Apuleius’ The Golden Ass in Translation and Adaptation
Brian Earl
Advisors: Professor John Schafer and Professor Brian Bouldrey
Interdisciplinary Senior Thesis
Departments of Classics and English
Northwestern University
April 24, 2014
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 2
Table of Contents
I.
Introduction
3
II.
The Golden Ass
43
a. Liber I
44
b. Liber II
64
c. Liber III
88
d. Liber IV
109
III.
Stylistic Changes in Translation
129
IV.
The Golden Ass: An Adaptation
141
a. Part 1
142
b. Part 2
168
c. Part 3
192
d. Part 4
218
Acknowledgments
240
V.
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Introduction: On Translating Books 1-4 of The Golden Ass
Lector intende: laetaberis.
—Apuleius, The Golden Ass, 1.1
I. The Duty of the Translator
In my experience, Latin classes often encourage understanding a text in its original
language. Translation is a crutch for students who lack fluency, treated almost as a dirty word—
we’re not translating Latin, we’re reading it. Nobody cares if I sing of arms and a man, but
arma virumque cano—that’s another story. But reading Latin in Latin only succeeds when
everyone discussing the text possesses some level of fluency; when we wish to share the text
with someone who can’t read the language, we must somehow convey the author’s work in
words accessible to the new audience—and for many Latinists, this “somehow” presents a great
challenge. We might paraphrase or summarize, offer a stiff and robotic word-by-word
recounting, or flounder for any words at all. We might describe the essence of the text or dart
around the original meaning, but we almost always fail to give our non-Latinist friends the same
experience of reading the original. Often, the best we can do is simply to describe our
experience, but hearing that Dido’s lament is moving and powerful is not the same as being
moved by her powerful words.
Yet sharing an alien text is one of the great joys of learning a foreign language. Just as
the astronomy student would share the discovery of a new planet with her friends without using a
name like Kepler-20f, or the biologist would explain the fascinating mechanisms by which the
body functions in everyday language, so the classicist is eager to communicate the works of
Greece and Rome via translation, leaving behind the original Greek and Latin. Translation, in
the words of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, “endow[s] a fresh nation, as far as possible, with one more
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possession of beauty” (65). As Friedrich Schleiermacher states, translation “bring[s] two people
together who are . . . totally separated from each other . . . [into the] immediate relationship . . .
of author and reader” (39). He later describes translation as “the difficult and impossible art of
merging the spirits of [two] languages into one another” (53). Translation is about sharing art
and beauty, about connecting people who are otherwise separated by time and distance.
The experience of translation perhaps rewards the translator even more than the reader.
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak observes that translating a text is one of the most intimate ways to
read (398). John Felstiner adds, “In translating . . . critical and creative activity converge” (94).
As a creative writer, translating The Golden Ass has made me consider Latin and English more
closely than I ever have in the past. When translating, I must think about how words function
grammatically, and how changing a grammatical construction changes the meaning; what words
really “mean” given their connotations, etymologies, and change in usage over time; and how
larger units of meaning—sentences, paragraphs, chapters—affect the reader’s experience of a
text. Such things are somewhat instinctive when working in a single language, but working with
two languages forces direct analysis of these concepts, and as a result, my own writing has
become more careful, nuanced, and deliberate. The translator is as much an artist as any other
writer, for finding elegant solutions to the complex problems translation presents is deeply
imaginative work.
With all this in mind, the translator faces certain duties. How can he best create, present,
and preserve this art? Vladimir Nabokov says the translator’s chief duty is to provide as literal a
translation as possible, “to reproduce with absolute exactitude the whole text, and nothing but the
text” (134). Anything less than this sends Nabokov into “spasms of helpless fury”:
A schoolboy’s boner is less of a mockery in regard to the ancient masterpiece than its
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commercial interpretation or poetization. . . . The term “free translation” smacks of
knavery and tyranny. It is when the translator sets out to render the “spirit”—not the
textual sense—that he begins to traduce his author. The clumsiest literal translation is a
thousand times more useful than the prettiest paraphrase. (127)
I—and more importantly, scholars and translators who are much more knowledgeable and
skilled than me—disagree. Octavio Paz, for instance, argues that “literal translation . . . is not
translation” (154). But why? Why is Nabokov incorrect? Wouldn’t a translator want to aim for
“absolute exactitude”? No: among other reasons, literal translations will inevitably fail to
capture the mood and tone of an author in a way that is accessible to the new audience.
