Io

There is a grove in Thessaly, shut in on every side by a wall of forest: they call it Tempe. Through it the Peneus, pouring down from deep Pindus, rolls in foaming waves, and with its heavy fall drives before it thin wisps of cloudy smoke, gathers them to the tops of the woods, rains upon them, and wearies with its roar more than the neighboring streams. This is the house, this the seat, these the inner shrines of the great river: sitting in a cavern carved from the rocks, he gave laws to the waters, and to the nymphs that tended them. First the neighboring rivers came together, not knowing whether to congratulate or console their father: the poplar-bearing Sperchios, the restless Enipeus, the old Apidanus, the gentle Amphrysos, and Aeas, and soon the other rivers, which, wherever their impulse carried them, lead their weary waters, wandering, to the sea.

Inachus alone is absent, hidden in a deep cave, and swells its waters with his weeping, mourning, most wretched, for his daughter Io, as if she were lost: he does not know whether to enjoy life, or whether she is among the shades; but since he finds her nowhere, he believes her nowhere, and in his mind fears worse things than what is. Jupiter had seen her returning from her father's river, and said: "O maiden, worthy of Jove, and of some happy unknown husband of your making — seek the shades of the deep woods" — and he pointed to the shades of the woods — "while it is hot, and the sun stands highest in his circle! But if you fear to enter the lurking places of wild beasts alone, you shall go safe into the hidden woods, with a god as guardian — no god of the common sort, but he who holds in his hand the great scepter of heaven, who sends the wandering thunderbolts.

Do not flee me!" — for she was fleeing. Already she had left the pastures of Lernae, and the fields of Lyrcea, planted with trees, when the god hid the wide lands in a covering mist, and stopped her flight, and took her shame. Meanwhile Juno looked down into the middle of Argos, and marvelled that the flying clouds had made the face of night in bright daylight: she knew they were not of the river, nor sent up from the wet ground. She looked around for where her husband might be — she who knew so well the thefts of a husband so often caught. When she found him absent from the sky: "Either I am mistaken, or I am wronged," she said; and, slipping from the height of heaven, she stood upon the earth, and bade the mists withdraw.

He had foreseen his wife's arrival, and had changed the face of the daughter of Inachus into a sleek heifer. Even as a heifer she was beautiful. The wife of Saturn praised the shape of the cow, though unwillingly; and asked, too, whose she was, and from where, and in what herd — asking, as if she knew nothing of the truth. Jupiter lied, that she was born of the earth, so the author of the crime might stop being sought. The wife of Saturn asked her as a gift. What could he do? To give up his own love was cruel; not to give was suspect. Shame argued for one side, Love against it. Shame would have conquered Love — but so slight a gift, a cow, was refused by the sister and the partner of his bed: she might not seem a cow!

The daughter of Peneus, given away, did not at once put off all her fear, and dreaded Jove, and was anxious over the stolen joy, until she gave her, to be kept, to Argus, son of Aristor. Argus had a head ringed round with a hundred eyes, of which, in their turns, two at a time took sleep: the rest kept watch, and remained on guard. However he stood, he looked toward Io: Io was before his eyes, though he was turned away. He let her feed in the daylight; but when the sun is deep beneath the earth, he pens her, and winds chains around a neck that does not deserve them. She feeds on the leaves of trees, and on bitter grass. Instead of a bed, the unhappy girl lies on the ground, which does not always keep its grass, and drinks from muddy streams.

And when she wished, suppliant, to stretch her arms to Argus, she had no arms to stretch to Argus, and, trying to complain, she lowed from her mouth, and was terrified at the sounds, and frightened by her own voice. She came also to the banks where she often used to play, the Inachid streams: and when she saw in the water her new gaping mouth and horns, she fled in terror, startled at herself. The naiads did not know her, nor did Inachus himself, who she was; but she followed her father, and followed her sisters, and let herself be touched, and offered herself to their admiration. Old Inachus held out herbs he had plucked: she licked her father's palms, and kissed his hands, and could not hold back her tears; and if only words had followed, she would have begged for help, and told her name, and her misfortunes: instead of words, a letter, drawn by her hoof in the dust, finished sadly the proof of her changed body.

