by Charles Swan
But to return to our story. When the king became aware of his daughter’s inclination, he said to the three lovers, “In due time I will communicate with you.” They bade him farewell and departed. But the king hastened to his daughter. “Whom,” said he, “wouldst thou chuse for thy husband?” She prostrated herself before him with tears, and answered, “Dear father, I desire to marry the shipwrecked Apollonius.” His child’s tears softened the parent’s heart; he raised her up, and said, “My sweet child, think only of thy happiness; since he is thy choice, he shall be mine. I will appoint the day of your nuptials immediately.” The following morning, he sent messengers to the neighbouring cities to invite the nobles. When they arrived, he said, “My lords, my daughter would marry her master. I desire you, therefore, to be merry, for my child will be united to a wise man.” Saying this, he fixed the period of their spousals.
Now, it happened, after she became pregnant, that she walked with her husband, prince Apollonius, by the seashore, and a fine ship riding at anchor in the distance, the latter perceived that it was of his own country. Turning to the master of the vessel, he said, “Whence are you?” “From Tyre,” replied the man.
“You speak of my own land, my friend.”
“Indeed! and are you a Tyrian?”
“As you have said.”
“Do you know,” continued the master, “a prince of that country, called Apollonius? I seek him; and whenever you happen to see him, bid him exult. King Antiochus and his daughter, at the very same instant, were blasted with lightning.* The kingdom has fallen to Apollonius.” Full of pleasure at the unexpected intelligence he had received, the prince said to his wife, “Will you acquiesce in my setting out to obtain the throne?” The lady instantly burst into tears. “Oh, my lord,” said she, “the journey is long, and yet you would leave me! If, however, it is necessary that you should go, we will go together.”† Instantly hastening to her father, she communicated the happy news which had just been heard, that Antiochus and his daughter, by the just judgment of an offended God, had been struck with lightning, and his wealth and diadem reserved for her husband. And lastly, she entreated his permission to accompany him. The old king, much exhilarated with the intelligence, was easily prevailed upon to assent; and ships were accordingly prepared for their conveyance. They were laden with everything necessary for the voyage; and a nurse, called Ligoridis,* was embarked, and a midwife, in anticipation of the young queen’s parturition. Her father accompanied them to the shore, and with an affectionate kiss of each, took his leave.
When they had been at sea some days, there arose a fearful tempest; and the lady, brought by this circumstance into premature labour, to all appearance perished. The moaning and tears of her family almost equalled the storm; and Apollonius, alarmed at the outcry, ran into the apartment, and beheld his lovely wife like an inhabitant of the grave. He tore his garments from his breast, and cast himself with tears and groans upon her inanimate body. “Dear wife!” he exclaimed, “daughter of the great Altistrates, how shall I console thy unhappy parent?”† Here the pilot, interrupting him, observed, “Sir, it will prejudice the ship to retain the dead body on board; command that it be cast into the sea.” “Wretch that you are,” returned Apollonius, “would you wish me to hurl this form into the waves, that succoured me shipwrecked and in poverty? “Then calling his attendants, he directed them to prepare a coffin, and smear the lid with bitumen. He also commanded that a leaden scroll should be placed in it, and the body, arrayed in regal habiliments, and crowned, was then deposited in the coffin. He kissed her cold lips, and wept bitterly. Afterwards giving strict charge respecting the new-born infant, he committed all that remained of his wife to the sea. (22)