Mood and tone—the experience of reading something—define a text; rendering this
“spirit” of a text is a necessity, not a denigration. Readers will remember few, if any, specific
words and phrases after completing a novel, but they will recall how they felt, whether they
laughed or cried or recoiled in disgust. John Dryden, who prepared a translation of Ovid’s
Epistles in 1680, proposes that this is what must be preserved in translation above all else; “the
sense of an author, generally speaking, is to be sacred and inviolable” (21). It is not the
individual words that matter so much as the feelings they convey. Yes, while a literal translation
is often sufficient for these purposes, the literal translation is not an end in itself, and when it
fails, the translator must know how to appropriately depart from the original text. Dryden
expands on these thoughts:
Words are not like landmarks, so sacred as never to be removed; customs are changed,
and even statutes are silently repealed, when the reason ceases for which they were
enacted. As for the other part of the argument, that [the author’s] thoughts will lose their
original beauty by the innovation of words; in the first place, not only their beauty, but
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their being is lost, where they are no longer understood . . . I grant that something must
be lost . . . in all translations; but the sense will remain, which would otherwise be lost,
or at least maimed, when it is scarce intelligible. (28)
The translator must modernize the text at the expense of individual words; failure to do so will
result in the greater losses of beauty, intelligibility, and experiencing the text in the way it was
meant to be experienced. Walter Benjamin agrees with Dryden’s sentiments, arguing a
translation should produce an “echo of the original” (77). Translation is not copying or
recreation; it is creation in a new form. An echo is not speech, but something entirely different,
sound waves reflected off a distant surface—yet an echo can have the same effect on the ears it
touches.
Nearly as important as preserving the author’s sense is preserving the original images,
whether in plain narrative or in figurative language. The translator should not add to or
embellish the author’s imagery any more than he should subdue or replace it. Why speak of the
setting sun when the author describes the sky growing darker and darker? Why say someone
walked like a wounded deer when the original says someone tottered unsteadily? In Reading
Rilke, William Gass compares fifteen different translations of Rilke’s writing. He scathingly
criticizes the translators (including himself) when they fail to preserve Rilke’s images (67). At
the same time, he interrogates the English translations for connotations that might subvert the
imagery; the word “terrifying,” for instance, has different colors than the German schrecklich.
Gass goes to great lengths to preserve as much of the original as he can—sense, mood, tone,
image; he deliberates about each and every word in his translation.
In this translation of The Golden Ass I prescribe to all these duties—conveying the text
faithfully, preserving the sense and image of the original, presenting the author so that the
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modern audience appreciates him as much as his ancient audience did. But my chief aim,
however, is to create something artistic. “The hallmark of bad translations,” writes Benjamin, is
the tendency to impart only information without striving for any new artistic ends (71). Paz,
likewise, describes translation as “a literary operation” (157). And so, I want my translation to
stand on its own, to provide pleasure to the reader, to be my own small contribution to what the
powers-that-be call “art.”
II. The Methods of Translation
No translation can exactly recreate the mood and meaning of a literary work, but it can
approximate it. How? It is not just a language we must translate when working with Latin—it is
an entire culture. Separated by an ocean and two thousand years, how can we recreate a text so a
modern American audience will appreciate it? The translator’s most important skill is his ability
to make careful, informed decisions. Lydia Davis succinctly quips, “No choice is simple, even
one that seems simple” (62). The translator must be able to recognize the sort of decisions he
makes—even the instinctive ones—and articulate and justify each and every choice.
Dryden describes the various strategies for approaching a translation project. “All
translation,” he writes, “may be reduced to . . . three heads.” These heads are
metaphrase, or turning an author word by word, and line by line, from one language into
another . . . paraphrase, or translation with latitude, where the author is kept in view by
the translator, so as never to be lost, but his words are not so strictly followed as his
sense; and that too is admitted to be amplified, but not altered . . . [and] imitation, where
the translator (if now he has not lost that name) assumes the liberty, not only to vary from
the words and sense, but to forsake them both as he sees occasion . . . taking only some
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general hints from the original. (17)
These are the translator’s tools: metaphrase, paraphrase, and imitation. They are three distinct
vehicles that transport the reader from one place to another—like automobiles, ferries, and trains.
