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Women and the unspeakable: Rape in Ovid's "Metamorphoses"

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Women and the unspeakable: Rape in Ovid's "Metamorphoses"

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Women and the Unspeakable:
Rape in Ovid’s Metamorphoses
by Diane Theresa Pintabone
A Dissertation Submitted to the Faculty of The Graduate School
University of Southern California
In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree
Doctor of Philosophy (Classics)
December 1998
Copyright 1998 Diane Theresa Pintabone
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UMI Number: 9931863
Copyright 1998 by
Pintabone, Diane Theresa
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UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY PARK
LOS ANGELES. CALIFORNIA 90007
This dissertation, written fry
.....
under the direction of h.&C..... Dissertation
Committee, and approved by all its members,
has been presented to and accepted by The
Graduate School, in partial fulfillm ent of re
quirements for the degree of
DOCTOR OF PH ILO SO PH Y
Dean of Graduate Studies
Date
DISSERTATION COMMITTEE
1 Qtairpenan
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Women and the Unspeakable: Rape in Ovid's Metamorphoses
by
Diane Theresa Pintabone
Few could argue that the Romans were a people unconcerned with power. From
their thoughts on tamily to their thoughts ot empire. Romans framed relationships in
terms of greater and lesser power. Ovid's Metamorphoses poetically presents the
universe as a constant struggle of powers-whether the contestants are elements,
divine beings or humans--the questions of the contest are the same: which will rule
over the other(s)? whose will will be done? "Women and the Unspeakable: Rape in
Ovid’s Metamorphoses" focuses on rape as a model of the assertion of power and on
how that assertion works to erase and silence the raped person. This study begins by
showing that, at least in part through these rape narratives. Ovid presents a view that is
critical of absolute power and abuses of that power are associated with Augustus.
This study also provides a detailed analysis of the rape narratives which have often
either been overlooked or trivialized in their import for understanding the poem as a
whole. In addition to the explicit narratives of rape. I identify within the poem
“incidental rapes.” which appear either as tales incidental to the main narratives or as
passing references to rape, and I show how Ovid uses these to emphasize the
insidious danger lurking within the most innocuous-looking regions of the landscape
of his Metamorphoses.
Having examined all of the rape narratives in the poem. I turn then to a discussion
of silencing both in rape stories and in tales of punishment, pointing out the parallel
drawn between silence and death for any who are perceived as challengers of
absolute power. Finally, I turn to examine the implications of real rape in real Rome,
using both feminist theoretical approaches to rape and evidence for laws concerning
sexual aggression in ancient Rome.
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ii
Table of Contents
Chapter One Rape in the Intersection: Rome, Power,
and Ovid’s Metamorphoses 1
Chapter 2, The Forms of Rape
Part A in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 51
Chapter 2, The Forms of Rape
Part B in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 152
Chapter 3 Silence is Golden (Age) 248
Chapter 4 Real Rape, Real Rome and
Ovid’s Metamorphoses 301
Bibliography 345
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Chapter One
Rape in the Intersection:
Rome, Power and Ovid’s Metamorphoses
Few could argue successfully that Romans were a people unconcerned
with power. From their thoughts on family to their thoughts of empire, Romans
framed relationships in terms of greater and lesser power. Ovid’s
Metamorphoses poetically presents the universe as a constant struggle of
powers-whether the contestants are elements, divine beings or humans--the
questions of the contest are the same: which will rule over the other(s)?
whose will will be done? Like bookends inscribed with arrows pointing
inward, the beginning and the ending of the Metamorphoses point to the
shape of things within. These sections are concerned with power, with order,
and with the description of the supreme power who dictates that order. Rape
narratives in the poem serve as loci for the intersection of perceived power
through the successful assertion of one’s will over another’s. In many
instances, Ovid expresses a direct relationship between the rape narrative and
aspects of his contemporary Rome.
This chapter first looks at the scholarly debate over whether or not the
poem has any political implications, locating this study within the ranks of
those who see the poem as anti-Augustan and critical of absolute power.
Turning then to the Metamorphoses itself, I will begin at the opening of Book
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One and examine the pattern of contest, strife and its relevance to
contemporary Rome. I will then discuss the end of Book 15, noting parallels to
Book One and its overall significance in telling us how to read the poem. In
seeing the programmatic nature of Ovid’s concern with power in the poem as a
whole, we can better see how his narratives of rape are actually narratives of
contest, concerned with the same questions: which will rule over the other?
and whose will will be done? Having looked at these “bookends," this chapter
will conclude with a close examination of the first rape narrative of the poem,
the story of Daphne and Apollo (1.448-567), where the rape narrative is
explicitly tied to political power and to the Augustan regime.
The Power in Reading: The Debate Continues
Scholars vary in their viewpoints as to whether the Metamorphoses has
any anti-Augustan content or has any political implications whatsoever.1
Hermann Frankel, for example, suggests that Ovid was incapable of
systematically organizing his material (1945, 74-75) and that his only interests
were human behavior and art (92-93). He states “politics left him cold” (92),
implying a belief that Ovid had given up all consideration of politics at the
same time he left political office. Yet concerning Ovid’s linking Jupiter to
Augustus, Frankel states:
Finally, the author makes the parallel explicit and directly
addresses the god-emperor (204) who had imposed law,
order, and peace on a world in uproar, wickedness, and
confusion. Likening Augustus to Juppiter [sic], Ovid thus
pays his homage to the ruler of the Empire within this
first chapter of his epic and after a fashion makes up for
the lack of a formal preface. (1945, 75)
'This is not, of course, intended to be an exhaustive survey.
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Frankel sees the parallel, but calls it “homage"--which would be true if only
Ovid’s portrait of Jupiter were a positive one. Here, then, we see both the
denial of Ovid’s interest in politics and the acknowledgement of a parallel
within the Metamorphoses that has political implications. Likewise, Peter E.
Knox sees the poem as being a connected tissue only because literary
influences on Ovid caused him to put together, in epic form, narratives that
interested him. Knox implies that the Metamorphoses is purely literary, devoid
of implications concerning real Rome:
The heart of the poem lies in the many separate narratives
which have been combined into a single work by the
sheer force of the personality of this poet... Ovid’s
earlier fling at poetry in a higher style, with Rome and
Augustus for his theme, terminated abruptly in the Fastr,
the Metamorphoses, with its different focus, proved
more congenial. (1986,6)
Some scholars, on the other hand, suggest their belief in the poem’s
political bent, but for one reason or another fail to outline their reasons for
thinking so. For example, J. P. Sullivan (1972, 24), writing about elegy--and
here about Ovid’s exile-only incidentally mentions his view: “... the Ars
Amatoria, which was after all, the official reason for his banishment, even if, as
so often with political crimes, there were deeper causes, or other more political
poems such as the Metamorphoses to take into account.” Sullivan does not
state what about the Metamorphoses led him to this view-he was, however,
writing on another topic and so his lack of further comment is not unexpected.
Most who argue this point deal, however, only with select portions of the poem,
as though the bulk of the Metamorphoses is separate and different from the
“council of the gods” (in Book 1), as it is often called, and the apotheosis of
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Julius Caesar and the discussion of Augustus (in Book 15). Edgar M. Glenn,
for example, sees the ending as pure flattery of Augustus:
It is also a brilliant piece of writing, one of the
outstanding works of Latin literature, and for this
reason alone, it should have pleased the ruler of Rome.
But it does more, for it ends with high praise of him.
(1986, xvii)
However, scholars are mistaken to believe that, as Solodow in a fairly recent
work says, “the bulk of the poem has nothing to do with Rome” (1988,10; cf.
Knox above). He seems to have overlooked his own entire Chapter 3 (74-
109) in which he discusses Ovid’s so-called “Romanizing” of the mythological
tales, and points out specific Roman references. This he sees as Ovid’s
attempt to make the stories familiar to Romans, but overlooks the possibility
that these “Romanizations” on Ovid’s part may, in fact, suggest that the entire
poem is about Rome. Solodow in some cases goes out of his way to argue
against any political import where he himself has suggested the contrary, as
for instance in his discussion of Ajax’ and Ulysses’ disparate speeches
concerning the arms of Achilles. Having agreed with Bothe’s assertion that
Ajax speaks “like a tribune of the plebs, in a style which is plain and simple
and seems to spring directly from his character” (89), while Ulysses, like a
“senator speaking to patricians” (89), seems clever and rhetorically skilled at
winning votes, Solodow notes that the majority voted for Ajax, but the chiefs for
Ulysses. He then states: “No political significance is to be read into this. Ovid
simply paints the two opponents to represent contrasting political, social, and
rhetorical positions of his day” (89). What, then, is political?
Anti-Augustan allusions had been discussed by several scholars in the
1960s but these, too, stopped short of calling Ovid's work patent criticism of
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Augustus and Augustan ideals, and of seeing the poem in its entirety as a
series of narratives about power-its abuse and misuse. Charles Segal
argues that Ovid’s conclusion is “a polite nod to the official attitudes over the
resistant amorality of the tales which after all constitute the bulk of the poem”
(1969, 292). He notes, however, that considering all the evidence, “the
Ovidian nod to Augustan ideals is deliberately ironical rather than polite”
(292). Brooks Otis, too, in Ovid As An Epic Poet (1966) abandoned the stance
he had taken in “Ovid and The Augustans” (1938,193), namely that Ovid was
flattering Augustus in Book 15. His later view is that Ovid attempted to write an
Augustan poem but was incapable of doing so because his personal view of
the world opposed that of Augustus.
Some studies of the early 1970s argued for a more political reading of the
Metamorphoses. For example, W. R. Johnson’s “The Problem of the Counter-
classical Sensibility and Its Critics" (1970, 123-151) cogently argues contra
Segal that there is no "polite nod” to Augustus, that in fact the references to
him at the beginning and the ending of the work frame the poem and are both
anti-Augustan. The rule of Augustus, like that of his mythological analogue
Jupiter, represents a similar downward trend, like that of the loss of the golden
age (146-147). Likewise R. Coleman in his “Structure and Intention in the
Metamorphoses” (1971) argues that Ovid’s analogy of Augustus and the
Metamorphoses’ Jupiter should be read more as one might read of Augustus'
private life according to Suetonius (476). He notes, too, that Ovid’s deflation of
the heroic ideals which Virgil had presented in the Aeneid amounts to “pouring
scorn upon the whole epic tradition and the aggrandizement of war” (474).
Ooleman goes even further--he states that Ovid paints deification as just
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another metamorphosis and this has political implications: “Deification,
astrification--what are these but two more varieties of metamorphosis, to be
treated with as much disbelief as all the rest?” (476). Coleman concludes that
the epilogue is anti-Augustan and that Ovid says that he himself “will be up
there” along with Julius Caesar and Augustus. Leo Curran in his
“Transformation and Anti-Augustanism in Ovid’s Metamorphoses" (1972) is in
agreement with this assessment, notes anti-Augustan sentiment in the poem,
and further analyses Ovid’s address to the ruler, noting that his final word to
Augustus is absens-Curran translates “You will answer our prayers when you
are gone” (89)~while the last word of the poem is vivam.
In a later article on rape in the poem, “Rape and Rape Victims in the
Metamorphoses” (1978), Curran further defines (or does he?) his position on
what he thinks the poem is about:
The Metamorphoses is not a treatise on rape, any more
than it is a merely a handbook of mythology, an analysis
of love and desire in all their manifestations, a critique
of Roman values, traditional and Augustan, an enquiry
into the nature of personal identity, an affectionate
parody of the Aeneid. or a survey of the varieties of the
universal phenomenon of metamorphosis. It is more and
less any of these. (214)
In some ways Curran’s statement is true (and false), but we must be able to
see some general tendencies in the poem. Even Otis in 1966 noticed tension
--an understatement to my thinking— in the poem, as if Ovid were walking a thin
line. I think that the line is not so unclear and that Ovid, in his customary
manner, leapt headlong over it.
Some intervening studies of the 1970’s avoided the question of Ovid’s
political commentaries altogether, or implied the lack of them, by focusing on
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the Metamorphoses as a well-written and entertaining poem. Barbara Stirrup,
for example, In her Techniques of Rape: Variety of Wit in Ovid’s
Metamorphoses" (1977) discusses the rape narratives only in terms of their
artistic variety and the cleverness with which Ovid varies the stories to keep
the reader entertained and delighted. While this may be a worthwhile
exercise, such a study implies that the author was totally uninterested in
imparting any substantial message or meaning: it says that the art is
meaningless except for its artistic qualities.
Alan H. F. Griffin in the same volume (1977) argues along similar lines that
Ovid is a talented storyteller in his ability to choose-as Wilkinson had put it— a
“significant moment” in a story (68). While clearly smitten with the cleverness
and artistic ability of the poet, Griffin (again following Wilkinson) explicitly
states his view of Ovid: “Ovid was a storyteller, not a theorist” (68). Griffin’s
view of the poem can be inferred from his own words:
It is very important to grasp that the Metamorphoses is
not about metamorphosis, but about love. Changes of
shape occupy a comparatively small and trivial place in
the 250 legends of the poem. Indeed, one or two of the
longest episodes have no transformation at all. (62-63)
I can only wonder if we have read the same poem--how many of the stories
are about love? Are there more than a handful of stories where mutual
concern and caring are explicitly mentioned? Or do we consider an act of
sexual aggression a tribute to a woman’s beauty and an act of love? Griffin
adds that the Metamorphoses is about real Rome, but only insofar as it exhibits
Ovid’s interest in personal relationships and the exploration of the range of
human emotions. He states, T he gods and heroes of the Metamorphoses
must not be thought of as figures from the distant past, but rather as the men
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and women of Ovid’s day, dressed up in mythological costumes” (62). While
noting the connection between the Palatine and the council of the gods in
Book 1, Griffin seems to overlook the possibility that this may have political
implications. His study, like Stirrup’s, is, in my opinion, somewhat insulting
both to the work and to its other readers. In viewing the poem as mere
entertainment, one must assume that Ovid was somehow completely removed
from contemporary political affairs at Rome. It assumes that Ovid’s statement
(in the Tristia)— to paraphrase-that he was more suited for literary pursuits than
for political office, meant that he somehow was not political-minded. Both
Stirrup and Griffin suppose Ovid to have been either politically naTve or
indifferent-or at least to have kept political views out of his writing.
In addition, studies of this sort,2 while focusing on style and artistic qualities,
overlook issues of content or admit an identification by the scholar with a
perspective in the story which Ovid perhaps holds up to criticism. Griffin, for
example, in discussing Pygmalion’s statue-tumed-woman, states that she is “a
girl who is not only ideally beautiful, but also ideally good. She is the perfect
woman” (67). He then calls this a “perfect love" (68). Similarly, Stirrup focuses
on what she sees as humorous aspects of the rape stories. For example, in
discussing the Jupiter-Europa myth, Stirrup states “It is a nice reversal of the
human love relationship that it is he who offers his breast to the hand of his
lover” (174). Later, she adds in a note:
G. K. Galinsky (Oxford, 1975), p. 162 stresses the
importance of the contrast between the subhuman bull
and Jupiter, but the point surely lies in the double joke
2 There are, of course, many others who focus mainly on stylistic or artistic qualities, on literary
influences in Ovid’s works, or on one story-and many of these are excellent discussions.
Examples include: E. K. Rand (1925), V. Emeljanow (1969), E. J. Kenney (1973), B. E. Stirrup
(1981), B. R. Nagle (1983), M. K. Gamel (1984), G. A. Jacobsen (1984), and S. Hinds (1987).
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of making fun of the king of the gods and parodying the
love convention. (183, n. 6)
Stirrup accepts Ovid’s invitation to identify with the rapist, but not his invitation
to identify with the victim. She overlooks the possibility that power is surely the
point: who but the king of gods has the luxury of varying his techniques of
rape? Stirrup contends that these stories exist to delight and entertain the
reader. But it is the master rapist, as the poet shows, who delights in a “variety
of wit” in rape techniques in order to entertain himself. Ovid creates such a
rapist to emphasize the abuses of excessive power: with all power at his
disposal, the master rapist can get his way “the easy way” (simply by raping
his victim in a direct, overpowering approach) or he can create (that is, Ovid
provides characters who create) scenarios that pose nominal challenges to
obtaining what they want. Consider, for example, Jupiter’s rape of Callisto,
where he has disguised himself as Diana and “laughs at being preferred to
him self (2.429-430). The irony in this line of poetry is at first glance
humorous, but who--except for the rapist and Stirrup— is left feeling amused in
the aftermath of the rape?
To this point Amy Richlin offers some helpful observations in her recent
article “Reading Ovid’s Rapes" (1992b). One of her “axioms" in this article is:
Content is never arbitrary or trivial; content is not an
accident of a text but an essential. A text of rape may
be about something else, but it is still a text of rape . . .
stylistic analysis does not replace content analysis and,
in fact, leaves us to explain what the style is doing on
that content, like a bow on a slaughterhouse. (159)
Also useful toward the debate as to whether or not the Metamorphoses is
political and anti-Augustan are Richlin’s discussions of silencing, of the
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conflation of pleasure and violence, and of hierarchy. First, Richlin notes (165)
the rape victim’s resultant inability to speak (as in the case of, to use her
example, Philomela). We must remember, however, that Philomela is
nevertheless able to express herself and ‘tell’ the crime through art (i.e. the
tapestry). In this story, the rape victim must become an artist to tell of the
violence she suffered when subjected to the absolute power of the tyrant:
Philomela resorts to an alternate form of speech which is itself an indictment of
the tyrant, told in the narrative in her art. Both the story she tells and the fact
that she must tell it thus work together as a double incrimination of the rapist
king.
Richlin also discusses the pleasure in the text which she finds disturbing
(1992b, 165). To this I would argue that while Ovid invites the reader to be
pleased with his wit (cf. Stirrup, above) in describing the fear of the potential
victim (which is described as enhancing her beauty in some cases), he also
often includes the real fear of the victim and the tragic and disturbing
consequences she faces. For example, in the Jupiter-Callisto story I noted
above, after Ovid presents the (humorous?) situation where Jupiter disguised
as Diana “laughs at being preferred to himself” (2.429-430), Ovid states that
the maiden struggled against him (“as much as a woman could,” 2.434) as he
raped her. Ovid’s use of detail paints a pathetic picture of this victim:
ilia quidem pugnat, sed quern superare puella,
quisve lovem poterat? superum petit aethera victor
luppiter: huic odio nemus est et conscia silva;
unde pedem referens paene est oblita pharetram
tollere cum telis et quern suspenderat arcum.3
(2.436-440)
3 The text quoted throughout, unless otherwise indicated, is W.S. Anderson, ed. Ovidius:
Metamorphoses (Leipzig: Teubner, 1993). All translations are my own, except where noted.
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She fights, indeed, but whom could a girl overcome,
or who could overcome Jupiter? Jupiter seeks the upper
air as victor: she hates the grove and the knowing forest;
walking back from there, she almost forgot to pick up
her quiver with its arrows and the bow she had hung up.
From this description Ovid presents the futility of fighting against Jupiter’s
greater force-indeed, the futility of anyone fighting against this absolute ruler.
The irony with which Ovid dispenses the emphatically-placed word victor (437)
makes the readers critics of Jupiter’s abuse of his power. Notice, too, that
Callisto is totally redefined by her victimization: no longer the nymph of the
grove, she hates the grove; no longer the huntress, but having herself been
hunted and conquered, she almost forgets her hunting gear. A story which
began with amusing irony turns out (even at this early stage of the story) to be
disturbing and sinister. How amusing or pleasurable now is Jupiter’s act, and
how are we to feel about his choice of disguise? He became Diana; that is, he
appeared to be not only female, but a goddess known for her virginity, and the
idol of this nymph. How much more sinister could it be, completely to disarm
the nymph psychologically, when she was already physically disarmed (she
was not holding her weapons 2.439-440)--and this from the king of gods and
men whom none could overcome, anyway (2.437). The point is that Ovid does
present some pleasure in the rape narrative, but it is the rapist's pleasure. He
invites the reader into it and then, here and elsewhere, shows the tragic and
disturbing results of the rapist’s actions. By inviting us to see both
perspectives in the act of sexual aggression, Ovid also invites us to see the
abuse of power exercised by the rapist (or would-be rapist) and the
devastating effects on the victims.
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In addition, Richlin states “within hierarchy violence is a right” (1992b, 178)
--in the Metamorphoses hierarchies are continually brought up, exposed, and
criticized. It is essential to the study of the poem to see this tendency from the
start. For example, the creation myth of Book One tells of opposing elements
of one body separating out and assuming their places. The opposition of
these elements is described as civil war. The ascension of Jupiter to the
throne after he disposed of his father (continuing the theme of civil war)
appears to be the beginning of order. Concerning Lycaon’s treachery, in the
description of the so-called council of the gods, the hierarchy (=order) is made
plain:
et dignas love concipit iras
conciliumque vocat: tenuit mora nulla vocatos.
Est via sublimis, caelo manifesta sereno;
lactea nomen habet, candore notabilis ipso,
hac iter est superis ad magni tecta Tonantis
regalemque domum: dextra laevaque deorum
atria nobilium valvis celebrantur apertis.
plebs habitat diversa locis: hac parte potentes
caelicolae clarique suos posuere penates;
hie locus est, quern, si verbis audacia detur,
haud timeam magni dixisse Palatia caeli.
(1.166-176)
and he conceived anger worthy of Jupiter and he
called a council: no delay held those who had been
called. There is a high road, clearly seen with the sky
calm; it has the name ‘milky’, notable for its very
brightness. By this road is the path to the halls of the
Thunderer and the regal domicile: on the right and on
the left the atria of the nobi/es are crowded, with the
doors wide open. The commoners (plebs) live apart in
other places; in this part the powerful and famous
heaven-dwellers place their penates; this is the place,
if boldness be given to words, I would hardly fear to
have called the Palatine of great heaven.
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The gods are arranged in a hierarchy marked by the places they inhabit.
Jupiter further defines this hierarchy of place in discussing his concern over
Lycaon:
sunt mihi semidei, sunt, rustica numina, nymphae
faunique satyrique et monticolae silvani;
quos quoniam caeli nondum dignamur honore,
quas dedimus, certe terras habitare sinamus.
an satis, o superi, tutos fore creditis illos,
cum mihi, qui fulmen, qui vos habeoque regoque,
struxerit insidias notus feritate Lycaon?'
(1.192-198)
I have demi-gods, rustic divinities, nymphs and fauns
and satyrs and mountain-dwelling sylvan deities; since
we have not yet deemed these worthy of the honor of
heaven, surely, let us allow them to inhabit the lands
which we have given. Or do you think they would be safe
enough, o gods, when Lycaon, known for his savagery,
constructed plots for me, who have the thunderbolt,
who have and rule you?
The space of heaven shows the hierarchy of powers and the lesser divinities
(not even plebs\) have not ranked a spot in this celestial blueprint. Instead,
they live on earth. Surely the bulk of the poem calls into question not the
hierarchy, but the intentions of those at the top of it. Jupiter claims concern for
these lesser divinities and the potential violence against them from the likes of
Lycaon, but the repopulation of the earth after the flood is closely followed by
the story of the attempted rape of the nymph Daphne by Apollo. After her
metamorphosis into a tree and subsequent appropriation by Apollo, her father-
-the river god Peneus-sits giving laws to his waters and water-nymphs (1.575-
576). Those who approach him do not know whether to congratulate or
console him (1.578). This story is then followed by the rape of lo by Jupiter,
the segue being Inachus’-another river god-search for his daughter lo. This
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forces a rereading of the Jupiter’s speech about protecting these lesser deities
and their right to live free from harm, since the Olympians themselves seem to
be a frequent threat and cause of anguish to them. Thus the analogies noted
by many scholars between heaven and the Palatine and between Jupiter and
Augustus demand that we question the hierarchy built into the political regime
at Rome. We must question the disguise worn by the ruler to disarm potential
victims of absolute power. We must question the rules made on the pretext of
protecting and preserving, while the right to abuse power is reserved by the
creator of those rules.
Richlin has, then, has hit a vein worth exploring. The problem is one of
interpretation: do we see only the rapist’s pleasure? only the delight in the
description of violence and the pornographic? or can we see that Ovid, as
usual, has it both ways-or, perhaps, all ways-that his complexity and subtlety
in writing admits other interpretations?
The problem of interpretation is dealt with by several scholars who
nevertheless see the poem as political, anti-Augustan, and opposed to the
ideals of the Augustan programme. K. Sara Myers (1994,131), for example,
notes the importance of seeing u a politically aware Ovid who was very much
interested in the development of of state cult and religious ideology under
Augustus.” In his “Mythic and Non-mythic Artists in Ovid’s Metamorphoses"
(1984), Donald Lateiner argues that the Metamorphoses is anti-Augustan; he
states: “The Metamorphoses embody a point of view which appears to me
violently anti-Augustan, not merely un-Augustan” (7). He argues that the
criticisms are aimed at both Augustus’ alleged behavior in his private life and
his attempts at moral and political reform (cf. Coleman 1971, above). More
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importantly, Lateiner points out that the artists and story-tellers in the poem
often represent “some aspect of Ovid’s own art” and that:
Like Arachne’s, their stories concern divine power
and human frailty and again like Arachne’s, their
attempt to maintain personal autonomy and a
detached human freedom through art brings about
their violent disintegration as human beings at the
hands of authority” (25, n. 28)
Lateiner focuses on what he believes are Ovid’s values: “stories about artists
in the Metamorphoses were invented or elaborated by Ovid in order to
illustrate the primacy of art and its spiritual value” (1). Like Solodow, Lateiner
emphasizes Ovid’s insistence that the artist is most powerful and, like
Coleman, that the artist will rise to the level of Caesar and Augustus--or
beyond.
Warren Ginsberg’s “Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the Politics of
Interpretation” (1989) notes the complexity of the Metamorphoses and its
readers’ tendency to ‘be interpreted’ more than interpreting the text-that is, by
insisting on a certain reading of the text one is more self-revealing than helpful
toward presenting a greater understanding of the poem. In this insightful
article he points out that in trying to interpret the poem, the reader mirrors the
actions described within the poem. Ginsberg argues that Ovid himself often
presents the problem of interpretation by explicitly stating how something
seems in the poem where no absolute conclusion is offered (e.g. the Daphne-
tree seems to nod assent). Ginsberg argues that Ovid presents interpretation
as appropriation--as, for example, in the Daphne-Apollo story, where Daphne
is redefined and appropriated by Apollo-and this appropriation is a political as
well as a rhetorical act (223-228). He states “... for Ovid, all interpretation is
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an act of appropriation, an imposition finally based on power, nowhere fully
sanctioned in the text, nowhere fully denied by it either" (222). Ginsberg
argues that Ovid illustrates “that art exposes how anyone who would interpret
it speaks a language of force and seizure” (223). Ginsberg sees the
Metamorphoses as anti-Augustan and critical of absolute power. Noting the
Jupiter-Augustus analogues in Books 1 and 15, Ginsberg states:
. . . whenever absolute power is exercised, it is
affiliated with imperial Rome. And whenever Rome
asserts her power, by changing the names of things (as
Octavian changed his name to Augustus), Ovid
simultaneously undermines it with a counter-assertion
that other meanings are possible. (230)
In his “The Rider and the Horse: Politics and Power in Roman Poetry from
Horace to Statius” (1984a), Frederick M. Ahl offers some advice toward our
reading of imperial texts: “The extant poetry of early imperial Rome, like that of
fifth century Athens, is about power, and addresses those who exercise if
(1984a, 102). Ahl points out that we are too ready to accept the writings of the
poets at face value and to believe that the writings represent the poet’s real life
and real feelings. He argues that poets of this time may have written works
which admit at least two interpretations in order to avoid explicitly criticizing the
political regime. He asserts that our own feelings of familiarity with the ancient
world interfere with our observations:
Yet the presumption of sincerity still lies at the heart
of much criticism of what we call Augustan poetry, a
presumption based on a still earlier assumption that
we really know the kind of people the poets and their
emperors were.” (1984a, 51)4
4 See also Ahl’s “ The Art of Safe Criticism in Greece and Rome” (1984b), for a discussion of
“ figured speech.”
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In his “Generalising About Ovid,” Stephen Hinds (1988) also argues that
Ovid wrote in such a way as to allow interpretations both favorable toward and
critical of Augustus and the political regime. Hinds notes the trap we can fall
into if we insist on one interpretation over the other: “The real error, into which
critics on both sides tend to fall, is to imagine that the matter is susceptible of
final proof either way. It is not: how could it be?" (1988, 25). But the truth is,
despite his assertion here, that Hinds clearly sees the political implications of
Ovid’s poetry. He suggests that Ovid paved the way for later poets, in his use
of myth--not as escapism from political reality, as Gordon Williams had argued
(1978, 25-31 )--but to discuss political reality. Complexity and subtlety,
according to Hinds, characterize this poet’s work, unlike the portrait of Ovid
presented earlier by Williams (1968, 512) of this poet as “shallow and over-
explicit.” I believe that Hinds has hit the mark: some may never be convinced
that Ovid was critical of Augustus in this work, but the evidence is there that he
at least presented a perspective that called for a critical look at absolute power
and its abuse. One could fall into a trap by insisting on the ability to prove
Ovid’s intentions, but I also believe that one can see in the Metamorphoses the
consistent criticism of the abuse of power and Ovid’s association of this power
with Augustus.
In an excellent article which deals not with rape but with two individual
stories, Patricia Johnson and Martha Malamud (1988) provide a useful method
for interpreting Ovidian narratives. By examining Ovid’s narrative with
painstaking detail, they expose Ovid's emphasis on the destructive nature of
absolute power and its silencing effect. In their examination of the contest
between the Pierides/Muses and the Emathides, they note several key points:
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1) the contest is over place (winners take Helicon)--which is a point to which
we shall return; 2) the Emathides’ song tells a contest in progress (over place)
at the moment when the gods are (shamefully) put to flight by Typhoeus; 3) the
Muses, on the other hand, tell of acquiescence to authority; and 4) the threat
which the Emathides pose is, in fact, their voices. Johnson and Malamud look
at other versions of the story, and note that Ovid adds and elaborates, as for
instance, in his assertion that the Emathides, once changed, can only “imitate
human voice,” no longer creating the song nor choosing the content which
they might include. To this Johnson and Malamud compare Arachne’s fate:
“Arachne continues to weave in her transformed state, but can only reproduce
the routine motions of what was previously an art form” (1988, 33). Compare
this to the example noted above of Philomela, who relates her story although
her voice is gone. Johnson and Malamud note the odd usage of names here:
the Emathides usually aES the Pierides. There are other similarities between
the contestants: the Pierides had just escaped a rape attempt by putting on
wings, and the Emathides’ punishment is their transformation into birds.
Johnson and Malamud conclude from these observations:
With this doubling of the Muses’ and Emathides’
experience of persecution and the similar bird-like
transformations they undergo, Ovid collapses the strict
persecutor/persecuted opposition, and further,
establishes a tight association between sexual,
artistic, and political persecution” (33)
Some of the issues brought out in this study are integral to the
understanding of the poem as a whole. Place represents authority and order.
Here, the winners win the right to hold the place of authority, namely Helicon.
Like Richlin (1992b), Johnson and Malamud note the threat to authority which
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is posed by voice: the ability to expose the crimes and embarrassments of the
powerful. They tie their observations to a conclusion that Ovid is anti-
Augustan: “For Ovid, who . . . observed the princeps’ consolidation of power
and his manipulation of patriotic and religious symbols, was evidently aware of
the seductive power of myth” (1988, 36). It is this notion that ties together the
persuasive arguments of the previously discussed scholars’ works: Ovid uses
myth to discuss real Rome and, in doing so, he offers the reader the option to
identify either with the position of authority or with the position of its victims.
The authority he criticizes is arbitrary in its rewarding or punishing, and has the
luxury of changing its disguise in order to effect its fell purposes. Those who
would expose its crimes are invariably punished.
The Power in the Programme: Book One
Most scholars agree that the beginning of the work is programmatic and so
it is here that the groundwork is laid in a work that will prove to be a study of
power. For many, the words which follow the proem of Book One have
seemed a throwaway answer to the Theoaony. a feeble attempt to match the
creation story told by Hesiod, and a filler before the first “real” story. As in
Hesiod’s Theoaonv. the early history of Ovid’s universe is concerned with the
establishment of the supreme ruler and the imposition of order on a previously
unordered mass. A closer examination, however, suggests that this section
constitutes a key for reading the poem, just as historians like Livy provided
Rome’s early history as a key for Romans to understand who they were and
what events inform their identities. So Ovid provides this key to reading not
only the characters and landscape of his poem, but one also for reading the
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poem in its entirety. Looking at the poem’s beginning, one may find that the
guide Ovid provides is, indeed, a map on which nearly all roads lead to power.
Ovid begins:
In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas
corpora; di, coeptis (nam vos mutastis et ilia)
adspirate meis primaque ab origins mundi
ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen.
(1.1-4)
My mind compels me to tell of forms changed
into new bodies; gods, for you changed even those,
breathe favorably on my undertakings and draw my
perpetual song down from the first origin of the world
to my own times.
Ovid is (self)endowed with the ability to tell us of how things were before the
gods changed them. He will explain what was and how the gods acted upon
things to make them into what we currently see. In other words, Ovid will tell
us what exists under or behind what we believe it to be. He addresses the
gods who “made the changes” to help in his endeavor. Already we find the
gods as the ones who effected these changes; they are set up as the
disguisers revealed by Ovid. The poet, of course, has the supreme power: the
power to tell. In a slight variation of the (epic) invocation to the Muse, Ovid
asks the gods to favor his work, as though asking their blessing in his
endeavor to tell (cf. the threat to authority posed by voice and the ability to tell,
above). He can identify the changers, changes, and the changed.
Ovid launches (without further comment) into the origins of the world-its
prehistory--by explaining how from chaos an orderly world came to be. It is
from this beginning that Ovid shows a constant imposition of order through the
demonstration of the hierarchy of powers in the universe:
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Ante mare et terras et quod tegit omnia caelum
unus erat toto naturae vultus in orbe,
quern dixere chaos: rudis indigestaque moles
nec quicquam nisi pondus iners congestaque eodem
non bene iunctarum discordia semina rerum.
(1.5-9)
Before the sea and lands, and sky which touches
everything, there was one face of Nature in the whole orb
which people called chaos: a rough and unordered mass,
nor was there anything but inert weight and,
heaped together in the same place,
the discordant seeds of things not well-joined.
Things were not separated out from the whole: there was no order. In the
struggle toward order, even the elements vied for supremacy:
nulli sua forma manebat,
obstabatque aliis aliud, quia corpora in uno
frigida pugnabant calidis, umentia siccis,
mollia cum duris, sine pondere, habentia pondus.
(1.17-20)
. . . nothing retained its form, and one
thing opposed another, since in one body cold things
fought hot, wet things the dry, soft the hard and those
without weight fought those which had weight.
The warring factions are related but polar opposites-they are of one body and
yet war with each other. It is not cold which fights with dry, but related,
opposing elements which are at war with each other: cold with hot, wet with
dry, soft with hard and weighted with weightless. The notion that elements in
one body which are related but opposing clearly suggests civil war. it is here
that Ovid begins the subtle image of relating the world of myth to his world in
real Rome.
He next describes the order and hierarchy associated with place. The
separation of things is the beginning of order:
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Hanc deus et melior litem natura diremit,
nam caelo terras et terris abscidit undas
et liquidum spisso secrevit ab aere caelum,
quae postquam evolvit caecoque exemit acervo,
dissociata locis concordi pace ligavit
(1.21-25)
This strife god and/or better nature dissolved. For it/he
cut lands away from sky and waters from the land and
separated the clear sky from the dense air. After he freed
these and released them from the blind heap, he bound
them with harmonious peace, separated in their places
God or Nature stopped “this strife” and bound things into separate places in
harmonious peace. It might, of course, require too much of a stretch to insist
that pace is an oblique reference to the pax Romana. It is perhaps a
combination of god and (et, 1.21) Nature5 which does the separating: some
elements are assigned places while others rise or sink according to their
properties. It is, however, god/Nature who bids them stay in their places. The
underlying premise here is that order consists in things staying in their secured
or assigned places. After the elements are separated out of the chaotic glob
(caecoque exemit acervo, 1.24), aether wins its way to the utmost height:
ignea convexi vis et sine pondere caeli
emicuit summaque locum sibi fecit in arce
(1.26-27)
the fiery and weightless force of the curved sky shot out
and made a place for itself on the highest height(/citadel)
Aether, here called ignea vis, resides with the gods. There is a hierarchy of
place in this universe. Unlike the previous assignments of space (1.21-25),
this vis makes a place for itself; it is a force which has force. If we question our
5 Some scholars suggest that we translate the et here as “ or"; e.g. Miller 1946; also D.E. Hill
1985,167 n. ad 1.21, who nevertheless argues that here the two (deus and natura) are
synonyms.
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assumption that this is in fact aether (since the word aether is not here), Ovid
clarifies by adding that air came next, in lightness and in place (levitate
locoque, 1.28).
It is, says Ovid, some one of the gods (quisquis fuit ille deorum, 1.32) who
formed the earth and arranged things, giving orders as to the functions and
locations of the waters, the lands, and clouds (iussit, 1.37; iussit, 1.43; iussit,
1.55). He even separates the winds which, again, are related but opposing.
They strive in what is now explicitly described as a civil war:
His quoque non passim mundi fabricator habendum
aera permisit; vix nunc obsistitur illis,
cum sua quisque regat diverso flamina tractu,
quin lanient mundum; tanta est discordia fratrum.
(1.57-60)
the maker of the world did not allow the air to be held by
these (winds) without order/randomly; hardly now are
they stopped, since each controls his own blast from a
different zone, from tearing the world;
so great is the discord of the brothers
Even with order imposed (after all, what does mundus mean?), destruction of
that order is threatened. After the four winds retire to their quarters, Ovid
states:
haec super inposuit liquidum et gravitate carentem
aethera nec quicquam terrenae faecis habentem.
(1.67-68)
over these he placed aether, clear and lacking in
heaviness, having nothing of earthly dregs
The god validates the position of aether in placing it over, or superior to, the
winds. The hierarchy is maintained and this ignea vis (1.26), by its own force
and by the sanction of the god, is established at the top.
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The creation of human life is also described in terms of its power
relationship with other creatures:
Sanctius his animal mentisque capacius altae
deerat adhuc et quod dominari in cetera posset:
natus homo est, sive hunc divino semine fecit
ille opifex rerum, mundi melioris origo,
sive recens tellus seductaque nuper ab alto
aethere cognati retinebat semina caeli.
(1.76*81)
An animal more holy than these and more capacious of
mind was still lacking and one which could dominate the
others: man is bom, whether he made him from divine
seed, that maker of things, origin of a better world, or
whether the new earth did, which, recently led apart from
the high aether, retained the seeds of her kindred sky
Humans are described as at least somewhat divine (surely, “holy” beings) who
originated either “from divine seed” or from “seeds of (aether’s) kindred sky.”
Man is an animal, but he is “more holy” than other animals. He can, among
other things, “dominate” the rest of the creatures. In this power relationship
man is supreme. In further describing mankind, Ovid states:
quam satus lapeto, mixtam pluvialibus undis,
finxit in effigiem moderantum cuncta deorum,
pronaque cum spectent animalia cetera terram,
os homini sublime dedit caelumque videre
iussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus:
sic, modo quae fuerat rudis et sine imagine, tellus
induit ignotas hominum conversa figuras.
(1.82-88)
(earth) which, mixed with rainwater, the son of lapetus
shaped into the likeness of the gods who control
everything, and although other animals look at the earth,
he gave to man a raised up face and ordered him to see
the sky and to lift his upright face toward the stars:
thus the earth, changed, recently rough and without form,
clothed itself with the unknown forms of men.
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The earth is here the mother and material body from which (combined with
rainwater) humans are formed: they are again in this image formed of one
body, suggesting that any strife among them is civil strife (cf. Phaethon’s near
destruction of the mother body/earth). She puts on (induif) the forms of
humans as though dressing her body.
In addition, the hierarchy is further developed here: people are in this
instance made from earth mixed with water “in the shape of the gods who
control everything.” We are explicitly told who stands at the top of this
hierarchy of power: gods control everything. Humans are like gods in some
ways but like animals in others. As men dominate beasts, so gods dominate
men. Unlike other animals, man is bidden to see the sky/heaven (caelumque
videre iussit, 1.86). Thus even as man is upward-looking, it is the god who bid
him look and who resides at the farthest reach of his gaze.
Ovid succinctly describes a change at the very top of this universal
hierarchy. Jove’s rise to supremacy is told in about one and a half lines:
Postquam Satumo tenebrosa in Tartars misso/sub love mundus erat (1.113-
114), “After, with Saturn sent into shadowy Tartarus,/the world was under
Jove.” Here, ironically, the usual power structure is inverted to achieve order.
Jupiter overcomes his father, Saturn, and becomes supreme ruler. Once
again, with the related but opposing force (i.e. his father) put “in his place,”
order is achieved. The relationship between the two makes this a civil war,
and again space is equated with power. With Saturn in shadowy Tartarus, the
world is (literally) “under” Jupiter, signifying both the spatial relationship and
the notion that the world was then subject to him. The key, however, as Ovid
points out is keeping the opposing forces in their designated places.
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Ovid presents a hierarchy even of time: the golden age is the best, down
(in morality and esteem) to the hom’d age of iron where all evil burst in:
de duro est ultima ferro.
protinus inrupit venae peioris in aevum
omne nefas: fugere pudor verumque fidesque;
in quorum subiere locum fraudesque dolusque
insidiaeque et vis et amor sceleratus habendi
(1.127-131)
The last is of hard iron. Straightaway
there rushed into the age of a worse vein everything
unspeakable, modesty and truth and faith fled; in the
place of these came deceptions and tricks and plots and
both rape/violence and a wicked love of having
“Everything unspeakable” becomes part of this age of man by taking the place
{locum) of modesty, truth and faith: every one of these unspeakables
mentioned by Ovid involves acting in a way to get some desired thing, despite
propriety and the will of others. These unspeakable things are all related:
they are the focus on the self, the notion of getting despite the rules (moral
boundaries) and despite the wishes of others. The word vis may be translated
as “violence” or, as we shall see, “rape.”6 In either case, the notion is one of
achieving one’s will through force, despite the wishes of others.
To paraphrase the next few lines, man gives sails to winds as yet not well
known, takes trees from the mountains to serve as keels, and further, marks
out the land with boundary lines (1.132-136). Man crosses the boundaries
clearly marked out by the creator; implicitly this, too, is his wickedness. Ovid
states:
8 In some rape stories, e.g. those in Arachne’s web, tricks, deceptions, and plots are key to the
rapes: elusam 6.103; satyri celatus imagine, 6.110; fallis 6.117; luserit 6.124; Erigonen falsa
deceperituva 6.125; others can be considered insidiae: e.g. the rape of Callisto involves a plot
using deception, since Jupiter dons the disguise of the “ safe figure,” Diana.
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nec tantum segetes alimentaque debita dives
poscebatur humus, sed itum est in viscera terrae,
quasque recondiderat Stygiisque admoverat umbris,
effodiuntur opes, inritamenta malorum.
(1.137-140)
not only was the rich land asked for crops and
sustenance owed, but a path is made into the guts of
the earth and the wealth was dug out, which it had
hidden and had brought near the Stygian shades,
the provocation of evils
Man enters where he should not (cf. the earth as material mother of mankind,
above); the crossing of spatial boundaries is mirrored by and analogous to the
crossing of moral boundaries:
iamque nocens ferrum ferroque nocentius aurum
prodierat, prodit bellum, quod pugnat utroque,
sanguineaque manu crepitantia concutit arma.
vivitur ex rapto: non hospes ab hospite tutus,
non socer a genero, fratrum quoque gratia rara est;
inminet exitio vir coniugis, ilia mariti,
lurida terribiles miscent aconita novercae,
filius ante diem patrios inquirit in annos:
victa iacet pietas, et virgo caede madentis
ultima caelestum terras Astraea reliquit.
(1.141-150)
and now harmful iron and gold, more harmful than iron,
had come forth, war came which fights with both,
and struck together clashing armor with its bloody hand.
A living is made from plunder: a host is not safe from
a guest, not father-in-law from son-in-law, favor among
brothers is rare; a husband hovers over the death of
his wife, she of her husband, frightful step-mothers mix
ghastly poisons, a son asks of his father’s years before
the day: family duty lay dead, and the virgin Astraea,
last of the gods, leaves the earth which is soaked in gore
The people of this age express disorder in their crossing of spatial and moral
boundaries. What is depicted in this passage is not unlike the descriptions of
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the warring elements: they are related but opposing contestants in a struggle
for power— in effect this, too, is civil war. The precise opposing forces named
are family members-could we be reminded of a famous socer and gener who
had been the main contestants in a civil war? It is pietas, or a sense of family
obligation and duty which Ovid says lay dead. Pietas is what establishes the
role or position of each member of a family; it represents order in the family
and the order of the family is a microcosm of the order in the universe.
Consider, for example, these Roman terms, and how Ovid may being
associating them: pater familias, pater patriae, and pater omnipotens.
Ovid passes from this example to a brief account of the Gigantomachy
(1.150-162). Spatial and moral boundaries are crossed as the Giants try to
ascend to the place of the gods. Their attempt on the physical space indicates
their attempts 1) physically to leave the place assigned to them and 2)
symbolically to take the power associated with the space reserved for the
gods. Jupiter is pater omnipotens (1.154) as he hurls the thunderbolt; thus
Jupiter’s act of stopping the Giants reinforces of the concept that he is the head
of the household that is the universe. From their thunderstruck bodies the
earth forms humans; these are described as follows:
sed et ilia propago
contemptrix superum saevaeque avidissima caedis
et violenta fuit: scires e sanguine natos.
(1.160-161)
but that offspring, too, was
contemptuous of the gods and greediest for savage
slaughter: and it was violent, you would know that
they were bom from blood
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It Is unclear whether now there are two races on earth, those of the iron age
and those who arose from the Giants’ blood, but clearly humans are self-
ravaging. If the whole point is that all came from one body, then all war is civil
war (cf. the people formed from earth and rainwater, above, and from earth
and Giants’ blood here). Even if this offspring is thought to be separate from
other humans, then it is its greater propensity for evil and violence which
marks it as bom of blood.
The parallels between existence on earth and that in heaven are further
established through contrast. Ovid tells of Jupiter’s response to this new
offspring of Giant blood, as he recalls the deeds of Lycaon:
Quae pater ut summa vidrt Satumius arce,
ingemit et facto nondum vulgata recenti
foeda Lycaoniae referens convivia mensae
ingentes animo et dignas love concipit iras
conciliumque vocat: tenuit mora nulla vocatos.
(1.163-167)
When the Satumian father saw this from the high citadel
he groaned, and recalling the foul banquets of Lycaon’s
table-so recent a deed, it was not yet commonly known
--he conceived in his mind huge angers worthy of Jove and
called a council: no delay held those who were called.
There is order among these gods: they respond to the summons without delay
and without protest. This stands in sharp contrast to the scene on earth, where
the customs of hospitality and of reverence for the gods have been violated.
Jupiter is the supreme ruler of his house, while Lycaon enacts crimes against
custom and against the gods in his. His crimes, as Jupiter explains, are not
only a threat to others on earth but threaten the stability of universal order.
Jupiter considers Lycaon’s acts as more disturbing than the attempted coup by
the giants:
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non ego pro mundi regno magis anxius ilia
tempestate fui, qua centum quisque parabat
inicere anguipedum captivo bracchia caelo.
(1.182-184)
I was not more nervous for the rule of the world in
that time when each of the serpent-footed ones was
preparing to lay his hundred arms on captive heaven
He decides that the race of men must be destroyed because, to paraphrase,
what chance have lesser deities to dwell peacefully on earth when Lycaon
tried his wicked plotting against Jupiter himself, the head of the established
hierarchy (1.192-198), the head of the greatest household (=the universe):
an satis, o superi, tutos fore creditis illos,
cum mihi, qui fulmen, qui vos habeoque regoque,
struxerit insidias notus feritate Lycaon?
(1.196-198)
Or do you, o gods, think that they would be safe enough
when Lycaon, noted for his savagery, laid his plots for
me-when I have the thunderbolt, and I have and rule you?
Lycaon’s willingness to act against the chief of this order is what makes his
crime so shockingly heinous. Ovid explicitly links the other gods’ reaction to
these words to that of Romans hearing about the assassination of Julius
Caesar; the assassination of Caesar threatened the extinction of the human
world:
sic, cum manus inpia saevit
sanguine Caesareo Romanum exstinguere nomen,
attonitum tantae subito terrors ruinae
humanum genus est totusque perhorruit orbis
(1.200-203)
thus when an impious band raged to extinguish with
Caesar’s blood the Roman name, the human race was
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shocked with sudden fear of so great a ruin
and the whole world shuddered
The mythological world and that of Roman political reality are brought sharply
and explicitly together. A threat against the ruler is a threat to universal order:
Ovid is discussing the ruling order of Rome as he describes this council of the
gods. As Jupiter silences the gods, Ovid directly addresses Augustus and
compares him to Jupiter:
nec tibi grata minus pietas, Auguste, tuorum
quam fuit ilia lovi. qui postquam voce manuque
murmura conpressit, tenuere silentia cuncti.
(1.204-206)
nor is the pietas of your people less pleasing to you,
Augustus, than that was to Jove. After he with his voice
and hand restrained their murmur, all held silence.
Ovid’s council of the gods reinforces the parallel between heaven and Rome,
both in the description of the spatial relations and of the government; we can
reexamine the passage cited above in light of our present discussion:
Est via sublimis, caelo manifesta sereno;
lactea nomen habet, candore notabilis ipso,
hac iter est superis ad magni tecta Tonantis
regalemque domum: dextra laevaque deorum
atria nobiiium vaivis celebrantur apertis.
plebs habitat diversa locis: hac parte potentes
caelicolae clarique suos posuere penates;
hie locus est, quem, si verbis audacia detur,
haud timeam magni dixisse Palatia caeli.
(1.168-176)
There is a high road, visible [to] peaceful heaven,
it has the name “milky,” notable for its very whiteness.
By this is the way for the gods to the home of the mighty
Thunderer and the royal house: on the right and left the
atria of the more noble gods are crowded with the double
doors opened. The commoners live apart from here:
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in inis part the powerful and illustrious heaven-
dwellers put their homes; this is the place which,
if boldness be granted to the words, I would
hardly fear to call the Palatine of great heaven.
There is clearly a hierarchy here: Jupiter rules, the rather well-born gods are
next in space and in power, while the commoners live apart. Heaven is
peaceful (caelo sereno) unlike the disorder just described on earth. This
passage has Jupiter as head of a domus as well as governmental ruler. The
connection between the household and universe is clear enough, but Ovid
goes further here, however, in linking this heaven to Rome: Ovid writes that
the arrangement is not so unlike the Palatine.
We are again reminded of the “regal domusf on the Palatine and the
parallel between the house of Augustus and the heavenly house in Book 15.
Ovid, in fact, uses the domestic relationship of fathers and sons to segue from
(Greco-)Roman mythology to real Rome. We find an echo of the same themes
in Book 15 we have just examined from Book One: there are warring elements
(i.e. civil war) out of which (having surpassed his father) a supreme ruler
emerges and imposes order on the universe.
The Power in the Programme: Book 15
Ovid covers the same issues we have examined in Book One in a different
form in Book 15. While there is again an explicit comparison of Augustus to
Jupiter, there is also a convoluted path to the central issue, i.e. that of power.
He moves from the story of Cipus to that of Aesculapius and then back and
forth between heaven and earth in comparisons of Julius Caesar and
Augustus.
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Cipus, returning to Rome as a victor (ut victor domito veniebat ab hoste,
15.569), inquires the cause of homs, newly sprung on his head. Cipus is
shown to distinguish between the public good and private good immediately
(15.571-573).7 Cipus is told: . . . sic fata iubent; namque urbe receptus/rex eris
et sceptro tutus potiere perenni (15.584-585), .. thus the fates order; for,
accepted into the city, you will be king and, safe, you will acquire everlasting
rule.” Cipus, however, prefers exile to being king:
multoque ego iustius aevum
exul agam, quam me videant Capitolia regem
(15.588-589)
much more justly should I lead my life as a exile
than the Capitol should see me king
Having hidden his homs with a laurel wreath (pacali... lauro, 15.591) Cipus
warns the senate and the people of a homed man: he advises them to banish
this man who would be king, or capture or even kill him (15.590-602), lest he
reduce them to slaves. Cipus notes that this man simply could have entered
Rome, but he himself stopped him (ille quidem potuit portas inrumpere
apertas/sed nos obstitimus, 15.598-599). As he begins to reveal himself as
the homed one--by removing the laurel crown-the people try to stop him (et
dempta capiti populo prohibente corona/exhibuitgemino presigrtia tempora
cornu, 15.610-611). Ovid leaves open to interpretation this reaction by the
people: they may be seen as wishing to remain ignorant that a king is in their
midst, or as reluctant to accept that Cipus is such a one (i.e. king). They may
also be seen as reluctant to see displayed, openly, what they now know is
true. Perhaps the visible homs force the people to be driven to action (i.e.,
7 Raising his hands to the heavens, Cipus asks that if this is a good portent, let it be for Rome
(patriae... populoque Quirini, 15.572), if evil (minax), for him alone.
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removing the would-be king from their midst), whereas if Cipus kept them
covered. In any case, once the homs are revealed, Cipus is nevertheless
honored and treated with respect: he is given lands outside the city, and homs
are engraved on the gates in commemoration (15.614-621).
The image of the laurel in his disguise is important for several reasons:
Cipus could have ruled if he had not warned the people (that is to say, if he
had kept the prophecy or least the homs covered): the implication is that the
laurel, as a symbol of victory, is removed in order that he not rule (i.e. that he
not conquer/be victor over Rome, cf. quem vobis indicat augur,/si Romam
intrarit, famulan'a iura daturum, 15.596-597); the laurel is linked in the Apollo-
Daphne story directly to Augustus: after his failed attempt to rape Daphne,
Apollo says the laurel will be earned in ritual Triumphs and will be “the most
faithful guardian on Augustan doorposts” (postibus Augustis eadem fidissima
custos, 1.562). In the Cipus story, too, the laurel is a symbol of a triumph;
keeping it would mean his conquest of Rome; it would be the acceptance of a
hierarchy headed by an absolute ruler. Thus the laurel is connected to
conquest, to political autocracy, to disguise, and, in the Apollo-Daphne story,
to rape. Cipus rejects the laurel, Augustus does not.
Apollo, accordingly, figures in the next story of Book 15 which otherwise
seems an abrupt shift in topic. Ovid begins to explain how Aesculapius came
to be in Rome. He takes the approach of describing a heavenly father and
son--Apollo and Aesculapius-to segue into his discussion of Julius Caesar
and Augustus.
The story of Aesculapius’ importation into Rome sets up the scenario of the
father deferring to the powers of his son (15.622-745). Ovid describes the
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Romans’ need for a healer, once upon a time, and their supplication of Apollo.
Apollo tells them what they need is his son (15.639). This eventually leads
Ovid to note that whereas Aesculapius was a foreign god come to Roman
shrines, Caesar was a god in his own city (15.745-746). Caesar’s greatest
accomplishment, says Ovid, was that he was Augustus’ father:
neque enim de Caesaris actis
ullum maius opus, quam quod pater exstitit huius
(15.750-751)
for there is no greater achievement from Caesar’s deeds
than that he stands out as the father of this man
This unusual compliment (how would a Roman have heard this?) in effect
lessens the military achievements of Julius Caesar and marginalizes his
political importance. Ovid notes that with Augustus as ruler of things for
humans, the gods have truly shown favor to mortals (quo praeside
rerum/humano generi, superi, favistis abunde, 15.758-759).
Ovid explains how Caesar became a god: ne foret hie igitur mortali semine
cretusfille deus faciendus erat (15.760-761), “so that he [Augustus] not be
bom of mortal seed/he [Caesar] had to be made a god.” The wording here is
striking: Ovid says, in effect, that Julius Caesar’s deification is a measure of
expediency, to solidify Augustus’ status on earth. Ovid has Jupiter tell
Cytherea that she and Caesar’s son will make Caesar a god:
ut deus accedat caelo templisque colatur,
tu facies natusque suus
(15.818-820)
that he enter heaven and be cultivated in temples
you, and his son, will accomplish
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Again, the implication is that Julius Caesar’s supposed kinship both to Venus
and to Augustus is the decisive factor in his deification.8
Like Jupiter in Book One, Augustus in Book 15 emerges as supreme ruler
through the chaos of civil war. Jupiter consoles Venus (who sees the
assassination of Julius Caesar) by telling her the future concerning Augustus:
illius auspiciis obsessae moenia pacem
victa petent Mutinae, Pharsalia sentiet ilium,
Emathiaque iterum madefient caede Philippi,
et magnum Siculis nomen superabitur undis,
Romanique ducis coniunx Aegyptia taedae
non bene fisa cadet, frustraque erit ilia minata,
servitura suo Capitolia nostra Canopo.
quid tibi barbariem gentesque ab utroque iacentes
oceano numerem? quodcumque habitabile tellus
sustinet, huius erit: pontus quoque serviet illi.
(15.822-831)
under his command the conquerd walls of besieged
Mutina will seek peace, Pharsalia will feel him, and
Emathia and Philippi will be drenched again in gore, and
the name Magnus will be conquered in Sicilian waves, and
the Egyptian wife of a Roman general, having to her
misfortune relied on the marriage, will fall and in vain
will she have threatened that our Capitol would serve her
Canopus. Why do I enumerate the barbarian land and
peoples lying on either ocean? Whatever habitable land
the earth holds will be his: the sea, too, shall serve him.
The civil wars are summed up briefly and Augustus emerges as owner of land
and sea. It is not Rome which commands all, but Augustus who holds all
under his sway. Just as in Book One with the stories of Jupiter versus first
Saturn and then the Giants, the civil wars are briefly told, put down by the
seemingly effortless assertion of the supreme ruler’s might. In Book One,
' See Feeney (1991,188-224) for an excellent discussion of the implications of Ovid’s
descriptions of deifications in Book 15; Garth Tissol (1997,186-191) also notes the implications
of the reasons Ovid gives for Julius Caesar’s deification.
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Jupiter emerged victorious and owned and regulated everything; in Book 15,
Ovid has Jupiter say that Augustus will emerge victorious from the civil wars
and own and regulate everything on earth.
The parallel between Jupiter and Augustus is further demonstrated in
Ovid’s description of Augustus’ acts as ruler. Like the Jupiter of Book One,
once he has emerged from the chaos of civil war, the first order of business
after crushing political opposition is establishment of order (cf. Jupiter turning
his attention to Lycaon and human affairs immediately following the crushed
attempt by the Giants, 1.151-162). After his brief description of Augustus’ role
in and the outcome of the civil wars, Jupiter tells Venus what Augustus will
then do:
Pace data tern's animum ad civilia vertet
iura suum legesque feret iustissimus auctor
exemploque suo mores reget inque futuri
temporis aetatem venturorumque nepotum
prospiciens prolem sancta de coniuge natam
ferre simul nomenque suum curasque iubebit,
nec nisi cum tsenior sim ilesf aequaverit annos,
aetherias sedes cognataque sidera tanget.
(15.832-839)
With peace given to the lands he will turn his mind to
civil laws and as a most just author will bring laws
and by his own example will regulate morals, and
looking ahead to the age of the future and of generations
to come, he will order the offspring bom from
his sacred wife to carry both his name and his concerns,
nor will he, until as an old man he will have equalled
similar years, touch his aetherial home and kindred stars.
Jupiter, in effect, has described his own acts of Book One: out of chaos
described as civil war he surpassed his father, was involved in and emerged
victorious from civil wars (first with Saturn and then with the Giants), and also
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sought to rule the ways of men. Jupiter, too, gave his brand of peace to the
lands (cf. pace daia), when in Book 1 he flooded the earth to punish humans
for the sort of crimes carried out by Lycaon. Furthermore, the father-son
analogue is complete when Ovid shifts his attention wholly to Augustus’
superiority to Caesar (cf. Apollo’s recommendation of his son to Rome):
natique videns bene facta fatetur/esse suis maiora et vinci gaudet ab illo
(15.850-851), “and seeing the good deeds of his son he confesses they are
greater than his own and rejoices to be conquered by him.” Ovid has Julius
Caesar defer to the greatness of his “son,” Augustus, much as Apollo deferred
to his son Aesculapius. Though Augustus forbids his acts to be placed before
his father’s, fame, which is “free and subject to no orders" (libera fama tamen
nullisque obnoxia iussis, 15.853), in this one thing opposes his commands.
Ovid next suggests that there is an analogue to Julius Caesar and
Augustus in the heavens which is closer than that of Apollo and Aesculapius,
namely that of Saturn and Jupiter. Ovid explicitly links Jupiter and Augustus
again, at the end of his catalogue of sons who surpassed their fathers:
denique, ut exemplis ipsos aequantibus utar,
sic et Satumus minor est love: luppiter arces
temperat aetherias et mundi regna triformis,
terra sub Augusto est; pater est et rector uterque.
(15.857- 860)
finally, that I use examples worthy of themselves,
thus even Saturn is less than Jove: Jupiter controls the
aetherial heights and the realms of the tri-formed
universe, the earth is subject to Augustus;
each is father and ruler.
Here, the three realms intersect: Ovid makes parallels between (and
overlappings of) the hierarchies which are established on heaven and on
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earth, in the family and in the state, and in Greco-Roman mythology and in
Roman political reality. The titles “father and ruler" signify the relationship of
household and state (cf. regalemque domus of Jupiter in Book One, 1.171).
Augustus has an assigned space which he both governs and owns (cf. huius
erit above, 15.831). Recall, too, from Book 1: with Saturn sent to shadowy
Tartarus, sub love mundus erat (1.114). Here Ovid tells us terra sub Augusto
est (15.860), indicating that the earth is under him (that is, in symbolic space--
his place, then, is a high one) and that the earth subject to him, as was the
case with Jupiter.
Ovid has taken us through Cipus to Augustus using his poetic associative
powers to link themes and analogues. While the relative greatness of Apollo
and of Aesculapius is left ambiguous (is Aesculapius greater than Apollo or
simply more suited to the task at hand?), there is no doubt as to the others
mentioned, Augustus and Jupiter in particular: Augustus surpasses his father
as Jupiter surpassed Saturn.
Ovid stresses the relationships of fathers and sons and easily shifts the
scene from domestic to public, from heaven to earth and vice versa. We see
this oscillation especially in Ovid’s comparison of the gods’ reaction to the
story of Lycaon and the reaction of the Roman people to the assassination of
Julius Caesar (1.200-203). Once again the discussion is about power, both
intrafamilial and political. D. C. Feeney (1991, 188-224) provides an insightful
analysis of Ovid’s analogy between Jupiter and Augustus, and finds, in
particular, that Ovid focuses on the differences between domestic and public.
Feeney states:
The power of the characteristic Roman way of looking at
the gods comes through very strongly: they are part of
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the constitution, and evolve with it. Prepared for by the
apotheoses of Aeneas and Romulus, the interest in the
constitutional procedures of state religion dominates the
poem’s climax, from the importation of Aesculapius, to
the deification of Caesar by his son, and finally to the
roll-call of the gods, once public (in the strict sense),
and now-not private, exactly, but ‘Caesarian’, with all
the blurring of public and private which that epithet
connotes. The poem’s gods, so vital and mesmerizing,
have indeed now become ‘august’, a cluster around
the Princeps. (1991,217)
Feeney notes Ovid’s emphasis on the difference between the communal act of
the Senate and people accepting Aesculapius into the city, and Augustus’
(and Venus’) personal endeavor of making Julius Caesar a god: Ovid
completely eclipses the role of the Senate and the people in the introduction of
Caesar’s cult (1991, 211-224), focusing on Augustus as the author of the
deed. Feeney ties this to the growing identification of Augustus, in Ovid’s
lifetime, with the res publica and the increasing usurpation by Augustus of
what were-in Republican times--communal concerns and practices.
Moreover, Rome is not said to own everything; rather Augustus owns
everything.
Ovid has provided a map for reading everything between these inward-
pointing “bookends,” Books 1 and 15-and every signpost reads “power.” He
clearly associates, implicitly and explicitly, the domestic and political careers of
Jupiter and Augustus and draws parallels between them. He shows how both
survived and rose to power through civil wars and through the displacement of
the father from the position of ruler. How then, we may ask, does rape fit into
this social commentary set in the mythological world? How can rape be
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associated with Augustus, when the rape stories involve only mythological
characters?
Reading Between the Bookends: How Rape Takes the Shape of Power
Rape and attempted rape narratives in the Metamorphoses are a discourse
on power. In some instances the story is explicitly linked to Ovid’s
contemporary Rome; in others, by Ovid's association of Jupiter and Augustus,
the story’s “moral” may be (only by inference) related to Rome while its focus
on power will nevertheless be apparent.
The discourses of rape, political power in heaven, and political power in
Rome meet in the first of many (attempted) rape stories in the Metamorphoses.
that is, in the story of Daphne and Apollo.
This story sets the tone for rape stories throughout the poem. A pattern of
rape will become clear: the victim serves as the battlefield on which trophies
of power are either won or lost; the aggressor silences the victim-through two
forms of objectification: first in his mind (by not acknowledging her
unwillingness), then through her loss of humanity (here Daphne is changed to
escape rape, elsewhere the [would-be] rapist may change her from a human
form to something unable to speak)--and the appropriation of the victim (or
symbol of the victim) to commemorate the event.
The story of Daphne and Apollo begins as an explanation of how the laurel
became a symbol of victory at the Pythian games (1.448-451). It began, Ovid
tells us, with Apollo’s victory over Python and his boast to Cupid. Apollo was
hitherto inexperienced in matters of love: Primus amor Phoebi Daphne
Peneia (1.452), T he first love of Apollo was Peneian Daphne.” The love came
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about not by chance, but by the anger of Cupid (1.453), responding to Apollo’s
boast of skill in archery and his belittling of Cupid’s prowess with weapons.
He boasts of his own achievement while disdaining Cupid--whom he calls
lascive puer, 15.456-for carrying weapons that are more suitable for himself.
He also accuses Cupid of appropriating Apollonian honors (nec laudes
adsere nostras, 15.462). The power struggle is, then, between the two gods,
but Daphne becomes the real loser in their battle for supremacy over each
other. In response, Cupid creates the situation of Apollo's loving Daphne and
Daphne's repelling all thought of love, and he does it to prove himself more
powerful than Apollo. He says to Apollo:
quantoque animalia cedunt
cuncta deo, tanto minor est tua gloria nostra
(1.464-465)
And by as much as all animals yield to a god,
so much is your glory less than mine
Cupid sets forth the hierarchy of powers in an analogy: Apollo is to Cupid as
an animal is to a god (cf. the description of man’s place in the hierarchy-
positioned between animals and gods-discussed above). In order to reverse
Apollo's boast of skill and manliness (cf. Apollo’s use of lascive puer for
Cupid), Venus' son must make Apollo seem less powerful.
Apollo bums with love and manipulates Daphne in his mind, by imagining
how she would look or act under given circumstances. For instance, when
Apollo conceives passion for Daphne he begins to fantasize:
spectat inomatos collo pendere capillos
et 'quid, si comantur?' ait; videt igne micantes
sideribus similes oculos, videt oscula, quae non
est vidisse satis; laudat digitosque manusque
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bracchiaque et nudos media plus parte lacertos:
siqua latent, meliora putat
(1.497-502)
He looks at her hair hanging loosely about her neck and
says, "What if it were combed?" He sees her eyes shining
with fire like stars, he sees kisses which are not enough
only to have seen, he praises her fingers and hands and
arms and her forearms which are more than halfway bare:
whatever lay hidden, he believes is even better
All of his thoughts focus on her appearance; it does not occur to Apollo,
according to the thoughts Ovid attributes to the god, to wonder whether or not
she will like him or find him attractive, or if she has any opinion at all. We
heard her wishes earlier, as she addressed her father:
'da mihi perpetua, genitor carissime,1 dixit
'virginitate frui! dedit hoc pater ante Dianae.'
(1.486-487)
“Dearest father, grant to me that I enjoy perpetual
virginity,” she said, “this her father granted before
to Diana.”
Her wishes are not considered by Apollo, nor is anything about who she really
is. Her looks are the focal point, and the fantasy of her which he has created.
