Descriptio imaginis

Ekphrasis of an Image in the City of Gaza. Eros and the arrows of Eros travel everywhere and pass through all things. Not even Zeus is free when the Erotes wish; but the august and highest one, whose might is not to be withstood, yearns for Semele, busies himself with Hera, becomes a bull for Europa, and swims the sea steered by Eros; and if he appears as gold, Danaë is no longer a virgin. Poseidon, as they think, abandons the sea and migrates to the mainland. And the god Apollo pursues a fleeing maiden, but though victorious he is defeated, having grasped a plant, not a maiden, Daphne. Already the Erotes mock their mother, but from there they were smitten with Adonis, and the rose cries out its love. These also, as you see, have aimed their arrows at Phaedra. This is Athens, the height of summer, and midday. The season is made clear by the circumstances. For here there is a hunt and hunting gear, and garments that cool the bodies, and Theseus’ sleep, which by Zeus does not come at night; for otherwise a servant would not sit beside him to ward off annoyances. In the middle of the palace is the bed, august and very luxurious, yielding, as it seems, to the one who wishes to sleep, but by variation of colors always interweaving the yellow with the blue. The palace rises with dense columns to a height and sends the spectator to a double colonnade. Behold, they also penetrate into the depth. For art imitates entrances by hollowing out with colors. The inner wall is divided by rather dense arches, fitted, as is likely, for the placement of statues.

All the columns are white, but not all are smooth, their ends carved with upright hollows, and all together gleaming at their tops with bright gold. A cornice rests upon them; but the painter did not leave even this unadorned, but embellished it with letters set upon it, imitating images within images. But if your vision is trained for a more refined perception and clings to the pure light of smaller details, grant me this and observe. For here is Hippolytus, having hunted and struck a lion with his spear, not yet risen; for it crouched, still nursing its wrath, seated, stretching some of its feet forward, while resting itself upon those placed beneath its belly, and it rouses the shepherd who looks on to praise, raising his hands aloft in wonder and thinking to have a claim for the lamb which he saw snatched by the lion, grieving. The hunter set one foot, bending the knee aloft, and places the other on the ground. And when he has succeeded in obtaining the prey, turning back he extends his right hand, turning himself from the hunt toward the servants behind; and the cloak on his shoulders, having succeeded, turning back he extends his right hand. One servant pulls, while the other is raised toward the master’s praise. Another servant lifts the nets on his shoulders; for with these the beasts that hide, lurking in some woods or caves, are surrounded. And these images will meet you as you enter on the right. On the other side, behold the labyrinth and Theseus fighting the Minotaur.

The beast is terrible, a man and a bull, each incomplete, but filled by the addition of the other: the man receives the missing part from the bull down to the shoulders. Therefore he clings to its horn as well, on one side to drag it down to the ground, on the other intending to strike, already hastening with his left hand to deliver the blow. A gate, as you approach, presents the mouth of the labyrinth. Minos' daughter loves Theseus, still a boy and a handsome youth, and pitying his fate out of love, she holds out a thread to him, which, fastened to the door and uncoiling through the winding of the entrance, and wandering with him as he enters, will guide him again to the exit. She both looks and speaks with love, having kept her marriage for Theseus' return, awaiting a dowry from his valor, the slaughter of the Minotaur. How terrible the tribute for the Athenians: dejected and weeping children, given to the Minotaur for manifest destruction. Ariadne, seeing them and Theseus counted among them, falls in love, weeps, suffers, and devises a release from the horrors. Such embellishments the painter has added from his abundance. In the middle of a grove the palace is built, and the trees rise up together and extend further, and the foliage of the wood hangs suspended aloft. From the roof the peacock swoops down; you would say that it, with its plumage in full array, has turned toward it, delighting, and is correcting some oversight with its beak; perhaps it is also warding off something biting, reaching it with its tail. The peacock has many feathers, dense and one upon another, and certain circles in them flash with different light of colors.