Transferring from one to another in a single trip can be inconvenient, frustrating, or downright
impossible, and so it is better to pick a mode and stick with it. Schleiermacher, who favors
metaphrase, writes that imitation should never be combined with the other methods, for doing so
turns the entire translation into “mere imitation, or to a still more repulsively conspicuous and
confusing mixture of translation and imitation that throws the reader mercilessly back and forth
like a ball” (51).
However, sometimes a journey necessitates merging methods. Just as someone driving
from Milwaukee to Detroit will either need to take a long and circuitous route through Illinois—
with potentially brutal, unforgiving traffic in Chicago—or else take an expensive but relaxing
ferry across Lake Michigan, some passages will prevent translators with similar dilemmas. A
direct translation (metaphrase) might be clunky, confusing, or arduous to read, when a
paraphrase presents a smoother, more elegant route, but at the cost of the original language. In
such instances, the translator might choose to mix methods rather than religiously sticking with
one, just as the driver might decide the easiest journey involves paying the extra fare for the
ferry. Indeed, in many cases metaphrase and paraphrase complement each other quite well.
Like automobiles, ferries, and trains, metaphrase, paraphrase, and imitation each have
advantages and disadvantages; depending on the goal of a particular translation, one method may
prove more effective than the others. Metaphrase provides the most “literal” translation of a
text—every word in the original will have something that corresponds to it in the translation, and
there will be no additions. This allows the reader to understand what the original text “says”
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more than any other method, and the reader will be able to draw their own conclusions about the
text free from interpretive actions from the translator. So why not exclusively use metaphrase?
One problem lies in that what is idiomatic in a foreign language might not make sense in
the new tongue. Some idioms transfer perfectly—the Latin verb replicare (to turn/fold
back/over) can be used with thoughts; in English, we can also say “I turned these thoughts over.”
Other idioms, however, do not translate well—Latin speakers would say there was a manus
(hand) of robbers, but in English, we would say a “group” or a “band.” In some instances of
idiomatic trouble, the translator can integrate any method of translation fairly seamlessly into his
work. A metaphrase will reproduce the original text faithfully, though the phrase might strike
the readers’ ear as odd or nonsensical (e.g., the Danish use the idiom “to take off the clogs”); a
paraphrase would describe or explain the idiom (“to die”); and an imitation would choose an
idiom from the target language to replace the original (“to kick the bucket”).
The problems of metaphrase extend beyond figures of speech—a translation based solely
on metaphrase will struggle to capture the mood and tone of the original. Roman authors and
American authors have different styles of writing. As an inflected language, Latin has much
more flexibility regarding where words can fall in sentences. This allows authors to place
subjects, objects, and verbs in various positions to add or subtract emphasis. Literary Latin—
including that of Apuleius—is marked by long, twisting sentences, using copious nested relative
clauses; subjects, verbs, and objects are often separated by a surprising amount of space. On the
other hand, American English favors short, clear, concise sentences, which Davis points out in
her essay on translating Proust, whose verbosity rivals that of Apuleius (58). As Edward
Seidensticker states, “An English sentence hastens to the main point and for the most part lets the
qualifications [adjectives, relative clauses, etc.] follow after” (143). Latin does not do this,
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sometimes beginning with descriptions before revealing the subject, and often delaying the verb
until the very end of a clause or sentence. While a modern writer can mimic some of Latin’s
emphatic choices, such word order will be unusual in English, making the sentence stand out
compared to its counterpart in the original. The translator will inevitably modernize and
normalize the word order of sentences; retaining the original word order would be unsustainable
for more than a sentence or two, reading like utter gibberish.
