Imagines

PROEM.

Let us not rob the arts of their perpetual preservation by deeming what is older too hard to look upon; nor, if some one of the older masters has anticipated a thing, let us be too sparing to emulate it to the best of our power, glozing our slothfulness with a specious excuse, but let us build upon our predecessor. For if we hit the mark, we shall have done a thing worth the telling; and if it should chance that we fall short, we shall at least give ourselves the credit of plainly admiring and emulating what is well done. Why, then, have I struck this prelude? A description of works of painting has been carried out with much pains by my namesake and grandfather on my mother's side, in language extremely Attic and possessed besides of finished grace and vigour. Wishing to follow in his footsteps, I found it necessary, before the whole undertaking, to say something also about painting, so that my discourse too might have its own proper material fitted to the matters in hand.

Painting is an excellent thing and concerned with no small matters; for he who is rightly to preside over the art must have studied human nature well and be capable of discerning the tokens of men's characters even when they are silent, and what lies in the set of the cheeks, what in the blending of the eyes, what in the cast of the brows—in a word, all that bears upon the mind. And being sufficiently versed in these things he will grasp all of them, and the hand will represent in the best way the part proper to each figure—a madman, it may be, or an angry man, or a thoughtful man, or one rejoicing, or one impetuous, or a lover—and in each case will paint what is fitting. Sweet too is the deception in this art, and one that brings no reproach; for to stand before things that are not as though they were, and to be led by them so as to believe they exist, when no harm comes of it—how is this not enough to charm the soul and to be free of all blame?

The men of old, wise men too, seem to me to have written much about symmetry in painting, laying down, as it were, laws of the proportion of each of the limbs, on the ground that it is not possible to attain the best in rendering movement according to the mind unless the harmony keeps within the measure that comes from nature; for nature in its right state does not admit of movement that is monstrous and beyond measure. And to one who considers it, the art is found to have a kinship with poetry, and there is a certain imagination common to both. For the poets bring the presence of the gods onto their stage, and all that has dignity and majesty and power to charm the soul; and painting likewise signifies in the picture the very things which the poets are able to tell. And what need is there to speak of things that have been splendidly said by many, or, by saying more, to seem to be turning to a eulogy of the matter? For even these few words suffice to show what we are eager about: that it will nowhere be cast aside as something quite trivial; for, having come upon paintings by a refined hand, in which were ancient deeds rendered not without the Muses' grace, I did not think it right to pass these by in silence. But, that my writing may not proceed with reference to a single hearer, let there be someone supposed present to whom I must set forth the particulars one by one, so that thus my discourse too may have what befits it.

ACHILLES ON SCYROS.

The heroine crowned with rushes—for you see somewhere the island that lies beneath the mountain, firm in outline and clad in dark blue—is Scyros, my boy, the island which the divine Sophocles calls "wind-swept." She has in her hands a shoot of olive and a vine-branch; and the tower at the foot of the mountain is the place where the daughters of Lycomedes live as maidens, together with one who is thought to have come from Thetis. For Thetis, having learned from her father Nereus the decree of the Fates concerning her son, and how it was fated for him in either case—to live without glory, or, becoming glorious, very soon to die—has hidden the boy away here in Scyros among the daughters of Lycomedes, where to the others he seems to be a girl; but one of them, the eldest, knows him by a secret love, and time, going on toward the hour of childbirth, will give Pyrrhus to the light. But that is not the matter here.

Before the tower is a meadow—for the place is well suited to give the maidens of the island abundance of flowers—and you see how they scatter, one this way, another that, plucking the blossoms. Now the beauty of them all is past contriving; but the rest plainly incline toward girlish charm, in the glances of their eyes and the bloom of their cheeks and their eagerness for each thing, betraying their womanhood right well; while this one, who tosses back her hair and is grim withal for all her delicacy, will presently be plainly shown for what she is by nature, and, casting off the pretence forced upon her, will reveal Achilles. For when word of Thetis' secret had fallen among the Greeks, Diomedes is sent with Odysseus to Scyros to test how the matter stands. And you see them both—the one with the beam of his eyes sunk deep, through craft, I suppose, and his way of forever peering at something; while the son of Tydeus is shrewd, yet ready in his judgment and putting his energy forward. Behind them is the man who signals with the trumpet. What does he mean, and what is the character of the painting? Odysseus, being wise and a skilled hunter of hidden things, now contrives the means to expose those he is hunting. For having thrown into the meadow baskets and whatever is suited to girls for seemly play, and also a suit of armour, the daughters of Lycomedes go each to her own; but the son of Peleus bids the baskets and the shuttles a long farewell, leaving them now to the girls, and rushing upon the armour he straightway strips himself bare.

