the monstrosity, and expressed fear of the crime. Hence the report spread thanks to rumors, one after another, and, rendered more piteous, at length came to the goddess’ flowery home. She, inconsiderately alarmed by this novel monstrosity, sprang up, and, indignant in mind, sought out her daughter. But as Iole espied from afar her approaching mother, she collapsed in exhaustion, her fear drew forth deep groans, and in her womb she created and redoubled her birthpangs. Straightway the forest shone, as if golden, and a sweet, miraculous murmuring was heard throughout the grove. Stricken by the sound’s novelty, the goddess checked her step, and in the meanwhile Iole gave birth without crying out, the earth itself produced soft flowers as a cradle for the boy. Berecynthia came running to her daughter, and was first to lift up her grandson. He was entirely black, save that the sun’s bright shape was affixed to his breast, the image of his father.
But now Phoebus made everything resound with a sound scarce unclear, and with his light set the blazing woods afire, as, singing of his secret love-intrigues, he consoled Iole. The goddess was amazed, now gazing at the groves, now at her daughter’s moistened eyes, her face, crumpled with shame. “Traitor,” she cried, “ if Jupiter is just, I shall not leave these sins long hidden from me, or unavenged. Where are you fleeing. In vain, Phoebus, you are hiding your hateful head in the clouds. Your crime and your deeds will become manifest, nor will flight rescue you from me, I shall follow, swifter than the East Winds; maternal sorrow will give me strength, and my just wrath.” There was no delay, she hastened through the clouds to topmost heaven. The nymphs clustered around their sad and exhausted sister tried to relieve her bitter sorrows and with calm words to soothe her cares. She sat unmoved and, incensed with silent fury, burned, afloat on a huge flood of cares.
“Happy are they,” she said, “to whom it is allowed to enjoy their virginity unviolated! My life has lost its flower before its time. I was able, alas, to feel the pangs of motherhood, but not its joys. But neither joys touch me, nor pangs not joined to disgrace. Night and sleep, party to my chastity’s subversion, have you given me this birth as my just deserts, this fair pledge of love, this reminder of its handsome father’s countenance? Assuredly, Phoebus, I harshly shunned your embraces, and I was a simple girl, who you could bless with such a child. And would that I could have gone without your gift, handsome one! No matter how untaught and foolish I would be thought, I should not be thought disgraceful and damaged by base lust, and be compelled to send my soul down to the black shades.” Thus having spoken, her expression threatening something deadly, she died, the nymphs took up her up and, supported by their hands, carried her to the goddess’ lofty home and laid her on a bier.
Meanwhile Phoebus recounted everything to Jove in due order, cloaking his impious deeds with wanton words. In addition, he spoke of the swan, the bull’s swimming back, the stealthy gold, and the rewards of a double night. Jupiter, recalling such great service, laughed at these vanities, turning the goddess’ petitions and her legitimate anger into a joke. But she, thrown into confusion by her great sorrow, retired, complaining of the gods’ faith, and with a savage howl she tirelessly gave vent to her long-dormant rage. But on this earth there is born no power of grief that the length of days does not dissolve by friendly forgetfulness.
And now the boy, as the years silently glided by, assumed the appearance of youth in his body. Although his frame underwent no change of color, there was much charm in his face, grace shone with a wonderful gleam in his dark limbs. Were Cupid black, or were he himself white, you would swear that the god was in both. Venus herself was no sweeter than he, nor the Graces and the flowery band of sisters. For Melampus the nymphs once invented his name, and fitted glittering gems in his hair and a quiver to his side, one such as Cupid would have desired to bear. With his slender reed he hunted the fleet quarry, as soon as the heaven lost its heaviness at Aurora’s first light.. Soon, as the heat began to burn, he would take to the greeny shadows or be lulled to sleep by the murmur of running water.