These things nature gives them for beauty, having crowned the peacock with spontaneous loveliness. Hence, at times, exulting in its plumage, it raises these aloft, hollows the middle into a deep fold, and imitates a bridal chamber in form. By Zeus, my friend, let us not pass over the birds at the other end, which poetry called doves, the possession of Aphrodite, distributed in pairs. For these are female and male delighting in each other with love. One of them looks around and turns its head toward it; the other gazes at this one, held by greater affection, as it seems. Such are the wonders the painter, through his art, strives to create for the palace. In the middle, among the central figures, is Theseus—not fighting the Minotaur, not throwing Kerkyon, not stopping Sinis from his violence. But you would see these things in another painting; the present one, having grown weary with the length of the day, has turned to a bed and rests his body, dismissing the stifling heat of midday with sleep. And he conversed with the woman present, not lying down with him—for night is the time for bed for the chaste—but she sits beside him on a sort of folding stool. And Theseus, between speaking and sleep, as is likely, was being seized, and, slackening his speech half-finished under the influence of the passion. Hence the painter, revealing how Sleep swiftly escapes notice and steals the mind and drags down the eyelids, has rendered him shadowy and winged. Binding his head with a white headband, he indicated his victory over all. With his hands placed one upon the other at the tips, having leaned his forehead on them, he now sleeps sweetly, having experienced what he is, revealing his nature both in deed and in posture.

It conceals the sight, for no one perceives sleep approaching. Therefore, it does not come from before, but stands unseen beside the bed, leaning on its hands; and if Homer were present, the poet would have said: "He stood above his head and spoke a word to him." Theseus, relaxed by sleep and the intensity of the hour, yields in his limbs, enduring the diadem placed upon his head; the tunic is transparent, adorned at the edges with gold material and the art of embroidery. It seems that, by stealing through art, it conveys the color of Theseus' garment, when it concealed its own transparency; whatever part of the body is exposed, in clear view it shows the whiteness beneath. For the complexion is sunburnt, that of a young man and a man who perseveres in outdoor contests and receives the sun on his whole body. Perhaps it is for this reason that Phaedra abhors him, having failed to perceive the beauty of his soul. Touching the wineskin, with a hand that has risen and fingers bent, he places it on his neck, standing before the head. The right hand is raised; for, seizing the forearm from the tip of the elbow, it rests the armpit on the hair, cooling him. The left foot, with the shin straight, is contracted, bearing the knee raised; such postures spontaneously occur in those sleeping in ignorance. A servant saw

The master, now asleep, also partook of the suffering. But since fortune did not permit him to lay his body supine on a bed, he fashions a necessary bed for himself, himself sleeping, himself becoming both bed and couch, crouching on one foot and sitting upon it, while standing on the other, placing one hand upon the other and casting his face slightly forward. He carries some instrument that wards off annoyances. Lest it slip away unnoticed, he sets it upright and leans his body against it, holding it with his left elbow and supporting his head with his hand for security. One of his companions, taking thought and fearing the danger for him from the master's separation, and even more so if some discomfort settling in from his negligence should dispel his sleep, is not entirely present with him, lest he seem to provide the cause for the matter, making noise with his feet and appearing all at once; but making a certain screen of the columns and dividing himself in two, he conceals the lower parts of his body, appearing as something half-complete, and securing an easy escape for himself from the master's perception, he thrusts forward his head for viewing and his hand for motion. For, lest by calling him by name the sound of the word strike the master unnoticed, he brings hand to hand, and, grasping the arm, he perhaps vexes the brief sleep and reproaches it. As for the one at his feet, who perhaps caused some prior annoyance, he has allowed him to sleep with his whole body. For everyone, once reclined, becomes free in sleep, and imitates the master himself in a contrary posture.