When faced with cumbersomely long sentences, the metaphraser has two options: break
up the sentences into smaller chunks to adapt to a more modern style; or retain the old sentence
length at the risk of leaving the reader lost and confused, needing to reread passages over and
over again to track the flow of meaning. The Romans were accustomed to their characteristically
long sentences, and so they would not have had much trouble following them, keeping track of
subjects, verbs, and other crucial information. So, if the metaphraser chooses to retain original
sentence divisions, the reader will have a much more difficult time following the text than the
original audience (though to be fair, even the Romans would have had to stop, think about, and
reread the most convoluted Latin sentences). Benjamin warns, “A literal rendering of the syntax
. . . is a direct threat to comprehensibility” (79). However, if the metaphraser chooses to break
up the long sentences into more digestible chunks, he sacrifices fidelity to the original. In either
case, the metaphraser will be able to translate what the text means, but not the exact experience
of reading it.
Unsurprisingly, the fundamental differences between two languages determines how
effective metaphrase can be for translation. When languages differ not only in vocabulary but in
style and the way words function, translation becomes more difficult; Seidensticker writes:
The farther apart the languages, the more real the contradiction [between the duty of
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preserving both the spirit of the foreign language and the spirit of English]. Without
knowing a word of Russian, one senses that Constance Garnett’s “style and manner” are
not those of her Russians. How else explain the fact that her Tolstoy and Turgenev and
Dostoyevski all sound exactly alike? (143)
Overall, however, Latin and English are not terribly distant. Bonnefoy, in a series of essays
reflecting on translating Shakespeare into French, describes English as a language that “concerns
itself naturally with tangible aspects”; that is, it easily uses nouns and adjectives to create a scene
(218). Latin is like this too, though to a lesser extent. Inflected endings allow verbs to identify
their subjects; no additional words are needed. Latin also relies more heavily on demonstrative
pronouns to connect thoughts and ideas, and so a direct metaphrase of many Latin sentences
would be difficult to follow in English, since again, Latin’s inflected endings make more
apparent the words to which pronouns refer. Additionally, Bonnefoy describes English words as
“rich in ambiguity,” which contrasts starkly with the much more precise French lexicon (226).
Latin can be just as ambiguous as English—if not more so—and so a translator could
conceivably create equivalent ambiguity even if a direct metaphrase fails to convey the same
sense. A final difference between Latin and English lies in punctuation. Ancient Rome did not
have a standardized system of punctuation (many authors used no punctuation at all, and some
writing even lacks spaces), leaving modern editors to decide where to break up end sentences,
add quotation marks to show dialogue, etc. English, on the other hand, has a wide variety of
punctuation marks to divide units of meaning, such as commas and periods. Some punctuation,
like the colon and semi-colon, can show causal relationships; other signs, like the exclamation
point and question mark, affect the tone and inflection of the sentence. Metaphrase would have
the translator reject these new tools as much as possible, for they give the translator too much
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power over the tone of the original that words alone might not convey.
Paraphrase, then, attempts to address these shortcomings of metaphrase. The translator
concedes the inevitable sacrifices to the original, and errs on the side of making the text
accessible to the new audience. What does a modern American care if the Romans used long
sentences? Confusingly long sentences could ruin the comic timing in a text like The Golden
Ass. Paraphrase strives to achieve the cadence, flow, and idiom of the target language, capturing
the ideas and tone of the original, but often at the cost of not translating particular words.
Although Davis prefers “close translation” (metaphrase) to “free translation” (paraphrase), she
adds, “Since you [the translator] make the rules yourself, you can give yourself permission, after
all, to depart as far as you need to in order to create a text that reads really well in English” (57).
Garry Wills, introducing Christopher Logue’s translation of the Iliad, explains that poets
paraphrase or “‘take liberties’ . . . not to get away from” the original, but to move toward it (xi).
And translators will find themselves using paraphrase in nearly any translation; as Dryden points
out, “every language is so full of its own properties, that what is beautiful in one, is often
barbarous, nay sometimes nonsense, in another . . . It is impossible to render all those little
ornaments of speech in any two languages” (21, 30). Therefore, Dryden concludes, “it would be
unreasonable to limit a translator to the narrow compass of his author’s words: ‘tis enough if he
choose out some expression which does not vitiate the sense” (21). Paraphrase fills the gaps
between languages that metaphrase creates. The two modes can be used in conjunction, one
supplementing the other to create a smooth, accessible, and (mostly) faithful translation.
