OvidActaeon
Diana and Actaeon
Your first reason to grieve, Cadmus, amid
So much happiness, was your grandson Actaeon.
Strange horns grew on his forehead, and his hounds
Glutted themselves on the blood of their master.
But if you look well you will find the fault was Fortune's,
Not Actaeon's sin. What sin is there in error?
The mountain was stained with the slaughter of beasts,
Noon had already contracted the shadows,
And the sun was midway between both horizons,
When the imperturbable young Boeotian
Spoke to his hunting companions as they wandered
The trackless wild:
'Όur nets and blades are wet with blood.
The day has brought us enough luck. When Aurora
Rolls in another dawn on her saffron wheels
We'll go at it again. But now Phoebus
Is in midcourse and splits the fields with heat.
Call it a day and bring in the nets!"
The men
Did as he said and left off their work.
There was a valley there called Gargaphie,
Dense with pine and bristling cypress, and sacred
Το Diana, the high-skirted huntress. Deep in the valley
ls a wooded cave, not artificial but natural,
But Nature in her genius has imitated art,
Makίng an arch out of native pumice and tufa.
On the right spring of crystal-clear water
Murmured as it widened into a pool
Edged with soft grass. Here the woodland goddess,
Weary from the hunt, would bathe her virgin limbs.
When she arrives there she hands her spear and quiver
And unstrung bow to one of her nymphs. Another
Takes her cloak over her arm, two untie her sandals,
And Crocale, cleverer than these, gathers up
The goddess' hair from her neck and ties it in a knot
While her own is still loose. Nephele, Hyale,
Rhanis, Psecas, and Phiale draw water
And pour it from huge urns over their mistress.
While Diana was taking her accustomed bath there,
Cadmus' grandson, his work done for the day,
Came wandering through the unfamiliar woods
With uncertain steps and, as Fate would have it,
Into the grove. As soon as he entered the grotto,
The nymphs, naked as they were and dripping wet,
Beat their breasts at the sight of the man, filled the grove
With their sudden shrill cries, and crowded around
Their mistress Diana, trying to hide her body with theirs.
But the goddess stood head and shoulders above them.
Her face, as she stood there, seen without her robes,
Was the color of clouds lit by the setting sun,
Or of rosy dawn. Then, though her nymphs pressed close,
She turned away to one side and cast back her gaze,
And, as much as she wished she had her arrows at hand,
What she had, the water, she scooped up and flung
Into that male face, sprinkling his hair with vengeful drops
And adding these words that foretold his doom:
"Now you may tell how you saw me undressed,
If you are able to tell!" With that brief threat
She gave his dripping head the horns of a stag,
Stretched out his neck, elongated his ears,
Exchanged his feet for hands, long shanks for arms,
Covered his body with a spotted hide,
And instilled fear in him. Autonoe's heroic son
Took off, marveling at how fast he was running.
But when he saw his face and horns in a pool,
He tried to say, "Oh, no," but no words came.
He groaned, the only sound he could make,
And tears ran down cheeks no longer his own.
Only his mind was unchanged. What should he do?
Return home to the palace, or hide in the woods?
Shame blocked one course, and fear the other.
While Actaeon hesitated his dogs spotted him.
First Blackfoot and keen-nosed Tracker bayed,
Tracker a Cretan,, a Spartan breed Blackfoot.
Then others rushed at him swifter than wind,
Greedy, Gazelle, and Mountaineer, Arcadian all,
Powerful Deer Slayer, Hunter, and Whirlwind.
Then Wings, and Chaser the bloodhound, and Woody,
Lately gored by a boar, and wolf-bred Valley,
Trusty Shepherd and Snatcher with both her pups.
There was lean Catcher, a Sicyonian hound,
Runner and Grinder, Spot and Tigress,
Mighty and Whitey and black-haired Soot.
These were followed by Spart, known for his strength,
And by Stormy and Swift and the speedy Wolf
With her brother Cypriot. Next was Grasper,
Α white spot in the middle of his jet-black forehead,
Blacky and Shaggy and Fury and Whitetooth,
With a cretan sire and a Spartan dam,
Bell-toned Barker-and others we need not name.
The whole pack, lusting for prey, gave chase
Over cliffs and crags and inaccessible rocks,
Where the way was hard and where there was no way.
He fled through places where he had often chased,
And it was his own hounds he fled. He longed to shout:
"I am Actaeon! Know your master!"
But words wouldn't come, and the sky rang with barking.
Blackhair bit him in the back, then the bitch Killer,
Then Hill got hold of a shoulder and wouldn't let go.
These three had left late but got ahead of the others
By a shortcut over the mountain. While they held
Their master down, the rest of the pack converged
And sank their teeth into him. Soon there was no place
Left on his body to wound. He groans, making a sound
That is not human, but still not one any deer could make,
And fills the familiar ridges with his mournful cries.
On his knees now, he turns his silent eyes
From side to side, as if he were a suppliant
Stretching out his arms. And now the ravenous hounds
Are urged on by his friends, who know no better.
With their usual yells, looking around for Actaeon,
And outdoing each other with their shouts, "Actaeon!"
As if their friend were absent. He turns his head
At the sound of his name, but they go on complaining
That he is not there and through his sluggishness
Is missing the spectacle their prey presents.
He wishes he were absent, but he is there alright,
And would rather see than feel what his dogs are doing.
They are all over him, their jaws into his flesh,
Tearing apart their master in a deer's deceptive shape.
They say that Diana's anger was not appeased
Until he ended his life as a mass of wounds.