It seems that the care of the animals around him has been entrusted to them, having fastened trinkets to their necks. These, seizing upon the master's stillness, came together in battle with one another. The dog, though small in body, also appears to be a mother of puppies, her teats hanging down and filled with milk; but having been defeated, she turned and withdrew, curling her tail back upon herself, and flees the pursuing tracker. She is timid, but he, with fury, leaps upon the master. The master, perceiving nothing, having crossed his legs, has turned onto his right elbow. With his left arm, which is separated and falls from the crown of his head, he grasps the foot of his master's bed, lying down at its feet. The bed is adorned with ivory and gold and carvings of Victory, with wings spread apart, supporting the bed at the very top of the head; and fringes of a variegated curtain hang down at its feet. Theseus sleeps, and his servants force his fortune. But that Phaedra was not held by sweet sleep. Instead of sleep, Eros was consuming her heart. But what are you suffering, O woman? You toil in vain, for Eros is not fortunate. For how could you persuade one who knows how to be temperate? Why do you shame yourself, wishing to approach an unlawful bed? Turn a little and give your gaze to your husband, and do not blame the present, having sought what is not present. Respect your husband even while he sleeps; and transfer your gaze from the image to which you look. For Hippolytus, it seems, is temperate even in the colors. But what have I suffered?

I have been deceived by the painter's art and have thought these things to be alive, and I fail to notice that the sight is by nature letters. Therefore, concerning Phaedra, let us not speak to her. For her posture betrays her passion. You see her gaze moist and her mind suspended in suffering, and her body in need of supports, her soul as if absent while the body still lives. One stool is spread beneath her for a seat, while the other, placed near the couch as is likely, supports her back and sends it to the bed. You see also her arm, loosened by passion, barely touching her cheek with the tip of her finger. Both are apart; after them another has given up on standing and bends, having his shoulders swaying in the air. Hand helps hand, and foot comes together with loosening foot. For of each, one part holds up, the other is reclined. With a thin tunic she has revealed much of the secrets. The tunic is embroidered on both sides with fine vertical stripes from shoulders to feet; and she, propping up her head, herself in need of a prop,

She is confined by a double tablet lying upon the bed. The tablet, like a small thing, conveys the love to the desired one. For this little lamp kindles Phaedra with the fire of Eros and itself dissolves the rhythm of her body and forces her mind to turn toward what is not proper. For what has she to do with Eros? He flies and leaps through the air, borne up by his wings, and with his right hand and one finger of that hand he points aloft to Hippolytus in the colors. With the other hand he kindles the torch, at once touching the middle of her heart. Of Hippolytus, the colors on the image suffice for the necessary parts; for these know how to prepare love even more. The lover of the hunt shows this by his spear; he reveals as much of his cloak as of his body. And some Eros, lying in wait and standing with his feet crossed, prepares the black material for the letters, which, once written, are to reveal the love to Hippolytus. And holding this up with his left hand, with the other he has inserted the stylus into it, about to hand it to Phaedra. And she, taking it, will write: "How long will you be chaste, Hippolytus? Phaedra desires you and wishes." And a tragic old woman will serve the need, herself the deepest gray of old age, some nurse, as it seems, not sparing Phaedra at the right time. Having been versed in the sufferings of women, she knows what to attend to and has flown up aloft and is wholly of love; and knowing the passion, she still asks something and teaches, indicating these things with her fingers, and seems to say: "What have you suffered, child? Why are you so perplexed?

Write and be confident, and accept me as a servant in your need." Having said this, she persuades Phaedra and departs. Or rather, see this woman, while she is still present, attired in an elderly manner. Her garment is gray, as in old age, and perhaps also due to her mistress's suffering. Bending down, she converses, like those who speak secretly, lest Theseus, feigning sleep, perceive the words. She stoops, leaning her left hand on her hip, lest she fall forward, caught off guard by the force of old age. She bares no part of her body except her face and the hand that emerges from the middle of her forearm, beyond the cloak. And gray hairs, with a loose binding, protrude from her head in a slipping manner. And this woman, since she wishes, let us send to Hippolytus; but let us observe the maidservants beside her. One of them, ignorant of her mistress and gaping at whatever it is, quietly inquires of the attendant standing near, joining face to face and touching cheek to cheek. For she seems to whisper, lest she incur some harm, being inquisitive about her mistress's sufferings. The other, having long grasped the matter in her mind, risks something of the questioner's goodwill, and with a hidden hand, extending a finger, directs the other's gaze straight up toward the image. And she, revealing the adornment on her bare arms, having placed it near the right hand lying beneath, with the tips of her fingers draws up to the tip of her chin, and, lifting her head, watches for the image and perhaps secretly shares her mistress's passion.