Pyrrhus is no longer a rustic, nor swelling with unkemptness, like the wantonness of herdsmen, but already a soldier. For he has come to a stand, propping himself on a javelin and gazing toward the ship; his dress is a scarlet cloak gathered up from the top of the shoulder over his left arm, and a white tunic above the knee; his eye is fierce, yet not in the act of charging, but still held back by his vexation at delay, and his thought is shaping something of what is to be at Ilium a little later. His hair now hangs over his forehead while he is at rest, but when he charges it will be in disorder, swaying in time with the motions of his anger. As for the goats leaping unchecked and the unruly herds and the club thrown down among them, along with the shepherd's crook—these, my boy, belong to such a story as this. Vexed with his mother and his grandfather at his confinement on the island—since, when Achilles had died, in fear for the boy they had bound themselves by oath against Pyrrhus' departure—he set himself over the goatherds and cattle, breaking the necks of the bulls that dishonoured the herd, which are shown beside the mountain on the right. But when an oracle had fallen among the Greeks, that Troy would be taken by none other than the descendants of Aeacus, Phoenix is sent to Scyros to bring up the boy; and coming to anchor he meets him, neither knowing the other—except so far as the delicacy and the sturdiness of his form showed him to be the son of Achilles. And thereupon, recognizing who he was, he is made known to Lycomedes and to Deidamia. This the art wishes to teach us by this brief representation; and it is painted so as to furnish even the poets a theme for song.

MARSYAS.

The Phrygian has been undone; at any rate he looks like one already lost, through his understanding of what he is to suffer; and he believes he has piped for the last time, having grown over-bold against the son of Leto out of season. His pipe has been flung from him in dishonour, no longer to be played, since even now it has been convicted of striking false notes; and he stands beside the pine from which he knows he is to be hung, having condemned himself to this sentence, to be flayed like a wineskin. He looks askance at this barbarian who is whetting the edge of his knife against him—for you see somewhere how the man's hands are busy with the whetstone and the blade, while he glances up at Marsyas with grey-gleaming eyes, his hair, wild and squalid, bristling up; the flush on his cheek is that of a man bent on slaughter, I think, and his brow overhangs the eye, drawn together into a glare and giving a certain character to his rage. Nay, he even bares his teeth in something savage at what he is about to do—and I do not know whether he rejoices, or whether his mind is swelling toward the slaughter.

But Apollo is painted resting himself upon a rock; his lyre lies at his left hand and is still being touched by his left hand, which falls gently upon it and, by Zeus, as if dallying with it. Mark too the easy aspect of the god and the smile that blooms upon his face; his right hand rests in his lap, holding the plectrum at ease, slackened in its idleness by his rejoicing over the victory. There too is the river that shall take its name from Marsyas. Mark me also the company of Satyrs, how they are painted lamenting Marsyas, yet showing forth, along with their grief, their proud and skittish nature.

HUNTERS.

What could you not say about these men, whom the painting brings home from the chase, and for whom it makes a spring well up, pure with sweet and translucent water? You see too, I suppose, the grove about the spring, the work, I think, of wise Nature; for she is sufficient for all she wishes, and has no need of art, being herself the very source even of the arts. For what is lacking toward the providing of shade? Here the wild grapevines, having crept up, have joined the clusters of their tendrils, binding one tree to another; and here smilax and ivy, parting both together and singly, give us a roof close-set and sweeter than any of art's making. And the chorus of nightingales and the music-halls of the other birds plainly bring to our tongue the words of the most honey-sweet Sophocles, who said: "and within, the close-winged nightingales sing sweetly."

But the company of hunters, pleasant and sturdy and still breathing the ardour of the chase, are resting themselves, each busy with something different. O ye gods, how sweet is the clearness of the art, and how one may see the lot of each! This rough couch, made on the spot, composed, I think, of nets, receives the leaders—it is fair to call them so—of the chase; and there are five of them. You see how the one in the very midst, having roused himself, has turned toward those reclining above him, recounting, it seems to me, his own prize, that he was the first to bring down one of the two beasts—which hang from the oaks in the nets, a deer, I think, and a boar fastened in them. For does he not seem to you uplifted and rejoicing in the deed? And the others gaze intently at him as he tells it; but one of them, leaning back upon the couch, is resting too, perhaps himself recording some exploit proper to the chase. As for the other wing of the mess: the man next to the one in the centre, with a half-empty cup in one of his hands, has thrown his right hand over his head and seems to me to be singing of the Huntress; while another, looking toward the attendant, bids him send the cup round briskly. Wise is the painter and exact of hand; for to one who scans it all, nothing has been left out, not even any of the followers. For here one, having seated himself, has taken a piece of a tree-trunk, equipped just as he was in the running of the chase, and dines from a wallet slung upon him; and of two dogs one, stretched out before him, is eating, while the other, crouched on its hindquarters, holds up its neck to catch what is thrown to it; and another man, having kindled a fire and set on it such of the vessels as are useful for the purpose, provides them in plenty the things for the feast, urging himself on with all his might; and here a wineskin lies carelessly thrown down, for whoever wishes to draw drink from it; and of two servants one is the carver, who, I think, says he is cutting the portions equal, taking care in the cutting that they be fair, while the other holds out what is to receive the portions, demanding, I suppose, that they be made equal. For in the chase, at least in this respect, there is no difference of fortune.

HERACLES, OR ACHELOUS.

You ask, perhaps, what is the connection between a serpent—which here rears itself up large, raising its neck, blood-red along the back, and letting down a beard beneath its upright, saw-edged crest, with a terrible glaring look, enough to strike one with amazement—and a bull, which, beneath so great a span of horn, has curved its neck and is digging up the earth at its feet, rushing as if to charge—and this half-bestial man; for his face is ox-fronted and his beard ample, and there are springs of water flooding from the beard; and the throng gathered together as if for a spectacle; and the maiden in their midst, a bride, I think—for this we must understand from the adornment about her; and this old man with the dejected look; and the youth stripping off a lion-skin and holding a club in his hands; and this sturdy heroine, suited to the tale by her rearing in Arcadia, crowned with oak-leaves—Calydon, I think, this is. And what is the story of the painting?

