Book 31

31. In the thirty-first, Hera coaxes Sleep against the son of Cronus, and Persephone against Bacchus.

So Bacchus, stung by the goad of the Indian war, ranged round the bosom of the Erythraean field, shaking his golden curls beside his snow-white cheeks. But Hera, swelling with envious cares, scored the upper air with a menacing foot, gazing there at the host of the far-scattered Indians threshed down by the man-slaying thyrsus of Lyaeus. And another anger she roused beside the Erythraean sea, seeing the tangled remnants of Andromeda's bonds and the stone upon the sand, that grim portent of the Earthshaker. Grieving, she turned her eye aside, lest beside the sea she should behold the bronze-forged sickle of Perseus, Gorgon-slayer. For already, whirling his swift-kneed foot through the air, across the thirsty Libyan ridge Perseus was ferried, swimming on his wings; and stealing the wandering eye of the one-eyed sleepless old daughter of Phorcys, he entered the hard-to-tread cave, and like a reaper beside the rock mowing whispering corn, the slanting harvest of her hair, he cut through the labouring throat of the Gorgon, and reddened his sickle; and as Medusa was hewn down he washed his blood-stained hand in the snaky dew, severing the head; and with his golden blade, midwife of a child, that twin-bearing neck gave birth to the breed of the horse. And the envious anger of Hera seethed in her heart as she belched out her jealousy at Perseus and Dionysus. She longed to charm both the eyes and the mind of the son of Cronus into a deceiving marriage, and onto the wing of sweet Sleep drawn down upon the bed, so that by some cunning craft, while Zeus still slumbered, she might bear down on Lyaeus.

So she went to the dark, all-receiving hall of Hades, and found Persephone, and cried out with crafty words: "Most blessed I call you, since you dwell far from the gods; you have not seen Semele dwelling within Olympus. I fear that I shall behold Dionysus, whom a mortal womb bore, wielding the lightning after Zagreus, or lifting the thunderbolt in earthly hands. You have been robbed, fruit-bringer; beside the corn-rich Nile, in place of your mother Demeter, the sheaf-bearer who bore you, they hold revel for another, and a bastard, some bountiful Deo, bull-shaped and horned, is proclaimed—Inachian Io. And Ares, whom indeed I bore, whom a heavenly womb brought forth, my own son, fettered in an earthly inglorious bond, Ephialtes hid within a jar, binding him fast about; nor did my heavenly husband Zeus avail him, but the child of Semele he rescued from the fiery brands, and the infant Bacchus, still a babe, he saved alive from the bolt, that half-finished bastard son; while Zagreus was being hewn with knives, he did not fight for the heavenly Dionysus. This stirs me the more, that the son of Cronus gave the starry pole as bride-gift to Semele, and Tartarus to Persephone: heaven is kept for Apollo, in heaven Hermes dwells; but you have this house full of darkness. What good was it, that wearing the lying shape of a serpent he plundered the unplundered bond of your maidenhood, if after the bed he was to destroy your labour-pains? Zeus the lord on Olympus has a house full of stars, to his brother who rules the waters he gave the salt water as a prize, and the murky gloom he gave as a home to your husband. But arm your Furies against wine-dark Bacchus, that I may not see a mortal bastard wielding the sceptre of Olympus. Have reverence for Zeus's consort who entreats you, have reverence for Deo, have reverence for pure Themis who entreats you, so that the Indians may breathe a little while Dionysus is shaken back; be to me in my grief an avenger, since the son of Cronus gave nectar to Bacchus and the gore of Enyo to Ares. Let not Athens hymn a new Dionysus, nor let him win a prize equal to the Eleusinian Dionysus, let him not exchange the rites of the elder Iacchus, let him not dishonour the basket of Demeter with his fruit."

So speaking she confounded the whole mind of Persephone, as her face was wetted with feigned tears, prattling her wiles. And goddess nodded assent to goddess, and gave her Megaera for companion, that she might accomplish it, bearing the baleful eye, the will of jealous Hera. And she, darting on a stormy sandal, thrice was lifted up, and on the fourth reached the Ganges; and she showed the Indian dead to grim Megaera, that throng, and the sweat of the army and the manhood of Dionysus; and Megaera, beholding the Indian-slaying labours of Lyaeus, in her jealousy grudged them more than heavenly Hera. But Hera rejoiced in mind, and to the serpent-haired goddess, laughing a sardonic laugh, broke into downcast speech: "So the young kings of Olympus play the champion, so the bastards of Zeus hurl the spear! From Semele Zeus bore a single child, to destroy them all, the gentle and blameless Indians; but let him learn, unjust Zeus and Bacchus, how great is the strength of Megaera. Ah me, what a lawless mind has high-ruling Zeus! With the unjust Tyrrhenians he does not fight, who, having learned stolen, violent customs aboard their evil-guesting ships, plunder the goods of others and sail the Sicilian sea; he did not slay the impious race of the Dryopes, whose life is spears and slaughter; but the Indians, who cared for piety, he slew, whom all-cherished Themis perhaps suckled at her breast. Ah me, what a lawless mind he has! For an immortal a mortal man has burned—so great and such a one—Hydaspes, a mortal man has burned, whom heavenly Zeus begot."