Nearby there is a more delicate maiden, fair-haired to speak poetically, who brings Phaedra’s adornment lying somewhere in a casket and holds it up in her left hand, while with the other she wishes to lift the gold ornaments piece by piece. For the owner wears as much ornament as befits a domestic life: bracelets and armlets; necklaces about the neck, earrings in the ears, and a golden band encircling the head, enclosed by a succession of Indian stones. The feet rest upon some footstool, shining with bare beauty; and the remaining gold ornament slightly overshadowed the white skin, whose natural beauty bore some victory over every acquired thing. But if it seems good now, my dear friend, let us go forth from the palace and hunt with Hippolytus—not, by Zeus, a hare or a deer or even a lion. For the painting is idle of such things, being occupied with chastity. These are mountains and plains, much forest, and hunters and flocks. Hippolytus and Daphne are the chief of the hunters, both riders and chaste. Their horses are spirited and high-necked, which, biting the bit—this indeed is Homeric—prance across the plain, turning their heads with a confronting gaze. Mounted on these, both were hastening to the hunt. But the old woman, approaching, hoping to overthrow Hippolytus with her words, was herself a prey and was caught in deed, Hippolytus perhaps being constrained by a conflict. One thing, not Eros, as it seems, but an Erinys, if it is right to say, has heard through the sight. She lets go from her hands and abhors it.

and now it lies broken and shows the [inside and] the letters. He is numbed by the sight and turns away from the pollution, thrusting it away with his hand as if it were something hostile. He entrusted the punishment of the old woman to a servant, having no pity on an old age that served lewdness, and avenging himself on the sender through the one who came. The servant is both light-footed and, having been raised by a self-controlled master, hates licentiousness and shares his master's anger, not as one serving with another's intent, but as one displaying his own passion. Therefore he also strides with his feet, giving a firm base for the blow, and reckoning the lewd woman as some beast, he drives away the dogs beside her, smoothing them with his hand and drawing them back, while with his right hand he rises backwards, stretching the club behind his back, and brings his whole body down for the blow. Let Demosthenes now come to my aid, speaking more aptly, how the servant, tearing off his tunic, flogs many stripes upon her back. She is helpless and sinks at the knees, and has given up from fear and is dead. With her hand placed upon her bare breasts, I would not say that she hid her nakedness out of shame; for modest shame does not wish to serve shameful commands; but striking her breast, as is likely, she laments her own fortune, having only now learned what is right through experience. And she arouses pity; but she has stretched out her left hand toward the coming blow, warding it off with a gesture of restraint. For nature teaches that when some evil approaches, one should put forward the hand as a necessary weapon against it.

Terrible are her sufferings from all sides: threat, blow, and these dogs—one hanging from her ears, which, if she turns, will inflict something terrible; the other has torn through her garment and into her thigh. The part struck is bare of tunic, and it is drenched with blood. Her face is pale and corpse-like, and it is confounded by passions and old age; loosened gray hairs are exposed. Like a compassionate servant, the one whose head is partly bared where the hair has failed, holding out a hunting bird on the tip of his wrist. He is deeply pained, as you see, and showing pity in his face; he seems even to speak—he reproaches the striker, who has appeared harsher than the need requires, calls him a Scythian, and says that he is not, as he should be, serving a merciful master. And fearing his anger, lest he strike her on the head unawares, he meets the blow with his right hand turned upward, thus providing cover and choosing to be struck himself rather than to see old age so terribly destroyed by an unsparing blow. This man is lightly clad, and his sandals are already bound up to mid-shin. How blessed Hippolytus, what a spectacle of his chastity this is! Or do you think I mean the servants behind, holding up the spears, whose horses the art has concealed through Hippolytus and Daphne, showing only one with darkened hoofprints? So then you expect me to speak of such things. A great and chaste servant, I think, for the testimony of his master. But you, consider Daphne, how she turns her face away with Hippolytus and is ashamed of the licentiousness of her own kind, having heard of the letters and seen the servant of licentiousness.