Achelous the river, my boy, in love with Deianeira the daughter of Oeneus, is hastening to the marriage; and Persuasion is absent from his doings, but, fancying now in one way, now in another, that he will overawe Oeneus by the forms in which he is seen, he leads the way. For know that this is the figure in the painting—the suitor, dejected for the maiden, who looks at him without spirit. For she is painted not with her cheek aflower from modesty, but in great fear of what she is to suffer from the unnatural union. But noble Heracles—a deed done by the way, they say—willingly undertakes the contest. And these things are still in suspense; but lo, see how they have already closed in conflict. Of what came at the beginning of the struggle, let it be supposed of a god and an unflinching hero; but as for the end—the river, having transformed himself into an ox-horned shape, has rushed upon Heracles, while the hero, seizing with his left hand the right horn, tears the other from the temples with his club; and thereupon the one, now letting fall streams more of blood than of water, gives up, exhausted; while Heracles, glorying in the deed, looks toward Deianeira, his club thrown down upon the ground, and holds out to her the horn of Achelous as a marriage-gift.

HERACLES IN SWADDLING CLOTHES.

You are at play, Heracles, you are at play, and already you laugh at your task, though you are still in swaddling clothes—and these too—and having caught the serpents of Hera, one in each hand, you give no heed to your mother standing by, beside herself with fear; but the serpents are already loosed in death, drawing out their coils upon the ground and bending their heads against the infant's hands, with their teeth even showing a little. Jagged are these and venomous, and their crests, by reason of death, hang slack to one side, and their eyes have no sight, and their scales are no longer flowering with gold and crimson nor gleaming at the turns of their movement, but are pale and, amid the blood-red, livid. As for the figure of Alcmene, to one who scans it she seems to be recovering from her first amazement, yet now she disbelieves what she already sees; and her amazement has not allowed her to lie still even as a woman in childbed. For you see, I suppose, how, without sandals and in a single tunic, having leapt up from her bed, with her hair in disorder and her hands flung wide, she cries aloud; and the handmaidens who were present at her travail, struck with terror, talk each to her neighbour, one of one thing, another of another.

These men in armour, and the one ready with naked sword—these are the chosen of the Thebans, come to the aid of Amphitryon; while he, at the first message, having drawn his sword for defence, has at once come upon the scene of action; and I do not know whether he is amazed or whether by now he rejoices. For his hand is still at the ready, but the thought in his eyes puts a curb upon the hand, since there is nothing for him to ward off, and he sees that the matter before him needs the forethought of an oracle. So here too, close by, is Tiresias prophesying, I think, how great the one now in swaddling clothes shall be; and he is painted as one possessed and gasping with prophetic breath. Painted too is Night in figure, in whose time these things are, lighting herself with a little torch, that the boy's task may not be without a witness.

ORPHEUS.

That Orpheus, the son of the Muse, charmed by his music even the creatures that have no share in reason—all the tellers of tales declare it, and the painter declares it too. So a lion and a boar are near him, listeners to Orpheus, and a deer and a hare that do not leap away from the onset of the lion; and all the creatures against which the beast is terrible in the hunt herd together with him, peaceable now as he is peaceable. Nor look idly even upon the birds—not only the musical ones, whose wont it is to sing sweetly in the groves, but mark me also the croaking jackdaw, and the chattering crow itself, and the eagle of Zeus. The eagle, having poised both his wings level on either side, looks intently from where he is toward Orpheus, paying no heed to the hare close by; and they, with jaws shut fast, are wholly his who charms them—wolves these and lambs side by side, as though struck with wonder. And the painter shows a still bolder daring: for he has dragged trees up by the roots and brings them as listeners to Orpheus and sets them about him. So a pine and a cypress and an alder and this poplar and all the other trees, joining their branches as if they were hands, stand about Orpheus and close in his theatre for him, needing no art, that the birds may perch upon them and he may make his music in the shade.

And he sits, putting forth a first soft down of beard flowing over his cheek, and wearing on his head a tiara that gleams with gold; his eye, along with its delicacy, is active and full of inspiration, his mind ever tending toward the things of the gods. Perhaps even now he is singing something, and his brow is lifted, as if signifying the meaning of his songs; and his dress shifts its colours in time with the turns of his movements. Of his two feet the left, pressed against the ground, supports the cithara laid upon his thigh, while the right marks the rhythm, beating the ground with its sandal; and of his hands the right, holding the plectrum fast, is intent upon the notes, with the elbow thrust out and the wrist bent inward, while the left strikes the strings with fingers held straight. But there shall be a reckoning against you, Orpheus: now indeed you charm beasts and trees, but to Thracian women you will seem to sing out of tune, and they will tear in pieces the body that, even to beasts when it spoke, gave a kindly hearing.

MEDEA AMONG THE COLCHIANS.