Apollo imagines Daphne as he wishes her to be. He thinks the kisses, which
he imagined, will be so pleasing to him that it is not enough only to imagine
them. He believes that those parts of her body which lie hidden are even
better than those he can see. His fantasy involves manipulating the Daphne
that is truly before him and in his mind changing her so that she is what he
wants her to be. Apollo wonders how Daphne's hair would look if it were
combed: in his mind he takes what is there and imagines it differently, in order
to suit his particular specifications. This is the first step in his effort to control
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her, his first effort at imposing his will: his objectification of Daphne in the
fantasy erases who she truly is (i.e.-as we shall see--a woman who fears him).
Apollo becomes more impassioned when he fantasizes about Daphne:
sic deus in flammas abiit, sic pectore toto
uritur et sterilem sperando nutrit amorem
(1.495*496)
Thus the god disappears in flames, thus does he bum
with all his heart and he feeds his sterile love by hoping
Ovid has Apolio take an active role in his own stimulation (nutrit amorem).
More inflamed, he feels a greater need to act on his desire. As Apollo says of
Daphne’s kisses, “it is not enough to have only imagined" (quae non/est
vidisse satis): the lover wants to actualize the fantasy. Apollo fully expects that
he will have her
Phoebus amat visaeque cupit conubia Daphnes,
quodque cupit, sperat
(1.490-491)
as soon as Apollo sees he loves Daphne and desires
union with her and he looks forward to what he desires
Since Apollo is confident of the outcome, he pursues Daphne.
Apollo also seems to fantasize, in some respects, about himself: his reality
is not hers. As he calls after her, his perspective on the situation is clearly
different from Daphne’s:
fugit ocior aura
ilia levi neque ad haec revocantis verba resistit:
'nympha, precor, Penei, mane! non insequor hostis;
nympha, mane! sic agna lupum, sic cerva leonem,
sic aquilam penna fugiunt trepidante columbae,
hostes quaeque suos: amor est mihi causa sequendi!
me miserum! ne prona cadas indignave laedi
crura notent sentes et sim tibi causa doloris!
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aspera, qua properas, ioca sunt: moderatius, oro,
curre fugamque inhibe, moderatius insequar ipse.
(1.502-511)
she flees more swiftly than the light breeze,
nor does she stop at the words of him calling hen
“Nymph, daughter of Peneius, I pray-stay! I who pursue
you am no enemy; thus does a lamb flee a wolf, the stag
a lion, thus doves on trembling wing flee the eagle,
each flees its enemy: love is my reason for chasing!
alas me! [I fear] you may fall or bushes may mark
your legs which are unworthy of being hurt
and that I be the cause of pain for you!
The places where you rush are rough: I beg, run more
slowly and hold your flight, I will pursue more slowly.”
Apollo seems to think that he is not her enemy, yet she clearly perceives that
he is. He is the enemy of her wishes, the enemy of what she wished to do with
her body. He describes predators and prey-natural enemies, as it were-and
claims that their relationship is different. But note how Ovid later describes
Apollo’s near capture of Daphne:
ut canis in vacuo leporem cum Gallicus arvo
vidit, et hie praedam pedibus petit, ille salutem;
alter inhaesuro similis iam iamque tenere
sperat et extento stringit vestigia rostro,
alter in ambiguo est, an sit conprensus, et ipsis
morsibus eripitur tangentiaque ora relinquit:
sic deus et virgo est hie spe celer, ilia timore.
(1.533-539)
just as a Gallic hound sees a hare in an empty plain and
he seeks his prey with running, the hare seeks safety;
the one, now similar to one about to fasten on her, and now
hopes he has, and grazes her tracks with his outstretched
nose, the other is unsure whether or not she is caught and
is snatched from the very bites and leaves behind
the mouth that touched hen thus are the god and the virgin:
he is swift from hope, she from fear
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The situation is exactly what Apollo said it was not: he is the predator and she
the prey; they are natural enemies.9 He is either incapable or unwilling to see
Daphne’s reality; or perhaps it just is not an issue for a god to consider the will
of a mortal object of desire. Yet we are reminded of her will in Ovid’s
descriptions of her fear and flight: she clearly wants to get away from Apollo.
He claims that he hopes not to be a cause of pain for her (ne... sim tibi causa
doloris, 1.509) which at least acknowledges his responsibility for her flight, but
fails to convince him to stop pursuing her. He treats her fear and flight as
though it is a lovers’ game: he asks her to run more slowly and claims that he
will do the same (1.510-511).
After claiming not to be her enemy, Apollo tries to persuade her to stop and
speak with him, convinced that his self-description will allay her fears. He
states that it is her ignorance of who he is which causes her flight: nescis,
temeraria, nescis,/quern fugias, ideoque fugis (1.514-515) “you don’t know,
rash one, you don’t know whom you flee, and so you flee.” He calls attention
to his powers and ancestry in the substance of his words, proffering a resume
of his titles and powers while he chases the fleeing Daphne (1.504-524). He
cites the lands subject to him (mihi. . . servit, 1.515-516), that his father is
Jupiter (1.517), that through him the past, present and future are revealed
(1.517-518), and so on. His focus is on himself: ego, 1.513; mihi, 1.515; per
me, 1.517; per me, 1.518; nostra. . . nostra, 1.519; meum, 1.521; d/corand
nobis, 1.522; and mihi, 1.523. In his study of amatory persuasion, Nicholas P.
Gross examines Apollo’s entire address to Daphne and notes (1985, 64):
9 For a detailed study of the uses of hunting metaphors in the Met., see G. Davis (1983); his
focus is on the Procris-Cephalus narrative.
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“Daphne is supposed to be the object of Apollo’s passion and flattery, but his
words suggest extraordinary self-love.”
Apollo eventually loses patience with the failure of his words to achieve his
goal:
sed enim non sustinet ultra
perdere blanditias iuvenis deus, utque movebat
ipse Amor, admisso sequitur vestigia passu.
(1.530-532)
but the young god no longer keeps wasting his coaxing
words, and since Love itself was moving him, he pursues
her tracks with an all-out effort
Exhausted and terrified, Daphne calls upon her father to help her escape, to
destroy the beauty which attracted this disaster. Here again, Ovid explicitly
voices her wishes:
viribus absumptis expalluit ilia citaeque
victa labore fugae spectans Peneidas undas
'fer, pater,' inquit 'opem! si flumina numen habetis,
qua nimium piacui, mutando perde figuram!'
vix prece finita torpor gravis occupat artus
(1.543-548)
with her strength used up, she paled and, conquered by
the toil of her swift flight, seeing the Peneian waves,
she said, “Father, bring help! If you, the river,
have divinity, destroy my form, with which I am
too pleasing, by changing it!” With her prayer
hardly finished, a heavy numbness seized her limbs
Daphne turns into a laurel tree (1.548-552). Apollo hardly admits defeat; he
claims the tree as his own and declares its branches as a symbol of victory:
cui deus 'at, quoniam coniunx mea non potes esse,
arbor eris certe' dixit 'mea! semper habebunt
te coma, te citharae, te nostrae, laure, pharetrae;
tu ducibus Latiis aderis, cum laetaTriumphum
vox canet et visent longas Capitolia pompas;
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48
postibus Augustis eadem fidissima custos
ante fores stabis mediamque tuebere quercum,
utque meum intonsis caput est iuvenale capillis,
tu quoque perpetuos semper gere frondis honores!'
finierat Paean: factis modo laurea ramis
adnuit utque caput visa est agitasse cacumen.
(1.557-567)
the god said to it/her "but, since you cannot be my wife,
surely you will be my tree! My hair will always have you,
my lyres will have you, my quivers, laurel, will have you;
you will come with Latin generals, when a joyous voice
sings the Triumph and the Capitol views long parades;
on Augustan posts you will stand as most faithful guardian
before the doors and you will watch over the oak
in between; and as my head is youthful with its shorn hair,
you too always bear perpetual honors with your leaves!”
Paean finished: the laurel nodded with its newly-made
boughs and like a head, the treetop seemed to shake
Not only is Daphne destroyed by the god’s superior will, but she becomes a
permanent part of him, a symbol of his victory which is absolute even if it is not
the victory he had hoped for. The point is, he calls it a victory and so it is: his
opponent is destroyed and is totally subject to his will and interpretation.
Notice his use of habebunt (1.558); just as Jupiter “has and rules” the gods
(qui vos habeoque regoque, 1.197) and Augustus has the whole world
belong to him (quodcumque habitabile tellus/sustinet, huius erit, 1.830-831),
Apollo claims ownership of transformed Daphne. While she had a human
form, he had obliterated her as an individual who had wishes of her own; he
objectified her through his fantasy (his mind’s vision of her) and his gaze (his
actual vision of her, as he looked at her various parts); and he had perceived
the situation quite differently than she had-and from the way Ovid tells us it
really was (i.e., a situation of predator-prey).
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The symbol of the laurel is not only one which belongs to Apollo, but one
which is traced through the ritual triumph right up to Augustus’ doors (and cf.
the discussion of Cipus, above). Mythology, attempted rape, and the political
machine of Rome are conflated in this story. The original power struggle
between the gods is forgotten and the lasting memory is one of Apollo’s
asserted and real victory over Daphne. In some measure this is similar to the
stories of civil war briefly told and the immediate assertion of a god’s place in
the hierarchy thereafter: here, however, Apollo loses the battle with his fellow
deity, Cupid, and is reduced to being like an animal hunting its prey. He
quickly recovers from this humiliation by the total domination and assimilation
of his secondary opponent, Daphne. She has become both the battlefield and
the trophy which enhances the glory of the victor. Daphne has escaped Apollo
insofar as she is no longer herself, and yet, as a tree, she will be his forever.
She is powerless before him and, moreover, is now his possession.
The possibility that she may have nodded assent under these conditions is
yet another pathetic detail: Daphne, permanently traumatized and
overwhelmingly subject to Apollo, agrees to those things in which she has no
choice, regardless of her compliance. Objectified by Apollo while she was
human, she becomes an actual object signifying victory, owned by her would-
be rapist. Note, too, that her change occurs as she had hardly finished
speaking (vixprece finita torpor gravis occupat artus 1.548, “with her prayer
hardly finished, a heavy numbness seized her limbs”). Her voice is gone.1 0 In
its place we are given an interpretation of what the Daphne-tree may have
1 0 cf. Johnson and Malamud on the Pierides, above, and the brief discussion of Philomela's loss
of voice, above.
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50
meant by its shaking (adnuit)— as if it would matter now whether or not she
wished to comply.
Ovid’s narratives of rape and attempted rape are stories about power and
the deleterious effects on its victims. Turning now to Chapter 2, we can
examine in detail each of the rape narratives and Ovid’s careful interweaving
of these stories into the larger fabric of his Metamorphoses.
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Chapter Two, Part A
The Forms of Rape in Ovid’s Metamorphoses
Rape is a pervasive element in Ovid's Metamorphoses. It emerges in
stories ostensibly about the origins of flowers, of mountains, and of
miscellaneous other creatures and features of the landscape. The changed
bodies of rape victims literally litter the landscape of the mythological setting of
this epic poem. The poem itself purports to be a series of short mythological
stories, each flowing into the next, forming a complex web of intertwined tales.
First-time readers may be surprised or offended at prevalence of rape in the
poem, as I was, and yet, like others, I simply became acclimated to these rape
narratives. The stories of rape are so prevalent that one ceases to be
surprised when they occur, and ceases to acknowledge the real horror of rape
except when Ovid describes an attack in the most violent and pathetic detail
(i.e. Tereus and Philomela). I certainly was not alone in overlooking and
trivializing the rape stories-after all, since there are so many things to notice in
the poem, many others are overlooked. As we saw in Chapter One, other
readers may focus on any number of things, ignoring the rapes: narrative and
stylistic techniques, reworkings of myths, the question of genre, literary echoes
(as for example the echoes of elegiac poetry in Apollo’s “chase speech” to
Daphne--the attempted rape which follows is difficult to reconcile with the
almost comic description which precedes it). Some readers simply trivialize
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the rapes; for example, Jupiter’s rapes have been called the “loves” of Jupiter,
his “seductions," et cetera. Zola Marie Packman (1993, 42-55) noticed a
similar trend in English translations of Roman comedies: translators often
wrote “seduced,” “slept with,” “had an affair with” when the Latin words
denoted “raped.” The problem arises when one finally asks the questions:
why are there so many rapes here? why have I stopped paying attention to
them? is it simply a matter of the material Ovid had to work with? but did he
not change some stories and invent others? why rape? A pattern begins to
emerge through a closer reading of the rape narratives and through
consideration of the broader theme of absolute power in the poem.
As we have seen in Chapter One, the Metamorphoses is a poem wholly
concerned with power. A significant number of stories in the Metamorphoses
tell of the destructive use of power upon the powerless. Two main story types
which illustrate this issue are 1) rape or attempted rape stories and 2) stories
which involve the punishment of a character for overstepping his or her place
in the universe. These two types of stories are closely linked: both involve the
less powerful figures experiencing an effect upon their bodies, brought on by a
more powerful figure, which changes them forever with the result that they
become non-human and/or unable to speak. The voice and identity of the
victim are all but obliterated.
In this chapter I will discuss the rape and attempted rape stories. In order to
do this, we will follow the narrative line, taking each story in sequence as it
appears in the poem. An early attempt to group the rape narratives into
categories proved fruitless, since the categories themselves were not only
artificial but also failed to account for every variation. In addition, the
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categories created in some cases a false distinction where there were
similarities to be explored as well. Nevertheless, special note will be paid to a
particular type of rape story, which I call “the incidental rape.” These I see as a
subset of rape stories which are slipped into other stories or consist of a mere
word which is a passing reference to a rape. Although incidental rapes occur
throughout the poem, I’ll discuss this identifiable group after the broader
discussion of rape narratives (i.e., at the end of Chapter 2B) for the sake of
seeing a bigger picture.
The stories themselves involve a variety of rape techniques which range
from failed attempts at verbal entreaty to violent physical force. Since many
share common characteristics, we can compare and contrast the narratives as
we go, noting the effects on the reader of the differences and similarities.
Section One: Rape in Ovid's Metamorphoses. Books 1-5
At the end of Chapter One, we looked at various aspects of the first rape
narrative in the poem, which involved the attempted seduction of Daphne by
Apollo which, Ovid implies, was on the verge of becoming a rape story when
the nymph transformed into a tree. This could be seen as an “implicit” rape
narrative, since we know from the outset-as does Daphne in the story-only by
implication that Apollo will rape her if he can catch her.1
The next rape narrative is that of lo and Jupiter (1.583-750). After the story
of Daphne and Apollo (1.452-567) there is a brief description of Daphne’s
father Peneus; other river-gods come to him “not knowing whether to
* Ovid states that Apollo had had it with trying to smoothtalk her. sed enim non sustinet
ultra/perdere blanditias iuvenis deus, utque movebat/ipse Amor, admisso sequitur vestigia
passu (1.530-532), “but indeed the young god does not keep wasting blandishments any
more, and since Love himself was moving him, he chases after her tracks with an all-out pace.”
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54
congratulate or console him” (1.578). The appropriation of his daughter by
Apollo is clearly seen as both a boon and a catastrophe. Only Inachus does
not come, since he is grieving the loss of his daughter and fearing that she
may be dead (1.583-587). Of course, this provides a segue from one rape
narrative to the next, but also forces the reader to recall Jupiter’s stated
concerns to the gods when contemplating the fate of Lycaon: he wanted the
lesser deities to be able to live safely on earth since they were not accorded
the privilege of a place in heaven (1.182-198 and above, Chapter One).
Ovid, then, ostensibly writes the rape narrative to explain why lo is missing.
This same Jupiter had seen her coming from her father’s stream and had said:
o virgo love digna tuoque beatum
nescio quern factura toro
(1.589-590)
O maiden worthy of Jove and one about
to make someone blessed in his wedding bed
Jupiter addresses lo as "worthy of Jupiter” although he has had no experience
with her prior to this time. He therefore attributes the quality of “worthiness” to
lo, based only on his visual perception of her. Jupiter does not say in what
respect she is “worthy”; but as he continues the address, he intimates his
meaning. He says that lo will make some man happy by her “marriage-bed”
(toro). Since there are several terms which conjure the general idea of
marriage-matrimonium (marriage) or fax (marriage-torch), for example--
Jupiteris choice of the the word toro suggests that he is referring to the specific
aspect of marriage by which lo will be pleasing; specifically, by sexual
intercourse. Jupiter juxtaposes the two ideas-that lo is worthy of Jupiter and
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will be sexually pleasing-and in doing so, reveals a fantasy of lo pleasing him
sexually.
He suggests to lo that she seek shade, stating that she will go “safely, with
a god as protector" (praeside tuta deo, 1.594). In Jupiter’s assurance to lo, we
have a key for reading Ovid’s address to the gods in Book 15 (discussed
above, Chapter One), concerning Augustus: quo preaside rerum/humano
generi, superi, favistis abunde (15.758-759). Like Apollo, he offers (though
briefly) his resumd in an attempt to allay her fears: “nor am I a plebeian god
(de plebe deo), but I am he who holds the celestial sceptre in a mighty hand,
who sends the wandering thunderbolts” (1.595-596). This again brings to
mind the council of the gods in making the distinction between the greater
gods and the “p/ei>s"~a specific reference to real Rome--and especially in that
the nymph’s safety is assured by Jupiter, lo, like Daphne, seems to know
better than to wait to find out if her addresser is telling the truth. For as he
commands “don’t flee me,” we leam that she is already in flight (fugiebat enim,
1.597). The rape then occurs swiftly and is told explicitly:
iam pascua Lemae
consitaque arboribus Lyrcea reliquerat an/a,
cum deus inductas lata caligine terras
occuluit tenuitque fugam rapuitque pudorem.
(1.597-600)
already she had left behind the pastures
of Lema and the Lyrcean fields planted with trees, when
the god hid the lands (so that they were) covered with a
wide fog and he checked her flight and took her modesty.
Rape is told swiftly and the meter matches the rapidity of the act: compare the
pace that the five dactyls in line 600 sets to the two in the previous line.
Compared to Apollo, Jupiter was less inclined to “waste blandishments”
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(perdere blanditias, of Apollo 1.531), and successfully achieves his desire. In
light of his act, we may be inclined to reread his address to her, noting that he
states that he is the sceptre-holder and bolt-sender. With those words still
fresh in our minds, Ovid presents Jupiter using his great powers to spread a
fog over the land in order to rape the young nymph.
In the story of lo we find that as readers we have become conditioned even
at this early stage in the Metamorphoses to understand that when Jupiter says
you will go “safely, with a god as your protector" (1.594), we, like the nymph in
the story, unconsciously translate his statement into “I’m going to rape you.”
Jupiter’s words, from the perspective of the nymph, mean exactly the opposite
of what he says. Ovid has set up this scenario from the very first rape story,
that of Apollo and Daphne: we remember the god’s words, her flight, the
laurel. We remember the not-so-happy outcome for the nymph. Here, the
general similarities in the two gods’ approaches to each nymph are enough to
evoke the entire scenario in our minds, even before the nymph has been
physically pursued. For some of us, just the words “he saw her as she . ..” are
sufficient to cue our rape sensors. In addition, Ovid has presented us with a
coded narrative: as the stories of Daphne and Apollo and of lo and Jupiter
have shown, a god’s assertion of interest and promise of safety lead to the loss
of the self, grieving family members, and the loss of speech.
The story of Syrinx (1.687-712) shares similarities with these two others.
Both Daphne and Syrinx are said to have had unwanted attention from male
pursuers in the past (in the form of suitors for Daphne: multi illam petiere,
1.478; for Syrinx, perhaps suitors-celeberrima, 1.690-and, presumably, other
would-be rapists: non semel et satyros eluserat ilia sequentes/et quoscumque
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deos umbrosaque silva feraxque/rus habet, 1.692-694). However, unlike
these others, the story of Syrinx is an incidental detail, as it were, within the
story of lo--Mercury tells the tale in an attempt to put lo's guardian Argus to
sleep. Mercury begins to tell how panpipes were invented through the
attempted rape of Syrinx by the god Pan. This is like an abridged version of
the rape stories above, as if Ovid knows we can fill in the details if he just
supplies a sketch of the scenario. His narrator, Mercury, tells only the very
beginning:
‘Redeuntem colie Lycaeo
Pan videt hanc pinuque caput praecinctus acuta
talia verba refert’ restabat verba referre
et precibus spretis fugisse per avia nympham
(1.698-701)
“Pan saw her as she was returning from the
Lycaean hill, his head girt with sharp pine and such
words he said to her”-to tell the words remained,
and to tell that with his prayers spumed the nymph
fled through pathless ways
Mercury does not tell tell what “prayers” the god used, but we know the sort
involved from our previous experience with Apollo and Jupiter. Like Daphne
and lo, Syrinx flees immediately, leaving the god as he is making a case for
himself. The rest of the story is like an extended praeteritio in indirect
statement. All that Ovid now tells in indirect statement is what Mercury did nq£
say. The narrative continues directly from the lines cited above:
donee harenosi placidum Ladonis ad amnem
venerit; hie illam cursum inpedientibus undis
ut se mutarent liquidas orasse sorores,
Panaque cum prensam sibi iam Syringa putaret,
corpore pro nymphae calamos tenuisse palustres,
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dumque ibi suspirat, motos in harundine ventos
effecisse sonum tenuem similemque querenti.
(1.702-708)
until she came to the peaceful stream of sandy Ladon;
and that here, with the waves blocking her course, she
begged her water-sisters to change her, and that Pan,
when now he thought Syrinx was caught by him,
held marsh reeds instead of the body of the nymph, and
while he sighed there, that the winds having moved in
the reeds made a gentle sound, similar to one complaining.
Note the similarities to the Apollo-Daphne story: Daphne fled her aggressor
through a similar natural setting; Daphne flees to her father’s river and there
asks for her form to be changed to avoid being raped; each nymph calls upon
kin to effect that change; each escapes rape through this means. The final
expression of each transformed nymph is mentioned but left ambiguous-here
the reeds stir, making a sound “similar to one complaining" (1.708). Ovid
writes of the Daphne/tree: “the laurel with its newly made branches nods and,
like a head, seemed to shake its tree-top” (factis modo laurea ramis/adnuit
utque caput visa est agitasse cacumen, 1.566-567).
The story of Syrinx, however, is much more compressed and less detailed
than that of Daphne. The reader already knows from Daphne and lo the type
of plea that Pan made, the type of fear the maiden felt, and the type of chase
that ensued. In the cases of Daphne and Syrinx, the metamorphoses occur at
a critical moment: in each case the aggressor thinks he has caught the nymph
at just the time when the change is effected. For Pan, this disappointing turn of
events is summed up briefly in two lines (1.705-706), whereas the more
developed description in the Daphne-Apollo story provides certain pathetic
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details in a hunter-hunted simile. There Ovid describes that both pursuer and
pursued feel that she may be caught:
ut canis in vacuo leporem cum Gallicus arvo
vidit, et hie praedam pedibus petit, ille salutem;
alter inhaesuro similis iam iamque tenere
sperat et extento stringit vestigia rostro,
alter in ambiguo est, an sit conprensus, et ipsis
morsibus eripitur tangentiaque ora relinquit:
sic deus et virgo est hie spe celer, ilia timore.
(1.532-538)
just as a Gallic hound sees a hare in an empty plain and
he with his feet seeks the prey, the hare [seeks] safety;
the one, similar to one about to fasten [onto the hare],
now, now hopes he has her and grazes her steps with
his snout extended, the other is in doubt as to whether
it is caught and is snatched from the very bites and
leaves the mouth as it touches behind: thus swift were
the god and the virgin, he from hope, she from fear.
In the case of Pan and Syrinx, his response (following his realization that he
holds only reeds) echoes Apollo’s reaction: he claims the objectified nymph
as his own. Just as the Daphne-tree was claimed by her aggressor both as a
possession and as a symbol of him, so the Syrinx-reeds are claimed by Pan:2
arte nova vocisque deum dulcedine captum
'hoc mihi conloquium tecum' dixisse 'manebit,'
atque ita disparibus calamis conpagine cerae
inter se iunctis nomen tenuisse puellae.
(1.709-712)
and that the god, captured by the new art and by the
sweetness of the voice, said “this conversation3 will
remain for me with you” and so with the uneven reeds
thus fitted together with a joining of wax,
[it] kept the name of the girl.
2 This is still part of the extended indirect statement, telling the parts of the story which remained
for Mercury to tell.
3 A textual problem here: Anderson (1993) has conloquium, but consilium and solatium as
contenders in the app. crit.
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Again, the details in the Pan-Syrinx story are omitted: Ovid does not have the
god claim eternal association between himself and the transformed nymph,
but the reader knows that woodland god is consistently depicted with such
pipes.
The story of Callisto, discussed briefly above in Chapter One, contains
some variations on these first three rape narratives. Here the god does not
state that the nymph will be safe, but his appearance in the form of Diana is
itself an assurance of that circumstance. Thus, in this story, his words do not
hold opposite meaning (cf. Apollo to Daphne and Jupiter to lo), but his form is
the exact opposite of what he is. By appearing as Diana, Jupiter’s form is itself
a guarantee of the safety and the sanctity of Callisto’s virginity, since Diana is
Callisto’s patron deity and the goddess whose virginity these nymphs emulate.
Ovid provides the pathetic detail of a physical struggle between the two
(2.434-440) from which Jupiter emerges as victor. We may again be
reminded of Jupiter’s concern for lesser gods who live on earth (in
contemplating the actions of Lycaon in Book One, as noted above). Here we
are told that he is in Arcadia specifically out of concern for the land, recently
damaged by Phaethon’s tragic chariot ride. He first checked the heavens and
then the earth, showing particular favor to Arcadia:
At pater omnipotens ingentia moenia caeli
circuit et, ne quid labefactum viribus ignis
corruat, explorat. quae postquam firma suique
roboris esse videt, terras hominumque labores
perspicit. Arcadiae tamen est inpensior illi
cura suae: fontesque et nondum audentia labi
flumina restituit, dat terrae gramina, frondes
arboribus, laesasque iubet revirescere silvas.
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dum redit itque frequens, in virgine Nonacrina
haesit, et accepti caluere sub ossibus ignes
(2.401-410)
But the omnipotent father made a round of the huge walls
of heaven and checks to see if anything is falling,
shaken by the force of the fire. After he sees that these
are firm and have their own strength, he inspects the
earth and the works of people. Nevertheless he has a
stronger concern for his Arcadia: he restores the
fountains and rivers which are not yet daring to flow,
he gives grass to the land, leaves to the trees, and
orders the damaged forests to grow green again. While
he comes and goes repeatedly, he fixed on a Nonacrine
virgin, and the fires, taken in, grew hot under his bones
These are the circumstances which lead to his rape of Callisto. Thus Jupiter
sees the nymph while he is on a mission to restore the balance on earth and to
repair damage. His special concern for his Arcadia apparently does not
include a concern to keep its nymphs safe from his raping them. Here Ovid
calls Jupiter pater omnipotens (2.401), recalling not only his station as “father"
of gods and men, but as one who is “all-powerful.” This adds yet another level
of complexity to the violation of the nymph: in the cases of Daphne and lo, the
self-proclaimed protector of the nymph is the (would-be, in Apollo’s case)
rapist, but here it is the author-proclaimed “father” and restorer of earth who
rapes the nymph. Ovid points to the notion of hierarchy not only in his use of
the words pater omnipotens but also in the description of Jupiter’s actions: first
he checks the heavens, then he checks earth--we have then a further
subdivision; he has special concern on earth for Arcadia-Ovid shows the
hierarchy of places in the universe. Again we are confronted by the greatness
of the pursuer’s power (cf. Apollo’s self-description, 1.504-524, and in Jupiter-
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lo, 1.594-596) and Ovid draws closer attention to it in the description of the
rape itself (sed quem superare puella/quisve lovem poterat?, 2.436-437).
Considering all of these circumstances, we are left with the suggestion that
either Jupiter’s stated desire to restore safety and order is a lie, or that part of
that order includes Jupiter’s using his power to rape virginal nymphs. Since in
this passage Jupiter seems concerned for natural order (i.e. making rivers
flow, grass and leaves grow, forests verdant), the juxtaposition of the rape to
the restoration of natural events suggests the latter. Callisto’s resultant
pregnancy is perhaps part of Jupiter’s restoration of fertility in Arcadia. The
suggestion is, then, that Jupiter’s act of rape affirms the order he has
established and seeks to maintain.
The next attempted rape story, like that of Syrinx, is incidental to the main
mythological tale being told. The main story is about Apollo’s love for and
betrayal by Coronis (2.542-632). The raven is on its way to tell Apollo of
Coronis’ infidelity when it is intercepted by the crow. Like Syrinx and Daphne,
the daughter of Coroneus--now a crow4 --was at one time sought by many
suitors (fueramque ego regia virgo/divitibusque prods (ne me contemne)
petebar, 2.570-571). She gives a waming-in the form of her own background
story-to the raven who is about to give the bad news to the god.
Nested within her tale are at least5 two rape stories: 1) an allusion to
Vulcan’s attempted rape of Minerva and 2) Neptune’s attempted rape of the
4 There is a frustrating but tantalizing intertwining of identities and stories here: the raven
(corvus) is simply the male of a crow (comitf; the raven is about to tell Apollo of Coronis’ infidelity
and the crow’s former identity is “ the daughter of Coroneus" (i.e.=Coronis); the crow escapes
rape through Minerva’s intervention and somehow becomes her favorite bird, while the
upcoming embedded story, told by the crow, implies that Nyctimene, after incestuous relations
with her father becomes Minerva's most favored bird, with the crow, then, second.
5 There is possibly another rape story lurking beneath the surface here: that of Nyctimene,
whom we discuss presently.
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daughter of Coroneus, resulting in her metamorphosis into a crow. The crow
resents her circumstances, since she came to be held in less esteem than the
owl, who before had been Nyctimene (2.589-590). Here there may be another
rape story-that of Nyctimene-although Ovid does not include it. The crow in
Ovid’s Metamorphoses clearly describes Nyctimene’s crime as incest with her
father:
quid tamen hoc prodest, si diro facta volucris
crimine Nyctimene nostro successit honori?
an quae per totam res est notissima Lesbon,
non audita tibi est, patrium temerasse cubile
Nyctimenen? avis ilia quidem, sed conscia culpae
conspectum lucemque fugit tenebrisque pudorem
celat et a cunctis expellitur aethere toto.
(2.589-595)
Hyginus, however, has a different version:
Nyctimene Epopei regis Lesbiorum filia uirgo
formosissima dicitur fuisse. hanc Epopeus pater amore
incensus compressit, quae pudore tacta siluis
occultabatur. quam Minerua miserata in noctuam
transformauit, quae pudoris causa in lucem non prodit
sed noctu pa[r]et.
(Hyginus 204)
Ovid relates the version wherein Nyctimene is culpable, perhaps as a parallel
to the story of Myrrha in Met. 10, or perhaps because it better suited his
narrator’s point. The crow is complaining that it was blameless (comes
inculpata, 587) while Nyctimene did something wrong (conscia culpae, 2.593),
and yet the owl (formerly Nyctimene) was favored by Minerva above the crow
(because the crow had been the bearer of bad news).
The crow begins by telling her own punishment for having brought bad
news to a deity. She had told Minerva that one of the daughters of Cecrops
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had looked, against Minerva’s orders, into the box which contained
Erichthonius (2.552-2.564). For this reason the crow was demoted from
Minerva’s favorite bird to her second-favorite, after the owl (2.562-564, see
above on Nyctimene). This portion of the story is an oblique reference to a
myth of the origin of Erichthonius as the product of a failed rape attempt by
Vulcan on Minerva. Apollodorus 3.14.6 notes that there are two versions of
Erichthonius’ birth.8 In one, he is the son of Hephaestus and Atthis, the
daughter of Cranaus. In the other, he is bom after Hephaestus-having failed
to rape Athena-ejaculates on her leg. She wipes off the seed with wool and
throws it on the ground in disgust, and thus was Erichthonius produced. If
Ovid was aware of the two versions, he clearly points out which version he
follows in this story: he refers to Erichthonius as prolem sine matre creatam
(2.553), “offspring created without a mother.” Ovid therefore packs a
compressed attempted rape story into this tale of the crow’s punishment for
tattling.
The crow then tells how, before being a crow, she had been the lovely
daughter of King Coroneus, but had escaped rape by Neptune through
Minerva’s intervention (i.e. Minerva changed her into a crow). She blames her
trouble on her beauty, as Daphne had earlier (cf. Daphne 1.488-489):
forma mihi nocuit. nam cum per litora lentis
passibus, ut soleo, summa spatiarer harena,
vidit et incaluit pelagi deus, utque precando
* Hyginus relates the following version of the birth of Erichthonius:
tunc ergo Neptunus, quod Mineruae erat infestus, instigauit Vulcanum
Mineruam petere in coniugium. qua re impetrata in thalamum cum
uenisset, Minerua monitu louis uirginitatem suam armis defendit,
interque luctandum ex semine eius quod in terram decidit natus est
puer qui inferiorem partem draconis habuit (Hyginus 166)
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tempora cum blandis absumpsit inania verbis,
vim parat et sequitur.
(2.572-576)
My beauty harmed me. For when I was strolling with slow
steps, as I was accustomed, along the shores where the
sands begin, the god of the sea saw [me] and grew hot, and
when he used up useless time by praying with
blandishments he prepares to rape me and pursues.
The similarities to previous narratives may, by this time, be obvious: the god
tries first to persuade with words, here reduced to a mere phrase (cf. Apollo-
Daphne, Jupiter-lo, and Pan-Syrinx) and, having failed, prepares to take the
woman by force. In each instance the female object of desire is alone in a
natural setting7 and is desired as soon as seen by the god. Here, as with
Callisto, we are told that the god experiences this desire as “heat" (2.574; cf.
accepti caluere sub ossibus ignes, 2.410), a description common to the lover
in elegy. Like Daphne and Syrinx, the daughter of Coroneus escapes rape by
a prayer that brings metamorphosis:
fugio densumque relinquo
litus et in molli nequiquam lassor harena.
inde deos hominesque voco; nec contigit ullum
vox mea mortalem: mota est pro virgine virgo
auxiliumque tulit. tendebam bracchia caelo:
bracchia coeperunt levibus nigrescere pennis
(2.576-581)
I flee and leave behind the hard-packed
shore and in vain I’m exhausted in the soft sand.
Then I call gods and men; nor does my voice touch any
mortal: a virgin was moved on behalf of a virgin and
brought aid. I was stretching my arms to heaven:
my arms began to grow black with light feathers
7 See Hugh Parry (1964) for more on Ovid’s use of violence on pastoral landscapes.
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Changed now into a crow, she says that she was “given as a blameless
comrade to Minerva” (2.588). Like Daphne and lo, she flees until she can run
no farther and then has recourse only to prayer. At this point a divinity
intercedes on her behalf and changes her form. Unlike the others, she is
helped not by kin: here, she states that the bond which moves the goddess is
one of mutual virginity (2.579). Perhaps there is a further bond implied in the
allusion to Minerva’s near-rape by Hephestus: Minerva shares a bond with
the daughter of Coroneus of also having had an attempt made on her virginity.
The raven, in the end, ignores the crow’s warning and tells Apollo that he
had seen Coronis with a Thessalian youth (2.596-599). Apollo shoots Coronis
who, in her dying words, tells him that she is pregnant (2.600-611). Repentent
too late, Apollo snatches his unborn child and entrusts his son to the care of
Chiron (2.612-632). Apollo punishes the raven, on whose words Apollo had
acted too rashly, by forbidding the raven to be “among the white birds" (2.631-
632).
Ovid brings up the birth of Erichthonius again in the story of Mercury and
the daughters of Cecrops. The story itself does not contain a rape but has
elements which suggest rape. Mercury happens to be passing over Athens as
the festival of Pallas is underway and he sees Herse and bums with love:
obstipuit forma love natus et aethere pendens
non secus exarsit, quam cum . . .
(2.726-727)
the son of Jove was astounded by her beauty and hanging
in the air he burned not otherwise than when . . .
As we have seen in previous stories, the god sees and bums simultaneously.
It is here that we expect the approach of the god, some petition (if one is to be
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made), or some trick, disguise, or other method of gaining access to the object
of his desire. Confident of his good looks, Mercury does not disguise himseif
but enhances his looks nonetheless (2.732-736). Questioned as to his identity
and his reason for coming by Aglauros, the sister of Herse, Mercury responds
in a familiar way:
ego sum, qui iussa per auras
verba patris porto; pater est mihi luppiter ipse,
nec fingam causas, tu tantum fida sorori
esse velis prolisque meae matertera dici:
Herse causa viae; faveas oramus amanti.
(2.743-747)
I am he who carries the orders of my father
through the air; my father is Jupiter himself. Nor will
I make up reasons, only do you wish to be true to your
sister and wish to be called aunt to my offspring: Herse
is the cause of my journey, we beg that you favor a lover.
Here we see the petition based on rank in the universe made to Aglauros,
instead of directly to the intended object of desire-Herse, in this case. Ovid,
by Mercury’s naming of his father, reminds us of Jupiter’s methods: Mercury,
like his father, has come for sex. As in the story of lo, the god reveals his
intention of sexual union: rather than suggesting that Aglauros wish to, for
instance, be called sister-in-law to him, Mercury suggests that Aglauros wish
“to be called aunf to his offspring, implying that he is about to impregnate her
sister. We might remind ourselves at this point that Herse knows nothing of
her role in this narrative. Like the fantasy of Apollo about Daphne’s hairstyle,
like the suggestion by Jupiter to lo that she is “worthy of Jove,” Mercury here
already has the future mapped out: he will father a child with Herse, she
simply does not yet know it. The assumption by the god that the object of
desire will be honored to be his is crucial to his inability to consider that she
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may not want him. Apparently his rank and lineage (and here his good looks)
are thought by the god to be winning enough.
Aglauros demands gold for her help and sends the god away. At this
Pallas is angry since Aglauros will now be rich and find favor with Mercury for
her complicity (2.752-759). For this was the girl who had betrayed the
goddess:
subit, hanc arcana profana
detexisse manu, turn cum sine matre creatam
Lemnicolae stirpem contra data foedera vidit
(2.755-757)
it came to mind that she [Aglauros] had with
profaning hand uncovered the secrets, at the time when
she [Aglauros] saw, against orders, the offspring created
from the Lemnos-dweller without a mother
The reference to the birth of Erichthonius reminds us again of his creation
through Vulcan’s failed rape attempt on Pallas and of the stories told by the
crow. In addition, these arcana, “secrets" or “sacred mysteries,” were not to be
seen. We may wonder why the product of the failed rape attempt was not to be
seen~is this part of the shame of the (intended) victim? Or is this an example
of the hiding of the (attempted) crime of a god? We shall return to this point
later, but it worth keeping in mind as we consider the efforts to conceal rape
(either by the rapist or the rape victim). We might remember, too, that the birds
of the crow’s narrative were all involved in the revelation or concealment of
some sort of secret.8
In any event, Minerva has the girl afflicted with uncontrollable greed and
envy (2.760-813). Aglauros is then consumed with jealousy for her sister’s
8 The crow told that Aglauros looked into the box, the raven told that Coronis was unfaithful, and
Nyctimene sought to hide in darkness.
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imagined happiness (2.809). She fantasizes about her sister’s marriage to the
god and wished to die rather than see such joy; she often wished to tell “her
stem father as if it were a crime” (saepe velut crimen rigido narrare parenti,
2.813). Aglauros then decides to block the god’s entrance to Herse’s room
(2.814-817).
This may well not even be rape, but Ovid has set up the god's advances to
read like a rape with a few variations. Indeed we do find some ancient
accounts that have Herse as the mother of Cephalus by Mercury. But has
Mercury at this point in Ovid’s account (i.e. as Aglauros attempts to bar his
way) been a regular visitor, or has he yet to have sex Herse? In Ovid’s
narrative, it is difficult to say whether he and the girl ever even meet. Mercury
turns Aglauros to stone for persisting in her attempt to block his entrance to
Herse’s bed chamber, and she tries to resist:
ilia quidem pugnat recto se attollere trunco,
sed genuum iunctura riget
(2.822-823)
she indeed fights to raise herself with an upright body
but the joints of her knees grow stiff
Ovid’s words here recall by position and the exact wording Callisto’s struggle
against Jupiter: ilia quidem pugnat; sed quern superare puella,/quisve lovem
poterat? (2.436-437), “she indeed fought; but whom could a girl overcome, or
who was able to overcome Jove?” Having punished Aglauros, Mercury
promptly returns to the heavens:
Has ubi verborum poenas mentisque profanae
cepit Atlantiades, dictas a Pallade terras
linquit et ingreditur iactatis aethera pennis.
sevocat hunc genitor nec causam fassus amoris
(2.833-836)
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When Atlantiades inflicted these penalties for the words9
and impious mind, he left behind the lands named from
Pallas and he entered the upper air with fluttering wings.
His father calls him aside, not confessing that love was
the reason
So it seems that Mercury left right away and never entered Herse’s bed
chamber-unless he had seen her earlier between his initial agreement with
Aglauros and her eventual greed-inflicted stand against him, but there is
nothing in the text to suggest this. The fact that Ovid leaves this point
ambiguous suggests that the point of the story is not so much the “love" of
Mercury for Herse as it is (Minerva’s and) Mercury’s absolute victory over
Aglauros. As Mercury leaves behind the lands “named from Pallas,” we are
reminded that this is literally Minerva’s territory. The point of the story is that
the gods have power and the gods win power struggles with mortals. From
here the narrative becomes the segue to the Europa story and Herse is not
mentioned again.
It might seem strange even to include this tale in a discussion of rape, if the
point were not precisely that when it is juxtaposed to these other tales we
might suspect that the elements of rape lie beneath the surface. Nowhere is
Herse’s opinion given, unless we are to take Aglauros’ view that she is
strikingly happy-but then afflicted as she is, Aglauros’ views are skewed by
infectious envy. We are told that Envy put the images of Herse’s happiness in
Aglauros’ mind (sub imagine ponit, 2.804), indicating that Herse’s subjectivity
is completely lacking and the entire notion of her joy is an envious fiction. The
goddess Envy causes Aglauros to define Mercury’s desire for Herse as a
boon, instead of seeing Herse as a potential target of rape.
8 Aglauros to Mercury: 'desine!' dixit,Shine ego me non sum nisi te motura repulso.' (2.816-817).
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The end of this story segues directly into the rape narrative of Europa.
Jupiter orders Mercury to drive certain cattle belonging to the king of Sidon
down to the shore without saying that “love" was the reason for the command
(2.836-842). Mercury straightaway drives them to where the king’s daughter is
accustomed to play along with her Tyrian maids (2.843-845). Ovid next tells
us of Jupiter’s actions:
non bene conveniunt nec in una sede morantur
maiestas et amor; sceptri gravitate relicta
ille pater rectorque deum, cui dextra trisulcis
ignibus armata est, qui nutu concutit orbem,
induitur faciem tauri mixtusque iuvencis
mugit et in teneris formosus obambulat herbis.
(2.846-851)
majesty and love do not meet well nor do they linger in
the same place; and with his sceptre and gravitas left
behind, the father and ruler of gods, whose right hand is
armed with three-forked fires, who shakes the world
with a nod, puts on the appearance of a bull and, having
mingled with the cattle, moos and--beautiful~
wanders about on the tender grass.
Once again, we find Ovid calling attention to Jupiter’s rank and powers as he
is on the verge of raping a young maiden (cf. Callisto above). In addition,
some of the words he uses are quite remarkable. Maiestas-a t once
suggesting both sovereignty and treason-is coupled here with love, amor
(which as we shall see is rape and not love at all), in order to say that the two
are not a couple. In the same line we find another odd couple, that is sceptri
and gravitate, the very un-Roman sceptre and the Roman gravitas jammed
together in asyndeton, cast aside together for rape. But temporarily casting
them aside does not mean that they are forever thrown away: Jupiter has
both; the sceptre and gravitas can coexist, and the ruler can use his power as
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he wishes. The incongruity of the sceptre and gravitas is mirrored by Jupiter’s
rape disguise: the father and ruler of gods, Ovid tells us, wanders about as a
beautiful bull in a herd of cattle (i.e. Jupiter can be father and ruler of the gods
and yet “break ranks” to become a beast in a herd, on the lower end of the
hierarchy). In each case, the accoutrement of power (the sceptre, gravitas, his
true form) can be cast aside and taken up again at will. Jupiter can look like a
Roman king (by simultaneously having gravitas and a sceptre) or he can get
his way by seeming to be an innocuous “other" (i.e. here, a bull).
Ovid further describes the harmless look of Jupiter as a bull: nullae in
fronte minae, nec formidabiie lumen:/pacem vultus habet (2.857-858), “there
were no threats on its brow, nor did it have a frightening eye:/his expression
was of peace.” Europa (as yet unnamed in the text; cf. the crow and Callisto)
marvels at the bull but is wary despite his peaceful appearance. We find the
same technique here as we saw earlier: the appearance of something or
someone harmless (cf. the Diana disguise with Callisto) to gain the rape
target’s trust. She eventually draws nears and offers it flowers:
gaudet amans et, dum veniat sperata voluptas,
oscula dat manibus; vix iam, vix cetera differt
(2.862-863)
the lover rejoices and, until the hoped-for pleasure
should come, gives kisses to her hands; barely now,
barely did he defer the rest
Jupiter knows that he will get what he wants, it is simply a matter of time (dum
veniat sperata voluptas). It is in his control when “the rest” will take place. As
with Callisto, he puts off his desire in order to amuse himself further; he frolics,
he lies down, until Europa is completely unafraid:
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paulatimque metu dempto modo pectora praebet
virginea plaudenda manu, modo comua sertis
inpedienda novis. ausa est quoque regia virgo
nescia, quem premeret, tergo considere tauri
(2.866-869)
and gradually with her fear taken away now he offers
, his breast to be patted by the virginal hand, now
his horns to be entwined with new wreaths.
The regal virgin also dared to sit upon the back
of the bull, not knowing whom she pressed
Jupiter edges toward the shore and into the water with Europa on his back and
carries her off as a prize or booty (praedam, 2.873): she shudders in fear
(pavet haec, 2.873) as the shore recedes and she holds on to the bull’s hom
and back. Thus ends Book Two.
Book Three begins with the god’s revelation of himself:
lamque deus posita fallacis imagine tauri
se confessus erat Dictaeaque rura tenebat
(3.1-2)
And now with the image of the false bull cast aside, the
god had revealed himself and reached the fields of Crete
Without mention of rape, Ovid states that Europa’s father, Agenor, bid his son
Cadmus to find the girl or face exile (3.3-5). We might note that this is yet
another king (and father) whose daughter is unsafe, now that Jupiter has
established order on earth after Lycaon’s crime (cf. Inachus, Peneus).
Cadmus was unsuccessful in his search, as Ovid tells us:
(quis enim deprendere possit/furta lovis?) (3.6-7), “(for who is able to catch the
secret actions of Jove?).” Furta here may hold several of its meanings: it may
well be “secret actions” but also “stolen goods.” The rape itself is never told:
in fact we know only by inference that Europa was raped-she is later said to
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be the mother of Minos (ducis Europaei, 8.23; cf. Scylla’s reproach: non
genetrix Europa tibi est, 8.120).1 0 She indeed is mentioned in Arachne’s web:
Maeonis elusam designat imagine tauri
Europam: verum taurum, freta vera putares;
ipsa videbatur terras spectare relictas
et comites clamare suas tactumque vereri
adsilientis aquae timidasque reducere plantas.
(6.103-107)
The Maeonian depicts Europa tricked by the image of a bull
you would think the bull was real, the waves real
she herself seemed to be looking at the lands left behind
and to be calling her companions and to fear the touch of
the jumping water and to pull back her frightened feet
Ovid forces the reader to understand that rape occurred without having to tell
the rape: he simply has Jupiter carry the girl off, and from experience with
previous stories and from the added incidental mentions of Europa as a
mother later in the poem, the reader has no question but that she was raped.
Ovid has conditioned the reader to take rape for granted. What Arachne
depicts here (6.103-107) is the same scene which ends Book Two, where Ovid
had described the girl timidly grasping the horn and the back of the bull as it
carried her off. Here, however, we see more of Europa’s fear. In Arachne’s
web, the reader is brought sharply back to the point of Europa’s abduction and
forced to rethink what the reader may have overlooked: the perspective that
Europa was deeply afraid.
The next rape story is explicitly told as such but is subordinated in the
narrative, serving as an incidental detail to the story of Teiresias’ prophetic
powers and as a segue to the Narcissus story:
1 0 Indeed we find in other sources that Europa also bore to Jupiter Rhadamanthus, who appears
at 9.436 and 9.440 without mention of his mother. In addition, some cite her as Sarpedon's
mother, who like Rhadamanthus, appears in the Metamorphoses (13.255) without mention of
who his mother is.
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prima fide vocisque ratae temptamina sumpsit
caerula Liriope, quam quondam flumine curvo
inplicuit clausaeque suis Cephisos in undis
vim tulit
(3.341-344)
sea-blue Liriope first made trial of the faith of
[Teiresias’] sure voice, she whom Cephisos once enfolded
in the river-curve and, as she was imprisoned
in his waves, he raped her
The product of the rape was Narcissus. The rape itself is a mere detail, a
passing matter-of-fact explanation of how Liriope came to bear Narcissus, and
concerning what had she consulted the prophet.
The ostensible goal of the narrative is to explain that Jupiter gave Teiresias
prophetic powers and to explain how sure those powers proved to be. The
root story, then, is a “playful" dispute between Jupiter and Juno, to which
Teiresias fell victim (3.316-335). It seems that Jupiter, sometime after
immolating Semele and securing safety for his son Bacchus, was joking with
Juno (vacuaque agitasse remissos/cum lunone iocos, 3.319-320). He
maintained that females got more pleasure from sex; she took the opposite
view (3.320-322). Since Teiresias had been, at different times, male and
female, he was asked for his opinion. Having said that Jupiter was correct
(dicta lovis firmat, 3.333), Teiresias was struck blind by Juno. To lighten the
penalty (and unable to undo what another god has done), Jupiter gave
Teiresias the ability to know the future (3.36-338). Thus, from a domestic
scene of “joking” between these deities, Teiresias becomes an object both of
disdain and of honor. So, the prelude to the incidental mention of Liriope’s
rape is a story in which two deities are involved in a contest and, as a result, a
human will suffer (cf. Cupid and Apollo, with Daphne).
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From the contrast between male and female pleasure in sex, Ovid
interweaves a story (or two) within a story. After telling how Narcissus came to
be (that is, the rape of Liriope by Cephisos) Ovid begins to tell the story of
Narcissus, but inserts another incidental tale of attempted rape (if it may be so
called), that of Narcissus by Echo. Since the attempt is made by a female on a
male, the question of rape arises, as do questions of narrative. For example,
does this fit the pattern we have seen thus far of the rape stories? Are females
in the Metamorphoses “successful” in obtaining the objects of their desires? Is
gender the issue, or is it simply status (i.e. do female deities have greater
success than female mortals or nymphs)? These are some of the questions to
keep in mind as we turn to the story of Echo and Narcissus.
Ovid shifts the focus to the story of Echo even as he begins telling the story
of Narcissus. He states that Echo used to be capable of autonomous speech,
and indeed had the form of a nymph before this point. He explains how first
Echo lost her power to speak on her own:
fecerat hoc luno, quia, cum deprendere posset
sub love saepe suo nymphas in monte iacentis,
ilia deam longo prudens sermone tenebat,
dum fugerent nymphae. postquam hoc Satumia sensit,
'huius' ait 'linguae, qua sum delusa, potestas
parva tibi dabitur vocisque brevissimus usus,1
reque minas firmat. tantum haec in fine loquendi
ingeminat voces auditaque verba reportat.
(3.362-369)
Juno had done this, since, when she often could have
caught nymphs lying under her Jove on the mountain,
she [Echo] cunningly used to keep the goddess in a long
conversation, until the nymphs could flee. After Satumia
realized this, she said, “for this tongue by which I have
been tricked, small power will be given to you and the
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briefest use of speech.” She confirmed the threats with
the reality. She only repeats voices in the end of
speaking and returns the words she hears.
Thus Echo kept the furta of Jove as furta-w e are reminded of Cadmus’
inability to find Europa, since Ovid says, quis enim deprendere possit/furta
lovis? (3.6-7). Here it seems (unlike the circumstances in the stories told by
the crow) that even not telling secrets can lead to harm.
Like other would-be lovers and rapists in the poem, Echo sees and bums
with love:
ergo ubi Narcissum per devia rura vagantem
vidit et incaluit, sequitur vestigia furtim,
quoque magis sequitur, flamma propiore calescit
(3.370-372)
therefore when she saw Narcissus wandering through
the pathless fields and she grew hot, she secretly
follows his footsteps, and the more she follows,
the nearer the flame she bums by
Echo follows Narcissus furtim, itself an echo of Jupiter’s secret affairs, which
Ovid has trained readers to assume as a cue for rape. Like the previous
aggressors, she bums as soon as she sees the object of desire. But unlike the
others, she has no power of speech with which to make a case for herself (cf.
Apollo to Daphne, Pan to Syrinx, Jupiter to lo), nor has she great powers or
divine ancestors about whom she might boast. Nevertheless, Ovid tells us that
she desired to attempt to smoothtalk him:
o quotiens voluit blandis accedere dictis
et mollis adhibere preces! natura repugnat
nec sinit, incipiat
(3.375-377)
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o how many times she wished to approach with smooth
words and to apply soft prayers! But nature fights
against it, and does not allow that she begin
Having seized upon the opportunity to repeat his fortunate (for her) choice of
words, Echo comes out of hiding to meet Narcissus:
'coeamus' rettulit Echo
et verbis favet ipsa suis egressaque silva
ibat, ut iniceret sperato bracchia collo;
ille fugit fugiensque 'manus conplexibus aufer!
ante1 ait 'emoriar, quam sit tibi copia nostri';
rettulit ilia nihil nisi 'sit tibi copia nostril'
(3.387-391)
“let’s come together" returned Echo and she
herself favors her words and having come out of the
woods she goes, so that she might throw her arms on
his hoped-for neck; he flees and fleeing says, “Take
away your hands from embraces! May I die before you
may have power over me” she returned nothing except
“you may have power over me”
Like the male aggressors we have seen previously, Echo tries to begin with
words. Here she approaches, having been given a virtual green light, unlike
the male aggressors, whose objects of desire had fled instantly amid the
aggressor’s verbal address--and had fled in terror. In his “hoped-for neck” we
may see an echo of Jupiter’s “hoped-for pleasure” (sperata voluptas, 2.862)
with Europa-which he, unlike Echo, defers. Echo’s physical approach puts
the youth to flight, and Ovid gives us no indication that the nymph prepared to
used force or pursued in any way. Rejected, Echo withers away until she is
only voice and bones--and later still, echoing voice alone (3.393-401).
Echo is one of the few female aggressors in the poem and, like most others
(who will be discussed individually), she makes a feeble attempt at force, if it
may even be called force. She tries a physical approach, but with at least
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some reason to believe that the object of desire wanted her to approach (since
he shouted coeamus). Even so, it seems that the point again is power:
Narcissus would prefer to die than that the nymph should have power over him
(tibi copia nostri). Her inability to control her own speech (i.e. to originate
speech) is mirrored in her inability to control him physically. Unlike many other
objects of desire, Narcissus gets away and escapes the physical contact
without a change in his form: it is instead the aggressor’s form that is changed
from the meeting. Daphne, Syrinx, lo, and Callisto resist until they are
overpowered (either in the chase or by actually being caught), whereas
Narcissus need not resort to calling out a prayer for his form to be changed
since he escapes the aggressor on his own. All of this is neatly packaged in a
story which uses the image of mirrors to work its magic: just as the expected
effect of metamorphosis bounces off of Narcissus here and onto the aggressor,
Echo, so too does the later part of the story show that desire (which should be
for another) is placed onto himself while Narcissus looks into the reflective
surface of the water (3.402-436). Recall, too, that they were his own words,
repeated back, which initially attracted Narcissus to their meeting. Narcissus
himself echoes Echo’s movements as he tries in vain to grasp the neck
(collum) of the youth (i.e. himself) he sees in the water (3.428-429).
From here we read the demise of Narcissus (his metamorphosis into a
flower) and are then brought back to the greatness and certainty of Teiresias’
phophetic powers (3.429-512). Ovid further uses the thread of Teiresias’
prophecy to segue into the story of Pentheus and Bacchus, which concludes
Book 3 of the Metamorphoses. Book 4 begins with the daughters of Minyas
who, like Pentheus, reject Bacchus and remain in their home during his rites,
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spinning wool and telling stories (4.1-41). After one sister tells the story of
Pyramus and Thisbe (4.55-166), another, Leuconoe, tells the story of Sol and
Leucothoe.
Methods of rape in the Metamorphoses so far range from the use of
surprise (cf. Jupiter-Callisto, Jupiter-Europa) to the use of, or preparation to
use, physical force (sometimes following verbal entreaty; cf. Apollo-Daphne,
Pan-Syrinx, Cephisos-Liriope, Echo-Narcissus). In the stories where surprise
is used for the rapist’s advantage, the rapist often tries to appear as a familiar
and innocuous being (e.g. Jupiter as a harmless bull, Jupiter as Diana) to
disarm the object of desire of any fear. The next story of rape exhibits this
tactic in its extreme: no force or violence is needed because the victim is
immobilized by surprise and fear.
In the story of Sol and Leucothoe (4.190-270) Sol is afflicted with love for
Leucothoe as an act of revenge by Venus for Sol’s having told Vulcan about
her affair with Mars (4.169-197). Again we see the danger of telling secrets:
here the furtive affair is exposed and the witness/tattler is punished. This
affliction causes Sol to neglect his usual duties and lovers, and in effect
causes a disruption of the natural order (4.197-203). He enters Leucothoe’s
chambers (twice called thalamus 4.218, 4.225, a word which can mean
“marriage chamber”) disguised as her mother, Eurynome (versus in
Eurynomes faciem genetricis, 4.219). He finds Leucothoe with her twelve
attendants spinning wool (levia versato ducentem stamina fuso, 4.221 )~an
activity often associated with the chaste woman. Having kissed her “as a
mother would kiss a dear daughter,” he orders the servants to leave the room
on the pretext that he, as her mother, has a secret to tell Leucothoe ('res/it
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'arcana est: famulae, discedite neve/eripite arbitrium matri secreta loquendi,
4.222-224). Again, we find secrets (arcana, secreta; cf. furta) tied to sexual
misconduct: not everyone is entitled to know. The god addresses her once
the room is left without a witness (sine teste, 4.225). He explains briefly who
he is and why he has come:
“ille ego sum” dixit, “qui longum metior annum,
omnia qui video, per quem videt omnia tellus,
mundi oculus: mihi, crede, places.”
(4.226-228)
“I am he who measures the long year,” he said,“who
sees all things, by whom the whole world sees, the eye
of the world: to me, believe it, you are pleasing.”
Sol, like Apollo and Jupiter in the stories discussed above, offers his resume
which, one assumes, is intended to flatter the object of his desire, based on his
rank in the universe. He, like the others, cites his specific powers (ego sum
qui...). As in the other cases, Leucothoe is nevertheless terrified:
pavet ilia metuque
et colus et fusi digitis cecidere remissis.
(4.228-229)
she trembled from fear and both
the distaff and spindle fell from her loosened fingers.
Paralyzed with fear, Leucothoe drops the symbols of her chastity and, we are
told, is enhanced in attractiveness by fear itself (ipse timor decuit, 4.230; cf.
Daphne). Sol then rapes her:
nec longius ille moratus
in veram rediit faciem solitumque nitorem;
at virgo quamvis inopino territa visu
victa nitore dei posita vim passa querella est.
(4.230-233)
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he, delaying no longer, returns to his true form and
customary brightness; but the maiden, although terrified
at the unexpected sight, conquered by the brightness of
the god, with her complaint put aside, is raped.
Ovid invites the reader to feel attraction for the terrified Leucothoe by stating
“fear itself was becoming to her." Leucothoe is “conquered" (victa, cf. Jupiter
as victor after he rapes of Callisto, 2.437) by Sol's brightness and is unable to
fend him off. Even though no physical force is used to overpower Leucothoe,
Ovid intimates that she was forced to submit (vim passa est is literally, “she
experienced his force”). Once again we see the rapidity of the act reflected in
the meter-note the four dactyls in line 233-while Leucothoe’s terror and
inability to move are reflected in the slow movement of the previous line (four
spondees in 4.232). The words vim passa (4.233) convey explicitly that she
was raped; Curran (1978, 221) states of this phrase: uvim passa and its
variants verge on the formulaic in the Metamorphoses."1 1 But, although the
story of Leucothoe and Sol is another explicit rape story, it is often not even
called a rape.1 2 Leucothoe herself later asserts to her father that she was
raped: ‘ille/vim tulit invitae' (4.238-239), using the same words (vim tulif) to
describe the rape. Her father nevertheless buries her, heaping a mound of
sand over her. After a failed attempt to reanimate Leucothoe, Sol transforms
her into a fragrant frankincense shrub.
1 1 cf. the crow, as the daughter of Coroneus, describes the rape attempt Neptune made on her
vim parat, 2.576. For a brief discussion of vis in sexual references, see J. N. Adams (1982,198-
199).
'2 Take a few translations, for example: Frank Justus Miller (1946,195): “ But the maiden. . .
overwhelmed by his radiance, at last without protest suffers the ardent wooing of the god”;
Rolfe Humphries (1955,88): “ And she, still fearful of the sudden vision,/ Won over by that
shining, took his passion/ With no complaint.” Leo Curran (1978,221), however, sees this as
rape and translates: “ she was overwhelmed by the god’s radiance and endured his assault
without protest.” He further states (221): “ No force or threat of force is present, but the effect is
the same.”
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Sol, like Jupiter in the Callisto story, takes on the disguise of one from
whom the victim should not expect sexual aggression. Diana (in the case of
Jupiter with Callisto) and Leucothoe's mother here are the least sexually
threatening beings the victim could see. Sol takes advantage of the mother-
daughter relationship by telling the servants to leave, as a mother’s privilege:
she has a secret to tell her daughter. But when a god is involved, the secret is
rape or at least some other sexual misconduct (e.g. Venus’ affair with Mars).
Jupiter, too, used the virgin-mentor figure to gain close and intimate access to
Callisto. There, too, Jupiter had taken advantage of the willing intimacy to kiss
the nymph (and cf. his actions as a bull with Europa, oscula dat manibus,
2.863):
et oscula iungrt,
nec moderata satis nec sic a virgine danda
(2.430-431)
and he gives kisses, which are not moderate enough
nor ones that ought to be given by a virgin
Here Sol, disguised as Eurynome, kisses the girl: “he gave kisses as a mother
gives to a dear daughter,” (ceu matri carae dedit oscula natae, 4.222). By
appearing as the most trustworthy figure, the most trust is betrayed. Ovid
embeds a secret within the secret: not only is the rape to be performed without
a witness, but the intention of the seemingly innocuous figure is kept secret,
until there is no escape.
Just as in previous stories, the use to which the god puts his vast powers
calls into question his greatness. Attention is called to Sol's powers and rank:
he states that it is he who “measures out the long year” and through him all the
world sees all things (4.4.226-227). We are forced to consider the great power
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of the god alongside his use of that power to rape. In addition, the self-
proclaimed “eye of the world" (mundi oculus, 4.228) wishes to act unseen
(sine teste, 4.225). This corresponds to each of the other rape and attempted
rape stories in that they each occur when the victim is apart from possible
witnesses. Although many rape narratives are set in the wild, even those
which start out with the victim accompanied by companions involve the rapist
luring the victim away--as if Europa’s maiden friends could have stopped
Jupiter. The suggestion is, then, not one of the removal of possible rape-
obstructors, but the removal of witnesses to a god acting thus. We shall return
to this point again, in Chapter 3, in discussing indices such as Arachne who
boldly tell what are (in the Arachne story) called “the crimes of gods." We are
reminded, too, of the furta of Jupiter, which Cadmus was unable to catch, and
which Juno might have caught, but for the interference of Echo.
The next rape narrative,1 3 like that of Echo and Narcissus, involves a female
aggressor but with a more explicit sexual assault. The story of Salmacis and
Hermaphroditus (4.285-388) begins with the promise of novelty: the narrator
(Alcithoe, another of the daughters of Minyas) says that she will pass over
well-known stories and tell this particular one, dulcique animos novitate
tenebo (4.284), “and I will hold your minds with sweet novelty.” She begins by
stating that the the vis of the fountain Salmacis is well-known (vis est notissima
fontis, 4.287): it softens and takes the strength from the limbs of those who
bathe there (4.286). The word vis alone cues us, as rape-readers, to expect
rape. Having heard that this story is novel, we come to see why: it is an
attempted rape of a male by a female. Hermaphroditus, so named from his
1 3 Prior to this we leam of the fate of Sol’s former lover, Clytie: she told Leucothoe’s father of his
daughter’s adulterium (4.236). For telling (and thus causing the death of Leucothoe), Sol shuns
Clytie and she withers away (4.234-270).
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parents (Hermes and Aphrodite-called here by the names of their Roman
counterparts: Mercury and Cythereis), now sixteen years old, wanders alone
near a pool of clear water. Here, we are told, dwells an unusual water-nymph:
sed nec venatibus apta nec arcus
flectere quae soleat nec quae contendere cursu,
solaque naiadum celeri non nota Dianae.
(4.302-304)
but she is not suited for the hunt, nor is she accustomed
to bend the bow nor to strive in a race,
and she alone of the naiads is not known to swift Diana.
While her sister-nymphs try to spur her to hunt, she rebuffs them and prefers
instead to bathe, comb her hair, fix her appearance, and to gather flowers
(4.305-315). The nymph is further distinguished from other water-nymphs in
that Diana does not know her: the inference, perhaps, is that she also does
not follow a path of virginity. Salmacis saw the boy as she was gathering
flowers:
et turn quoque forte legebat,
cum puerum vidit visumque optavit habere.
(4.315-316)
and at that time, too, she was gathering [flowers]
when she saw the boy and wanted to have what she saw.
She (like Mercury with Herse above) first fixes her appearance before
approaching the object of her desire (4.317-319). She begins with a verbal
entreaty:
tunc sic orsa loqui: “puer o dignissime credi
esse deus, seu tu deus es, potes esse Cupido,
sive es mortalis, qui te genuere, beati
et frater felix et fortunata profecto,
si qua tibi soror est, et quae dedit ubera nutrix;
sed longe cunctis longeque beatior ilia,
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si qua tibi sponsa est, si quam dignabere taeda.
haec tibi sive aliqua est, mea sit furtiva voluptas,
seu nulla est, ego sim, thalamumque ineamus eundem.”
nais ab his tacuit, pueri rubor ora notavit
(nescit, enim, quid amor), sed et erubuisse decebat
(4.320-330)
then she began to speak thus: "O boy worthy to be believed
to be a god, or if you are a god, you could be Cupid,
or if you are mortal, blessed are those who bore you,
and your brother happy, and fortunate, indeed, your sister,
if you have one, and the nurse who gave her breast;
but far, far more blessed is she, whoever is your fiancee,
whomever you have thought worthy of marriage. If you
have one, let my pleasure be secret, or if there isn’t
one, let me be, and let us enter the same bed chamber.”
The naiad fell silent from these words. Redness
marked his face; for he did not know what love was,
but even to have blushed was becoming.
Note the many verbal echoes in her speech of the narratives we have seen
above. Like Jupiter with lo, the aggressor begins the attempt with praise which
gets more specific as it goes: o virgo love digna tuoque beatum/nescio quem
factura toro (1.589-590), “O maiden worthy of Jove and one about to make
someone blessed in his wedding bed.” The notion of “worthiness” is linked to
the bedroom in both instances. Like toro, thalamum ranges in meanings from
bed chamber to marriage bed to marriage itself. “Blessed” in both instances is
linked to the degree of intimacy with the object of desire and degree of access
to the bed chamber. We see here that blessedness has degrees: the parents
are blessed, the brother happy, the sister emphatically fortunate, and the
woman from whom he nursed seemingly-by position, at least-as fortunate as
the hypothetical sister. Each of these gets closer, in potential sexual situation,
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to Hermaphroditus.1 4 From the nursemaid who gave her breast we leap to the
one “far, far more blessed” than the rest: the woman, if she exists, to whom he
is betrothed. Like Jupiter with lo, the implications of her speech become
clearer the more she says. Salmacis eventually takes a very direct approach.