On the third day the chest was driven by the waves to the shores of Ephesus, not far from the residence of a physician, called Cerimon, who happened at that hour to be walking with certain of his pupils upon the sands. Observing the chest deserted by the waters, he commanded his servants to secure it with all speed, and convey it to his house: this done, he opened it, and discovered a beautiful girl, attired in royal apparel. (23) Her uncommon loveliness struck all the spectators with astonishment; for she was as a sunbeam of beauty, in which nature had created everything pure and perfect, and failed in nothing but in denying her the attribute of immortality.* Her hair glittered like the snow, beneath which a brow of milky whiteness, smooth and unwrinkled as a plain, peacefully rested. Her eyes resembled the changeableness, not the prodigality,† of two luminous orbs; for their gaze was directed by an unshaken modesty, which indicated a constant and enduring mind. Her eyebrows were naturally and excellently placed; and her shapely nose, describing a straight line, rose centrically upon the face. It possessed neither too much length nor too little. Her neck was whiter than the solar rays, and ornamented with precious stones; while her countenance, full of unspeakable joy, communicated happiness to all who looked on her. She was exquisitely formed; and the most critical investigation could not discover more or less than there ought to be. Her beautiful arms, like the branches of some fair tree, descended from her well-turned breast; to which, delicately chiselled fingers, not outshone by the lightning, were attached. In short, she was outwardly a perfect model,—flashing through which, the divine spark of soul her Creator had implanted might be gloriously distinguished. (24) Works of power ought to accord with each other: and hence all corporal beauty originates in the soul’s loveliness. It has even been said, that mental excellence, however various, adapts the mass of matter to itself.*
Be this as it may, the most perfect adaptation of soul and body existed in this lady, now discovered by Cerimon. “Fair girl,” said he, “how earnest thou so utterly forsaken ? “The money, which had been placed beneath her head, now attracted his attention, and then the scroll of lead presented itself.
“Let us examine what it contains.”
He opened it accordingly, and read as follows:—
“Whomsoever thou art that findest this chest, I entreat thy acceptance of ten pieces of gold; the other ten expend, I pray thee, on a funeral. For the corse it shrouds hath left tears and sorrows enough to the authors of her being. If thou dost neglect my request, I imprecate upon thee curses against the day of judgment, and devote thy body to death, unhonoured and uninhumed.”†
When the physician had read, he directed his servants to comply with the mourner’s injunction. “And I solemnly vow,” added he, “to expend more than his sorrow requires.” Immediately he bade them prepare a funeral pile. When this was done, and everything laid in order, a pupil of the physician, a young man, but possessing the wisdom of old age, came to look upon the lady. As he considered her fair form attentively, already laid upon the pile, his preceptor said to him, “You come opportunely; I have expected you this hour. Get a vial of precious ointment, and, in honour of this bright creature, pour it upon the funeral pile.” The youth obeyed, approached the body, and drawing the garments from her breast, poured out the ointment. But accidentally passing his hand over her heart, he fancied that it beat. The youth was electrified. He touched the veins, and searched if any breath issued from the nostrils. He pressed his lips to hers; and he thought he felt life struggling with death. Calling hastily to the servants, he bade them place torches at each comer of the bier. When they had done this, the blood, which had been coagulated, presently liquefied; and the young man, attentive to the change, exclaimed to his master, “She lives! she lives! You scarcely credit me; come and see.” As he spoke, he bore the lady to his own chamber. Then heating oil upon his breast, he steeped in it a piece of wool, and laid it upon her body. By these means, the congealed blood being dissolved, the spirit again penetrated to the marrows.* Thus, the veins being cleared, her eyes opened, and respiration returned.† “What are you?” said she. “Touch me not otherwise than I ought to be touched; for I am the daughter and the wife of a king.” Full of rapture at the sound of her voice, the young man hurried into his master’s room, and related what had occurred. “I approve you
r skill,” returned he, “I magnify your art, and wonder at your prudence. Mark the results of learning, and be not ungrateful to science. Receive now thy reward; for the lady brought much wealth with her.” Cerimon then directed food and clothes to be conveyed to her, and administered the best restoratives. A few days after her recovery, she declared her birth and misfortunes; and the good physician, commiserating her situation, adopted her as his daughter. With tears she solicited permission to reside among the vestals of Diana; and he placed her with certain female attendants in the magnificent temple of the goddess.