Who is this woman, lifting a grim frown above her eyes, her brow full of brooding thought, her hair of a sacred fashion, and her glance showing forth—I do not know whether already an amorous look or something inspired—and revealing in her face a vision past all telling? This indeed is the token of the daughters of Helios: it is Medea, I think, the daughter of Aeëtes, whom we must recognize. For when the expedition of Jason had come to anchor in the Phasis, while it was in quest of the golden fleece, and had passed into the city of Aeëtes, the maiden falls in love with the stranger, and a reasoning unwonted steals over her; what she has suffered she does not know, but her thoughts are in disorder and her soul is distraught. She is portrayed not active now, nor in the company of her betters, but as one for many to gaze upon.

The form of Jason is delicate, yet not without vigour; his eye, with its bright gleam, lies beneath the cast of a brow that is proud and rises above every adversary; and already he is luxuriant with the down creeping over his cheek, and his fair hair tosses over his forehead. As for his dress, he has girded on a white tunic, with a lion-skin slung from him, and has fastened on a buskin; and propping himself on a javelin he stands; and the character of his face is such as neither to be over-proud—for he shows modesty—nor abject, for he is confident of the contest. And Love makes all this his own doing, and propping himself upon his bow he stands with feet crossed, turning his little torch toward the ground, since the matter of the love is still in suspense.

THE PLAYERS.

These who are playing in the court of Zeus are, I think, Love and Ganymede—if one is to recognize the one by his tiara, and to be brought to know the other by his bow and his wings. Now these two are playing at knucklebones; and Love is painted insolently mocking and shaking up his bosom full of his winnings, while the other, having of two knucklebones already lost the one himself, sends forth the other with like hope. His cheek is downcast, and the beam of his eye, delicate though it is, sunk deep, betokens his vexation. And these three goddesses standing over them need, I think, no interpreter; for Athena is at once plain to one who looks, clad in the panoply natural to her, as the poets say, and gazing grey-eyed from beneath her helmet, with a manly cast of character yet a flush upon her cheek; and this one, again, signifies even in the painting her love of smiles, by the witchery of the girdle; while the third he says is Hera, by the dignity and royalty of her form.

What, then, do they want, and what is the necessity of their being in this company? The Argo, bearing the fifty, has come to anchor in the Phasis, having passed through the Bosporus and the Clashing Rocks. And you see the river himself too, lying among deep reeds, of grim aspect: for his hair is ample and stands up, and his beard bristles below, and his eyes gleam grey, and the volume of his stream, poured forth not from an urn, as is the custom, but flooding from his whole frame, gives us to understand how great he is that pours himself into the Pontus. The prize of the voyage you have heard of, I think, when the poets tell of the golden fleece and of the Argo that is in all men's care, and the songs of Homer declare it. But the sailors of the Argo are considering the things that have befallen, while the goddesses have come as suppliants to Love, asking him to lend his aid for the safety of the voyagers by winning over Medea, the daughter of Aeëtes; and as a reward for his service his mother holds out to him a ball, saying that it was once a plaything of Zeus. You see too the art in the painting? The ball is of gold, and its stitching is such as to be conceived rather than seen, and it winds spirals of dark blue upon itself, and, thrown up, perhaps, it will let you liken the gleam that goes off from it to the glitterings of stars. But Love no longer even looks at the knucklebones; having thrown them down on the ground, he hangs upon his mother's robe, that she may make good her promise to him—for he will not fail in the task.

PELOPS.

He who is about to drive across the mainland behind a four-horse team, in upright tiara and Lydian dress, is, I think, Pelops, a bold charioteer, it is fair to call him. For once he drove this very chariot even across the sea—Poseidon, I think, granting it—on the very rim of the wheel, running over the back of the calm with an axle unwetted. His eye is fierce, and his neck held high betrays the readiness of his spirit; and the brow that rises high shows that Oenomaus is despised by the young man. For he takes pride in his horses, since they are high-necked and wide of nostril and hollow of hoof, dark and quick of eye, and tossing their ample manes from dark necks—which indeed is the way of the horses of the sea. Near them is Hippodameia, painting her cheek with modesty, clad in a bride's array, and looking with such eyes as to choose rather the stranger's part. For she is in love, and loathes her father, who takes pride in such first-fruits as you see—these heads fastened up, each upon the gateway; and time has given to each its own appearance, by which each of the men perished. For the suitors of his daughter, as they come, he slays, and glories in the tokens of his murders.

And ghosts hovering above them bewail their own contest, chanting over the agreement of the marriage; for Pelops, they say, has come to terms, that the maiden may henceforth be free of the avenging spirit. And Myrtilus too is a witness of the agreement between the pair. But Oenomaus is not far off; his chariot is ready for him, and his spear stretches out above the car, that, overtaking the young man, he may slay him; and, sacrificing to his father Ares, he hastens on, savage to look upon and murderous of eye, and urges Myrtilus forward. But Love, downcast, cuts into the axle of the chariot, giving us to understand both that the maiden, in love with her lover, joins against her father, and what things are to come about the house of Pelops by the will of the Fates.

PYRRHUS, OR THE MYSIANS.

The deeds of Eurypylus and Neoptolemus the chorus of poets hymns, telling how both of them take after their fathers and are renowned for the strength of their hands; and the painting says these things too. For Fortune, having gathered into one city the valour of every land, some go off not without glory, but such as to face many: "but they are the sons of unhappy men," to say, "who come against my might"; while the noble overcome the noble. The other matters concerning the victors are for another place; but now the spectacle is of those engaged.