She notes that if he is to be wed, it does not change her willingness: she
states mea sit furtiva voluptas, recalling at once Jupiter with Europa.1 5 If he has
no fiancee, she wants to be his fiancee-and then comes the most direct
proposition: thalamumque ineamus eundum (4.428) “and let’s enter the same
marriage/bed chamber.” The pivotal point of her request is that they go to bed
together, regardless of whether he is married or not. As with Echo {coeamus!,
3.387), the point is meeting physically. In Echo’s case, however, the mirror
effect caused inversions: Echo was not only ngi joined to Narcissus, but was
herself disjoined from her own body.1 6 Narcissus was joined to himself in a
longing that could never result in a physical meeting. Here the effect will be
the other extreme: an intermingling of the two into one.
Hermaphroditus blushes and, we are told, is the more attractive for it
(4.331). This detail not only recalls the added attraction of other objects of
desire (most often from fear) but also deepens our sense of his virginity, “for he
did not know what love was.” We are also reminded that it was Echo, once
rejected, who blushed (pudibundaque frondibus ora/protegit, 3.393-394). Also
like Echo, Salmacis tries to (or at least was about to) throw her arms around
1 4 Note that later, Salmacis will beg for at least a “ sisterly kiss" {poscenti nymphae sine fine sororia
saltem/oscula, 4.334-335).
, s As a bull Jupiter kisses her hands: dum veniat sperata voluptas, 2.862. Ovid states of
Cadmus’ inability to find Europa after her abduction by Jupiter: quis enim deprendere
possMurta lovis?(3.6-7).
, s cf. Daphne-the disjuction between her subjectivity and her body was noted by Ovid (she
wished to remained a virgin, but this could not be: votoque tuo tua forma repugat (1.489); the
crow, too, noted her downfall, and in her words separates her body from her self: forma mihi
nocuit (2.572).
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her beloved’s neck (4.335). Salmacis becomes afraid (extimuit, 4.337) when
her beloved tells her to stop or he will leave her and the place behind. No
other rapists we have seen fear the flight of the beloved (because they usually
know the beloved will be caught) except for Apollo, who fears only that
Daphne may mar her body by fleeing rashly (1.508-509).
Salmacis pretends to leave but waits, hidden nearby, until the boy disrobes
in order to swim in the pool:
nec mora, temperie blandarum captus aquarum
mollia de tenero velamina corpora ponit.
turn vero placuit, nudaeque cupidine formae
Salmacis exarsit; flagrant quoque lumina nymphae,
non aliter quam cum puro nitidissimus orbe
opposita speculi referitur imagine Phoebus;
vixque moram patitur, vix iam sua gaudia differt,
iam cupit amplecti, iam se male continet amens.
(4.344-351)
nor is there delay; taken by the temperature of the
soothing waters he put aside the soft clothing from his
slender body. Then indeed he was pleasing and Salmacis
burned with desire for his naked form, the nymph’s eyes
also blaze, not otherwise than when Phoebus brightest
with a clear orb is reflected in the opposing image of a
mirror and barely does she endure delay, barely now does
she defer her joys, now desires to be embraced, now,
out of her mind, cannot restrain herself.
Just as Europa gradually let down her guard to the bull, so Hermaphroditus
warms up to the place after the early scare with Salmacis. The water here is
blanda, like the words lovers use to seduce (cf. bianditiae). As Salmacis sees
the boy naked, she conceived a more fiercely burning love--earlier she had
conceived a burning desire which left her the presence of mind to adjust her
appearance: here she becomes unable to control herself. As with Echo, more
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of the beloved, or proximity to him, heightens the desire.'7 Also like Echo, she
shows a lack of restraint in a situation where she is not all-powerful. Echo
failed to bring about what she wanted and did not control the situation. She
was not able to control her own feelings: even when rejected she was unable
to stop feeling passion for him (tamen haeret amor, 3.395). The fact that she
could not have him made her bum in her passion all the more (crescitque
dolore repulsae, 3.395). Salmacis is similarly out of control: she is amens,
“out of her mind."
Salmacis’ eyes blaze like Phoebus reflected in a mirror, and we at once
have a complex reminder of other would-be and actual rapists:
Apollo/Phoebus with Daphne; Sol with Leucothoe (Phoebus is, after all,
identified as Sol in the Phaethon story, 2.31-39, and here as the orb of the
sun); and Echo with Narcissus (mirroring, one-sided desire, reflective love).
In addition, the verbal echoes in the next lines (vixque . . . differt)
immediately recall Jupiter’s “self-restraint” with Europa: “barely now, barely
does he defer the rest,” {vix iam, vix cetera differt, 2.863). Jupiter is said to
defer the rest with difficulty, but he does, in fact, wait until after he has earned
Europa off. With Callisto, he took the time to converse with her, amused that
she preferred (his disguise of) Diana to himself. Sol, too, appearing as
Leucothoe’s mother, waits until the witnesses (Leucothoe’s attendants) have
left the room. Salmacis at this point has no self-control; she immediately
disrobes and goes after the boy. Unlike a rape victim, who is said literally to
endure the force/violence {vim pati) of the rapist, here the female aggressor
cannot endure a delay (nec moram patitui) to their physical union.
1 7 Of Echo:
vidit et incaluit, sequitur vestigia furtim,
quoque magis sequitur, flamma propiore calescit (3.371-372)
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Hermaphroditus dives into the pool, and Salmacis feels that victory is hers
(vicimus et meus est, 4.356; cf. Jupiter after the rape of Callisto as victor,
2.437). She disrobes and dives in after him.
Ovid describes her assault with words of touching, feeling, and grabbing:
pugnantemque tenet, luctantiaque oscula carpit,
subiectatque manus, invitaque pectora tangit,
et nunc hac iuveni, nunc circumfunditur iliac;
denique nitentem contra elabique volentem
inplicat ut serpens, quam regia sustinet ales
sublimemque rapit: pendens caput ilia pedesque
adligat et cauda spatiantes inplicat alas
(4.358-364)
and she holds him as he fights, she steals wrestling
kisses, and she puts her hands under and she touches his
unwilling chest, and now on this side, now on that she
encircles him finally as he struggles against her and as
he wishes to slip out she envelops him like a snake,
which the regal bird holds and snatches off to on high:
hanging, it binds [the eagle’s] head and feet and with
its tail entangles the spreading wings
In this simile it is the predator that falls victim to its own prey: that is, the snake
wraps its folds around the eagle’s head, feet and wings, with the implication
that the eagle becomes unable to fly (4.362-364). There may be another
complex reminder here of other rape stories: the bird that snatches (rapit) the
snake away is the regia ales-literally the “regal bird”~whose master is Jupiter.
It is Jupiter who has snatched away/raped other earth-borne creatures (like the
snake, in this instance). We see, then, an inversion similar to that in the Echo-
Narcissus story: the regal bird snatches the snake in the simile, but not in its
analogue-Hermaphroditus, although identified with the bird here, is not the
rapist he “should” be. Salmacis, who ought to be the prey (as the snake in the
simile), is the one who both grabs at and entwines Hermaphroditus. There is
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the further implication by the eagle-snake simile that Hermaphroditus is
somewhat effeminate to begin with: although he is likened to the rapacious
eagle, he makes no attempt to rape Salmacis, as his role in the simile would
imply.
There follow two more similes of wrapping and enfolding (ivy on a tree and
the octopus and its enemy, 4.365-367). For even though Salmacis attaches
herself to him physically, she is unable to force him to have sexual relations
with her: perstat Atlantfades sperataque gaudia nymphae/denegat (4.368-
369), “Atlantiades persists and the hoped-for joys of the nymph/he denies." In
sperata gaudia we hear an echo of Jupiter’s sperata voluptas with Europa and
Echo’s sperata colfa (of Narcissus). Both of the female aggressors fail in their
verbal and physical attempts on their objects of desire. Since he continues in
his resistance, Salmacis says that he may fight her but he will never escape.
She asks the gods that she and Hermaphroditus never be separated. Their
bodies fuse and become one body:
nec duo sunt sed forma duplex, nec femina dici
nec puer ut possit, nec utrumque et utrumque videtur.
ergo, ubi se liquidas, quo vir descenderat, undas
semimarem fecisse videt mollitaque in illis
membra, manus tendens, sed iam non voce virili
Hermaphroditus ait...
(4.378-383)
There are not two, but rather a double form, it could not
be called either a woman or a boy nor did it seem to be
one or the other. Therefore, when it saw that the clear
waters-where he had entered as a man-had made him
half-male, and when it saw too, the soft limbs reflected
in the water, extending his hands and, in a voice which now
was not that of a man, Hermaphroditus said . . .
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Although the body is indistinguishable as either male or female, we see that it
is Hermaphroditus’ consciousness that prevails. It is he who sees himself,
now partly female. Salmacis is dissolved into Hermaphroditus and exists only
in the feminine characteristics of him. The fusion of their bodies has created
one body that is consciously male. Through her physical act of aggression,
Salmacis loses her own bodily identity and her beloved Hermaphroditus
becomes effeminate.
Both Salmacis and Echo seize (or attempt to seize) the man they desire.
Echo, for example, tries to embrace Narcissus (3.388-390); Salmacis
embraces Hermaphroditus (pugnantemque tenet, 4.358). Both Echo and
Salmacis are destroyed physically after the encounter, but Salmacis has a
lasting and emasculating effect on Hermaphroditus. The distinction between
the stories is that Salmacis catches Hermaphroditus while Echo misses
Narcissus. Salmacis affects her beloved by her hold on him: she holds
Hermaphroditus physically, and keeps him from being manly. Here the female
aggressor diminishes the masculinity of her beloved when she proves even
somewhat successful in manipulating him.
Male characters who use words to persuade, or are persuaded by women,
are described as unmanly. The objects of desire in the examples above-
Narcissus and Hermaphroditus--are described as boyish or unmanly even
before they meet up with the female aggressors. Narcissus, for example, is
sixteen years old {ter ad quinos unum Cephisius annum addiderat, 3.351) and
of slight build (tenera forma, 3.354). Hermaphroditus too is boyish (de tenero
corpora, 4.345). We get the sense from this pattern that these males are
regarded as less “manly” and less experienced either because women pursue
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93
them rather than vice versa, or that it is their very boyishness that the women
find attractive. Far from being a sexual threat to the women, the youths are
sexually threatened by women. We will return to the female aggressor later in
our discussion of Aurora in Book 7, where we find that the power differential
makes all the difference for a successful rapist.
The next rape story is hardly a story at all-there is a passing reference
made to Danae within the context of the story of Acrisius’ disbelief in Bacchus
as a god and of Perseus as Jupiter’s son by Danae (4.604-613):
neque enim lovis esse putabat
Persea, quern pluvio Danae conceperat auro.
(4.610-611)
for he did not even believe Perseus to be the son
of Jove,whom Danae had conceived with the golden rain.
Like the story of Liriope, the rape is not the focus--the mention of it is a simple
factual detail attached to the narrative at hand, whose subject matter is
something other than the rape. Here the detail serves only to establish the
paternity of Perseus against Acrisius’ disbelief in it. So well-known is the rape
of Danae that Ovid does not even tell the tale in narrative form, but alludes to it
in several places in his poem, and in different ways. These “incidental rapes”
deserve special note and will be discussed at greater length at the end of
Chapter 2B.
The rape of Medusa brings Book Four to an end. From the mention of
Danae to this point in the narrative, Ovid has told of the exploits of Perseus
including his rescue of and marriage to Andromeda. This story has the
general pattern and language of a rape narrative, but instead takes the form of
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the “contest with woman as prize” myth. Perseus sees Andromeda chained to
a rock:
trahit inscius ignes
et stupet et visae correptus imagine formae
paene suas quatere est oblitus in aere pennas.
ut stetit, 'o' dixit 'non istis digna catenis,
sed quibus inter se cupidi iunguntur amantes,
pande requirenti nomen terraeque tuumque,
et cur vincla geras.' primo silet ilia nec audet
adpellare virum virgo, manibusque modestos
celasset vultus, si non religata fuisset
(4.675-683)
unknowing, he catches fire and he is amazed
and, taken by the image of the form that he saw,
he almost forgets to flap his wings in the air.
While he stood, he said, “O not worthy of those chains,
but of those by which lovers are joined to each other,
reveal to me as I ask the name of your land, your name,
and why you bear chains.” At first she is silent nor does
she, a virgin, dare to address a man, and she would have
covered her modest face with her hands,
had she not been bound
Here we can see the inception of rape as we have seen it before: the lover
sees and bums, and addresses the virgin with praise that is suggestive of
desired sexual relations. After some urging, she does speak, and just then the
sea monster approaches. Perseus at that point gives his lineage (incidentally
again mentioning the rape of Danae, 4.698) and his accomplishments (cf.
Apollo to Daphne, et al.) and agrees to save her if she will be his as payment
for his services: “I stipulate that, saved by my valor, she be mine” (ut mea sit
servata mea virtute, paciscor, 4.703). Her parents accept the bargain and
promise a large dowry.
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After the lengthy battle with the sea-monster and after Perseus sets up
altars to certain gods, he gets to the business of the bargain:
protinus Andromedan et tanti praemia facti
indotata rapit; taedas Hymenaeus Amorque
praecutiunt
(4.757-759)
straightaway he snatches Andromeda and the undowered
prize of his great deed; Hymen and Love shake the torches
What had begun as a potential rape story ends as a potential rape story and
gives fuel to the fire of “marriage as rape” theories. This marriage, of course, is
effected through his winning her from death (adding fuel to the model
“marriage as death" theories). Interesting, too, that despite the promise of a
large dowry, he takes his prize undowered.1 8 What is odd is that the ending is
proverbially happy: although we do not hear from Andromeda on the subject,
we are told that “Hymen and Love shake the torches,” which translates into a
happy marriage (cf. Dido’s unlucky linking). Odd, that is to say, because we
earlier saw marriage language (toro, taedas, thalamo, thalamum) used by
would-be rapists and yet here, where we might expect such a word, we
instead get rapit Ovid even uses the same word he had used of Jupiter
carrying Europa off as a prize (praedam, 2.873). Ovid plays on our
expectations by mixing lovers and rapists: just as he uses “elegiac” elements
within rape stories, he here uses rape patterns in a marriage story. The result
is that the reader has a disquieting feeling about the everchanging landscape
of the Metamorphoses: just as Jupiter says “you will be safe with me” and
1 1 This point will be discussed in Chapter 4 at greater length; however, here we should note that
in rhetorical speeches recalled by the Elder Seneca, there is a spurious law pertaining to rape:
Rapta raptoris aut mortem aut indotatas nuptias optet, e.g. Controv. 1.5.
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means “I’m going to rape you,” so too, may an otherwise innocuous marriage
contain elements of rape.
During the marriage banquet Perseus regales the crowd with tales of his
exploits and Book Four ends with his account of Medusa’s former beauty:
clarissima forma
multorumque fuit spes invidiosa procorum
ilia, nec in tota conspectior ulla capillis
pars fuit: inveni, qui se vidisse referret,
hanc pelagi rector templo vitiasse Minervae
dicitur: aversa est et castos aegide vultus
nata lovis texit, neve hoc inpune fuisset,
Gorgoneum crinem turpes mutavit in hydros,
nunc quoque, ut attonitos formidine terreat hostes,
pectore in adverso, quos fecit, sustinet angues.
(4.794-803)
most beautiful in form, she was the
envy-filled hope of many suitors, nor was any part of
her form more lovely than her hair: I learned this from
one who said that he had seen it. The ruler of the sea
is said to have raped her in the temple of Minerva:
Jove’s daughter turned away and covered her chaste
face with the aegis, and lest this go unpunished, she
changed the Gorgon’s hair into foul snakes. Now, too,
in order to terrify her fear-stunned enemies,
she keeps the snakes which she made on her chest.
Medusa is described as having been both beautiful and sought-after, like the
descriptions of Daphne and Syrinx discussed above. As with Andromeda,
modesty is here expressed by the virgin by covering her face. In addition,
vitiare means “to corrupt” or “to violate”: the suggestion is that Medusa is
violated and this, even unseen by the virgin goddess, in effect threatens to
spread the corruption to her (cf. Callisto’s expulsion from Diana’s troop of
nymphs). There are elements here of several of the previously discussed rape
stories. As we noted above, rapists do not like witnesses, and Minerva, as we
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shall see in her reaction to Arachne’s web, does not like to see the crimes of
the gods-rape, in particular--on display.
At least two interpretations for Minerva’s reaction are possible: it may arise
solely from her sense of modesty and virginity or her response simply asserts
her allegiance to the powers that be (i.e. gods are right, mortals are wrong). At
first, the suggestion is that the violation has to do with her chastity {castos
vultus), but her subsequent action (that of punishing Medusa) suggests the
latter interpretation: that is, that no matter who instigated the violation, Minerva
sides with the god to the detriment of the mortal. The fact that Medusa was in
the temple of Minerva adds a level of pathetic detail to ponder: was she there
to worship the very deity who punishes her for being raped? We might also
recall a virgin whom Minerva had earlier saved from rape-the daughter of
Coroneus (who is, later, the crow): “the virgin was moved on behalf of a virgin
and brought aid” (mota est pro virgine virgo/auxiliumque tulit, 2.579-580). The
god in each instance is Neptune (pelagi deus, 2.574; pelagi rector, 4.798),
who is well known as Minerva’s enemy (e.g. the rivalry over Athens).
Rape is something which Minerva does not want to be seen: consider
Erichthonius (the product of attempted rape) in the box, the edict to the
daughters of Cecrops not look inside during the festival to Minerva. Even so
we find her very willing to associate with other offspring of rape, such as
Perseus: hactenus aurigenae comitem Tritonia fratri/se dedit, 5.250-251, “all
the while Tritonia devoted herself as an ally to her gold-bom brother”). So
then is her loyalty tied to kinship? To Jupiter? This may well be. Ovid
inherited dual birth stories of Minerva-that she is either the product of sexual
union or that she is bom solely from Jupiter. This is suggested by (again the
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inherited) myths which pair her with Vulcan, who is also said to have been
created without sexual union. So Cecrops is believed to have been
autochthonous, and thus the gift of the box (containing the semi-
autochthonous Erichthonius) to the daughters of Cecrops may be particularly
apt.
What are we to make of this? It seems to boil down precisely to sexual
production versus non-sexual production of offspring and the association of
the gods producing offspring through rape. Minerva may well be on the side of
the gods in any case, but avoids direct viewing of the rape itself, even if she
comes to favor the product of that rape (as she does with Perseus, the product
of her father’s rape of Danae, and eventually, with Erichthonius in other
versions of the myth).
Here, however, not only does Minerva avert her gaze from the rape, but
she effects a change in the rape victim that causes others to be unable to look
upon her after the rape: the snaky-locked Medusa changes to stone those that
look upon her. Minerva herself keeps the snakes which she created in order
to frighten her enemies-the victim becomes a terrifying weapon to be used by
Minerva against her enemies. Like Apollo’s appropriation of Daphne (as
laurel) as a trophy of victory, Minerva changes Medusa into a symbol of her
own power-Medusa, who was desired and raped by Neptune, Minerva’s
enemy. Perhaps, in effect, Minerva has taken something away from her own
enemy, to be used for her own interests and against her enemies.
Callisto also has the (unasked-for) ability, like Medusa’s, to affect those
around her by displaying the aftermath of rape (although not so dramatically
as to change them to stone). After she is raped by Jupiter, she rejoins Diana’s
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band of nymphs where the “crime” is exposed. Diana suggests that they all
bathe nude in a secluded pool:
Parrhasis erubuit; cunctae velamina ponunt;
una moras quaerit: dubitanti vestis adempta est,
qua posita nudo patuit cum corpore crimen,
attonitae manibusque uterum celare volenti
'i procul hinc’ dixit 'nee sacros pollue fontis!'
(2.460-464)
the Arcadian blushes; all put aside their clothing; she
alone seeks delays: the dress was taken from the
hesitant girl, and, with it put aside, the crime along
with her nude body was in the open. [Diana] said to the
girl, who was shocked and wanting to cover her womb
with her hands, “Go far from here, don’t pollute our
sacred springs!”
Callisto blushes with a sense of modesty (cf. Echo, Hermaphroditus) and
shows a similar sense of shame in trying to cover her womb (cf. Andromeda
and Minerva’s attempts to cover their faces, so that immodesty may not enter
through their eyes). Despite Callisto’s innocence of crime (cf. Jupiter did not
proceed sine crimine, 2.433), the crime is now hers to display and to cause
anxiety in others-when they see it. Nevertheless, she is now the source of
pollution, like Medusa who from that point onward seems an object of disgust
to the deity (cf. Minerva’s turning away and covering her face), not to be looked
upon without dire consequences.
In Book Five the power structure-like the hierachy of place before the
Callisto story-is further defined. Tritonia/Minerva had been with Perseus
throughout his ordeals, we are told (5.250-251), and now made her way to
Helicon, the home of the Muses, to see the fountain newly made by Pegasus,
who had sprung from the neck of slain Medusa (5.251-259). In response to
Pallas’ calling them lucky (felices) in their pursuit and in their location (pariter
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studioque locoque, 5.267), one of the Muses begins to relate a recent cause of
terror to the sisters. She begins by noting both the likenesses and differences
between Minerva and the Muses:
o, nisi te virtus opera ad maiora tulisset,
in partem ventura chori Tritonia nostri,
vera refers meritoque probas artesque locumque,
et gratam sortem, tutae modo simus, habemus.
sed (vetitum est adeo sceleri nihil) omnia terrent
virgineas mentes, dirusque ante ora Pyreneus
vertitur, et nondum tota me mente recepi.
(5.269-275)
O Tritonia, who would come into our chorus
had your excellence not brought you to greater works,
you speak truly and deservedly praise our arts and our
place, and we have a welcome lot--were we but safe.
But (to such a degree is no crime forbidden) all things
terrify our virginal minds, dread Pyreneus turns before
my face, and not yet have I recovered in all my mind.
The Muse notes that Minerva would have made a fitting member of the Muse-
band, but was made for greater things. So although alike in many ways, the
Muses note that their station is lower than Minerva’s. For the Muses, the
situation is pleasing or welcome (gratam sortem), but still they face danger.
We may be reminded here of the council of the gods in Book One, in that the
lesser deities are separated spatially from the Olympians. Here both Minerva
and the Muse call attention to the place itself (locoque, 5.267; locum, 5.271).
The use of sortem here implies the “lo f received by them them, given to them,
which assigns their place and station in the overall hierarchy. Held against the
address to Tritonia (that she is separate from and greater than they), we see
that the Muse uses this emphasis to acknowledge the hierarchy and to accept
her-and the Muses’, collectively-place in it. As she turns then to the narrative
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of Pyreneus, the Muse has already sei the stage for a story of crossed
boundaries, of one would who dare to upset order by not accepting his place.
Pyreneus, the Muse relates, with his Thracian soldiery had captured Daulis
and the Phocian fields and he ruled over a kingdom unjustly gained (ille ferox
iniustaque regna tenebat, 5.277). Seeing the Muses on their way to the
temple on Parnassus, Pyreneus pretends to show the proper respect for the
deities; the Muse relates: “he saw us going, and having venerated our divinity
with a false facial expression, said 'daughters of Mnemosyne’ (for he had
known us)” (vidit euntes/nostraque fallaci veneratus numina
vultu/'Mnemonides’ (cognorat enim) 5.278-280). Pyreneus invites the Muses
inside his home to seek shelter from the storm and then he tries to rape them.
The Muse explains that when the storm subsided they had tried to leave:
inpetus ire fuit; claudit sua tecta Pyreneus
vimque parat, quam nos sumptis effugimus alis.
(5.287-288)
there was a desire to go; Pyreneus shuts up his home and
prepares to rape, which we escaped by putting on wings.
Having tried to pursue them, Pyreneus fell to his death from the lofty height.
Pyreneus oversteps the boundaries of his station and Ovid has the Muse
tie Pyreneus* actions to political overreaching. He is a king, and a Thracian
one at that, who does not have the proper respect for his station in the
hierarchy. He demonstates this first by seizing and ruling a kingdom
{iniustaque regna) and next by trying to rape these goddesses. What makes
the latter act all the more heinous, according to the implications of the Muse’s
telling of the story, is that he knew both who they were and what he ought to
do: he addresses them by name and so recognized them, and knew what he
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ought to do because in order to feign proper behavior, he had to know what
that behavior was.
This may be tied to the council of the gods of Book One in yet another
aspect. The result of the council of the gods was the destruction of all mortals--
by flood-except for the reverent Deucalion and Pyrrha. These sole survivors
eventually come to Mount Parnassus in the land of Phocis (1.313-323). From
the Muse’s description (5.276-278), this is precisely the region which
Pyreneus unjustly took and ruled and is the very place where he makes his
rape attempt.
As has been noted in recent scholarship, the description of the contest
between the Muses and the Pierides also bears on the issue of hierarchy.1 8
The contest is over place (i.e. the winners win Helicon, the place which
Minerva praises the Muses for having) and the songs of the contestants show
their respective responses to the hierarchy of the universe. Patricia Johnson
and Martha Malamud (1988, 31-33) note that the representative singer for the
Pierides sings of the gigantomachy and, according to the Muse’s narration,
unduly honors the giants and belittles the Olympians (falsoque in honore
gigantas/ponit et extenuat magnonim facta deonim, 5.319-320). The Pierid’s
song relates how the Olympians, stricken with fear of Typhoeus, fled to Egypt
and “hid themselves in false forms” (se mentitis superos celasse figuris,
5.326). Typhoeus, it is noted, had sprung from the lowest part of the earth
(emissumque ima de sede Typhoea terrae, 5.321). Again there is an
emphasis on place which is itself a signifier of power-the higher the place, the
more power one holds. “The great gods” (magnorum deorum, 5.320) are
called superos (5.326), signifying their station and location in the hierarchy of
'* e.g. Johnson and Maiamud (1988) and Leslie Cahoon (1996).
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the universe. Thus the one from the lowest place seeks to obtain the highest
place-an inversion of the hierarchy which is in place at the time of this contest.
To have described the Olympians thus is to highlight a shameful incident in
their past which threatened the order which was later established under
Jupiter.
The Muse merely summarizes the song of the Pierid; she recites the song
of Calliope, the representative singer for the Muses, in full. Calliope opens her
song by stating that Ceres is to be the subject of her song, since she first
performed agriculture, she first gave grain to the earth, and she first gave laws
(prima dedit leges, 5.343). Already attention is paid to order.2 0 Concerning the
Muses’ attitude toward Minerva, Leslie Cahoon states:
. . . the desire to establish their rank is their chief concern.
In order to position themselves more securely, they
resort to toadying deference towards those more
powerful than themselves, to scornful contempt
towards those less powerful, and to violent vengeance
against any who would offend their prudish sensibilities
or their brittle snobberies. (1996, 50)
The song opens with Ceres for reasons which separate humans from gods
and subordinates them. Unlike the people in the Golden Age, people need
agriculture and grain for food-the earth no longer spontananeously and
without human effort provides for humans’ every need (cf. of the Golden Age:
ipsa quoque inmunis rastroque intacta nec ullis/saucia vomeribus per se
dabat omnia telfus, 1.101-102). In that time, too, people did the right thing
without laws to compel them (sine lege fidem rectumque colebat, 1.90). Thus
Calliope obliquely refers to the post-Golden Age people, who already had
2 0 A more detailed discussion of this song may be found in Cahoon (1996,43-66, espec. 49-62).
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been assigned their place and station in this universe, who were given laws to
keep them orderly, and who needed to toil for food, unlike the gods.
The dramatic setting of her song is Sicily, which also resonates with the
general theme of hierarchical order under Jupiter. Sicily, the Muse notes,
rests on top of the conquered Typhoeus (5.346-361). Fearing that Typhoeus
may, in an attempt to escape, allow light into into the underworld, Pluto
inspects Sicily for damage (5.359-362). Recall here Jupiter’s inspection of the
heavens and the earth, then of Arcadia in particular, after the tragic flight of
Phaethon. It was then that he saw and raped Callisto. Here, Pluto is seen by
Venus as he wanders and she conceives a plan to prove her power. She calls
her son to assist her:
'arma manusque meae, mea, nate, potentia' dixit,
'ilia, quibus superas omnes, cape tela, Cupido,
inque dei pectus celeres molire sagittas,
cui triplicis cessit fortuna novissima regni.
tu superos ipsumque lovem, tu numina ponti
victa domas ipsumque, regit qui numina ponti:
Tartara quid cessant? cur non matrisque tuumque
imperium profers? agitur pars tertia mundi’
(5.365-372)
“arms and my hands, son, and my power” she said
“take those shafts by which you conquer all, Cupid,
and shoot your swift arrows into the breast of the god
to whom the latest fortune of the triple kingdom went,
you master the gods above and Jove himself, you master
the conquered deities of the sea, and him, too, who rules
the deities of the sea: why does Tartarus do nothing?
Why do you not extend your mother’s and your own empire?
The third part of the world is at stake”
As we have seen previously in the story of Daphne and Apollo, the inspiration
to rape began as a power struggle between gods. There, Cupid proved
himself superior to Apollo by inflicting love. Here, Venus ties desire not only to
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the gods' personal spheres of influence, but also to political power (triplicis
regni) and to the spaces occupied and ruled by the three brothers (Jupiter,
Poseidon, and Pluto). Furthermore, Venus notes the female deities who are
beyond her/love’s reach (Minerva and Diana, 5.375) and does not wish the
daughter of Ceres to follow in their footsteps.*’ She tells Cupid:
Cereris quoque filia virgo,
si patiemur, erit; nam spes adfectat easdem.
at tu pro socio, si qua est ea gratia, regno
iunge deam patruo.
(5.376-379)
The daughter of Ceres, if we allow it, will also be
a virgin; for she strives for the same hopes [as Minerva
and Diana]. But you, on behalf of allied rule, if this is
at all pleasing, join the goddess to her uncle.
We see that Venus hopes to accomplish the extension of her and Cupid’s
realm (regno; cf. imperium above) on two fronts at the same time. By joining
Proserpina to Pluto, two would-be independents will be brought under the rule
of the jointly-held sovereignty of love.
Proserpina and her companions are playing and gathering flowers in a
lovely grove where “spring is everlasting” (perpetuum verest, 5.391 )-a
condition true of the Golden Age, as well (ver erat aetemum, 1.107). Pluto
sees and takes her:
paene simul visa est dilectaque raptaque Diti:
usque adeo est properatus amor.
_____________________ (5.395-396)
2 1 Leslie Cahoon’s comments on this passage hit the mark (1996,51): “ Equally sudden is the
interpolation of Venus, who does not appear in earlier versions of the Persephone and Demeter
story, or in other Ovidian treatments of the myth; her determination to compose her own Aeneid
(arma manusque meae, 5.365,) and to extend her own imperium (“ empire,” 5.372) illegally and
violently, reflect poorly on the Olympians and, of course for Ovid’s actual audience, on Augustus
as well. Calliope seems to forget that she meant to praise Ceres and the divine hierarchy for their
capacity to bring law and order (Ceres .. .prima dedit leges [“ Ceres first gave laws,” 5.341-43],
from her ancient title, Thesmophoros).”
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almost at the same time she is seen and desired and
taken by Dis: to such a degree is love swift.
Again we have the speed of the act reflected in the metre-3 dactyls-and two
of the dactyls, difectaque raptaque, seem hastened by the repetition of sounds
which result in a rhyme. Unlike Daphne, there seems to be no blunt arrow or
any stimulus to the girl, except for the act of aggression by her uncle. Ovid
notes her terror and her cries for help:
dea territa maesto
et matrem et comites, sed matrem saepius, ore
clamat, et ut summa vestem laniarat ab ora,
collecti flores tunicis cecidere remissis,
tantaque simplicitas puerilibus adfuit annis,
haec quoque virgineum movit iactura dolorem.
(5.396-401)
the goddess, terrified, calls with a grieving mouth
both her mother and her companions, but more often
her mother, and since she (?) had tom her clothing from
its upper edge, the flowers collected there fell with the
tunic loosened, and so great was the simplicity arising
from her girlish years, this loss, too, stirs virginal grief.
Proserpina is depicted, as earlier, as being very young and innocent. The
pathetic detail Ovid includes about the loss of the flowers adds to our sense of
her naTvete. Just as in earlier cases, Ovid notes the girl’s terror. Combined
with her sense of loss over the flowers, this detail further brings home the
horror of the scene of the young maiden wrenched abruptly from her world of
picturesque serenity.
A major difference from previous rape stories lies in the words dea territa.
Proserpina is a goddess-she is not some lowly mountain or water nymph—
and Ovid is sure to draw attention to her status by his use of the word dea.
Earlier, Ovid had shown the same attention to rank in describing the Muse as
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she spoke to Minerva, “goddess to goddess” (deae dea, 5.300). What is even
more striking is the combination of the words dea and territa, since up to now
(in Books One through Five) these words have not been used together.2 2 The
other objects of desire were not of the same rank (e.g. with Leucothoe, she is
virgo territa, 4.232) as Proserpina. In fact, the closest parallel we have is the
Muses’ own experience with Pyreneus, which, as the narrating Muse notes,
resulted in all things causing them fear (omnia terrent/virgineas mentes, 5.273-
274).
Proserpina is again referred to as “goddess” when Cyane, a water nymph,
recognizes her as Dis carries Proserpina off (adgnovitque deam, 5.414). Ovid
demonstrates through Cyane’s words the distinction between seduction and
rape--the distinction between elegy and poetry about power. Cyane calls out
to Dis:
'nec longius ibitis!1 inquit;
'non potes invitae Cereris gener esse: roganda,
non rapienda fuit. quodsi conponere magnis
parva mihi fas est, et me dilexit Anapis;
exorata tamen, nec, ut haec, exterrita nupsi.1
(5.414-418)
“You will go no further!” she said;
“you cannot be the son-in-law of Ceres against her will:
she ought to have be asked, not taken by force. But if it
is right for me to compare small things with great,
Anapis wanted me, too; I wedded him after being won over,
however, not, after being terrified like her
2 2 The word dea, in some form, is used about 16 times in Book Five, six of which refer to
Proserpina, 4 to Ceres, 2 to the Muses, once for the Pierides, and three times is used of others
(Arethusa and Diana). Arethusa is referred to as goddess, but the statement is qualified:
conticuere undae quarum dea sustulit aito/tonte caput, “ the waters fell silent as the goddess of
them lifted her head from the deep fountain” (5.574-575). This number is perhaps more
noteworthy in light of the following: forms of dea appear 15 times in Books One and Two,
combined; there are only 4 occurrences in Book Three and also only 4 in Book Four.
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Cyane notes the difference between being won over by verbal entreaty and
being taken by force. Her point is that Dis should have courted Proserpina,
approached her in the form of the elegiac lover, instead of approaching her
like a tyrant who is concerned only with getting his way. By “comparing small
things with great,” Cyane ranks her own experience as lesser than
Proserpina’s: the inference here is that Dis, Ceres, and Ceres’ daughter each
hold higher rank than Cyane’s in the universe.
As Cyane tries to block Dis’ path, Ovid calls attention to the royal power he
wields as a weapon against her:
haud ultra tenuit Satumius iram
terribilesque hortatus equos in gurgitis ima
contortum valido sceptrum regale lacerto
condidit; icta viam tellus in Tartara fecit
et pronos currus medio cratere recepit.
(5.420-424)
The son of Saturn could hardly restrain his anger
any further and, urging on his terrible horses, into the
depths of the pool with a strong arm he plunged his royal
sceptre and whirled it; the stricken earth made a path
into Tartarus and accepted the downward-rushing chariot
in the middle of its crater.
Ovid calls Dis Satumius here, linking him by birth to the Olympians (e.g. Juno
is most often referred to as Satumia). He further calls attention to Pluto’s rank
in the use of the royal sceptre (sceptrum regale) as the instrument which clears
his way. In addition, this act itself— of forcible penetration into the earth {tellus,
of course, is feminine) and Cyane-may be seen as suggestive of rape.2 3 If we
accept this suggestion, then the instrument of violation is the (arguably phallic)
sceptre of kingship.
2 3 For a further discussion on this see Cahoon (1996, especially 53-54).
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Eventually, Ceres’ search for her daughter brings her to Cyane who would,
if she could speak, tell Ceres everything (5.462-466). Nevertheless, upon
seeing Proserpina’s belt/girdle (zonam, 5.470--used for cinching one’s
clothing together), Ceres understands that her daughter has been “taken by
force” or “raped” (raptam, 5.471). Ovid tells us that she then becomes furious
with the land itself, seeing it as unworthy of and ungrateful for the gift of grain
(5.474-477). Having stopped all fertility in the land (5.477-486), Ceres meets a
gentle rebuke from Arethusa, who will later (5.572-641) tell her own rape
narrative. Here, however, Arethusa tells Ceres what happened and provides
the suggestion again that the land, too, was raped:
neve tibi fidae violenta irascere terrae.
terra nihil meruit patuitque invita rapinae
(5.491-492)
and do not be so vehemently angry with the land which
is loyal. The land did nothing wrong, and, unwilling,
opened itself to the rape.
The rapina here clearly refers to the forcible seizure of Proserpina by Dis, but
we also see in patuitque invita that the earth was forcibly penetrated.
Consolation for Ceres comes, not surprisingly, in the form of emphasis on
rank within the universal hierarchy. Arethusa notes that when she saw Ceres’
daughter, Proserpina was terrified (neque adhuc interrita vultu, “and not, still,
without terror on her face,” 5.506), but at least she was an important queen:
sed regina tamen, sed opaci maxima mundi,
sed tamen infemi pollens matrona tyranni!
(5.507-508)
but a queen, nevertheless, but the greatest queen of
the dark world, but, nevertheless, the powerful wife of
the tyrant of the underworld.
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Arethusa seems to be trying to soften the blow: sed. . . sed... sed implies
both her piling on the good news, what there is of it, and her struggle to
express what the good news is. Her roundabout way of stating that Proserpina
was terrrified also suggests her reluctance to paint a gloomy portrait of the
situation.
As Ceres approaches Jupiter she takes a subservient stance at first (as a
supplex, 5.514) and claims that she will tolerate the rape (quod rapta, feremus,
5.520), if only her daughter be returned. She emphasizes his status, in the
hope that this may have the desired effect:
neque enim praedone marito
filia digna tua est, si iam mea filia non est.
(5.521-522)
nor is your daughter worthy of a robber husband,
if now she is not my daughter.
She appeals to his sense of power, in case as both a goddess and the girl’s
mother she has no say in the matter. The appeal is to Jupiter’s sense of what
is worthy for the daughter of the ruler of gods and men. His response, too, is
based on acceptance and firm adherence to the hierarchy which he heads.
He reassures Ceres that they are both the parents of the girl, but justifies the
rape based on the rapist’s rank. First, he denies that this is rape at all:
sed si modo nomina rebus
addere vera placet, non hoc iniuria factum,
verum amor est
(5.524-526)
but if now we want to add the true names
to matters, this deed is not a crime, but it is love
He changes, in a word, iniuria (used of “insult,” “outrage,” “dishonor,” “crime,”
“sex crime,” and the like) to amor. If only Ceres will consent, he states, their
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son-in-law will not be a source of shame for them because of who he is:
ut desint cetera, quantum est
esse lovis fratrem! quid, quod nec cetera desunt
nec cedit nisi sorte mihi?
(5.527-529)
although all else be lacking, how great it is to be the
brother of Jove! But what of the fact that the rest are not
lacking and that he does not yield to me except by lot?
Jupiter is central to his own reasoning: since he is the standard against which
all else is measured, he suggests that Neptune (although he is not mentioned
here) and Pluto alone occupy spaces in the hierachy that are most nearly
horizontal to his own, whereas all others fall beneath him in a more vertical
pattern. We have no indication of what the cetera might be and, it seems, it
just does not matter. These cetera are simply icing on the cake that is status.
The song wends it ways through several (arguably unjust)2 4 punishment
stories to its resolution on the matter of Proserpina: Jupiter divides the year
into two halves and Proserpina spends half with her mother and half with her
husband (5.565-567). She changes from her former look of grief to one of joy
(5.568-571) and Ceres is once again beneficent (alma, 5.572)--no longer
violent (violenta, 5.491), as Arethusa had seen her-and curiously “free from
care” (secura, 5.572), specifically because her daughter has been accepted
back (nata secura recepta, 5.572). The ending falls flat and is suspiciously not
what one would expect. The division of the year into two halves has, of
course, the implication of further order being imposed on the world by its ruler.
The acceptance of this settlement by all parties also suggests acquiescence to
2 4 Cahoon (1996,54-62) discusses the relationship of the punishment stories in Calliope’s song
to the overall theme of hierarchical power and specifically notes the cruel and unjust exercise of
absolute power by the gods over sometimes random and often undeserving victims.
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the hierarchy, as it stands, under Jupiter, without regard as to whether or not
the settlement is just. By redefining the act, from iniuria to amor, Jupiter
effectively redefines the reaction of these female figures (e.g. Ceres becomes
alma, although formerly violenta). He says it is so and so it is.
The song does not end on this (unlikely) “happy ending,” however; Ceres
now returns to Arethusa to leam the story of her flight from a rapist. The
introduction to the story harks back to Jupiter’s definition of rape as love: “she
told the old loves of the Elean river,” (fluminis Elei veteres narravit amores,
5.576). At this early stage we are unsure what to expect: a mutual love story
to contrast that of Dis and Proserpina? Earlier, she had stated to Ceres only
that she had come from Elis, and would tell her at another time the cause of
her move (5.489-505). Yet the circumstances of her story mark it clearly as a
rape narrative, causing the reader to revisit the definition of amor, given by
Jupiter to Ceres, and to be assured (if there had been any doubt) that rape is
rape and is not love at all. But just as Arethusa saw the good news in
Proserpina’s rape (sed regina tamen, above) so she accepts and recycles a
rapist’s language (i.e. Jupiter’s; by referring to her near rape as fluminis Elii
amores).
Arethusa’s rape narrative follows the pattern outlined for previous rape
stories, with a few notable differences. Like some of the others (Daphne,
Syrinx, the daughter of Coroneus, and Narcissus), Arethusa was known for her
beauty (the others were sought after by suitors for this reason):
sed quamvis formae numquam mihi fama petita est,
quamvis fortis eram, formosae nomen habebam,
nec mea me facies nimium laudata iuvabat,
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quaque aliae gaudere solent, ego rustica dote
corporis erubui crimenque placere putavi.
(5.580-584)
but although the fame of beauty was never sought after
by me, although I was brave, I had the name of beauty,
nor did my good looks, praised too much, please me, and I,
a country girl, blushed at the dowry (in which others are
accustomed to rejoice) of my body and I thought it
a crime to be pleasing.
Arethusa notes that she was known for her beauty even though she had other
admirable qualities (quamvis fortis eram). Her modesty is perhaps excessive
(crimenque placere putavi), yet characterizes her--at least she sees herself~as
conscious of the values of those around her in contrast to those which she
herself held. From her perspective, her wishes were overlooked and she got a
name for beauty regardless of her intentions.
Living the life shared by many nymphs, Arethusa had been returning from
the hunt one day when she sought rest at a crystal-clear and still stream
(5.585-591). Not satisfied simply to dip her feet and legs in the water,
Arethusa disrobed and dove into the clear stream (5.592-595). She describes
how she manipulated the water, but then heard a sound:
quas dum ferioque trahoque
mille modis labens excussaque bracchia iacto,
nescio quod medio sensi sub gurgite murmur
territaque insisto propioris margine ripae.
(5.595-598)
while I strike the waters and pull them and,
gliding in a thousand ways, I throw and toss my arms,
I heard some murmur under the middle of the depths
and, terrified, I make for the edge of the closer bank
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The description of Arethusa swimming seems excessively detailed by words
denoting physical manipulation of the waters. We shall return to this point
shortly. As she flees the stream, Alpheus calls out to her--oddly enough, by
name (5.599-600). Since her clothes were on the other river-bank, she flees
naked and describes the subsequent chase:
tanto magis instat et ardet,
et quia nuda fui, sum visa paratior illi.
sic ego currebam, sic me ferns ille premebat,
ut fugere accipitrem penna trepidante columbae,
ut solet accipiter trepidas urguere columbas.
(5.602-606)
by which all the more he pursues and bums,
and since I was nude, I seemed the more ready for him.
So was I running, so was he, wild, pressing on me
as when doves on shaking wing flee the hawk,as the
hawk is accustomed to press upon shaking doves.
Arethusa says that her appearance once again did not match her wishes: from
the outside, she might appear to be courting sexual advances (if not making
them) because she was naked. Arethusa says, literally, "I am seen as the
readier for him,” indicating the perspective of an onlooker or, specifically, of
Alpheus. In a sense this alludes to some previous rape narratives which
included fantasies about the beloved. The would-be rapists in the poem
generally know nothing about the object of their desires except that the person
whom they see causes them to feel desire. In the cases of Apollo (with
Daphne) and Jupiter (with lo) the aggressor fantasizes by attributing to the
object of desire characteristics and emotions that are unattested to by
experience. The imagined aspects of the object may or may not be true, but
are founded on what the aggressor hopes to be true. For instance, Jupiter
says that lo is a maiden “worthy of Jove,” which in one sense, at least,
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assumes her worthiness based on her appearance alone. In these instances,
too, it seems as though the god expects that once the maiden learns his
identity and lineage that she will be won over, or at least will submit willingly.
So Arethusa intimates that Alpheus takes the actual sight of her naked,
internalizes that vision, and interprets it according to his desire: that she is
ready and willing to submit. She believes that her nudity may lead Alpheus to
make a false assumption as to what she might be thinking.
Arethusa describes her terror in the chase: while she matches his speed,
she cannot match his endurance (5.609-613). She sees a shadow, whether
real or imagined through her fear (614-615), hears the sounds of his footfalls
and even feels his breath on her hair (5.616-617). Finally, her patron
goddess, Diana, answers Arethusa’s prayer to her for help and enshrouds her
in a cloud (5.618-622). The pathos is heightened then by a description of the
god’s unwitting proximity to the hidden Arethusa and similes of hunted animals
penned in by their predators (5.622-631). She abruptly is changed into water
(5.634-636), and Alpheus tries to rape her even in her changed form:
amnis aquas positoque viri, quod sumpserat, ore
vertitur in proprias, ut se mihi misceat, undas
(5.637-638)
with the face of a man (which he had assumed)
put aside, the river changed into his own waters
in order to mix with me
Now if we think back to Arethusa’s physical manipulation of the water, we have
a different set of circumstances to consider. Here she states that Alpheus is
the water, and that he had only assumed the form of a man in order to pursue
her on land. Not only does he try to rape her now, but, in a sense, he was
“mixing” or “mingling” with her earlier, as she struck and pulled and glided.
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Next, in perhaps a reversed doublet of Dis’ forced entry into the earth, Diana
cleaves the earth (rupit humum, 5.639) and Arethusa flows through to safety.
Here, the earth is made to open as an escape from rape, while in the previous
story it served as an escape for rape.
According to the recital of Calliope’s song, Ceres then leaves Arethusa
without a single word in response to her story and goes about her business.
The story ends with Ceres’ punishment of Lyncus, the king (rex, 5.650) of
Scythia. The Muse then announces that the Pierides, having been declared
the losers (nymphs had been the judges), were changed into garrulous birds
(5.662-678). At the beginning of Book Six, Tritonia approves of the Muses’
song and their just anger (6.1-2) and relates the story of a challenge to her
own superiority, the story of Arachne’s web.
Section Two: The Tapestries of Rape: Metamorphoses. Book 6
Arachne’s web is perhaps the centerpiece of rape in the poem. Many of
the figures figured here are found elsewhere in the poem while others are of
dubious identity. Here, too, the story is about power: just as Apollo had
boasted to Cupid to be the greater of the two, so Arachne boasts that she is
greater than the goddess Minerva. The overall point of the story seems to be
the punishment of the hubristic weaver, but story as a whole deserves close
scrutiny.
Minerva is reminded by the Muses’ contest of the “fate of Maeonian
Arachne, who, she had heard, would not yield to her in praise for weaving arts”
(6.5-7). Arachne is described as a girl from a humble place, from a humble
family, and is known only for her skill. Ovid tells us that her mother is dead,
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while her father aids Arachne by dying the wool for her (6.7-11). There are
several references to place names here,2 5 each a reference to a different part
of Lydia, which, perhaps significantly, passed to Roman hands in 133 B.C.,
along with the rest of the Attalid kingdom. There may be a specific allusion to
the time of the Gracchi, or at least an allusion to acquisitions during the
Republican period that led up to the holdings of the Empire.
We are told that nymphs came to watch Arachne, and that watching her as
she worked was as much a pleasure as seeing the finished product of her
weaving (6.14-23). Ovid states:
scires a Pallade doctam
quod tamen ipsa negat tantaque offensa magistra
“certet” ait “mecum: nihil est, quod victa recusem!”
(6.23-25)
you could know that she was taught by Pallas
yet she herself denied it, offended at so great a teacher
“let her vie with me” she said, “there is nothing,
if defeated, that I would not give up!”
Ovid gives us a foretaste of the girl’s attitude and character by the inclusion of
tanta; Arachne is offended at being thought of as Pallas’ pupil, while tanta
seems to certify that Pallas is “so great.” Arachne seems to think that such a
contest would be on equal terms; that is, the loser gives up something, as the
Pierides had yielded Helicon with victory to the Muses-but the Pierides also
lost their forms and voices. Following the Muses’ narrative and since Pallas is
recalling this event, the reader already knows as the story begins that it could
not have ended well for Arachne. Tanta also serves, by contrast, to
2 5 Anderson (1972,152, n. ad 5) notes: “ The next twelve lines contain seven different
references to Lydia and the parts of Ionia which were swallowed up in the Lydian Empire:
Maeoniae 5, Colophius 8, Phocaico 9, Lydas 11, Hypaepis 13, Timoli 15, and Pactolides 16."
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underscore the humble station which the girl occupies-she is a virtual nobody
in a universe where birth and place are everything.
Pallas goes to Arachne disguised as an old woman (Pallas anum simulat,
6.26) and gives her a warning that emphasizes strict adherence to the
hierarchy of the universe, regardless of merit. She states:
tibi fama petatur
inter mortales faciendae maxima lanae;
cede deae veniamque tuis, temeraria, dictis
suppiice voce roga: veniam dabit ilia roganti.
(6.30-33)
let the greatest fame for wool-making be sought by you
among mortals; yield to the goddess and, rash one, with
suppliant voice beg pardon for your words: she will give
pardon to one who asks it.
Pallas says nothing of who is actually the more skilled of the two: that is simply
beside the point. The point, for the goddess, is that a mortal should strive to be
the best among mortals, not to surpass a deity. Birth and station determine
who yields to whom, not skill. Arachne is enraged at these words and nearly
becomes violent (vixque manus retinens, 6.35), perhaps further indicating her
hubris or at least a strong disrespect even for the aged. Her character is
further defined by this, since one might expect a young woman, if she should
disagree, at least to disagree respectfully with an elder. Arachne then insults
the old woman, calling her senile (mentis inops, 6.37), remarking on her old
age, and recommending that she give advice to a daughter-in-law or to a
daughter, if she has one (6.39). Arachne, she says, is her own advisor (consilii
satis est in me mihi, 6.40). Ovid’s description is perhaps meant to be ironic:
the motherless girl is speaking to the motherless goddess, and further, the
virgin (virgo, 6.45) is telling the virgin goddess to save her advice for her own
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offspring. In effect, Arachne’s words mean shut up, since Minerva will never
have a daughter or daughter-in-law to whom she might give advice. Surely
parallels are meant to be drawn between Arachne and Minerva, since within
the story itself Ovid claims that the two were associated (scires, above) even
though Arachne denied it. Pallas ought to be the girl’s patroness, but through
Arachne’s own denial and Minerva’s unwillingness to have her own divinity
spumed, the conflict arises.
The harsh treatment Arachne offers the apparent old woman makes her a
less sympathetic character to the reader. Arachne asks the old woman why
does Minerva herself not come; why does she avoid the contest (6.42), to
which the goddess responds: ‘venitF (6.43), “She has come!” and reveals
herself as Pallas. The nymphs and Mygdonian women worship her, but
Arachne alone remains unafraid (sola est non territa virgo, 6.45), again
intimating a certain irreverence for propriety. She blushes briefly and then
pales again (6.46-49) and persists in her challenge, “in desire for the stupid
palm" (stolidaeque cupidine palmae, 6.50). The two then set to weaving (6.53-
69).
The description of their weaving has been likened to the writing of poetry2 8
and Ovid describes the web of each of the two weavers. Pallas’ web is
described first:
Cecropia Pallas scopulum Mavortis in arce
pingit et antiquam de terrae nomine litem
(6.70-71)
Pallas pictures the rock of Mars on the Cecropian citadel
and the ancient strife about the name of the place
2 8 For example: et vetus in tela deducitur argumentum (6.69), “ and an ancient subject is drawn
out on the loom"; cf. the carmen deductum and Ovid’s use ofdeducite carmen in 1.4 concerning
this poem.
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There is some confusion here about the place, since the Areopagus is
separate from the Acropolis. There is, however, a rich story behind this story,
which may shed light on the literary allusions here. Ovid may, in fact, in 6.71
be calling attention to the names he himself gives to the place. As we have
seen earlier (with Medusa) and will see again by the end of this story, Minerva
does not wish to look upon the rapes perpetrated by gods. In Medusa’s case,
the rapist was Neptune. Here, as we are about to read of the strife between
Neptune and Minerva about the name of Athens, Ovid curiously enough
injects confusion into his own narrative, by stating there was a dispute over the
name of the place and by conflating two places into one. I submit that this is
not a geographical shortcoming on Ovid’s part, as some argue,2 7 but rather a
learned reference to other myths, integral to the full understanding of the
characters involved.
Pallas has been shown on two other occasions to be a concealer of the
aftermath of rape-with Medusa, Pallas makes the rape victim horrific to look
upon, and with Erichthonius (the product of a failed rape attempt by Vulcan),
she conceals the boy in a box. The daughters of Cecrops are entrusted with
the box/basket and Aglauros is specifically named as the daughter of Cecrops
who, against Pallas’ instructions, looked into the box. According to one
tradition, “what they saw there caused them to hurl themselves off the
Acropolis to their deaths."2 8 This is the Cecropian arx.
2 7 Miller (1946,293, note ad 6.70): “ Ovid here confuses the Acropolis with the Areopagus.”
Anderson states of this same line (1972,161): “ Ovid is somewhat casual about the topography
of Athens: the arx or Acropolis of Athens, where the miracles did according myth happen, is
quite distinct from the Areopagus (scopulum Mavortis)vihich rises to lesser height not far away.”
D. E. Hill (1992,168, n. ad 6.70-1), too, shares the opinion the Ovid is just wrong: “ presumably
Ovid has the Acropolis in mind here though his apparent confusion with the Areiopagus seems
strange in someone whose geography is usually so reliable.”
2 8 Emily Kearns ( O O P 3rd ed., 40).
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But what has this to do with the Areopagus? There is, in fact, a myth that
ties the Areopagus to rape, to “the name of the place,” and to Aglaurus.
According to Apollodorus 3.14.2, Ares killed Hallirhothius, the son of Neptune,
for having raped Alcippe-the daughter of Ares and Aglaurus (there called
Agraulus), the daughter of Cecrops. Ares was tried at the Areopagus on a
charge of murder and was acquitted by the twelve assembled Olympian gods.
In addition, Emily Keams (PCD. 3rd. ed., 664) states: “A less well-known
tradition brings [Hallirhothius] into the context of the rivalry between Athena
and Poseidon: sent by Poseidon to chop down Athena’s olive trees, he
accidentally lopped off his own leg and died.”2 9 Thus Hallirhothius links
together Pallas, Neptune, rape, the Areopagus, Aglaurus, and Athens (the site
of the rivalry). The “Cecropian citadel” elicits the memory of the daughters of
Cecrops, Aglaurus, in particular, the eye-witness in the Metamorphoses of the
product of Vulcan’s attempted rape of Minerva.
What, then, are we to make of this? The divine contestants in Pallas’ web
are involved in rape stories obliquely referred to by the place names. In these
first three lines describing Pallas’ web, Ovid is characterizing Pallas and a
brand of justice that is linked to rank. The rape of Ares’/Mars’ daughter Alcippe
by Hallirhothius was punishable by death, since Alcippe had a divine father.
But the victims of rape who have no divine parent to avenge the crime are
themselves punished (like Medusa) when the rapist is a god. Pallas, in any
case, conceals the crimes of the gods, while--as we shall see--Arachne
exposes them to view.
As the description of Pallas’ web continues, the ambiguity of the precise
meaning of antiquam de terra nomine litem is cleared up. The strife is that
aEmilv Keams. under Hallirhothius in PCD 3rd ed.. 664.
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between Pallas and Neptune over Athens, the twelve assembled Olympians,
with Jove in the middle, sit in judgement of their contest (of. the trial of
Mars/Ares above) “with august seriousness” (augusta gravitate, 6.73). Pallas
depicts each deity with his/her own features and Ovid mentions specifically
that “Jove is a regal image” (love est regalis imago, 6.74). The “god of the sea”
(deum pelagi, 6.75)3 0 is depicted and Pallas depicts herself with her shield,
spear, helmet, and aegis (6.78-79)--which itself recalls the story of Medusa.
Both deities are striking the earth, Neptune with his trident causes a spring to
arise, Pallas with her spearpoint produces the olive tree. “And the gods
marvel; Victory is the end of the work” (mirarique deos; open's Victoria finis,
6.82). But then there’s more: Ovid describes that Pallas placed four scenes of
punishment in the four comers of the web, in order to forewarn Arachne what
she might expect for having challenged a god (6.83-86). The details of the
individual stories are questionable, but the outcome in each case is
unquestionably punishment by deities for an offense or challenge to the
gods.3 1 After this, the goddess finishes her work (again):
circuit extremas oleis pacalibus oras
(is modus est) operisque sua facit arbore finem.
(6.101-102)
She runs a circuit on the outermost edges of peaceful
olive (it is the boundary) and she makes an end of
the work with her tree.
Thus Pallas makes a double end of her work: Victory is the end of her work
above, foreshadowing the victory--if that is what it is~that she will have over
3 0 cf. Neptune is called pelagi deus (2.574) in his attempt to rape the daughter of Coroneus,
pelagi rector (4.798) in the rape of Medusa.
5 1 Anderson has outlines of the stories (1972,163-164).
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Arachne, and the peaceful olive tree is the end of her work. Anderson states,
about the first “end” (1972, 162-163 n. ad 82):
Minerva assumes that the victory which crowned her
achievement at Athens will be repeated on this
occasion. And when we soon hear of the completion of
the tapestry (open's finem 102), we anticipate the third
word, Victoria. Ovid deliberately builds up these
expectations so that later he can surprise us.
Anderson means that the surprise will be that Pallas is not victorious, strictly
speaking, in the weaving contest. While this may be so, there may be more
going on here. Just where we do expect the word Victoria, we see sua arbore
instead, perhaps suggesting that peace (i.e. olives, the symbols of
peace=peace) is, in fact, victory. That is to say, from the perspective of one
higher up in the hierarchy, the words “peace” and “victory” are
interchangeable-provided, of course, that “victory” refers to the victory of the
more powerful. If we consider the associations of peace, victory and
Augustus3 2 we have a politically charged statement. In the universe described
by Ovid in Book One, peace and order come about through Jupiter’s victory
over any challenges to his supreme rule. In Pallas’ web, we see order and
balance in the arrangement:3 3 her victory over a peer (Neptune), deities’
victories over challenging mortals, and, above all, we see that victory and
peace, from Pallas’ perspective, will be the end of this contest.
Arachne’s web is quite a different story and it tells quite a different story. It,
too, is concerned with power but presents the power of the gods from an
3 2 e.g. augusta gravitate, 6.73 of the gods sitting in judgement, the victory laurel on Augustan
doorposts, the Ara Pads, and pax augusta.
3 3 Anderson states (1972,160, n . ad 70-102): “ As can be recognized, the goddess’ work is
flawlessly Classical, perfectly centered, balanced, and framed, highly moral and didactic in
content. It is not unlike certain surviving examples of Augustan classical art.”
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altogether different perspective. Ovid describes the content of Arachne’s web
in 26 lines: in these lines are contained 21 rapes. He begins with the
description of Europa, whose tale we have seen above (2.833-3.9):
Maeonis elusam designat imagine tauri
Europam: verum taurum, freta vera putares;
ipsa videbatur terras spectare relictas
et comites clamare suas tactumque vereri
adsilientis aquae timidasque reducere plantas.
(6.103-107)
The Maeonian pictures Europa tricked by the image of
a bull: you would think the bull was real, the waves real;
she herself seemed to look at the lands left behind and
to call upon her companions and to fear the touch of the
water leaping up and to pull back her frightened feet.
The reader is of course reminded of the earlier narrative of Europa, here
presented in vivid detail. There is no contradiction to the earlier version, just
perhaps a few added pathetic details^-Europa’s fear is emphasized more
here than in the previous version. The word videbatur means “she seemed”
but includes in its range of meaning that “she was seen”--which is part of the
problem, from Pallas’ perspective. Recall how Medusa cannot be looked upon
after her rape by Neptune; when Arachne depicts these rapes, she makes
them able to be seen: she bears witness by publishing the rapes.
The pace of description moves swiftly from here, as Ovid describes the list
of the rapes committed by Jupiter:
fecit et Asterien aquila luctante teneri,
fecit olorinis Ledam recubare sub alis;
addidit, ut satyri celatus imagine pulchram
luppiter inplerit gemino Nycteida fetu,
Amphitryon fuerit, cum te, Tirynthia, cepit,
3 4 cf. Iitus...relictum/respicit (2.873-874). There the description of Europa is merely that she is
holding the bull's hom with one hand while the other rested on his back and that her trembling
garments billowed in the breeze (2.873-875).
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aureus ut Danaen, Asopida luserit ignis,
Mnemosynen pastor, varius Deoida serpens.
(6.108-114)
She made Asterie, too, held by the struggling eagle, she
made Leda lying back under the swan’s wings; she added
how, concealed in the image of a satyr, Jupiter filled the
beautiful daughter of Nycteus with twin offspring, how
he was Amphitryon when he took you, Tirynthia, how as
gold he tricked Danae, as fire the daughter of Asopus,
as a shepherd Mnemosyne, as a speckled snake
the daughter of Deo.
Thus the victims of Jupiter in these lines are (after Europa, above): Asterie,
Leda, Antiope, Alcmena (=Tirynthia), Danae, Aegina (=Aesopid), Mnemosyne,
and Proserpina. The nine rapes then are quickly described and attributed to
Jupiter; each becomes more pointed as to the depths of his indecency,
culminating in the final outrage: the rape of his own daughter, Proserpina.3 5 It
is noteworthy, too, that the Muses are the product of the rape of Mnemosyne
(6.114) by Jupiter-especially since it is the Muses’ contest, just prior to this
narrative, which had reminded Pallas of Arachne. There are thematic parallels
as well: some of the more obvious ones are the artistic contest itself, the
emphasis on hierarchy for each contest, the challenge to authority/depiction of
shameful acts of the gods by one (less powerful and ultimately losing)
contestant, and the assertion of order and the absolute authority of the
Olympians by the other (more powerful and ultimately victorious) contestant.
Arachne’s web is described as having a hierarchy of its own: here Jupiter
proves to be the master rapist, since he is described first and as having the
“ Anderson notes here (1972,166, n. ad 114): “ What makes these innocuous-looking final
three words a crushing climax is the unstated, but patent, fact that Proserpina was the daughter
of Jupiter also; Ovid has only just finished telling a tale about Proserpina during the course of
which Demeter hails Jupiter as the girl's father (5.515ff.). So the ultimate extent of Jupiter’s lust
is manifest in a deception that facilitates incest with his own daughter.”
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greatest number (9) of rapes figured on the web. Next in the narrative and
next in the total number of rapes is Neptune (six rapes are attributed to him).
Then there are four attributed to Apollo, and one each to Liber and to Saturn.
Ovid describes Arachne’s depiction of the sea god’s rapes, and opens with
a direct address to Neptune:
te quoque mutatum torvo, Neptune, iuvenco
virgine in Aeolia posuit; tu visus Enipeus
gignis Aloidas, aries Bisaitida fallis,
et te flava comas frugum mitissima mater
sensit equum, sensit volucrem crinita colubris
mater equi volucris, sensit delphina Melantho:
omnibus his faciemque suam faciemque locorum
reddidit.
(6.115-122)
You, too, Neptune, changed into a fierce bull,
she placed on the Aeolian maiden; you, seen as Enipeus,
beget the Aloidae, as a ram you deceive the daughter of
Bisaltes, the tawny-haired, most gentle mother of grain
felt you as a horse, the snaked-haired mother of the
winged horse felt you as a winged bird, Melantho felt
you as a dolphin: she gave to each of these its own
appearance and the appearance of the places.
Neptune is involved here in six rapes, although there is some dispute over the
actual female figures involved. They are: either Canace (the daughter of
Aeolus) or perhaps Ame; either Iphimedeia or Tyro is said to have been raped
by him in the form of Enipeus; Theophane (the Bisaltid), Ceres (the mother of
grain); Medusa (snaky-haired mother of Pegasus); and Melantho. As the one
closest to Jupiter in the hierarchy of the universe (along with Dis), Neptune
shares the distinction of being second only to Jupiter in the number of rapes
he is shown by Arachne to have committed.
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The next series of victims, those raped by Apollo, are even more sketchy:
est illic agrestis imagine Phoebus,
utque modo accipitris pennas, modo terga leonis
gesserit, ut pastor Macareida luserit Issen
(6.122-1254)
and there is Phoebus in the image of a farmer, and how
now he bore the wings of a hawk, now the hide of a lion,
how as a shepherd he tricked Isse,
the daughter of Macareus
As for the first in this list, Anderson claims that the reference is to Apollo’s
serving Admetus,3 8 a curious detail indeed. The next two victims are mysteries
(whom he raped as a hawk and whom as a lion), and Issa is named as the
fourth. Here again find a connoting deception (luserit, cf celatus, luserit, fallis,
above, deceperit, below). Like the secrets we saw concealed earlier, the gods
conceal their intentions and the “trick” or “deception" here stands for rape itself.
To Liber and to Saturn one rape each is attributed:Liber ut Erigonen falsa
deceperit uva/ut Satumus equo geminum Chirona crearit (6.125-126), “How
Liber deceived Erigone with a false grape,/how Saturn created twin Chiron
with a horse.” This Erigone story is unknown.3 7 Saturn fathered Chiron (here
called “twin,” presumably because as a centaur he had two forms in one) upon
Phylera, hence the previously mentioned Phylereius heros used of Chiron at
2.676.
Arachne’s web also has a border, and with the description of this Ovid
finishes his description of her tapestry:
“ Anderson (1972,167, n. ad 122) states: “In the guise of a farmer (agrestis) Apollo loved and
served King Admetus. For the Hellenistic version of Apollo’s attendance upon Admetus, cf.
Her. 5.151-52, Tibullus 2.3.11-14, and Callimachus’ Hymn to Apollo 47."
3 7 An Erigone is, however, mentioned later in contrast to Myrrha, as having been “ made sacred
by a pious love for her father": Erigoneque pio sacrata parentis amore (10.251).
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ultima pars telae, tenui circumdata limbo,
nexilibus flores hederis habet intertextos.
(6.127-128)
the farthest part of the web, encircled by a tender fringe,
holds flowers interwoven with ivy bound together.
immediately there is a judgement:
Non illud Pallas, non illud carpere Livor
possit opus: doluit successu flava virago
et rupit pictas, caelestia crimina, vestes,
utque Cytoriaco radium de monte tenebat,
ter quater Idmoniae frontem percussit Arachnes.
(6.129-133)
Neither Pallas nor Envy itself could criticize that work:
the golden-haired female warrior grieved at the success
and broke the embroidered web, the celestial crimes,
and since she was holding the shuttle from the Cytorian
mountain, three times and a fourth she struck
the forehead of Idmonian Arachne.
We see from this not that Arachne is the outright winner, but that even as
Pallas tries to find fault with it, she cannot find a flaw in the mortal’s work.
There are no grounds by which to say that Arachne has lost. That, however, is
irrelevant. Medusa was punished with snaky locks for having been violated in
Pallas’ temple; she could not then be looked upon without dire consequences
to the one looking. Here the tapestry (pictas vestes) is interchangeable with
“celestial crimes” (caelestia crimina), placed as they are in apposition with one
another. Pallas seeks to destroy the tapestry-that is, to destroy the crimes of
the gods--and thus obliterate the possibility of the gods’ crimes being seen.