So speaking she flew through the upper air; and in silence, beneath the neighbouring hollow base of the Caucasian crag, having exchanged the shuddering snaky form of her limbs, like an owl in shape she stayed there, until she should behold great Zeus slumbering; for so queen Hera had told her. But Hera herself went to the western water of Chremetes, plotting, where the heavy old Libyan Atlas labours, bent beneath the heavenly whirl, and she sought Iris, bride of love-sick Zephyrus, the messenger of Zeus when he is in haste, that she might accomplish from the air a wind-footed envoy to shadowy Sleep. Summoning her, she soothed her with friendly words: "Iris, golden-winged bride of plant-nurturing Zephyrus, mother of Love who brings good birth, with stormy sandal hasten to go to the western house of gloomy Sleep; seek him too about sea-beaten Lemnos; and if you find him, tell him to charm the eyes of unbending Zeus for a single dawn, that I may help the Indians. But change your body, and taking the ugly form of the black-girdled goddess Night, mother of Sleep, become dark, false-named—for I too, with answering limbs, when there is need of necessity, change my form into Themis, into Cytherea, into Artemis. And promise the marriage of Pasithea, for whose beauty he longs, that he may accomplish my need; I need not teach you that a man mad for women will do all things upon a hope."

So she spoke, and the goddess golden-winged Iris flew, scanning the air, and toward Paphos, toward the land of Cyprus, she strained her unswerving eye, and higher than Byblos she watched the wedded water of Assyrian Adonis, searching for the roving track of wandering Sleep. She found him beside the nuptial slopes of Orchomenus; for there again he tarried, winding his mind-wandering step, haunting the lovely gateways of Pasithea. And changing her body, turned about, unseen Iris put on the unknown face of dark Night; and the wily one drew near to Sleep; and like a mother with mind-stealing words she uttered a beguiling voice: "My child, how long shall the son of Cronus scorn me? Is it not enough that Phaethon does me violence, since the dawn itself shoots its darts at me, and morning pursues me? Zeus begot a bastard son, to put my Sleep to shame. One mortal shames me and my son; for all night long kindling a light-bearing torch with his mystic spark, Bacchus blots me out, and waking he afflicts you. Sleep, why are you called all-subduer? No longer do you charm waking men, since the bastard gleam of earthly Lyaeus has conquered my revel; for with brighter torches he hides the flames of my stars. One mortal, light-bringer, shames me, since he covers, great though it is, the ray of my Moon. I am abashed before the dawn that laughs over Mist, since I keep a bastard nightly gleam; for by another's false-made Phaethon I, daytime Night, shine. But you, dear boy, be wroth with the twofold ordinance, with the mystic Satyrs and with sleepless Dionysus; do a favour to your grieving mother, do a favour to Hera, and charm the unbending eye of high-ruling Zeus for a single dawn, that I may help the Indians, whom the Satyrs harry and Bacchus still rouses. Sleep, why are you called all-subduer? If you will, turn your eye for me, and by seven-gated Thebes you shall see the son of Cronus again waking all night; loose the wantonness of unjust Zeus; for Amphitryon, far from his own chamber, an iron-clad exile, wars on; but Zeus sits beside Alcmene within doors, holding insatiate the three-mooned bridal mist. Let me not see Zeus waking through a fourth night also. But, child, arm yourself against the son of Cronus, lest again, lest again he fill up the ninefold mist. Remember the earlier Mnemosyne; lying with her nine nights he stayed, keeping a sleepless eye, holding the much-childed sting of unwearied unions. Another all-subduing god, twin-winged, like to Sleep, little Love, conquered the son of Cronus with a small dart. Pity too the dark-skinned offspring of the earthborn Indians; do a favour; for they are of the same colour as your mother; rescue the dark ones, dark-winged one; and do not afflict the earth, coeval with my father, from which alone all sprang, as many as dwell in Olympus. Do not tremble at the son of Cronus, when his consort Hera is gracious; do not tremble at Semele, whom her own husband burned. Not the fiery lightning shall be able to match you, not the heavy-roaring thunder of the clashing clouds; only ply your wings for me, and upon his unswerving couch Zeus stays unshaken, as long, Sleep, as you bid. I have heard that you long for one of the Graces; but in your heart holding the sting of the bridal chamber, guard yourself, and do not afflict the mother of Pasithea, Hera, wardress of the bridal yoke. And if you dwell beside Tethys by the Leucadian rock, help Deriades, whom Indian Hydaspes begot; keep faith with your neighbour, since your loud-sounding neighbour Ocean was the forefather of Deriades."