This city is Ilium "of the beetling brows," as Homer has it, and round it runs a wall such as even the gods did not think unworthy of their own hands; and the ship-station is on the other side, and the narrow strait of the Hellespont divides Asia from Europe. The plain between is parted by the river Xanthus, who is painted not roaring with foam, nor such as he flooded against the son of Peleus, but his bed is lotus and rushes and the leaves of soft reed, and he lies down rather than stands up, and holds his foot upon the springs to keep a due proportion now, moistening himself with the stream. And on either side is an army—the Mysians with the Trojans, and the Greeks on the other side—the Trojans already weary, while those with Eurypylus are fresh. And you see of them how some sit in their armour, this perhaps at the asking of Eurypylus, and they rejoice in the respite; while the Mysians, full of heart and rushing forward, press on; and the Greeks are in a like state with the Trojans, except the Myrmidons, for they are in action and ready about Pyrrhus. As for the two young men, there would be no interpreting them in respect of beauty, since they are now in armour; yet they are tall and above the rest, and the age of both is equal, and they are active in the glances of their eyes and not given to delay.

For the eye of each is fierce beneath the helmet, and they sway in time with the motions of their crests, and the spirit is conspicuous in them, and in their silence they seem to "breathe fury." And the arms of both are their fathers'; but Eurypylus is arrayed in arms without device, which shift their gleam, wherever and however he moves, like the rainbow; while Pyrrhus has those from Hephaestus, since Odysseus once gave way to them and prayed against his own victory. And one who studies the arms will find missing none of Homer's embossed figures, but the art exactly shows all that is there. For the figure of earth and sea and heaven needs no one, I think, to explain it: the heaven is plain at once to the beholder, having received its proper colour from the craftsman; the earth the cities and the things in it portray—and a little later you shall learn about each of them; and this is the heaven. You see, I suppose, both the circle of the sun, how untiring it is therein, and the brightness of the full moon. But you seem to me to long to hear about the several stars; for their difference gives you cause for the question. Here are the Pleiades for you, tokens of sowing and reaping, setting, or again showing plainly, according as the season leads them; and the Hyades on the other side. You see too Orion; but the story about him and his abode among the stars let us put off, my boy, to another time, lest we draw you away from your present longing. The stars above him are the Bear, or, if you wish to call it so, the Wagon. They say it alone does not bathe in Ocean, but turns round about itself, as a guard of Orion.

Let us go on now through the earth, leaving the things above; and of the things on earth let us behold first the cities, the fairest. You see, then, that these are two; which, then, do you wish interpreted to you first? Or does the light of the torches, and the song of the wedding-hymn, and the sound of the pipes, and the striking of the cithara, and the rhythm of the dancers, draw you to themselves? And you see too the women in the doorways, how they shine through, marvelling and all but crying aloud for joy. These are weddings, my boy, and the first union of bridegrooms and brides, and the bridegrooms lead home their brides. As for the modesty and the longing, how each is conspicuous, I leave it to be told, since the craftsman has hinted it more wisely than I. But lo, here too is a place of judgment, and a common council, and venerable elders sitting in dignity before the throng. And the gold in the midst—these two talents—I do not know for what they are; or, by Zeus, one must guess, as a reward for him who shall give right judgment, that no one may carry a verdict aside from the straight path for the sake of gifts.

And what is the suit? Two men here in the midst, it seems to me—the one bringing a charge of murder against the other; and the other you see, how he denies it. For he says he is not guilty of what the accuser brings against him, and that, having paid the blood-price, he comes clean. You see too those who second each man on either side and lend their cry to whichever they favour; but the presence of the heralds restrains them and brings them to quiet. This, then, is for you a state midway between war and peace in a city not at war. But the other you see, how it is beset by siege, and how the wall is guarded by those whom age has unfitted for fighting, divided along it—for there are women on the battlements, and these old men, and quite young children. Where, then, are the fighting men? Here you will find them, those who follow Ares and Athena. For this, it seems to me, the art declares, having shown the gods to be gods by their gold and their stature, and given the others their inferiority by itself. They go forth, not having accepted the challenge of their enemies to divide the wealth in the city, or, if not divided, to be at it in arms. So they set an ambush in this place. For this, it seems to me, is what the thicket beside the banks hints at, where you see them in their armour. But it will not be granted them to use the ambush; for the invading army, having set certain scouts, plans to drive off booty, and indeed the herdsmen are leading their flocks to the sound of pipes. Or does not the simple and natural music, plainly of the mountain, strike you? But, having made music for the last time, in ignorance of the trap upon them, they have perished, as you see, the enemy falling upon them, and a booty is driven off by them. So when report of what has been done reaches the men in ambush, they rise up and go on horseback to the war, and one may see the banks full of the fighters and of those casting at them. And what shall we say of the figure moving among them, the goddess reddened with gore, both herself and her dress? This is Strife and Tumult and the Doom, beneath whom is all that belongs to war. For you see how she goes not along one road, but one man, unwounded, she throws against the swords; another she drags off by her, a corpse; another, newly wounded, she urges on. And the men are terrible in their onset and their look, so that they seem to me in no way to differ from living men in their charges.