Arachne’s web is a form of indictment against the gods: it not only tells
(through art) of gods using their great powers to rape women, but Minerva’s
destruction of it is itself an abuse of power. The tapestry serves as an index (a
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129
tattler) or a testis (witness) like others we have seen previously. Only it tells
what cannot be said. As we shall see more explicitly in the story of Philomela,
the tapestry serves to tell the unspeakable (nefas).
On the surface, justice and order have no place in this story. Having seen,
however, what order consists of in the Metamorphoses, we see that Minerva’s
actions are not only consistent but imperative (or imperious?): order is
maintained by every being in the universe staying in its appointed place, and
thus any challenge by a mortal to a god is taken most seriously. That victory
equals peace for Minerva should come as no surprise; peace for the deity is
the absence of a threat, the silenced and crushed opponent who can oppose
no more.
The stories which follow bear many similarities to the Arachne/Minerva
contest: Niobe punished for her challenge to Latona (6.146-312), the Lycian
peasants changed into frogs by Latona (6.316-381), and Marsyas’ punishment
by Apollo after a music contest (6.382-400). Within these punishment stories,
attention is called to the cruelty of the deities and the extreme and pitiless
response to a challenge by a mortal. As Niobe, for instance, learns of the fate
of her children, she is amazed by the actions of the gods: mirantem potuisse
irascentemque, quod ausi/hoc assent superi, quod tantum iuris haberent
(6.269-270), “as she marvels that this could have happened, angry that the
gods had dared this, that they had so much power.” After Niobe has been
punished, we leam that it is fear of divine wrath which ensures worship for
gods:
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Turn vero cuncti manifestam numinis iram
femina virque timent cultuque inpensius omnes
magna gemelliparae venerantur numina divae
(6.313-315)
Then truly do all men and women fear the open wrath of
the deity and the more zealously do all partake in the
cultivation of the great divinity of the
divine mother of twins
Niobe’s tongue, which had made the boast to begin with, is ultimately silenced
in the course of her punishment: ipsa quoque interius cum duro lingua
palato/congelat (6.306-307), “her tongue, too, itself freezes within the hard
palate.”
Similarly, the Lycian peasant farmers (who perhaps earned punishment)
are punished in a way that calls attention to their loss of speech:
sed nunc quoque turpes
litibus exercent linguas pulsoque pudore,
quamvis sint sub aqua, sub aqua maledicere temptant
(6.374-376)
but even now they work their foul tongues
in quarrels, with their sense of shame gone, although
under water, under water they try to say foul things
In each case the challenger(s) of the deity is punished severely and in a way
that leads to the loss of speech and the total and permanent elimination of any
future threat from the challenger(s). The punishments seem extreme only
because our sensibilities make us wonder why, if the gods are so powerful,
they do not simply ignore the hubristic boasts of a mortal here and there. If
they were secure in their power, why should a few earthly boasts, made by
weak beings, matter? What we find, however, is that in the Metamorphoses
the gods exercise their powers on many occasions simply because they can.
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The gods squelch free speech when it contains a challenge-or at least a
perceived challenge--to their authority. From Book One’s council of the gods
concerning the actions of one mortal, Lycaon, we see that the entire fabric of
the universe, according to the gods, rests on everyone’s acquiescence to the
hierarchy ruled by Jupiter.
We are asked continually to consider the ways in which gods use their
powers and assert their authority. The detailed and pathetic description (also
in this section of Metamorphoses) of Marsyas being punished emphasizes the
punishment rather than anything he may have done to merit it: Marsyas is
crying out his repentance as he is flayed alive (clamabat, 6.386; clamanti,
6.387). Juxtaposed as it is to the various challenges to the gods, we know it
was yet another challenge to a god’s authority which, after an unjust music
contest with Apollo,3 8 resulted in a punishment more severe than the situation
warranted.
From these stories of divine retribution, Ovid segues (after mentioning
briefly the story of Pelops and the cities which sent ambassadors to offer
sympathy for the deaths of Amphion and his children by Niobe, 6.401-421), to
the story of Tereus, Procne and Philomela.
The story of Tereus, Procne and Philomela is perhaps the most horrific of
rape narratives. Tereus is not a common Ovidian lover, or even a common
Ovidian rapist, as we see from his use of violence, his lust for power, and his
need to get what he wants by any means necessary. What separates him from
other rapists in the poem-say, Jupiter, for example-is that Jupiter with divine
” As Anderson notes (1972, 201): “In the accounts which Apollodorus 1.4.2 and Hyginus 165
preserve, Apollo defeated Marsyas by a ruse.” Apollo turned his lyre upside down and played
well, and when Marsyas could not do the same with the flute, Marsyas was deemed the loser. It
is difficult to imagine, however, any circumstances that would justify such a punishment.
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132
ease can silence his victim through metamorphosis, whereas Tereus has
recourse only to mortal acts. It may well be that we are asked to consider all
the rapes in light of this one: despite any narrative humor, despite any
euphemisms, despite Jupiter’s ease in disposing of his victims as objects,
animals, parts of the scenery, this is what rape is: the naked desire to control
another being, to bend that being to the rapist’s will, by any means, so that the
rapist can feel a sense of power.
As the story opens, we learn that Athens alone was unable to send
ambassadors to offer sympathy for Amphion and his children and that the
Thracian Tereus aided Athens by driving away the “barbarian forces” (6.421-
425). Thus Tereus won a name for himself by conquering (clarum vincendo
nomen habebat, 6.425). Because of this and because Tereus was strong in
resources and wealth and “by chance was descended form Gradivus”/Mars
(6.427), Pandion “joined Tereus to himself by marriage with Procne” (6.426-
428). The marriage was conducted under terrible but unseen omens (6.428-
438) and a son, Itys, was borne to Tereus and Procne. After five years, Procne
coaxes Tereus to approach Pandion to allow Philomela, Procne’s sister, to
come for a brief visit (6.438-444).
After being received by Pandion, Tereus is about to mention his wife’s
request when Philomela enters:
non secus exarsit conspecta virgine Tereus,
quam si quis canis ignem supponat aristis
aut frondem positasque cremet faenilibus herbas.
(6.455-457)
As soon as the virgin is seen Tereus bums, not
otherwise than if one puts fire under ripe grain or
bums leaves or grass that was put in haylofts.
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Just as in previous stories, desire enters through the eyes and its recipient
then strives to deal with its effects. For Apollo with Daphne, Apollo first tried
smoothtalk and then gave chase. Ovid explains that Tereus, by his innate
propensity toward lust, is affected even more than perhaps another might be:
digna quidem facies; sed et hunc innata libido
exstimulat, pronumque genus regionibus illis
in Venerem est: flagrat vitio gentisque suoque.
(6.458-460)
Her appearance was indeed worthy; but his inherent lust
stimulated him too, and the race in those regions is prone
to Venus: he bums by his vice and by that of his people.
By this, Ovid cues us to expect that Tereus may have a more extreme reaction
than others afflicted by desire: there are attendant circumstances, beyond the
beauty of Philomela, which fan the flames of passion even hotter. Ovid tells us
Tereus’ first impulse:
impetus est illi comitum corrumpere curam
nutn'cisque fidem nec non ingentibus ipsam
sollicitare datis totumque inpendere regnum
aut rapere et saevo raptam defendere bello;
et nihil est, quod non effreno captus amore
ausit, nec capiunt inclusas pectora flammas.
(6.458-466)
His impulse is to corrupt the care her attendants have
for her and the fidelity of her nurse and by huge gifts
to tempt the girl herself and to pay his whole kingdom
or to rape her and to defend her rape with savage war;
taken by unbridled love there is nothing which he would
not dare, nor can his breast contain the fires within.
Already his impulse involves seeing the completed act: running through
possible courses of action involves fantasizing what he will do and, in his
mind, defending the completed act. Ovid has sprung this on us suddenly,
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since prior to his seeing Philomela, Tereus seems the conquering hero, dutiful
husband, wealthy king, and both political and familial ally to Pandion. The
only (and strong) foreshadowing of the impending horror was the description
of their ill-omened wedding.
Ovid stresses the irony of the situation and, by doing so, he provides details
which make Tereus’ crime the more horrific. For example, as Tereus presses
his case for Philomela to come to Thrace, by his earnest urging seems to be a
good husband: “by his great exertion itself, Tereus is believed to be dutiful
and earns praise from his crime” (ipso sceleris molimine Tereus/creditur esse
pius laudemque a crimine sumit, 6.473-474). Even more ironic is that
Philomela urges, too, as Ovid states: “both for her own welfare and against it,
too” (6.477).
Tereus had begun to fantasize when contemplating courses of action. He
now gazes at Philomela and engages in a more explicit sexual fantasy which
increases his desire:
spectat earn Tereus praecontrectatque videndo
osculaque et collo circumdata bracchia cemens
omnia pro stimulis facibusque ciboque furoris
accipit
(6.478-481)
Tereus watches her and considers all beforehand by
imagining, seeing her kisses and her arms encircling
his neck, and he takes all of these as goads and torches
and nourishment of his frenzy
Nor does Ovid stop here--he adds another detail to illustrate further the
character of Tereus. Philomela begs her father to allow her to go:
quotiens amplectitur ilia parentem,
Esse parens vellet: neque minus inpius esset.
(6.481-482)
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As often as she embraces her father, he wishes to
be her father: nor would he, even then, be less wicked.
Ovid adds this level to show how base is the character of Tereus: even as her
father he would not only be sexually attracted to her but would also act on it.
The impassioned Tereus forms a plan. His fantasy grows more vivid and
more explicit as the time draws nearer to act:
quamvis secessit, in ilia
aestuat et repetens faciem motusque manusque,
qualia vult, fingit, quae nondum vidit, et ignes
ipse suos nutrit cura removente soporem.
(6.490-493)
Although he has withdrawn from her, his passion for
her swells and he recalls her face and movements and her
hands, and those things which he has not yet seen he
imagines to be just as he wishes them to be and he feeds
his desire while passion prevents him from sleeping.
Tereus is so overcome by his passion that he cannot function like those
around him, who are sleeping peacefully. In his mind, he is already controlling
Philomela: he imagines her body exactly as he wishes it to be--we are
reminded of Apollo’s imagining those parts of Daphne which cannot be seen,
thinking them even better than those he sees (si qua latent, meliora putat,
1.502; adorning her hair in his mind, 1.498). Ovid intimates that Tereus adds
to his own passion (ignesApse suos nutrit, 6.492-493) by the very act of
fantasizing, just as Apollo had (sperando nutrit amorem, 1.496).
An assessment of the story thus far shows that Tereus has formed a
disguise by misrepresenting his intentions. Although he reports accurately
that his wife Procne, Philomela's sister, sent him to Athens to bring Philomela
for a visit, he is already seeking to carry off Philomela for his own purposes.
His misrepresentation at this point becomes his disguise. By pleading so
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heartily, Ovid states that he seems a better husband {laudemque a crimine
sumit, 6.474). As a mortal, Tereus can use the disguise that comes most easily
to him; he plays the part which Ovid depicted him in before Tereus had seen
Philomela: the part of dutiful son-in-law, dutiful husband, wealthy king and ally
of Athens, and brother-in-law to Philomela. This disguise is a variant on the
disguises used by the gods: by appearing as a protector, a most innocuous
figure (cf. Jupiter as Diana to Callisto, Sol as Leucothoe’s mother, et al.), the
rapist gains the trust of the victim and/or her guardians. As a mortal, however,
Tereus does not have the power to literally change his form; he must instead
conceal his true identity (predator/rapist) behind the guise of dutiful
husband/son-in-law/brother-in-law.
Tereus is successful in his entreaty to Philomela’s father; she is entrusted
to his care. As soon as they are aboard the ship, Ovid tells us Tereus’
thoughts, using words which are remarkably like those we have seen in earlier
rape narratives:
'vicimus!' exclamat, 'mecum mea vota feruntur!'
exsultatque et vix animo sua gaudia differt
barbarus
(6.513-515)
“I am victorious!" he shouts, “My prayers are bome
along with me!” He exults and the barbarian can hardly
postpone his joys with his mind
Tereus refers to Philomela as his “prayers”~that is, she is the object of his
prayers-which are carried along with him on the ship. Ovid’s use of “vicimud’
may bring to mind his description of Jupiter ascending to heaven as victor
(2.437) after his rape of Callisto. In addition, there is a similarity to Jupiter’s
rape of Europa: before Jupiter carries her off, Ovid states that Jupiter kisses
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her hands and vix iam, vix cetera differt, 2.863, “hardly now, hardly does he
postpone the rest.” But the closest verbal parallel occurs in the story of
Salmacis and Hermaphroditus. Once Hermaphroditus has entered the pool of
water, Ovid writes that Salmacis vixque moram patitur, vix iam sua gaudia
differt, 4.350, “hardly endures delay, she can hardly postpone her joys.”
Salmacis, like Tereus above (6.513), shouts that she is victorious when her
object of desire is where she wants him: “‘I am victorious and he is mine’
shouts the naiad” {‘vicimus et meus est’ exclamat nais, 4.356).
These verbal echoes serve to underscore the similarities in the acts of
sexual aggression. Tereus’ acts are like the acts of Jupiter, like the act of
Salmacis: even if the circumstances differ, rape is rape. In addition, Ovid may
be pointing out a further irony within this story itself. As Tereus claims victory
in his pursuit of Philomela Ovid calls him barbarus (6.515);3 0 earlier Tereus had
helped Athens by driving off barbarians (barbara agmina, 6.423) and thus got
“a famous name by conquering” (ef clarum vincendo nomen habebat, 6.425).
Once again we are asked to consider how someone powerful uses that power.
Tereus is a conqueror and a king, but he is soon to be revealed as a brutal
rapist.
Aboard the ship to Thrace, Tereus' homeland, Tereus stares at Philomela
as a predator watches its prey:
nusquam lumen detorquet ab ilia,
non aliter, quam cum pedibus praedator obuncis
deposuit nido leporem lovis ales in alto:
nulla fuga est capto, spectat sua praemia raptor
(6.515-518)
He at no time looks away from her, just as when the
predator with curved talons, the bird of Jove, has placed
* Philomela will later, in her first words after Tereus rapes her, call him barbare (6.533).
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a rabbit down in its deep nest: there is no escape
for the captive, the plunderer watches his prize.
Here the “bird of Jove” (i.e. an eagle) is the predator, once again calling to
minds Jupiter’s acts of sexual aggression. How apt indeed to have Jupiter’s
bird as the raptor, especially after the depiction of him by Arachne as the
master rapist. Recall the simile used of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus,
wherein the predatory eagle (Hermaphroditus,regia ales) is foiled by its prey,
the snake (Salmacis), which it snatched (rapit). In Arachne’s web, we learned
that Jupiter even used the eagle disguise for one of his rapes (of Asterie,
6.108).
We see from the simile here that Tereus has Philomela at a great
disadvantage: she is away from the safety of her home, of her father, and of
her country. The prey is out of its element and the predator has every
advantage. Ovid’s use of raptor foreshadows Tereus’ rape of Philomela, since
even though rapere may mean “to seize violently," the predator Tereus has
taken his prey away for the purpose of rape.
Tereus ensures that the imbalance of power leans heavily in his favor by
bringing Philomela, once they have disembarked, to a deserted hut in territory
unfamiliar to her. Ovid stresses her fear and confusion:
atque ibi pallentem trepidamque et cuncta timentem
et iam cum lacrimis, ubi sit germana, rogantem
includit
(6.522-524)
and there he shut her in, pale and trembling and fearing
everything, and now with tears asking
where her sister was
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Tereus seizes the opportunity he has created and forcibly rapes her while she
is confused and afraid:
fassusque nefas et virginem et unam
vi superat frustra clamato saepe parente,
saepe sorore sua, magnis super omnia divis.
(6.524-526)
He revealed the crime and raped her, both a virgin
and alone, while she cried out often, in vain, for
her father and often, too, for her sister,
but above all, for the great gods.
Ovid plays on the words fassusque nefas, literally “having confessed the
unspeakable” or “having said what one cannot say.” This may bring to mind
Jupiter’s revelation of himself as himself to Europa (lamque deus posita
fallacis imagine tauri/se confessus erat, 3.1-2). Ovid draws attention to the fact
that force was used {vi superat, lit.: “he overpowered her with force”). Parallels
for this in rape narratives abound-particularly for the use of some form of vis.*0
Ovid picks up the theme of vis used in rape more explicitly in the story of
Boreas and Orithyia later in Book 6.
Since Philomela calls upon the gods super omnia, “above all,” there may
also be some irony and wordplay here, in a few ways: first, as we have seen
from Arachne’s web, the gods are themselves rapists, so calling upon them
now for help is indeed frustra; next, she calls upon the gods most of all
(=“above all”) but they are “above all” in the sense of their status in the
universe, which itself is structured rigidly in a patriarchal hierarchy which has
4 0 For superare, we have when Jupiter overpowers Callisto (sec/ quem superare puella/quisve
lovem poterat?, 436-437). (We might also consider the verbal association between superare
and superi.) We have seen vis in several previous rape and attempted rape narratives: vim parat
(2.576) of Neptune with the daughter of Coroneus, vim tulit (3.344) of Liriope with Cephesos,
vim passa (4.233) and vim tulit (4.239) of Leucothoe with Sol, and vim parat oil Pyreneus with the
Muses.
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set up the very conditions which make it possible for Tereus to commit this
crime. It is his power and status as conqueror, king, and political ally which
lead Pandion to wed Procne to Tereus, and which later lead to his entrusting
his other daughter to Tereus’ care.
In addition to his other tactics, Tereus takes advantange of Philomela's fear
and confusion to strike at the opportune moment. Directly after the rape
Philomela is described as being like a lamb, trembling after the attack of a wolf
and fearing another attack (6.527-528).
Tereus has ensured his successful rape of Philomela thus far by controlling
each aspect of the situation: he deceived her in his intentions, he brought her
away from safety to an isolated hut, and attacked her while she was
disconcerted. Tereus has had complete control over the situation and over
Philomela. When Philomela comes to her senses after being raped, she
strongly reproaches her rapist for having created such a horrible situation.
Now, she says, from Procne’s perspective Philomela has been made a rival
(paelex ego facta sororis, 6.537). Philomela alludes to her feelings of guilt in
saying that she is, in effect, his mistress (i.e. Procne’s rival) and we may recall
Arethusa’s consideration of what someone might think of the fact that she was
naked at the time Alpheus chased her: et quia nuda fui, sum visa paratior illi
(5.603), “because I was naked, I seemed/am seen the more ready for him.” In
these instances, Ovid has the victims express what others may think of them
because they suffered the force of another’s will. Philomela even tells Tereus
that he should kill hen quin animam hanc, ne quod facinus tibi, perfide,
restet/eripis? (6.539-540), “Why don't you tear away this life of mine, traitor,
that you may leave no crime undone?” The perfide here harks back to Tereus’
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seeming to be pius earlier in his pleas to Pandion, supposedly on Procne’s
behalf, to entrust Philomela to him. Not only has he violated his bond of
marriage, but he has violated a promise to Pandion to return Philomela safely
and soon (6.6.496ff.), his familial ties, his political alliance, and the bonds of
human law and decency. He is a traitor to his word and to the customs of
human beings. In effect, he has acted like the king of gods and men.
At this point, Philomela begins to find strength in herself and declares she
will find a way to reveal his crime and to see it avenged:
si tamen haec superi cemunt, si numina divum
sunt aliquid, si non perierunt omnia mecum,
quandocumque mihi poenas dabis. ipsa pudore
proiecto tua facta loquar: si copia detur,
in populos veniam . . .
(6.542-546)
Yet, if the gods have seen these things, if the power
of the gods has any force, if everything has not died
along with me, someday you will be punished for me.
I will tell what you have done and make my shame public:
if there be an opportunity I will go among the people . . .
Philomela suggests that she is already dead. In effect, that is the change his
violence has had upon her: she is redefined as a person; she is no longer
simply the sister of Procne and daughter of Pandion, now she has been made
a paelex; compare to this the change in Callisto discussed above, in Chapter
O ne-after she is raped, she almost forgets her hunting and hates the woods
which know4 1 what happened to her (2.438-440).
In these lines, we see the very thing Tereus least desires: the object is
taking control, both of herself and of the situation. Philomela is supposed to be
4 1 Here, too, Philomela refers to objects in nature as “ knowing” : inplebo silvas etconscia saxa
movebo, (6.547); cf. of Callisto: huic odio nemus estet conscia sifva (2.438).
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helpless and weak, the victim. She is supposed to tremble and quake in fear
of the conqueror, not make demands and tell him what she will do. Instead,
she states clearly that she will find a way to reveal what he has done. Even if
she cannot go among the people to tell it, she states:
si silvis clausa tenebor,
inplebo silvas et conscia saxa movebo;
audiet haec aether et si deus ullus in illo est!
(6.546-548)
if I am kept shut up in the forest I will fill
the forest and I will move the knowing rocks; the upper
air will hear, and god, too, if there is any god in it!
Ironically, Philomela states that she will alert any god in the upper a ir-
reminding us of the very gods (e.g. Jupiter, Apollo) whom we have seen raping
other king’s daughters, such as herself. But Philomela will make his crime
known in any way that she can. Her assertion expresses her single goal: to
expose Tereus as a rapist. Tereus, however, has a different goal: that of
unchallenged power. Order for him will be maintained through disposing of
any threat to his position as the most powerful. Just as order in the universe in
maintained by the weaker ones either staying or being put in their place (i.e.,
subservience and obedience to the more powerful) Tereus reacts with fear
and anger. He tries immediately to “order" by silencing opposition to his
authority:
talibus ira feri postquam commota tyranni
nec minor hac metus est, causa stimulatus utraque,
quo fuit accinctus, vagina liberat ensem
(6.549-551)
After the anger of the savage tyrant was stirred by
her words, nor was his fear any less than his anger,
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driven by both reasons he frees his sword
from the sheath with which he was girded
The phallic image of Tereus’ taking his sword from its vagina is, perhaps,
obvious, but we should observe here that the phallic object is then used not
only as a weapon of rape but also of silencing. It is imperative that Tereus
silence his victim because her ability to expose him as a rapist is the only
power she has over him. She has not proclaimed that she will kill herself (and
thus escape his power); rather she has asserted her power to tell.
At this point Philomela believes he is going to kill her (as she herself
proposed he should) and offers her throat. Instead, Tereus cuts out her tongue
in a vividly gory scene. The tongue is personified in this description as it
struggles and calls out the name of her father (6.555-557).4 2 Ovid adds a detail
of hearsay and a statement of his own disbelief--as if distancing himself from
the origin of such a detail-to heighten the horror of the crime:
hoc quoque post facinus (vix ausim credere) fertur
saepe sua lacerum repetisse libidine corpus
(6.561-562)
After this crime, too, it is said (I hardly dare to
believe it) that he often sought again her mutilated
body for his lust
Tereus does not kill Philomela. He thus takes a great risk of his crime being
discovered. His action of cutting out her tongue is in accordance with his
desire for control over Philomela. She, by contrast, had suggested that he kill
her. If Tereus were to take the advice of his “helpless” victim or grant her what
she wishes, he could not feel fully in control of her. Rather, Tereus cuts out her
tongue in a display of his power over her; his act is in direct oppositon to her
4 2 See Amy Richlin, “Reading Ovid’s Rapes" (1992b) fora detailed and insightful discussion of
this passage.
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wish to either die or to tell others of his crime. Moreover, not only does Tereus
regain control of the situation, but he acts on Philomela again. When Tereus
raped her, he took away Philomela's virginity and thus permanently changed
her. He made her into what she was not: the paelex of her sister. The act of
cutting out her tongue is an extreme display of his control over her body: he
changes her body permanently and takes away her only power over him, the
power to tell others of his crime. Once he has done this, Ovid adds the
ultimate display of Tereus’ exertion of his absolute power over a victim who
seems to pose no threat to him whatsoever: Tereus rapes her again and
again (saepe, 6.562).
Tereus, in relation to other “lovers” and rapists in the poem, is not
uncommon in his feelings of desire, but stands in contrast to all others by the
enormity of his actions and Ovid's detailed account of them. The story of
Tereus and Philomela is certainly the most vivid and explicit of rape stories in
the poem. Its sensational qualities and attention to pathetic detail and ironic
elements make it stand out as a story describing the potential extreme affects
of sexual attraction, or “unbridled love” (6.465). Although it is one of the most
horrifying in depicting of the destructiveness of sexual aggression, this story
differs from other stories only in its vividness in describing this destructive
force. By showing us a Tereus, Ovid illustrates the extreme destructive
potential of sexual attraction and the desire for power over another. Tereus
has a weakness which he at no time tries to control-he is taken by an
“unbridled” love (effreno captus amore) which he, in fact, increases [ignes ipse
suos nutrif).
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The political aspects of this story are not to be overlooked. Tereus is a
mortal king who is an ally of Pandion of Athens and then bound more closely
to him by his marriage to Procne. Ovid refers to Tereus as a tyrannus three
times.4 3 He violates the bonds of propriety in every way and, as Philomela
points out, distorts every relationship in this family. He creates disorder, by
normal human standards, and imposes his own sense of order. His abuse of
power runs through it all: he abuses his power as husband, ally, son-in-law,
brother-in-law, king, mortal, male.
Philomela’s power to tell, however, does not end with her power to speak.
After a year has passed, Philomela still seeks to find a way to expose Tereus’
crime, but “a silent mouth lacks the proof of the deed” (os mutum facti caret
indice, 6.574); without the ability to speak, she cannot be an informant. Like
Arachne, however, Philomela exposes rape through the art of tapestry. Ovid
states that “grief has great ingenuity” (grande doloris/ingenium est, 6.574-575)
and Philomela weaves the crime:
stamina barbarica suspendit callida tela
purpureasque notas filis intexuit albis,
indicium sceleris
(6.576-578)
skillful, she hangs a barbarian web on her loom,
and interweaves purple signs into white threads,
the disclosure of the crime
Since her tongue lacked the ability to be an index, an informant of the deed
(or, in fact, the index finger, used for pointing), Philomela weaves the story and
manages to send it to Procne. Notice that it is a barbarica web, since it comes
4 3 Tyrannus is used of Tereus in reference the wedding day of Procne and Tereus (she was
given to)claro. . . tyranno (6.436); in describing Tereus’ response to Philomela’s saying she will
tell: ira feri. . . tyranni (6.549); and when Procne is about to leam of her sister’s fate and of the
crime of her husband, she is called the saevi matrona tyranni (6.581).
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from Tereus’ land, and not from Athens, her homeland. When Procne receives
the tapestry and looks at It, she herself is unable to speak:
evolvit vestes saevi matrona tyranni
germanaeque suae fatum miserabile legit
et (mirum potuisse) silet: dolor ora repressit,
verbaque quaerenti satis indignantia linguae
defuerunt, nec flere vacat, sed fasque nefasque
confusura ruit poenaeque in imagine tota est.
(6.581-586)
the wife of the savage tyrant unrolls the cloth and read
the pitiable fate of her sister and (it’s a wonder that it
was possible) she is silent: grief holds her mouth, and
words indignant enough fail her tongue which seeks
them, she has no time for tears, but she rushes, about
to confound right and wrong, wholly fixed on
the image of punishment.
Procne cannot speak: what she reads in the cloth is nefas, an unspeakable
crime. Ovid foreshadows her actions by saying that Procne will confound fas
and nefas “right” and “wrong,” or literally the “speakable" and the
“unspeakable.” When Procne at last brings Philomela to her home, Philomela
shows signs of feeling guilty and ashamed, and wishes to speak:
sed non attollere contra
sustinet haec oculos paelex sibi visa sororis
deiectoque in humum vultu iurare volenti
testarique deos, per vim sibi dedecus illud
inlatum, pro voce manus fuit.
(6.605-609)
but Philomela does not raise her eyes opposite and
seeming to herself to be a rival to her sister, with
her face toward the ground, and for her wishing to call
upon the gods as witnesses that that disgrace was brought
upon her by force, her hand served in place of a voice
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As Procne runs through possible courses of action--she is ready for any crime
(in omne nefas ego me, germana, paravi, 6.613)--she decides to kill Tereus’
and her son, Itys. Procne then wavers until she considers both Itys and
Philomela:
'cur admovet' inquit
'alter blanditias, rapta silet altera lingua?
quam vocat hie matrem, cur non vocat ilia sororem?
cui sis nupta, vide, Pandione nata, marito!
degeneras! scelus est pietas in coniuge Tereo.'
(6.631-635)
she says, “why is one capable of smoothtalk,
the other silent with her tongue taken out? Why does
she not call me sister--me, whom he calls mother?
See to whom you are wed, daughter of Pandion!
You are failing your family! Familial duty is crime
in a case with Tereus as a husband.”
Procne justifies the action she will take by considering her family: her son is
capable of blanditias, “smoothtalk” used to persuade (which Apollo had used
on Daphne, 1.531 )--perhaps of the sort, too, which Tereus had used on
Pandion4 4 — while her sister has a rapta lingua “a raped/taken-by-force tongue.”
Her tongue, like Philomela herself, is rapta. Procne considers the complex
web of familial relations in her few words: she has a duty to her genus, the
family she came from, and also familial duty (pietas) to her family with Tereus.
Her use of pietas with scelus recalls Ovid’s use earlier, when he noted that
Tereus is believed to be pius by his urging Pandion, and he got praise a
crimine, “from his crime” (6.474). In addition, Procne assumes an enhanced
power of speech; just as Jupiter had earlier redefined rape (i.e., saw iniuria as
amor; Procne says that piestas is scelus.
4 4 facundum faciebat amor (6.469), “ love was making him eloquent.”
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In the end, the sisters kill Itys4 5 and serve him to his father Tereus (6.436-
652). Ovid has Procne again show her power over speech, by deftly indicating
Itys’ whereabouts to Tereus, who had asked her to call the boy; she responds:
“whom you demand, you have, within,” (intus habes, quem poscis, 6.655). Her
control of language escapes Tereus, who looks about, confused. After
repeatedly looking and asking for the boy, Philomela suddenly jumps forth:
sicut erat sparsis furiali caede capillis,
prosiluit Ityosque caput Philomela cruentum
misit in ora patris nec tempore maiuit ullo
posse loqui et mentis testari gaudia dictis.
(6.657-660)
just as she was, with her hair spattered with mad
slaughter, Philomela jumped forth and threw the bloody
head of Itys into the face of his father; nor was there any
time in which she would have preferred to be able to
speak, and to bear witness to her joy with fitting words.
The ability to speak and to control language is again emphasized: no longer
is Philomela goal to tell Tereus’ crime-she accomplished that with the
tapestry. Philomela’s desire to speak, now more than ever, is to be a witness
(testari) of her own joy in avenging the wrong done to her.
Ovid draws parallels between the victimization of Itys and the victimization
of Philomela. As Procne drags Itys off into a secluded part of the house (nec
mora, traxit Ityn. . .domus altae partem remotam, 6.636-638), we are reminded
of the hut into which Philomela was dragged (in stabula alta trahit, silvis
obscura vetestis, 6.521). Both, as they are dragged away, cry out to their kin
(Itys: mater! mater! clamantem, 6.640; Philomela: et virginem et unam/vi
superat frustra clamato saepe parents,/saepe sorore sua, magnis super omnia
4 5 Procne stabs Itys in his breast (lateri qua pectus adhaeret, 6.641). Even though one wound
was enough to kill Itys, Ovid tells us, Philomela nevertheless slits his throat (iugulum ferro
Philomela resolvit, 6.643).
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divis, 6.524-526). Although Philomela provides her throat for Tereus’ sword
(iugulum Philomela parabat, 6.552), hopeful of death, Tereus rips out her
tongue. After Itys has received the death-wound from Procne (satis illi ad fata
vel unum/vulnus erat, 6.642), Philomela nevertheless slits his throat (iugulum
ferro Philomela resolvit, 6.642). Finally, the two are alike in appearance when
Philomela leaps forth with Itys’ severed head: both heads are covered in gore
(she appears sparsis furiali caede capillis, corresponding to Itys’ caput
cruentem). In effect, Philomela helps to do to Itys what (in part) was done to
her. The story concludes with the three turning into birds, with Tereus in
perpetual pursuit of vengeance.
The rape of Orithyia by Boreas (6.675-721) directly follows the story of
Tereus, Procne, and Philomela and maintains the notion that violence is the
answer to desire. It is linked also by ties of kinship: Pandion is the father of
Procne, Philomela and Erechtheus; Erechtheus is the father of Orithyia and
Procris (among others). Boreas, the North Wind, is not favored among
Orithyia’s suitors (because of his association with Thracians and Tereus,
6.682). Here the male aggressor is shown to learn quickly that force is a
technique surer than words for securing sexual gratification from his object of
desire. As we see with Boreas, physical force is always an alternative to
words: “while he asks and prefers to use prayers rather than force,” (dum
rogat et precibus mavult quam viribus uti, 6.684). Boreas prefers words, but
“force” or “words" are the two options for courses of action. Many of the male
aggressors in the Metamorphoses share Boreas' opinion-one may use words,
but physical force is the alternative and, in fact, a surer technique.4 6
4 8 cf. Apollo tires of “ wasting soft words (blanditias) and chases her with an all-out stride” (1.532);
Jupiter first addresses lo and when she runs from him as he is speaking, he rapes her (1.592-
600).
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This attempt at physical self-restraint fails to achieve Boreas’ desire. When
he accomplishes nothing with smoothtalk (blanditiis, 6.685), he reproaches
himself at length:
'et meritol1 dixit; 'quid enim mea tela reliqui,
saevitiam et vires iramque animosque minaces,
admovique preces, quamm me dedecet usus?
apta mihi vis est: vi tristia nubila pello,
vi freta concutio nodosaque robora verto
induroque nives et terras grandine pulso
(6.687-692)
“and deservedly!" he said, ‘lor why have I left behind my
weapons, my savageness and force and anger and
threatening moods, and why did I proffer prayers,
the use of which ill-befits me?
Force suits me: by force I drive gloomy clouds,
by force I strike the sea and overturn knotty trees and
harden the snow and strike the earth with hail.”
The repetition of the word vis (vis . . . vi... vi) cues us to what is coming. While
we might expect the actual rape to be told in the phrase vim passa, Ovid varies
the narrative by including the repetition of vis here to convey the meaning of
what will be the rape of Orithyia. Boreas sees himself as having been foolish
to try to be what he is not: force is his means to achieve his desire. As he
continues, he notes that it is with force that he contends with his brothers
(6.693-696)--a reference similar to the one in Book One, signifying civil war
among nature’s elements. Boreas states how he should have approached this
situation:
hac ope debueram thalamos petiisse, socerque
non orandus erat mihi sed faciendus Erectheus.
(6.700-701)
By this means I should have sought her marriage-bed, and
Erechtheus should not have been asked to be my
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151
father-in-iaw but he should have been made to be
my father-in-law.
Boreas then swoops down over the land and carries off Orithyia:
pavidamque metu caligine tectus
Orithyian amans fulvis amplectitur alis
(6.706-707)
the lover, covered in fog, with his tawny wings
embraces Orithyia, [who is] trembling with fear
Ovid does not use the phrase vim passa here of the rape; instead he refers to
Boreas as a raptor (6.710) and tells us that she is made to be the wife of the
“cold tyrant” (gelidi coniunx tyranni, 6.711) and is made a mother {genetrix
facta est, 6.712) of twins. Ovid presents a variation of the rape narrative: the
earlier repetition of forms of vis in combination with the explicit use of raptor
gives the reader the same message as vim passa*7 Note, too, that Ovid adds
the political reference in calling Boreas “the cold tyrant”-a term used several
times to describe the rapist/tyrant Tereus in the preceding story (6.436, 6.549,
6.581; cf. earlier of Dis 5.539, 5.508).
From tyrants on earth and in the heavens, we turn now to the unique rape
narrative of Cephalus and Procris--one of the very few successful rapes of a
male by a female in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. In Chapter Two, Part B, we will
begin by looking at this unusual story and its narrative complexities, and
continue our examination of rape narratives in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
4 7 cf. raptor used in the simile (as Tereus stares at his prey aboard his ship) of the bird of Jove
placing its prey in its nest, 6.518; it is also used of Dis in his rape of Proserpina, 5.402.
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Chapter Two, Part B
The Forms of Rape in Ovid’s Metamorphoses
The female aggressors of the Metamorphoses are stunning failures in their
attempts to obtain sexually the objects of their desires. By looking at some
such female characters, those who both desire and then act on their desires,
we see a pattern emerge that suggests that rape narratives are narratives of a
kind of power that is gendered male. We have already seen some females
who actively pursued the objects of their desires, such as Echo and Salmacis.
Other examples leap to mind-not simply of would-be rapist females, but of any
females who exhibit desire. Although some will be discussed in greater detail
later in this chapter, we may pause briefly to note how Ovid suggests a power
structure inherent in sexually charged relationships: females overwhelmingly
show a poorer success rate than males in obtaining their desires. Each
female character’s name here is followed by a brief assessment of her
“success” rate:
--Semele (has affair with Jupiter)
--Echo (rejected by Narcissus)
-Thisbe (shares mutual love, but Pyramus kills himself before
they unite)
--Clytie (is loved then rejected by Sol)
-Salmacis (rejected by Hermaphroditus)
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-Medea (“wins” Jason, but he later remarries, casting her
aside)
-Aurora (is said--by Cephalus--to have raped Cephalus, but he
pines for his wife until Aurora releases him)
-Scylla (rejected by Minos)
-Pasiphae (successfully rapes a bull)
-Byblis (rejected by Caunus)
-Myrrha (has sex with her father Cinyras until he discovers
who she is, then she is rejected by Cinyras)
-Hylonome (has mutual love with Cyllarus, but he is killed)
-Circe (rejected by Glaucus, rejected by Picus)
-(unnamed) women (rejected by Orpheus, he is later killed by
the scorned women of the Cicones)
-Alcyone (shares mutual love with Ceyx, but he dies)
-Venus (enjoys relationship with Adonis, but he is killed)
Of these, only Semele, Thisbe, Hylonome, and Alcyone are presented as
having mutual loves mixed with erotic attraction; the other instances are
described mainly as one-sided erotic attractions which-except for the cases of
Medea, Aurora, Pasiphae, Circe and Venus-all end in the destruction of the
female aggressor herself. As for Medea, Aurora, Pasiphae, Circe and Venus,
each enjoys a status of being greater than human.' Thus the examples above
follow the pattern of the female desirer being destroyed: Semele is
incinerated by Jupiter (during sex), Echo fades away until she is all echoing
’ Venus and Aurora are goddesses; both Medea and Circe are said to possess magical powers
(and they each have deities for ancestors; Circe refers to herself as dea); Pasiphae is the
daughter of the Sun (9.736) and of Perseis, an Oceanid.
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voice, Thisbe kills herself, Clytie becomes a flower, Salmacis is subsumed into
Hermaphroditus,2 Scylla becomes a bird, Byblis a fountain, Myrrha a tree,
Hylonome kills herself, the women who killed Orpheus become trees, and
Alcyone becomes a bird. Ovid’s pattern of destroying female aggressors is
most pertinent to our discussion: females who show desire lose themselves, if
they are on the lower end of the power scheme,3 while female objects, desired
and sought by males, likewise lose.
In this chapter, we will continue our examination of Ovid’s rape narratives,
beginning with the rape of Cephalus by Aurora in Book 7, one of the few
successful rapes of a male by a female in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
Section One: Engendering Rape. Metamorphoses 7-15
The rape of Cephalus by the goddess Aurora presents several difficulties for
the reader first, and perhaps most importantly, Ovid suggests that we not trust
the narrator of the story, Cephalus. Because of this alone, the reader is forced
to wonder whether or not Cephalus’ rape by Aurora even constitutes rape.
The narrative becomes even more problematic, since Ovid has Cephalus
allude to certain aspects of his story, without telling the full version of events
(which are hinted at but omitted). Because of these difficulties, it is necessary
to look at the broader narrative, including the story of Cephalus and his wife,
Procris.
Ovid casts doubt on Cephalus’ version of the story by having Cephalus
allude to certain “unseemly” events, which Cephalus omits. In doing so, Ovid
draws the reader’s attention to the faulty narrative, told from the perspective of
2 Hermaphroditus’ consciousness remains: it is he who notices that he is now “ half-male"
(semimarerrij and it is he who prays to the gods (4.380-388).
2 i.e., if they are not goddesses or endowed with magical powers.
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one perhaps prone to shading things in his own favor. In addition, we find that
there is an allusion to a myth in which Cephalus is tricked into performing a
sexual act in exchange for a hunting spear and a hound, perhaps an
indication of (another) muted rape story.
Cephalus begins his narrative in order to answer Phocus’ question
concerning Cephalus’ remarkable javelin. From the beginning of this story we
leam that there is more here than the narrator, Cephalus, is telling. Beneath
the surface of the story there are suggestions of sexual impropriety. Phocus,
son of Aeacus, had wanted to know from Cephalus a.) why the spear is as it is
(i.e. sure to hit its mark); b.) whence it came; c.) who gave it; Cephalus is
selective in his response: Quae patitur pudor, ille refert et cetera narrat/Qua
tulerit mercede, silef (7.687-688), “What a sense of decency allows, he recalls
and tells the rest, by what price he got it, he says nothing.” Anderson (1972,
313-314, n. ad 7.687) says Cephalus “leaves out many details which affect
pudor.” Hyginus 189 has Procris in disguised as a youth offering the spear
and dog (given to her by Diana) to Cephalus in exchange for his giving to her
“what boys are accustomed to give.”5 Cephalus, however, has a slightly
different version of how he came by the spear, as we shall see.
Cephalus states that this spear destroyed himself and his wife (7.689-693),
but postpones telling how, until later (7.796ff.). Instead he explains who his
wife was; Cephalus identifies her by incidentally mentioning the rape of her
sister Orithyia (i.e. Orithyia, who was earned off for the purpose of rape):
41 have chosen Ehwald’s (1915) and Anderson’s (1972) reading here; Anderson (1993) has:
quae petit, ille refert et cetera: nota pudori/qua tulerit mercede, silet (7.687-688). Miller (1946)
has: quae petit H ie refert, sed enim narrare pudori est/qua tulerit mercede, silet (7.687-688).
Anderson (1972:314) discusses textual problem.
5 The fuller context in Hyginus 189: ‘da mihi id quod pueri solent dare. ’ ille amore iaculi et canis
incensus promisit se daturum. qui cum in thalamos venissent, Procris tunicam levavit et ostendit
se f[o]eminam esse coniugem iiiius. Ant. Lib. tells a similar tale (42).
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Procris erat, si forte magis pervenit ad aures
Orithyia tuas, raptae soror Orithyiae,
si faciem moresque velis conferre duarum,
dignior ipsa rapi!
(7.694-697)
She was Procris, if by chance Orithyia has reached
your ears more, she was the sister of raped Orithyia.
If you wish to compare the appearance and habits of
the two, she herself was more worthy to be raped!
A curious compliment, indeed. His remark is even more startling when one
considers that at the dramatic time of this telling his wife is dead. This adds to
the sense of discomfort since not only would this be odd to say of a living
spouse, but it is even more unexpected that Cephalus should say this now that
Procris is dead. Many of the remarks, however, which Cephalus makes about
his wife are sexual in nature.
Cephalus explains that, shortly after he and Procris were wed, while
hunting he was carried off/raped by the goddess Aurora: pulsis Aurora
tenebris/invitumque rapit (7.703-704). While rapere may mean simply “to
snatch away” or “to carry off," we can see from the instance of Orithyia that
Ovid uses it at times to convey the meaning “to carry off for the purpose of
raping” (cf. above, Chapter 2A, for forms of rapere used of oned who are
raped). Cephalus says that the whole time he was with Aurora, he spoke of
his wife--but he mentions specifically items associated with their sexual union:
sacra tori coitus novos thalamosque recentes/primaque deserti referebam
foedera lecti (7.709-710).
Eventually, according to Cephalus, Aurora tires of Cephalus’ constant
talking about Procris, and she sends him back to his wife with the prophecy
that one day he will wish that he did not have his Procris (7.711-713; i.e.
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because he will accidentally kill her). Cephalus states that he had fears
concerning his wife’s fidelity, since Aurora was an example of faithlessness, or
more literally, of crime (et haec erat, unde redibam,/criminis exemplum, 7.718-
719).
From here the story falls into two main parts. In the first section we learn
that, returning from Aurora and having suspected his wife of infidelity,
Cephalus in disguise-Aurora changed his form for this endeavor-tried to
seduce Procris. Despite his best efforts, Procris remained chaste and all other
evidence in the household points to her lasting fidelity (7.716-739).
Nevertheless, Cephalus persisted. Eventually he “forced her to hesitate”
(tandem dubitare coegi, 7.740) and then he accused her openly, revealing his
true identity. Procris said nothing, but left their home and “hating the whole
race of men,” genus omne perosa viromm (7.745) lived in the mountains, in
the fashion of the goddess Diana (7.743-748). In the second and, perhaps,
parallel section the two have reconciled, after Cephalus had confessed that he
himself would have succumbed to gifts so great and after Procris had
sufficiently “avenged her wounded sense of decency” (laesum prius ulta
pudorem, 7.751). Upon their reconcilation, Cephalus states that Procris gave
him a hound (given to her by Diana) and the javelin (7.753-756). Procris later
suspected Cephalus of infidelity and he then accidentally killed her with the
javelin, when she secretly followed him into the woods in order to spy on him
(7.796-862).
Cephalus does state that he got the spear from Procris, but in light of
allusions to other versions of the myth, we are forced to reconsider what Ovid
was hinting at when he stated that Cephalus omitted “at what price he
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obtained [the javelin]” (qua tulerit mercede, 7.688). Anderson (1972, 313)
noting that Hyginus and Antoninus Liberalis give details omitted elsewhere,
states that “disguised as a man, she (Procris) seduced Cephalus into agreeing
to a homosexual act, to prove to him that he could be bribed into doing worse
than what he accused her of” (i.e. mere infidelity).
Perhaps it is with this background story in mind that Ovid has Cephalus
later confess to Procris that he would have succumbed to temptation had gifts
so great been given (7.749-750). Ovid may also be alluding to this act when
Cephalus, having thus confessed to Procris that he would have succumbed,
states that after Procris had avenged her wounded pudor they got back
together and lived happily-yet he omits telling how she avenged it.8 Peter
Greeen, discussing Procris in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria. examines the narrative
Ovid provides in the Metamorphoses. Concerning the omissions in Cephalus’
tale, Green concludes that Ovid expected the cultivated reader to recognize
echoes of the other versions, and that Ovid hints pointedly at his own
omissions in Cephalus' tale. Green states:
When Ovid’s Cephalus, describing their supposedly
romantic reunion (Met. 7.747-756), refers to the dog
and javelin that Procris so sweetly brought him as
homecoming presents, we know what we have to think.
A mercenary adulterer-tumed-pathic has been neatly
checkmated by his whorish wife: clearly these two
deserve each other. (1979, 22)
As for deserving each other, there are parallels in the two portions of the story.
In the untold story of the spear we find a parallel to Cephalus1 temptation of
Procris as told in Metamorphoses 7.714-746. Procris’ disguise and successful
• hoc mihi confesso, laesum prius ulta pudorem
redditur et dulces concorditer exigit annos (7.751-752)
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temptation of Cephalus (in exchange for the spear and hound) would then
parallel Cephalus’ disguise temptation of Procris. In Hyginus 189 (see above)
and in Antoninus Liberaiis 42, we find Procris revealing her true identity as the
two are on the point of consummating their bargain, just as Cephalus revealed
himself at the precise moment he believed Procris hesitated. Given these
omissions, however, Cephalus’ telling of his rape by Aurora is then suspect.
Even in spite of narrative difficulties, the rape of Cephalus by Aurora is
unusual in several aspects: as noted above, it is one of the few successful
rapes of a male by a female in the Metamorphoses. We can compare and
contrast it to others rapes we have seen. Salmacis’ attempt of Hermaphroditus
resulted in the destruction of herself, without first having secured sexual
intercourse with the object of her desire. Aurora, however, not only made an
attempt but got her desired object (invitumque rapit). Ovid suggests that, like
other rape targets, Cephalus was alone in the wild when the goddess saw and
took him (he was “spreading his nets for antlered stags,” 7.701). “Spreading
his nets" reminds us of other victims who have chosen to follow Diana, living in
the woods and hunting (e.g. Daphne, Callisto). Like other victims, Cephalus
states that he was unwilling (invitumque rapit, 7.704). What is unusual here is
his statement that he kept talking (referabam) about Procris and their
marriage7 --in this there is a suggestion that he was with the goddess for some
time. In addition, when he am'ves in disguise to test his wife’s fidelity, he notes
simply that he had been away (sed tamen afueram, 7.718) without stating for
how long, but the household and Procris are concerned because he is gone.
Unlike most of the other rape stories in the Metamorphoses, there seems to
7 Procrin amabam-Jpectore Procris erat, Procris mihi semper in ore (7.707-708).
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have been a time of captivity for Cephalus, after which the goddess let him go.8
In most instances we have seen of male rapists, the aggressor rapes and then
immediately leaves the victim (cf. Callisto, Leucothoe, Medusa, et al.). In some
instances, however the victim is detained (cf. Proserpina, Orithyia) and that
detention is then called marriage.9 When Aurora does let Cephalus go, she is
angry (irata, 7.713) and she calls him "ungrateful” (ingrate, 7.711), suggesting
then that he should be grateful for her attention.
We leam, too, that their association did not end with Cephalus’ departure,
but having come to suspect his wife of infidelity, Cephalus gets help from
Aurora in testing his wife (Aurora changes his form, 7.721-722).
Why, then, angry and bereft of her “lover,” does Aurora help Cephalus?
Since Ovid mentions incidentally both her prophecy (that one day Cephalus
will wish he did not have his Procris) and that Aurora helped him test Procris’
fidelity, we can infer that Aurora, in a sense, helps Cephalus on the path
toward his own destruction. Aurora helps set in motion the chain of events that
lead to his acquisition of the spear and his ultimate use of it in killing his wife
Procris. The divine rapist, like others we have seen suffers only the loss of the
rape victim (i.e. and not the loss of self), while the victim suffers destruction-
but here, that destruction is displaced onto Procris.
The destruction of Cephalus is more subtle. Cephalus is telling the story in
the palace of Aeacus, having gone to Aegina to ask for Aeacus’ aid in Athens
war against the Cretan Minos. When Phocus asks about the javelin, the
conversation is much like one might see between warriors at a banquet, telling
8 Perhaps this is meant to be reminiscent of Odysseus and Calypso, and the like.
9 Except for lo: her detention, as a cow, is followed by her deification; Jupiter had promised
(Juno) not to have anything to do with lo again, and so no “marriage’ ’ exists.
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hero stories. However, Cephalus’ story is most unusual: instead of relating
events that would add to his fame as a warrior, he carefully relates events, in
such a way as to cover his shame. The point is, Cephalus continues on in his
present physical form (unlike other rape victims who are changed/destroyed),
but now has, as part of who he is, something of an anti-hero story. Asked
about his javelin-a symbol of his identity as a hunter/warrior-Cephalus
recounts events that now are part of his identity: the javelin is tied to the
narratives of his rape, suspicion, infidelity, seduction, and his own killing of his
wife. As a female aggressor, Aurora has the power still to be herself after her
aggression.
The story of another female aggressor, Scylla, opens Book 8-but, as we
shall see, the mortal female has far less success than Aurora. Scylla, the
daughter of Nisus (king of Megara), sees from a distance the enemy forces
and she desires Minos of Crete, their leader. Ovid states that she finds him
attractive while he is armed and helmeted, but she is beside herself when she
sees his bare face:
cum vero faciem dempto nudaverat aere
purpureusque albi stratis insignia pictis
terga premebat equi spumantiaque ora regebat,
vix sua, vix sanae virgo Niseia compos
mentis erat: felix iaculum, quod tangeret ille,
quaeque manu premeret, felicia frena vocabat.
(8.32-37)
but when with the bronze removed he had bared his face
and purple-clad, he pressed the back of his white horse
which was marked with broad tapestries, and guided its
foaming mouth, hardly, hardly was the the Nisean virgin
of a sane mind: she used to call the spear which he
touched lucky, and the reins lucky, which he pressed
with his hand.
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She fantasizes about Minos, and in doing so makes incidental reference to the
rape of Minos’ mother, Europa, by Jupiter:
me tamen accspta poterat deponere bellum
obside: me comitem, me pacis pignus haberet.
si quae te peperit, talis, pulcherrime regum,
qualis es ipse, fuit, merito deus arsit in ilia.
(8.47-50)
With me taken hostage, he could put aside the war,
he would have me as his companion, me as a pledge of
peace. If she who bore you, most beautiful of kings,
was such as you are, deservedly a god burned for her.
In a sense then, she justifies her own burning desire since, indeed, a god
burned for Minos’ mother. This also cues us to expect her own attempt to win
Minos by whatever means she deems to have a chance of success. Scylla
considers a strategy for winning Minos although he is the enemy of her father
and of her homeland:
O ego ter felix si pennis lapsa per auras
Gnosiaci possem castris insistere regis
fassaque me flammasque meas qua dote rogarem
vellet emi! tantum patrias ne posceret arces!
nam pereant potius sperata cubilia, quam sim
proditione potens! quamvis saepe utile vinci
victoris placidi fecit dementia multis.
(8.51-57)
0 thrice happy would I be if, having glided through
the breezes on wings, I could enter the camp of the
Gnosiacan king and once I had confessed myself and
my passions I might ask him by what dowry he wishes
to be bought! Only let him not demand my homeland!
For better that the hoped-for union should perish before
1 am capable of treason! Although often the clemency of
a kind ruler has made it useful for many to be conquered.
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Scylla is beginning to persuade herself that the idea of committing treason
may not only further her goal of winning Minos, but also be for the public good.
We can see from the passage above that she sees as her only obstacles
separation from him (she wishes for wings to fly to him) and the price he might
ask for taking her.
The power situation is confused even in her line of reasoning thus far:
even in her fantasy she both has and does not have the power. In other
words, in her fantasy she would have wings (i.e., superhuman abilities) yet she
would ask him at what price he would be bought, which imputes a power of
choice to him while denying him the option to say no. The question is not do
you wish to be bought, but rather at what price. But in her fantasy, one might
think it odd that she would ask anything at all. Why, if she can have wings, can
she not just take him? This aspect of her character development is shown
further by Ovid, in his portrayal of Scylla as wanting to be conquered by Minos,
all the while attempting to manipulate Minos into conquering her. She further
imagines the utility of being subject to Minos: saepe utile vinci/victoris placidi
fecit dementia multis (8.56-57), “often the clemency of kind victor has made it
useful for many to be conquered.” She refers to herself as potentially being
one of the “conquered" when, in fact, her efforts are aimed at conquering
Minos. “Conquering,” as we have seen, is metaphoric language for
succeeding in rape or seduction.1 0 Scylla both inverts the power structure and
keeps it the same: Scylla hopes to conquer Minos by letting Minos conquer
her.
1 0 Jupiter, we recall, ascends to the upper air as “ victor" (victor, ; 2.437) after the successful rape
of Callisto; both Salmacis and Tereus state vicimus.
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Scylla decides to commit treason because she believes her ending the war
will win Minos:
coepta placent et stat sententia tradere mecum
dotalem patriam finemque inponere bello
(8.67-68)
I like these ideas I've conceived and the decision
stands, to hand over my country as a dowry along with me
and to impose an end on the war
Again Scylla’s plan has a confusion of power: she will hand over her country
to his control; she will give this dowry and herself; and she will impose an end
on the war so that Minos will win. Her line of reasoning is laden with her own
manipulation of the situation, her own control of the events, and yet the
fantasized outcome is that all will be in Minos' power.
Scylla completely overturns her former contention that she would rather
forfeit the relationship with Minos than commit treason. Since she believes her
plan will be successful in winning Minos, Scylla acts out her premeditated
strategy.
Fantasy becomes self-delusion when Scylla has convinced herself that a
particular fantasy, although it runs counter to rational thought, is true or going
to be true. Scylla believes that she can approach Minos-who is currently
engaged in war against her homeland and does not even know her-and
simply ask his price. Moreover, she supposes what he would want for a dowry
(i.e., her country) and plans to give him what she believes he will ask for. Her
fantasy, in some respects, is like that in which we have seen other rapists and
would-be rapists engage. As we noted earlier, in the stories of Apollo-
Daphne, Jupiter-lo, Mercury-Herse, et al., the aggressor fantasizes about his
object of desire and attributes to her characteristics which he hopes are true. It
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is, however, mere fantasy since in each instance, since the aggressor (like
Scylla in this story) has had no experience with the object of desire other than
having seen the desired one. All of the imaginings of what may be hidden,
what may be their future experience or conversation, spring from the
aggressor’s fantasy about the one whom they desire.
Based on such a fantasy, Scylla plans to end a war between her father and
Minos in the hope that Minos will be grateful to her and will consequently
return her feelings of desire. She further justifies her actions by a fantasy of
what a hypothetical woman would do for love:
altera iamdudum succensa cupidine tanto
perdere gauderet, quodcumque obstaret amori.
et cur ulla foret me fortior? ire per ignes
et gladios ausim
(8.74-77)
another woman, inflamed by so great a desire, would
long since have destroyed whatever impeded love.
And why should any woman be braver than I?
I would dare to go through fires and swords.
Scylla competes even with the imaginary to show how great her desire is. Her
own argument persuades her because she is convinced that the plan will
succeed in winning Minos.
She decides to end the war by cutting off a purple lock of hair on the head
of her father, Nisus. The purple lock is the “security of the great kingdom”
(magni fiducia regni, 8.10) and presumably the source of her father’s strength.
Scylla knows that once she takes the lock of hair the war will end. Thus she
manipulates the situation to be (as she believes) advantageous to her goal.
When she eventually meets Minos, she offers him the lock of hair and herself.
The lock signifies not only a pledge of her love but also the power of her father.
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In turning the lock over to Minos, Scylla diminishes the power of both men (cf.
Salmacis/Hermaphroditus): she ruins her father and hands Minos the victory.
With the lock of hair, Scylla walks through the enemy ranks to their king,
confident (meriti fiducia tanta est, 8.88). She addresses Minos who is startled
or afraid at her approach (quern sic adfata paventem est, 8.89):
suasit amor facinus: proles ego regia Nisi
Scylla tibi trado patriaeque meosque penates
(8.90-91)
love persuaded the crime: I, royal offspring of Nisus,
Scylla, hand over to you my penates
and those of my country
Scylla mentions love and the crime before she even introduces herself. Minos
strenuously rejects her and her deed and having set order to his conquered
foes, leaves the land. Scylla, however, takes the rejection badly. In her anger,
she calls herself the “author of his successes” (meritorum authors relicta,
8.108) and later calls him-cf. Aurora~“ungrateful” (ingrate, 8.119 and 8.135).
She even calls into question the story of Europa’s rape by Jupiter as she
considers his hard-heartedness:
hac quoque si prohibes et nos, ingrate, relinquis,
non genetrix Europa tibi est, sed inhospita Syrtis,
Armeniae tigres austroque agitata Charybdis!
Nec love tu natus, nec mater imagine tauri
ducta tua est: generis falsa est ea fabula; verus,
et ferus et captus nullius amore iuvencae
qui te progenuit, taurus fuit.
(8.119-125)
if you block this from me, too, ungrateful, and leave me,
Europa is not your mother, but hostile Syrtis, Armenian
tigresses, and Charybdis agitated by the south wind.
Neither are you bom from Jove, nor by the image of a bull
was your mother tricked: the story of your birth is false!
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True and wild and taken by a love for no cow
was he who fathered you-a real bull.
Scylla turns from this to the contemplation of Pasiphae, the wife of Minos and
mother of the Minotaur by a bull:
te vere coniuge digna est,
quae torvum ligno decepit adultera taurum
discordemque utero fetum tulit. ecquid ad aures
perveniunt mea dicta tuas, an inania venti
verba ferunt idemque tuas, ingrate, carinas?
iam iam Pasiphaen non est mirabile taurum
praeposuisse tibi: tu plus feritatis habebas.
(8.131-137)
she is truly a wife worthy of you who, adulteress,
deceived a savage bull with wood and bore a mixed
offspring in her womb. Or do my words reach your
ears, or do the same winds that bear away your ships,
ingrate, bear away my words into emptiness? Now,
now it is not wondrous that Pasiphae preferred
a bull to you: you were more of an animal.
Have spoken, Scylla determines that she will follow Minos:
insequar invitum puppimque amplexa recurvam
per freta longa trahar.
(8.141-142)
I will follow, although you are unwilling, and
having embraced the curved stem, I will be drawn
through the long expanses of the sea.
Scylla’s only physical pursuit of Minos comes at this point, after her words and
display of love through her betrayal of family and country have failed to win
him. Scylla does swim out to and attach herself to the ship (comes invidiosa
carinae, 8.144) but is changed into a bird (ciris) as her father, himself suddenly
and inexplicibly a bird (an osprey/sea eagle, haliaeetus), angrily pursues her.
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Scylla displays certain characteristics similar to Salmacis, a female
aggressor we encountered earlier in the Metamorphoses, in that her attempt to
persuade fails (cf. how Salmacis’ first attempt, by verbal entreaty, nearly
scares off her beloved, 4.320ff.). Each of them turns to a physical pursuit of
unwilling objects of desire and the result for each is the loss of self (Salmacis
is absorbed into the now effeminate Hermaphroditus and Scylla becomes the
ciris bird). Of course, Echo’s experience was much the same, as discussed
above, although her attempt at verbal entreaty was fraught with its own
peculiarities. These female aggressors all suffer devastating defeats in their
pursuits of the objects of their desires. Aurora, on the other hand, perhaps
because she is divine, or perhaps because Cephalus was telling the tale, had
the most success of any female aggressor in the Metamorphoses.1 1
Pasiphae, all too successful in her pursuit, is mentioned again shortly after
the story of Scylla and Minos. Ovid tells us (in reference to the Minotaur--the
offspring of Pasiphae and a bull) that the disgrace of the family had grown
“and was revealing the foul adultery of its mother by the novelty of the two-
formed monster" (foedumque patebat/matris adulterium monstri novitate
biformis, 8.155-156). Minos hid this “shame" (pudorem, 8.157) in the labyrinth
and thus Ovid segues into the story of Daedalus and Icarus (8.159-235). We
are reminded again of the secrets, the sexual improprieties, that must be
hidden.
" Medea, of course, successfully pursued Jason but he was not~like these other examples-an
unwilling (although at first unwitting) object of desire. Although she burned for him and
considered her alternatives, Jason approached her for help and promised marriage in return, for
which she pledges her love and assistance (7.89-94). Pasiphae’s success will be discussed
later in further detail, as will Myrrha’s rape of her father Cinyras.
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In passing, Ovid relates briefly the story of how Theseus, having overcome
the minotaur and the maze with Ariadne’s help, took Ariadne to Dia and there
abandoned her:
protin us Aegides rapta Minoide Diam
vela dedit comitemque suam crudelis in illo
litore destituit; desertae et multa querenti
amplexus et opem Liber tulit
(8.174-177)
straightaway the son of Aegeus, with the daughter of
Minos taken/raped, set sail for Dia and--cruel-deserted
his companion on that shore; Liber brought embraces
and aid to her, deserted as she was and complaining a lot
The words rapta Minoide are curiously ambiguous, since elsewhere the
daughter of Minos went willingly. Rapta suggests (at least) a forcible taking,
and as we have noted elsewhere, often in the Metamorphoses rapere means
“to take for the purpose of raping" (cf. Orithyia). Ovid then inserts the reference
to Liber, that he brought embraces (amplexus) and aid to the abandoned
Ariadne. This, too, Ovid leaves ambiguous: did Liber rape Ariadne and was
the opem “help” from his point of view, or from hers? Ariadne, crowned by
Liber, is changed then into a constellation and Ovid resumes his story of
Daedalus. From this he turns to the Calydonian boar hunt and the story of
Meleager. We next find another ambiguously-worded rape story: that of
Perimele.
Perimele is literally part of the landscape within the poem. Focusing next
on Theseus, Ovid describes Theseus’ meeting with Achelous and the
hospitality he received from him. Seated at a banquet, Theseus inquires
about an island chain on the horizon which, Achelous explains, used to be five
nymphs who, as a result of his anger at being slighted (they forgot him at a
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170
sacred feast), have been changed into islands (8.571-589). Achelous turns
Theseus’ attention to a distant island apart from the rest, and tells how he
loves this island:
ut tamen ipse vides, procul, en procul una recessit
insula, grata mihi; Perimelen navita dicit:
huic ego virgineum dilectae nomen ademi;
quod pater Hippodamas aegre tulit inque profundum
propulit e scopulo periturae corpora natae.
(8.590-594)
But, as you yourself see, behold set back at a distance
there is one island pleasing to me; the sailor calls it
Perimele: I took away from her, my beloved, the name
of virgin; this her father Hippodamas took poorly and into
the deep he threw forth from a crag
the body of his daughter who would die.
The voice of Perimele is noticeably absent in this story. Ovid gives us only the
perspectives of the male characters involved. Achelous says that
Hippodamas, Perimele’s father, “bore with difficulty” his daughter’s loss of
virginity (quod. . . aegre tulit), but gives no indication of how Perimele bore this
act. In addition, unlike other female characters who have something to say as
they are acted upon, we hear nothing from Perimele--not even when her father
hurls her from a crag. Even here, it is Achelous who begs for help for her as
he calls upon Neptune for aid (8.595-610). Perimele, as described by
Achelous, literally has no say in what happens to her. Others exert control
over her; the male characters dominate the scene, and her body, with their
actions and reactions. Then, as the ultimate sign of her silenceand
objectification, Perimele becomes literally inanimate as an island.
As we examine Ovid’s word choice, some may argue that there is no
evidence that Perimele was, in fact, raped. And so there is none. That
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Achelous “took away from her the name of virgin” (lit. “took from her the
virginal name”) could simply mean that he was her first lover and not, in fact, a
rapist. The suggestion of rape may be there, but no explicit reference to rape
exists in this story. Nevertheless, to a Roman of Ovid’s time (after 18 B.C.), this
would constitute at least sexual impropriety (stuprum) since the two were not
married.
I have often assumed that this was a rape story and only upon a closer
reading have discovered that there is no evidence in the text that irrefutably
confirms such an assumption. At this point in reading the Metamorphoses.
some readers (like myself) have simply come to expect rape where perhaps
no rape occurs. Even the verb which Ovid has Achelous use (ademi) need not
exclusively mean “I stole” or “I took away (with her unwilling),” although from it
Anderson (1972, 386 n. ad 8.592) also reads a rape: “Again Achelous
guilelessly, ingeniously confesses his low morality; the verb indicates that it
was more the typical divine rape than mere seduction.”
Whether or not we agree that Perimele is raped by Achelous, she
nevertheless is victimized in this story and suffers the loss of her humanity and
the loss of her body due to an act of sex and to the violent reaction of her
father. Seemingly no action was taken by Hippodamas against Achelous
(who, incidentally, enjoys the elevated-i.e. superhuman-status of a river god).
Ovid returns to the subject of fathers and daughters, after the story of
Baucis and Philemon (8.611-726), through a story of quite a different nature.
The story of Erysichthon begins as one of of outrage against the gods (in
contrast with the piety of Baucis and Philemon) and ends with this character’s
consumption of his own body. As we work through this myth, we find that
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172
violations of the body, including but not exclusively rape, are used as a means
of asserting power over another.
Achelous begins the tale of Erysichthon’s daughter as an example of how
the gods have granted the power of shape-changing to certain people.
Having told briefly of Proteus (who had this power) he turns then to describe
Erysichthon’s daughter, whom he identifies as the wife of Autolycus (Autolyci
coniunx, 8.738). He gives the background of how she acquired this power and
in so doing describes the impious deeds of her father. Erysichthon, he relates,
scorned the gods and even went so far as to chop down a tree in a grove
sacred to Ceres (8.739-776). He is said to have violated the grove (nemus
violasse, 8.741). Since his slaves shrink from the task, Erysichthon himself
prepares to strike the tree with an axe; he declares:
non dilecta deae solum, sed et ipsa licebit
sit dea, iam tanget frondente cacumine terram.
(8.755-756)
Not only beloved by the goddess, but even if it were
the goddess herself, now it will touch the ground with
its leafy head.
The tree trembles, groans and pales but Erysichthon nevertheless persists in
his actions: blood pours from the stricken tree (8.757-764). After killing a man
who tried to intervene, Erysichthon turns his effort back to striking the oak.