Paraphrase is useful when the new language lacks a ready equivalent for a word or
phrase, but it runs the risks of under-translation and over-translation. Under-translation fails to
capture the whole sense of a word or idea, perhaps, for example, illustrating a physical action
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without indicating whether the action should be viewed positively or negatively when the
original word carries such a subtext. Over-translation uses words or phrases that explain more
than the original, words that are too strong or have too many connotations, interpreting or even
distorting the meaning of the original text. To demonstrate, “putting a sponge to the wound”
under-translates vulnus spongia offulciens—“stuffing up the wound with a sponge” is better
(Apuleius 1.10). Likewise, “a lascivious game of pretend: she was Venus” over-translates ad
hilarem lasciviam in speciem Veneris; “cheerful friskiness in the appearance [or manner] of
Venus” more effectively captures the sense of the original (2.17). As Schleiermacher writes, the
paraphraser must not “vacillat[e] between a cumbersome ‘too much’ and a tormenting ‘too
little’” (40). The paraphraser must take care not to get too caught up in his own version of the
writing, always keeping the original in mind, so as not to stray from his goal—to convey the
original as much as possible, but with the freedom to inject and alter language to create clarity
and accessibility.
Imitation wanders far from the original text, and might preserve only themes, mood, tone,
and content. There will not be much similarity on the level of language—the imitator will use
different diction, different sentences, different paragraphs. Whole scenes may change. Until one
examines an imitation and an original broadly on a thematic level, the only similarity between
the texts might be the title—if that. Dryden nicely sums up the goal of the imitator: “to write like
one who has written before him, on the same subject; that is, not to translate his words, or to be
confined to his sense, but only to set him as a pattern, and to write, as he supposes that author
would have done, had he lived in our age, and in our country” (19). Thus, adaptation—
transporting a text to a new environment or medium, retelling the story in a new setting or
form—falls under imitation’s umbrella.
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Beyond these three main tools, Schleiermacher introduces two different philosophies a
translator can employ. The translator can try to make the translation of the foreign language
sound as much like the target tongue as possible, or he can push the limits of his native language,
mimicking the original, trying to force his own language into the foreign mold (42). The
decision between these two philosophies will affect many subsequent choices the translator
makes. For example, a translator trying to completely adapt to the target language will often
sacrifice a writer’s particular style if such a style feels unnatural in the new language.
In the case of this translation, I have opted to attempt to make English sound as Apuleiusesque as I can. Apuleius has a distinct loquacity and even makes up his own words—as a result
of imitating this style, my translation might feel oddly verbose at times, a tad foreign to the ear,
but “transmitting a feeling of foreignness,” as Schleiermacher puts it, is only an advantage (46).
Infusing the work with a sort of exoticism will remind the reader they are reading a foreign text,
aiding their imaginations in picturing a milieu in another country, characters speaking another
language, a culture with customs different from their own. Benjamin also supports this mode,
sharing a quote from Rudolf Panwitz: “The basic error of the translator is that he preserves the
state in which his own language happens to be instead of allowing his language to be powerfully
affected by the foreign tongue” (81).
Incidentally, metaphrase is the tool that most naturally allows the translator to push his
words toward the original language. Translating word-by-word rather than idea-by-idea not only
ensures everything written remains accounted for, but ensures that it is accounted for in a way
similar to that in which it was originally presented. Schleiermacher writes, “the more closely the
translation follows the phrases of the original, the more foreign it will strike the reader” (46).
And so, metaphrase allows the translator to be most faithful to the original both in literal
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meaning and in preserving the way in which things are said—a way that might seem unnatural to
the new audience.
But that is not to say using metaphrase to push the boundaries of language to something
foreign is the “best” way to translate; the purpose and audience will guide the translator just as
much as—if not more than—a general philosophy on translation. Metaphrase, paraphrase, and
imitation each belong in every translator’s arsenal. The translator must be conscious of his
choices and aware of the effect each tool has, permitting him to make appropriate decisions to
achieve his particular goal.