But lo, again the works of peace; for here shows a fallow field, thrice-ploughed, I think, if one may reckon from the multitude of the ploughmen—and the yokes of oxen turn often in it, with a cup awaiting the ploughman at the end of the furrow—and it seems to grow black, cleaving the gold apart. Next you see a domain, I think one may judge, of some king, whose gladness of soul is shown by the brightness in his face. And the cause of his joy one need not even seek; for that the crop is to surpass the sowing by a great measure is plainly shown by those who reap in haste and those who bind with sheaf-bands the cut handfuls, to whom others bring more, and that right strenuously. And the oak is not there out of season, nor without reason; for there is ample shade beneath it for those wearied at the work to be cool, and this fat ox, hallowed by the heralds whom you see, is set out beneath the oak as a feast for those who toil at the gathering of the wheat. And the women, what do you say of them? Do they not seem to you all in a flutter, urging one another to knead much of the barley-meal, that there may be a dinner for the labourers? And if you should need fruit too, here is for you a vineyard, golden in its vines but black in its clusters. And the dark of the trench was contrived, I think, by the craftsman to show the depth in it; for it is enough for you to conceive of the fence about the vines as being in tin. And the silver in the vineyard—these are the props, that the plants, weighed down with fruit, may not be bowed to the ground. And what would you say of the vintagers? Who, having let themselves in by this narrow entrance, store away the fruit in baskets, very pleasant and suited in age to the work. For maidens and youths walk in a Bacchic rhythm with the cry of "Euoi," another giving them the rhythm, whom, I think, you understand from his cithara and from his seeming to sing thin and soft to the notes.

And if you should mark the herd of cattle too, which press toward the pasture with their herdsmen following them, you would not wonder at the colour, if it is all of gold and tin; but that one seems even to hear them lowing in the painting, and that the river, beside which the cows are, seems to be sounding—how is this not close to vividness? As for the lions, no one seems to me to be able to interpret them worthily, and the bull beneath them; for the bull, seeming to bellow and gasp, is already being torn somehow, the lions having fastened on his entrails; and the dogs—nine, I think, these are—follow the herd, and from the herdsmen who guide them they rush near the lions, wishing to scare them with their barking, but do not dare to come to close quarters, even though the herdsmen urge them on. And you see too the flocks skipping over the mountain, and the steadings and the tents and the folds: conceive these to be a home of sheepfolds. And there remains, I think, this chorus here, like that of Daedalus—and they say it was given by him to Ariadne the daughter of Minos. And what is the craftsmanship? Youths and maidens, twining their hands, are dancing. But you, it seems, will not be content with this, unless I make exact for you in words even the matter of their dress. Well then, these are clad in fine linen, wearing golden crowns upon their heads; and the others have about them well-woven and delicate tunics, and from their thighs hang golden knives, with silver baldrics holding them. But as they go round in a circle—there, that is it—you see the whirling of a wheel, as of some potter, when he is trying whether it runs hard to turn. And as they go again in rows, a great throng streams in, showing how they delight in it; for some of these in the midst, tumbling and showing now one dance, now another, seem to me plainly to lead the onlookers to wonder.

And the image of sea round the circle of the rim is not sea, my boy, but one must conceive it to be Ocean, contrived to be the boundary of the earth on the shield. You have enough of the embossed figures. Behold now the matter of the young men, with which of the two the victory lies; for lo, Eurypylus too has been brought down, Pyrrhus having thrust him a mortal blow beneath the armpit, and the blood pours forth in a stream, and he lies, much of it shed without a groan upon the ground, all but anticipating the blow by his fall, because the wound came at the right moment. Pyrrhus is still in the posture of the blow, his hand streaming with the much gore that has run down upon the sword; and the Mysians, deeming this not to be borne, advance upon the young man. But he, looking grimly at them, smiles and stands his ground against the throng, and perhaps will presently hide the corpse of Eurypylus, heaping the dead in a pile upon him.

THE ARGO, OR AEËTES.

The ship that breaks her way out of the river beneath the loud rush of her rowing, and this maiden here upon the stern near the man-at-arms, and he who sings tunefully to the striking of the cithara, in upright tiara, and the serpent over that sacred oak, poured out in many a coil and bending its head toward the ground, heavy with sleep—know that the river is the Phasis, and this woman Medea, and the man-at-arms upon the stern would be Jason; and the cithara and the tiara, and him who is adorned with both, suggest to us Orpheus, the son of Calliope. For after the contest with the bulls, Medea, having charmed this serpent to sleep, the golden-fleeced hide of the ram has been carried off, and the sailors of the Argo are now rushing into flight, since the maiden's deeds have become known to the Colchians and to Aeëtes.

And as for the matter of the Argo's sailors, what should I tell you? For you see their arms swollen with the strain of the rowing, and their faces such as men's would be when they urge themselves on; and the surge of the river bubbling up over the prow of the ship as she bears down with great impetus is a token of speed. The maiden shows by her face a mind past all contriving; for her eye, in tears, looks to the ground, and she is in fear at the thought of what she has done, and full of reckoning of what is to come, and she seems to me to be turning her thoughts over within herself, beholding each thing with her soul, and fixing the glances of her eyes upon the secrets of her soul. And Jason is near her in arms, ready for defence. And this man sings the time for the rowers, striking up hymns, it seems to me, to the gods—some of thanksgiving, for the success they have had, others tending to supplication, for the things they fear.