Miraculously, a voice issues forth from within the tree:
nympha sub hoc ego sum Cereri gratissima ligno,
quae tibi factorum poenas instare tuorum
vaticinor moriens, nostri solacia leti.
(8.771-773)
I, under this wood, am a nymph most dear to Ceres, who,
as I die, predict that punishment is imminent for you
for your actions, solace for my death.
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Even then, Erysichthon sees his crime through {persequitur scelus ille suum,
8.774); the tree is felled. The dryads moum and pray to Ceres to punish the
impious Erysichthon; she hears and answers their prayers.
Up to this point in the story, we have seen that Erysichthon willfully scorns
the gods and, moreover, claims that he would strike at Ceres herself, if she
were there in place of the tree (8.755-756; cf. Pyreneus1 knowing attempt on
the Muses). He continues his assault on the tree even knowing that a nymph
is being killed in the process, and shows no hesitation to decapitate with the
same axe a man who tried to stop him. This disregard and indeed violence
toward the bodies of others foreshadows his eventual consumption of his own
body.
Ceres responds with an assault on Erysichthon’s body: she decides to
destroy him with famine (8.782-784). The language used of Famine attacking
his body is suggestive of rape:
et protinus intrat
sacrilegi thalamos altoque sopore solutum
(noctis enim tempus) geminis amplectitur uinis,
seque viro inspirat, faucesque et pectus et ora
adflat et in vacuis spargit ieiunia venis;
functaque mandato fecundum deserit orbem
inque domos inopes adsueta revertitur antra.
(8.816-822)
and straightaway she enters the bedchamber of
the wicked man and with twin arms embraces him,
relaxed in deep sleep (for it was nighttime), and she
breathes herself into the man, and breathes on his jaws
and chest and mouth and in his veins she sprinkles
hunger; her order done, she leaves the fertile world
and returns to her wanting abode and customary cave.
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Famine enters his bedchamber and acts upon the body of the sleeping king.
Having embraced him, she enters his body (seque viro inspiraf) and, in a
sense, impregnates him. She leave in him a hunger that is described in the
same words elsewhere used of lust: ardor (8.828), quodque satis poterat
populo, non sufficit uni (8.833), and plusque cupit (8.834). True to form, Ovid
has described a thoroughly paradoxical situation: Famine--a female deity who
is the opposite of fertility-impregnates a man by raping him in his sleep. Her
offspring (which remains inside him) is the opposite of production; it is
consumption. The act of her entering him and planting hunger inside, leads
then to his lust and to his inability to become satisfied. Famine’s violation of
his body, like the rapes (which we have previously seen) of female figures in
the poem, leads to a permanent change in Erysichthon and will result in the
loss of his body.
Driven by hunger, Erysichthon eventually uses up all resources and money
available to him and decides then to sell his daughter in order to acquire more
resources to feed his insatiable hunger (8.830-848). Unwilling to have a
master, the daughter of Erysichthon calls upon Neptune to help her. She cites
the reason he “owes” her:
“eripe me domino, qui raptae praemia nobis
virginitatis habes!” ait: haec Neptunus habebat
(8.850-851)
“snatch me away from a master, you who have the prize
of my stolen virginity!" she said: this Neptune did have
Thus we learn that the daughter of Erysichthon had been raped by Neptune.
Most interesting here is the notion that the god owes some debt of gratitude for
having raped her. The reference to this rape occurs only incidentally to the
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rest of the story. Neptune hears her prayer and changes her form (formamque
novat, 8.853); later, she undergoes several shape-changes, each time to avoid
a master after her father sells her again and again.1 2
Erysichthon manages then to sell his daughter to acquire more food, but
even this eventually is not enough:
vis tamen ilia mali postquam consumpserat omnem
materiam deerantque gravi nova pabula morbo,
ipse suos artus lacero divellere morsu
coepit et infelix minuendo corpus alebat.
(8.875-878)
But when that force of evil had consumed all resources,
and new food was lacking for this grave disease, he
himself began to rip apart his own limbs with
a tearing bite and the wretch fed his body by eating it
Erysichthon’s final assault is on his own body. Ovid includes wordplay to
heighten the sense of paradox in minuendo corpus alebat, literally “he
nourishes/increases his body by diminishing it."
The “body” connection here is integral: Erysichthon “violates” the grove
(nemus violasse, 8.741); the physical assault on the tree was an assault on the
nymph inside the tree--and Erysichthon claimed he would have made the
same assault on the goddess, Ceres, herself. He lops off the head of the man
who tried to stop him and then, his own body invaded by Famine, Erysichthon
sells his daughter to get money for food. Her body was not only violated by
Neptune, but was sold by her father to anyone who might purchase her (and
for whatever purpose she might be purchased). With her body previously
acted upon by Neptune, the daughter of Erysichthon is aided by a form
1 2 At first Neptune changed her form to that of a man, but it is unclear whether she or Neptune,
invoked each time, governs the changing. Her father becomes aware only that she has a
changing body (transformia forma, 8.870).
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change; she is sold again and again, each time effecting a change in her
body’s shape. Ultimately, Erysichthon effects upon his own body the most
gruesome form change: he eats his own flesh.
The story of Erysichthon demonstrates power exerted through the ability to
control another’s body. Ceres punishes Erysichthon’s violation of her grove
and the killing of the sacred nymph/tree by having him violated by Famine.
With hunger inside him, passion for eating “rules” him (regnat, 8.828).1 3
Having used up all of his resources, Erysichthon still can use his daughter’s
body, over which he has control, to feed his own body. She, as we have seen
above, has been subject to Neptune’s power to rape her and now to change
her form in order to escape further subjugation. The final force (vis, 8.875) of
Erysichthon’s affliction causes him to violate his own body. The passion for
eating rules him, and is a force sent by Ceres to prove her absolute power
over this scomer of her divinity.
Achelous completes this tale by leading into another, namely that he
himself has the power to shape-change. As Book 9 opens he tells the story of
how he lost a horn in a fight with Hercules over the virgin DeTanira. As he
does, Achelous refers obliquely to the rape of Alcmena by Jupiter.
Mythological tradition has Jupiter disguised as Amphitryon, the husband of
Alcmena, in order to have sex with Alcmena. This type of rape allows for the
argument that the victim consented, since Alcmena presumably believed it
was her husband with whom she was having intercourse. Such is the
argument that Achelous says he used to cast aspersions on Hercules’ birth
1 3 furit ardor edendi/perque avidas fauces incensaque viscera regnat (8.828-829), “ passion for
eating rages and rules throughout his greedy jaws and burning innards.”
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story; recalling the debate which preceded physical combat, Achelous states
that he said to Hercules:
nam, quo te iactas, Alcmena nate, creatum,
luppiter aut falsus pater est, aut crimine verus.
matris adulterio patrem petis. elige, fictum
esse lovem malis, an te per dedecus ortum.
(9.23-26)
for either Jupiter, from whom you boast you've sprung,
son of Alcmena, is your false father, or he is your
true father through crime. You seek a father through the
adultery of your mother. Choose, do you prefer that
Jupiter is a falsehood or that you arose through shame.
Achelous turns the rape of Alcmena into adultery--he explains what the crimen
of 9.24 is: he adds matris adulterio in the next line. We might expect the
crimen to be Jupiter’s rape of Alcmena; instead we find that Achelous
attributes the crime-and the shame--to Alcmena. The argument is that either
Hercules is not the son of Jupiter or he is, through adultery. According to
Achelous' version, rape is not an option to explain what occurred.
Furthermore, if Hercules is the son of Jupiter through his mother’s willing affair,
then there is shame attached to his birth. The shame, then, is based solely on
the actions of the mother.
Achelous completes the story of how he lost the physical battle with
Hercules and thus lost any claim to DeTanira. Ovid then picks up the thread of
the tale to tell how Nessus was destroyed by his lust for DeTanira (9.98-102).1 4
Hercules, on his way home with his new bride, DeTanira, comes to the Evenus
river which is wild and swollen from the rains (9.103-106). Fearing for her
1 4 at te, Nesse ferox, eiusdem virginis ardor/perdiderat (9.101 *102), “ but passion for the same
virgin destroyed you, savage Nessus.”
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safety, but sure that he himself can cross the river, Hercules accepts the offer
of Nessus, a centaur, to carry DeTanira across:
pallentemque metu, fluviumque ipsumque timentem
tradidit Aonius pavidam Calydonida Nesso.
(9.111-112)
The Aonian entrusted the Calydonian woman, pale with
fright and fearing both the river and the centaur himself,
trembling, to Nessus.
Here we see DeTanira’s fear although Ovid does not relate any words spoken
by her. Her fear foreshadows the imminent assault that will be made upon her.
Hercules swims across a difficult stretch of the river. Once he has reached the
other bank, he hears his wife’s voice. The attempted rape is told through a
metaphor of commerce and in Hercules’ shouts to Nessus:
'quo te fiducia' clamat
'vana pedum, violente, rapit? tibi, Nesse biformis,
dicimus. exaudi, nec res intercipe nostras,
si te nulla mei reverentia movit, at orbes
concubitus vetitos poterant inhibere patemi.
haud tamen effugies, quamvis ope fidis equina;
vulnere, non pedibus te consequar.'
(9.120-126)
he shouts, “to where does your vain confidence in your
feet carry you off, violent one? I am speaking to you,
two-formed Nessus. Listen, do not steal what is mine.
If no respect for me moves you, at least your father’s
wheels should have stopped the forbidden liaison.
But you’ll hardly escape, although you rely on your equine
resources; I’ll catch you with a wound, not with my feet.”
Just as the narrative voice refers to the rape attempt as a stolen deposit,1 5
Hercules uses the language of property theft in his address to Nessus (nec res
intercipe nostras). Hercules does not ask to where the centaur is carrying off
1 5 Anderson (1972,425 n. ad 9.120) says of Ovid’s use of fallere depositurrr. “ That is
‘appropriating a trust1 indeed!”
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his bride (rapit, i.e. for the purpose of rape), but rather to where Nessus’
confidence in his own swiftness is carrying him off. The notion of a rape
attempt is completely muted. Hercules says that Nessus sought concubitus
vetitos, “forbidden sexual liaisons,” but implies that they are forbidden only
because DeTanira belongs to Hercules. Hercules says that if no regard for him
moved Nessus, then Nessus’ “father’s wheels” should have prevented his
attempt on DeTanira.
We find here another oblique reference to rape: Ixion, the father of Nessus,
was condemned to be tied forever to a turning wheel for having attempted to
rape Juno.1 6 Thus, Hercules suggests that Nessus should have learned from
his father’s example not to rape-
but should he leam not to rape (at all), or not to rape one who belongs to one
more powerful? The latter is suggested. The parallels of father and son are
clear: Ixion, father of Nessus, had attempted rape on Hercules’ father’s wife
and is punished; so the sons repeat the scenario. Just as Jupiter is king of
gods and men, so Hercules is the greatest of mortals, soon to become a god
himself. Nessus is not punished by eternal torment, however; Hercules strikes
him with an arrow dipped in the poisonous blood of the Lemaean hydra and
Nessus dies. Thus the woman, as an object belonging to a powerful male
figure, is not to be raped-but only because she is his.
After the story of Hercules’ apotheosis (9.152-272), Ovid returns to the story
of Alcmena (whom we merely heard about in Achelous’ accusations to
Hercules above). We find Alcmena commiserating with lole about misfortunes.
Alcmena tells lole about her own troubles due to the wrath of Juno and how
Alcmena, out of her mind with pain in her pregnancy, hurled rebukes at
’• Hyginus 62, for example, tells the well-known tale.
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“ungrateful Jove” (ingrato facio convicia demens/vana lovi, 9. 302-303). Thus
we return to the Idea that the rapist god owes a debt of gratitude for having
raped the woman (cf. the daughter of Erysichthon above). Her complaint is not
that Jupiter raped her, but that she suffered the vengeance of his wife and that
the ingrate did not come to her aid. Finally assisted in her travail by Galanthis,
Alcmena tells how Galanthis was punished by Juno: for having used her
mouth to deceive the goddess, Juno turns Galanthis into a weasel who bears
her young through her mouth (9.317-323).
lole tells of her own sorrow in having lost a sister to metamorphosis. In her
tale are two rape stories: the rape of her sister by Apollo (9.329-333) and the
attempted rape of Lotis by Priapus (9.346-348). lole relates that her sister was
raped by the god Apollo:
quam virginitate carentem
vimque dei passam Delphos Delonque tenentis
excipit Andraemon, et habetur coniuge felix.
(9.331-333)
Andraemon married her who was lacking her virginity and
having been raped by the god who holds Delphi and Delos,
and Andraemon was considered lucky because of his wife.
The rape of Dryope, the sister of lole, is told briefly and swiftly, and seems not
to be the main point of the story, lole intimates that the subject of the story is
how her sister lost her human form. There seems to be no shame attached to
the fact that Dryope was raped by the god, since Andraemon, we are told, was
considered lucky in having her as his wife (habetur coniuge felix). We learn,
incidentally, that Dryope (a year later) has a son, although it is left
ambiguous whose son it is. lole recalls how Dryope lost her human form and
in so doing tells of the attempted rape of Lotis:
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carpserat hinc Dryope, quos oblectamina nato
porrigeret, flores, et idem factura videbar
namque aderam vidi guttas e flore cruentas
decidere et tremulo ramos horrore moveri.
scilicet, ut referunt tardi nunc denique agrestes,
Lotis in hanc nymphe, fugiens obscena Priapi,
contulerat versos, servato nomine, vultus.
(9.342-348)
From here Dryope had plucked flowers to offer as a delight
to her son, and I was watching, about to do the same
--for I was there-and I saw bloody drops fall from the flower
and saw the branches moved in trembling shudders.
Of course, as slow rustics even now relate, into this, with her
name preserved, had the nymph Lotis changed her features
while fleeing the obscene pursuits of Priapus.
Then lole gives her eyewitness account of how her sister was changed into a
tree while suckling her son. The word obscena is somewhat ambiguous, but
of course, Priapus is known for his eternal erection, and for threatening others
with rape.1 7 In addition, Ovid has provided a more detailed account of this story
in his Fasti.1 8 We hear no more of Lotis, but lole implies that her story is well-
known among the rustics, lole shifts her focus back to the transformation of her
sister, which she then describes at length, in tragi-comic detail. Dryope
becomes a lotus-tree.
The scene of Alcmena and lole, with stories nested within other stories,
spotlights a concentration of women either taken by men or those who barely
escaped by taken. Alcmena, lole, Dryope and Lotis all share the common fate
of having been subject to the desires of various male figures. This
commiseration scene emphasizes the destructive power of male desire when
these particular males act upon the females.
1 7 See Richlin (1992a) for Priapic threats of rape, particularly to would-be thieves.
1 1 In Fasti 1.415-440 Ovid has the nymph escape rape and no mention is made of her
metamorphosis.
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Byblis, in contrast, serves as an example of the destructive powers of
female desires (cf. Aurora). From Dryope’s transformation Ovid turns to a
discussion of the gods’ favorites and the chaos which could arise from
endowing each with agelessness. He then turns his attention to the story of
Byblis’ desire for her own brother Caunus. There is a bit of background given
on the twins and an ambiguous statement that could imply a rape; here Ovid
addresses Miletus:
hie tibi, dum sequitur patriae curvamina ripae,
filia Maeandri totiens redeuntis eodem
cognita Cyanee, praestanti corpora forma,
Byblida cum Cauno, prolem est enixa gemellam.
(9.450-453)
here, while she follows the curves of her father’s
river-bank, Cyanee, the daughter of Meander (who so many
times returns to the same place), a nymph of exceptional
beauty was known by you and she bore twin offspring,
Byblis and Caunus.
It is unclear whether or not Cyanee is raped; from previous stories we are
drawn to the assumption, but the text leaves the matter ambiguous.
Like Salmacis and Echo, Byblis is unsuccessful in her sexual pursuit of the
object of her desire. She contemplates various plans for seducing him, and
considers justification for her love. Byblis notes that the gods have loved their
siblings (9.497-500), but quickly adds that they are subject to their own set of
rules: sunt superis sua iura! (9.500), “the gods have their own rules!” She
finds an example among humans in the Aeolidae (9.507) and decides to send
her brother a letter confessing her love (9.513-516). After some hesitation
Byblis composes her fateful letter and sends it to her brother (9.517-570); Ovid
describes her as pudibunda (9.567) as she hands it to her attendant. Caunus
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vehemently rejects Byblis’ proposition in her letter and, in fact, restrains
himself from doing violence to the messenger. Byblis sees her rejection as a
problem of strategy: she should have tested the waters (9.585-594), she tells
herself, before an open confession of love. She believes she
would have had a better chance if she had approached Caunus in person and
tried to seduce him by verbal entreaty:
et tamen ipsa loqui, nec me committere cerae
debueram, praesensque meos aperire furores,
vidisset lacrimas, vultum vidisset amantis;
plura loqui poteram, quam quae cepere tabellae.
invito potui circumdare bracchia collo,
et, si reicerer, potui moritura videri
amplectique pedes, adfusaque poscere vitam.
omnia fecissem, quorum si singula duram
flectere non poterant, potuissent omnia, mentem.
(9.601-609)
And nevertheless I myself should have spoken, I ought
not to have sent myself in wax tablets, and in person
revealed my mad passions. He would have seen my tears,
seen the face of his lover; I could have said more than
tablets could hold. I could have thrown my arms around
his unwilling neck, and if I were rejected, I could have
seemed about to die and embraced his feet and, prostrate
before him, begged for my life. I could have done
everything, and if one thing was unable to change his
stubborn mind, then all of them together could have.
Byblis feels she could have played on his emotions if given the chance in
direct confrontation. In effect, Byblis says she was not forward enough with her
proposal; she believes she should have delivered her proposition to her
brother personally, whereby she could have employed tactics other than
words if words should fail. Like Boreas, she blames her first attempt for being
too weak; but unlike many male aggressors she at no time thinks of physically
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overpowering him, but rather believes she can overpower his sense of
propriety. Byblis sees her rejection as one of strategy, but her thoughts on
what she should have done are tactics we have already seen fail for other
female characters. For instance, she claims that a face-to-face meeting would
have made a difference. We can recall the failed efforts of Salmacis and Echo,
who (after failed verbal entreaty) tried what Byblis proposes, that is, embracing
the unwilling neck of the beloved. This physical assault is still one meant to
persuade the mind, rather than to overpower the body of the beloved.
Byblis contemplates what action she might take next, believing that she can
succeed; she states vincetur! (9.616), “he will be conquered!” After her
subsequent attempts are repulsed, her brother flees the land and she pursues
him (9.631-651). Eventually she comes to rest and, inconsolable (though the
nymphs try), she turns into a fountain which retains her name (9.559-665).
This story is followed by that of Iphis and lanthe (9.666-797) which Ovid
describes as a miraculous occurence because of the shape change of Iphis.
In this story there is no rape or attempted rape-unlike others who lust and
seek to bend the beloved to their will, here the two are mutually interested and
mutually impassioned. This differs from the majority other “lover/beloved”
(often “would-be rapist/potential victim”) stories which Ovid presents, in that the
two grew up together and love for the other enters both of them. Since the
problem here is one of forbidden love and not one of lover versus unwilling
object of desire, we shall pass over this story,1 9 except to discuss briefly the
references to Pasiphae nested within it.
1 8 There are several other stories in the Metamorphoses which may be seen as stories of mutual
love and/or concern: that of Deucalion and Pyrrha (1.313-415), Pyramus and Thisbe (4.55-
166), Cephalus and Procris (7.661-865), Baucis and Philemon (8.611-724), and Ceyx and
Alcyone (11.410-748).
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We have previously seen references to Pasiphae-above, in discussing
Scylla’s desire for Minos. Here Pasiphae’s story arises again, within the tale
of Iphis ands lanthe, and provides a curious variation on the rape narrative.
Pasiphae joins Aurora in the small number of female figures who sucessfully
rape-Pasiphae, however, rapes a bull.
Iphis uses the example of Pasiphae to illustrate (to herself) a female who
achieved her goal of sex with the object of her desire. Her description of
Pasiphae with the bull intimates a power structure inherent in sexual
intercourse, and more pointedly inherent in rape. Iphis notes of Pasiphae:
passa bovem est, et erat, qui deciperetur, adulter (9.740)~a play on words-
“she had sex with the bull and it was he, the adulterer, who was deceived."
More literally this means, “she endured the bull" etc.-using the verb (passa
est, from pati) we have seen often used of a woman who is raped. The point is
that Pasiphae is described as the passive, penetrated partner in the sexual
situation, despite the fact that she, a woman, actively pursued a male for sex
and that she, a human (or better/higher than human),2 0 actively pursued an
animal. It is still she who “endured” or, in the old sense of the word, “suffered”
the bull (passive). So, too, is there more to the bull’s being “deceived”:
elsewhere in the Metamorphoses, (for example, in Arachne’s tapestry, 6.103-
128) women who are raped are said to have been “tricked” or “deceived” by
the disguises of rapist gods-often in animal disguises.2 1 Earlier, too, Scylla
had said to Minos that Pasiphae “tricked” the bull with her cow disguise: quae
torvum ligno decepit adultera taurum (8.132). Ovid basically has Iphis say that
3 0 Pasiphae is said, however, to have divine parents: she is the daughter of the Sun and an
Oceanid, Perseis.
2 1 The words there associated with deceit and trickery (but meaning rape) are elusam 6.103,
luserit 6.113, fallis 6.117, luserit 6.124, and deceperit 6.125.
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while Pasiphae “endured” the bull, it was really she who raped him. So even
there, where the active and passive are reversed in the rape, it is still the
female who is the passive, penetrated partner in heterosexual sexual
intercourse. Iphis’ concept of sex maintains the standard hierarchic power
structure even, as here, with a female rapist involved in bestiality. We see
once again that the power structure figures the male as occupying the power
position and the penetrated female as occupying the less powerful, passive
position.
As a mortal, Pasiphae uses a disguise available to her (a wooden cow suit
made by for her by Daedalus); unlike a deity, Pasiphae could simply become a
cow to seduce/rape and then return to her former form. Also unlike rapist
gods, the offspring produced through her rape of the bull produces no hero (of.
Perseus, Hercules, Ulixes, et al.); rather it produces a monster to be slain by
the heroic offspring produced a god’s rape of a female.2 2
In Book 10, Ovid begins with the story of Orpheus and Eurydice (10.1-85)
and then presents several stories of love which involve male homosexual
relationships.2 3 On the whole, however, there are very few mentions of rape in
Book 10. The exception is the briefly-told and well-known story of Ganymede.
Orpheus, shunning women after the devastating loss of his wife, Eurydice,
sings of Ganymede:
Rex superum Phrygii quondam Ganymedis amore
arsit, et inventum est aliquid, quod luppiter esse,
quam quod erat, mallet, nulla tamen alite verti
dignatur, nisi quae posset sua fulmina ferre.
nec mora, percusso mendacibus aere pennis
2 2 Neptune is Theseus’ father by rape; his lineage will be noted again in Section 2 of this chapter.
2 3 Cyparissus (10.106-142); Orpheus sings of Ganymede (10.155-161) and Hyacinthus
(10.162-219). With the exception of Ganymede, we are not told whether or not the beloved was
a willing participant in these relationships.
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abripit lliaden; qui nunc quoque pocula miscet
invitaque lovi nectar lunone ministrat.
(10.155-161)
The king of the gods once burned with love for Phrygian
Ganymede, and something was found which Jupiter
preferred to be rather than what he was. Yet he does not
think it worthy to change into any bird, except the one
which was able to carry his thunderbolts. Nor is there
delay, with the air stricken by his lying wings he carries
off the Trojan; who now, too, mixes the cups and serves
the nectar to Jove, even though Juno is unwilling.
The story of the "rape of Ganymede," as the myth is commonly known to us,
shows little evidence of rape here except for abripit Like rapere, abripit here
means “he carries off by force” with the additional implication of “in order to
rape." That Jupiter preferred to be a bird is again reminiscent of his
willingness to put aside-temporarily--his true form for the purpose of rape.2 4
Again we see Jupiter’s eagle associated with rape (cf. in Arachne’s web, with
Asterie, 6.108; elsewhere, in predatory similes within rape narratives). But the
fact that he is Jupiter (not a mere bird) and is the king of gods (rex superum,
10.156) makes it possible for him to take Ganymede, resume his own true
form, and, indeed, to keep the boy as his possession.
The story of Cinyras and Myrrha, later in Book 10 (10.298-514), shares
many similarities to that of Byblis and Caunus. Like Byblis, Myrrha
incestuously desires a male member of her household, but unlike Byblis,
Myrrha succeeds in having sexual relations with him. Perhaps the means by
which she achieves this would not, for some, constitute rape. However, we
3 4 Anderson (1972,488 n. ad 10.155-158) likens this to Jupiter with Europa: “In this comment
on the god, who preferred to be something other than what he was (even a bird!), Ovid plays
with a theme that he used earlier in connection with the rape of Europa, when Jupiter rejected
maiestas for the taurine form that would guarantee him amor (cf. 2.846ff.).“
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should keep in mind when contemplating wheiher or not this is a rape story
that rapes of mortals by gods often occur through disguise and deceit (cf. the
use of the word “trick” or “deceive”). Under such circumstances, this, too, may
be viewed as a successful rape of a male by a female (along with
Cephalus/Aurora and the bull/Pasiphae).
We can briefly run through the circumstances of the story: Orpheus tells the
tale of a woman punished for illicit passion; Myrrha desires her father Cinyras.
Unlike Byblis, Myrrha recognizes her feelings for what they are and, like
Byblis, contemplates precedents for such a love (10.323-333). Like Byblis,
Myrrha considers her plight (10. 320-355), and eventually deicides upon a
course of action, namely suicide (10.368-381). Saved from death by her
nurse, Myrrha confesses her desire and in time accepts the woman’s help in
achieving her goal of intimacy with Cinyras (10.382-445). The nurse contrives
to trick Cinyras, while his wife is away, by introducing to his bed a young girl,
without telling him the girl’s true identity:
ergo legitima vacuus dum coniuge lectus,
nacta gravem vino Cinyran male sedula nutrix,
nomine mentito veros exponit amores
et faciem laudat; quaesitis virginis annis
“par” ait “est Myrrhae” quam postquam adducere iussa est
utque domum rediit, “gaude, mea” dixit “alumna:
vicimus!”
(10.437-443)
Therefore while his bed was empty of his lawful wife,
the nurse, officious to a fault, reveals to Cinyras (whom
she chanced to find drunk from wine) true loves under a
lying name and she praises the beauty; to him asking the
age of the virgin she said, “the same as Myrrha.”
Afterward, she is ordered to bring her and as she returns
home, she said, “Rejoice, my child, we’ve won!”
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Thus Cinyras is tricked into thinking that he will be intimate with someone
Myrrha’s age, without being told who the girl is. The nurse’s assertion vicimus
recalls other sexual aggressors (cf. Byblis says vincetur, 9.616; earlier Jupiter
is the victor with Callisto, 2.437; Salmacis prematurely shouts vicimus, 4.356;
etc.). The “winning” or conquest is in getting the object of desire to comply with
that desire.
The nurse brings the now-hesitant Myrrha to the arranged liaison:
cunctantem longaeva manu deducit et alto
admotam lecto cum traderet “accipe,” dixit,
“ista tua est, Cinyra" devotaque corpora iunxit.
accipit obsceno genitor sua viscera lecto
virgineosque metus levat hortaturque timentem.
forsitan aetatis quoque nomine “filia" dixit,
dixit et ilia “pater," sceleri ne nomina desint.
(10.462-468)
The aged woman led the hesitating girl by the hand and
when she entrusted her to his high bed she said, Take
her, she is yours, Cinyras” and she joined the accursed
bodies. The father takes his own flesh in his obscene
bed and soothes her virginal fears and urges her
although she’s afraid. Perhaps, too, by the name of her
age he said, “daughter" and she, too, said “father,”
lest the names be lacking to their crime.
Ovid intimates through this scene that perhaps Cinyras was not altogether
ignorant of the identity of his mistress. Myrrha, unlike other sexual aggressors
we have seen, not only does not overpower her object of desire, but is
practically dragged to the scene by the time her desires are to be fulfilled.
Ovid next tells us that she is pregnant from this first liaison, yet the scene is
repeated (10.469-473). At this point, eager to see his mistress “after sleeping
together so many times” {post tot concubitus, 10.473), he brings in a light and
sees that she is Myrrha. Ovid describes his reaction:
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inlato lumine vidit
et scelus et natam verbisque dolore retentis
pendenti nitidum vagina deripit ensem;
Myrrha fugit
(10.473-476)
with the light brought in he saw both the crime
and his daughter and, his words held back by pain,
he snatched the shining sword from its hanging sheath;
Myrrha fled
Ovid uses wordplay in several ways. First, scelus here recalls the sceleri
(10.468) above, which he suggested was not lacking its proper names (filia
and pater)--Cinyras here sees the scelus and his daughter (natam) at the
same time, since the scelus is his daughter. She is not named as he sees her,
for the crime is not the name “Myrrha," but the name “daughter" (filia and
natam) which denotes her relationship to him and thus forbids the sexual
relationship they have shared. Cinyras’ reaction, in snatching “his shining
sword from the hanging sheath” has sexual overtones, of course; he quickly
withdraws the phallic sword from the vagina it was in (10.475; cf. Tereus'
drawing his sword for Philomela). Myrrha flees until she comes to rest and
some god (numen aliquod, 10.488) changes her into a tree which then bears
Cinyras’ son, Adonis.
On the surface, this story is markedly different from other rape stones we
have seen. However, Myrrha does use a disguise of sorts to trick her object of
desire into sexual intercourse. Just as Alcmena willingly had sex (one
assumes) with her presumed husband-really Jupiter in disguise-so Cinyras
willingly has sex with someone believed to be other than his daughter (based
on his reaction to seeing her). The rape is effected by trickery: the object of
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desire consents to have sex with someone other than the actual sex partner
(and has not consented to have sex with the actual sex partner).2 * Thus Myrrha
does succeed in having sexual relations with the object of her desire, but in
the end loses her human form. The union was destructive to her, unlike the
successful rape of Cephalus by Aurora and the many other rapes and
attempted rapes which tend to destroy the victim and not the aggressor.
Book Eleven contains the unique rape story of Peleus and Thetis --the only
rape in the Metamorphoses of a goddess by a mortal man. Ovid opens Book
Eleven with the death of Orpheus, then tells of the reward and punishment of
Midas, and the reneging ways of Laomedon. Cheated of his price for freeing
Laomedon’s daughter, Hercules--with the help of Telamon and Peleus--
sacked Troy (11.211-215). Ovid notes Peleus’ unique status among mortals:
nam coniuge Peleus
clarus erat diva nec avi magis ille superbus
nomine quam soceri, siquidem lovis esse nepoti
contigit haut uni, coniunx dea contigit uni.
(11.217-220)
for Peleus was famous for a divine wife
nor was he more proud by the name of his grandfather
than that of his father-in-law, since to be the grandson
of Jove befell not just one, but to him alone it befell to
have a goddess as his wife.
From the start, we can see how “marriage as rape” (discussed above, with
Perseus and Andromeda) is most explicitly borne out here: in this preface to
the story, we are told that Peleus alone has a divine wife and we then read
how he came to rape her.
“ We might consider a hypothetical situation: a woman consents to have sex with a man and
does; she later discovers that it was in fact the man’s twin brother. Since she did not consent to
sexual relations with him, the act can be seen as rape-not by force, but by trickery and
misrepresentation.
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The story of Peleus and Thetis is a story concerned with power. Peleus is
set apart from other mortals not simply by having divine ancestry, but he aione
among mortals, Ovid states,2 8 has a divine wife. Ovid furnishes the reason why
Jupiter was interested in giving Thetis to a mortal: Proteus had told Thetis that
the son she would bear would outdo the deeds of his father and be called
greater than his father (11.221 -223). We see from this that Jupiter can restrain
his lust when it might jeopardize his rule:
ergo, ne quicquam mundus love maius haberet,
quamvis haut tepidos sub pectore senserat ignes,
luppiter aequoreae Thetidis conubia fugit,
in suaque Aeaciden succedere vota nepotem
iussit et amplexus in virginis ire marinae.
(11.224-228)
Therefore, lest the world should have anything greater
than Jove, although he had felt the hot fires under his
breast, Jupiter fled intercourse with Thetis of the sea,
and he ordered his grandson, the son of Aeacus, to take
his place in what he wanted and to go into the
embraces of the sea-virgin.
Jupiter felt passion for this goddess, yet here we learn that his desire is not
uncontrollable: his desire can be restrained when the hierarchy of power lies
in the balance. Unlike his previous rapes of less powerful beings (as they all
are) this rape or seduction would produce a threat to his rule, so he does not
pursue it. There is no disguise that would make him not Jupiter and therefore
untouchable by this prophecy, and thus Jupiter’s only recourse is to pass her
on to someone less powerful than (although descended from) the gods. In
doing so, there seems to be a minor violation in the hierarchy (i.e. a goddess
raped by and wed to a mortal) in order to maintain the broader established
* Ovid has earlier mentioned Aurora and Tithonus (9.421-422) and Venus and Anchises (9.424-
425), but no mention is made of them here.
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hierarchy which consists in, from top to bottom: Jupiter, Olympian deities,
minor deities, mortals (subgroups: men, then women), animals, etc.
Still it is not easy, according to Ovid, for a mortal to rape a goddess, and
Peleus needs divine instructions on how to rape Thetis. He has already failed
to do so without this advice, approaching Thetis as she lay naked in a place
she frequented. Ovid addresses the narrative to Thetis:
illic te Peleus, ut somno vincta iacebas,
occupat, et quoniam precibus temptata repugnas,
vim parat, innectens ambobus colla lacertis;
quod nisi venisses variatis saepe figuris
ad solitas artes, auso foret ille potitus
(11.238-242)
There Peleus seizes you, as you were lying conquered by
sleep, and since you, entreated by his prayers, refuse, he
prepares to rape you, entwining your neck with both of his
arms; and had you not gone to your customary arts of [assuming]
various forms, he would have obtained what he dared.
Peleus is unable physically to overpower the goddess, unlike other rapists we
have seen. The power differential is weighted toward the victim in this unique
case. Afraid of her third form (a tigress), Peleus loosens his hold on her body
(11.245-246). He prays and sacrifices to the gods of the sea and Proteus
emerges with instructions for rape:
'Aeacide,1 dixit 'thalamis potiere petitis,
tu modo, cum rigido sopita quiescet in antro,
ignaram laqueis vincloque innecte tenaci.
nec te decipiat centum mentita figuras,
sed preme, quicquid erit, dum, quod fuit ante, reformet.'
(11.250-254)
“Son of Aeacus,” he said, “you’ll obtain the marriage you
seek, if only you, when she is asleep in the rocky cave,
entwine her with ropes and binding chain while she is
unaware. Don’t let her trick you, her hundred forms
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all lies, but hold her, whatever she will be, until she
become again what she was before.”
The rape strategy involves a surprise attack, cunning, binding, and a persistent
hold. Notice how Proteus warns2 7 against the goddess’ “trick” (nee te decipiaf)',
Peleus must overcome the divine trick, in order to rape (i.e. to be the deceiver
and not the deceived). Peleus uses this advice and is successful:
vix bene virgineos Peleus invaserat artus:
ilia novat formas, donee sua membra teneri
sentit et in partes diversas bracchia tendi.
turn demum ingemuit, 'ne' que ait 'sine numine vincis'
exhibita estque Thetis: confessam amplectitur heros
et potitur votis ingentique inplet Achille.
(11.260-265)
Peleus had hardly well attacked the virginal limbs:
she changed forms, until she felt that her limbs were
bound and her arms stretched in opposite directions.
Then finally she groaned and said, “not without divine
will do you conquer" and she appeared as Thetis: the hero
embraces the self-acknowledged goddess and obtains
what he wanted and fills her with huge Achilles.
When Thetis realizes that Peleus has divine aid, she submits. As a goddess,
she seems instantly to understand the implications of Peleus’ actions because
she understands the hierarchy of power. Unlike Callisto who struggles against
Jupiter, Thetis realizes that she cannot win and her submission signifies
acquiescence to Jupiter’s authority. Once she submits the rape occurs quickly,
resulting in male heroic offspring (Achilles)--a scene quite different from the
wedding of Peleus and Thetis described, for example, in Catullus 64.
2 7 In other versions of the myth it is Themis who gives this prophecy to Jupiter. The figure of
Proteus here is curious, since it is he who told Thetis of her future son's greatness in the first
place (prompting Jupiter to “give” her to Peleus) and it is also Proteus who told Peleus how to
rape Thetis. Proteus is known for shape-shifting; but this alone hardly explains his role in both
aspects of the story.
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The story of Peleus and Thetis further demonstrates Ovid’s use of rape
narratives to discuss power. Jupiter acts on his desires because he can; he
can because he stands at the top of the hierarchy which Ovid presented in
Book One. Jupiter avoids sexual intercourse (conubia, 11.226; lit.“lyings with”)
with Thetis, lest he be supplanted at the head of this hierarchy. Ovid states
that Jupiter ordered Peleus “to take his place in what he wanted”
(in suaque. . . succedere vota, 11.227) and then Peleus tries to rape Thetis:
the implication is that Jupiter wanted to rape Thetis. Ovid’s use of iussit
(11.228) here emphasizes Jupiter’s command for Peleus to join with her in his
place: because he has chosen not to rape Thetis, he is still the one who
issues commands to less powerful beings. Whereas in other instances rape
has affirmed his position as absolute ruler, here his decision not to rape
achieves this goal.
A final note on this story brings the point home: for all of Ovid’s insistence
that Thetis is a goddess,2 8 she is, after all, just another (rapable) nymph. Later,
in the story of Cygnus, Cygnus makes special note of his lineage as being
greater than that of Achilles; he states:
est aliquid non esse satum Nereide, sed qui
Nereaque et natas et totum temperat aequor.
(12.93-94)
it is something to be the son not of a daughter of Nereus,
but of him who controls Nereus and his daughters
and the whole sea
In light of this assessment, we see that to some in the Metamorphoses. Thetis
is no more a goddess than any other Nereid; and they no more than any other
” Ovid refers to Thetis as dea, 11.220; Proteus addresses her. “ dea" dixerat" undae" , 11.221.
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group of nymphs. Thus the underlying unique factor of the rape narrative is
not so much that Thetis is divine, but that her rapist is not.
In the story of Chione, we find another rape narrative that is unique within
the Metamorphoses: the rape of one woman in one night by two different
gods. Ovid tells how Peleus left his father’s kingdom, travelled to Trachis
where Ceyx ruled, and there learned the story of Ceyx’s brother. The story of
Daedalion, the brother of Ceyx, is mainly concerned with the rape of his
daughter Chione by two gods and her subsequent boasting which leads, of
course, to tragedy.
As Ceyx begins the tale he describes the kind of man his brother was
before Daedalion changed into a hawk, and he uses the language of rape:
forsitan hanc volucrem, rapto quae vivit et omnes
terret aves, semper pennas habuisse putetis:
vir fuit (et tanta est animi constantia) iam turn
acer erat belloque ferox ad vimque paratus
nomine Daedalion.
(11.291-295)
Perhaps you think that this bird, which lives by rapine and
which terrifies all birds, has always had wings: it was a
man (and so great is the consistency of the mind) already
he was just as fierce and wild for war and ready for
violence, Daedalion by name.
Ceyx describes Daedalion, then as now, as an aggressor such as we have
seen among the rapists. The words rapto and ad vimque paratus even
explicitly recall the rape narratives, such as the one we are about read,
involving the daughter of rapacious Daedalion.
Ceyx goes on to describe how Daedalion had a daughter who was seen
and raped by two gods in one night. Like other targets of rape in the
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Metamorphoses. Chione is said be beautiful and to have many suitors:2 9
Chione, quae dotatissima forma/mille procos habuit, bis septem nubiiis annis
(11.301 -302), “Chione, who was most greatly dowered in her form and a
marriageable fourteen years old, had a thousand suitors.” The double rape is
told swiftly and briefly:
forte revertentes Phoebus Maiaque creatus,
iile suis Delphis, hie vertice Cylleneo,
videre hanc pariter, pariter traxere calorem.
spem veneris differt in tempora noctis Apollo;
non fert ille moras virgaque movente soporem
virginis os tangit: tactu iacet ilia potenti
vimque dei patitur; nox caelum sparserat astris:
Phoebus anum simulat praereptaque gaudia sumit.
(11.303-310)
By chance Phoebus and the son of Maia as they were
returning, the one from Delphi, the other from Cyllene’s
peak, simultaneously saw her and simultaneously
contracted passion. Apollo postpones his hope for sex
to nighttime; but the other bears no delay and touches
the face of the virgin with his sleep-inducing wand: she
lay under the powerful touch and was raped by the god;
night had spattered the sky with stars: Phoebus, as an
old woman, takes the joys that were anticipated.
Ovid plays on the word praerepta here: not only are these joys “taken them
beforehand,” by Apollo’s anticipation of his success in raping Chione, but
these joys are praerepta in the sense that they were “taken before” Apollo, by
Mercury. We see that each god has his own strategy: Mercury, known for his
swiftness, acts immediately on his desires and disables Chione through the
use of his magic wand. As with Peleus above, the rapist tries to take the victim
while she is unconscious in sleep. This may be the implication of Apollo’s
” Some others with many suitors include Daphne (1.478), Syrinx (1.690), the daughter of
Coroneus (2.570-571), and Medusa (4.794-797). The aspect of their being much sought-after
seems to mark them out as “ special” but also lends a certain value to the conquest.
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technique as well; he waits until night time to rape Chione. Ovid gives no
details as to Apollo’s use of the old woman’s form as a disguise, but
presumably, as in other stories, the old woman appears as an innocuous
figure who has access to the young maiden.
Raped by both gods, Chione bears a child to each: Autolycus to Mercury
and Philammon to Apollo (11.311 -317). Ovid states that Chione’s ancestry,
the fact that she had been pleasing to two gods and that she had borne two
children to them, was of no avail to her for glory can also do harm: Chione
claims she is better than Diana: quae se praeferre Dianae/sustinuit faciemque
deae culpavit (11.321-322), “she put herself before Diana and found fault with
the beauty of the goddess.” For Chione’s arrogance, Diana shoots an arrow
into the girl’s “deserving” tongue (meritam linguam, 11.325). Though Chione
would speak more, she cannot, and while still trying to speak she dies. After
Chione’s cremation, Daedalion is changed by Apollo into a hawk as
Daedalion attempted to throw himself from Parnassus (11.332-345). It is
perhaps due to her father’s rapacious nature (see above) that we find excess
here: Chione has not many, but a thousand, suitors; she is raped not once, but
twice-and on the same night; she feels not only blessed by this, but she feels
she is better than a goddess.
Near the end of Book Eleven we find a rape attempt in which the aggressor
takes responsibility for the destruction of the object of his desire. Ovid gets to
the story of Aesacus and Hesperia after telling how the cattle of Peleus were
destroyed by a wolf sent by Psamathe (11.346-399), followed by the lengthy
story of Ceyx and Alcyone and their eventual change into halcyons (11.410-
748). At this point an unnamed narrator tells the history of the diver bird, which
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at one time was Aesacus, the son of Priam and half brother of Hector (11.749-
763). The narrator explains that even though Aesacus lived in the mountains
and rural places, he had a “breast not rustic/savage nor unassailable by love”
{non agreste tamen nec inexpugnabile amori/pectus habens, 11.767-768). He
often pursued Hesperia through the forest and “saw her on her father’s river-
bank, drying in the sun her hair that was tossed on her shoulders” (11.769-
770). When seen, the nymph flees; Ovid describes the flight and Aesacus’
pursuit in similes:
visa fugit nymphe, veluti perterrita fulvum
cerva lupum longeque lacu deprensa relicto
accipitrem fluvialis anas; quam Troius heros
insequitur celeremque metu celer urget amore.
(11.771-774)
the nymph, having been seen, flees just as a deer,
terrified, flees the tawny wolf and a wild duck caught
far from its lake flees the hawk; the Trojan hero pursues
and he, swift from love, gains on her, swift from fear.
The description we find here is very similar to the simile Ovid had used to
describe Apollo’s pursuit of Daphne. There, he likened the two to a Gallic
hound and a hare:
ut canis in vacuo leporem cum Gallicus arvo
vidit, et hie praedam pedibus petit, ille salutem;
alter inhaesuro similis iam iamque tenere
sperat et extento stringit vestigia rostro,
alter in ambiguo est, an sit conprensus, et ipsis
morsibus eripitur tangentiaque ora relinquit:
sic deus et virgo est hie spe celer, ilia timore.
(1.532-538)
just as a Gallic hound sees a hare in an empty plain
and he by running seeks the prey, the hare (seeks)
safety; the one, similar to one about to fasten [onto the
hare], now, now hopes he has her and grazes her
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steps with his snout extended, the other is in doubt as to
whether it is caught and is snatched from the very bites
and leaves the touching mouth behind: thus swift were
the god and the virgin, he from hope, she from fear.
Ovid can compress the narrative here, as he had earlier in the story of Syrinx:
the reader has been conditioned to expect certain circumstances in the rape
narrative and can fill in whatever blanks Ovid may leave. With Hesperia, we
have fewer pathetic details about her fear, but we are told nonetheless of her
terror and Daphne-like flight. The motivations behind the swiftness of each
pair are the most similar: the male aggressor is said to be swift from hope
(Apollo) and love (Aesacus), while the prey (Daphne and Hesperia) are swift
from fear (tlmore, metu). The structure of each parallel sentence implies that
the two in each pair are equally matched (deus et virgo . . . est celer
corresponds to celeremque metu celer urget amore). Note, too, that even in
the metaphor the prey--if caught-clearly would be overpowered by the
predator.
Hunted by Aesacus, Hesperia falls victim to a snakebite and dies (11.775-
777). Embracing her lifeless body, Aesacus exclaims:
piget, piget esse secutum!
sed non hoc timui, neque erat mihi vincere tanti.
perdidimus miseram nos te duo: vulnus ab angue,
a me causa data est! ego sum sceleratior illo,
qui tibi morte mea mortis solacia mittam.
(11.778-782)
I repent, I repent that I followed you!
But I did not fear this, nor was it worth so much to me to
conquer. Two of us destroyed you, poor wretch: the
wound was given by the snake but the cause of it given
by me! I am more wicked than it, who will send my
solace, consisting in death, to you for your death.
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Aesacus acknowledges his role in the death of Hesperia. He states that “it
was not worth so much for me to conquer," using the (now familiar) metaphor
of conquest for rape. He notes that he did not fear this as a possible
consequence of his actions (sed non hoc timui). This statement is curious in
that it suggests either that he had no fears about his actions or that he feared a
different outcome than this. But does this imply that Aesacus had any fears
about her safety? He was, after all, seemingly unmoved by the fact that she
was terrified (perterrita, 11.771). Aesacus hurls himself from a cliff, but the
pitying Tethys changes him into a diver bird and thus prevents his death
(11.783-786). Again and again the diver bird seeks to hurl himself to death in
the sea, unwillingly forced to live (invitum vivere cogi, 11.787).
The rape narratives of Book Eleven present some unique twists on the (by
now) well-worn theme: each of the three-Thetis, Chione, and Hesperia-holds
a significant difference from previous rape narratives. From the story of Peleus
and Thetis we see the only story in the Metamorphoses of a goddess(/nymph)
raped by a mortal man. The hierarchy is maintained and further defined:
Jupiter stands at the top, over gods and all less powerful beings. The story
also lends weight to the power differential between males and females, which
perhaps is more obvious here than elsewhere: here the male aggressor
succeeds even against a divine being. It is, however, important to note that it
is not without divine assistance that Peleus accomplishes his goal. In the story
of Chione we find at first the “standard” story: the beautiful sought-after virgin
seen by and simultaneously desired by a god, but the story is unique in the
double rape in a single day by two different gods. Whereas Tereus was said-
in horror--to have sought again the mutilated body of Philomela, here Chione
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is raped by two different aggressors, both gods, and her reaction is quite
dissimilar to that of Philomela.
Aesacus’ reaction to the death of Hesperia marks the difference in this
attempted rape story. In this story, Aesacus claims that rape (lit. “to conquer”)
was not worth Hesperia’s death, and tries to destroy himself. Although there
are similarities to other stones,3 0 none directly parallel the rape attempt,
subsequent death of the object of desire, and the claim of responsibility for that
death by the aggressor. Certainly we have not seen any of the divine rapists
attempt self-destruction when faced with the consequences of their rapes or
attempted rapes. Or, perhaps, rape is not worth the destruction of the victim,
unless the rapist rapes her first.
In two of these cases, for Thetis and Chione, we have acquiescence to the
hierarchy of power. Thetis submits once she realizes Peleus has divine aid,
and Chione sees being raped by two gods as a boon. This is perhaps
reminiscent of Jupiter’s earlier words to Ceres concerning the rape of her
daughter,3 1 redefining rape as love, and that sustained abduction is later called
marriage. Here Chione redefines rape as a compliment, signifying an inability
to recognize her own victimization. At this point, at least, Chione demonstrates
her acceptance in the greater scheme.3 2
The theme of Book 12 may arguably be (im)penetrability. From the assault
on the walls of Troy to the assault of the women at the wedding of Pirithous
3 0 e.g. Apollo feared that Daphne might hurt herself while fleeing him; Eurydice, like Hesperia,
dies of snakebite, 10.9-10; Apollo claims responsibility for the death of Hyacinthus,10.196-197;
etc.
3 1 sed si modo nomina rebus/addere vera placet, non hoc iniuria factum,/verum amor est (5.524-
526).
3 2 Later, of course, Chione crosses the line when she sees herself as better than Diana.
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and Hippodame, the theme courses throughout the book on both the physical
and metaphoric levels.
Book 12 opens with the Greeks preparing to go to Troy. When the Greeks
were unable to sail, Ovid states that some thought that Neptune was sparing
Troy because he had given Troy its walls (12.25-26), but says that the truth
was that Diana required the blood of a virgin to appease her wrath (12.27-29).
At the last moment, however, Diana intervenes and puts a deer in Iphigenia’s
place to be sacrificed at the altar. As the Greeks finally sail to Phrygia, they are
preceded by Rumor (12.37-63), whose home, it seems, is penetrable by
everything and from everywhere:
unde quod est usquam, quamvis regionibus absit,
inspicitur, penetratque cavas vox omnis ad aures:
Fama tenet summaque domum sibi legit in arce,
innumerosque aditus ac miile foramina tectis
addidit et nullis inclusit limina portis;
nocte dieque patet
(12.41-46)
From this place whatever is anywhere, even if it is far
from there, is seen, and every voice penetrates the
hollow ears: Rumor lives here and chooses a home for
herself in the high summit and she gave to the house
countless entrances and a thousand doors and thresholds
shut in by no gates; night and day it is open
This description of the all-penetrable home of Rumor will sharply contrast with
the figure of Cygnus, whom Ovid introduces shortly thereafter.
From the Trojans’ expectation of the Greek fleet to a brief description of the
early deaths at Troy, Ovid turns to the meeting between Cygnus (Neptune’s
son) and Achilles. His description of this meeting leads back to the topic of
(im)penetrability (12.70-145). Struck by Achilles’ spear, the unharmed Cygnus
addresses Achilles, explaining that it is not armor that shields him from
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wounds, for even without it he would be unscathed (12.86-92). Cygnus adds:
est aliquid non esse satum Nereide, sed qui
Nereaque et natas et totum temperat aequor.
(12.93-94)
it is something to be the son not of a daughter of Nereus,
but of him who controls Nereus and his daughters
and the whole sea.
Cygnus asserts that his invulnerability is the result of being Neptune’s son,
while Achilles can only trace his origin to a less powerful being (the Nereid
Thetis). Eventually Achilles-in his frustration-manages to beat Cygnus into a
position where he may strangle him (12.132-143). As Achilles prepares to
strip his fallen foe of armor, Neptune whisks Cygnus away, leaving behind the
empty armor, and changes Cygnus into a swan (12.143-145). Later, when the
Greek warriors discuss their acts of valor (12.146-162). Achilles’ conquest of
Cygnus was the main topic:
proxima praecipue domito victoria Cycno
in sermone fuit: visum mirabile cunctis,
quod iuveni corpus nullo penetrabile telo
invictumque a vulnere erat ferrumque terebat
(12.164-167)
his latest victory, with Cygnus brought low, was especially
in their conversation: it seemed wondrous to all that the
body of the youth was penetrable by no weapon, and was
unconquered by a wound and wore down the sword.
A soldier, then, is seen as a penetrable male, but Cygnus defies this notion.
The sword is worn down by the body in this instance, whereas, earlier, we saw
it as a phallic weapon attendant to rape (Tereus, the rapist, brandishes it;
Cinyras, the raped, draws his sword upon Myrrha).
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The marvel of Cygnus causes Nestor to introduce the story of Caeneus, the
story of an impenetrable man who was bom a (penetrable) woman (12.168ff.).
Nestor’s story begins as a rape narrative and will course through another
attempted rape before Nestor can tell how Caeneus was eventually brought
down. He explains that Caeneus was bom a woman named Caenis, the
daughter of Elatus (12.188). Like several other rape victims in the
Metamorphoses.3 3 Caenis was famed for beauty and much sought-after by
suitors:
Clara decore fuit proles Elateia Caenis,
Thessalidum virgo pulcherrima, perque propinquas
perque tuas urbes (tibi enim popularis, Achille),
multorum frustra votis optata procorum.
(12.188-192)
Famed for beauty was Caenis, the daughter of Elatus, the
most beautiful of all Thessalian girls, and throughout the
neighboring cities, even yours (for she was from your
city, Achilles) she was hoped for, in vain, by the prayers
of many suitors.
Like several others, too, Caenis rejects marriage but is nevertheless raped.
Ovid has Nestor dispense with the rape quickly and explain that Neptune
promised a favor to be granted in exchange for the rape:
nec Caenis in ullos
denupsit thalamos secretaque litora carpens
aequorei vim passa dei est (ita fama ferebat),
utque novae Veneris Neptunus gaudia cepit,
“sint tua vota licet” dixit “secura repulsae:
elige, quid voveas!" (eadem hoc quoque fama ferebat)
(12.195-200)
nor did Caenis enter into any marriage
and while making her way along a secluded shore she was
3 3 Daphne 1.478-479, Syrinx 1.690-694, the daughter of Coroneus 2.570-572, Narcissus
3.403-404, and Deianira 9.8-10.
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raped by the god of the sea (so the story went), and when
Neptune took the joys of new Venus, he said, “It is permitted
that your prayers be safe from rejection: choose,
what you wish!” (this, too, the same report told)
Nestor tells of this reported rape and of the offer of a wish to be granted.
Neptune’s “joys of new sex” or “love” (novae Veneris) lead him to offer a sort of
payment. The reported exchange implies Caenis’ perspective in her response
to Neptune’s offer:
“magnum” Caenis ait “facit haec iniuria votum,
tale pati iam posse nihil; da, femina ne sim:
omnia praestiteris.”
(12.201-203)
Caenis said, “This outrage creates a great prayer,
to be able no longer to suffer anything like it; grant that
I not be a woman: you will have given all.”
Caenis changes into a man, for (we are told) the god assented to her prayer
and had given in addition (dederatque super, 12.206) that he be invulnerable
and unable to fall by the sword (12.206-207). We are reminded of Cygnus,
although here the parallel between the penetrable soldier and the rapable
female is quite explicit. If only male, Caeneus would still be penetrable as a
soldier; the phallic sword has that power. Neptune then adds invulnerability,
to prevent any future penetration of Caeneus’ body. Caenis, now a man, went
away “happy in the gift” (munere laetus, 12.208) and lived his life in manly
pursuits, wandering the Thessalian fields.3 4
Ovid provides in Caenis’ response to Neptune the rare utterance by the
rape victim-we earlier read Philomela’s reaction to being raped by Tereus,
and her tongue was cut out as a result. Here, we have two strikingly different
3 4 Here called the “Peneian fields” (Peneiaque arva pererrat, 12.209), which may recall to the
reader's mind “Peneian Daphne" (cf. primus amorPhoebi Daphne Peneia, 1.452).
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assessments of the act from the two figures involved: for Neptune, this act is
the “joys of new love” (novae Veneris gaudia), whereas Caenis calls it iniuria
(12.201), or “outrage” (cf. Jupiter’s change of iniuria to amoi). Ovid has the
Thessalian Caenis use a Roman legal term to describe the act Neptune has
committed. Nevertheless, she is not punished or silenced (as Philomela was)
for her assessment of the act; rather, the god grants her prayer without a word.
Her metamorphosis into an invulnerable and unrapable man is effected and
her--now his--life goes on.
Nestor does not end his story here; he instead sees the tale through to the
end of Caenis’ life. Caenis lives as the man Caeneus and Nestor tells how he
was involved in a battle at the wedding of Pirithous and Hippodame.3 5 The
battle itself centers on the attempted rape of the bride and other female
attendants of the wedding by a raucous group of centaurs. Even within this
story lurks a trace of an attempted rape story just beneath the opening lines
which describe the wedding feast. Ovid has Nestor say:
Duxerat Hippodamen audaci Ixione natus
nubigenasque feros positis ex ordine mensis
arboribus tecto discumbere iusserat antro.
(12.210-212)
The son of bold Ixion had wed Hippodame and had ordered
the wild cloud-bom ones to recline at tables
set in order in a cave covered by trees.
“The son of Ixion,” we learn, is Pirithous who is king of the Lapithae in
Thessaly. “The cloud-bom ones” are the centaurs and in the story of their
origin, too, is a an attempted rape. Ixion, whom Ovid mentions at 4.461, 9.124,
10.42, and 12.504, is the father of the centaurs. The background story is that
* It should be noted, however, that Caeneus’ involvement in the wedding battle is first
mentioned some 250 lines after Nestor tells the transformation of Caenis to Caeneus.
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Ixion tried to rape or seduce Juno and Jupiter substituted a cloud in her place.
Ixion mated with the cloud and the offspring was Centaurus who then fathers
the centaurs. For his offense, Jupiter binds Ixion to a burning wheel which is
sent whirling throughout the universe eternally. Here, however, the “cloud-
bom” are the centaurs, intimating that they are the sons of Ixion (rather than of
Centaurus) and the cloud/Juno-substitute. Ovid had earlier alluded to this
rape attempt in the story of Hercules, Nessus, and Deianira. Hercules shouts
as Nessus attacks Deianira:
si te nulla mei reverentia movit, at orbes
concubitus vetitos poterant inhibere patemi.
(9.123-124)
If no respect for me moves you, at least your father’s
circles should have stopped the forbidden liaison.
Ovid again states that Ixion is the father of the centaurs (unlike other versions,
in which he is their grandfather) and explicitly draws a parallel between the
behavior of Ixion and Nessus through Hercules’ words. Nessus, in fact, was
also involved in this battle at the wedding feast, but was said to be safe
because he was doomed later to die by the hand of Hercules (12.306-309).3 6
By having the centaurs be the sons of Ixion and by explicitly stating that
Pirithous is the son of Ixion,3 7 the centaurs create a mini civil war at the
wedding feast of Pirithous and Hippodame. The centaurs themselves later
comment on their inability to harm Caeneus; Monychus states:
nec nos matre dea, nec nos Ixione natos
esse reor, qui tantus erat, lunonis ut altae
spem caperet: nos semimari superamur ab hostel
(12.504-506)
* i.e. in the incident involving Deianira. Nessus appears at 12.308 and 12.454.
3 7 There is a later reference, too, to Pirithous as the son of Ixion (Ixione natum, 12.338).
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I think we are neither sons of a goddess nor sons of Ixion,
who was so great that he seized on the hope of high Juno:
we are conquered by a half-male enemy!
Monychus has it both ways: by questioning the parentage of the centaurs, he
implies a belief that they are the sons both of the goddess and of Ixion. The
implication is that Ixion was great in his ambition to rape Juno and it is tied to
his maleness. The centaurs, however, are “less” because they cannot
overcome a man who was once a woman.
If we consider again the theme of penetrability, we may consider Ixion’s
mistake in his attempt on the queen of the gods, the sister and wife of Jupiter.
Perhaps Hercules states it best when he calls Nessus’ attempt on Deianira
concubitus vetitos, “forbidden lyings-together” or “forbidden sexual liaisons.”
These women are not to be raped because they are associated with powerful
male figures whose domain it is to penetrate these women.
At the wedding feast of Pirithous and Hippodame, a similar situation arises:
Hippodame is now the wife of Pirithous, but his kinsman, Eurytus (a centaur),
sees, desires, and takes her; in turn, other centaurs grab other women in
attendance:
nam tibi, saevorum saevissime Centaurorum,
Euryte, quam vino pectus, tarn virgine visa
ardet, et ebrietas geminata libidine regnat,
protinus eversae turbant convivia mensae,
raptaturque com is per vim nova nupta prehensis.
Eurytus Hippodamen, alii, quam quisque probabant
aut poterant, rapiunt, captaeque erat urbis imago.
(12.219-225)
For your breast, Eurytus, most savage of savage Centaurs,
bums with wine as with the sight of the virgin, and
drunkenness rules with a doubled lust. Straightaway the
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overturned tables disturb the party and the new bride is
snatched away, grabbed violently by the hair. Eurytus
snatches away Hippodame, and others snatch away women
they either like or are able to take, it was the image of a
city sacked.
Eurytus, then, sparks a mass rape during the wedding party and this leads to a
battle between the Lapithae, whom Pirithous rules, and the centaurs, who are
the kinsmen of Pirithous. The attempted violation of the bride and the other
women3 8 breaks the rules of civilized people and the decorum that is
maintained among civilized folk. The other centaurs grab whomever of the
women they can--so uncontrollable is their lust that they have no specific
target, but grab at the women indescriminately. Eurytus’ lust is doubled, we
are told, by the wine, and his lust leads him to attack the most inviolate of the
women, the new bride of his kinsman, Pirithous.
The association of Hippodame with a powerful male figure makes her
inviolate (what Hercules has earlier called concubitus vetitos; i.e. theoretically
impenetrable). Theseus responds to Eurytus’ act of assault by calling attention
to the outrage done to the men involved:
primus “quae te vecordia,” Theseus
“Euryte, pulsat,” ait, “qui me vivente lacessas
Pirithoum violesque duos ignarus in uno?”
(12.227-228)
Theseus first said, “Eurytus, what madness drives
you, who harm Pirithous while I am alive,
and, unaware, you violate two in the one?”
Theseus, like Hercules to Nessus, suggests that the aggressor should have
contemplated the consequences that would be dealt to him by the powerful
3 8 The only description we have of other women in attendance is that they were “ a throng of
matrons and young wives" (cf. cinctaque adest virgo matrum nuruumque caterva, 12.216).
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men attached to the object of assault. Here he calls attention to his
assessment that Pirithous is the injured party (not Hippodame perse), and by
his close association, Theseus shares in that insult. The “two” are Pirithous
and Theseus, not Pirithous and Hippodame, and Eurytus should then fear
reprisal from them. Theseus kills Eurytus and the full-blown battle gets
underway.
All of this leads us back to Nestor’s description of Caeneus; Caeneus
fights on the side of the Lapiths against the centaurs. Nestor notes how a
centaur, Latreus, in a battle boast to Caeneus remarks on Caeneus’ “sordid”
past:
et te, Caeni, feram? nam tu mihi femina semper,
tu mihi Caenis eris. nec te natalis origo
commonuit, mentemque subit, quo praemia facto
quaque viri falsam speciem mercede pararis?
quid sis nata, vide, vel quid sis passa, columque,
i, cape cum calathis et stamina pollice torque;
bella relinque viris.
(12.470-476)
Shall I bear you, too, Caeneus? For you will always be
a woman to me, you will always be Caenis to me. Doesn’t
your birth warn you, and does it enter your mind by what
deed you got a reward, by what price you got the false
appearance of a man? Consider either what you were bom
or what you suffered and go, take a distaff along with
wicker baskets and twist threads with your thumb;
leave wars to men.
Latreus’ boast rings of the stigma attached both to being a woman and to
having been raped. Latreus uses the common insult of calling another warrior
womanly (although here, of course, the irony is two-fold since Caeneus both
was bom a woman and is now super-manly) but has the additional resonance
of Caeneus’ having been raped. “Consider either what you were born or what
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you suffered" says Latreus, using the feminine forms nata and passa--
extending the translation to “what you (feminine) were bom or what you
suffered [as a woman].” Both of these circumstances, for Latreus, make it
inappropriate for Caeneus to be fighting as a man among men.
In response Caeneus hurls his spear at Latreus, wounding him “in the
place where the man was joined to the horse” (12.478). This, significantly, is
the very intersection of Latreus’ double nature--cf. Caenis’/Caeneus’ double
nature-often depicted as the area of the lower abdomen, or, indeed, the groin.
Latreus’ efforts to harm Caeneus are in vain, since “no places are pervious to
the sword," (gladio loca pervia non sunt 12.483). Latreus then tries to wound
Caeneus in the groin {ilia, 12.486) in an attempt that shatters his sword
(fractaque dissiluit. . . lammina, 12.487-488). Caeneus responds by piercing
Latreus to the hilt {capuloque tenus, 12.491). Both combatants, then, strike at
the point which exposes the enemy’s double nature: the groin. Caeneus, the
opposite of penetrable, is as penetrating as he can be (capuloque tenus).
The other centaurs, enraged, converge with their weapons upon Caeneus,
all to no avail. It is here that Monychus speaks among them, stating that they
are beaten by this enemy who is barely even a man (vixque viro, 12.500) and
thus they are “what he was before” {quod fuit ille, sumus, 12.501). After
contemplating the strength that should come from their parentage, Monychus
turns to the suggestion that they heap stones, trees and mountains on
Caeneus3 9 (12.504-509). It is in this manner that Caeneus is overcome,
" Nestor adds two possibilities for what happens then to Caeneus {exitus in dubio est, 12.522):
either his body was weighed down into Tartarus, or he implies it is more likely that he changed
into a strange and unique bird which Nestor himself saw (12.525-532). Virgil has Caeneus in the
underworld (Aen. 6.448)-as a woman again-walking among the women with whom Dido
wanders. Virgil states of Caeneus: his Laodamia/it comes et iuvenis quondam, nunc femina,
Caeneus/mrsus et in veterem fato revoluta figuram (6.448-449).
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buried under a huge mound (12.510-521). Thus the impenetrable Caeneus is
smothered, just as the invulnerable Cygnus’ air was cut off.
Following this story, Nestor discusses his disdain for the acts of Hercules
which, although heroic, had caused Nestor personal sorrow (12.536-576).
Ovid tells us that Neptune still grieved the loss of Cygnus and therefore felt
great enmity for Achilles (12.580-585). After ten years’ fighting and the death
of Hector, Neptune approaches Apollo (who, along with Neptune, built Troy’s
walls) and together they plan to avenge the destructive acts of Achilles.
Neptune states a desire to harm Achilles with his trident:
det mihi se: faxo, triplici quid cuspide possim,
sentiat; at quoniam concurrere comminus hosti
non datur. ..
(12.594-595)
Let him give himself to me: let him feel what I could do
with the triple spear; but since to meet my enemy
face to face is not granted . ..
Again the phallic implications are clear: Neptune wishes to penetrate (in
triplicate) Achilles. Since he cannot fight and kill Achilles himself, Neptune
asks Apollo to destroy Achilles with “a hidden arrow” (12.596). Apollo guides
the arrow of Paris to strike a deadly blow to Achilles (12.598-606). Ovid
comments on Achilles’ death:
ille igitur tantorum victor, Achille,
victus es a timido Graiae raptore maritae!
at si femineo fuerat tibi Marte cadendum,
Thermodontiaca malles cecidisse bipenni.
(12.608-611)
Therefore that conqueror of great ones, Achille, you are
conquered by the timid ravisher of a Greek wife! But if
you had to fall by womanly war, you would have preferred
to have fallen by the Thermodonian double axe.
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Ovid picks up the theme in the boast by Latreus to Caeneus: the more maniy
the foe, the greater the honor. Ovid suggests that Achilles would have
preferred to have been killed by an Amazon,4 0 that is, by a manly woman, than
to be killed by Paris. Paris is, by implication, a “womanly” man, but he is
referred to here by his act of rape. He is a “timid ravisher"-the adjective
perhaps referring to his use of archery in war, or to the means by which he got
Helen. Archery is stereotypic for effeminate, sneaky fighting (i.e shooting from
a distance), less manly than hand-to-hand combat using swords, or here, an
axe. Ovid says that if Achilles had to fall by “womanly war” (lit. “by womanly
Mars”), he would have preferred to have been killed by an Amazon, who is
more of a warrior (by implication) than Paris; conversely, Paris is more of a
woman than an Amazon.