"O wretched me!" cried her father Inachus, hanging upon the groaning horns and the snowy neck of the young heifer: "O wretched me!" he said again: "Are you the daughter sought by me through all the lands? You, not found, were a lighter grief than being found! You do not answer, you give no words back to mine; you draw only deep sighs from a heavy breast, and what alone you can do, you low in answer to my words! Ignorant, I was preparing marriage and wedding-torches for you; my first hope was a son-in-law, my second, grandchildren. Now you must have a husband from the herd, and a son from the herd. Nor is it permitted me to end so great a grief by death: but it harms to be a god — the door of death being shut — to stretch our sorrows through eternity." The starry-eyed Argus takes her from her mourning father, and drags the daughter, taken away, to distant pastures.

He himself, far off, seizes the high crest of a mountain, and sitting there, watches every part on every side. Nor could the ruler of the gods above bear to suffer so great an evil any longer over the daughter of Phoronis: he calls his son, whom the shining Pleiad bore in childbirth, and commands that he destroy Argus. Small delay: wings on his feet, the potent sleep-bringing wand in his hand, and the cap for his hair, were taken up. When he had made these ready, the son born of Jove leapt down from his father's citadel to earth; there he took off the cap, and put away his wings — only the wand was kept. With this he drives, like a shepherd, the goats through the pathless country, as they come, led away, and sings on pipes joined together.

Charmed by the new voice, the keeper of Juno said: "Though I know not who you are, you might well sit beside me on this rock — for no place has richer grass for flocks, and you see the shade that suits shepherds." The son of Atlas sat, and with much talking held back the passing day with speech, and, singing on joined reeds, tried to overcome the eyes that kept watch. Argus however fought to conquer soft sleep, and, though sleep was received in part of his eyes, in part he still kept watch. He asked too (for the pipe had but lately been discovered) by what means it was found. Then the god said: "In the cold mountains of Arcadia, among the hamadryad nymphs, one famous naiad was of Nonacris: the nymphs called her Syrinx. She had more than once eluded the satyrs that pursued her, and whatever gods the shadowy woods and fertile fields hold.

She cultivated Ortygia herself in her pursuits, and her maidenhood; and girt in the rite of Diana, she might have been mistaken for the daughter of Latona, were it not that her bow was of cornel wood, and his of gold; even so she passed for her. Pan, girt with sharp pine, saw her returning from the mount of Lycaeus, and spoke such words — it remained to speak the words — and, his prayers despised, the nymph fled through the pathless wild, until she came to the peaceful stream of sandy Ladon; and here, when the waters hindered her course, she prayed her watery sisters to change her; and when Pan, who thought he now held Syrinx in his grasp, found that he held reeds of the marsh instead of the nymph's body, and while he sighed there, the winds, moving in the reeds, made a faint sound, like one mourning.

The god, taken by this new art and the sweetness of the voice, said: "This converse with you shall remain with me." And so, unequal reeds joined with a bond of wax, he kept the name of the maiden. These words the Cyllenian god was about to say when he saw that all the eyes had yielded, and their lights were covered with sleep: he checks his speech at once, and deepens the slumber, caressing the languid, charmed eyes with his medicated wand. Without delay he wounds the nodding watcher with his curved blade, where the head joins the neck, and throws him, bleeding, down the rocks, and stains the steep crag with blood. Argus, you lie: and that light which you had in all your many lights is put out; one night takes all your hundred eyes. The wife of Saturn receives them in her swift bird's feathers, and fills his tail with gleaming gems.

At once she flamed out, and put off no moment of her wrath, but cast before the eyes and heart of her rival's Argolic nurse a hideous Erinys, and buried in her breast its blind goads, and drove her in flight through all the world. You, Nile, were the last of that immense labor; and the moment she touched you — laid on the bank's edge upon her knees, and leaning her lofty neck back — lifting to the stars what looks alone she could, with groan and tears and mournful lowing she seemed to complain to Jove, and to pray for an end of ills. He, throwing his arms around his rival's neck, asked her at last to finish the punishment: "Put away your fears," he said: "this shall never again be a cause of grief to you" — and he bade the Stygian pools hear it.

When the goddess was softened, Io took her former face, and became what she was before: the bristles fled from her body, her horns shrank, the circle of her eyes grew narrower, her gaping mouth closed, her shoulders and hands returned, and the hoof, dissolved, vanished into five nails: nothing of the cow remained in her but her fairness. And content to walk with the service of her two feet, the nymph rises, and fears to speak, lest she low in the manner of a heifer, and timidly tries again the words she had let fall.