Yet she praises Hippolytus, sharing with him both the spectacle and the posture, how she has turned away from them and thrusts aside the hearing. She is youthful in form and, though female by nature, has surpassed men in spirit. She bares her right arm, and from the armpit itself it is drawn up to the left shoulder; and with her left hand, holding the garment as it falls, she has tightened the border with the very tips of her fingers, look. Her hair is free and unbound, wandering on the breezes over her shoulders, held back from the eyes by a fillet of the same name, while it flows down her back. This Hippolytus is a horseman, and by Zeus, he is fitting to be seen. A chlamys is fastened to his right shoulder. Taking the bridle in his left hand, he checks the horse from its disorderly rush, as is fitting. But if it seems good to you, let us not pass over the mountain either, whether it is Hymettus or Aegaleon or whatever it is pleased to be called. Here are lambs and flocks, and shepherd dogs terrifying the old woman with barking and fury, carried from both sides by a servant. And there is some old Attic man beside them; I think he is the herdsman of the flock. For he is half-naked, wearing an exomis, bent with age and collapsed in his limbs, carrying a staff, and showing by the blackness of his complexion his time spent in the sun. He extends his right hand to Hippolytus in supplication, pitying the old age in which he himself has come to be, but fearing that the old woman may die before him; and he has turned his head and gaze toward the suffering. For you, as you run up to the very peak of the mountain, the spectacles are incomplete.

A deer, not yet fully grown, but for the time being sinking into the forest as far as its middle. For hearing the barking and clamor of dogs, it divines the hunt against itself and has run to the folds of the forest as if to a haven. The forest is both luxuriant and spreads with its branches, and with its shade it comforts the one struck by the sun's rays. Country women are here, and the goatherd standing with them. For they have not yet run up to the summit, but are still ascending, appearing little by little, still hidden as far as the navel and flank; and as much of the path as they have traversed, that much is left for the viewing of the body. How much do you think this woman at the summit gasps, going uphill and carrying a burden on her shoulders, the little child? This child, fearing to fall, with one hand clings to the top of its mother's head, and with the right hand carries a rattle, which makes a noise by the movement of the hands when children play, and which has received its name from being shaken. They have gone up, as is likely, to see the dramas concerning Hippolytus. Therefore, the man among them indicates the old woman's suffering with his right hand. The two women are both amazed and sympathize with the sight, one with a fingertip, the other with a reversed hand, resting her chin on the backs of her fingers. Of these, one, ashamed to look at men with her head bare, places her hand over it as a kind of veil; the other, having hung the hand from the armpit of her tunic, partially bares that part and would have shown her breast, had it not been bound by the band.

A horseman, and those with him, rising in part from the height, have gone off, as is likely, to seek wild beasts for their master, and they carry their spears upright. Then, an event having occurred in the midst of the drama, now as they have returned, at the strangeness of the sight, one of them, with his head lowered and falling toward his shoulder, wept. Among them, in the air, goats, rising against each other with their horns, stepping with their hind feet and rousing themselves for the impact of their horns; and one of them leaps just like those, and springs upon the shoulders of the old man with its feet raised up. The rest of the herd, as is the custom of goats, each one is occupied with grazing. But since, as the painter thought fit, he was setting down some part of the Trojan story in his paintings, variegating the narratives for us with a change of scene, come then, let us go up with him to the heights and ourselves paint in words the painting that lies above what has been described. The Trojans were toiling, the Greeks were toiling, fighting over Helen. And when they were about to join battle, if I remember the verses at all, with their army swelling in prime and fury, and as they were rushing against each other, it seemed that the end of the common battle would be the judgment concerning Helen, if one were to set them, two somewhere, both Paris and Menelaus, the one justly seeking what he had, the one who