In addition to the expression of the warrior values, we see the relationship
of this scene to the underlying theme of penetrability in Book 12. When
Neptune approaches Apollo to discuss Achilles, he mentions the walls of Troy
which are soon to fall (12.586-589). Since the two built these walls, Neptune
asks if Apollo is not disturbed by this, especially since Achilles, opens nostri
populator (12.593, “the destroyer of our work”), still lives. In a sense, because
the walls are built by these deities, there is a suggestion that they ought to be
inviolate, or at least that the one responsible for their destruction ought to be
punished. Neptune does not mention the grudge he holds for the loss of his
son, Cygnus, to Achilles, but rather he cites the destruction of the walls, those
who died defending the walls, and Hector (who was dragged around
Pergamum) as reasons to kill Achilles.
4 0 Thermodon is a river signifying the region in which the Amazons lived.
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The manner of Achilles’ death also ties in with the theme of penetrability.
Although Ovid does not mention it here, Achilles is elsewhere said to be
impenetrable except for his “heel” or ankle area, where his mother Thetis
dipped him in the river Styx. Thus Apollo guides Paris’ arrow to the only spot
on Achilles that can be penetrated. Just as Thetis was unable to be
conquered or penetrated without divine assistance, so her son is conquered or
penetrated only with the aid of the gods.
Book 12 ends with the conflict that opens Book 13: who will receive the
arms of Achilles? There is only one (attempted) rape narrative4 1 late in in Book
13, and before that, only a few passing references to rape. For example, Ajax
(in his speech on why he deserves to receive Achilles’ arms) introduces
Ulixes’ ancestry as a subject for scrutiny. He refers to Ulixes as sanguine
cretus/Sisyphio (13.31-32), “offspring of Sisyphian blood” or “Sisyphus’ son."
At first glance we might think that this refers to Ulixes’ tricky nature, but closer
scrutiny finds a mythological tradition recorded in Hyginus (201) that Sisyphus
raped Antiklea before she was given to wed Laertes. In addition, Ulixes in his
speech for the arms claims to have Mercury as an ancestor on his mother’s
side (13.146-147). According to the mythological tradition of Antiklea, she is
said to be the daughter of Autolycus, who Ovid tells us in Metamorphoses
Book 11 was produced by Mercury’s rape of Chione.
After the debate over the arms, Ovid briefly tells of the suicide of Ajax
(13.384-398) and then passes on to the final capture of Troy (once Ulixes has
brought Hercules’ arrows, 13.399-403). After the death of Priam we learn of
the fate of various Trojan women and of the boy Astyanax (13.404-428). Most
4 1 The story of Glaucus and Scylla begins in Book 13 (13.732ff.) and bears many similarities to
previous rape or attempted rape narratives.
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interesting for our purposes is the story of the sacrifice of Polyxena, which
deals with the subject of female subjugation, female penetrability, and the
virgin body (cf. Iphigenia). After the ghost of Achilles demands the sacrifice of
Polyxena (13.441-448), Polyxena stands before Achilles’ funeral mound (the
site of the sacrifice) and speaks to Neoptolemus who is ready, sword in hand.
She tells him to kill her (echoing Virgilian words, cf. conde 13.459), but that
this rite will not please the gods (haud per tale sacrum numen placabitis ullum!
13.461). She asks that no hands of men may touch her:
vos modo, ne Stygios adeam non libera manes,
ite procul, si iusta peto, tactuque viriles
virgineo removete manus! acceptior illi,
quisquis is est, quern caede mea placare paratis,
liber erit sanguis.
(13.465-469)
Only you, so that I may go free to the Stygian shades,
stand at a distance, if I seek just things, and remove
men’s hands from my virginal touch. Free blood will be
more acceptable to him, whoever he is, whom you prepare
to appease with my slaughter.
Polyxena suggests that the men’s ability to touch her marks her as a slave.
She reasons that the free body of a princess is “worth” more than the slaughter
of a slave-she even adds that she asks this “as the daughter of King Priam,
not as a captive,” (Priami vos filia regis/non captiva rogat, 13.470-471).
Shortly thereafter she is sacrificed and Ovid describes her death:
tunc quoque cura fuit partes velare tegendas,
cum caderet, castique decus sen/are pudoris.
(13.479-480)
At that time, too, she took care to cover parts that
should be covered, as she was falling, and to preserve
the honor of her chaste modesty.
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We may well be reminded of Ovid’s description in the Fasti of Lucretia’s death
by suicide, after she was raped by Sextus Tarquinius:
turn quoque iam moriens ne non procumbat honeste,
respicit; haec etiam cura cadentis erat.
(Fasti 2.383-384)
At that time, too, as she was already dying, she sees to it
that she fall forward decently; this was the concern
of her as she fell.
If the sentiment alone were not similar enough, Ovid provides explicit verbal
echoes. The woman’s body, the sacrifice of a virgin, marks the victim in a
struggle for power among men. Just as Polyxena was sacrificed here, so
Iphigenia was offered for sacrifice to start the Greeks’ voyage to wage war on
Troy. The final conquest of Troy by the Greeks is marked by the possessions
they take: the women of Troy. The conquest of the women marks the change
in government.
In the next segment, Ovid presents the lament of Hecuba, her vengeance
against King Polymestor, and her final transformation into a bitch (13.488-
575). After the story of Aurora’s grief for her son Memnon (13.576-622), Ovid
picks up the story of Aeneas’ travel to Delos (13.576-674)4 2 and to various
other places. Eventually Aeneas reached Scylla and Charybdis (13.730ff.).
Ovid states that Scylla was once a beautiful virgin:
ilia feris atram canibus succingitur alvum,
virginis ora gerens, et, si non omnia vates
ficta reiiquerunt, aliquo quoque tempore virgo:
hanc multi petiere proci, quibus ilia repulsis
ad pelagi nymphas, pelagi gratissima nymphis,
ibat et elusos iuvenum narrabat amores.
(13.732-737)
4 2 Here Anius, king of Delos, tells of his daughters who were taken by Agamemenon, for their
ability to produce food (13.644-674).
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she is girt on her dark waist with fierce dogs, while she
has the face of a virgin, and, if not all the things poets
have left behind are false, she was also a virgin once:
many suitors sought her, and with them repulsed, she
used to go to the nymphs of the sea, most welcome to
the nymphs of the sea, and she used to narrate
the eluded loves of the youths.
Scylla seems very much like previous rape victims we have seen: she is
beautiful, a virgin, much sought-after, and scorns the suitors who seek her.
Galatea, a Nereid, explains to Scylla that Scylla could reject these men
without fear (lit. “without penalty,” inpune 13.741), since they were a gentle
race of men, but she herself could not reject the Cyclops’ interest in her without
tragedy, even though she is a Nereid and “safe among a throng of her sisters”
(13.742-745). She tells of her love for Acis, whom the Cyclops buries under a
piece of a mountain, whereupon Acis changes into a river-god (13.745-897).
The Cyclops had tried to seduce her, in his plea for her affection he reveals his
violent passion:
viscera viva traham divulsaque membra per agros
perque tuas spargam (sic se tibi misceatl) undas.
uror enim, laesusque exaestuat acrius ignis,
cumque suis videor translatam viribus Aetnen
pectore ferre meo, nec tu, Galatea, moveris.
(13.865-869)
I’ll pull out his live guts and spatter his tom-apart limbs
throughout the fields and throughout your waves (let him
mix with you like that!). For I am burning, and the fire,
wounded, bums more fiercely, and I seem to bear Aetna in
my chest, transferred there with its forces, nor, Galatea,
are you moved.
The Cyclops states that what really bothers him is that she prefers someone
else to him, that it would be better if she rejected everyone (13.859-864). Her
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love for Acis, for this reason, makes him furious and this passion he has for
Galatea is thus “wounded” (laesus); rejection makes him want her more. He
says that he feels as if Aetna is in him, complete with its viribus, “forces”~or
perhaps better, “violence."
Having heard this tale, Scylla returns to the shore and wanders along the
sand naked (sine vestibus, 13.901); she relaxes in a cool secluded pool.
There Glaucus, a sea-god, sees and desires her:
Glaucus adest, visaeque cupidine virginis haeret
et, quaecumque putat fugientem posse morari,
verba refert; fugit ilia tamen veloxque timore
pervenit in summum positi prope litora montis.
(13.906-909)
Glaucus is there, and he clings with desire for the virgin
he saw and he says whatever he thinks can delay her as
she flees; she flees nevertheless and swift from fear she
reaches the summit of a steep hill near the shore.
Scylla’s flight, like the earlier description of her, matches some of the earlier
rape victims: she flees while the aggressor is still speaking and fear hastens
her flight. She stops at the top of the hill and looks at Glaucus, unsure whether
he is a monster or a god (monstrumne deusne/ille sit ignorans, 13. 912-913)
based on his strange appearance. She marvels at his color, his hair, and his
groin (ultimaque excipiat quod tortilis inguina piscis, 13.915). Seeing Scylla,
Glaucus explains how he came to be a sea-god (13.916-965). Scylla
nevertheless flees and he becomes enraged:
talia dicentem, dicturum plura, reliquit
Scylla deum; furit ille inritatusque repulsa
prodigiosa petit Titanidos atria Circes.
(13.966-968)
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Scylla left behind the god as he was saying such things
and about to say more; he raged and, angered by this
rebuff, seeks the prodigious halls of Circe,
daughter of Sun.
Here, as from the first rape narrative (that of Daphne and Apollo), the would-be
victim flees as the god tries to allay her fears about his identity. In each
instance we have a difference of perspective: the god may see the obstacle as
one of status (i.e. if she knows who he is she will comply or even be attracted
to him), whereas the victims in each case are described as fleeing regardless
of the aggressor’s words or identity. Book 13 ends with this rejection and the
angry Glaucus’ intent to seek the help of Circe.
Book 14 opens with the story of Glaucus and Scylla, continued from Book
13. We find that Glaucus takes a turn away from attempting to seduce Scylla
directly but nevertheless toward bending Scylla to his will (through a third
party). He seeks out the aid of Circe, asking that Circe find a way (through her
use of herbs and magical incantations) to make Scylla bum for him as he
bums for Scylla (14.24). He states explicitly that he does not wish to be cured
or healed: he does not want an end to the love (fineque nil opus est, 14.24);
instead, he wants Scylla to “bear part of the heat,” partem ferat ilia caloris
(14.24).
Here again we are faced with the underlying theme of power, but this time
treated through the topos of magical compulsion. Glaucus has failed in his
verbal attempt to make Scylla comply-or love him in retum~and so he seeks
out one with the power to bend Scylla to his will. Glaucus wants to force
Scylla to have mutual feelings for him.
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Circe’s response depends heavily on her status as a goddess, recalling
once again the hierarchy of power in this mythological landscape. Having
suggested to Glaucus that he instead seek Circe, who seeks him (14.28-36),
she is summarily rebuffed. Ovid describes Circe’s reaction:
indignata dea est et laedere quatenus ipsum
non poterat (nec vellet amans), irascitur illi,
quae sibi praelata est
(14.40-42)
The goddess was enraged and since she could not harm
him (nor, loving him, did she wish to) she became angry
with [Canens] who was preferred to [Circe]
We find here the suggestion, at least, that Circe could not hurt him even if she
wanted to. It seems that his status as a god affords him a certain protection-
and Scylla’s being a nymph (as for others we have seen) affords her none.4 3
Ovid stresses Circe’s own status as a deity, both through her words to Glaucus
(en ego, cum dea sim, nitidi cum filia Solis, 14.33) and his own labeling of her
(indignata dea est, 14.40). As in the case of the Cyclops with Galatea-
although it is not explicitly stated here as it was there-Circe’s anger focuses
not simply on the rejection but on another being preferred to herself; that is,
being placed in esteem after, lower, lesser than another (particularly another
who is seen as “lower" in the hierarchy of power and status in the universe as
a whole).
Through the combination of the right herbs and songs (carmina), Circe
works her magic on a pool in which Scylla was accustomed to bathe (14.42-
58). When Scylla wades into the pool, her loins change into the monstrous
4 3 In fact, by this time the reader feels as if the status “ nymph” is itself an invitation to disaster-cf.
Thetis, called dea, is nevertheless a sea-nymph and, so, a target of rape.
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figures of barking dogs (cum sua foedari latrantibus inguina monstris/adspicit,
14.60-61), no doubt harking back to her earlier awe at Glaucus’ loins
(ultimaque excipiat quod tortilis inguina piscis, 13.915). Thus changed, she
seeks revenge against Circe, we are told, by depriving Ulixes (Circe’s
beloved) of his companions until her eventual change into stone (14.70-74).
The abrupt shift in Circe’s attitude is noteworthy: there is no follow-up
attempt on her part to win Glaucus, no physical attempt is made on his body
(cf. Echo with Narcissus, Salmacis with Hermaphroditus), she simply turns to
the matter of revenge. It may be, however, that Circe's punishment of Scylla is
itself a further attempt on Glaucus: Circe effectively takes Scylla out the
running for Glaucus and therefore leaves a vacuum which Circe hopes to fill.
This text provides for this interpretation, since, after Scylla’s change, we are
told that Glaucus flees conubia with Circe. This fleeing implies some sort of
sustained or renewed effort by Circe.
Both Glaucus and Circe fail at trying to manipulate the one each desires
into complying or loving in return. Neither attempts physical rape, but neither
stops at rejection, either, nor do they rely on more traditional means of
seduction (actually, both fail through the use of verbal entreaty). In each case,
there is an attempt at coercion through magic and the use of an indirect route
toward the beloved.
Ovid then concerns himself with the travels of Aeneas (14.75-100) and
eventually comes to describe Aeneas’ visit to the underworld, with the help of
Sibyl/Sibylla (14.101-119). On their return trip, Aeneas asks Sibyl who she is,
whether mortal or divine, so that he may know who helped him so, and may
establish a temple and incense to her in thanks (14.123-128). She responds:
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'nec dea sum,' dixit 'nec sacri turis honore
humanum dignare caput, neu nescius erres,
lux aetema mihi carituraque fine dabatur,
si mea virginitas Phoebo patuisset amanti.’
(14.130-133)
“I am not a goddess,” she said, “nor should you think any
human head worthy of the sacred honor of incense,
and lest you err by not knowing,
life eternal and lacking an end, was being given to me,
if my virginity had been open to Phoebus as a lover.”
Sibyl makes it clear that she is no goddess and, furthermore, no mortal should
be given the honors due to a divine being. She ensures that Aeneas knows
her status to prevent him from giving undue honor to a mortal, which would be
most improper for a man who, as she herself had noted earlier, was known for
his pietas (14.108-109). She goes on to explain that while Apollo wished to
corrupt her with gifts (dum tamen hanc sperat, dum praecorrumpere donis/me
cupit, 14.134-135) he offered her whatever she wished. Having asked for as
many years of life as there were grains in a particular mound of sand, Sibyl
notes with regret that she had not asked also for perpetual youth (14.136-139).
Apparently, the god instantly was aware of her oversight; Sibyl states to
Aeneas:
excidit, ut peterem iuvenes quoque protinus annos.
hos tamen ille mihi dabat aetemamque iuventam,
si Venerem paterer
(14.139-141)
I forgot to ask, too, for the years to be continually
youthful. Nevertheless the years he was granting to me,
and eternal youth, too, if I would endure sex
Sibyls’ account of her past indicates the god’s offer of gifts to “corrupt” the
virgin; he gives partial payment and withholds part to ensure his success in
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getting what he wants. Nevertheless, Apollo fails-Sibyl tells Aeneas: “with
Phoebus’ gift scorned, I remain unwed” (contempto munere Phoebi/innuba
permaneo, 14.141-142). Interestingly enough, she uses the word innuba,
when before she had said clearly that Apollo wanted sex (venerem, 14.141)
and there was no mention at all of marriage. Ovid could have had her say she
remains “a virgin,” referring to her refusal then and thereafter to have sex, but
chooses instead to have her focus on a self-identification as being unmarried.
This notion is picked up a few lines later-after Sybil’s description of her
lamentable old age--where Sibyl seems to regret most that she will seem so
unattractive that it would be difficult to prove that Apollo ever wanted her:
nec amata videbor
nec placuisse deo, Phoebus quoque forsitan ipse
vel non cognoscet, vel dilexisse negabit
(14.149-151)
Nor will I seem to have been lovednor to have been
pleasing to the god, and perhaps Phoebus himself either
will not recognize me or will deny that he liked me.
Sibyl’s attention to this aspect of her decrepit old age implies the value
inherent in being the object of a god’s lust: to have been loved by a god is, as
she puts it, “to have been singled ouf (dilexisse, 14.151), that is, to have been
placed in esteem higher than one’s peers. There is a certain value to being
the object of a god’s lust. Earlier we saw Chione brag (11.291-345)--after
being raped by Mercury and then by Apollo in a single night--of having been
pleasing to two gods. Chione’s mistake, however, was in not seeing this as
status-raising among mortals only; she instead “put herself above Diana”
(quae se praeferre Dianae/sustinuit, 11.321-322) and then criticizes Diana’s
beauty. Diana punishes Chione by shooting an arrow through her “deserving
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tongue” (meritam linguam, 11.325). In sharp contrast to this, we find Sibyl
insisting that Aeneas not even mistakenly think her a goddess or honor her as
one would honor a goddess. The result is that she retains the power of
speech (as opposed to what happens to Chione’s tongue). Directly after her
remarks on Apollo’s potential denial of having loved her, Sibyl tells Aeneas:
usque adeo mutata ferar nullique videnda/voce tamen noscar; vocem mihi
fata relinquent (14.152-153), “changed so to such a degree will I be borne and
seen by none, nevertheless I will be known by my voice; the fates will leave
me my voice.” Sibyl will progress in her old age to the complete dissolution of
her body, yet her voice will remain. Her attitude stands in sharp contrast to that
of Chione, but in a sense the two share the common lot of a punishment which
may be seen as suited to the offense: Chione is punished for what she says
with an arrow through her tongue and Sibyl is punished through the wasting
away of her body, the use of which she denied to the god. Moreover, Sibyl
has by this time come to attach some regret to the notion that one day, she
may be unable to prove that the god even desired her. We could note, too,
that although Apollo was denied, he nevertheless “enters” Sibyl, and her voice
is inspired by him, as she gives prophetic utterance to Aeneas (deo furibunda
recepto, 14.107).
After Aeneas and Sibyl exit, Ovid describes Aeneas’ further travels which
leads to the Greek Achemenides’ story of terror in the Cyclops’ cave (14.167-
222) and then to Macareus’ story about the palace of Circe (14.223-440).
Within Macareus’ tale of magic, horror and adventure, we find the story of
Picus and Canens (14.312-415).u
4 4 The complex narrative structure of the Metamorphoses, and in particular, the question “ who's
the narrator now?” leads to this somewhat convoluted description of the text.
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The story of Picus and Canens does not involve rape, but does have Circe
embroiled in another triangle (like the story of Scylla, Glaucus and Circe
above) where she fails to seduce her beloved with her words. As a female
aggressor, Circe fails again. Curiously enough, the power which Ovid says
her words have4 5 --that is, for magical spells and incantations-fails her to win
her beloved (Picus, in this instance). Despite Picus’ being a son of Saturn
(14.320), he seems not to enjoy Glaucus’ inability to be harmed by Circe: she
changes Picus into a woodpecker after his resolute rejection of her (14.372-
396). In her verbal entreaty to Picus, Ovid has her emphasize her status; Circe
tells Picus:
'per o, tua lumina,' dixit
'quae mea ceperunt, perque hanc, pulcherrime, formam,
quae facit, ut supplex tibi sim dea, consuls nostris
ignibus et socerum, qui pervidet omnia, Solem
accipe nec durus Titanida despice Circen.'
(14.372-376)
“O, by your eyes which have taken mine,” she said,
“and by this form, most beautiful one, which makes it
so that I, a goddess, am a suppliant to you, favor my
passion and accept as a father-in-law Sun, who sees
all, do not harshly reject Circe, daughter of a Titan.”
Ovid tells us that Circe persisted after being rejected, and refers to her again
by her relationship to a Titan (saepe retemptatis precibus Titania frustra,
14.382). Circe’s words point out the irony and her supposed vulnerability in
this relationship--that a goddess (dea) should be a suppliant (supplex) to
Picus inverts the power relationship. In addition, Circe proposes marriage (as
opposed to mere sex) to Picus, as is implied by her asking him to accept Sun
as her father-in-law (14.375-376).
4 4 Ovid notes the power of her words/songs here and elsewhere; e.g. 14.20-21,14.33-35,
14.44, 14.56-58, and 14.357.
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What stands out is that Picus should enjoy a higher status here: as a son of
Satum-whose other offspring include Jupiter, Neptune, Pluto, Juno, Ceres,
Vesta and Chiron. There should in fact be some level of kinship between
Circe and Picus: the mythological tradition holds Saturn as roughly equivalent
to the Titan Cronus, who is the brother of Hyperion, the grandfather of Circe.
Thus both Picus and Circe trace their descent from the Titans, and yet in Ovid’s
account, Picus’ ancestry is mentioned only briefly (proles Satumia, 14.320)
and seems not to benefit him in terms of actual power. Instead, Picus shares
qualities of potential rape victims we have seen earlier: he is described as
being very attractive physically (14.322-324) and he was sought after by many
(14.326-334), all of whom he rejected out of love for Canens.
Canens, too, has a special power that is nevertheless overpowered by
Circe’s magic. Canens is noted for her singing:
rara quidem facie, sed rarior arte canendi,
unde Canens dicta est: silvas et saxa movere
et mulcere feras et flumina longa morari
ore suo volucresque vagas retinere solebat.
(14.337-340)
Rare was she in beauty, but rarer in her art of singing,
whence she was named Canens: she used to move forests
and rocks and to soothe wild beasts and to slow long
rivers and to hold back wandering birds with her mouth.
Circe, nevertheless, proves to be the more powerful in this art4 8 (and through
4 8 Ovid describes Circe when she first sees Picus:
concipit ilia preces et verba venefica dicit
ignotosque deos ignoto carmine adorat,
quo solet et niveae vultum confundere Lunae
et patrio capiti bibulas subtexere nubes.
turn quoque cantato densetur carmine caelum
et nebulas exhalat humus, caecisque vagantur
limitibus comites, et abest custodia regis. (14.365-371)
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the use of herbs, in addition)since, Ovid writes, with her songs she adores
unknown gods (ignotos deos), and can obscure the moon and the sun.
Canens, too, should enjoy a certain amount of security from her ancestry:
after all, she is the daughter of Janus (14.333-334). In the end, however, with
Picus changed into a woodpecker, Canens pines away until she is gone
completely (14.416-434).
The fact that Circe is able to overcome both Picus and Canens, despite
their heritage and any powers they may have, is perhaps in accordance with
the reason the story was introduced to begin with: Macareus is the narrator
and he says the story was told to him by a nymph to demonstrate the power of
Circe. Macareus states that the nymph said:
“accipe” ait, “Macareu, dominaeque potentia quae sit
hinc quoque disce meae; tu dictis adice mentem!”
(14.318-319)
“Listen, Macareus,” she said, “and learn from this, too,
what the power of my mistress is; heed these words!”
In telling the story of Picus, Canens, and Circe, this (unnamed) nymph stresses
the power of Circe. This may be the reason that even though Circe fails to
seduce Picus with her words, her words are nonetheless shown to be a
powerful and destructive force.
Ovid then relates the further travels of Aeneas, his eventual arrival in Italy,
the battle for Lavinia, and Aeneas’ ultimate apotheosis (14.441-608). After a
brief description of Aeneas' successors (14.609-621), we come to the time
when Proca held sway, in which time we find Pomona, a woodland nymph
(14.622-623).
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The story of Pomona and Vertumnus is the last rape narrative of the
Metamorphoses-and. at that, it turns out not to be rape at all. Pomona, Ovid
writes, was interested mainly in gardening--and in fruit trees, above all
(14.623-627). Concerned only with the care of the fruit-bearing trees, she
nevertheless feared rape:
hie amor, hoc studium, Veneris quoque nulla cupido est;
vim tamen agrestum metuens pomaria claudit
intus et accessus prohibet refugitque viriles.
(14.634-636)
this is her love, this her interest, she has no desire for sex;
nevertheless, fearing rustic force she encloses the fruits
within and prohibits and shrinks from men’s approaches.
Pomona guards herself against all contact with men. Ovid tells us (lit.) “she
has no desire for Venus,” but fears vim agrestum, “rustic force.” In case there
is any question as to what this may mean, Ovid quickly follows this up by
naming certain rustic figures whom she may have had cause to fear:
quid non et Satyri, saltatibus apta iuventus,
fecere et pinu praecincti comua Panes
Siienusque, suis semper iuvenilior annis,
quique deus fures vel falce vel inguine terret,
ut poterentur ea? sed enim superabat amando
hos quoque Vertumnus neque erat felicior illis.
(14.637-642)
what did the Satyrs, their youth suited to jumping,
not do in order to get her, and the Pans with their homs
girt with pine and Silenus, always younger than his
years, and the god who frightens thieves either with
his pruning hook or with his loins? But, indeed,
Vertumnus surpassed these in loving, yet he was
no luckier than they.
The catalogue of threatening male figures shows Pomona practically
beseiged. Of these, the Satyrs are known throughout mythology for their
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lustful impulses, and both Pan and Priapus appear in the Metamorphoses as
aggressors in attempted rape stories (respectively, with Syrinx and Lotis).
Ovid chooses not to name Priapus, but instead describes his fame for scaring
off thieves with either a pruning hook (falce; cf. the adunca falce which
Pomona prefers to a javelin, 14.628) or, more threateningly to the point, his
penis.4 7 Ovid goes through the list of the lustful, marking out Vertumnus as
more desirous of Pomona even than Priapus--who, by nature, has a eternal
erection. Even so, Vertumnus, it seems, will succeed where the others have
failed.
Vertumnus puts on various disguises to insinuate himself into Pomona’s
life: he appears as a reaper (14.643-646), a farmer who had just unyoked his
oxen (14.647-648), a pruner (frondator, 14.649), an apple-picker (14.650), a
soldier and a fisherman (14.651), and finally, an old woman (14.654ff.).4 8
Vertumnus as an old woman praises Pomona’s cultivations:
pomaque mirata est 'tanto' que 'potentior!' inquit
paucaque laudatae dedit oscula, qualia numquam
vera dedisset anus
(14.657-659)
she marvelled at the fruit and said, “so much more
powerful!” and gave a few kisses to the one praised,
kisses of the sort a real old woman would never have given
The old woman/Vertumnus indicates Pomona’s power, presumably in her
beauty, by comparing her to her gardens and the fruit she has cultivated. In
this disguise, Vertumnus advises Pomona not to let her “fruit wither on the
4 7 Amy Richlin (1992a) discusses literary references to Priapus' use of his penis as a weapon and
the threat of rape his statue implied for would-be thieves.
4 1 See K. Sara Myers (1994) for an insightful discussion of the intertextuality between Propertius
4.2 and Ovid’s Vertumnus.
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vine,” to paraphrase, by pointing out the example of the vine wedded to an elm
in order to be productive (14.661-666).
Vertumnus advises her to desire union (concubitus, coniungere 14.668). If
she did, he says, she would have more suitors than Helen, Hippodame, or
Penelope (14.669-671). The figures he mentions foreshadow his rape attempt
and acknowledge Pomona’s unwillingness: both Helen and Hippodame
appear in the Metamorphoses as the objects of rape (attempts); of Helen, we
find Paris described as qui rapta longum cum coniuge bellum/attulit in patriam
(12.4-6); also of Paris concerning Helen: Graiae raptore maritae (12.609);
Helen is mentioned later in Pythagoras’ comments on the ravaging effects of
old age— she may wonder, he says: “how she could have been twice raped”
(Tyndaris et secum, cur sit bis rapta, requirit, 15.233); Hippodame, of course,
was the object of the rape attempt during her wedding which resulted in the
battle between the Lapiths and the Centaurs (12.21 Off.). His last example,
Penelope, it might be noted, is the paradigmatic object of unwanted attention.
Through their associations with rape and forced attention, the mention of these
figures cues us to the rape attempt to come. As it is, Vertumnus adds, although
she shuns marriage, many seek her:
nunc quoque, cum fugias averserisque petentes,
mille viri cupiunt et semideique deique
et quaecumque tenent Albanos numina montes.
(14.672-674)
even as it is, although you flee and reject those seeking
you, a thousand men desire you, and demi-gods and gods
and whatever deities inhabit the Alban mountains.
Vertumnus points out that Pomona had a wide range of (unwelcome) suitors:
men, demi-gods, gods, and others miscellaneous deities of the mountains.
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Again we find the notion of the value in being sought-after, even if that desire
leads to sexual aggression. The higher the number and status of the suitors,
the greater the honor for the object of their interest. Notice that her wishes are
not absent, but she is urged to change her current values and desires: she is
advised, in effect, to redefine herself.
Vertumnus, still in disguise, advises Pomona to choose Vertumnus as her
husband (14.675-678), offering numerous reasons for this choice, including
that Vertumnus and Pomona share a common interest in fruit (14.675-688). To
illustrate the power of Nemesis, against whom Vertumnus warns Pomona, he
tells the story of Iphis and Anarexete (14.693-764).
Having rejected Iphis, Anarexete comes to regret her hard-heartedness
when she sees the handsome youth dead by suicide. His dying words,
reported by Vertumnus, had framed her rejection of him in Roman terms of
power. Iphis, about to kill himself, begins:
vincis, Anaxarete, neque erunt tibi taedia tandem
ulla ferenda mei: laetos molire triumphos
et Paeana voca nitidaque incingere lauru!
vincis enim, moriorque libens: age, ferrea, gaude!
(14.718-721)
you win, Anarexete, nor will you have to bear any more
annoyance from me: Celebrate your glad triumphs and
victory songs and gird your head with the shining laurel!
For you win, freely I die: come, iron-hearted, rejoice!
Ovid uses terms of Roman military victory in Iphis’ assessment of the situation
{vincis, triumphos, Paeana, lauru, vincis).*9 Anarexete is the victorious
conquering general, asked to celebrate a triumph for her conquest. But when
Anarexete later sees Iphis laid out on the funeral bier, she turns to stone
4 8 His use of these terms also suggests his fondness for the trope (in his love poetry) of the militia
amoris.
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(14.754-761). Having given this warning, the old woman/Vertumnus urges
Pomona to “join with her lover” (amanti iungere, 14.762). His verbal efforts,
however, fail. He prepares to rape her, but suddenly rape is not necessary:
Haec ubi nequiquam formae deus aptus anili
edidit, in iuvenem rediit et anilia demit
instrumenta sibi talisque apparuit iili,
qualis ubi oppositas nitidissima solis imago
evicit nubes nullaque obstante reluxit,
vimque parat: sed vi non est opus, inque figura
capta dei nympha est et mutua vulnera sensit.
(14.765-771)
When the god, wearing the form of an old woman, said
these things to no avail, he returned to his youth and cast
aside the trappings of old age and appeared to her as when
the brightest image of the sun has conquered opposing
clouds and has shone forth without obstruction, and he
prepares to rape: but there is no need of rape, the nymph
was taken by the form of the god and felt mutual wounds.
Here Ovid shows that Pomona was not moved by the old woman’s words--the
warnings, the advice; he had told all in vain (nequiquam). His attempts at
verbal entreaty (although pretending to be a third party) failed, and having
failed with these Vertumnus is prepared to resort to force (vimque parat).
Many parallels exist between this and previous rape or attempted rape
narratives. First, we have Pomona’s beauty and status as one who is much
sought-after. We see her rejection of sexual union (Veneris quoque nulla
cupido est, 14.634) and of suitors (cum fugias averserisque petentes, 14.672).
Ovid contrasts Pomona to previous objects of lust-like Daphne or Callisto, for
examples-by pointing out that Pomona is not a huntress (i.e. like the virgin
goddess Diana), but prefers a pruning hook to a javelin (14.628). Unlike many
others (such as Daphne, Callisto, lo, Europa et al.), Pomona is not out in the
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wild when she is approached; rather she is in a garden which she has
cultivated both for the purpose of producing fruit and for guarding against rape
(14.623-636). Unlike many others, too, Pomona has, to this point, successfully
eluded the grasps of many formidable admirers, some of them gods (14.637-
642 and 14.673-674).
Vertumnus, too, can be compared with previous aggressors. He shape-
changes, wearing disguises in order to get close to Pomona. Like Apollo with
Daphne or Boreas with Orithyia, he eventually abandons ineffectual verbal
entreaty and opts for force. He is, however, made to seem somewhat more
patient: we are given a substantial list of disguises he uses to be near
Pomona and, even as an old woman, he spends a good deal of time talking
before he turns to the physical assault.
His disguise of the old woman, and the advice he gives, probably finds its
closest parallel in Minerva’s address to Arachne. As an old woman, Minerva
advises and warns the girl; as Minerva, she included cautionary tales in her
tapestry. Minerva goes on to destroy Arachne, who, despite the warnings,
persists in her defiance (i.e. by depicting the crimes of the gods and not
acquiescing to the goddess). In terms of other rape narratives, certainly the
innocuous (i.e. not threatening rape) form of an old woman finds a parallel in
stories such as Jupiter’s disguise as Diana with Callisto, and perhaps a closer
parallel to the Sun with Leucothde. There the god gained access to
Leucothoe’s bedchamber disguised as her mother (4.217-219). He kisses her
“just as a mother would to a dear daughter” [ceu mater carae dedit oscula
natae, 4.222), unlike Vertumnus, who kissed Pomona u as a real old woman
never would.” Leucothde was raped without protest, overcome by Sun’s
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brightness (victa nitore dei posita vim passa querella est, 4.233). Vertumnus,
revealed as himself, is even likened to the sun (nitidissima solis imago,
14.768). Pomona, however, is not simply without protest as he prepares to
rape her; rather, she is said to feel mutual passion for Vertumnus {sed vi non
est opus, inque figura/capta dei nympha est etmutua vuinera sensit, 14.770-
771).
The story of Pomona and Vertumnus, a rape narrative that ultimately has
mutual passion supplant rape-a story which, in effect, redefines rape as
mutual passion-is the last rape narrative in the Metamorphoses. K. Sara
Myers states:
The story of Vertumnus and Pomona, the final erotic
tale in the poem . . . reverses with its “happy” ending
the amatory norm introduced by the first amatory
episode [Apollo and Daphne]. (1994, 125)
Myers goes on to qualify the statements she makes here, but we should pause
for a moment to consider Ovid’s “resolution” of this theme. When Apollo failed
to secure sexual intercourse with Daphne, he nevertheless claimed victory,
and claimed ownership of her transformed body-forever. Here, the will of
another is actually changed: Vertumnus does not act upon an unwilling
object, nor upon one who does not see him for what he is; here, rather, the
object is both willing and able to see his true identity (cf. Cipus, discussed
above, Chapter One).
Myers (1994, 117-118) also points out the associations of Vertumnus with
real Rome: in addition to appearances of Vertumnus in literary sources
(Propertius 4.2, Fasti 6.395-416), there was a bronze statue of Vertumnus in
Rome and a temple to him on the Aventine. She notes:
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The association of Vertumnus, and perhaps Pomona,
with actual religious landmarks in the city of Rome also,
however, effects a transition from the themes of early
Latin legend to Rome. (1994, 125)
How well, then, to effect this transition: Ovid has the last story of conquest by
rape be a story of nonresistance to domination.
Ovid’s use of rape narratives as narratives of power culminates in a story
that erases rape and instead calls it mutuality (cf. Jupiter’s words concerning
Proserpina: not rape, but love). In previous rape narratives, we have seen the
value imputed to being called a potential object of rape: it is something, after
all, to be singled out by a god, to bear a child to a god even if it is through rape.
As the various aggressors often wear innocuous disguises in order to facilitate
rape, so rape undergoes a change and takes on a more innocuous form in this
final rape narrative. Conquest is welcome and mutually agreed upon.
In Book 15, there are a few incidental passing references to rapes, but no
narratives of the type we have been addressing. In Book 15, we have a
different sort of narrative: Pythagoras’ discussion of how everything changes.
After this we find stones concerned with Cipus, Apollo and Aesculapius, and
the comparisons of fathers and sons, the main comparison between the pairs
Julius Caesar/Augustus and Saturn/Jupiter. Of these stories, we recall that
Apollo is the first would-be rapist in the poem-whose “victory” and ownership
of the laurel was directly linked to Rome--and the next is Jupiter, by far the
most successful rapist of the Metamorphoses.
This leads us back to our discussion in Chapter One concerning the
beginning and the ending of the poem: power is Ovid’s chief concern in the
poem and the narratives of rape serve as narratives of power. We have seen
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Ovid demonstrate how rapists use disguises to ensure success in rape.
Aggressors who approach in their true form, their true identity exposed, often
find that the object of their desire immediately flees (e.g. Daphne, Syrinx, et
al.). Just as Pythagoras’ speech in Book 15 concerns itself with the
transmigration of the soul and the inherent mutability of all things, Ovid’s
programmatic opening lines are concerned with change:
In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas
corpora; di, coeptis (nam vos mutastis et ilia)
adspirate meis primaque ab origine mundi
ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen.
(1.1-4)
My mind compels me to tell forms changed into new
bodies; gods, (for you have changed even those) breathe
on my undertakings and lead my continuous song down
from the first origin of the world to my times.
Ovid sets forth his programme for the poem: to tell of “forms changed into new
bodies.” The gods in many instances effect the changes in others, but often
change their own forms. As we have seen in the rape narratives, gods may
change their own forms to gain an advantage in rape. The main difference in
the changes in themselves versus the changes they effect in others is that the
gods have the power simply to change themselves back to their true forms. It
is as if they can just try on disguises and discard them at will; a god’s
underlying identity does not change. For the victims, however, the changes
occur sometimes to escape rape (e.g. Daphne, Syrinx, et al.) and in other
cases as a consequence of having been raped (e.g. lo, Callisto, Medusa, et
al.). In many stories, Ovid draws attention to the fact that something of the
victim’s identity remains even after a metamorphosis occurs (in some
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instances only the name remains, in others some aspect of character). The
victim, however, is powerless to undo the change once it has occurred.
Before concluding this chapter on rape, we have one distinctive group of
rape narratives to consider. Just as the gods and the other figures of the poem
appear in varying forms, so too does rape. In this chapter, we have seen rape
in many different forms. We have examined the similarities and the differences
among them, and traced rape narratives from the beginning to the end of the
poem. Early in this chapter it was noted that a certain form of rape narrative--
actually, in many cases it appears not even as a narrative--would merit special
mention. The "incidental rape,” as I have called it, appears throughout the
Metamorphoses as a constant reminder that however tranquil the setting, rape
is never too far from the surface. This, of course, ties neatly into what we have
just considered, for the god disguised as a seemingly innocuous figure often
embodies the greatest danger to the potential victim. This variant form of rape
emphasizes the dangers ever-present on the landscape of the
Metamorphoses.
Section Two: The Incidental Rape in Ovid's Metamorphoses
As readers of the Metamorphoses, we become conditioned to expect a
rape to occur-a woman alone in a natural setting, a god approaches, he sees,
he bums-surely a rape is on the horizon. We have considered already the
wide range of rape narratives in the poem. Some rapes in the
Metamorphoses, however, are more subtly insinuated than others. Nearly all
those who have read the poem can recall the attempt Apollo makes on
Daphne (a story the author styles as “Apollo’s first love”) but some rape or
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attempted rape stories in the Metamorphoses are simply incidental to the main
tale being told--in some cases, they are not even stories, but just incidental
references to rapes that seemingly have little or nothing to do with the
narrative at hand. By presenting rape in disguise, as it were, the author tricks
us into the same sense of false security which the rapists in the poem use to
gain an advantage over their victims. Ovid shows that the powerful can wear
the disguise of the innocuous, thus surprising their victims with previously
hidden brutal force-and from this we leam that danger may lurk behind any
seemingly familiar figure. So it is with the incidental rapes in the poem; we are
lured by the author into thinking that we are on an entirely different topic when
a rape reference catches us by surprise.
Before we look at the incidental rapes themselves we must step back from
them a bit to examine their role in the poem as a discourse and criticism of
power. In Chapter One we examined how rape is linked to power. In Book
One, we noted, Ovid explicitly links Jupiter to Augustus and the layout of
Jupiter’s palace to the Palatine in Rome. This analogy has, of course, been
noted by many scholars5 0 as mentioned above in Chapter One. In the council
of the gods, Jupiter claims concern for lesser divinities and the potential
violence against them from the likes of Lycaon (1.192-198), but the
repopulation of the earth after the flood is closely followed by the story of the
attempted rape of the nymph Daphne by Apollo (1.452-567). This story is then
immediately followed by the rape of nymph lo by Jupiter (568-667). Thus the
analogies between heaven and the Palatine and between Jupiter and
Augustus demand that we question the hierarchy built into the political regime
" A few examples: W. R. Johnson (1970) and (1996); R. Coleman (1971); Leo Curran, (1972);
Donald Lateiner(1984), and D.C. Feeney (1991).
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at Rome, that we question the true intentions of those who have stated a desire
to protect and preserve. We should question figures endowed with power and
examine how they are shown to use (or abuse) that power.
With this in mind, we may now look at some examples of incidental rape
and examine the subtlety Ovid uses. Some incidental rapes in the
Metamorphoses are so called because they are simply slipped into other
stories. For example, in Book 1 we come upon Pan’s attempted rape of Syrinx
within the story of Jupiter and lo. Sent to kill Argus who watches the
transformed lo, Mercury eventually begins to tell the tale of how the reed pipes
were invented through Pan’s attempted rape of Syrinx. After a brief
description of the nymph, Mercury tells only the beginning of the attempted
rape story:
‘Redeuntem colie Lycaeo
Pan videt hanc pinuque caput praecinctus acuta
talia verba refert’ restabat verba referre
et precibus spretis fugisse per avia nympham
(1.698-701)
“Pan saw her as she was returning from
the Lycaean hill, his head girt with sharp pine and such
words he said to her"--to tell the words remained, and
to tell that with his prayers spumed, the nymph fled
through pathless ways
This is like an abridged version of the Daphne-Apollo story, as if Ovid knows
that if he simply supplies the scenario we can fill in the details. Like Daphne
and lo, Syrinx flees immediately, leaving the god as he is making a case for
himself. The rest of the story is like an extended praeteritio. All that Ovid now
provides is in indirect statement, an account of what Mercury did not say. The
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241
narrative continues directly from the lines cited above (it remained for him to
tell that she fled):
donee harenosi placidum Ladonis ad amnem
venerit; hie illam cursum inpedientibus undis
ut se mutarent liquidas orasse sorores,
Panaque cum prensam sibi iam Syringa putaret,
corpora pro nymphae calamos tenuisse palustres,
dumque ibi suspirat, motos in harundine ventos
effecisse sonum tenuem similemque querenti.
(1.702-708)
until she came to the peaceful stream of sandy Ladon; and
that here, with the waves blocking her course, she
begged her water-sisters to change her, and that Pan,
when now he thought Syrinx was caught by him, held
marsh reeds instead of the body of the nymph, and while
he sighed there, that the winds having moved in the reeds
made a gentle sound, similar to one complaining.
Again, we may note the similarities to the Apollo-Daphne story but here the
story is much more compressed.
Somewhat humorously, it is this story which has the desired effect-Argus
goes to sleep with only the beginning told, as if the pathos of the nymph
fleeing is lost on him. The use of rape as a lullaby underscores that stories so
familiar tend to escape notice-or, as here, are even soothing. Humorous, too,
is the fact that Ovid uses this narrative segue to tell a rape by stating that it was
not told at all. But any amusement we may feel is offset by the consequences
to the nymph. In the Daphne/Apollo story, we were still snickering at the god’s
resume of his powers and lineage when Ovid presented the terror of the
nymph in flight, describing this in a simile of a hare fleeing the jaws of a hound
(1.533-539). Here we are reminded of the final outcome, the actual
objectification of and loss to the nymph, particularly since the two stories end
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in a similar manner: in each case the god claims the transformed nymph as
his own.
There are numerous examples of rape stories that are simply incidental to
the main story being told-that is, while they may be told at length, they are
nested within a main narrative-as is the case with Syrinx, above, inserted into
the story of lo. We may briefly look at some examples where there is some
narrative that includes a rape/attempted rape story but has another tale as its
main focus. We have seen Liriope, the mother of Narcissus, whose rape by
Cephisos is given as background to the Narcissus story (3.342-348). Echo’s
attempt on Narcissus (3.370-402) is incidental both to the tale of Echo and to
that of Narcissus. Pyreneus’ attempt on the Muses is told in response to
Pallas’ calling them happy in their home (5.285-288); here, too, the rape of
Proserpina (5.438-550) is told as part of the greater story which is concerned
with contest/challenge to the Muses.5 1 lole tells Alcmena about her half-sister,
Dryope, mentioning her rape by Apollo (9.329-333) as the background to the
“sad” part of Dryope’s story (i.e., her metamorphosis into a tree); here the
attempt on Lotis by Priapus (9.342-348) is told as part of Dryope’s tragedy,
since it is the nymph, changed into a lotus flower to escape rape, which
Dryope plucks and thus is herself transformed into a tree. All of these-and
there are others, no doubt-contain stories of rape slipped into a main
narrative, as if they are incidental details to the main narrative.
s < There is another incidental (but strategically effective) mention of the rape of Proserpina.
Orpheus states that he has come to the underworld because he is overcome by love for his wife;
he feels that Proserpina and Dis may sympathize, since they, too, were joined by “love”;
sed et hie tamen auguror esse,
famaque si veteris non est mentita rapinae,
vos quoque iunxit Amor (10.27-29)
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Some rape references, however, are so compressed that they nearly
escape notice. For example, in Orpheus’ story we are told that when he plays,
trees come to bring shade to the hill on which he sits. Within this catalogue of
trees, Ovid reminds us of the attempted rape of Daphne:
nec tiiiae modes, nec fagus et innuba laurus,
et coryli fragiles et fraxinus utilis hastis
enodisque abies curvataque glandibus ilex
et platanus genialis acerque coloribus inpar
amnicolaeque simul salices et aquatica lotos
(10.92-96)
The laurel here is called “the unwed laure\”-innuba laurus--referring
presumably to the perpetual virginity Daphne preserves as a tree. The lotus is
also in this catalogue, and Ovid certainly means for us to be reminded of Lotis,
a nymph about whom we have just read in Book 9, who was changed into a
lotus to escape the “obscena of Priapus” (9.347-348).
Other rape references are incidental but explicit enough: in a story about
how he acquired a spear, for example, Cephalus identifies his wife in the
following manner:
Procris erat, si forte magis pervenit ad aures
Orithyia tuas, raptae soror Orithyiae,
si faciem moresque velis conferre duarum,
dignior ipsa rapi!
(7.694-697)
She was Procris, or if by chance Orithyia has come to your
ears more she was the sister of raped Orithyia,
if you wish to compare the looks and habits of the two,
she herself was more worthy to be raped!
Again, the incongruity of the narrator at the same time grieving for his dead
wife and noting her worthiness to be raped takes us aback. But since we have
just read the rape of Orithyia in the previous book (Book 6) and since that story
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directly followed the most violent and explicit rape narrative in the
Metamorphoses, that of Philomela by Tereus, we feel only a disquieting
amusement. Leslie Cahoon (1988, 307), writing about the Amores, noted that
Ovid uses “strategies whereby Ovid manipulates the reader into a vicarious
participation in the libido dominandi and then into a growing unease at the
consequences of domination.” So it is with these incidental rapes--the reader
is at once amused by the wit of the author and horrified at his or her own
reaction. In a similar vein, Amy Richlin (1992b, 159) states the need attention
to be paid to the content of Ovid’s rape stories, likening the stylistic
embellishments to “a bow on a slaughterhouse." I would argue that this
incongruity is not the source of pleasure to the reader, as she argues, but
rather a stimulus to examine the narrative. Both Leslie Cahoon and W.R.
Johnson in two separate recent articles note that Ovid shows the tragic
consequences to rape victims.5 2
For Orithyia, for example, the rape itself has become part of her post-rape
identity. Cephalus refers to his wife as the sister of “raped Orithyia,” as if
“raped” is part of her name. This is true in the poem of other figures well-
known for the rape stories associated with them (such as Ganymede, Helen,
Paris, and Cassandra). Just as some victims are physically redefined, so too
are they verbally redefined.
Some other incidental rapes in the poem take the form of a mere word or
words embedded in stories about something quite other than rape. For
example, Danae, the object of a well-known rape story, is referred to several
times in the Metamorphoses and each time we are reminded of her rape by
Jupiter: she appears, for example, in the story of Bacchus in Book 4 and in
“ Leslie Cahoon (1996) and W . R. Johnson (1996).
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Arachne’s web in Book 6. In the story of Midas, we are told that the water in
which Midas bathed his hands “could have tricked Danae."5 3 This deserves
some attention--if we examine what has Ovid just done, we find a compressed
allusion: the waters could have tricked Danae because everything Midas
touches turns to gold and we know that Jupiter raped Danae in the form of
gold. Therefore, packed into this passing clever remark is a compressed
incidental reference to rape.
Incidental references to rape are also used in identifying the children bom
as a consequence of rape. We learn that Danae is the mother, through rape,
of Perseus whose deeds are told throughout Book 4 and who also appears in
Book 5. At the beginning of Book 5, he is referred to as Danaeius heros (5.1),
recalling his mother and indirectly reminding us of how he came to be. Chiron
is similarly referred to as PhilyreTus heros (2.676), recalling the name of his
mother, Philyra, who we learn in Book 6--also in Arachne’s web-was raped by
Saturn in the form of a horse. Minos, likewise, in Book 8 is called the
“Europaean leader” (faciem ducis Europaei, 8.23), recalling the rape of
Europa by Jupiter in Book 2. Theseus is called not by a form of his mother’s
name-but by a form of his father’s: in his case there were two differing
mythological accounts of his paternity; either he is the son of Neptune by rape
or he is the son of Aegeus. Ovid calls him Neptunius heros (9.1), disposing of
the question of his paternity in a word and choosing to remind us of rape.
All of these references are incidental to the story Ovid is telling aboi/t a
given hero, but each is a reminder of the rape which led to the hero’s birth.
Even Ulixes’ family is not free from rape: in the debate over the arms of
5 3 ille etiam liquidis palmas ubi laverat undis,
unda fluens palmis Danaen eludere posset (11.116-117)
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Achilles he claims to have Mercury as an ancestor on his mother’s side, and
tracing back through mythology books we find she is indeed said to be the
daughter of Autolycus who (as Ovid tells us in Book 11) was produced through
Mercury’s rape of Chione--who, incidentally, was raped by both Mercury and
Apollo on the same night, in Metamorphoses 11. Ajax in his speech calls
Ulixes the son of Sisyphus (13.32-33) referring to a myth we can find in
Hyginus (201) that Sisyphus raped Antiklea before she was given to wed
Laertes.
So what, then, are we to make of all this--that the world of the
Metamorphoses has not only the obvious and numerous rape stories, but also
these incidental rapes lurking sometimes in a word or in a passing reference?
The effect is that no matter how insecure one feels in the face of obvious
dangers, other hidden threats are embedded in this landscape-one need only
question the origin of a tree or a flower to find evidence of what can happen, or
what has happened. Some rape references come when least expected, after
a particularly amusing or clever turn of phrase, and Ovid thus provides an
extra level to the disquieting feeling of insecurity. The world of the
Metamorphoses contains the worst and most insidious of dangers-that is,
those that do not seem to be dangers at all. He adds to our growing sense that
threats to security and personal autonomy need not be writ large. By
presenting rape in disguise, as it were, Ovid reflects the rapists’ technique of
taking the victim by surprise and he suggests that-perhaps in Rome as well as
in his poetic creation-some dangers wear better disguises than others.
The dangers for the inhabitants of Ovid’s landscape in the Metamorphoses
are numerous, particularly if those inhabitants fall at the lower end of the
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hierarchy of power. In the rape narratives, the victims often suffer dire
consequences whether they have been raped or have managed to escape
rape, in many instances, the target of a rape attempt ceases to be human after
the attempt. In Chapter Three, we will examine a particular effect of rape
attempts on the victims--silencing--and its relationship to Ovid’s chief concern
in the poem: power. The rape victims have suffered the violence of ones
greater than themselves, and they share this distinction with the individuals
who are perceived as threats or challengers to authority. Therefore, in
Chapter Three we will also look briefly at several “punishment stories," where
resisting or challenging authority, like resisting rape, has similarly devastating
results.
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Chapter 3
Silence is Golden (Age)
Silencing any opposition is an integral part of the assertion of absolute
power. In the rape narratives of the Metamorphoses, a clear hierarchy of
power has emerged, at the head of which stands Jupiter. There is another,
related type of narrative of power that clearly demonstrates the effects of
absolute power on those less powerful: narratives of the punishment for either
a challenger or an informant. In these punishment stories, one figure pays
dearly for something that is said (or that could be said), and the penalty most
often involves the loss of speech. Similarly, in the rape narratives, the victim of
rape (or even of a rape attempt) often suffers the loss of speech-as a more
than incidental byproduct of the loss of humanity. Ovid often calls attention
specifically to this loss of speech in both the rape and punishment narratives.
In each type of story (i.e., rape and punishment) one is acted upon by a more
powerful figure, the body is altered in such a way so as to render the weaker
one non-human and incapable of autonomous human speech.
In this chapter, we will look first at some examples where Ovid stresses the
importance of speech to being human. Ovid links the lack of autonomous
human speech to death and to forms of existence that differ from human life.
Having examined the importance of speech and the context in which Ovid
presents the inability to speak, we may better understand the significance of
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those denied the ability to speak in the punishment and rape stories. Then, we
will briefly examine some of the punishment stories to show how the (ab)use of
absolute power leads to the silencing of a challenger/witness and how these
figures share similarities to rape victims, who are silenced and practically
erased in the process of being overwhelmed by another’s power. We may
then turn to discuss the outcome of several of the rape narratives to investigate
how silencing in both punishment and rape narratives serves an important
function in Ovid’s main theme of the Metamorphoses-namely. the theme of
power.
There are many ways in which Ovid draws our attention to the importance
of speech in the Metamorphoses. The power of the voice and of speech, for
example, we have seen above in Chapter 2B--in the narratives involving
Circe, Glaucus and Scylla, Picus and Canens. Ovid showed how Circe’s
verbal attempts at swaying both Glaucus and Picus failed, despite her alleged
power with words. So, too, is Orpheus’ voice shown to have power and then
to fail in that power.
The power of Orpheus’ voice is clearly demonstrated, not only in his ability
to charm Proserpina and Dis but also in the effect he has on other underworld
beings. He makes his case to the rulers in the underworld and his song has a
wide-ranging effect:
Talia dicentem nervosque ad verba moventem
exsangues flebant animae; nec Tantalus undam
captavit refugam, stupuitque Ixionis orbis,
nec carpsere iecur volucres, umisque vacarunt
Belides, inque tuo sedisti, Sisyphe, saxo.
tunc primum lacrimis victarum carmine fama est
Eumenidum maduisse genas
(10.40-46)
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As he spoke thus and accompanied his words with the lyre
the bloodless spirits wept; nor did Tantalus catch
the fleeing wave, the wheel of Ixion stopped in awe,
nor did the birds pluck at the liver, and the Belides were
free of their ums, and you, Sisyphus, sat on your rock.
Then, for the first time, the story is, the cheeks of the
Eumenides were wet with tears, conquered by the song.
The Eumenides are described as being victarum, “conquered,” a word familiar
to us from the rape narratives and from other narratives of conquest. His song
has the power to stop the perpetual performances of penance in the
underworld, to conquer the (previously) unpitying Eumenides. After his return
to the earth from Erebus, Orpheus shunned women and gave his love instead
to boys (10.64-85).
When he played his lyre on a shadeless hill, shade came to him--Ovid
gives a catalogue of trees which were moved by the sound of his playing
(10.86-105).1 Book 10 consists mainly of Orpheus’ songs and as Book 11
opens, Ovid tells us: Carmine dum tali silvas animosque ferarum/Threicius
vates et saxa sequentia duc'rt. . . (11.1 -2), (“While the Thracian bard led the
forests with such a song, and the minds of wild animals, and the rocks
following . . . ”). Orpheus draws forest and beasts and rocks to him with the
power of his songs. It is then that Ciconian (Thracian) women attack him in
vengeance for his rejection of them (10.3ff.). The attack is aimed at his mouth;
after her battle-cry, the first woman throws a spear at Orpheus:
et hastam
vatis Apollinei vocalia misit in ora,
quae foliis praesuta notam sine vulnere fecit
(10.7-9)
1 Some of the trees, as noted above (see Chapter 2B), remind us of figures found elsewhere in
the Metamorphoses. We find the Heliades (nemus Heliadeum, cf. 2.345), Daphne (innuba
laurus, 10.92), Dryope/Lotis (aquatica lotos, 10.96), Attis (Ovid tells us here that Attis became
the pine, 10.103-105), and Cyparissus (10.106ff.).
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and she threw the spear
at the voice-filled mouth of Apollo’s bard, a spear
which, wreathed in leaves, made a mark but no wound
Another threw a rock which was “conquered by the harmony of the voice and
lyre” (concentu victus vocisque lyraeque est, 10.11). Ovid tells us that all of
their weapons would have been overcome thus, had they not raised so great
an uproar with flutes, horns, drums and howling that the sound of the lyre was
drowned out (10.15-18): “until at last the rocks ran red with the blood of the
bard who was not heard" (turn denique saxa/non exauditi rubuerunt sanguine
vatis, 10.18-19). When the mad women rush to tear Orpheus apart, Ovid calls
special attention to the power--now lacking-of his voice:
ad vatis fata recurrunt
tendentemque manus et in illo tempore primum
inrita dicentem nec quicquam voce moventem
sacrilegae perimunt, perque os, pro luppiter! illud
auditum saxis intellectumque ferarum
sensibus in ventos anima exhalata recessit.
(10.38-43)
they rush back to kill the bard
and as he was stretching forth his hands and speaking--at
that time for the first time, in vain-moving nothing with
his voice, the impious women slew him,
and through that mouth-by Jupiterl-which was heard
by rocks and understood by the senses of beasts,
his spirit, breathed out, receded on the winds.
Ovid notes with ironic emphasis that Orpheus had the power to stop the
onrush, but, since it is unheard, his voice accomplishes nothing. Note the
words associated with speech: dicentem, voce, and os. Even after his death
and dismemberment, Orpheus’ tongue still murmurs:
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membra iacent diversa locis, caput, Hebre, lyramque
excipis: et (mirum!) medio dum labitur amne,
fiebile nescio quid queritur lyra, flebile lingua
murmurat exanimis, respondent flebile ripae.
(11.50-53)
His limbs lay in different places; Hebrus, the head and the
lyre you receive : and (a wonder!) while it glides in mid
stream the lyre keeps complaining something mournful,
the lifeless tongue murmurs something mournful
and the river-banks respond mournfully.
Here Orpheus’ tongue and lyre are said to sound mournful even after his
death. There is an indication that there is still some power in them, now that
they can be heard, since “the river-banks respond mournfully.”
Similarly, Sibyl claims that once she has wasted away to nothing, her voice
will remain:
usque adeo mutata ferar nullique videnda,
voce tamen noscar; vocem mihi fata relinquent.
(14.152-153)
changed so to such a degree will I be borne and seen by
none, nevertheless I will be known by my voice; the fates
will leave me my voice.
Although she will not have a human existence or form at this stage, she will
have the power of speech. Her speech will nevertheless be controlled
somewhat by the god Apollo, since possessed by him she will make her
prophecies known, as she did here for Aeneas (deo furibunda recepto,
14.107).
Ovid implies that the loss (or lack of) autonomous human speech is
equivalent to death or is at least the indication of a non-human existence. In
the story of Ceyx and Alcyone, for example, we saw in Chapter 2B how
Rumor’s house is penetrable to all voices:
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unde quod est usquam, quamvis regionibus absit,
inspicitur, penetratque cavas vox omnis ad aures:
Fama tenet summaque domum sibi legit in arce,
innumerosque aditus ac mille foramina tectis
addidit et nullis inclusit limina portis;
nocte dieque patet
(12.41-46)
From this place whatever is anywhere, even if it is far
from there, is seen, and every voice penetrates the hollow
ears: Rumor lives here and chooses a home for herself in
the high summit and she gave to the house countless
entrances and a thousand doors and thresholds shut in by
no gates; night and day it is open
The house of Sleep/Somnus, however, described just before this in Book 11,
stands in harp contrast to the house of Rumor. Juno sends Iris to the house of
Somnus because she wishes a vision to be sent to Alcyone-in an effort to stop
Alcyone from seeking Ceyx, who is now dead. Ovid describes the house of
Sleep: Phoebus cannot enter there, there is no rooster to summon dawn:
nec voce silentia rumpunt
sollicitive canes canibusve sagacior anser;
non fera, non pecudes, non moti flamine rami
humanaeve sonum reddunt convicia linguae,
muta quies habitat
(11.598-602)
neither restless dogs nor the goose,
wiser than dogs, break the silence with their voice;
beasts do not make a sound, nor do herds, nor boughs
moved by a breeze, nor the chattering of human tongues.
There mute silence dwells
This is a place where there are no voices; there is a kind of existence here that
is not the same as human life (cf. the house of Rumor which resounds with
human voices). So unlike the all-penetrable realm of Rumor, the house of
Sleep does not even have a door: ianua, ne verso stridores cardine
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reddat,/nulla domo tota esf (11.608-609), “there is no door in the whole house,
lest it give off squeaking from a turned hinge." Somnus chooses his son
Morpheus for the task of impersonating Ceyx, since Morpheus specializes in
imitating humans:
non illo quisquam sollertius alter
exprimit incessus vultumque sonumque loquendi;
adicit et vestes et consuetissima cuique
verba
(11.635-638)
no other is more skilled than he
at showing the walk and appearance and sound of one
speaking; he adds the clothing and the words
most customary for each
Morpheus reports Ceyx’s death to Alcyone as if he himself were Ceyx-and he
does so in the appearance and in the voice of Ceyx (adicit his vocem
Morpheus, quam coniugis illa/crederet esse sui, 11.671-672).
There is an implication that a living human being, by definition, can
produce autonomous speech. Even Ovid’s earlier description of Ceyx dying
(i.e. not Morpheus’ report, but Ceyx’s death as it occurs in the narrative),
shows that human speech stops only when death occurs:
Ceyx socerumque patremque
invocat heu! frustra, sed plurima nantis in ore
Alcyone coniunx: illam meminitque refertque,
illius ante oculos ut agant sua corpora fluctus
optat et exanimis manibus tumuletur amicis.
dum natat, absentem, quotiens sinit hiscere fluctus,
nominat Alcyonen ipsisque inmurmurat undis.
(11.561-567)
and Ceyx calls upon his father-in-law and father
alas! in vain, but his wife Alcyone is most upon the
swimmer’s lips: and he remembers her and repeats her,
he wishes that the waves drive their bodies before her
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eyes and that, dead, he be entombed by her friendly hands.
As often as the wave allows his mouth to open,
while he swims, he names the absent Alcyone and
murmurs into waves themselves.
The point between life and death is marked by the lack of human speech:
Ceyx speaks for as long as he is able, even as he is overcome by the waves.
Morpheus may speak for Ceyx, and even appear to be Ceyx, but he is an
imitition of human life. Ovid stresses this line of demarcation again when
Alcyone, now a bird, sees the corpse of her husband: Ovid refers to Ceyx’s
body as “the mute and bloodless corpse,” (mutum et sine sanguine
corpus, 11.736). His silence in death stands in contrast to Alcyone’s noisy
utterances, which are nevertheless not human--she has changed into a bird
from grief, and now chatters in the air:
dumque volat, maesto similem plenumque querellae
ora dedere sonum tenui crepitantia rostra
(11.734-735)
and while she flies, her chattering mouth gives a sound
from a slender beak similar to grief and full of complaint
Alcyone has lost her humanity; her utterances may be like grief, but like
Morpheus, she can give only an imitation of humanity.
Ovid describes other figures in the Metamorphoses, like Ceyx and Alcyone
above, as still speaking (and often about to say more) as they either change
from human form or die. This point between life and death, or between human
life and non-human existence, is marked by the lack of autonomous human
speech. Cadmus, for example, speaks to his wife as he changes into a
serpent:
bracchia iam restant: quae restant bracchia tendit
et lacrimis per adhuc humana fluentibus ora
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'accede, o coniunx, accede, miserrima1 dixit,
'dumque aliquid superest de me, me tange manumque
accipe, dum manus est, dum non totum occupat anguis.'
ille quidem vult plura loqui, sed lingua repente
in partes est fissa duas, nec verba volenti
sufficiunt, quotiensque aliquos parat edere questus,
sibilat: hanc illi vocem natura reliquit.
(4.581-589)
His arms still remain: he stretches the arms which
remain and with tears flowing on his still human face,
he said, “Come near, o wife, come near and while
something remains of me, touch me and take my hand,
while there is a hand, as long as the serpent does not
have all.” Indeed he wishes to say more, but suddenly
his tongue is split into two parts, nor are there words
for him, although he wanted them,
and as many times as he prepares to issue a complaint,
he hisses: nature leaves this voice to him.
Ovid’s focus on this critical moment of transformation has several effects: it
stresses the swiftness of the change (i.e. Cadmus is talking at one moment,
and hissing the next); it adds pathos not only by the suddenness of the
change, but also by the content of his words (and there would have been
more, Ovid tells us); and it marks a strong contrast from what he recently was
to what he now is. Cadmus, in a very brief span of time, passes from human
existence into the form of a serpent. Ovid even points out that as he speaks,
tears flow on his “still human face,” (peradhuc humana ora). The change is
complete as his human tongue is cleft and capable only of hisses.
Myrrha’s change, too, occurs as she is in mid-speech. Having fled her
father, Myrrha wanders for nine months and finally begs the gods for help.
Pregnant with her father’s child she prays:
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o siqua patetis
numina confessis, merui nec triste recuso
supplicium, sed ne violem vivosque superstes
mortuaque exstinctos, ambobus pellite regnis
mutataeque mihi vitamque necemque negate!
(10.483-487)
O if any divine wills are open
to my admissions, I have earned, nor do I sadly refuse
punishment, but lest I, surviving, violate the living or,
dead, I violate those expired, drive me from both realms,
and to me, changed, deny both life and death!
Myrrha’s words stress that metamorphosis is neither life nor death; it is a sort of
variant existence in between the two. As in the other cases, she changes even
as she speaks: “the earth came over her legs as she was speaking . . ( crura
loquentis/terra supervenit, 10.489-490). Myrrha’s loss of human speech is
again noted when her child is ready to be bom from the tree/Myrrha: neque
habent sua verba dolores/nec Lucina potest parientis voce vocari (10.506-
507), “and the (birth)pains do not have their own words, nor can Lucina be
called by the voice of the one giving birth.” Like Alcyone above, the tree
nevertheless imitates what a human might do under the circumstances:
nitenti tamen est similis curvataque crebros/dat gemitus arbor lacrimisque
cadentibus umet (10.508-509), “yet the tree is similar to one striving, and
having curved, it gives frequent groans and is wet with falling tears.” Again
Ovid states that it is similis; the tree imitates human life.
Ovid did not need a lengthy description of Myrrha’s change, for before this,
in Book 9, he had described a similar change into a tree experienced by
Dryope. There the change seemed to take longer than in other instances,
allowing time for a rather lengthy speech. Having picked some flowers of the
aquatic lotus (formerly, the nymph Lotis), Dryope begins to be covered in bark,
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258
from the ground up (9.340-355). Eventually only her face remains, still
affording her the opportunity to speak; her half-sister lole states:
nil nisi iam faciem, quod non foret arbor, habebat
cara soror: lacrimae misero de corpora factis
inrorant foliis, ac, dum licet, oraque praestant
vocis iter, tales effundit in aera questus
(9.367-370)
she had nothing now, except her face, which was not tree,
my dear sister tears rain on leaves made from her
wretched body, and while it is permitted and her mouth
makes a path for her voice, she pours out such complaints
into the air
Dryope speaks to her family and then says she can speak no more (plura loqui
nequeo, 9.388), although she manages a few more words (9.389-391). lole
reports that the change was then complete: “as soon as her mouth stopped
speaking, it stopped being,” (desierant simul ora loqui, simul esse, 9.392).