So speaking she persuaded him. And as though hearing his mother, Sleep was startled, and swore to charm the eyes of unsleeping Zeus, even to the course of the third Dawn; but Iris asked him only to fetter the son of Cronus in slumber for one single course of the dawn. There Sleep stayed, awaiting the hour of fair wedding. And swiftly the goddess Iris flew back homeward; hastening, she brought the blameless word to her queen. And Hera flew on stormy foot through the air, and wove another guile, how she might come near to Zeus bearing the girdle aloft, the mind-charming band of desire. And she sought the Paphian; above Lebanon, alone, the Assyrian, she found Aphrodite in the wilds, seated; for the Graces had gone to the dappled flowers of the gardens, those vernal dancers of Orchomenus, one plucking Cilician saffron, another longing to bring balsam and the plantation of the Indian reed, another the fragrant herb of roses. Astonished, unexpected, she sprang up from her seat, the daughter of Zeus, Aphrodite, when she saw the wife of Zeus; and seeing her grieving, she uttered a versatile voice: "Hera, wife of Zeus, why are your cheeks gone pale? Why, my queen, are your eyes downcast? Has rain again become a thievish, showering Zeus? Has he again become a bull, a watery wayfarer among the waters? Does some Europa again do you violence? Or some other Antiope wedded in a shaggy bed by a false Satyr, while Nycteus, her father, refuses his consent? Does some new horse, wise-minded, press toward another marriage, sending forth a bastard neighing from mimicking lips? Has he wooed another Semele with the bridal brand, and shaken the lightning that steers the Loves? Does he dance toward the bed of a fair-horned heifer, pouring forth a loving bellow? If you will, you might rouse another bull-watcher, a spy on Zeus, a herdsman marked with sleepless eyes—Argus. Tell me, since I ask, and what strength I have, I will help."

So speaking, the goddess embraced her with a guileful word: "Cyprian goddess, let us leave the floor of Olympus to mortals; Zeus has brought Semele up to Olympus, the mother of Bacchus, and he will bring Dionysus too into the upper air. What house shall receive Hera? Or to what place shall I go? I am ashamed, lest I behold Semele, the bastard queen of Olympus. I fear that I shall see the house of gloomy Iapetus, lest he seize me and drive me, after Cronus, out of Olympus. I fear, lest after the midwife, putting nectar to shame in heaven, he plant the vine—as they call it—even among the blessed. May that never come to pass, Justice and Earth and Water! Let him not bring the vine-shoots into the upper air, nor for the sake of praise let me call heaven vine-clad after star-clad, nor drink another drink after the sweet nectar of Olympus. I fear that I shall see steadfast Athena drunken, that she may lift her spear against Ares and Cytherea, that with the staggering drop of mind-staggering Dionysus the wine-stricken stars, raging against one another, may raise up daring Enyo in heaven, that, made bacchic, all the dwellers of Olympus may mimic the rites of the shield-bearing Corybantes. Is that god-hated shame not enough, that I behold the Trojan youth, Zeus's servant of the cups, shaming heaven and Hebe, the cupbearer of Zeus, when with earthly hands he draws the sweet nectar? In shame I will go down to earth; to them both I will leave the upper air, to Ganymede and Dionysus; I will leave the upper air, the house of Semele. Let one house, heaven, be theirs both, both Perseus's and Dionysus's. I will come to my own Argos, to the splendid city of Mycenae, to dwell on earth; and with my grieving mother Ares himself shall follow, your bridegroom; but you too set foot in your own Sparta, and let it receive, well-armoured, together with bronze-clad Ares, the angry Aphrodite. I know whence I draw these sufferings: my father's Fury demands of me requital for my outraged parent, because, bearing down in the battle of grandsire Cronus, the Titaness Hera assailed him as he fought beside Zeus; fair were it for me to see Dionysus in the midst of Olympus seated near Love, sharing a hearth with the foam-born, lifting the aegis after the son of Cronus and Athena. But, goddess, help me, and as a remedy for my distress give me the embroidered girdle, your all-charming band, for one single dawn, that I may charm the eyes of Zeus, and, while Zeus sleeps, may help my Indians. Twice I have become your mother-in-law; for of my own son Hephaestus and of Ares you became the bride. Grant the long-delayed favour, since the dark-skinned Indians became the hosts of Erythraean Aphrodite, on whom in his anger Dionysus has fallen, against whom too woman-mad, loveless, child-begetting Zeus has raged, and brandished the lightning, fighting in arms beside Dionysus; give me the helping girdle, in which alone you charm all things in one; and I am worthy to wear it, since I was born of the yoke and am a fellow-worker of the Loves."