There is a grove in Thessaly, ringed on every side by a wall of hanging cliff: they call it Tempe. Through it the river Peneus, pouring down from the foot of Pindus, rolls in foaming waves, and with its heavy fall sweeps up thin wisps of cloud, gathers them onto the tops of the woods, sprinkles them with spray, and wearies with its roar the country round about. This is the house, the home, the inner shrine of the great river; and seated in a cavern carved from the rock, he gave laws to the waters and the nymphs that lived among them. First came the neighboring rivers — not knowing whether to congratulate or console their parent — the poplar-bearing Sperchios, the restless Enipeus, the old Apidanus, the gentle Amphrysos, and Aeas; and soon the other rivers, which, wherever their current carried them, lead their weary waters wandering down to the sea. Inachus alone is absent, hidden in a deep cave, swelling its waters with his tears, weeping, most wretched, for his daughter Io — unable to know whether she lived, or whether she was among the shades; and not finding her anywhere, believing her nowhere — fearing worse than the worst.

For Jupiter had seen her returning from her father's stream, and said: "Maiden, worthy of Jove himself, and not of any mortal husband — come to the shady woods, where the great heat of noon is softened, and while the sun is at his fiercest, hide in the deepest shade of the woods." She had fled — leaving behind the pastures of Lerna and the fields of Lycae, rich in flocks — driven before him like a wild beast; and he drew around her the wide boundaries of a far-stretched mist, stopped her flight, and forced her. Meanwhile Juno looked down into the heart of the clear heavens, and marveled that the drifting mists had made such darkness where the air shone bright. She knew it was no marsh breathing up the clouds, nor the earth itself; she looked around — she knew so well the adulteries of a husband so often caught. She swept down from heaven and stood upon the earth, and bade the clouds depart. Jupiter had foreseen her coming, and changed the face of his rival into a sleek white heifer. Even as a heifer she was beautiful. The daughter of Saturn looked at her, unwillingly, and said: "Whose is this lovely creature?" — as though she did not know — and asked from what herd, from where. Jove, so it would not seem a lie, answered that she was born of the earth. Then Saturn's daughter begged her as a gift. What could her rival do? Cruel to give his own love away, suspicious to refuse; shame persuaded him, and the brother and husband of the same woman handed over the heifer. The daughter of Saturn did not stop caring at once — fearing Jove, and dreading some sweet trick — and gave her to Argus, son of Aristor, to be kept away. His head was ringed with a hundred shining eyes, and two at a time took their turns at sleep while the rest kept watch on every side and stayed at their posts however far away. Some of them stood open, wherever he might look.

He watched Io: and now, though he had her taken away from Jupiter, he would still often lead her to new pastures, drive her away, and change her place. The king of the gods could no longer bear his pain. He called his son, whom the bright Pleiades, daughter of Atlas, bore, and bade him do away with Argus. Mercury took his sleep-bringing wand and his winged sandals, shook them from his heels, brushed his hair, set his cap upon it, and leapt from his father's citadel to the earth. There he took off his cap and wings; only the wand he kept. With it, as a shepherd drives his goats along the winding pathless way, he played on pipes he had joined together, playing songs. Argus, charmed by the new sound and by the pipes themselves, said: "Whoever you are, sit beside me on this stone. No grass is wanting to your flock, and there is shade enough here for the shepherd." The son of Atlas sat down, and while the day went by he wore away the waiting hours with talk, and took up his joined reed-pipes, and tried to close the watching eyes with his soft piping. Argus fought with sleep, and, though sleep took some of his eyes, asked again and again who had first made the pipes — for he had not yet heard of them. And the god said: "In the cold mountains of Arcadia, among the nymphs of Nonacris, there was a famous maiden: Syrene was her name among the people. She refused every suitor, and would not listen to any man, god or mortal, but wandered the pathless woods, a maiden devoted to her virgin goddess. They say the god, girt with his wealth of gold, the god of the bent bow, saw her, and said many things, and tried to soften her with hope, with promises, with lies. All this she despised; and she came to no man's arms, until her goddess Diana, girt in her own robes, came down over the ridges of Laconia, from Erymanthus, and saw her, and called her — a friend of her choruses. The maiden thought her robes would be lighter than her own, and compared her goddess with herself, and said: 'Come with me to the mountain tops, my companions, where the hunted deer turns from the hounds, to these shady glades.' Diana consented. They came to a great grove; and there was a spring, with silver ripples in its narrow bed, and grass around its edges. Diana, praised by all, went down to the water; and when she had stripped her robes, she called her companions, and they stood naked, their bodies bare. Only in Syrene's body was shame missing. She tried to hide herself by flight, and fled to the pool of the standing water; and as she fled, she saw the horns of the rising goddess on her own head, and her wide eyes, and her gaping mouth, and her long hanging neck, and her ears rough with hard new horns. Her own hands, as they fled, began to turn into forelegs, and she felt her legs join close in one mass, and the swift wind of her flight was only a breath. Her other beauty sank below her horns. And as she looked at herself, she tried to beat her arms — but her arms had no sound, they only tried to sound. As often as she tried to speak, her fear cut off her words, and only lowing came out of her trembling lips, a sound unknown to her. She looked at her own horns as at a horror, and turned away her ears pinned back by her own hard horns. She could not run away — the whole of her was now a body; and yet her mind remained, and she was often stretched upon the cold ground in her own shade, and let her eyes fall into the water, and looked at her own horns; and, turning from them, dreaded her own face. The satyrs, whom the country held, did not know who she was, and often drove her away with shouts; the hideous Faunus did not know her, and hunted her. But you, Inachus, did not know your daughter, and she followed you, rejoicing to be followed, and stretched out her neck for you to take the flowers and leaves from your own hands. When you gave them, she licked your palms, and kissed your hands, and could not hold back her tears; and if only words had followed, she would have asked her name, and begged for help: but she breathed out, in place of words, her moan, and stamped the ground with her hoof, and turned away.