Ovid perhaps intends a double meaning: as soon as her mouth ceased to
speak, it ceased to exist (i.e. bark covered the place where her mouth was)
and, by synecdoche, we may infer that when she stopped speaking, Dryope
herself ceased to exist.
The lack of autonomous human speech then is linked to both death and to
a form of existence that is non-human. Ovid shows speech as an important
part of human life, but it may also prove to be dangerous in the world of the
Metamorphoses, especially if one uses speech to challenge the gods.
Ovid demonstrates that autonomous human speech can be a perceived
threat to authority. Challenges to the gods, as specific figures of authority, take
the form either of direct challenges/boasts, or of any verbal efforts to thwart the
wishes of a deity. This happens repeatedly in the Metamorphoses: examples
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include the boasts/challenges (and punishments) of Apollo to Cupid (1.452-
477, resulting in the Daphne-Apollo episode, 1.452-567), Aglauros to Mercury
(2.816-832), Andromeda (punished for her mother Cassiope’s boast (4.670ff.),
Polydectes’ denial of Perseus’s feats (5.246-249), Pierides to the Muses
(5.308-678), Arachne to Pallas (6.1-145), the figures in Pallas’ web (Rhodope
and Haemon, Pygmaean mother, Antigone, and Cinyras) (6.85-100), Marsyas
(6.382-400), Ancaeus (concening the female figures of Atalanta, Latona and
Diana) (8.392-402), Achelous to Heracles (9.1-88), Pan to Apollo (resulting in
the punishment of Midas) (11.146-11.193), Chione to Diana (11.318-327),
Acmon to Venus (14.483-509) and many others, some more, some less
obvious than others.
Of the varying types of challenges, first there is the obvious boast of being
better than a deity in some aspect-Niobe, for example, boasts that she is
greater than Latona, because she has divine kin (6.172-176), she is a wealthy
queen (6.177-181), she has beauty befitting a goddess (6.181-182), and her
children outnumber Latona’s (6.182-200). Silenced by Niobe’s display of
authority, her people nevertheless worship Latona quietly (quodque licet,
tacito venerantur murmure numen, 6.203). Latona’s angry response, as she
addresses her children, includes claiming that Niobe displays Tantalus’
(Niobe’s father) audacity: “and she, wicked, shows her father’s tongue,” {et
exhibuit linguam scelerata patemam, 6.213). Tantalus was put “in his place,”
so to speak; once able to dine with the gods (6.173), Tantalus resides forever
in the underworld, undergoing perpetual punishment. As we discussed in
Chapter 1, space is equivalent to status and power in the Metamorphoses, and
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260
so Tantalus is marked off by space, away from and below the gods whose
table he once shared.
Niobe verbally claims the status that Latona has. As she learns of the
death of her sons, Niobe is shocked and angry that “the gods dared this, that
they have so much authority," (quod ausi/hoc assent superi, quod tantum iuris
habent, 6.269-270). Even after Apollo has killed her sons, Niobe refuses to
admit defeat:
'pascere, crudelis, nostro, Latona, dolore,
pascere' ait 'satiaque meo tua pectora luctu!
corque ferum satia!' dixit, 'per funera septem
efferon exsulta victrixque inimica triumphal
cur autem victrix? miserae mihi plura supersunt,
quam tibi felici; post tot quoque funera vinco!'
(6.280-285)
“Cruel Latona, feed on my pain,” she said, “feed and satisfy
your breast with my grief! And satisfy your savage heart!”
she said. “In seven funerals am I carried: exult and as
conqueror, triumph in hateful victory! But why as conqueror?
More remain to wretched me, than to you, in your happiness;
even after so many deaths, I win!”
Niobe uses the language of conquest (exsulta, victrix, triumpha, victrix, vinco)
not only to refuse to admit defeat, but to claim victory over the goddess Latona
(cf. vicimus in rape narratives). Thus affected by the wrath of Latona, Niobe
not only persists in her boast, but boasts more strenuously. All of her
daughters are then killed (6.2286-301). Childless, Niobe sits unmoving
among her dead children:
in vultu color est sine sanguine, lumina maestis
stant inmota genis, nihil est in imagine vivum.
ipsa quoque interius cum duro lingua palato
congelat, et venae desistunt posse moveri;
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nec flecti cervix nec bracchia reddere motus
nec pes ire potesi; intra quoque viscera saxum est.
(6.304-309)
in her face the color is bloodless, her eyes are fixed in sad
cheeks, nothing is alive in the image. Her tongue, too, itself
freezes within with the hard palate, and the veins stop
being able to move; her neck cannot bend, her arms cannot
move, nor can her foot go; within, too, her innards are stone.
Niobe learns that for all her attributes, she cannot resist the power of the
goddess. Her last words, we are told, consist in the plea for one daughter to
survive (6.299-300). Her very act of asking reflects her ultimate, but late,
acknowledgement that a power greater than she would decide the outcome of
this contest. By asking, she admits her lesser status. Her voice-the same
voice which earlier had moved Latona to wrath--in the end, failed in its ability
to move the goddess to pity. Ovid specifically notes what became of Niobe’s
tongue (cf. et exhibuit linguam scelerata patemam, 6.213): ipsa . . . lingua. . .
/congelat.
The Pierides, too, suffer the loss of autonomous speech as a direct result of
their challenge to the Muses. After a singing contest with the Muses, the
Pierides are transformed into birds.2 Ovid’s segue into this story had indeed
been a description of the transformed Pierides--as a Muse relates the story of
the attack on them by Pyreneus:
Musa loquebatur: pennae sonuere per auras,
voxque salutantum ramis veniebat ab altis.
suspicit et linguae quaerit tarn certa loquentes
unde sonent hominemque putat love nata locutum;
ales erat. numeroque novem sua fata querentes
institerant ramis imitantes omnia picae.
(5.294-299)
2 See above, Chapter 2A; see also Johnson and Malamud (1988).
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262
The Muse was speaking: wings sounded through the air,
and a voice of greeting was coming from the high boughs.
Jove's daughter looks up and seeks from where those
tongues so surely speaking made sounds and she thought
that a human spoke; it was a bird.
And nine in number they had alighted, lamenting their
fates, upon the boughs, magpies, imitating everything.
The fact that the Muse was speaking (Musa loquebatui) at the time when
Pallas hears these “speech imitators” is striking--by this juxtaposition Ovid
emphasizes that the Muses can speak, while the Emathides, now magpies,
can only imitate human speech. Ovid describes the sound as being exactly
like human speech (linguae tam certa loquentes) and even Pallas is fooled
into thinking that a human spoke (hominem putat love nata locutum).
However, this is only an imitation of human speech, as was the case for
Morpheus, above. Morpheus was imitating the dead Ceyx; here, too, we learn
of a type of death: the nine alight sua fata querentes, “lamenting their fates”--
with sua fata offering the equally compelling translation “their deaths.”
The narrator Muse explains to Pallas that after the contestants sang, the
nymphs declared the Muses the winners (5.663-664). When the “conquered”
(victae, 5.664) sisters--the Emathides-hurled abuses, the Muses were moved
to greater wrath; the Emathides nevertheless scorned the Muses’ threats:3
rident Emathides spemuntque minacia verba,
conantesque loqui et magno clamore protervas
intentare manus pennas exire per ungues
adspexere suos, operiri bracchia plumis,
alteraque alterius rigido concrescere rostro
ora videt volucresque novas accedere silvis;
dumque volunt plangi, per bracchia mota levatae
aere pendebant, nemorum convicia, picae.
3 cf. Niobe’s relentless scom of Latona, even after disaster struck.
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Nunc quoque in alitibus facundia prisca remansit
raucaque garrulitas studiumque inmane loquendi.
(5.669-678)
The Emathides smile and scom the threatening words, and
trying to speak and with great noise to stretch their bold hands
they saw wings go out through their fingernails, their arms
being covered by feathers, and one sees the mouth of
another grow together in a stiff beak and that new birds are
added to the forests; and while they wish to strike, elevated by
the movements of their arms they were hanging in the air as
magpies, insults of the groves. Now, too, their ancient
eloquence remained and their hoarse loquacity and their
boundless eagerness for speaking.
We can see from this description that the Emathides see one another’s mouths
changing into beaks, emphasizing the horror of recognition of their
metamorphoses. Ovid has the Muse describe them as the “insults” or “abuses"
(convicia) of the groves, as if they themselves have been transformed into
abusive language. Johnson and Malamud (1988, 32) note that “the fate of the
Emathides is a particularly cruel kind of artistic purgatory, in which they have
retained their ability to speak but not to create song.” They retain something of
their former selves, we are told, namely their “boundless eagerness to speak”
(studiumque inmane loquendi), but now can only imitate speech (cf. Echo)~
this fate, for them, is a type of death.4
Chione literally suffers death due to a boast that she makes-and the
manner of her death leaves no doubt as to Ovid’s emphasis on the power of
speech. Here, Chione’s boast serves as a challenge to the goddess Diana
and Diana responds by proving herself unequivocally the more powerful.
4 Here Johnson and Malamud (1988,37 n. 5) note a similarity in the fates of the Emathides and of
Arachne (whose situation we discuss later in Chapter 3): T h e fate of the Emathides and
Arachne are both {sic} reminiscent of the city of Dis (Meta. 4.444-6), where bloodless shades
wander about carrying on a pale reflection of their former lives: parsque forum celebrant, pars imi
tecta tyranni/pars aliquas artes, anitquae (sic-sc.antiquae) imitamina vitae,/exercent”
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Having been raped twice in a single night (first by Mercury and then by
Apollo), Chione bears a son to each rapist god. Ceyx, narrating the tale to
Peleus, suggests that to have been raped by two gods should have been a
boon, but Chione went too far:
quid peperisse duos et dis placuisse duobus
et forti genitore et progenitore nitenti
esse satam prodest? an obest quoque gloria multis?
obfuit huic cede! quae se praeferre Dianae
sustinuit faciemque deae culpavit
(11.318-322)
What good was it to have borne two sons and to have
been pleasing to two gods and to have been the offspring
of a brave father and shining grandfather? Doesn’t glory
also harm many? Surely it harmed her! She set herself
before Diana and carped at the beauty of the goddess
Chione’s boast is implicit here: we might imagine that like Niobe in Book 6,
Chione bragged of having more children than the goddess, having a sterling
pedigree, and, based on Ceyx’ description here, turned then to compare her
beauty to Diana’s. Chione’s boast is itself a challenge to the authority of the
goddess: by “placing herself before Diana,” Chione (in words) usurps Diana's
place. She verbally steps out of the established hierarchy and thus
challenges the goddess to assert her divine power and to put Chione back in
her place. In Book 2 we saw a variation of this when Callisto places the faux
Diana above Jupiter. There, however, Jupiter disguised as Diana rejoices “at
being preferred to himself {sibi praeferri se gaudet, 2.430). Callisto’s setting
Diana above him posed no threat to his authority in that situation for (at least)
two reasons: 1) he was the perceived Diana in question; and 2) his imminent
rape of Callisto would assure his own supremacy. So, too, must Diana assert
her power, and squelch the perceived challenge offered by Chione.
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Like the description of Niobe’s metamorphosis (specifically, the mention of
her tongue), we find that the description of Chione’s death is centered most
pointedly on her offending member. We learn of the the goddess’ swift
response:
at illi
ira ferox mota est “factis” que “placebimus” inquit,
nec mora, curvavit comu nervoque sagittam
inpulit et meritam traiecit harundine linguam.
lingua tacet, nec vox temptataque verba sequuntur,
conantemque loqui cum sanguine vita reliquit
(11.322-327)
But her wild anger was stirred and [Diana] said,
“we’ll please you with deeds." Without delay she bent her
bow and from the string sent an arrow and pierced the
deserving tongue with the shaft. The tongue falls silent,
neither voice nor the attempted words follow and her life,
along with her blood, left her as she was trying to speak
Clearly, Chione’s manner of death leaves no question as to the source of the
perceived threat to the goddess: it is Chione’s tongue that has the power to
challenge the goddess and so Diana silences her, and Chione's silence
equals death. We can see from this description, as in the examples above,
that Ovid emphasizes the persistent attempts to speak, even on the brink of
death. Ovid has six references in three lines to point to aspects of Chione’s
attempts to speak (linguam, lingua, tacet, vox, temptata verba, conantem
loqui). What comes out of her is not voice, not words, but blood and her very
life.
Perceived challenges to the authority of a deity also come in the form of
efforts to thwart a deity’s will. As we have seen with those who boast to or
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challenge a deity,5 figures in the Metamorphoses are punished for trying to
block a deity from some purpose. Aglauros, for example, challenges the god
god Mercury directly by attempting to obstruct his access to her sister Herse:
denique in adverso venientem limine sedit
exclusura deum. cui blandimenta precesque
verbaque iactanti mitissima 'desine!' dixit,
'hinc ego me non sum nisi te motura repulso.'
(2.814-817)
Finally she sits in front of the threshold about to block
the god when he came. To him offering blandishments
and prayers and the most gentle words, she said, “Stop!
I will not move from here unless you are driven off!"
Aglauros directly challenges Mercury by insisting that she thwart his purpose.8
The god’s response is swift: Aglauros turns to stone on the spot, as Ovid
describes in some detail (2.819-832). The end of the description focuses on
her inability to speak:
nec conata loqui est nec, si conata fuisset,
vocis habebat iter saxum iam colla tenebat,
oraque duruerant, signumque exsangue sedebat;
nec lapis albus erat: sua mens infecerat illam.
(2.829-832)
nor did she try to speak, nor, had she tried, was there
a pathway for her voice: now stone was inhabiting her
neck and her features had hardened, a bloodless statue
she sat, nor was the stone white: her mind had stained it.
5 Some who are punished for their boasts or taunts to a deity are: Andromeda (punished for her
mother's, Cassiope’s, boast) (4.670-671); Antigone in Pallas’ web who “ dared to vie with the
consort of Jove” (6.93-97); Marsyas vies with Apollo (6.382ff.); Achelous vies with Hercules
(9.21-26); Acmon scorns Venus (14.483-509), the Apulian shepherd who chased nymphs
(14.514-526); Remulus, imitator fu/minis, died by a thunderbolt (14.617-618). Numerous other
examples may be found if one considers implicit threats/challenges: consider Lycaon (1.163ff.)
and the like.
* Recall that Aglauros is envy-stricken at Herse’s (imagined) happiness because Minerva had
sent Envy into Aglauros as a punishment for Aglauros’ having disobeyed Minerva's orders
(2.748-813). This is one instance of Aglauros’ challenge to the authority of a deity (Minerva) and
puts her on this path toward destruction (in her challenge to Mercury).
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We are told that Mercury inflicted these “penalties for her words and impious
mind” (verborum poenas mentisque profanae, 2.833). Aglauros may
physically block Mercury’s path, but her words are the source of the challenge
and her words are the stimulus for punishment. In the end, her words are
choked off and the very pathway for them is blocked by stone.
Ovid links free speech to the power to thwart a deity. Even though
Aglauros cannot stop Mercury, we do find examples of those who succeed in
foiling a deity’s purpose, only to suffer tragically in the end for their efforts.
Echo, for example, lost her ability to produce autonomous speech because
she had tricked Juno.7 We learn of Echo’s condition, as she sees Narcissus:
adspicit hunc trepidos agitantem in retia cervos
vocalis nymphe, quae nec reticere loquenti
nec prior ipsa loqui didicit, resonabilis Echo.
(3.356-358)
a vocal nymph saw him as he was driving frightened deer
into nets, a nymph who was neither quiet to one speaking
nor herself spoke before being spoken to, resounding Echo.
This peculiarity was not always so; Ovid tells us what led to this predicament,
hinting that more trouble was to come for Echo:8
Corpus adhuc Echo, non vox erat et tamen usum
garrula non alium, quam nunc habet, oris habebat,
reddere de multis ut verba novissima posset,
fecerat hoc luno, quia, cum deprendere posset
sub love saepe suo nymphas in monte iacentis,
ilia deam longo prudens sermone tenebat,
dum fugerent nymphae. postquam hoc Satumia sensit,
'hums' ait 'linguae, qua sum delusa, potestas
7 Galanthis, in addition to Echo, is another striking example of this punishment for the use of
speech to obstruct a deity. Having used words/speech to trick Lucina into allowing Alcmena to
give birth (Lucina was following Juno’s order's to obstruct the birth), Galanthis is changed into a
weasel: quae quia mendaciparientem iuverat ore,/ore parit (9.323-323), “ because with her lying
mouth she had helped her who was giving birth, she gives birth through her mouth.”
* Later Echo withers away to become only echoing voice (3.375-378 and 3.398-401).
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268
parva tibi dabitur vocisque brevissimus usus,'
reque minas firmat. tantum haec in fine loquendi
ingeminat voces auditaque verba reportat.
(3.359-369)
Echo still had a body, she was not a voice and yet, although
garrulous, had no other use for her mouth than she has now,
that she be able to give back the latest words out of many.
Juno had done this, because when often she could have
caught nymphs lying under her Jove on a mountain,9 that
girl cleverly used to keep the goddess in lengthy
conversation until the nymphs would flee. After Satumia
realized this, she said, “Slight power of this tongue, by which
I have been tricked, will be given to you and the briefest
use of voice.” The threat is realized. She only twins the last
words spoken and repeats the words she hears.
Echo had, in effect, challenged the goddess by attempting to thwart Juno’s
purpose. Since the power to create speech was the power to block the
goddess, Juno punishes Echo by taking away her autonomy in that area.
Cyane suffers a similar fate: because she attempts to block Dis as he
abducts Proserpina, she becomes a pool of water. She physically and
verbally attempts to obstruct the god’s will:
gurgite quae medio summa tenus exstitit alvo
adgnovitque deam 'nec longius ibitis!' inquit;
'non potes invitae Cereris gener esse: roganda,
non rapienda fuit. quodsi conponere magnis
parva mihi fas est, et me dilexit Anapis;
exorata tamen, nec, ut haec, exterrita nupsi.'
dixit et in partes diversas bracchia tendens
obstitit.
(5.413-420)
She stood up to her waist in the middle of her pool and
recognized the goddess and said “You will go no farther!
You cannot be the son-in-law of Ceres against her will:
’ O f course, there is no way for the reader to determine whether or not this refers to other rape
victims of Jupiter or to liaisons of mutual consent.
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269
she should have been asked, not raped. But if it is right for
me to compare small things with great, Anapis liked me;
I wed him--but after being asked, not terrified, like her.”
She spoke and, stretching her arms in opposite directions,
stood in his way.
Cyane physically blocks his way and verbally, too, forbids Dis to proceed. She
attempts to lay out the reasons why he should obey her prohibition, apparently
naive about how things really are in this scheme: as it turns out, Dis can in fact
be Ceres’ son-in-law against her will, even if the prevailing opinion is that he
should have asked and not taken. To have asked would have indicated that
Ceres (or Proserpina) held the power to give or to refuse (cf. Niobe’s final,
ineffectual plea to the goddess to spare her one last child). Cyane’s example
from her own experience, she thinks, should be the norm: a bride is sought
through petition rather than force. Our own experience within the
Metamorphoses has shown that the use of force is often more effective than
the use of words.1 0
Cyane’s attempt to thwart his progress enrages Dis and his reaction rings
of the assertion of power:
haud ultra tenuit Satumius iram
terribilesque hortatus equos in gurgitis ima
contortum valido sceptrum regale lacerto
condidit; icta viam tellus in Tartara fecit
et pronos currus medio cratere recepit.
(5.420-424)
The Satumian hardly checked his anger any longer
and having urged his terrible horses into the depths of
the pool he plunged his royal sceptre, twisted with his
1 0 Some aggressors who fail with words: Apoilo with Daphne (1.452-567); Jupiter with lo (1.583-
750); Neptune with the daughter of Coroneus (2.574-576); Pan with Syrinx (1.700-701); Echo
with Narcissus (3.375ff.); et al. Later Boreas (seeking Orithyia) explicitly favors force, once words
have failed (6.687-701).
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270
strong arm; the earth, stricken, made a pathway into
Tartarus and accepted the chariot facing downward
in the midst of the crater.
Dis penetrates the pool, forcing an opening where one was denied, achieving
his will through violence. Cyane dissolves away, “grieving the raped goddess
and the scorned authority over her own fountain” (raptamque deam
contemptaque fontis/iura sui maerens, 5.425-426). Cyane dissolves, doubly
victimized: she is overruled by Dis in her own jurisdiction and she is
penetrated by him--as Leslie Cahoon also notes, Cyane, like Proserpina, is a
“raped goddess" by this act of Dis.” By the two acts of violation, Cyane is
destroyed.
Having suffered from Dis’ assertion of power, Cyane dissolves into the
pool. Ovid (through Calliope’s narration) later calls attention to her tragic loss
of speech, adding pathos to the narrative of Ceres’ search for her daughter:
Sicaniam repetit, dumque omnia lustrat eundo,
venit et ad Cyanen. ea ni mutata fuisset,
omnia narrasset; sed et os et lingua volenti
dicere non aderant, nec, quo loqueretur, habebat;
signa tamen manifesta dedit notamque parenti,
illo forte loco delapsam in gurgite sacro
Persephones zonam summis ostendit in undis.
(5.464-470)
She returned to Sicily, and while she looked over all by
going, she came, too, to Cyane. If she had not been
changed, she would have told everything; but neither mouth
nor tongue were present for the one wishing to speak,
nor did she have any means by which she might talk.
Still, she gave clear signs and showed on the surface of
the waves the girdle of Persephone, well known to her
mother, fallen by chance in that place in the sacred pool.
" Leslie Cahoon notes the sexual undertones here and draws a parallel to rape. She states
(1996,53-54): “ Cyane’s pool becomes pure grief, all tears ( Jacrimis. . . absumitur omnis, 5.427)
that is because of the raped goddess (raptam deam, 5.425), who is surely at this point as much
herself as Proserpina.”
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271
Cyane has lost her pathway for speech, but herself becomes a pathway for
rape and is penetrated in Dis1 act of raping Proserpina. Cyane dissolves into
the pool, losing her former existence, which had involved having the ability to
(attempt to) resist--both physically and verbally-the authority of another. Dis’
act of rape results in the dissolution of Cyane’s physical being, until she is
literally a pool whose yielding water gives way, and in the dissolution of her
voice with which she had tried to obstruct his purpose. Her loss of power is
marked through her grieving Dis’ contempt for her iura fontis and through
Ovid’s description of Cyane as she changed: quarum fuerat magnum modo
numen, in illas/extenuatur aquas (5.428-429), “into those waters whose great
divinity she had recently been, she is dissolved." Once the great numen of the
pool, able to think and rationalize, able to state her opinion and exert her
authority over her waters, Cyane is reduced to yielding, silent waters of grief.1 2
Nevertheless, we are told that Cyane manages an alternate form of
speech. Although she has no means to utter words, Cyane offers evidence to
Ceres which the goddess is sure to recognize. Cyane has found a code, a
form of speech for the victim class, which can be read by other victims. Ceres
sees the girdle, the wordless narrative offered by Cyane, and realizes instantly
what has happened to her daughter:
quam simul agnovit, tamquam turn denique raptam
scisset, inomatos laniavit diva capillos
et repetita suis percussit pectora palmis.
(5.471-473)
As soon as she recognized it, as if then, at last, she had known
that her daughter had been raped, the goddess tore at her
unadorned hair and struck her breasts repeatedly with her palms
1 2 We are also reminded of Thetis; like the numen that was Cyane, Thetis was called dea prior to
her rape. On the topic of metamorphosis from grief, fora more detailed discussion see Judith de
Luce (1982, 77-90).
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Thus even with the power of speech taken away, Cyane manages to tell a
partial tale of rape. Ceres, for her part, shows the signs of grief experienced by
others who have suffered either rape or metamorphosis (e.g. lo, Actaeon,
Orpheus).
Bearing witness against a powerful figure is another form of perceived
challenge to that figure. Ovid shows that those who use or could use speech
as informants (both for or against) powerful figures pose a threat and are
therefore silenced. Actaeon, for example, is apparently punished for what he
could say he saw. Having accidently stumbled upon the site where Diana was
bathing nude, Actaeon is told by the goddess: nunc tibi me posito visam
velamine names,/si poteris narrare, licet! (3.192-193), “Now may you tell that
you have seen me without my clothing, that is, if you can tell!” Diana implies
her fear about Actaeon’s potential to tell that he saw her naked, and thus the
threat he poses is not something he has done, but rather what he could do: he
could speak of it. Diana silences him forever by changing him into a stag
which will eventually be tom apart by Actaeon’s own hunting dogs. Ovid adds
to the pathos of the situation and emphasizes Actaeon’s tragic loss of speech.
As he sees his own changed features reflected in a pool, Actaeon tries to
speak:
'me miserum!' dicturus erat: vox nulla secuta est!
ingemuit: vox ilia fuit, lacrimaeque per ora
non sua fluxerunt; mens tantum pristina mansit.
(3.201-203)
“alas, me!” he was about to say: no voice came!
he groaned: that voice there was, and tears flowed over
a face not his own; only his former mind remained.
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Here again we see perhaps the most horrific aspect of the metamorphosis:
Actaeon’s mind remains and so he is cognizant of the change taking place
within him. We saw a similar instance of this with the Emathides, as each sees
the face of another being changed into a beak (alteraque alterius rigido
concrescere rostro/ora videt, 5.673-674). Like the type of death from being
silenced, another type of death emerges: Actaeon sees himself not himself.
The experience may be likened to the Emathides, who-while alive--grieve
their own fates/deaths. So Actaeon, while alive, witnesses the loss of himself.
Actaeon’s power of speech is reduced to groans; like Cyane above, the
victim of a powerful figure is physically dissolved (ora non sua) and so the
power of autonomous speech along with him/her. As Actaeon sees his
hounds approach, he still hopes to speak:
clamare libebat:
'Actaeon ego sum: dominum cognoscite vestrum!'
verba animo desunt; resonat latratibus aether.
(3.229-231)
he wanted to shout:
"I am Actaeon: recognize your master!” The words
fail his intention; the air resounds with barking.
As his hounds are attacking him, Actaeon has only groans in place of speech:
iam loca vulneribus desunt; gemit ille sonumque,
etsi non hominis, quern non tamen edere possit
cervus, habet maestisque replet iuga nota querellis
et genibus pronis supplex similisque roganti
circumfert tacitos tamquam sua bracchia vultus.
(3.237-241)
now places are lacking for wounds; he groans and makes a
sound which, even though not human, is still one a stag could
not issue, and he fills the well-known hills with mournful
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274
complaints and, a suppliant, face-down on his knees
and similar to one begging, he bears
his silent face around, as if doing so with his arms.
Like the magpie/Emathides, Actaeon’s speech is not human, but not that which
completely belongs to the creature which he has become. He tries to imitate
what a human would do: the Actaeon/stag tries to do with his face what a
person would do with his arms if he were acting as a suppliant. In his altered
state, Actaeon can only imitate human behavior and speech, and having
failed, is ultimately destroyed by his hounds. Ovid leaves the implication that if
Actaeon had had the power of speech as his dogs approached, he could have
extricated himself from this tragic situation (cf. above, Orpheus could have
stopped the assault if his voice could have been heard).
In the Metamorphoses, other figures suffer for having been actual
informants. One such figure is the Sun/Sol, although in his case-being a
deity, that is--the punishment inflicted on him has a “trickle down effect.”1 3 Sol
told Vulcan of the affair between (Vulcan’s wife) Venus and Mars (4.169-176).
Later the goddess seeks vengeance: Sol becomes inflamed with desire for
Leucothoe. Forgetful of his other loves and of his duties, Sol fixes on
Leucothoe alone (4.190-213). Thus the penalty for Sol’s tattling was not so
grievous for him, but the effect on Leucothoe was devastating. As we
discussed above in Chapter 2A, Sol entered Leucothoe’s bedchamber
disguised as her mother, Eurynome (4.217-221). As a former informant, Sol is
careful to proceed without witnesses. Only after he bid the servants to leave
does he reveal himself to Leucothoe; Ovid describes the god:
1 3 This is the case, too, with Apolio and Daphne: recall that Apollo's “ love” for her was a
punishment/lesson visited upon him by Cupid, in order that Cupid prove himself the more
powerful (1.452ff.). In the end, it is Daphne who loses.
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275
paruerant, thalamoque deus sine teste relicto
“ille ego sum" dixit, “qui..
(4.225-226)
they had obeyed, and the god, with the bedchamber left
without a witness, said “I am he who ..
After Sol rapes Leucothoe, Clytie (Sol’s forgotten lover) is so jealous that she
tells Leucothoe’s father (vulgat adulterium diffamatamque parenti/indicat,
4.236-237), referring to the incident as adultery. Unmoved by Leucothoe’s
pleas and her assertion “[Sol] raped one who was unwilling” (ille/vim tu/it
invitae, 4.238-239), her own father buries Leucothoe. Sol rends the earth and
tries in vain to reanimate the corpse with his warming rays (4.241 -248).
Having failed, he sprinkles the dead Leucothoe with nectar and her body melts
away; a frankincense shrub grows in the spot.
Thus the penalty which was intended for Sol has the greatest effect on
Leucothoe. It is she who loses in the end, despite her efforts to plead with her
father and to tell him she was raped. Clytie, too, suffers as a result of Sol’s
(and her own) actions: Clytie--who had served as an informant to Leucothoe’s
father--is then shunned by Sol and wastes away into madness (tabuit ex illo
dementer amoribus usa, 4.259), until finally she turns into a flower, ever
turning to face the sun (4.260-270).
Some figures are punished for being the bearers of bad news, that is, news
distressful to a powerful being, even if it is the truth1 4 ~Ascalaphus, for example,
told that Proserpina ate the pomegranate seeds while in the underworld
(5.539-550). Proserpina in her anger turned him into the screech-owl: “and
M Both the raven and the crow (2.531-632), discussed above in Chapter 2A, fall into this
category: the raven tells Apollo of Coronis’ infidelity and the crow had once told Minerva that
Aglauros had looked into the box. The results: the raven is changed from white to black and the
crow is out of favor with Minerva. The raven is called a non exorabilis index (5.546).
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he becomes the foul bird, announcer of grief to come, the lazy owl, a dire
omen for mortals,” (foedaque fit volucris, venturi nuntia luctus/ignavus bubo,
dimm mortalibus omen, 5.549-550). We are told that Ascalaphus was the only
witness to the act, and it was by his testimony alone that Proserpina’s
complete return to Ceres was denied.1 5 Here, then, the power to tell is power
over a deity.
Arachne is the index who by far is of most interest to the study of rape,
power, and silencing in the poem. In the narrative of Minerva and Arachne all
of the themes we have discussed so far in this chapter intersect. Of particular
interest for us is the manifest focus of Arachne’s tapestry: rape. Since this
narrative was discussed at length in Chapter 2, we may discuss it here only as
it relates to the silencing of challengers and informants, and may briefly
recapitulate some our findings from Chapter 2.
Arachne is a witness or an informant who graphically depicts the rapes
committed by the Olympian gods. She wordlessly tells a tale of “celestial
crimes." Her tapestry serves as a billboard of celestial sexual aggression-the
tapestry offers a certain view of the universe which finds the gods using their
powers for personal pleasure, at the expense of the weaker figures depicted.
As we saw in Chapter 2A, Arachne depicts 21 rapes in 26 lines; her tapestry,
by exposing the crimes of the gods, directly opposes a pattern of Minerva’s
efforts to conceal them (cf. Medusa, etc.). We recall Minerva’s reaction to the
tapestry:
Non illud Pallas, non illud carpere Livor
possit opus: doluit successu flava virago
et rupit pictas, caelestia crimina, vestes,
,s solusque ex omnibus illud/Ascalaphus vidit (5.538-539) and vidit et indicio reditum crudelis
ademitJingemuit regina Erebi testemque profanam/fecit avem (5.542-544).
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utque Cytoriaco radium de monte tenebat,
ter quater Idmoniae frontem percussit Arachnes.
(6.129-133)
Neither Pallas nor Envy itself could criticize that work: the
golden-haired female warrior grieved at the success and
broke the embroidered web, the celestial crimes, and since
she was holding the shuttle from the Cytorian mountain,
three times and a fourth she struck
the forehead of Idmonian Arachne.
We noted earlier that Ovid equates the tapestry with the crimes themselves by
placing them in apposition; by destroying the tapestry it is as Minerva is
erasing the crimes themselves. By breaking the web (pictas vestes) Pallas
breaks the “celestial crimes” (caelestia crimina), as if once again (as was the
case with Medusa) she hopes to eliminate the possibility of the gods’ crimes
being seen.
Minerva’s tapestry depicts those who challenged or opposed the gods and
were punished: she depicts her perspective of Olympian justice and order,
which is the hierarchy of power in the universe. Her border of peaceful olive
implies that peace equals this status quo: everyone in their place and the
gods firmly established at the top of this hierarchy of power. Arachne does the
same thing: she depicts Olympian justice and the hierarchy of power but from
her own perspective, a perspective that looks from the lower end of the power
scheme and sees abuses of power and the cruel destruction of the lives of the
weaker for the personal pleasure of those at the top.
The whole episode serves as an indictment against the gods: we see
abuses of power not only in the rapes depicted but also in Minerva’s efforts to
erase the pictographic testimony and to silence the one who bears witness in
her art. Arachne thus challenges not only Minerva (by the boast and
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278
challenge of a weaving contest), but in effect poses a threat to all the gods and
to universal order because she is willing to tell in her art what they have done.
By weaving pictas vestes she memorializes the caelestia crimina and
graphically informs against the gods. We can reiterate our findings from
Chapter 2A: peace for the deity is the absence of a threat (=victory; the double
ending of Minerva’s tapestry), it is the silenced and crushed opponent who can
oppose no more.
Arachne clearly loses the contest-not on artistic terms, but rather because
she is no match for the power of the goddess who, in any event, will win. This
narrative, we recall, is one which Ovid has Pallas relate to the Muses after they
tell of their victory over the Emathides. As we have just seen, their loss of
autonomous speech removed their potential threat: after all their song, too,
related shameful incidents involving the gods.1 6 The Emathides become the
chattering magpies, imitating but not creating speech. Arachne, on the other
hand, tries to kill herself:
non tulit infelix laqueoque animosa ligavit
guttura: pendentem Pallas miserata levavit
atque ita Vive quidem, pende tamen, inproba' dixit,
'lexque eadem poenae, ne sis secura futuri,
dicta tuo generi serisque nepotibus esto!'
(6.134-138)
The wretched girl could not endure it and bound her
bold throat with a noose: Pallas, pitying her, lifted her
as she she was hanging and spoke thus, “Live, indeed,
but hang too, wicked girl; and let this same law of
penalty be declared for your race and for your late
descendants, lest you feel secure for the future!”
1 B There “ the gods hid themselves in lying shapes" (se mentitis superos celasse figuris, 5.326)
to escape the threat of Typhoeus. The content of the contending songs is similar in theme to
what we have here: the Emathides sing of challengers to Olympian supremacy, while Calliope
sings a song that reinforces the notion of the hierarchy of power established under Jupiter’s
control. See Johnson and Malamud (1988,31-33) for a more detailed argument on this point.
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Minerva saves Arachne from death only to give her an existence between life
and death. Arachne is no longer a person capable of free expression, nor is
she a person who has died--like Myrrha, who begged for an existence
between the two, Arachne is living but exists no more as Arachne. Minerva
passes a law here that will have long-lasting effects on Arachne and her kind:
as a spider, she can only imitate what she did as a person endowed with the
ability express herself freely. Johnson and Malamud (1988, 33) state:
“Arachne continues to weave in her transformed state, but can only reproduce
the routine motions of what was previously an art form.” Even if she can, as a
spider, express herself, her web is now a narrative of the sort that is
unintelligible to humans. Any perceived threat Arachne previously posed is
now eliminated. She can neither challenge Minerva as a weaver nor pose a
threat to the gods as an informant on their past acts. Her existence as a spider
solidifies their place in the hierarchy, but at the same time offers an example of
how fearful gods must be of the slightest challenge to their authority. After all,
what real threat did Arachne pose? No Typhoeus, Arachne--by Ovid’s
description-is some little nobody, from a fameless, nameless family.
This is the question at the heart of the rape narratives: what real power
does it take to dominate completely one so much weaker, one taken by
surprise and at an obvious disadvantage? This is what Arachne depicts in her
tapestry. The female figures there are tricked and cheated (cf. elusam, luserit,
falfis, luserit, deceperit) by the most powerful of gods. The mistake Arachne
makes is in not recognizing that no matter what is right, or what is true, she
cannot win this contest and she cannot tell this tale. If she does, she cannot do
so and survive to tell another (or to tell this again).
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Arachne, like Cyane above, used an alternate form of speech. Her graphic
narrative was easily understood by Minerva, however, and its message was
unmistakably offensive to the goddess. There is no flaw in her tapestry; the
flaw is in her logic: by her own depiction, her own clear expression of how
things are, the gods get their way and satisfy their own sense of power and
justice.
As is the case with other informants, when the information is unwelcome or
distressing, some punishment is forthcoming. Sharon L. James (1997), in her
study of slave-rape in Ovidian elegy, points to Ovid’s representation of a class
of women who are subject to sexual abuse, but, because of their low status as
slaves, must be silent.1 7 We have seen a similar class of females figures within
the Metamorphoses, a victim class comprised mainly of nymphs and of the
daughters of kings, who suffer from the desires of others of higher status. In
her study of the figure of the ancilla, James notes a trend similar to that which
we are discussing: the (literary figure of the) raped slave is forced both to be
silent about her own rape and to speak well of her rapist to her mistress (i.e. to
ingratiate him to her; 1997, 72-73). In the Metamorphoses, however, this
coercion to silence and to speech is fractured into its two parts: either the rape
victim accepts her rape as a boon (i.e. speaks well of the rapist, thus accepting
her place in the established hierarchy) or for her opposition, she is made
silent.
Rape victims or those targets of attempted rape are inherently potential
informants against the aggressor. Their mere existence-and inevitable
pregnancy, if they have been raped-serves as a memorial/testimony of the
,7 That is, since they have no legal recourse for rape; but also, as James argues, the ancilla might
be subject to a whipping by her mistress if the mistress saw the ancilla as a paelex.
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rape. For example, Juno is enraged that Jove's rape of Callisto will be made
public knowledge:
'scilicet hoc etiam restabat, adultera1 dixit,
'ut fecunda fores, fieretque iniuria partu
nota, lovisque mei testatum dedecus esset.
haud inpune feres: adimam tibi namque figuram,
qua tibi, quaque places nostro, inportuna, marito.'
(2.471-475)
“of course this too remained, adulteress,” she said,
“that you become pregnant, and by the birth the outrage
become known, and there be a witness of the disgrace
of my Jove. You will hardly go unpunished:
for I will take away that figure of yours which you and
my husband find so pleasing, troublesome one.”
Juno sees the child of the rape as a testatum, a “witness,” a living
representation of the rape. She obviously blames Callisto for publishing the
account by giving birth to Areas. She takes away not only Callisto’s form, but
also her ability to speak; as Callisto changes into a bear, Ovid gives us this
description:
neve preces animos et verba precantia flectant,
posse loqui eripitur: vox iracunda minaxque
plenaque terroris rauco de gutture fertur;
mens antiqua tamen facta quoque mansit in ursa,
adsiduoque suos gemitu testata dolores
qualescumque manus ad caelum et sidera tollit
ingratumque lovem, nequeat cum dicere, sentit.
(2.482-488)
lest she move his mind with prayers and praying words,
the power of speech was taken from her: a voice angry
and threatening and full of terror was borne from her
hoarse throat; yet her former mind remained also in
the bear, and by a constant groan she gave evidence of her
grief and raised her hands (such as they were) to heaven
and the stars and she felt that Jove was ungrateful,
although she was unable to say it.
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Juno ensures Callisto’s silence by removing the power of speech, while
Callisto, like Actaeon, resorts to imitating what a human would do as a
suppliant. Like Actaeon, too, she is aware of the change in herself (mens
antiqua mansit) and has only groans and sounds of mourning which she may
emit. Callisto gives evidence {testata), although as a bear, which is exactly
what Juno wished to avoid. This evidence is coded, however, in a victim
language; having lost the ability to speak, Callisto tries as she may, although
in an altered state, to communicate her situation. We are told that her son
Areas, while hunting, chanced upon his mother (now a bear) and she “was
similar to one recognizing him” {cognoscenti similis fuit, 2.500-501). As Areas
is about to kill the bear/his mother, Jupiter intercedes:
arcuit omnipotens pariterque ipsosque nefasque
sustulit et pariter raptos per inania vento
inposuit caelo vicinaque sidera fecit.
(2.505-507)
the omnipotent one stopped him, and together lifted both them
and the crime and together those taken with a wind through
the void he put in the sky and made them neighboring stars.
Jove puts them and a nefas (“crime” or “the unspeakable”) on display; the
question is which nefas are we talking about: the rape of Callisto resulting in
the troublesome birth of Areas, or the near killing of the mother by the son?
Clearly the former is perceived by Juno, who grows still more enraged at
seeing her “rival” in the sky.1 8 She claims that another rules heaven in place of
Intumuit luno, postquam inter sidera paelex
fulsit, et ad canam descendit in aequora Tethyn
Oceanumque senem, quorum reverentia movit
saepe deos, causamque viae scitantibus infit:
'quaeritis, aetheriis quare regina deorum
sedibus hue adsim? pro me tenet altera caelum! (2.508-513)
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283
her (2.513), that none will respect nor fear her (2.518-519); Juno perceives her
own power as diminished:
o ego quantum egi! quam vasta potentia nostra est!
esse hominem vetui: facta est deal sic ego poenas
sontibus inpono, sic est mea magna potestas!
vindicet antiquam faciem vultusque ferinos
detrahat, Argolica quod in ante Phoronide fecit
(2.520-524)
0 what a great thing I’ve done! How vast my power!
1 forbade her to be human: she has been made a goddess!
Thus do I impose penalties on criminals, thus is my power
great! Let him lay claim to her former face and take away
her animal appearance, as he did before with Argive lo
Juno clearly views Callisto’s change as an elevation in status and one which
diminishes Juno’s standing in the universe. She also mentions lo, who is one
of the few rape victims who (eventually) returns to some semblance of her
former appearance and maintains the ability to speak. Although it is unclear
why lo is an exception, clearly the fact that she is disturbs Juno.
Ovid presents Juno’s perceptions but not Callisto’s; his Callisto cannot
voice her opinion concerning this outcome. She has been victimized by
Jupiter (tricked and then raped), by Diana (she is excluded from the troop for
her unwanted pregnancy), by Juno (she is changed into a bear), and then she
is nearly killed by her own son. Ultimately, she simply is placed, silent, among
the stars. The last implication Ovid provides of her perspective is Callisto’s
own mind operating within the bear, frightened and unable to ask for Jove's
aid: “she felt Jove was ungrateful, although she was unable to say it.” After
this point her feelings are interpreted, rather than reported, within the text
{cognoscenti similis fuit), as if Ovid wishes to leave ambiguous the true nature
of what the bear was thinking or feeling.
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in the tale of lo, the first rape narrative in the poem involving Jupiter, we
have a similar emphasis on the victim’s inability to speak after her
metamorphosis. Jupiter changed her into a cow to avoid detection by Juno,
but Juno demanded the cow (1.601 ff.), and gave it to Argus to be guarded.
Under his watchful eyes, lo tries to beg:
ilia etiam supplex Argo cum bracchia vellet
tenders, non habuit, quae bracchia tenderet Argo,
conatoque queri mugitus edidit ore
pertimuitque sonos propriaque exterrita voce est.
(1.635-638)
a suppliant, too, when she wished to stretch her arms
to Argus, she didn’t have any arms to stretch to Argus,
and when her mouth tried to complain it issued a moo
and she was frightened by the sound
and terrified by her own voice.
lo wishes to imitate a human suppliant, but does not have the means--she has
no arms and no voice. Her voice, now a cow’s, terrifies her. lo shares with
other victims we have seen the horrific recognition of her own dehumanization.
Later, when her father finds her, she again tries to speak:
ilia manus lambit patriisque dat oscula palmis
nec retinet lacrimas et, si modo verba sequantur,
oret opem nomenque suum casusque loquatur;
Irttera pro verbis, quam pes in pulvere duxit,
corporis indicium mutati triste peregit.
(1.646-650)
she licks his hand and gives kisses to his palms
nor does she restrain tears and, if only words would come
she would beg help and tell her name and what befell her;
a letter, which her foot drew in the dust, in place of words
gave sad evidence of her changed body.
lo resorts to a speech alternative to communicate to her father that it is she.
Since she cannot speak, she draws in the dust (pro verbis). He apparently
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285
understands immediately (cf. the later story of Cyane, discussed above), for
instantly he cries “Alas, me" (me miserum, 1.653) and acknowledges that she
is indeed lo. Later, however, lo nevertheless manages to convey her sorrow to
Jupiter:
tollens ad sidera vultus
et gemitu et lacrimis et luctisono mugitu
cum love visa queri finemque orare malorum.
(1.731-733)
raising her face to the stars and with a groan
and with tears and with a grief-filled lowing she seemed
to complain to Jove and to beg for an end to her woes.
Even here she “seemed” (visa) to do this, as if this is similar to, but not quite
really what occurred; it is an imitation of free human speech. Like many others
(e.g. Actaeon, Orpheus, Callisto) only grief remains. Jupiter begs Juno to
relent, promising no further involvement with lo, and lo is restored to her former
self (1.734-743). Even so, lo is afraid to speak:
officioque pedum nymphe contenta duorum
erigitur metuitque loqui, ne more iuvencae
mugiat, et timide verba intermissa retemptat.
(1.744-746)
and the nymph, relying on the use of two feet, stands
erect and fears to speak, lest in the manner of a cow she
should moo, and timidly tries again the suspended words
lo is slow to speak after her experience; speech and form had been
“suspended” for her, but it lost forever for other victims in the poem, many of
whom are relegated to a non-human existence.
There is a striking parallel to the silenced rape victim in the story of Lara in
Ovid’s Fasti. Here we find an intersection of silencing (as a punishment for
informing against Jupiter), rape, and further punishment, consisting in
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286
symbolic death (relegation to the underworld). Her story occurs within the
description of the Feralia, February 21, a day on which respects are paid to the
dead. An old woman, seated among girls, performs the “rites of the silent
goddess” (sacra faciet Tacitae, 2.572). As she concludes the rites the woman
says, “we have bound hostile tongues and enemy mouths," (hostiles linguas
inimicaque vinximus ora, 2.581). Ovid goes on to describe the origin of Tacita,
or dea muta (“the mute goddess,” 2.583): she used to be the nymph Lara, who
had informed against Jupiter.
It seems that Jupiter “loved” the nymph Jutuma, and, according to Ovid, as
a result Jupiter suffered unseemly treatment:
luppiter immodico lutumae victus amore
multa tulit tanto non patienda deo
(Fasti 2.585-586)
Jupiter, conquered by excessive love for Jutuma, bore
many things which ought not be endured by so great a god
Like a rape victim, Jupiter is victus; and he “suffers” the acts of another,
indicated by the very word we have seen used of a victim suffering rape
(patienda, from pati). To explain what he endured, Ovid goes on to say that
the nymph eluded him (2.587-588): Jupiter “suffered” Jutuma’s escape. For
god, it is most unseemly-and most like being raped (paf/)--not be able to
rape.
Jupiter therefore calls together Jutuma’s sister-nymphs and explains why
they should help him catch Jutuma: he states that she harms herself by
avoiding “sexual union with the highest god” (summo concubuisse deo,
2.592), union which is good for her (quod expedit illi, 2.591). He restates that,
a great pleasure for him, it will be a great boon for her (2.593-594). All the
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nymphs agree to block Jutuma’s path when next she should flee Jupiter
(2.597-598), but Lara~a naiad prone to talking too much (2.599-602)--warns
Jutuma of the ambush, and even tells Juno of Jupiter’s love (2.603-606).
Enraged, Jupiter’s response is swift: luppiter intumuit, quaque est non usa
modeste/eripit huic linguam (2.607-608), “Jupiter swelled, and rips out the
tongue which was used indiscreetly." Ovid’s use of non modeste reflects
immodico used of Jupiter’s love for Jutuma; the difference is, Lara’s lack of
moderation can be punished. Ovid may be playing on the word intumuit as
well: Jupiter “swelled” with rage, but perhaps also with male arousal--just as,
earlier, we saw phallic symbols attendant to rape (Tereus draws his sword
against Philomela and then rips out her tongue, and Cinyras, tricked into
sexual union with his daughter, draws his sword from its vagina). Here,
however, the rape is displaced onto Mercury; summoned by Jupiter to take the
silenced nymph to the underworld (“a place fit for silent ones," says Jupiter:
locus ille silentibus aptus, 2.609), Mercury rapes Lara en route:
accepit lucus euntes:
dicitur ilia duci turn placuisse deo.
vim parat hie, voltu pro verbis ilia precatur,
et frustra muto nititur ore loqui.
fitque gravis geminosque parit
(2.611-614)
a grove receives them as they go: she is said at that
time to have been pleasing to the god, her guide. He
prepares to rape, she prays with her look in place of
words, and in vain struggles to speak with a mute mouth.
And she becomes pregnant and bears twins
There is no physical struggle mentioned: Lara tries to fend off Mercury with
her words, but has none. Lara, like lo, uses pro verbis (“in place of words"; cf.
pro verbis, of lo’s scratching in the dirt) what she has left-her facial
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expression-in order to convey what she cannot say. The juxtaposition of his
preparing to rape and her praying with her expression in place of words
implies that Lara’s first defence against assault would be words (cf. Actaeon,
Orpheus). Since this failure is followed so abruptly by her pregnancy, her
failure to speak is the implied source of Mercury's success in raping her
(2.613-614). And, as if to mark rape as the final triumph over the silenced,
Ovid completely mutes the rape itself (et frustra muto nititur ore loqui/fitque
gravis).
Lara’s punishment for telling is not simply having her tongue ripped out, but
includes, once she is silenced, her rape by Mercury and relegation to the
realm of the dead. There, as Tacita or dea Muta, she receives rites on the day
of the dead (during the Feralia), rites which the old woman claimed have the
power to silence others (linguas vinximus).
Her twins, the Lares-the product of the punishment for telling on the
supreme ruler-guard the crossroads, ever vigilant, in the city of Rome (qui
compita servant/et vigilant nostra semper in urbe, Lares, 2.615-616). By this
means, Ovid ties Lara’s fate-a tale of the abuses of power and the silencing of
opposition-right to the very roads of Rome (cf. Daphne).
The story of Lara in Ovid’s Fasti shares many characteristics with the rape
and punishment stories of the Metamorphoses. Lara foiled Jupiter’s rape
attempt (i.e. thwarted the will of the god by warning Jutuma) and bore witness
against Jupiter (i.e. told Juno of his love): both actions amount to Lara’s
challenging his authority. In return, she is silenced and made to disappear
from the world of the living. Lara’s inability to produce autonomous speech is
linked not only to her rapability, but also to her symbolic death. As a goddess
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in the underworld (cf. Proserpina), Lara can say nothing; she is described
instead as passively receiving rites which serve to silence others.
In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, however, Philomela is perhaps the most
dramatic figure for demonstrating the rapist’s silencing of his victim. We recall
from Chapter 2A that after she is raped, Philomela threatens to reveal what
Tereus has done:
si tamen haec superi cemunt, si numina divum
sunt aliquid, si non perierunt omnia mecum,
quandocumque mihi poenas dabis. ipsa pudore
proiecto tua facta loquar: si copia detur,
in populos veniam . ..
(6.542-546)
Yet, if the gods have seen these things, if the power of the
gods has any force, if everything has not died along with me,
someday you will be punished for me. I will tell what you
have done and make my shame public: if there be an
opportunity I will go among the people . . .
She threatens him with the only power she has: the power to speak and to be
an informant against him. As we have seen in other instances (notably in
Arachne’s web, earlier in Book 6), putting the shameful activities of the
powerful on display is intolerable. Yet Philomela persists:
si silvis clausa tenebor,
inplebo silvas et conscia saxa movebo;
audiet haec aether et si deus uilus in illo est!
(6.546-548)
if I am kept shut up in the forest I will fill
the forest and I will move the knowing rocks; the upper
air will hear, and god, too, if there is any god in it!
Philomela will make his crime known in any way that she can. Her assertion
expresses her single goal: to expose him as a rapist. Tereus reacts with fear
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and anger, drawing his sword, which she mistakes for his intention to kill her
(6.549-553). Although she offers her throat (iugulum Philomela
parabat/spemque suae mortis viso conceperat ense, 6.553-554), he instead
cuts out her tongue (6.555-560). Clearly, Tereus regains complete control
over Philomela: he has eliminated the threat of her telling and, instead of
“complying” with her offer of her throat, has silenced her in a way that she did
not suggest. Thus he has determined the outcome and exerted his complete
control over her, after Philomela had tried to reverse the power situation.
Ovid causes us again to ask how insecure are the powerful, that they have
to affirm their power by exerting control over ones so much at a disadvantage
(cf. those who are alone, asleep, physically weaker, etc.). Ovid adds that
Tereus is said “to have often sought again her mutilated body with his lust,”
{fertur/saepe sua lacerum repetisse libidine corpus, 6.561-562). Once he has
reestablished his position as controller, Tereus reasserts his power over
Philomela repeatedly.
As with other victims, the change begins (elsewhere metamorphosis, here
mutilation), while the victim is trying to speak. Ovid describes not Philomela,
but her tongue, as still speaking after Tereus cut it out:
ille indignantem et nomen patris usque vocantem
luctantemque loqui conprensam forcipe linguam
abstulit ense fero. radix micat ultima linguae,
ipsa iacet terraeque tremens inmurmurat atrae,
utque salire solet mutilatae cauda colubrae,
palpitat et moriens dominae vestigia quaerit.
(6.555-560)
With the sword he took away the indignant tongue,
gripped with forceps, as it was still calling the name of
father and struggling to speak. The deep root of the
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tongue quivers, the tongue itself lay and, trembling,
murmurs into the dark earth, and as a tail of a mutilated
snake will jump, it palpitates and, dying, seeks
the tracks of its mistress.
Initially, the reader would be inclined to think that the subject of the verbs and
participles here is Philomela herself,'9 but reading through the whole passage
one realizes that it is the tongue. Like other victims, the tongue struggles to
speak even after the change has occurred (cf. Chione). By calling Philomela
the tongue’s “mistress" (domina), Ovid emphasizes the irony: Philomela
should control her own tongue, but Tereus has taken that power from her, as if
he is her-and its--master.
Even so, Philomela manages to tell her tale. Like Arachne at the beginning
of Book 6, Philomela weaves a narrative of rape and of the most horrible
abuse of power. A year passes from the time of the initial rape; Philomela tries
to come up with a plan:
quid faciat Philomela? fugam custodia claudit,
structa rigent solido stabulorum moenia saxo,
os mutum facti caret indice.
(6.572-574)
what will Philomela do? A guard closes off flight,
the sturdy walls of the hut are strong in solid stone,
a mute mouth lacks evidence of the deed.
Philomela’s mouth is unable to tell of the crime; ironically, her mouth is itself
evidence of the deed but cannot produce words to convey it. She hits upon a
plan:
grande doloris
ingenium est, miserisque venit sollertia rebus:
stamina barbarica suspendit callida tela
1 9 See Amy Richlin (1992b, 162-165) for an excellent discussion of this passage.
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purpureasque notas filis intexuit albis,
indicium sceleris
(6.574-578)
grief has great ingenuity, and cunning comes amid woes:
clever, she hangs a barbarian web on her loom
and weaves purple signs into white threads,
evidence of the crime
We find again the word indicium “proof or “evidence” (i.e. with the root indie-]
cf. indice above); Philomela uses this coded, wordless manner by which to be
an informant of her own tragedy and of Tereus’ wrongdoing. This speech
alternative, the victim language, is once again immediately understood (cf. lo
to her father, Cyane to Ceres). Procne reads the tapestry and instantly
understands the message in it:
evolvit vestes saevi matrona tyranni
germanaeque suae fatum miserabile legit
et (mirum potuisse) silet: dolor ora repressit,
verbaque quaerenti satis indignantia linguae
defuerunt, nec flere vacat, sed fasque nefasque
confusura ruit poenaeque in imagine tota est.
(6.581-586)
The wife of the savage tyrant unrolls the cloth and reads
the pitiable fate of her sister and (a marvel that she could)
she was silent: grief held her mouth, and words indignant
enough were lacking for her plaintive tongue, there is no
time for tears, but she races, about to confuse righteousness
and crime, fixed wholly on the image of punishing.
Procne reads the coded message without effort and is herself silenced by the
crime. We again see the word fatum (cf. fata, used of the Emathides), as if this
“fate” constitutes a type of death for the victim. Barbara Pavlock notes other
instances of Ovid’s use of death imagery for Philomela:
When Procne receives Tereus’ false story about her
sister’s death, she immediately replaces her sumptuous
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regal garments with mourning garb, and, after having a
cenotaph built, offers piacula to the Manes of her
supposedly dead sister. Ovid describes the sepulchrum
here as inane (568). Although the tomb is in vain and
the ritual useless, the poet suggests that Philomela is
in some sense dead by applying the verb lugeo as an
appropriate response: et luget non sic lugendae fata
sororis (“And she laments the death of her sister not
thus to be lamented,” 570). (1991, 40-41)
Philomela, in effect, has died; both her inability to speak and her new identity
(as paelex) signify the end of the Philomela that existed prior to the rape.
Tereus is the “savage tyrant" here, alluding to his role as political leader
and thus his status as a powerful figure. Ovid plays on the words fasque
nefasque--saying that Procne is about to confuse them. While they may mean,
simply, “right and wrong," literally they signify: “the speakable and the
unspeakable.” Ovid has already “confused” them (lit. “poured them together”)
by having Philomela tell her own tragic narrative: she tells the
unspeakable/crime without speaking a word.
Once the sisters are reunited, Philomela wishes to swear by the gods, that
is, give testimony on oath, that she was raped (voienti/testarique deos, per vim
sibi dedecus illud/inlatum, 6.607-609). Ovid states that she “uses her hand in
place of a voice” (pro voce manus fuit, 6.609; cf. pro verbis, above). Procne
later calls attention to her sister’s lack of speech, in contrast to her son’s ability
to talk:
inque vicem spectans ambos 'cur admovet’ inquit
'alter blanditias, rapta silet altera lingua?
quam vocat hie matrem, cur non vocat ilia sororem?
(6.631-633)
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and in turn looking at both she said, “why does one proffer
sweet-talk, the other, her tongue snatched out, is silent?
Whom one calls mother, why does she not call sister?”
Procne uses rapta of what happened to Philomela’s tongue--a word often
used for the act of rape. She notes the irony of her son being able to speak
blanditias, the “sweet-talk” often used by those seeking to seduce. Her son
calls her “mother” because he has the ability to speak and name his
relationship to Procne; Philomela, still Procne’s sister, cannot say “sister” both
because Tereus took her tongue and because, by rape, he has changed her
identity from sister to paelex.2 0
Once the two have killed, cooked, and served Itys to his father, Philomela
emerges with the boy’s head:
sicut erat sparsis furiali caede capillis,
prosiluit Ityosque caput Philomela cruentum
misit in ora paths nec tempore maluit ullo
posse loqui et mentis testari gaudia dictis.
(6.657-660)
just as she was with her hair spattered with mad
slaughter, Philomela jumped forth and threw the bloody
head of Itys into the face of his father, nor at any other
time did she wish more to be able to speak
and to give evidence of her joy in words worthy of it
Philomela longs most now, at this moment of vengeance, for the power of
speech. We are told that she would “testify” about her own joy, recalling the
theme we have seen over and over again of being an informant or bearing
witness (cf. indicium; indice; and testari, above, of her rape). In a sense, her
3 0 See Barbara Pavlock (1991) for a more detailed discussion of the dissolution and confusion of
boundaries in this story.
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joy is itself a crime about which testimony might be given-that is, in a situation
where right and wrong are confounded, joy over an innocent boy slain is a
crime.
The situation is “resolved” with all three transformed into birds as Tereus
chases Procne and Philomela in an effort to kill them (6.661-74). After such
crimes, it seems like this is the only possible outcome (i.e. that they change
into non-speaking beings), since their acts are “unspeakable." One must
consider continued existence after such events: how to go on, as human?
Ovid resolves this by having the three lose their humanity and dissolve into the
landscape of Metamorphoses.2 1
The landscape itself plays a role in narratives of victimization and
dehumanization in the Metamorphoses. Just as we have seen Dryope, for
example, fall innocent victim by picking a flower on what appeared to be an
innocuous landscape,2 2 so too do we find in Philomela’s story a silent reminder
of others who were forever changed. Ovid tells us that it is during Bacchic rites
that Procne frees her sister from the hut and brings her to the palace:
Tempus erat, quo sacra solent trieterica Bacchi
Sithoniae celebrare nurus: (nox conscia sacris,
nocte sonat Rhodope tinnitibus aeris acuti)
nocte sua est egressa domo regina deique
ritibus instruitur furialiaque accipit arma
(6.5587-591)
It was time when Thracian matrons are accustomed to
celebrate the triennial rites of Bacchus: (night knew the
rites, by night Rhodope resounds with the ringing of shrill
2 1 Pavlock (1991,43) draws a parallel between Procne and Ovid's Agave in Met. 3; Pavlock
states: “In contrast to Euripides, Ovid implies that there is no return to humanity, for this
character does not regain her senses and experience some kind of therapeutic understanding
of her act at the end.”
2 2 9.342-348: the flower was the Lotis, who had changed fugiens obscens Priapi 9.347.
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bronze) by night the queen leaves her home and is prepared
for the rites of the god and assumes the mad arms
The site of the rescue may at first glance seem a mere reference to the land of
Thrace: Rhodope, as a mountain, is sometimes an identifier of the region.
However, we have seen Rhodope not long before this, in the tapestry which
Pallas weaves in the contest with Arachne:
ut tamen exemplis intellegat aemula laudis,
quod pretium speret pro tarn furialibus ausis
quattuor in partes certamina quattuor addit,
clara colore suo, brevibus distincta sigillis:
Threiciam Rhodopen habet angulus unus et Haemum,
nunc gelidos montes, mortalia corpora quondam,
nomina summorum sibi qui tribuere deorum
(6.83-89)
so that the rival of fame might understand through
examples what reward she could hope for in exchange
for so mad a daring, she adds four contests in the four
comers, each clear in its own color, distinct with small
figures: one comer has Thracian Rhodope and Haemus,
now icy mountains, once mortal bodies, who gave
the names of the highest gods to themselves
The aetiology of these mountains is told as a warning to Arachne against
challenging the gods: just as Rhodope and Haemus suffered for trying to
usurp the place of Jupiter and Juno, so Arachne is a rival of fame (aemula
laudis) challenging Minerva, attempting to take her place. For “so mad a
daring,” we see what Arachne can expect: Rhodope and Haemus are forever
changed into silent, cold reminders that the gods stand at the top of the
hierarchy and always win at such contests. Since Ovid tells us that the four
comers have contests (certamina), we see clear evidence that Ovid equates
the words of these figures to challenges perceived by the gods-calling each
other by the names of the highest gods is the narrative equivalent of Arachne’s
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challenge, Marsyas’ challenge, Niobe’s boast, Callisto’s pregnancy, et cetera.
Each of these is perceived by the gods equally as a contest to usurp their
place. Pallas’ double “end” of the work (victory/peace)2 3 intimates that, for the
gods, victory is peace, and peace means silencing all opposition. Thus
Rhodope is not only the site of silenced opposition but is also the place where
Procne ranges in order to rescue her silenced sister, Philomela. Like the
“incidental rapes” we noted in Chapter 2B, these references to places
resonate with reminders of those changed in order to “put them in their place”;
they are silent warnings to those who would oppose the powerful and
memorials of those that did.
We meet Rhodope again in Book 10 associated with Thracian Orpheus. As
we have discussed above, Orpheus looms large as a figure whose power of
voice ultimately fails him. It is, perhaps, not coincidental that he is called
Rhodopeius vates (10.10-11) and Rhodopeius Orpheus (10.50); it is to these
mountains (Rhodope and Haemus) that Orpheus goes, having lost Eurydice
forever (se recipit Rhodopen pulsumque aquilonibus Haemum, 10.77). Here
Orpheus brings shade to the place with his singing; Ovid gives us a catalogue
. of trees that come to the place and in this catalogue we find other silent
reminders of those victimized and changed--all of these situated on mountains
that used to be mortals:
non Chaonis afuit arbor,
non nemus Heliadum, non frondibus aesculus altis,
nec tiliae molles, nec fagus et innuba laurus,
et coryli fragiles et fraxinus utilis hastis
enodisque abies curvataque glandibus ilex
et platanus genialis acerque coloribus inpar
amnicolaeque simul salices et aquatica lotos
(10.90-96)
* See full discussion of the tapestries in Chapter 2A.
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not absent was the Chaonian oak, nor the grove of the
Heliades, nor the Italian oak with its high leaves, nor the
soft lime trees, nor the beech and unwed laurel and
slender hazel and ash, useful for spears, and the knotless
fir and ilex bent with nuts the pleasant plane tree and
multi-colored maple together with the stream-dwelling
willow and aquatic lotus
As we noted in Chapter 2B while discussing “incidental rapes," the innuba
laurus here clearly refers to Daphne, while the lotus is Lotis, the nymph who, in
Book 9, changed while fleeing the “obscena of Priapus" (9.347-348). We
have, then, like narrative nesting dolls,2 4 the silenced victims of aggression on
a mountain silenced for its challenge in story of a bard whose voice will be
silenced (i.e. cannot be not heard) over the rabble of his attackers.
Once victims of absolute power have been changed or silenced (i.e. in
some other way, as with Orpheus), they no longer pose a threat since their
wishes may be interpreted for them. This is often conveyed to us by Ovid in
terms of what the figure, once changed, seems to be saying or doing. We find
this, for example, with the Daphne/laurel whose movement is interpreted for
us: factis modo laurea ramis/adnuit utque caput visa est agitasse cacumen
(1.566-567), “the laurel with its newly-made branches nodded and the tree-
top, like a head, seemed to shake.” Now a symbol of victory (as the laurel; cf.
Pallas’ web, where victory=peace), the laurel assents to those things over
which she has no power and (literally) no say. We saw the same with Syrinx:
the sound of the reeds is gentle “and similar to one complaining,” (similemque
querenti, 1.708).
2 4 There are other points of interest here: Haemus is elsewhere said to have been the son of
Boreas and Orithyia (i.e. “ raped Orithyia” ); and both Rhodope and Haemus appear in the
catalogue of mountains burned by Phaethon's daring flight (2.217-223) which he performed
against the advice of the god.
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These similarities to living humans who are capable of autonomous
speech are precisely what we have been discussing: the altered state of a
victim is like human existence but is described as a state in between life and
death, where autonomous human speech is impossible. If a form of speech
remains, it is either said to be grief or it is simply open to the interpretation of
others.2 5 Ovid tells us by this recurrent theme of silencing that the powerful
maintain their places at the top of the hierarchy by squelching the voices of
opposition. Any perceived opposition-a challenger, one who boasts equality
or superiority to a powerful figure, a potential informant, an unwilling object of
desire-must be silenced and put down.
The rape victims or targets of attempted rape all suffer from the attention of
ones more powerful than themselves. Some rape victims retain their power to
speak: lo, changed into a goddess, can speak (but is reluctant to do so); the
Muses tell of the attempt made on them by Pyreneus; Thetis can speak and
simply acquiesces to rape, citing the power of the gods; Proserpina can speak,
but says nothing of her rape; Arethusa tells her story involving Alpheus;
Alcmena speaks, but says nothing of her rape by Jupiter; and Chione brags of
having been desired by two gods.2 6 Others are silenced, but not all in the
same ways: although some maintain their form and voice, after the rape Ovid
does not let us hear from them again.2 7 Others are not literally silenced, but
* This is shown by Ovid’s use of words of similarity to human speech and action, as we have
seen earlier in this chapter. In addition, some “ hear" the alternate speech of victims immediately,
as we saw above with Inachus’ immediate comprehension of lo’s plight, Ceres’ reading Cyane’s
signs, and Procne’s immediate grasp of Philomela’s woven narrative. Pallas, too, clearly
understands the narrative woven by Arachne.
* cf. James (1997,60-76) for the raped slave woman in Ovid’s elegy, forced both to be silent
about the sexual abuse she has suffered and to speak highly of her abuser.
2 7 Europa, Liriope, Leucothoe, Danae, Hermaphroditus, Medusa, Orithyia, DeTanira, Cinyras,
Hippodame.