I intend my translation to be what I call an “accessible metaphrase.” I strive to translate
nearly every word of the original Latin, but to do so in such a way that the result does not sound
like a translation. I do not confine myself to Apuleius’ sentence divisions or word order. I
frequently break up his sentences and paragraphs into more digestible chunks (and on a few
occasions, merge his sentences). When the main subject or verb is delayed for a long period of
time, I move this crucial information to the beginning of the sentence; while in some cases it is
delayed to provide a surprise or a punch line, in English such a delay would render the sentence
incomprehensible. I make a few additions, inserting background information necessary for
understanding some of Apuleius’ more obscure comparisons and allusions. Occasionally
Apuleius will repeat an idea with synonyms for emphasis, but English cannot always replicate
such repetition in a smooth and elegant manner. In cases like these I omit a few Latin words
from my translation. When metaphrase fails, I paraphrase, but I try to do so sparingly.
A final tool of translation is to collaborate with other people and other books. Translators
would be foolish not to use the many resources available to them. For example, in the
introduction to his translation of the Iliad, Christopher Logue recalls that when he began his
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decades-long project, he was not confident in his Ancient Greek; he relied upon older
translations as guides (vii). Similarly, I regularly consulted the translations of Sarah Ruden and
P. G. Walsh when working on this project, and I also read Robert Graves’s. Donald Frame
supports this practice; he argues that translation is “a cumulative undertaking, and therefore
borrowing—or stealing—whenever you see that your own best solution to a problem is clearly
inferior to someone else’s” is perfectly acceptable (82). The exception, however, is the “rare
cases” where a translator improves on the original (83). Using previous translations can help
decipher difficult passages in the original and be a source of inspiration in deciding how to
render a certain phrase.
Meanwhile, Davis takes a slightly different approach; she prefers to separate her work
from her predecessors, at least when writing her first draft. She refuses to “look at other
translations,” to read the whole work in the original language, or to research the author’s life
(54). Essentially, she translates blind, but she will then use all these resources when she revises
her translation on second and subsequent drafts. This allows her to create something that is
original without squandering the work done before her; she writes, “Often another version made
me confirm that mine felt right to me, or it induced me to make it better. Sometimes I found a
word I hadn’t thought of using: in Moncrieff, say, ‘housetop’ for ‘roof’” (56). Her method
ensures the “freshest” take on a work, as free as possible from outside influences—I would
certainly consider attempting a future translation project in this way.
Finally, translators can collaborate by discussing their translation project with other
people. William Weaver makes it a point to consult the original author or people who knew him
as part of his translation process (122-3). Even with ancient texts, when such consultations are
impossible without a time machine, discussing the translation with others—from those who
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know the foreign language well to skilled writers in the target tongue—can be invaluable.
III. A Practical Demonstration
It’s one thing to theorize about metaphrase, paraphrase, imitation, pushing boundaries or
forcing assimilation, but it’s another matter to put these into practice. Can a translator really
stick to just one tool, one philosophy, avoiding the “repulsively conspicuous and confusing
mixture” of which Schleiermacher warns? And what difference does it really make? Will one
translation be so different from another that it’s worthwhile to translate a text in a different way?
To answer this question, let us examine several recent translations of the first two sentences of
Apuleius’ prologue, including my own.
The Latin reads:
At ego tibi sermone isto Milesio varias fabulas conseram auresque tuas benivolas lepido
susurro permulceam — modo si papyrum Aegyptiam argutia Nilotici calami inscriptam
non spreveris inspicere —, figuras fortunasque hominum in alias imagines conversas et in
se rursum mutuo nexu refectas ut mireris. Exordior. (1.1)
A very literal translation—a bad metaphrase or “translationese”—would render the text thus:
But I will compose fables of different kinds for you in that Milesian speech and stroke
your kind ears with a charming whisper—if only you would not scorn to look at the
Egyptian papyrus, inscribed with the wit of a reed from the Nile—so that you marvel at
the figures and fortunes of men changed into other images and restored back into
themselves with a mutual interlacing. I begin.