In the mean while Apollonius, guided by the good providence of God, arrived at Tharsus, and disembarking, sought the mansion of Stranguilio and Dionysias. After mutual greetings, he narrated his adventures. “Wretched as I am in the death of a beloved wife, I have yet cause for joy in the existence of this infant. To you I will intrust her; for never, since his offspring has perished, will I again revisit the old Altistrates. But educate my girl with your own daughter Philomatia; * and call her after your city, by the name of Tharsia.† I would, moreover, pray you to take charge of her nurse, Ligoridis.” With such words, he gave the child up to them, accompanied by large presents of gold and silver, and valuable raiment. He then took an oath that he would neither cut his beard, or hair, or nails, until his daughter were bestowed in marriage.‡ Grieving at the rashness of the vow, Stranguilio took the infant, and promised to educate it with the utmost care; and Apollonius, satisfied with the assurance, went on board his vessel, and sailed to other countries.
While these things were transacting, Tharsia attained her fifth year, and commenced a course of liberal studies with the young Philomatia, her companion. When she was fourteen, returning from school, she found her nurse, Ligoridis, taken with a sudden indisposition, and seating herself near the old woman, kindly inquired the cause. “My dear daughter,” replied she, “hear my words, and treasure them in your heart. Whom do you believe to be your father and mother; and which is your native country?” “Tharsus,” returned she, “is the place of my nativity; my father, Stranguilio, and my mother, Dionysias.” The nurse groaned, and said, “My daughter, listen to me; I will tell you to whom you owe your birth, in order that, when I am dead, you may have some guide for your future actions. Your father is called Apollonius; and your mother’s name is Lucina, the daughter of King Altistrates. She died the moment you were born; and Apollonius, adorning her with regal vesture, cast the chest which contained her into the sea. Twenty sestertia of gold were placed beneath her head, and whosoever discovered it was entreated to give her burial. The ship in which your unhappy father sailed, tossed to and fro by the winds which formed your cradle, at last put into this port, where we were hospitably received by Stranguilio and Dionysias, to whom your sire also recommended me. He then made a vow never to clip his beard, or hair, or nails, until you were married. Now, I advise that if, after my death, your present friends would do you an injury, hasten into the forum, and there you will find a statue of your father. Cling to it, and state yourself the daughter of him whose statue that is. The citizens, mindful of the benefits received from him, will avenge your wrong.” “My dear nurse,” answered Tharsia, “you tell me strange things, of which, till now, I was ignorant.” After some future discourse, Ligoridis gave up the ghost. Tharsia attended her obsequies, and lamented her a full year.
After this, she returned to her studies in the schools. Her custom was, on returning, never to eat until she had been to the monument erected in honour of her nurse. She carried with her a flask of wine, and there tarried, invoking the name of her beloved and lamented parents. Whilst she was thus employed, Dionysias, with her daughter Philomatia, passed through the forum; and the citizens, who had caught a glimpse of Tharsia’s form, exclaimed, “Happy father of the lovely Tharsia; but as for her companion, she is a shame and a disgrace.” The mother, hearing her daughter vilified, while the stranger was commended, turned away in a madness of fury. She retired to solitary communication with herself. “For fourteen years,” muttered she, “the father has neglected his daughter; he has sent no letters, and certainly he is dead. The nurse is also dead, and there is no one to oppose me. I will kill her, and deck my own girl with her ornaments.” As she thus thought, her steward, named Theophilus,* entered. She called him, and promising a vast reward, desired him to put Tharsia to death. “What hath the maid done?” asked he. “She hath done the very worst things; you ought not therefore to deny me. Do what I command you; if you do it not, you will bring evil on yourself.” “Tell me, lady, how is it to be done ?”
