Prevod

Nor was this enough for Bacchus: he left those very fields and, with a finer company, sought the vineyards of his own Tmolus and the Pactolus, though in those days its waters were not golden, nor did its precious sands arouse envy. His customary band of satyrs and bacchants thronged around him, but Silenus was missing: staggering with age and wine, he had been caught by Phrygian countrymen, who bound him with garlands and led him to King Midas, whom Thracian Orpheus and Eumolpus of Athens had instructed in the sacred rites.

As soon as Midas recognized a fellow initiate and companion in worship, he celebrated his guest’s arrival with joyous feasting for ten days and as many nights in succession. And now the eleventh Morning Star had driven the host of stars from the heights of heaven, when the king came joyfully to the Lydian fields and restored Silenus to his youthful foster son. Delighted to have his foster father back, the god granted Midas the welcome, but fruitless, privilege of choosing a gift.

Destined to misuse that gift, he said, “Grant that whatever I touch with my body may turn to yellow gold.” Liber assented to his wish and bestowed the fatal gift, grieving that he had not asked for something better. The Berecyntian hero went away delighted, rejoicing in his ruin, and tested the promise by touching one thing after another. Scarcely believing his own power, he pulled a green twig from a low branch of a holm oak: the twig became gold.

He picked a stone up from the ground: the stone too grew pale with gold. He touched a clod of earth: beneath his potent touch, the clod became a solid ingot. He plucked ripe ears of Ceres’ grain: the harvest was golden. He held an apple picked from a tree: you would have thought the Hesperides had given it to him. If he laid his fingers on lofty doorposts, the posts were seen to shine.

And when he washed his hands in clear water, the stream flowing from his palms might have deceived Danaë. He could scarcely contain his own hopes, imagining everything in gold. As he rejoiced, his servants set a table before him, piled high with food and well supplied with bread. But then, whenever his hand touched the gifts of Ceres, those gifts grew hard; whenever he tried to tear the food with eager teeth, a yellow sheet of metal encased it at their touch.

He mingled the gift’s giver, wine, with pure water: you would have seen molten gold flowing through his mouth. Appalled by this strange affliction, rich and wretched alike, he longed to escape his wealth and hated what he had just prayed for. No abundance relieved his hunger; parching thirst burned his throat, and he was justly tormented by the gold he loathed. Lifting his hands and gleaming arms to heaven, he cried, “Forgive me, Father Lenaeus! I have sinned, but have pity, I beg you, and rescue me from this glittering disaster.”

The god’s power was merciful: Bacchus restored the man who confessed his fault, and, true to his word, revoked the gift he had bestowed. “Lest you remain coated in the gold you so foolishly desired, go,” he said, “to the river near mighty Sardis, and follow its course along the ridge of its bank, against the flowing waters, until you reach the river’s source. There, where the foaming spring pours forth most strongly, plunge your head and body beneath it, and wash away your guilt as well.”

The king entered the waters as commanded: his golden power tinged the river, passing from his human body into the stream. Even now, having received the seed of that ancient vein, the fields are hardened with gold, their waterlogged clods gleaming pale.