Book 19

19. In the nineteenth, beside the tomb of Staphylus, Bacchus rouses a delightful contest over a fragrant mixing-bowl.

So he spoke, and the youth, with a heavy goad in his fresh-grieving heart, sealed his lips in a speechless silence, overcome by tears that poured of themselves; and at last the mother, Methe, who rejoiced in Lyaeus, recited her piteous words: "The sleepless watcher of your dancing-round, your own Staphylus, Dionysus, a sleep of bronze has lulled to rest; your own Staphylus, Dionysus, the breezes of Charon have snatched away. A double heavy grief has rushed upon me: the vine-clad Bacchus has forsaken me, and my husband has fallen sick; and I bore a common sorrow over them both, over Staphylus dying and Lyaeus not at hand. But of your richly-streaming fruit, dear Bacchus, give me your cup brimful, that drinking I may lull my heavy grief asleep with your sorrow-banishing wine. You are my hope, Dionysus lover of the cry: only the fruit, only let me see the mixing-bowl, and I shed no tears again." So she spoke, and he pitied her, and mixing in a cup the care-loosing liquor of evil-warding wine he offered it to the young boy and the downcast mother; and both drank the honey-flowing weight of the fruit in a heart-cheering draught; and Methe's groaning was soothed, and Botrys' grief; and the woman spoke some word to heart-charming Bacchus: "You have come to me, dear Bacchus, dear light; no longer sorrow, no longer grief holds me now that Dionysus has appeared; you have come to me, dear Bacchus, dear light; for with your drink of healing wine I have soothed my tears. Not for my husband, not for my father's death do I mourn; nay, even from the cluster itself, if you wish, I will part; for in both alike I have Bacchus—as begetter and as son and as bedfellow. I will follow, if you wish me, and come to your house; let me be a fellow-traveller of the Bassarids; and if you wish, I will carry your wands and your lovely fruit, and to my lips I will press the wine-press flute. Do not leave me a widow, lest I swell a double pain for Staphylus dead and Dionysus gone away. You have the cluster for your servant; let him be taught the dances and the rites and the offerings and, if you wish, the war with the Indians; and let me see him laughing beside the wine-loving press, treading out underfoot the birth-pangs of your fruit. And remember the aged Wine-jar; do not leave him untaught of your rite or without his share of the sweet wine." So she spoke, and with a smiling face the lord Bacchus heartened Methe, and to the wine-loving nymph said this: "Lady, giver of splendid gifts, second only to golden Aphrodite, bestower of mirth . . . joy-giving mother of the Loves, feast together with Lyaeus, who touches the banquet; be a garland-bearer for Dionysus, like Aphrodite, crowned with flowers and well-grown clusters; the wreaths of your tresses shall make Victory jealous. I will make you cup-bearer, second after gold-throned Hebe; you shall rise together with the vine-clad Lyaeus, a fellow-traveller and attendant of the Bacchic cups, and they shall call you Methe, the mortal-delighting surfeit of wine; the cluster I will call the care-banishing fruit of my harvest, and the grape that bears the cluster I will name from Staphylus, the birth-pang of the vines and the dew of the vineyard. Nor apart from Methe shall I be able to feast, nor apart from Methe do I ever raise the revel." So speaking, beside the tomb of Staphylus the wine-fallen Dionysus, banisher of grief, set up a willing contest; and dragging forth a fine-bearded goat and a male bull he set them as a double prize, and called the players of the lyre to compete, the contestants of the Pierian song; he set them as a double prize, and urging the competitors, the men skilled in the sweet-sounding lyre, he coaxed them with a word: "Here we raise an Attic revel; for to the prize-winning man who conquers I will grant the pale-hided bull, and to the man defeated I will hand over the shaggy goat." So spoke Bromios, and a man who strikes the lyre leaped up, Oeagrus, a citizen of the chill Bistonian soil, holding the plectrum that hangs beside the lyre; and after him rose Erechtheus, dweller in hymn-singing Attica. Both came into the midst as competitors of the contest, players of the lyre; and they wreathed their hair with leaves of bay; and they girded up their robes. Beginning, they made their fingers quiver with the accustomed beat, pressing the answering string of the outstretched gut in turn, clasping the ends, that it might be neither too high-pitched, nor ever, slackened, soften the manly song. And first, having won the lot, with skilful rhythm Erechtheus, dweller of Cecrops' land, struck the lyre, singing the ancestral hymn: how in holy Athens Celeus also gave hospitality to Deo, all-mother of Life, with her boy Triptolemus and