And you see too Aeëtes upon a four-horse car, great, and clad in the warlike arms of some giant, I think—for the fact that it is beyond man gives one to think so—his face full of rage and all but darting fire from his eyes, holding aloft a little torch in his right hand, for he means to burn the Argo, sailors and all; and his spear stands ready for him above the rim of the car. What more, then, do you long for of the things painted? Is it the matter of the horses? Their nostrils are flared wide, and the neck stands up, and the glances of their eyes are ready, and active just now besides—for the painting gives this to behold; and the panting of them, bloodied for the course by the whip of Apsyrtus—for he, they say, rides beside Aeëtes—dragged on by his whole breast; and the whirl of the wheels, all but flinging the dust of the chariot-track into one's ears, gives one to know the speed. For the dust raised up, and the sweat that blooms upon the horses, makes the discernment of their colour dim.

HESIONE.

These labours, I think, the noble Heracles undergoes at no one's bidding; nor can one say that Eurystheus is now troubling him, but, having appointed his own valour to be his master, he submits to toils of his own free will. Or what has he learned, that he withstands so fearful a sea-monster? For you see how round its eyes are, turning a bull-like glare and looking terribly, and how it draws together over them a frown thorny and savage; and how sharp is the gape of its mouth, showing teeth jagged and set in three rows—of which some are hooked and bent back to hold what they have seized, others sharp at the point and standing up high; and how great the head is, issuing from a crooked and supple neck. Its size is past belief to tell of in a small space, but the sight overcomes the doubters. For, since the monster bends up not once but in many parts, some portions show beneath the water, stealing the exactness of the sight by their depth, while others rise up, looking like islets to those unused to the sea.

We came upon the monster while it was at rest; but moving now with most violent impetus it raises a great clashing of surf, and that in a calm; and this wave, stirred up by its onset, the one part billows about the visible parts, washing round them and whitening them from below, while the other has struck part of the shore; and the recoil of the tail-fins, which fling the sea high up, might be likened to the sails of a ship gleaming with varied light. But this divine man is not dismayed at these things; rather his lion-skin and his club lie ready at his feet for use, if there should be need of them, and he stands naked in posture of attack, having put forward his left foot to be a support to his whole body as it shifts toward the quick turn of the movement, and with his left side, along with the hand, thrust forward for the drawing of the bow, his right parts are drawn in, his right hand pulling the string toward the breast. But let us not seek the cause of these things, my boy; for the maiden fastened to the rocks is set out as food for the monster, and let us suppose her to be Hesione, the daughter of Laomedon. And where is he? Within, it seems to me, the wall of the city, in a place of watch over what is being done. For you see the circuit of the city and the battlements full of men, and how they have stretched their hands up to heaven in prayer, perhaps in fear, through excessive terror, lest the monster should even attack the wall, since it has rushed on as if to come ashore. As for the maiden's beauty, the moment does not allow it to be interpreted with exactness; for the fear about her soul and the agony at what she sees withers the flower of her loveliness, yet gives the beholders to guess, from what is before them, what its perfection is.

SOPHOCLES.

Why do you delay, divine Sophocles, to receive the gifts of Melpomene? Why do you look to the ground? For I do not know whether it is because you are already gathering your thoughts, or through awe before the goddess. But take courage, good sir, and receive what is given. For the gifts of the gods are not to be cast away—you know it, I think, having heard it from one of the company of Calliope. For you see too the bees, how they fly over you and hum something sweet and divine, dropping the secret droplets of their own dew; for this above all will be diffused through your poetry. Surely someone, a little later, will exclaim over you, calling you "a honeycomb of the gracious Muses," and will charge another to take care lest somewhere a bee fly out unawares from your mouth and unguardedly drive in its sting. And you see, I suppose, the goddess herself, how she lays aside the loftiness and exaltation of her mind toward you now, and measures out the gift with a kindly smile. And this near her is Asclepius, I think, charging you, it would seem, to write a paean, and not deeming it unworthy to be called "renowned in counsel" by you; and his glance toward you, mingled with brightness, hints at the hospitality to come a little later.

HYACINTHUS.

Let us ask the youth, my child, who he himself is, and what is the cause of Apollo's presence with him; for he will take heart to look at us, at least. Well then, he says he is Hyacinthus, the son of Oebalus; and having learned this we must henceforth know also the cause of the god's presence. The son of Leto, in love with the youth, says he will give him all that he has for the favour of his company; for he will teach him archery and music, and instruct him in prophecy and not to be untuneful with the lyre, and set him over the contests of the wrestling-school; and he will grant him to range, borne aloft on swans, over all the regions dear to Apollo. These things the god promises; and he is painted with unshorn hair, as is his wont, raising a bright brow above his eyes, the rays of which gleam forth as it were, and with a sweet smile encouraging Hyacinthus, and holding out his right hand for the same cause.

The youth looks fixedly to the ground, but there is much thought in his eyes; for he rejoices at what he hears, and mingles his confidence, still in the making, with modesty. He stands covering the left parts of his body with a sea-purple cloak, which are drawn in; and he props his right hand upon a javelin, with the haunch thrust out and the side seen, and this bare arm gives us to judge even of what is not seen. His ankle is light upon a straight shank, and this kneecap is supple above the shank, and his thighs are without excess, and the hip supports the rest of the body, and the side, well-breathing, rounds out the breast, and the arm swells with delicacy, and the neck stands up in due measure, and the hair is not rustic, nor standing up in squalor, but hanging over the forehead and swaying along with the first beginnings of the down on his cheek.