There was a time when throughout the tranquil world deep sleep released all living things, when with his accustomed art Morpheus came into the florid valley and toyed with the nymphs’ sleeping hearts (for none of the gods commanded true dreams of him), devising vain portents and horrendous terrors; soon he exchanged these sad things for glad ones, bringing on nimble dances, feasts and gaming, furtive trysts, and imaginary pleasures of love. In solitary places he often gave over some of the nymphs to the base embraces of an unhandsome satyr; he gave others to you in sweet bonds, fair Adonis, or to you, Hyacinthus. Thus the god, imitating various forms as he ran through those dark haunts, chanced to see spot sleeping Melampus stretched out on the deep fragrant flowers. He came close, Cynthia gave him light as he looked. “And what,” said he, “strikes my mind with this wondrous sweetness? Or are you deceiving me, comely Cupid? Why do you fix a dark shadow on your starlike brow? Does this color now please you? Have the lilies lost their worth? Do your mother’s flowers grow tiresome? But where are your bow, your gilt quiver? For which of the nymphs are you planning evil by this contrivance, you rascal? Whom does this novel appearance seek? Or if you are not Love, who are you? Some secret child of dusky-cheeked Night? Surely such grace does not come from the darkness, pleasant boy? Whence does such lively charm smile on your face? Such light, in the absence of light? How this black hand suits you, softer than sleep itself, which lets you be touched, though lightly, fit for love! O if I could learn what appearance would kindle your fires! Let it be that of boy, woman, or man, how eagerly I would assume all these forms for you! Whatever the answer, I shall make the attempt - no hope attends the idle.” Thereupon he assumed a thousand comely guises, changing his age and his sex, adding varied ornaments to each. In vain - the boy’s spirit remained unmoved, his mind given over to peaceful slumber. And now an exhausted Morpheus lamented his frustrated love, indulging a mind bent on wrath.
In the darkling light, far distant from here and deep in the earth, the black house of Persephone stand open, yet is impenetrable to all men. Hard by is a secret garden, surrounded by a brazen wall whose topmost point Jove’s bird could hardly fly over in a whole day. Inside it stretches immense distances in every direction, not deigning to take second place to the Elysian Fields, by no means smaller in its boundaries and far more pleasant than any place in its happy mazes and in its delights. And deservedly so, for in these gardens are scattered the shades of all the fair ladies who now exist, or who lived in the first generation, or were seen in later years. This throng adores the valley, in whose forests the story of their lives must be brought to its end; in its watery fountains they gazes at their faces, and weave varied garlands out of the living flowers. But those who must assume the pompous softness of city life fit their minds to other pursuits, another splendor, as they possess nothing of simplicity. Higher, and far more secret, stands the home of the noble women, sweeter than Parnassus itself. This is a place of gems, and shines by the gleam of their facets. None of the great gods is permitted to enter; yet it is allowed to Morpheus alone, whose destiny denies him naught, to come in on well-washed feet. At length harsh love compelled him to come to these gardens, although his art promised him no salvation, so that for the boy’s benefit he might manufacture a lovable appearance out of so many beauties.
Greeting one on his first entry enters stands a fountain, supported by the soft sands, fitted out with steps and assorted benches. When folk return here, if their life has acquired any stain, they bathe, and their purified shades return to the ghosts. Morpheus thrice dipped each foot in this water, and just so often dried them with grass mixed with flowers. Next he trod paths allowed him, wrapped in a thick mist, and happily feasted his eyes on the pleasant beauties. He saw them narrating their individual fates beneath the quiet shade, vying with the gentle dances which they had once learnt, or with their voices singing of the ardors they had felt while fleeting life remained. But the god passed by these familiar sights, looking at them from the corner of his eye: Antiope, daughter of Nycteus, Deiphile, Tyndarus’ daughter Helen, Hermione (betrothed to an earlier, but the dowered bride of a hot-blooded man), Aria, and Rhodope, and Hippodamia (put on display in the victor’s bedroom), the ladies caught by apples, and Reaction, and Hera; these he ignored. as he was gazing at well-known stars, and countless others shining with equal brilliance. Rising through the delightsome rose garden, he sought out a high ridge, an orchard adorned by many a flower. Island-like, this place is encircled by a watery moat, proper and reserved for British beauties, gleaming thickly with stars, like the Milky Way. Rosamund first stopped the hurrying god with her slender beauty, accompanied by Shore, admirable for her gleaming eyes, both of them aware of their heavy lot. Next he caught sight of Geraldine shining with her heavenly face, and Alice, her