old Metaneira, and she gave them grain, when, sowing snow on the furrow of earth, Triptolemus found seed upon his ear-bearing car; and beside the new-built tomb of Celeus dead, with tearless eyes Deo lamented the harvest-feast, yet, consoling them again with a heart-charming word, she quenched the heavy grief of Triptolemus and Metaneira; so too the king of the Assyrians gave Dionysus hospitality in his own hall; and the lord, in return for his table, granted him the Euian gifts and the vine-clad fruit, and when Staphylus the wine-loving king had died, he stayed his son Botrys from lamenting care, and lulled the sorrow of his mournful wife Methe. Such things the skilful lyre-striker played; and at the rhythm all alike were charmed; and together with thyrsus-bearing Lyaeus they marvelled at the fitting, lovely-voiced Attic song. Second, lord Oeagrus, weaving a shifting hymn, as the father of Orpheus, sharing the hearth of his familiar Muse, struck up a two-line harmony with a Phoebean strain, brief of word, clear of speech, in some Amyclaean fashion: "Fair-haired Hyacinthus Apollo brought back to life, and Staphylus Dionysus will make to live forever." Not yet had the revel ceased, but the people cried out with auspicious words from throats of one tongue, and the Satyrs roared all together; and from his seat Bacchus leaped up restless, shaking up and down his right hand, and Botrys ran forward, with the cry of "euoi" honouring the well-rhythmed harmony of the singer; and the lord crowned the head of Oeagrus with ivy, and the father of Orpheus, striking the earth with his foot, gladly received the unyoked bull as the wage of his song; and around him in rows his comrades leaped for joy. And the wide-bearded goat, swelling his grief and his envy, with shamed hands the citizen of Athens led away. Then fair-haired Iobacchus, bringing them with unsparing hand, set worthy prizes for the dance-weaving victory: an aged mixing-bowl pregnant with fragrant wine, golden, that held measures past telling, gushing for the thirsty earth the four-year-old liquor of Lyaeus, the skilled Olympian work of Hephaestus, which once Cypris gave to her vine-clad brother Dionysus; and a smaller bowl he set in the midst of the contest, of silver, gleaming, round, which once to Bacchus the king of Alybe gave as a guest-gift, dwelling in his halls beside the wealthy soil, where in the recess of the earthly mine the black hollow whitened with elbows of silver; about its rim, upon the bossed crown of its edge, ran twining ivy, and round about it was wrought with golden ornament; this he brought and set, with its deep-hollowed belly, a wine-vat still breathing the younger weight of the fruit, must, the drink of unwedded intoxication; for there is no blame that the man defeated should drink the unsobering dew. But when Bacchus had set the prizes in the midst of the contest, he called those skilled in the dance with a summoning voice: "Whoever shall compete, wheeling with skilful foot, and conquer in the judgement of the running foot, let him take both the golden mixing-bowl and the pour of sweet-drinking wine; but he who falls, shaken by the slip of an unsteady foot, and dances the worse, let him receive the lesser gifts as well; for I am not the same to all; but to the prize-winning man who has conquered in the graceful dance-treading contest no gleaming tripod, no swift horse will I grant, no spear and breastplate stained with the blood of Indians, rousing the javelin-throwers to the straight-coursing discus; no course of fleetness is stretched out here, no point of a spear that carries far; but to Staphylus, the king who has perished, a man who loved the leap, I honour the play-loving feet; nor do I hold out gifts for the fly-strong wrestling, nor is there a horse-race, nor are these the games of Elis, nor the bridegroom-slaying course of Oenomaus; for our turning-post is the dance, our starting-lines the leaping of feet, the nimble hand and the twisting bound, and the nod of a face ever-moving restlessly, and the speaking silence that wheels the fingers and the dancer's glance." At such a word from him horned Silenus rose up, and thrice-old Maron, with heavy-sounding foot, leaped forward, eyeing the great golden flashing mixing-bowl, not because it was golden and the better, but because alone it held the richly-streaming, most ancient weight of dew up to the very edge of its rim; and love of the sweet wine made him young, and the Bacchic scent overpowered his grey hairs; and he twirled his feet, testing his own strength, lest heavy old age had stopped his limbs that had forgotten the dance. And the old man with his voice appeased the soul of Staphylus, pouring a sober word from his shaggy chin: "I am Maron, the fellow-contestant of grief-free Lyaeus; I know not how to weep; what have tears to do with Dionysus? The