And the discus at his feet, having something dark about it, and Love looking down upon it, bright and at once downcast, and Zephyrus from his place of watch showing a savage eye—by these the painter hints at the death of the youth; and as Apollo casts the discus, Zephyrus, blowing sideways, will dash the discus upon Hyacinthus.

MELEAGER.

You wonder, seeing a maiden setting out for so great a contest, and withstanding the onset of a boar so savage and so huge? For you see how its eye is bloodshot, its crest bristling, and how much the foam is upon its tusks, which stand up high and are unworn at the point, and how broad it is, in proportion to its tread—which indeed these tracks show, in nothing falling short of a bull's; for the painter has left out none even of these, having stamped them upon the painting. But the deeds are now terrible too; for the boar, having fallen upon this Ancaeus, lies upon his thigh, the young man, his blood gushing all at once, and his thigh torn wide open; whence, the contest being now at close quarters, Atalanta—for we must understand the maiden to be she—having laid the arrow ready upon the string, is about to let it fly. She is clad in dress above the knee, and has fastened a buskin on her feet, and her arms are bare to the shoulder so as to be free for action, the dress being there caught together with brooches; and her beauty, manly by nature, the moment raises up the more, since she looks not with desire, but bends the glances of her eyes to the thought of what is being done.

These young men are Meleager and Peleus—for these are they who, the painting says, brought down the boar. Meleager, having propped himself in attack upon his left foot and kept his footing secure, awaits the onset of the boar, holding his spear-point forward to receive it. Come, let us tell of the matter about him too: sturdy is the young man and everywhere swelling with vigour; his shanks are well-knit and straight, fit to carry him in the running and good guardians for one withstanding the hand-to-hand contest; and his thigh, with the kneecap, agrees with the parts below, and his hip is such as to give confidence that the young man will not be overthrown by the boar's onset; and his side is deep, his belly without excess, his breast moderately thrust forward, his arm well-jointed, and his shoulders, joining onto a strong neck, give him a firm base; his hair is sun-bleached and standing up now under the energy of the onset, and his eye gleams bright enough, and his brow is not relaxed but wholly in his fury, and the set of his face does not even allow one to speak of beauty, because it is so strained. His dress is white, above the knee, and the buskin above the ankle is a sure support for his footing; and having filled out a scarlet-dyed cloak over his neck, he withstands the beast.

These, then, are for you the men of Oeneus; and this Peleus holds forward a crimson mantle, and the knife from Hephaestus is in his hands, ready to receive the boar's onset; and his eye is unflinching and sharp of sight, and such as not to fear even the contest beyond the borders, the one to the Colchians with Jason.

NESSUS.

Do not fear, my boy, the river Euenus, billowing greatly and rising above its banks—for it is painted; but rather let us examine the things in it, and how and in what way the matters of the art stand. For does not divine Heracles turn you toward himself, having stepped thus into the middle of the river, flashing fire from his eyes that measure the mark, holding a bow in his left hand thrust forward, and still keeping his right hand in the posture of releasing the arrow?—for it is at his breast. And what would you say of the bowstring? Do you not seem to perceive it ringing at the release of the shaft? And where is the shaft? You see the last centaur leaping away? This, I think, is Nessus, who escaped from Pholoe the hand of Heracles alone, when, having unjustly set upon him, no one escaped except this one. But he too is gone, having shown himself unjust toward him. For while Nessus was ferrying those who needed it, Heracles came up with his wife Deianeira and his son Hyllus, and, since the river seemed impassable, charges him to ferry the woman across, while he himself went through the river on the car with the boy; and thereupon Nessus, looking wickedly at the woman, dared monstrous things, having set foot on the bank; but Heracles, hearing her cry, shoots at Nessus.

And Deianeira is painted in the posture of one in danger, and in great fear stretching out her hands toward Heracles; while Nessus, having just received the shaft and writhing about himself, has not yet, it seems, given to Deianeira his own gore stored up against Heracles. And the boy Hyllus stands upon the foremost car, the horses being bound to the rim so as to keep still, and claps his hands for delight, giving to laughter the things that are not yet strong in him.

PHILOCTETES.

The one still in command and leading the men of Meliboea against Troy to avenge Menelaus upon the Phrygian is Philoctetes, the son of Poeas, a noble man, I think, tracing back to his rearing under Heracles—for Philoctetes became a servant to Heracles from infancy, when he was also the bearer of his bow, which indeed he later received from him as a reward for his service at the pyre. But the one now here, with a face collapsed through his disease, drawing a clouded brow down over his eyes, which are sunk somewhere deep and look feebly, showing his hair too full of squalor and his beard standing up a little, and shuddering, and himself clad in rags and covering his foot—he gives, my boy, such a story as this.

Sailing up to Troy, the Achaeans, having put in at the islands, sought the altar of Chryse, which Jason once set up when he sailed to the Colchians; and Philoctetes, from his memory of the things with Heracles, showed the altar to those seeking it; and the water-snake having driven its venom into one of his feet, the Achaeans set out for Troy, while he lies here in Lemnos, "letting drip," as Sophocles says, "the devouring venom upon his foot."