head crowned with a diadem, the shining glittering prize of chaste and steadfast spirit. Yet the god kept on, not content with these, he burned to hasten his step yet higher as a great brilliance appeared to his eyes, summoning him from afar, promising greater stars. A British star shone from a greeny grove of myrtle, Penelope, who with her countenance will someday kindle Astrophil’s loves, and with her sweet voice will enchant an Irish captain. Morpheus came to a halt, captivated by the sweetness of her surpassing beauty, and marveled that so many loves could be born in a single body, and stored them all in his remembering mind. Next the divine form of Frances came to meet him, shooting beams from her eyes, sweetly glowing red with her rosy lips, destined to be received into the bedchamber of an elderly grandee. Soft Catherine sat nearby, propped up on fragrant roses, her eyes threatened silent deceit; she was going to be dear to her husband, a cynosure of all the world. Following her (less happy in her husbands) came Bridget and Lucy, glowing with her fair rays. Beauty gave birth to beauty, and new delight deceived the onlooker, forgetful of the old, the calm. In the condition of a glutted banqueter, on the point of going back the god chanced to glimpse a sunny lawn between two groves, was walking an exceptional vision of lofty figure, similar to great Diana; but when the mist cleared and he saw her closer, she seemed worthy to be Jove’s sister or wife. In majesty she alone surpassed all trifling beauty’s charms. Now, accompanied by her retinue, she roamed the secret places; aware of her destiny, one day she will be called Anne of Britain, rising to fortune’s pinnacle. Another happy woman followed her, an amiable shade, to whom were due the rule of the Rhine and the name of Elizabeth. Here Morpheus hesitated, these forms captivated that artist of forms, nor did he hasten further. Neither any grace or charm eluded him, he combined them in one vision, more skillful than Polyclitus himself. Thus equipped he returned, a source of awe for his tender friend, into whose unresisting embrace he rushed. Where do you not drag the human race, outstanding excellence of beauty? Deluded by false love, Melampus enjoyed her, as Ixion had enjoyed Juno’s shade.
But at his father’s arrival, sleep now routed by light, his joys evaporated, and the awakened boy sought in vain for his beloved specter, his arms embraced empty air, his eyes saw nothing else. With eyes rolled up he often squinted at the sky, eager for his lost vision and for sweet slumber. And he drooped his head but on all sides his sad cares supplied him with sharp thorns, forbidding him peace. What he sought for appeared never; nor did the day allow the rewards of the night to endure, as it did away with these vanities. But his madness raged within, fanned the flames in his heart, and set new ones. Daylight was his sorrow’s enemy, night and lightless places were his delight. The insane boy entered the forest wastes, the secluded haunts, and pined with his dubious love. He hoped for something in the darkness, stretched out on the ground in various postures he sought for sleep. Then “Come, sleep,” he breathed with a frail murmur, “approach, most pleasant of the gods. And give me back my girl” (in his folly he almost said his bride). “Give her back to me, whatever she was, either a girl or a shade. Whatever she was, she pleased my unhappy mind, and always shall. True or false marriage, what does it matter? The mind is the sole mistress of our lives, but it was not such an empty vision that I saw. What I felt was assuredly a body, kisses were planted on my lips; if this is any way of making a distinction, my lips are now could, but when she offered them they were hot. She, what thing is she? Wretch that I am, now I do not know what is the thing I love. This much I know, it was fair beyond all conception. Whether you hide in the earth, or hang suspended in mid-air, or (which I think the more) you have sought out heaven in your splendor, return, fair one, and come back into my embraces. You promised me an enduring love, and my mind does not deceive me. Tell me where is your promised faith now. You cannot have forgotten your recent vow when you fled from me, and you do not rejoice to be recalled by the lover you spurn.
Thus in lengthy speech he squandered his varied complaints, and repeated them again, nor did he make an end. He wholly melted in fire, and his overwhelmed strength yielded to burning sorrow. But while with wakeful mind he sought for the shade that had been stolen from him, he became shadow-like. The blood deserted his emaciated frame, and by degrees his shaken spirit abandoned his lifeless breast, and motion departed. At length death brought the sleep for which he had hoped, though late. The mourning nymphs made ready to commit to earth the body they had found, bringing basketfuls of flowers and funeral-herbs. Apollo saw all and, angry at his boy, begrudged him this honor. And as he was not a heavy weight in the nymphs’ hands, he slipped away, gradually dissolved into a dark shadow. And he flees the sight of the sun, and will flee it for all time, forever condemned to be a refugee from the light.

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