circles of my feet are my burial-gifts beside your tomb; receive me smiling; Maron knows no cares, Maron knows no wailing, no weight of mourning sorrow; I am the lovely servant of grief-free Dionysus. Be gracious to your Maron, even if you have drunk the waters of Lethe, grant the grace that I may drink the pour of ancient wine, and let Silenus drink the new weight of the new fruit. And for Staphylus after death, as for one alive, I will dance, since I prefer the dance to the savoury-loving table; for you, Staphylus, living and not breathing, I dance, striking up a revel over your tomb; I am Bacchus' man, not the servant of Phoebus, and I have not learned to sing dirges, such as among the Cretans lord Apollo trilled, weeping for lovely Atymnius; and of the Heliades I was a stranger, alien to Eridanus I am, no kinsman of Phaethon the perished charioteer; I am no dweller of Sparta, I lift no mournful flower, shaking the delicate petals of the much-wept hyacinths. Today, whether you sit beside Minos and judge alike, or whether you hold the flowery court of Rhadamanthys, walking softly in the groves of the Elysian meadow, hear your Maron; and I, in place of cups, with truceless lips belch out a thoughtful libation; be gracious to your Maron, and grant me a wine-dark victory, a victory that all admire; and I, above your tomb, will pour the fair first-fruits of my golden cups, beginning from my bowl, after the prize of my victory." So speaking, Maron danced with twisting foot, shifting his right foot to take the place of the left, tracing an intricate silence with a voiceless hand; and he rolled his wandering eyes, the image of words, weaving an intelligent rhythm with a cunning gesture; and he shook his head and wished to toss his locks, had not the bare brow of his hairless head lacked them. Nor, as an old man bearing Titan blood, did he picture with eloquent gesture the Titan race, not Cronus or Phanes the elder, nor the offspring of the Sun-Titan, coeval with the equal-aged universe; but leaving all this and the flood of ancient matter, in skilful silence he figured the cup-bearer of Cronides, stretching the goblet to Zeus and cheering the choir of the other immortals ever with cups close-following one upon another, or pouring the holy dew down into the mixing-bowl; and his harmony was a sweet drink; nay, even the maiden Hebe he danced, drawing the nectar; and looking toward the Satyrs he pictured the form of Ganymede with speechless hands, and whenever he looked toward the Bacchants, in thoughtful silence he showed the gold-sandalled Hebe. Such things Maron traced, plying his versatile fingers, and he reined in the skilful onset of his well-rhythmed foot, completing the many-bending measures of the restless dance. And he stood trembling, watching with a sidelong eye who would conquer whom, who would reach his own house bearing the larger mixing-bowl, brimming with drink. And Silenus danced; and of his much-turning art his silent hand traced the cunning tokens. And then such was the figure of his hands: as once a great contention fell upon the son of Cyrene and Dionysus over the drink, and the blessed ones came together; not then was there boxing, not running, not then the discus for prizes: for the son of Phoebus the cups lay as the instruments of care, and for Dionysus, and two mixing-bowls, the one a pour of aged wine, the other bearing the new gifts of the branch-loving bee; and Cronides sat as judge, and for the prize-winners a delicate contest was stretched out over the honey-dripping victory; the cups lay as instruments; and, like gold-winged Hermes, Love himself, the lovely, stood as steward in the midst, holding in one hand both ivy and a shoot of olive, to Bacchus the ivy-flower, to Aristaeus holding out the shoot of olive like the wreaths of Pisa, the holy emblem of Pallas. And in a honey-mixed cup first Aristaeus, mixing the birth-pang of the bee, offered the immortals a skilful draught, cheering one after another, and dealt the goblet to each in turn; to them at the beginning of the richly-dropping dew the surfeit came most sharp, but as the cups were drawn they refused the third, and touched not the fourth, and blamed the swift surfeit of the honey; but of the sweet-drinking Dionysus, in his soft tunic, drawing from the mixing-bowl, lifted two cups and held them out with a twin motion, the first to Cronides, the second he gave to Hera, the third goblet to his father's brother, the Earth-shaker; and in order he mixed for all the gods together and for Zeus his father, who delighted; and to the one downcast alone, smiling, he stretched the goblet to jealous Phoebus; and they were charmed in mind by the many-scattered cups, and grew ever the thirstier the more they drank, and asked again for another, and there was no surfeit of cups. And the immortals raised the cry, and