Venera in Atalantin tek

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Venera in Atalantin tek

“Perhaps you have heard of a girl who defeated swift men in a footrace. That tale was no fiction: she did defeat them; nor could you have said whether her fleetness or her beauty deserved greater praise. When she asked a god about marriage, he answered: ‘You have no need of a husband, Atalanta: shun marriage! Yet you will not escape, and while still alive you will lose yourself.’ Frightened by the god’s decree, she lives unmarried in shadowy woods, and sternly drives away the pressing throng of suitors with this condition: ‘I am not to be won,’ she says, ‘unless first beaten in a race. Match your feet against mine: the swift shall win a wife and bridal bed;

death is the price for the slow. Let that be the rule of the contest.’ Cruel she was indeed; yet such is beauty’s power that a reckless crowd of suitors accepted these terms. Hippomenes had taken his seat to watch the unequal race. ‘Does anyone seek a wife at such terrible risk?’ he had said, condemning the young men’s excessive passion. But when he saw her face and her body stripped of its covering, a body like mine, or like yours, if you became a woman, he stood amazed, and, lifting his hands, exclaimed, ‘Forgive me, you whom I blamed just now. I did not yet know the prize you were pursuing.’ In praising her, he catches fire, and hopes that none of the young men will run faster than she,

fearing it in his jealousy. ‘But why should I leave my own fortune untried in this contest?’ he says. ‘The god himself helps those who dare.’ While Hippomenes debates these things within himself, the maiden flies on winged feet. Although to the young Aonian she seemed to move no slower than a Scythian arrow, still he marvels more at her beauty; and running itself enhances that beauty.

The breeze streams back the ankle-ribbons fluttering from her flying feet; her hair is tossed across her ivory back, and the bands below her knees, with their embroidered borders, flutter too. A blush had spread across the maiden whiteness of her body, just as when a purple awning casts a borrowed tint upon the shadows in a marble hall. While the stranger watches all this, the final marker is passed, and victorious Atalanta is crowned with a festive wreath.

The defeated groan and pay the penalty they agreed to. Yet their fate does not deter the young man. He steps into their midst and, fixing his gaze on the maiden, says, ‘Why seek an easy victory by defeating weaklings? Match yourself against me! If fortune makes me the winner, you will not resent being beaten by so worthy a man: for my father is Megareus of Onchestus, whose grandfather is Neptune; I am the great-grandson of the king of waters, and my courage is no less than my lineage. But if I lose, you will win a great and lasting name by defeating Hippomenes.’ As he speaks, the daughter of Schoeneus looks at him with softened eyes, unsure whether she would rather win or lose.

And she says to herself, ‘What god, hostile to handsome men, wishes to destroy him, and commands him to seek this marriage at the risk of his precious life? I am not worth so much, I think.— Nor is it his beauty that moves me, though that too might move me, but that he is still a boy: not he himself, but his youth touches me. And what of his courage, his spirit undaunted by death?

What of his being fourth in descent from the sea god? What of his love, and the value he sets upon marriage with me, that he will die if harsh fortune denies me to him? Go, stranger, while you can, and abandon this bloodstained bridal bed: marriage to me is cruel. No woman would refuse to wed you; any sensible girl might long for you.— Yet why do I care for you, when so many have already perished?

Let him look to himself! Let him die, since the slaughter of so many suitors has not warned him, and he is weary of life.— Must he die, then, because he wished to live with me, and suffer an undeserved death as the price of love? My victory will bring more hatred than I can bear. But it is not my fault. If only you would give up! Or, since you are so reckless, if only you were faster!

Ah, how like a maiden’s is the face of this boy! Ah, poor Hippomenes, I wish you had never seen me! You deserved to live. And if I were more fortunate, if merciless fate did not deny me marriage, you alone would be the one with whom I wished to share my bed.’ So she spoke; and, innocent, touched by Cupid for the first time, not knowing what she does, she loves without knowing it is love.

Now the people and her father demand the customary race, when Neptune’s descendant, Hippomenes, calls upon me in an anxious voice: ‘Cytherea, I pray you, favour my daring, and help the love you yourself have kindled.’ A kindly breeze carried his pleading prayer to me; and I was moved, I confess. There was little time to bring him help. There is a field the natives call Tamasus, the richest part of Cyprus, which the elders of old consecrated to me, decreeing that this gift should be added to my temples’ wealth. In the middle of the field shines a tree, golden in its foliage, its branches rustling with gold.

As it happened, I was coming from there, carrying in my hand three golden apples I had picked. Invisible to everyone but Hippomenes, I approached him and taught him how to use them. The trumpets had sounded the signal, and both, leaning forward, dart from the starting line, barely touching the sand with their swift feet. You would think they could skim the sea without wetting their soles, or race across the standing ears of ripened grain.

Shouts and cheers give heart to the young man, and voices call, ‘Now, now is the time to press on! Hippomenes, hurry! Now use all your strength! Waste no time: you will win!’ It is hard to tell whether Megareus’s son or the daughter of Schoeneus takes greater pleasure in these words. Oh, how often, when she could have passed him, she lingered, gazing long at his face, and left it behind unwillingly!

Dry gasps were coming from his weary mouth, and the finish was far away. Then at last Neptune’s descendant threw one of the three fruits from the tree. The maiden was astonished, and, longing for the gleaming apple, turned aside from her course and picked up the rolling gold. Hippomenes passes her! The spectators thunder with applause. She makes up for her delay and the time she has lost with a burst of speed, and once more leaves the young man behind.

Again delayed by the throwing of the second apple, she catches him and passes him. Only the final stretch remained. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘help me, goddess who gave me this gift!’ And towards the edge of the course, to delay her return, he hurled the shining gold sideways with all his youthful strength. The maiden seemed to hesitate over fetching it: I compelled her to pick it up, and added weight to the apple once she had it, hampering her alike with the burden and the delay.

And lest my tale run slower than the race itself, the maiden was outstripped; the victor led away his prize. Did I not deserve his thanks, Adonis, and an offering of incense? Yet, ungrateful, he neither thanked me nor gave me incense. I was suddenly seized with anger; hurt by his contempt, and determined that none should scorn me hereafter, I resolved to make an example of them, and roused myself against them both.

They were passing a temple to the Mother of the Gods, which famed Echion had once built to fulfil a vow, hidden deep in wooded shade; their long journey tempted them to rest. There an untimely desire for lovemaking seizes Hippomenes, stirred by my divine power. Near the temple was a dimly lit recess, like a cave, roofed with natural pumice, hallowed by ancient worship, where the priest had gathered many wooden images of the gods of old.

He enters it and defiles the sanctuary with forbidden lust. The sacred images turned their eyes away; and the turret-crowned Mother debated whether to plunge the guilty pair into the waters of Styx. That punishment seemed too light. So tawny manes clothe their necks, smooth only moments before; their fingers curve into claws; their shoulders become forelegs, and all their weight passes into their chests; their tails sweep the surface of the sand.

Their faces are fierce; instead of words they utter growls, and haunt the woods instead of bridal chambers. Feared by others, they are lions whose tamed jaws champ Cybele’s bridles. These creatures, my beloved, and with them every kind of beast that offers not its back in flight, but its breast to battle, you must avoid, lest your courage bring ruin upon us both.”