He took her unjustly, not wishing to let her go. But let these men be judged by their weapons, with courage, I say, acting as judge, awarding the woman to the victor. There needed to be a truce on these terms, and it is made. And Priam is present for the covenants, trusted more than his sons because of his gray hair. Look at the pair, how much it is urged on in its course, guided by an old charioteer. A companion with him on the journey and in the chariot—the poetry called this man Antenor, and the painter was not ignorant of it. So the burden for the pair is two old men bent by misfortunes and old age: one holds the front place and clings to the reins; the other, Antenor, has mounted behind, holding onto the one before. Some advance guards, hoplites, stand by to serve as bodyguards for the king. Let us dismount from the chariot with Priam, and taking hold of Antenor's right hand, let us lead him, bent by old age and clinging to a staff, to Agamemnon. Gentle Agamemnon extends his hand and receives the right hand of his enemy, and Odysseus declares that Priam should not go further. And he insists that the old man stop with his hand, deeming it sufficient that the old man, standing at a distance, should say something and listen, wishing that only he among the Greeks should speak. Agamemnon, unarmed, indicates the truce by his posture, and the only sword he has, the last remnant of security, he gives over to his scabbard, and having set it, he rests his hand on the hilt of the sword. A cloak is thrown over his shoulders, and a variegated tunic is fastened around his middle by some belt.

Ajax is present, imitating Odysseus and the son of Tydeus with his hand, if you will, extending his right hand from behind Agamemnon to Priam and telling him to stand, touching nothing of the king. Nestor shines forth with his white hair, even though he appears from the midst; for he stands beside the son of Atreus as a ready counselor, in case he needs to inquire about something. Menelaus, a good hoplite, even before the battle terrifies the barbarian; he is fully armed and bears a spear, and holds his shield upright, not yet having taken it up, not yet having lowered his spear for war, but holding it with a strong right hand drawn back toward himself, still standing for the time being. For he awaits from Diomedes, who stands beside him, the signal for battle and the sound of the trumpet. When, then, the truce has been made and the trumpet has sounded, whetting their fury, Ajax stands with his chest bared to the navel, as does his brother Agamemnon and Nestor of Pylos. For Odysseus, out of eagerness, moves in sympathy with the one fighting in single combat, just as intense spectators share the posture of the charioteers. I almost perceive him shouting something: "Strike the man, strike him through whom you are widowed of Helen, through whom we wandered." And Menelaus, after the threat of spears, when the battle has come to swords, even rushed and seized the horsehair crest of the helmet. For he seizes him in his rush and pulls him by the helmet and rises with the blow. And Paris is lamented, even though he is not yet struck. Therefore Priam puts forward his gray hair and his hand in supplication and strikes his forehead three times, while the other raises his right hand to the air and, with astonishment, laments his fortune.

Antenor stands beside Priam, lest he contrive some terrible thing for himself out of despair. But stay your blow, Menelaus, lest you unwittingly fight against a god through Alexander, having struck naked Aphrodite poured around Paris, small though she be. For she presses upon him from behind and does not beg off the one being struck, who is bent over his shield toward the ground and loosening the grip of his helmet with his right hand. And Aphrodite steals your victory, Menelaus, just as she stole the woman from Sparta. A bedchamber there received the unmanly soldier, and a chair is spread for him before the lattice. And Helen weeps for his safety, even if Aphrodite does not wish it. For you see how downcast she is and bends toward the ground and blames the snatching Aphrodite. But she leads the unwilling one and comforts her as she weeps, concealing nothing within with her thin tunic, and brings them together to the bed, Paris with her left hand and the woman with her right. But what is the cause of the present wonders? And who bestows these favors upon the city? This man stands out at the edge of the painting, beautiful to see and in his stance like a statue set in the midst of temples, pleasant to know by experience in equestrian contests and abundance of baths, more august in the consular robe proclaiming his munificence, brilliant in lineage and abounding in wealth and advanced in years, pious from his father and setting right the fortunes of those in need, bearing the same name and fortune as the son of Conon, and making the emperor on his head a witness to his splendid deeds.