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seemingly have accepted the rape without comment or complaint, or speak of
it either neutrally or as a boon.2 8 Still others die or are changed into something
non-human which is incapable of autonomous human speech.2 9
Turning now from literary rape to real rape--and to real Rome--we may
consider the implications of Ovid’s use of rape narratives as narratives of
power. In Chapter 4, we will examine theoretical perspectives on rape and
consider how, or if, these may apply to Ovid’s Metamorphoses and to his
contemporary Rome. We will turn finally to examine what is known about laws
and attitudes concerning real rape in Rome in order to locate these narratives
in their cultural and historical context.
“ lo, daughter of Coroneus, Leucothoe, Ganymede, Helen, Chione, Proserpina, Alcmena,
Dryope, Caenis, Sibylla, and Pomona.
“ Daphne, Syrinx, Callisto, Leucothoe, Aegina, Philomela, Perimele, Lotis, Hesperia,
Caenis/Caeneus.
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Chapter 4
Real Rape, Real Rome and Ovid’s Metamorphoses
Rape is both an overt and insidious part of the landscape in Ovid’s
Metamorphoses. But what does this have to do with real rape? In Chapter
One we saw how Ovid’s poem is wholly concerned with power-and from the
first rape in the poem, that that power is associated with Augustan Rome. In
closely examining rape narratives in Chapter Two, we saw that rape stories
are themselves narratives of power, reflecting and maintaining the hierarchy of
a universe in which Jupiter-an analogue of Augustus in Book One and in
Book 15--reigns supreme. In Chapter Three we noted the aftermath of rape,
the similarities to punishment stories, wherein any challenger of the authority
of the gods is silenced. Absolute power exerted over an individual silences
and often destroys that individual.
In Ovid’s hierarchy of power set forth from the beginning of the work, we
saw the following scheme: Jupiter has and rules the gods, who control
everything. Humans are set above animals, and somewhere in between
humans and gods are lesser deities and nymphs. This scheme can be broken
down further, within each category: among the gods and people, in terms of
power males clearly outrank the females.
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Feminist scholarship provides incisive and insightful perspectives of rape
in patriarchal societies as both a means and a product of the subordination of
women to men. A survey of such studies will show how such feminist theories
could easily be applied to the hierarchy set forth in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
Real Rape: Feminist Theoretical Perspectives
Rape has emerged in feminist theoretical perspectives as one extreme
example of a locus of male domination of the female. Early feminists focused
on societal structures and attitudes which lead to a preponderance of power in
the hands of men, serving male interests. Kate Millett (1969, 25) defined
patriarchal societies as those in which the key societal institutions (political
office, industry, technology, military, etc.), “in short, every avenue of power
within a society," are male-dominated. Millett states:
Patriarchal societies typically link feelings of cruelty
with sexuality, the latter often equated both with evil
and with power. This is apparent both in the sexual
fantasy reported by psychoanalysis and that reported by
pornography. The rule here associates sadism with the
male (“the masculine role”) and victimization with the
female (“the feminine role”). (1969, 44)
In Reconcilable Differences. Lynn S. Chancer traces the development among
second-wave feminists of critiquing heterosexuality, and the institution of the
nuclear family in particular, as the primary means for controlling women and
their bodily freedom (1998, 28-58). Seeing women as a class, before and
beyond any distinctions in race, ethnicity, religion, or economic standing, many
second-wave feminists focused on how women--as a class-were
systematically oppressed.
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Alice Echols outlines the essentializing views of “cultural feminists” of the
1970s and 1980s, noting the false assumption that women could liberate
themselves while still living within the confines of a patriarchal society (1983,
441). There emerged a picture of women as inherently good and men as
inherently bad, essentializing the “natures” of men and of women. Echols
notes that early radical feminists had promoted the dissolution of gender,
which they saw as a societal construct, “as a meaningful category,” since the
oppression of women was seen as gender subordination. Echols sees a
departure in later radical feminists, whom she calls “cultural feminists" with
their focus on what they see as essential maleness and essential femaleness,
relegating the materiality of patriarchy to a secondary position. Robin
Morgan’s (1970) sisterhood is powerful: An Anthology of Writings from the
Women’s Liberation Movement provides numerous examples of seeing men,
because they are men, as the oppressors of women. The Redstockings
Manifesto, for example, states “all men have oppressed women” (in Morgan,
1970, 533). Likewise, the S.C.U.M. Manifesto expresses the desire to
eliminate men, institutions created by men, and women who acquiesce to the
“male” way of thought and of life:
The few remaining men can exist out their puny days . . .
or they can go off to the nearest friendly neighborhood
suicide center where they will be quietly, quickly, and
painlessly gassed to death. (1970, 519)
Separatist views focused on men as the problem, men as the source of
violence and lack of self-control (although this is contraindicated by the
statements above), expressing sexualized rage against women to terrorize
and keep women under the strict control of men. This resonates in the later
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writings of separatist feminists who extend this view, espousing “grand theory”;
Mary Daly (1978), for example, suggests that all patriarchal societies have the
same effects-regardless of differences in time, space, language, and culture-
and proposes the creation of an alternative consciousness for women as a
means to liberation. These “cultural feminists,” as Echols calls them (1983),
identify sexual aggression and violence with maleness. By the extension of
the theory that rape is one form of male domination of women in a patriarchal
society, some come to identify any heterosexual sexual intercourse as rape-
as found, for example, in Andrea Dworkin’s later work Intercourse (1987).1
While feminist thought has undergone many shifts in focus, violence
against women has remained a key issue in feminist writings. We can note
some works that formed the basis for current feminist scholarship on rape.
Interest in sex crimes against women, expressed as an early concern of
second-wave feminists, was picked up and spotlighted in such landmark
works as Susan Griffin's “Rape: The All-American Crime” (1971, rpt. 1977),
Susan Brownmiller’s Against Our Will: Men. Women, and Rape (1975), and
Susan Griffin’s Rape: The Power of Consciousness (1979). Andra Medea
and Kathleen Thompson (1974) seek to examine rape, why men rape, and
suggest preventative measures for women; D. E. Russell (1975) expresses a
victim’s perspective. Brownmiller’s extensive work considers the history and
politics of rape, images of rape in popular culture and professional literature,
laws concerning rape, and various psychological aspects of sexual violence.
' This is not too far off from the earlier description of sexual intercourse presented by Simone de
Beauvoir in The Second Sex, but framed in different terms, de Beauvoir asserts that a
girl’s/woman’s first time having sexual intercourse is an experience very much like rape: “ the first
penetration is always a violation,” etc. (Parshley, trans., 1984,383). For de Beauvoir’s
comments on virgin sex, see 371 -403).
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From these works, rape became more clearly recognized as a political act
arising from the systemic domination of women by men, flourishing in societies
whose institutions and laws were created and maintained to protect the
interests of men (i.e. patriarchal societies). These and other feminist works
(e.g. Rosemarie Tong, 1984; Susan Estrich, 1987) exploded myths about rape,
rapists, and rape victims. Most notably, Brownmiller’s assertion (1975) that
rape is an act of violence and of power, shook previously-held
misconception(s) that rape was an act of uncontrolled (or uncontrollable) male
passion used against a reluctant, but ultimately willing, sex partner. Kathleen
Barry (1979, 40) wrote, concerning rape: “It is a political crime of violence
against women, an act of power and domination." She saw any sexual
intercourse as rape if the woman or girl involved was a female sexual slave;
Barry defined female sexual slavery:
Female sexual slavery is present in ALL situations where
women or girls cannot change the immediate conditions
of their existence; where regardless of how they got into
those conditions they cannot get out; and where they are
subject to sexual violence and exploitation. (1979, 40)
The effect of such works was two-fold: they exposed rape as a serious
political, as well as personal, issue and they spurred social activism, resulting
not only in a broader awareness of what rape is, but also in the formation of
rape-crisis hotlines, centers for battered women, etc.
Colleen A. Ward (1995, 9) notes that feminist works of the 1970s also
pointed out the lack of serious attention paid to rape in professional
psychological literature, and that feminists “criticized psychological science
first for its neglect of half of the population and second for its androcentric
perspective and misrepresentation of women in its meagre research
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endeavors.” Ward credits the endeavors of feminist theorists of the 1970s and
early 1980s for sparking psychological research into sexual violence. Ward
states:
. . . rape has become reconceptualized as an act of male
power and control, rather than a crime of sexual passion,
and has been represented as only one example of men’s
domination and exploitation of women. Although rape has
been interpreted by feminists in a variety of ways . . . a
common thread in feminist thought is that rape does not
qualitatively differ from other aspects of male and female
relations. (1995,181)
Feminist theorists of the 1980s continued to write on rape, its causes, its
consequences, its meaning. In addition, feminist scholars in diverse fields
began to examine representations of rape in literature and in other works of
art, such as paintings, sculptures, and films.2 The “sex wars” of the 1980s
consisted largely in the debate over what was seen as pornography:
representations that served to objectify women. This spurred a flurry of
feminist theoretical works, largely focused on the abolition of pornography.
The main view of this group is that pornography uses and exploits women
(amongst others depicted), spawns other pornographic materials (texts,
pictures, films) that exploit the objectification of women, and ultimately leads to
the real-life harming of women (such as battery, rape, and murder). Leading
the anti-pornography theorists is Andrea Dworkin, who dominated the field
with the release of Pornography: Men Possessing Women (1981), published
on the heels of the collection of anti-pom essays which fired perhaps the first
shots against pornography in the sex wars: Take Back the Niaht (Laura
Lederer, ed. 1980). This collection includes Robin Morgan's memorable
2 e.g. Ian Donaldson (1982), Susan R. Suleiman, ed. (1986), and Sylvana Tomaselli and Roy
Porter, eds. (1986).
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“Theory and Practice: Pornography and Rape,” in which Morgan asserts
“Pornography is the theory, rape is the practice" (1980, 139). Other leading
representatives of the anti-pom group include Susan Griffin (1981), Susan
Brownmiller, Kathleen Barry, and Catharine MacKinnon-who, along with
Dworkin, drafted the Minneapolis ordinance against pornography in 1983. A
more extreme point of view was expressed by Susanne Kappeler (1986) who
saw all representation as objectification, resulting in her slogan “Art will have
to go."
The “sex wars” had the effect of splintering feminist ideology into camps
that appeared to be, for one, anti-sex, prudish, and anti-pom and for another,
pro-sex, sexually libertarian, and pro-pom. Chancer (1998, 28-58) notes a
schism among feminists stemming from the 1980s “sex wars" into those who
focus on sexism (subordination based on sexual difference) and those who
focus on sex (sexual pleasure, sexual freedom). Divided as they were-and
are-over this issue, no group emerges as pro-rape.
Work on representation theory continues; Carol Clover (1992) suggests
that films depicting rape have turned a comer, so to speak, from inviting
identification with the rapist to encouraging identification with the rape victim.
Clover suggests that men, as well as women, identify with the victim in what
she calls rape-revenge films (films in which the rape victim directly punishes
the rapist).
Meanwhile, in the 1980s many feminists called for reforms in rape law and
in the treatment and attitudes toward rape victims; existing laws were
scrutinized (e.g. Marsh, Geist, and Caplan 1982; Bessmer 1984; Estrich 1987).
Rape continues to be in feminist debates of the 1990s, largely occupying a
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space in feminist theories of jurisprudence. Taking up where Susan Estrich’s
Real Rape (1987) left off, feminists have begun to examine existing laws
concerning sexual violence, attitudes toward rape and rape victims, the system
of jurisprudence that maintains and promulgates such attitudes, and the entire
fabric of the culture that produces the rapists, the victims, the laws, and the
system to deal with them. One such work, Feminist Leoal Theory: Readings in
Law and Gender (1991), a collection of essays, suggests that a bias favoring
male interests still exists in the laws and the system of handling rape cases.
Such a bias supports male supremacy and creates and maintains a sort of
‘rape culture’ which these laws purport to eradicate.
In Transforming a Rape Culture (1993) feminist theorists-such as Dworkin,
Chris O’Sullivan, Gloria Steinem, Carol J. Adams, Naomi Wolf, Peggy Miller
and Nancy Biele--add to the feminist concept of 20th century American society
as a ‘rape culture,’ which overtly and insidiously forms a system of oppression
and exploitation of women through the attitudes it both creates and maintains.
Once again, the call is for change through social activism.
Feminist theory in the 1990s has also felt the effects of the splintering from
the “sex wars,” as noted by Chancer (1998), and has suffered a backlash from
various camps. For various reasons some women recoil at the ‘label’ feminist-
-perhaps not wanting to be lumped together with separatists and/or lesbians,
or seeing themselves as not affected by, or not included in, the issues with
which feminists deal, etc. Others take a stance that directly contradicts that of
feminists who see men as the source of sexual aggression against women.
For example, Katie Roiphe in The Morning After (1993) suggests that feminists
have exaggerated concerns about date rape, based largely on their focus on
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women as victims of male abuse, exploitation, and domination. Naomi Wolf
(1993), likewise, sees feminists as falling into the trap of “victim feminism.”
Examining these two works Chancer notes that this phenomenon is very
similar to the “sex wars” (or as she says, “sex debates")-she states (here, of
Wolf’s text):
Again, on one “side" are feminists associated with a
collectively oriented analysis, with indicting
patriarchy as a form of social organization premised on
male domination. And again, this side is portrayed as
distinctively uninterested in questions of individual
pleasure and as relatively asexual in its concerns . . .
Just as before, on the other side are feminists (now
dubbed “power feminists") who are more explicitly
interested in issues involving sexual choice, exploration,
and freedom. (1998, 231)
The result of this splintering of feminist perspectives, the subject of Chancer’s
recent work, is that feminism in the 1990s has devolved from a vibrant, self-
assured, proactive perspective in the 60s and 70s, to its current weakened and
defensive posture, attacked from within and from without. In combination with
this is the “mainstreaming” of feminist energies into issues (e.g. sexual
harassment, workplace issues) which, although deserving of attention, have
received more attention in the popular media than have efforts to stop men
from raping. Recent high-exposure cases-trials such as those involving the
so-called “Long Island Lolita” (Amy Fisher),3 the infamous Bobbitts, 0. J.
Simpson, William Kennedy Smith, et al.-have brought much attention to the
issues of attitudes toward women and of domestic violence; the attention has
sparked some social activism and, certainly, dialogue of all kinds. Ultimately,
3 Including the subsequent statutory rape case of Buttafuoco and Fisher’s later charge of rape
against prison guards; Buttafuoco served a reduced sentence and Fisher’s case against the
guards was dismissed.
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however, these cases suggest how deeply entrenched misogynistic attitudes
are, and how the conceptualized male and female gender roles and relations
between men and women in society suffer in the 1990s from the same ills
feminists reported in the 1960s. It remains to be seen what effect the fracturing
of feminist goals and approaches and the perceived lack of a unified
movement will have on future feminist theories concerning rape.
There are obvious cross-cultural, transhistorical problems with applying the
theories of 20th century feminists to Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Some feminist
theorists (e.g. Dworkin, Daly) argue that rape is a transhistorical phenomenon,
simply existing anywhere patriarchy exists (universalizing patriarchy,
universalizing rape). However, some feminist theories concerning rape are
directly applicable to the rape narratives of Ovid’s Metamorphoses not
because rape is rape, but because Roman culture, while set apart in many
ways from 20th century American society, nevertheless bears many similarities
to it. For example, in both we find patriarchal structures (cf. Millett, 1969):
male-dominated government, court systems, military, industry, economy, texts,
and attitudes. There are similar beliefs about female chastity, a woman’s role
in the family (as wife, mother, etc.), a “good” woman’s preservation of male
interests, and her existence for the comfort and pleasure of men. Similar, too,
is the notion of a woman as an extension of a man (and therefore of a woman
defined by her relationship to the men around her, or by her lack of men). In
both cultures, strict rules are established, both in law and in common practice,
governing the bodies, sexuality, and reproductive capabilites of women. In
applying feminist theory to Ovid’s work, we can see how a selective
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application of feminist theory, at least, shows how the poet portrays what some
feminist scholars later theorized.
Feminist Theories and Ovid’s Metamorphoses
Andrea Dworkin (1987) argues that in heterosexual intercourse, there is a
paradoxical desire: men want to use women as sexual objects, but loathe sex
as dirty and thus loathe the women they use (1987, 3-20). Therefore, they
both desire and hate the same object, and often seek to harm the object of
their (hated) desire. There is thus a use of, hatred for, and objectification of the
female in sexual intercourse (1987, 3-20). Considering these points alone we
may see, for example, how this may apply to the rapes in Ovid’s
Metamorphoses. The majority of rape victims are changed into something not
human, die, or are not heard from again.4 We also see that the rape or rape
attempt marks the woman forever and alters her identity.5 Kathleen Barry
(1984) notes a similar redefining of the rape victim:
The assigned label of “victim,” which initially was
meant to call awareness to the experience of sexual
violence, becomes a term that expresses that person’s
identity. (1984, 45)
The aitiologies Ovid provides, by their very nature as aitiologies, defines these
figures by the rape/rape attempt. For example, the laurel tree is the nearly-
raped Daphne: as the tree’s origin is told, so is Daphne’s near-rape by Apollo.
She and the tree have an intertwined identity that intersects at the point of
rape.
4 See Chapter 3 above for a more detailed discussion.
5 Either by changing her form or by the rape being attached to her identity, as in Procris, “ the
sister of raped Orithyia."
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In Chapter 5 of Intercourse. Dworkin (1987, 63-69) touches upon another
point which Ovid presents in his poem: heterosexual intercourse as a means
for a man to possess/own a woman. This may be seen most clearly in the
Daphne-Apollo episode, where in place of rape, we have the claim of
ownership:
cui deus 'at, quoniam coniunx mea non potes esse,
arbor eris certe' dixit 'mea! semper habebunt
te coma, te citharae, te nostrae, laure, pharetrae;
tu ducibus Latiis aderis, cum laeta Triumphum
vox canet et visent longas Capitolia pompas;
postibus Augustis eadem fidissima custos
ante fores stabis mediamque tuebere quercum,
utque meum intonsis caput est iuvenale capillis,
tu quoque perpetuos semper gere frondis honores!'
finierat Paean: factis modo laurea ramis
adnuit utque caput visa est agitasse cacumen.
(1.557-567)
the god said to it/her "but, since you cannot be my wife,
surely you will be my tree! My hair will always have you,
my lyres will have you, my quivers, laurel, will have you;
you will come with Latin generals, when a joyous voice
sings the Triumph and the Capitol views long parades;
on Augustan posts you will stand as most faithful guardian
before the doors and you will watch over the oak
in between; and as my head is youthful with its shorn hair,
you too always bear perpetual honors with your leaves!”
Paean finished: the laurel nodded with its newly-made
boughs and like a head, the treetop seemed to shake
As we noted in Chapter 1, Apollo not only claims ownership of the Daphne-
tree, but ties the ownership of her to Augustan Rome. The victory over this
female figure stands in place of rape, equals rape, and becomes part of the
would-be rapist’s identity as victor. Owned by Apollo and worn by him and
“the state,” as it were, Daphne becomes a symbol of institutionalized conquest
and domination.
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In Chapter Six of the same work, Dworkin discusses virginity-she argues
that one who remains a virgin is seen as either manly or resisting the role of
woman (1987, 83-119). For thus is a woman defined as woman: to be a
woman is to be penetrable. Dworkin states, “Male desire is presented as a
response to female beauty” (1987, 97ff.). This we have seen stated explicitly
in the Metamorphoses. First, we have Daphne, again, who wished to remain a
virgin--Ovid says to Daphne: “but that beauty forbids what you wish to be and
your form fights against your prayer.” (sec/ te decor iste quod optas/esse vetat,
votoque tuo tua forma repugnat, 1.488-489). Dworkin’s assertion that women,
by definition, are sexually penetrable matches that explicit claim in Ovid’s story
of Caenis/Caeneus. Like so many other victims of rape/attempted rape,
Caenis is known for her beauty (Clara decore fuit proles Elateia
Caenis/Thessalidum virgo pulcherrima, 12.188-189) and much sought-after in
marriage (12.188-192). Raped by Neptune:
"magnum" Caenis ait "facit haec iniuria votum,
tale pati iam posse nihil; da, femina ne sim:
omnia praestiteris."
(12.201-203)
Caenis said, “This outrage constitutes a great prayer,
to be able no longer to suffer anything like it; grant that
I not be a woman: you will have given all.”
Caenis1 prayer equates rapability with being a woman. Neptune adds to this
gift/reward impenetrability of any kind: he makes the male Caeneus
invulnerable (dederatque nec saucius ullis/vulneribus fieri ferrove occumbere
posset, 12.206-207). As a woman, Caenis was sexually penetrable (rapable);
since as a warrior/man, Caeneus would nevertheless be penetrable, Neptune
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adds invulnerability. We may note, Caenis’ use of the legal term iniuria: in a
sense, Neptune’s gift is a payment of damages.
In Chapter 7 of Intercourse. Dworkin (1987, 121-143) asserts that women
internalize male discourse on sex, see intercourse as a good thing and thus
insidiously are made to seek out their own objectification and degradation.
She writes of this internalization:
We know only this one language of these folks who
enter and occupy us: they keep telling us that we are
different from them; yet we speak only their language
and have none, or none that we remember, of our own; and
we do not dare, it seems, invent one, even in signs and
gestures. Our bodies speak their language. Our minds
think in it. The men are inside us through and through.
We hear something, a dim whisper, barely audible,
somewhere at the back of the brain; there is some other
word, and we think, some of us, sometimes, that it once
belonged to us. (1987, 135)
Dworkin’s remarks here may may be applied to our earlier discussions of the
Metamorphoses: consider those who boast of being raped (Chione, for
example), or that a potential victim immediately recognizes the danger she is
in, despite explicit claims to the contrary (e.g. Jupiter to lo, “you will go safely,
with a god as your protector”). Consider, too, the instances we have seen in
Chapter 3 where, it seems, a victim language emerges as a means of
communication. We saw lo scratch in the dirt, Cyane signal (with a cloth)
Proserpina’s rape; we recall Philomela’s tapestry. With language literally
removed, we might consider how the movements of the changed women are
interpreted for us--dehumanized, the once-women seem to be saying
something or seem to indicate what a human would: they produce imitations
of autonomous human speech.
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The last point from Dworkin’s Intercourse which we might apply to Ovid’s
Metamorphoses is her assertion that women at the lowest point of hierarchic
power are the most sought-after victims of rape.6 These women, as such, have
no recourse, no avengers, no justice. Like the victims of rape in real Rome
who were barred from legal proceedings based on (perceived) access to their
bodies, these victims have no access to justice. This is clearly the case with
many of the targets of victimization in the Metamorphoses. As to their
powerlessness, we can consider Callisto; Ovid writes:
ilia quidem pugnat; sed quern superare puella,
quisve lovem poterat?
(2.436-437)
she indeed fought; but what man could a girl overcome,
or what human could overcome Jove?
Clearly, Callisto has no chance to fend off the attack. We recall that even
Thetis--who is called a goddess, but in the final analysis, remains a rapable
nymph--was the victim of a rape mandated by Jupiter in order for him to
maintain his supremacy:
ergo, ne quicquam mundus love maius haberet,
quamvis haut tepidos sub pectore senserat ignes,
luppiter aequoreae Thetidis conubia fugit,
in suaque Aeaciden succedere vota nepotem
iussit et amplexus in virginis ire marinae.
(11.224-228)
Therefore, lest the world should have anything greater
than Jove, although he had felt the hot fires under his
breast, Jupiter fled intercourse with Thetis of the sea,
and he ordered his grandson, the son of Aeacus, to take
his place in what he wanted and to go into the embraces
of the sea-virgin.
8 Dworkin (1987,169-194) discusses this in terms of racial and economic standards.
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Thetis submits to rape once she realizes that the gods have sanctioned the act
(turn demum ingemuit, 'ne' que ait 'sine numine vincis,' 11.263)-by her
immediate submission at that moment of realization, Thetis signals her
acquiescence both to the evaluation of the female as inferior to the male, and
to the hierarchy maintained through rape. This has clear and direct political
implications: Jupiter--as supreme ruler--orders (iussit, 11.228) the rape; the
rapable female must be raped to ensure the continuation of the hierarchy as it
stands.
Ovid’s system suggests that women are different from men. Defining
women as sexually penetrable implies that they are different from men, who do
not have this definition applied to themselves (cf. Ovid’s Caenis/Caeneus).
Feminist scholars debate the merits of looking at differences between men and
women, arguing variously either to drop the “difference” approach or to seek
special status for women based on difference. In a volume on feminist legal
theory, Wendy Williams (1991,15-34), for example, argues that women must
either claim equality with men (and take all the risks, too, such as military
service, etc.) or claim the need for special treatment based on difference--but
to argue both is impossible. Christine A. Little (1991, 35-96; in the same
volume) argues that because of differences, 'separate but equal’ spheres for
men and for women would be fine, if equal had any of its true meaning.
Catharine A. MacKinnon (1991, 81-94; in the same volume), however,
argues that the focus on differences and similarities between the sexes is not
as productive as looking at the ways in which male dominance over women is
created and maintained. She describes her “dominance approach”:
In this approach, an equality question is a question of the
distribution of power. Gender is also a question of power,
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specifically of male supremacy and female subordination.
The question of equality, from the standpoint of what it is
going to take to get it, is at root a question of hierarchy,
which-as power succeeds in constructing social
perception and social reality-derivatively becomes a
categorical distinction, a difference. (1991, 87)
This approach is by far more easily applied to the Metamorphoses: although
we can see that ‘difference’ is part of the act of subordinating women to men in
Ovid’s hierarchy, it is specifically through the act of rape that male domination
over women is created and maintained. In another essay in the same volume,
MacKinnon notes, (1991,190; her italics): “To be rap able, a position which is
social, not biological, defines what a woman is ” She further argues (1991,
190) that it is wrong simply to see rape as sex without consent: “What is wrong
with rape is that it is an act of the subordination of women to men.” MacKinnon
notes that the state (by the laws it creates and preserves) protects male
interests and power. Susan Estrich (1987, 1-26) similarly found a tendency to
view rape as “forced sex,” removing it (in some people’s minds) as an act of
aggression and of subordination of victim to rapist, except in the more violent
and extreme cases. Like MacKinnon, Estrich (1987,8-91) has argued that
laws reflect a bias toward male interests and power. As we noted above, such
a bias supports male supremacy and creates and maintains a sort of ‘rape
culture’ which these laws purport to eradicate.
Rape and the threat of rape are ever-present, overtly or just beneath the
surface, in the Metamorphoses. Timothy Beneke in Men On Rape (1982)
describes some of the effects on women’s lives that such a threat presents in
the real world. He states (1982,3): “The threat of rape is an assault upon the
meaning of the world; it alters the feel of the human condition.” He notes that
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this threat affects how women live their lives and how they think (1982, 3-6):
from avoiding walking alone at night to avoiding direct eye contact; sizing up
men to assess the least dangerous in a group; taking various precautions in
their living arrangements (area, lighting, locks, alarms, protection devices,
etc.). Many women live with the constant awareness that sexual violence
directed against them is an ever-present possibility. So, too, we have seen
this awareness in the female characters of the Metamorphoses: we have seen
the formula of a virginal nymph walking alone in a natural setting (i.e., a rural
or silvan setting), a male character sees and wants her, and if she is
addressed at all, she flees immediately (cf. Daphne, lo, Syrinx), as if all
assurances of safety are understood by her to signify the opposite. As we
have seen in the section on incidental rapes (above, Chapter 2B), in addition
to the rape stories told as main narratives, Ovid inserts other, more insidious,
tales of rape, emphasizing the danger of sexual violence that lurks even in the
most seemingly innocuous places of his landscape.
Beneke’s work also raises the issue of rape as revenge for a personal
slight, or more specifically, as punishment for a perceived slight to the male
aggressor. Some men Beneke interviewed suggest that fantasies of raping a
woman arise from their perception that the woman seems to feel superior to
the man, and would-through rape--be “put in her place." A few examples are
ample-this first is quoted from a male interviewee (1982, 37):
If a guy’s not all there to begin with and then he gets
fucked over by a couple of girls, he may just have
something building up and something will just tick him
off about what a girl says and he’ll just follow her
through the night and rape her.
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Another states (1982, 43-44):
A lot of times a woman knows that she’s looking really
good and she’ll use that and flaunt it, and it makes me
feel like she’s laughing at me and I feel degraded. . . If I
were actually desperate enough to rape somebody, it
would be from wanting the person, but also it would be a
very spiteful thing, just being able to say, “I have power
over you and I can do anything I want with you,” because
really I feel that they have power over me just by their
presence.
One last example, from another man interviewed (1982, 65-66):
In my fantasies there are only certain women I want to
rape; bad women, evil women, sometimes aloof women.
I want to give them a taste of their own medicine. I want
to punish them. Maybe I want to rape a woman who would
not willingly sleep with me, who would be condescending
to me, who would not notice me sexually. There’s an
element of class resentment in that perhaps.
From these examples we can see a pattern of the concept of rape as both
punishment and as a means of changing the perceived power positions: the
man in each instance feels the rape would put him in the position of power
which he feels a woman, by her appearance or sexual attractiveness,
occupies prior to rape. Rape, to this way of thinking, elevates the male over
the female and simultaneously punishes her for ever having had (perceived)
power over him. We must keep in mind, too, the figure of Priapus in real
Rome, threatening rape as a penalty for would-be thieves (see Richlin, 1992a).
We can relate the attitude from this small sample of 20th c. American male
interviewees to the rape and punishment stories of the Metamorphoses
discussed above in Chapters 2 and 3. We have seen in this poem that
perceived challenges to authority are punished, often through the physical
destruction of the challenger (e.g. Lycaon, Marsyas, Arachne). In the rape
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stories, the rapists who attempt some verbal entreaty often include their
standing in the hierarchy of the universe, as if status alone might persuade the
object of desire to submit. Jupiter, for example, says to lo: (you’ll go) “not with
any common god, but I am he who holds the celestial sceptre in my mighty
hand” (nec de plebe deo, sed qui caelestia magna/sceptra manu teneo,1.595-
596; cf. Apollo’s earlier resume to Daphne, 1.510-524). Like the men quoted
by Beneke (above), the Ovidian rapist affirms his position of power through
rape or the attempt to rape. In Daphne’s case, in place of rape we find
Apollo’s claim of victory and of ownership (cf. Beneke’s interviewee’s
statement: “I have power over you and I can do anything I want with you").
In the story of Philomela, where rape and the challenge to authority are
most clearly indicated, we see Philomela physically mutilated when she
attempts to take control (i.e. threatens to tell what Tereus did to her) and then
repeatedly raped after her tongue is cut out. Ovid’s tyrant, Tereus, reenacts his
affirmation of power over her and, in effect, repeatedly punishes Philomela for
even having attempted to have power over him. Furthermore, in Tereus’ case,
this individual conquest is worth his whole kingdom; when he first saw
Philomela, he fantasized about his options:
impetus est illi comitum corrumpere curam
nutricisque fidem nec non ingentibus ipsam
sollicitare datis totumque inpendere regnum
aut rapere et saevo raptam defendere bello;
et nihil est, quod non effreno captus amore
ausit, nec capiunt inclusas pectora flammas.
(6.461-466)
His impulse is to corrupt her attendants’ care and the
faithfulness of her nurse and by huge gifts to tempt
the girl herself and to pay out his whole kingdom or
to rape her and to defend the rape with savage war;
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there is nothing which, taken by unbridled love, he would
not dare, nor does his breast hold the flames inside.
The example of Tereus suggests that political position and rank lead to a
feeling of entitlement: his position, wealth and power should be able to get
him whatever he wants. If they do not, then they are not worth keeping-only
this conquest matters. If giving over everything he has will not get him what he
wants, he is nevertheless willing to risk even his life (i.e. by waging war).
In the example above, Tereus is captus amore, “taken/captured by love,”
like the lover in elegy who is captivated by the beauty of the beloved. Like
Beneke’s interviewee, Ovid’s Tereus feels acted upon by the looks of the
object of his desire: the perception is that she did something to him simply by
looking so attractive. It is suggested that her attractiveness causes him to lose
control (effreno captus amore; nec capiunt inclusas pectora flammas). From
this stage onward, Ovid’s Tereus attempts to take and to keep control: he
strives throughout the rest of the story to secure Philomela for the purposes of
raping her and then acts to keep her in a state (i.e. silent, imprisoned, and
defenseless) where he can reaffirm his dominance over her whenever he
should please.
Rape as an act of domination makes its victim an object that is “taken” or
conquered (cf. Barry, 1984). Brownmiller states:
Rape is the quintessential act by which a male demonstrates
to a female that she is conquered-vanquished-by his
superior strength and power. (1975, 49)
In the first rape narrative of the Metamorphoses, we see Daphne changed into
the laurel-the Roman symbol of victory and conquest. The objectification,
however, occurs much earlier in the story-Amor uses Daphne as means to
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both punish Apollo and to teach him that Amor has greater power. Further,
when Apoiio conceives his love of Daphne, he engages in a fantasy in which
he manipulates her body in his mind; Ovid describes her body in parts, as
Apollo gazes upon her:
spectat inomatos collo pendere capillos
et 'quid, si comantur?' ait. videt igne micantes
sideribus similes oculos, videt oscula, quae non
est vidisse satis; laudat digitosque manusque
bracchiaque et nudos media plus parte lacertos;
si qua latent, meliora putat.
(1.497-502)
he looks at her hair hanging unadorned on her neck and said,
“What if it were combed?" He sees her eyes shining with fire
like stars, he sees kisses, which only to have seen is
not enough; he praises her fingers and her hands and
her lower arms and her upper arms, more than halfway bare;
whatever lay hidden he thought was even better.
Apollo is already doing as he wishes to Daphne. Daphne eventually prays
that her figure be destroyed through change; Ovid suggests Daphne’s
acknowledgement that all those parts added up to beauty, which attracted
Apollo:
'fer, pater,' inquit 'opem! si flumina numen habetis,
qua nimium placui, mutando perde figuram!'
(1.546-547)
“Father,” she said, “Bring help! If you, rivers,
have divinity, destroy my figure, by which I have
pleased too much, by changing it!”
Furthermore, Ovid alludes to the very parts of Daphne which Apollo earlier
saw as desirous, now being changed into parts of a tree:
vix prece finita torpor gravis occupat artus,
mollia cinguntur tenui praecordia libro,
in frondem crines, in ramos bracchia crescunt,
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pes modo tarn velox pigris radicibus haeret,
ora cacumen habet: remanet nitor unus in ilia.
(1.548-552)
With her prayer barely finished a heavy slowness
seized her limbs, her soft midriff is girt with thin bark,
her hair grew into leaves, her lower arms into boughs,
her foot-recently so swift-clings with slow roots, a
tree-top holds her head: her gleam alone remained in her.
Daphne’s limbs (artus) correspond with the lacertos and bracchia Apollo had
spied on; her midriff (praecordia) would be included in the area of her body
that was covered with clothing (si qua latent); her lower arms appear in both
sections (bracchia); her mouth, the site of earlier imagined kisses (oscuia)--
translated here, “head”~is now a tree-top; and her gleaming (nitoi)
corresponds to her “eyes shining with fire” (igne micantes oculos) as seen
earlier by Apollo. Piece by piece, Daphne’s body turns into the trophy that
Apollo claims as his and as Rome’s. His victory is complete.
Amy Richlin in “Reading Ovid’s Rapes” (1992b) finds these tales to be
pornographic. She states of texts such as Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Fasti.
which “take pleasure in violence,” with more than sixty rapes presented in the
two works (1992b, 158): “If the pornographic is that which converts living
beings into objects, such texts are certainly pornographic.” Richlin further
argues that the pornography model “allows us to take Ovid’s rapes literally”
(1992b, 173); content is not trivial. Richlin postulates that the problem,
however, is one of hierarchy: “within hierarchy, violence is a right” (1992b,
178). If we consider this in light of the other feminist perspectives we have just
discussed, we find an intersection of concepts that can be subsumed under
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the general heading of the systemic subordination of women to men through
rape and other forms of objectification.
But is it possible that male readers may identify with the victim, and not with
the rapist? In her study of horror films, Carol J. Clover suggests that movies
that portray violence against women, depending on their presentation, offer
the audience the opportunity to identify with rapist/killer and/or with the victim.
In some instances, she finds, we as the audience are all made victims and all
made rapists (1992, 229). Clover suggests that it is possible for a male
audience to identify with female victims of violence, even of sexual violence,
and also to experience the pleasure of the victim’s exaction of revenge, if she
should should avenge the crime. She does find in these films, however, that
the majority of victims are women and the majority of killers or rapists are men.
Similarly, Richlin notes in the section “The Cross-sex Fantasy Model: To Rape
is To Be Raped” (1992b, 173-178) the gender hierarchy which locates the
woman as the site of violence; even if a male is substituted as the victim, he is
seen as taking a woman’s place. Nevertheless, that victims are most often
depicted as women, both in such films and in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
suggests the gender hierarchy (which Richlin noted) within the broader
hierarchy of power.
These representations of women can be tied to the feminist legal theory
and to the concepts of the subordination of women to men we noted earlier.
During the “sex wars,” we noted that feminists were divided over but focused
on the issue of pomography-Robin Morgan, for example, sums up her view
(1980, 139): “Pornography is the theory, rape is the practice.” Morgan makes
a direct correlation between representations and reality. Still others, however,
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argue that pornography is constructive toward women’s sexual liberation and
is a viable expression of sexuality to be enjoyed equally by men and women
alike.7 Robert Jensen states (1998, 5): “The feminist critique focuses on the
role of pornography in a system of sexual subordination and oppression of
women." In the volume Transforming a Rape Culture (1993), Gloria Steinem
argues that pornography contributes to the societal construction of a rape
culture, and that notions of aggressive sexuality are also culturally constructed
and maintained:
The idea that aggression is a “normal" part of male
sexuality, and that passivity or even the need for male
aggression is a “normal" part of female sexuality, are
part of the male-dominant culture we live in, the books
we learn from, and the air we breathe. (1993,34)
Whatever opinion we hold of pornography, we find it linked over and over
again to violence against women. John Douglas, from his experience as an
FBI Special Agent, working on the behavioral profiling of serial killers, rapists,
and child molesters in his work to establish the FBI database in Quantico,
Virginia, states of the relationship between pornography and violent offenders:
Now, from my research and experience, I know that a lot of
violent offenders buy and collect pornography, particularly
bondage and sadomasochistically related.. . . But I’m not
going to tell you that pornography fuels the desires of
someone who wasn’t already thinking in that direction.
I have often seen an offender stage a scene to resemble
something he’s seen .... But these guys would have done
it one way or another if the desire was there. The fact of the
matter is that most people who buy and read pornography
never commit antisocial offences. (1997, 124-125)
7 See above on "sex wars." The debate is summed in various works now widely available: see,
for example, Ronald J. Berger, Patricia Searies, and Charles E. Cottle (1991), and Gail Dines,
Robert Jensen and Ann Russo (1998), and Lynn S. Chancer (1998).
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The debate continues. Rather than argue the cause and effect relationship
between rape and pornography, which leads us onto the slippery slope of
chicken-and-egg dilemmas, we may find firmer footing on the path of
reasoning that sees simply that the same society that produces pornography
also produces rapists.
For our purposes, we may consider whether or not the debate on
pornography even applies to Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I suggest that Richlin’s
assessment is correct-content (i.e. these are stories of rape) should not be
overlooked-but I would add to this that Ovid invites us to identify both with the
rapist and with the victim. The “pleasure” Ovid relates is surely present, but he
invites the reader to reflect on why conquest should be pleasurable, why
domination should cause delight, when its victim is destroyed. What all of
these theoretical perspectives agree on is that the subordination of women to
men is systemic; this gender hierarchy is both created and maintained through
rape, laws concerned with sexual assault, and representations of rape which
may be called pornographic. Rape is an act of sexual aggression which is in
large part concerned with power. On the larger scale, in its role in a
patriarchal society that maintains such a gender hierachy, rape is a political
act carried out against a class of people, one victim at a time.8
Real Rape in Ovid’s Rome
As we saw in Chapter One, Ovid provides an assessment that is critical of
power and of the hierarchy that has been established by the end of Book One
of the Metamorphoses and ties this hierarchy directly to Augustus.
a For a moving discussion of rape in modem society, see Andrea Dworkin, “I Want A Twenty-
Four-Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape” in Transforming a Rape Culture Buchwald et
al., eds. (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 1993) 11-22.
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Although it is my contention that Ovid uses rape as one narrative to discuss
personal and political power in his contemporary Rome, we have to consider
what rape meant to Romans of Ovid’s time. Even modem readers disagree on
what constitutes rape--there are continuing efforts to raise public awareness
concerning anything other than the most brutal and violent rape by a stranger.
Various questions arise in contemplating the Roman concept of rape in the first
century B.C.: how did Romans of Ovid’s day conceive of rape, if they did at
all? If a crime, how serious a crime was it? Did laws exist to prevent or to
punish rape? Did these laws sen/e equally all alleged victims of rape? All
alleged rapists? Was the victim blamed?
Several scholars of Roman laws concerning sexual assault have attempted
to shed light on these issues, but, unfortunately, we are left with more
questions than definitive answers. The evidence given for Roman law and
practice concerning rape--up to the time of late Republic-is scant and often
anecdotal. Before we consider laws, however, we must see what words
Romans had to discuss sexual assault or sexual impropriety of any kind, to
distinguish rape from other offences.
Originally stuprum had meant (in general) “disgrace,” but later came to
have the specialized use in describing sexual disgrace, namely any illicit
sexual act (Adams 1983,200-201 ).9 Under the Augustan laws of 18 B.C.,
certain sexual relations (classified as either adultery or stuprum) were
outlawed. Elaine Fantham notes that the Latin words stuprum and stuprare, by
the mid-third century B.C., covered any unlawful intercourse (including both
fornication and sodomy) and have an inherent notion of damage to the object
(of stuprare; 1991, 269-270). This applied, she states, only to male and female
’ Adams (1983,201) states, “ the specialisation is already apparent in Plautus."
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citizens— and not to slaves, foreigners, nor to anyone who “had once accepted
gifts in return for sexual favors” (1991, 270). Thus stuprum covers rape of both
males and females (of all ages), sexual relations between any two unmarried
upper-class citizens, and what we would call statutory rape, consensual or not-
-in short, any sexual relations between people who are not allowed to have
sex. Fantham outlines “acceptable” sexual partners (1991, 271): for a woman,
she should be sexually accessible only to her husband; for a man, he may be
sexually active with his wife and any other sexually accessible women (his
own slaves, brothel slaves, and courtesans), or anyone, so long as the man
himself is not the passive sexual partner.
In contrast to stuprum, are the terms vis and iniuria. Vis, as we might
expect, is used of any force or violence, and is not limited to sexual violence-
although we have seen the term repeatedly in Ovid’s poem used for rape (cf.
vim parat or vim passa). In Roman law, if it is meant to connote sexual
violence, it is often accompanied by some form of stuprare, as for example:
per vim stupraverit. Iniuria, on the other hand, has a wide lexical range and
includes any type of injury or insult. Early on (from the time of the Twelve
Tables), it is believed that iniuria dealt specifically with physical injury, such as
breaking another’s bone, etc. (Alan Watson, 1971, 154-157; PCD. 1996, 759).
Later, it came to include injuries to another’s character, what we might call
insult and defamation. Thus actions for iniuria include: defamation
(convicium), attempts on chastity (de adtemptata pudicitia), any act which
brings another into disrepute, and beating another’s slave (i.e. an insult to the
slave’s master and “property damage”). Digest 47.10.15 outlines the types of
offences for which one might liable to an action of iniuria under the edict de
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adtemptata pudicitia; these include approaching or stalking a woman-
provided she is dressed as a matron-trying to lead her chaperon away, or
using foul language around her (intentionally). Those found guilty in actions of
iniuria were punishable by fines, often accompanied by infamia.'0 The
punishments for those using vis in the commission of a crime vary, and so we
will discuss only those which concern sexual violence. The laws and
penalties for sexual violence, as well as those for stuprum, in general, seem to
undergo changes from the early Republic to the time of Augustus and so we
must look at these at greater length.
Tracing the developments in Roman law governing rape is difficult and
scholarship on the topic is scant. Even some notable scholars of Roman law
fail to discuss rape— for example, R. W. Leage (1930), W. W. Buckland (1936),
W. W. Buckland (1939), A. H. M. Jones (1960), Barry Nicholas (1962), Alan
Watson (1967), David Daube (1969), H. F. Jolowicz and Barry Nicholas
(1972), Jochen Bleicken (1975), W. W. Buckland (1975), Ph. J. Thomas
(1986), Wilfried Nippel (1995)-these discuss neither stuprum nor vis (that is,
vis as used in sexual assaults). We must note, however, that this is by no
means an exhaustive list of texts on Roman law. Even current leading
reference works lack entries for rape, stuprum, sexual assault, and the like
(e.g. PCD 1970. 2nd ed; PCD 1996. 3rd ed).
Some scholars of Roman law do discuss stuprum, but do not differentiate
between rape (per vim stuprum) and consensual acts (Mommsen 1899;
Greenidge 1901, 340-341; A. H. M. Jones 1972), usually using the generic
term “sexual offences.” These focus on how cases of stuprum may have been
,0 Infamia is a legal term; it suggests certain disabilities imposed on the one to whom it applied-
he was stripped of the right to appear in court for himself or for another, etc. See Richlin (1993,
554ff.) and Greenidge (1894, rpt. 1977) whose work on infamia Richlin discusses.
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handled during the Republic, before the leges luliae specifically addressed
stuprum and adultery. Some others distinguish rape from other cases of
stuprum, but often only to mention that rape was covered by the lex lulia de vi
publica, without suggesting how it may have been handled prior to the
passage of this law (Mommsen 1887, 56 n. 5; Pauly 1960, 423-424; Crook
1967, 269).1 1 W. Kunkel goes further, arguing that rape and adultery may
have led to criminal prosecutions (in quaestiones) if private attempts at
resolution failed (1962, 121-124). In other instances-particularly those
involving persons of lower status--may have been tried, or dealt with
summarily, by the tresvirl capitales, who (Kunkel argues) had both judicial
authority as well as functions of a police force (1962, 71-79). Kunkel
nevertheless favors the notion of private handling, especially earlier on,
through the paterfamilias and family council; perhaps, later, as a midstep to
criminal prosecution, the decision was binding on a magistrate who sat in on
the council. A. W. Lintott argues that rape was an entirely domestic matter and
handled privately:
The crimes of rape and adultery were also the subject of
private revenge throughout the Republic . . . according to
Valerius Maximus, male adulterers or rapists were also
punished with death or castration by the family of the
woman whom they had violated, though in such cases the
law does not seem to have made any definite prescription
of procedure. (1968,26)
The focus on procedure in texts on Roman law is perhaps due to the under
attestation of criminal law and procedure during the Republic. Far easier it has
been for scholars to focus on political trials and laws concerning high profile
" Interestingly enough, Pauly cites some 15 dissertations dealing with stuprum (written between
1609-1822), yet mentions only that rape in particular (“ gewaltsames s., gleich Notzucht" 1960,
424) was covered by the lex lulia.
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figures, whose cases got more coverage (at least in extant works). Some
recent studies, however, consider not only procedure, but also attitudes toward
rape in ancient Rome and those who were barred from seeking redress.
Suzanne Dixon (1982) studies rape in Roman law spanning the period
from about 80 B.C. to about 530 A.D. She begins by looking at two stories
from early Rome as told by Livy, a contemporary of Ovid: the rape of Lucretia
and the killing of Verginia by her own father to prevent her from being subject
(sexually) to the corrupt patrician Appius Claudius. Dixon notes that in both of
these cases, the victim’s chastity is highly regarded by her family and blame is
assigned wholly to the rapist or would-be rapist; in both, the victim’s chastity or
her rape affects family honor (Dixon 1982, 1-5). Dixon notes that by Livy’s
time, a distinction had been made between rape and adultery (for married
women), and the Augustan laws of 18 B.C. reflect this differentiation. Dixon
(1982, 6) suggests that from Livy’s time onward, the woman’s intention was
considered, whereas previously “the men of early Rome” probably felt that the
act irreparably soiled the woman either way. Dixon finds that rape was
classified as an act of violence, which was covered by the lex lulia de vi
publica (of ca. 45 B.C.). She states :
The law, and its subsequent judgements, are recorded in
later compilations, which give as the definition of rape
forcible sexual intercourse with a boy or a woman
“or anyone”, though the terms sometimes specify-or
imply-that the offense is wholly criminal only if the
victim is free bom. The characterization of rape as
criminal violence suggests that it was seen as an offense
against public order, rather than against the individual or
family who suffered it. (1982, 8)
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Dixon notes that rape was a capital offense, which meant either banishment
and loss of civil status or death for the convicted perpetrator (1982, 8). She
suggests that it is more likely that an “offender of lower social station" (1982, 8)
was punished with death while an offender of higher social station would face
exile.
Dixon’s study raises several issues: over time, she suggests, rape became
less a “personal” crime (i.e., affecting the victim and the victim’s family) and
more a “public” crime, to be handled in criminal courts. Also, there are
mitigating circumstances in rape, as Dixon notes (1982, 7). For instance, rape
was not recognized as such if it occurred within marriage or if the victim was a
slave (male or female). It seems, then, that both the definition of the act as a
crime (if seen as a crime) and the punishment (if any) depended heavily upon
the status of both the victim and of the rapist.
Jane F. Gardner’s findings (1986) on law covering sexual offenses further
define Roman concepts and practices concerning rape. Although various
unacceptable behaviors directed at upper class women could be prosecuted
under laws concerning iniuria,'2 the lex luiia de vi publica (ca. 45 B.C.)
specifically included rape. Gardner, like Dixon (and others before her),
distinguishes between Republican Rome and Rome during the time of
Augustus. Her findings, too, suggest a shift from the (Republican) family’s
handling of the situation to the (Augustan period’s) action taken in the criminal
courts. She lists the acceptable persons to bring a charge in criminal courts
(1991, 118): women who were sui iuris, either for themselves or for near
relatives; a husband or father of the victim; outsiders, if the victim’s father did
1 2 Provided the woman clearly appeared to be an upper class woman (Gardner 1986,118)~if she
were dressed as a slave or a prostitute the offense would be less or non-existent.
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not wish to prosecute. It was a capital offense and, Gardner notes, there was
no time limit within which to prosecute as there was, for example, for adultery
(1986,118). We find that the convicted rapist of an unwed or of a married
woman faced capital punishment (Digest 48.6.5.2, Marcianus), and that a third
party could prosecute even if the woman’s father forgave the iniuria done to
him. Gardner states that if the rape victim was a slave, “presumably the master
would be able . . . to bring an action for damages under the lex Aquilia” (1986,
119).
Gardner states (1986,119) that it is unclear what legal recourse for rape--if
any-existed in Republican Rome, and concludes:
If any legal process at all was used to seek redress
for rape, it may have been that of the suit for damages,
iniuria. Any more drastic action against a rapist could
render the avenger liable to prosecution, though, as
later under Hadrian, the court might be disposed
to leniency. (1991, 120)
W. Kunkel, however, postulates that there must have been redress for rape
prior to the lex lulia, under laws governing adultery and stuprum (1962, 122-
123),1 3 if only through private vengeance (cf. Lintott).
In addition, Gardner notes that after the passing of the Augustan laws on
sexual offenses, there was danger involved both in prosecuting and in the
defense of such a charge: for the plaintiff, there could be a charge of malicious
prosecution; if the defendant proved that the woman had consented, Gardner
states:
1 3 Kunkel suggests that the matter may have been handled by the family, or through a private suit
{legis actio sacramento) which couid then have led to a quaestio, if the accused denied the
charge: others instances may have been handled by the tresvin capitales (1962,37ff., 71-79,
121f.). Cf. Lintott, who sees rape as “ the subject of private revenge throughout the Republic"
(1968, 26).
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He would still have been liable to a charge of adultery (if
the woman was married) or stuprum (if she was not)--
unless, that is, he had had the forethought to rape a
prostitute or a woman from one of the other categories,
intercourse with whom did not constitute an offense
(in quas stuprum non committitui).u (1986,121)
If he had proved that the woman had consented, Gardner adds, the woman
herself might be liable to charges of adultery or stuprum, and under the
Augustan laws concerning adultery, her husband had to divorce her or himself
face prosecution.
Elaine Fantham (1991) finds that laws concerning sexual offenses in
ancient Rome focus on women’s sexual activity. Fantham suggests that laws
governing stuprum blur the distinction between rape and seduction. For
consent was not the issue: if the woman were subject to her paterfamilias,
only his decisions were relevant. For this reason Fantham states (1991, 270):
“unpremeditated rape, provided it was rectified by subsequent marriage, did
less to discredit both male and female than a prolonged seduction.”1 5 Further,
she argues that stuprum thus covered both “what is commonly called
acquaintance rape and seduction, whatever the reality of consenf (1991,
271). She similarly finds a shift from private to public: for adultery (after the
Augustan legislation, lex lulia de adulteriis, of 18 B.C.), for example, a
husband could not simply forgive his wife’s adultery-it had in earlier Rome
been a family matter-but he “was open for prosecution for pandering if he did
not begin divorce proceedings” (1991, 267). She notes that under the
Republic “the rape or seduction of young girls in the paternal home came
1 4 Gardner quotes here from Digest 25.7.1.1.
1 5 Fantham (1991,270) cites as “our earliest evidence" what she calls “ domestic comedy” and
gives Ter. Ad. 470-71 as an example.
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under the father’s control, extended by the consultation of the family council"
(1991, 284). Amy Richlin (1993, 554) likewise notes the long tradition of self-
help in Roman practice, and the power of the paterfamilias. Fantham (1991,
272-273) argues that there were two criminals courts, the iudicia populi and
the later quaestiones perpetuae, but that “public prosecutions for stuprum
were rare until the development of an imperial dynasty made sexual
association with princesses into a form of high treason."
Fantham, like Dixon and others, cites the “charter myths” of Lucretia and
Verginia, noting in each instance the importance of the family’s honor and the
political implications stemming from the chastity (pudicitia) of each woman
(1991, 275-277). From both Fantham and Dixon we can infer that from early
Rome through the Republic and beyond, an effort was made to control the
sexuality of upper class women and that status was the key to whether or not
any sexual offense had even taken place. Along these lines, too, Richlin notes
that certain male victims of rape were barred from criminal proceedings: men
who were seen as sexually passive with other adult men (i.e. male prostitutes
and passive homosexuals; 1993, 561; also Fantham 1991, 287).1 8
But where does all of this get us? We can get a only a sketchy impression:
then, as now, rape seems difficult to prove, and while under the lex lulia de vi
publica it is a capital offense, we have little evidence to go on in terms of
making a case for its widespread enforcement. Many of the assumptions
made about recourse for rape in Republican Rome are just that: assumptions.
Since an upper class woman’s sexuality was so closely controlled, it is
thought, there must have been severe penalties for those whose violated her
1 8 See Richlin (1993) for the implications of the lex Scantinia on the rape of youths as well as for
the implications of infamia.
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336
pudicitia, particularly for those who had done so by force. Under Augustus, we
do see a strengthening of what is called “moral legislation,” a (more stringent?)
control over a woman’s sexuality in any case (in consensual or coerced sex),
but the main difference to note here is the shift from private to public/state
concern over this matter. Whether, indeed, the penalties were enforced, or
were more stringent than Republican practices remains unclear.
What is clear is that the shift to the conceptualization of rape as a crime
against the state, against public order, makes it seem not a crime against an
individual woman (and, so, not against her family): it is as if Augustus, the
head of state, has absorbed ownership of women-and of families, in general-
as the paterfamilias (and indeed, later, in 2 B.C., he is pater patriae) it is his
job to penalize offenders of those under his power (/in potestate). This notion
of rape as a crime against public order/the state is perhaps reflected in 20th c.
American jurisprudence, whereby in most states in a rape trial (as in most
criminal cases) the victim acts merely as a witness in a case of the state versus
the defendant (Marsh, et al., 1982, ix).
Much of the actual practice (of both the Republican and Augustan periods)
concerning rape is unclear, and, further, some questions are raised by literary
and anectdotal evidence. For example, Fantham notes that in domestic
comedy (1991, 270; she cites Terence Ad. 470-471) a “happy ending” to the
single, unpremeditated rape is the wedding of the rapist and rape victim.
Stanley F. Bonner has likewise noticed the trend in the rhetorical schools of
the imperial period:
But under the Empire, the search for new subjects, and
the desire to make declamation more exciting, led
frequently to the invention of situations which were
very far-fetched, and too contrived for words. Certainly
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337
adultery, and probably rape, were common in real life, but
there are far too many exercises in which the victim of
rape exercises her option of the death of the perpetrator
or marriage with him. (1977, 318-319)
While Bonner notes the sensational quality of these moot cases, this possible
outcome of rape nevertheless corresponds to the domestic comedy’s plot
resolution: that a raped woman might wed her rapist. While this might be the
result of Greek influence (as Bonner notes in an earlier work; 1949, 89), a brief
look at this “marriage or death” option may yield what popular opinion on the
subject might have been.
We find several references in the Elder Seneca’s Controversiae to a law
that allowed a victim (or her father) the choice between marriage without a
dowry to the perpetrator or his death. The law is quoted: Rapta raptoris aut
mortem aut indotatas nuptias optet, Controv. 1.5). Seneca Controv. 2.3, 3.5,
4.3, and 7.8 also refer to this “law.” In most of these cases, however, the more
strenuous arguments urge the death of the rapist. In Controv. 1.2 (Sacerdos
prostituta) a woman who unwillingly ends up in a brothel kills a man who was
trying to rape her. We are told that she was accused and acquitted
(conluctantem et vim inferentem occidit. Accusata et absoluta . . . esf)--and all
of this is in the hypothesis. That is to say, her acquittal is the “given” in the
case, not the issue to be debated. The case itself concerns whether or not,
considering her past, she is fit to become a priestess. From this hypothesis,
we could argue that (at least in an imagined case) leniency was shown for
killing, if the killer was defending herself against a would-be rapist (cf. the pre-
Augustan right to kill, afforded to husbands catching adulterers in the
husbands’ beds).
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338
Bonner (1949) argues that there may be some basis for the “death or
marriage” option in real Rome. Comparing Greek and Roman parallels to this
“law” as cited in Seneca declamations, Bonner finds the position on rape to be
similar in both (1949, 90). He states, therefore, that the position may “be
reconstructed somewhat" in the following outline:'7
Unless the affair was settled out of court (e.g. in the
Roman domesticum consilium), the parent (or master) of
the girl would bring a private action against the culprit.
This private action, Bonner notes, is the actio iniuriamm (1949, 90). A
punishment here would consist in a fine, but Bonner states: “the alternative of
marriage without a dowry may commonly have been agreed upon, always
assuming that conubium was possible.” He further postulates that if the
accused refused both alternatives, he would render himself liable to a criminal
charge “for crimen vis, if force had been used, or stuprum under the Lex lulia
de Adulteriis if it had not” (1949, 90). The death penalty might be incurred,
says Bonner, “in an extreme case.” Concerning the relationship between this
“law" and Roman reality, Bonner concludes:
So what the declaimers have done is to telescope the
civil and criminal law (of either Greece or of Rome),
and presents a highly dramatic position, seizing on the
most exciting features, and bringing them into a striking
antithetical relationship. The balance is slightly inclined
to the Roman side . .. (1949, 90-91 )1 8
Whether or not there was any basis in Roman reality for such an option
remains unresolved. The references to this law in declamations prove nothing
1 7 Bonner gives remedies in both Greek and Roman terms: we concern ourselves here with how
he “ reconstructs” the Roman legal remedies.
1 1 Bonner cites as a reason that a fine given in a declamatory law corresponds to that imposed by
the fexScantinia for assaults on youths (1949,91).
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339
about the Roman reality, but suggest at least something akin to the pre-
Augustan concept of rape as an act that damaged an individual and the family
honor of the victim. The ascription of a choice to the victim of rape (whether
hers to make or her father’s)-the notion that she should decide the fate of her
rapist-suggests again the personal or private nature of the crime, to be settled
by her/her family. Even so, in the Controversiae the matter is not entirely
private: in several instances, it is either stated or implied that the woman be
brought to court (in ius educari) to make her choice.1 9 In addition, an argument
is made here that since no time limit for the choice is given in the law, the
choice was meant to be made immediately.2 0 From the hypothetical cases in
the Controversiae. we find that, rather than the private killing of the rapist (so
popular in cases of the Controversiae where an adulterer is caught in the act),
the decision is made before a magistrate; however, if death is chosen, there is
nevertheless ambiguity as to who actually carried out the execution (i.e. the
family or “the state"; suicide?).
The Augustan laws, particularly the lex lulia de vi publica (again, c. 45
B.C.), provided recourse for rape for those of a protected status and stated that
rape was a capital offense. But it is impossible to know how rape was viewed
at this time in the absence of apparent violence (i.e. physical injury to the
victim; cf. Lucretia’s rape by Tarquin) or, for example, how rape between
acquaintances might have been viewed,2 1 or if as such it would even be
1 9 For example, in Controv. 3.5. the rapist (raptoi) demands that the woman be brought to court
(postufat ut rapta educatui) but the victim’s father refuses (pater non vult). It can be inferred from
the argument made on behalf of the father that educatur means in ius educatur-the argument
begins: Iste raptor est, ego in ius educor("He’s the rapist and I’m brought to court” ).
* in lege, inquit, non est scriptum quando. Immo statim; quotiens tempus non adicitur, praesens
inteiiegitur.
2 1 Fantham says this would have been considered stuprum (1991,271).
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340
reported, since there were considerable risks to the accuser (cf. Gardner 1986,
121). Since lower-class women are hardly considered in these laws, what
was the rate of rape among their classes? A prostitute, then as now,2 2 had little
chance of recourse, unless of course she were a slave, and her master might
then sue for damages (under the lex Aquilia). For “respectable” women, laws
governing miuriae covered them even from being approached for purposes of
seduction-so highly esteemed was their chastity and the preservation of the
legitimacy of children.
We have at least the beginnings of serious studies into this issue in the
works of Dixon, Gardner, Fantham, and Richlin: these at least contemplate
Roman attitudes about male and female sexuality, the attitudes toward victims,
the stigma attached to “the accessible body," the class bias inherent in Roman
legal procedures, and the lost voices of those who had no recourse to law
(neither during the Republic nor in the imperial period). Recovering
Republican procedure and actual law is, perhaps, impossible without
additional evidence; these studies nevertheless show that it is possible to work
with the existing evidence-but to ask different questions.
Keeping in mind the distinction in class and social station pointed out by
many of the scholars who discuss rape and other sexual offences, we must
reflect briefly on the rapes in the Metamorphoses. Having discussed rape
within the poem and rape in real Rome, we can reflect on the relationship
between the literary representation and what we know of the reality. In
Chapter One, we saw that prior to the council of the gods (in Book One of the
Metamorphoses). Ovid describes the hierarchy of the gods in very Roman
2 2 Consider, for example, the still operative absurd contention “ how can you rape a prostitute?"
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341
terms: to the left and right of the regal palace are the homes of the the upper
class gods-the nobiles (deorum/... atria nobilium, 1.171-172)— while the more
common gods-called the plebs (1.173) here-live apart from these. Ovid
states that the powerful and well-known gods live in this place (hac parte
potentes/caelicolae clarique suos posuere penates, 1.173-174). Ovid then
likens this place to the Palatine (hie locus est, quem, si verbis audacia
detur,/haud timeam magni dixisse Paiatia caeli, 1.175-176). As Jupiter is
addressing the council of gods, he notes that deities lesser still inhabit the
earth:
sunt mihi semidei, sunt, rustica numina, nymphae
faunique satyrique et monticolae silvani;
quos quoniam caeli nondum dignamur honore,
quas dedimus, certe terras habitare sinamus.
(1.192-195)
I have demi-gods, I have rustic deities, nymphs and fauns and
satyrs and mountain-dwelling sylvan deities; since we do not
yet think these worthy of the honor of heaven, let us allow them,
surely, the lands we have given them to inhabit.
As we discussed in Chapter One, the spatial layout indicates status in the
universal hierarchy. Further, however, we see that those who are later the
victims of rape belong to the classes deemed not worthy to dwell among the
nobiles and the rapes or rape attempts occur apart from this highest place (i.e.
they occur on earth). When Jupiter approaches lo stating that he is not from
among the plebs (nec de plebe deo, 1.595), we should reflect not only on his
stated concerns for the safety of these lesser divinities, but also on the class
distinction his use of the word plebs indicates, lo is from the “acceptable”
victim class-there is no higher authority to whom lo could turn either for
protection from rape, nor for recourse after the fact. Jupiter, as Ovid has him
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342
state in his address to the council of the gods, has and rules the gods (qui vos
habeoque regoque, 1.197)~he is the first among the nobiles.
Trying to make a one-to-one correspondence between the figures in the
Metamorphoses and real people of Ovid’s day is ill-advised, except for the
comparisons which he himself draws between, for example, Jupiter and
Augustus. So this should not be taken so far as to suggest that Ovid is
accusing Augustus of being the same master-rapist that Jupiter is in the poem.
However, if we look at the basic distinction in class, the difference in power is
staggering: Juno, for example, feeling wronged by Callisto has both the power
to destroy her2 3 and the luxury to complain that it was not enough; Daphne, on
the other hand, about to be raped by Apollo, has only the power to beg that
she herself be destroyed (perde figuram).
Status is as important within the poem as it was in real Rome. What Ovid
shows, however, is that the ruling class--Jupiter, in particular--is both corrupt
and given to selfish abuses of power that destroy those against whom that
power is exercised. Gods punish those whom they perceive as challengers of
their authority, and any who do not yield to their will present such a challenge.
Further, as we have seen, the ability either to criticize the gods or to inform
against them is staunchly prohibited, since the changed bodies of those who
were perceived to have done so literally make up the landscape of the
Metamorphoses. The changed bodies serve as constant memorials of the
potential danger even of being seen as a threat. We see, too, that as supreme
ruler Jupiter controls silence and speech even among the gods-and this, just
after Ovid likens Jupiter to Augustus:
2 3 I.e. by changing her into a bear; later Juno complains that Callisto-now a constellation-enjoys
too elevated a status.
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nec tibi grata minus pietas, Auguste, tuorum
quam fuit ilia lovi. qui postquam voce manuque
murmura conpressit, tenuere silentia cuncti.
substitit ut clamor pressus gravitate regentis,
luppiter hoc iterum sermone silentia rupit...
(1.204-205)
Nor is the pietas of your [subjects] less welcome to you,
Augustus, than that was to Jove. After he checked their
murmurs with his voice and hand-gesture, ail held silent.
When the clamor subsided, checked by the gravity of the
ruler, Jupiter broke the silence again with this speech .. .
Ovid states that Jupiter checked their murmurs, but uses the word conpressit-
a word elsewhere in Latin literature2 4 associated with rape. Jupiter makes the
silence and can break that silence-but all of his subjects obey. We are
reminded of those who have no voice to call attentions to the wrongs done to
them.
The world of the Metamorphoses is not Rome disguised in mythological
dress, but is the product of a mind imbued with Augustan Rome’s troubled
past--and its present dangers. Rape is but one narrative of power in Ovid’s
poem: one of the many reflections of Ovid’s insight into the abuses of absolute
power and its deleterious effects on those who do not have it. Julie Hemker,
studying rape in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria. states:
By emphasizing the suffering caused to the victims by
the narrator’s program of erotic deception and conquest,
Ovid exposes the tragedy inherent in any philosophy
which espouses domination as a means of gratifying
one’s own desires. (1985, 46)
Ovid writes of rape as an act of domination, a political conquest carried out
against one perceived challenger to authority at a time, performed not only
2 * See, for example, Zola Marie Packman, “ Call It Rape: A Motif in Roman Comedy and Its
Suppression in English-speaking Publications." Helios 20.1 (1993): 42-55.
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because it could be, but because it maintained the status quo. Whether the
seemingly amusing story of the playful bull/Jupiter carrying off the maiden
Europa or the brutal mutilation and repeated rape of Philomela, in whatever
form Ovid presents it, Ovid suggests that we look beyond the exterior and see
what is beneath the surface and-even if we cannot say it-that at least we see
it for what it is.
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345
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Creator Pintabone, Diane Theresa (author)

Core Title Women and the unspeakable: Rape in Ovid's "Metamorphoses"

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Classics

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag Language, Ancient,literature, classical,OAI-PMH Harvest,women's studies

Language English

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Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c17-419726

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