“Her custom is,” replied Dionysias, “on coining from the schools, not to take food until she has entered her nurse’s monument; arm yourself with a dagger, seize her by the hair of the head, and there stab her. Then throw her body into the sea, and come tome; I will give you your liberty, with a large reward.”† The steward, taking the weapon, went with much sorrow to the monument. “Alas!” said he, “shall I not deserve liberty except by the sacrifice of a virgin’s life ? “He entered the monument, where Tharsia, after her occupation in the schools, had as usual retired; the flask of wine was in her hand. The steward attacked the poor girl, and, seizing her by the hair, threw her upon the ground. But as he was on the point of striking, Tharsia cried out, “Oh, Theophilus! what crime have I committed against you, or against any other, that I should die?” “You are innocent,” answered he, “of everything, save possessing a sum of money and certain royal ornaments left you by your father.” “Oh, sir!” said the forsaken orphan, “if I have no hope, yet suffer me to supplicate my Maker before I die.” “Do so,” answered the steward, “and God knows that it is upon compulsion that I slay thee.” Now, while the girl was engaged in prayer, certain pirates rushed into the monument, expecting to carry off a booty; and observing a young maid prostrated, and a man standing over her in the act to destroy her, they shouted out, “Stop, barbarian! that is otir prey, not your victory.” Theophilus, full of terror, fled hastily from the monument and hid himself by the shore. (25)
The pirates carried off the maid to sea; and the steward, returning to his mistress, assured her that he had obeyed her commands. “I advise you,” said he, “to put on a mourning garment, which I also will do, and shed tears for her death. This will deceive the citizens, to whom we will say that she was taken off by a sickness.” When Stranguilio heard what had been done, his grief was sincere and violent. “I will clothe myself in deep mourning,” cried he, “for I too am involved in this fearful enormity. Alas! what can I do? Her father freed our city from a lingering death. Through our means he suffered shipwreck ; he lost his property, and underwent the extreme of poverty. Yet we return him evil for good! He intrusted his daughter to our care, and a savage lioness hath devoured her! Blind wretch that I was! Innocent, I grieve. I am bound to a base and venomous serpent.” Lifting up his eyes to heaven, he continued, “O God, thou knowest that I am free from the blood of this girl— require her of Dionysias.” Then fixing a stem look upon his wife, “Enemy of God, and disgrace of man, thou hast destroyed the daughter of a king.”
Dionysias made much apparent lamentation: she put her household into mourning, and wept bitterly before the citizens. “My good friends,” said she, “the hope of our eyes, the beloved Tharsia, is gone—she is dead. Our tears shall bedew the marble which we have raised to her memory.” The people then hastened to the place where her form, moulded in brass, had been erected, in gratitude for the benefits conferred upon that city by her father.*
The pirates transported the maid to Machilenta,* where she was placed among other slaves for sale. A most wretched and debauched pimp, hearing of her perfections, endeavoured to buy her. But Athanagoras, prince of that city, observing her lofty port, her beautiful countenance, and wise conduct, offered ten golden sestertia.
P. I will give twenty.
Athanag. And I, thirty.
P. Forty.
Athanag. Fifty.
P. Eighty.
Athanag. Ninety.
P. I will give a hundred sestertia in ready money; if any one offer more, I will give ten gold sestertia above.
“Why should I contend any farther with this pimp,” thought Athanagoras. “I may purchase a dozen for the price she will cost him. Let him have her; and by and by I will enter covertly his dwelling and solicit her love.”
Tharsia was conducted by the pimp to a house of ill fame, in an apartment of which there was a golden Priapus, richly ornamented with gems.
“Girl! worship that image,” said the wretch.
Tharsia. I may not worship any such thing. Oh, my lord! are you not a Lapsatenarian.†
P. Why?
Tharsia. Because the Lapsateni worship Priapus.
P. Know you not, wretched girl, that you have entered the house of a greedy pimp ?
Casting herself at his feet, she exclaimed, “Oh, sir! do not dishonour me; be not guilty of such a flagrant outrage.”
P. Are you ignorant that, with a pimp and the torturer, neither prayers nor tears are available ?