entrusted to Bacchus the right to bear the prize of victory for the sweet-drinking vine; and drunken, unconquerable Love, the steward of the contest, crowned the hair of Lyaeus with clustering ivy. This with skilful hand horned Silenus wove, and he stayed his right hand, and on a much-leaping sandal he was lifted from the ground and sent his glances into the air, now joining his feet yoked together one upon the other, now, parting them, he sprang with a counter-shifting art; at another time, much-twisting, dancing above the floor, upright upon his heels he shook with a winding leap; and on his right foot, unbending, he propped himself, holding the fingertip of the other foot, or bending his knee with joined hands, or the outstretched fold of his thighs— Silenus heavy-kneed, holding the upright onset of his foot; and he raised his left foot upon his flank and shoulder, lifting it in a spiral, and by a backstrained art he raised the curved foot aloft, winding it about his neck; and in the swift whirl of the homeward-circling dance, on his back, self-twisting, he bent with a circular art, showing his outspread arched belly to the air, crossing the same unending turning-post like a garland; and his head was carried sidelong, as though ever touching the floor and yet not grazing the dust; and with shaggy foot Silenus tore the ground, unstable here and there, in a Bacchic frenzy of leaping feet. And then his knees grew weary, and as his head shook he slipped, on his back, self-rolling, upon the field; and he was shaped into a river: his body gushed water in self-flowing streams; and as his forehead changed his horns surged into an arching channel, and the surge crested, churned high upon his head, and his belly, full of fish, was hollowed into sand; and as Silenus was poured forth his hair changed into self-grown rushes; and over the river, close beside, the sharp-pointed reed whistled, shaken by the breezes, self-grown. And Maron bound up the sweet victory, holding in his arms a mixing-bowl crammed with sweet wine; and as Silenus was poured forth, as a prize, like a libation, he took the silver mixing-bowl and flung it into the streams, and made drunk the pourings of the dance-weaving river, whence the place is named from the mixing-bowl, and of the sweet-drinking Silenus murmuring the Euian water is heard. And Maron spoke some word to the river-spring: "Maron does no violence to you, Silenus; but into you I will cast the reddening wine, and call you the wine-receiver. Receive, you insatiable of drink, your own wine; receive Bacchus' silver mixing-bowl, and you shall be silver-eddying. Rolling-footed Silenus, even in your pourings you dance, the whirl of your feet even in the surges you keep, still you revel in your watery form; but be gracious to the Bacchants and the Satyrs and the wine-giving fruits, and guard the Silenoi, the offshoot of your stock; and to deep-drinking Maron be kind, and let me not see you stealing away the eagerness for victory even in the rivers. With your waters rather swell the wine of the Maronian fruit; be of one mind with Dionysus even among the rivers. Foolish one, who taught you to contend with your betters?" Another Silenus again, exchanging an overweening pipe, lifted his proud neck and came into strife with Phoebus; but he, stripping the hairy skin, binding him to a shoot, made of him a breathing wineskin, and high upon a tree hidden within he bellied out the mimic shape of the wind, as though once more the unsilent herdsman were singing; and pitying him, Delphic Apollo gave him form, and made a river of the same name; still of that shaggy Silenus the winding water is told, and it belches a wind-roaming din, as though ever the Phrygian pipe were piped on answering reeds. And you too changed your body, having kindled strife with a better, wholly like the former Silenus. But may you no more seek the unsandalled, familiar Bacchant nymph, the loose-haired mountain Bacchant; for the boundless brood of the loose-locked Naiads delights you. No more seek the serpent-bonds of Lyaeus, plying eels, the crooked birth-pang of the streams, and, fitted with spotted scales instead of serpents, fishes creep upon your streams. And if you have been parted from clustering Dionysus, the more I count you blessed; for you too swell the cluster; what more would you wish, bearing as the nourisher of your floods Zeus after Bacchus, the begetter of the whole brood? In place of your Satyrs, ranks of rivers; in place of the wine-press, you dance upon the back of roaring Ocean. A like form you have even among the waters; and there is no blame that Silenus, his brow plumed with ox-horns, should hold a bull-shaped, horned river-form." So spoke Maron; and all marvelled to see the winding water of Silenus the wide-poured tumbler, the equal-natured likeness of the much-bending river.