Your first reason to grieve, Cadmus, amid
So much happiness, was your grandson Actaeon.
Strange horns grew on his forehead, and his hounds
Glutted themselves on the blood of their master.
But if you look well you will find the fault was Fortune's,
Not Actaeon's sin. What sin is there in error?
The mountain was stained with the slaughter of beasts,
Noon had already contracted the shadows,
And the sun was midway between both horizons,
When the imperturbable young Boeotian
Spoke to his hunting companions as they wandered
The trackless wild:
'Όur nets and blades are wet with blood.
The day has brought us enough luck. When Aurora
Rolls in another dawn on her saffron wheels
We'll go at it again. But now Phoebus
Is in midcourse and splits the fields with heat.
Call it a day and bring in the nets!"
The men
Did as he said and left off their work.
There was a valley there called Gargaphie,
Dense with pine and bristling cypress, and sacred
Το Diana, the high-skirted huntress. Deep in the valley
ls a wooded cave, not artificial but natural,
But Nature in her genius has imitated art,
Makίng an arch out of native pumice and tufa.
On the right spring of crystal-clear water
Murmured as it widened into a pool
Edged with soft grass. Here the woodland goddess,
Weary from the hunt, would bathe her virgin limbs.
When she arrives there she hands her spear and quiver
And unstrung bow to one of her nymphs. Another
Takes her cloak over her arm, two untie her sandals,
And Crocale, cleverer than these, gathers up
The goddess' hair from her neck and ties it in a knot
While her own is still loose. Nephele, Hyale,
Rhanis, Psecas, and Phiale draw water
And pour it from huge urns over their mistress.
While Diana was taking her accustomed bath there,
Cadmus' grandson, his work done for the day,
Came wandering through the unfamiliar woods
With uncertain steps and, as Fate would have it,
Into the grove. As soon as he entered the grotto,
The nymphs, naked as they were and dripping wet,
Beat their breasts at the sight of the man, filled the grove
With their sudden shrill cries, and crowded around
Their mistress Diana, trying to hide her body with theirs.
But the goddess stood head and shoulders above them.
Her face, as she stood there, seen without her robes,
Was the color of clouds lit by the setting sun,
Or of rosy dawn. Then, though her nymphs pressed close,
She turned away to one side and cast back her gaze,
And, as much as she wished she had her arrows at hand,
What she had, the water, she scooped up and flung
Into that male face, sprinkling his hair with vengeful drops
And adding these words that foretold his doom:
"Now you may tell how you saw me undressed,
If you are able to tell!" With that brief threat
She gave his dripping head the horns of a stag,
Stretched out his neck, elongated his ears,
Exchanged his feet for hands, long shanks for arms,
Covered his body with a spotted hide,
And instilled fear in him. Autonoe's heroic son
Took off, marveling at how fast he was running.
But when he saw his face and horns in a pool,
He tried to say, "Oh, no," but no words came.
He groaned, the only sound he could make,
And tears ran down cheeks no longer his own.
Only his mind was unchanged. What should he do?
Return home to the palace, or hide in the woods?
Shame blocked one course, and fear the other.
While Actaeon hesitated his dogs spotted him.
First Blackfoot and keen-nosed Tracker bayed,
Tracker a Cretan,, a Spartan breed Blackfoot.
Then others rushed at him swifter than wind,
Greedy, Gazelle, and Mountaineer, Arcadian all,
Powerful Deer Slayer, Hunter, and Whirlwind.
Then Wings, and Chaser the bloodhound, and Woody,
Lately gored by a boar, and wolf-bred Valley,
Trusty Shepherd and Snatcher with both her pups.
There was lean Catcher, a Sicyonian hound,
Runner and Grinder, Spot and Tigress,
Mighty and Whitey and black-haired Soot.
These were followed by Spart, known for his strength,
And by Stormy and Swift and the speedy Wolf
With her brother Cypriot. Next was Grasper,
Α white spot in the middle of his jet-black forehead,
Blacky and Shaggy and Fury and Whitetooth,
With a cretan sire and a Spartan dam,
Bell-toned Barker-and others we need not name.
The whole pack, lusting for prey, gave chase
Over cliffs and crags and inaccessible rocks,
Where the way was hard and where there was no way.
He fled through places where he had often chased,
And it was his own hounds he fled. He longed to shout:
"I am Actaeon! Know your master!"
But words wouldn't come, and the sky rang with barking.
Blackhair bit him in the back, then the bitch Killer,
Then Hill got hold of a shoulder and wouldn't let go.
These three had left late but got ahead of the others
By a shortcut over the mountain. While they held
Their master down, the rest of the pack converged
And sank their teeth into him. Soon there was no place
Left on his body to wound. He groans, making a sound
That is not human, but still not one any deer could make,
And fills the familiar ridges with his mournful cries.
On his knees now, he turns his silent eyes
From side to side, as if he were a suppliant
Stretching out his arms. And now the ravenous hounds
Are urged on by his friends, who know no better.
With their usual yells, looking around for Actaeon,
And outdoing each other with their shouts, "Actaeon!"
As if their friend were absent. He turns his head
At the sound of his name, but they go on complaining
That he is not there and through his sluggishness
Is missing the spectacle their prey presents.
He wishes he were absent, but he is there alright,
And would rather see than feel what his dogs are doing.
They are all over him, their jaws into his flesh,
Tearing apart their master in a deer's deceptive shape.
They say that Diana's anger was not appeased
Until he ended his life as a mass of wounds.