Then Argus dragged her away — the great watcher — and led her far from her own father to other pastures; and, far away, sat down upon the ridge, and turned his watchful eyes on every side. Jove could not bear the sorrows of Io longer. He called his son, whom the shining Pleiades, daughter of Atlas, bore, and showed him the watcher with his sleepless eyes, and bade him do away with him. Mercury took his sleep-bringing wand and his winged sandals, shook them from his heels, brushed his hair, set his cap upon it, and leapt down from his father's citadel to earth. There he took off his cap and his wings; only the wand he kept. With it, as a shepherd drives his goats along the winding pathless way, he played on pipes he had joined together. Argus, charmed by the new sound and by the pipes themselves, said: "Whoever you are, sit by me on this stone; there is no better grass for your flock, and shade enough here for the shepherd." The son of Atlas sat, and wore away the day with talk, and piped, trying to close the watching eyes. Argus fought sleep, and though sleep took some of his eyes, still asked who had first made those pipes. And the god told him the story of the pipe, newly invented. As he told it, he watched, and saw Argus's eyes giving way, all of them, to sleep: he stopped, raised his voice, fixed the wand on the nodding head, and struck it as it fell. The hundred eyes, all overcome by the night, were darkened, and he struck the neck again, and laid it open, and rolled the body down the rocks, and stained the jagged cliff with blood. You fell, Argus: all the light of your many eyes was darkened, and you slept the one eternal sleep. But Saturn's daughter took the eyes, and set them in the feathers of her own bird, and filled his tail with stars of fire. At once her anger blazed: she threw a terrible fury before the eyes and heart of the heifer — the Erinys, made from the stakes of her own torch. Driven by fear and by the goad, Io wandered through the whole world — you, Nile, were the last end of her wandering. And when she had come there, and put her head, wearied out, upon the bank, lying on her knees, and turned her neck back to the stars, she groaned, and sent up her moans to heaven, and sounds of complaint; and, as far as her wretchedness could, she pleaded for help with her own kind of moaning. Jupiter put his arms around his rival's neck, and said: "Put away these fears forever; she shall be no heifer." He told Juno of Itone, and swore by the hateful streams of Styx — the greatest bond of the gods — and hardly had he finished, when the rough hair fell from the heifer's body, and her horns were drawn in, and her great eyes grew small again, her gaping mouth grew small, her arms and hands came back, and her hooves changed to nails; and every shape of the heifer passed away, except the beautiful whiteness of her body. And the daughter of Inachus, content to walk on her own two feet, and fearing to speak like a woman again, would, if anyone said "Io," forget her fear, and answer him. She became a goddess, worshipped by the crowds in linen robes.