Robert Graves, writing in 1951, provides this loose translation, which nearly falls into the realm
of imitation:
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If you are not put off by the Egyptian story-telling convention which allows humans to be
changed into animals and, after various adventures, restored to their proper shapes, you
should be amused by this queer novel, a string of anecdotes in the popular Milesian style,
but intended only for your private ear, which I call my Transformations. (vii)
P. G. Walsh, who metaphrased the Latin as best he could in 1994, renders it thus:
What I should like to do is weave together different tales in this Milesian mode of storytelling and to stroke your approving ears with some elegant whispers, as long as you
don’t disdain to run your eye over Egyptian paper inscribed with the sharpened point of a
reed from the Nile. I want you to feel wonder at the transformations of men’s shapes and
destinies into alien forms, and a reversion by a chain of interconnection to their own. So
let me begin! (1)
In 2011, Sarah Ruden prepared a translation that can best be called paraphrase:
Well, let me weave together various sorts of tales, using the Milesian mode as a
loom, if you will. Witty and dulcet tones are going to stroke your too-kind ears—as long
as you don’t turn a spurning nose up at an Egyptian papyrus scrawled over with a sharp
pen from the Nile. I’ll make you wonder at human forms and fortunes transfigured, torn
apart but then mended back into their original state.
Now to my preface. (1)
And my own translation:
I’m thinking I’ll tell these stories to you in that Milesian style—you know, those
romping, boisterous tales in which I can plant so many things. I’ll please your kind ears
with a charming whisper . . . but soft! if only you would not scorn to acknowledge the
Egyptian papyrus, inscribed with the silver-tongued wit that springs up by the reeds of
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the Nile! I’ll show you the figures and fates of men transformed into other shapes, only
to be later turned back into themselves. These chains of events will leave you bound to
the page, astounded.
And so I begin.
The Latin text raises a plethora of problems for the translator to ponder. I will only
mention a few of the most striking details here; there is otherwise simply too much to consider
(in fact, Oxford University Press has published a collection of twenty-four essays analyzing the
entire prologue, which is approximately only three times as long as the Latin above). The
prologue is extremely programmatic: Apuleius primes the reader to receive the events of the rest
of the work. In the first sentence alone, Apuleius introduces several of the novel’s major themes:
storytelling, transformation, and Egyptian traditions. His tone is chatty and casual until modo si,
at which point the writing becomes ornate and sophisticated. When the tone shifts, the central
image shifts as well, moving from aural to visual ideas. While the casual phrase suggests that
the narrator will tell the story aloud “with a charming whisper” into “kind ears,” the ornate
section implies that the audience will read the story on papyrus. The final part of the first
sentence (beginning with figuras) uses a tone that is fairly normal but still slightly elevated
prose. The second sentence, a single word, is strikingly short, especially considering how prone
Apuleius is to composing long, winding sentences. Further, Apuleius’ vocabulary is precise and
deliberate. For instance, the verb conseram has two distinct but relevant meanings; both are
common. “I will connect, construct, or compose” is quite apt for introducing a novel of
interlocking anecdotes. The second meaning is agricultural: “I will sow or plant” is just as
appropriate for introducing tales; the author will bury the seeds in the reader’s head, and, after
absorbing suitable sunlight and rainwater, the reader will reap an intellectual harvest.
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Graves provides the loosest translation of the four above, but it is nevertheless successful.
Graves’s rendering is a single sentence, effectively capturing Apuleius’ style. Strikingly, it is
nearly the same length as the original; even though Latin is a much more economical language
than English, Graves manages to achieve concision by cutting and condensing the original,
rearranging the sentence so that he mentions each unique idea as infrequently as possible. The
most notable omissions are the description of the papyrus and the entire second sentence.
Instead of the image of Egyptian papyrus, Graves mentions the “Egyptian story-telling
convention,” certainly an interpretive over-translation but a justifiable decision nonetheless—by
explaining that the papyrus stands for Egyptian legends, Graves introduces two of the major
themes immediately, programming the work just as Apuleius does. He similarly interprets
mutuo nexu as “a string of anecdotes,” and this nicely captures both the image and the meaning.
While the metaphrase “mutual bond” is virtually indecipherable, Graves’s rendering explains
exactly what kind of bond is meant (an interlocking string), leaving the reader without confusion.
However, Graves’s continual departures from the text cause him to miss an opportunity
to further enhance the theme of storytelling. When he writes “you should be amused,” he
changes the implications of the sentence from “this is how I will tell the story” to “this is how
you should react.” This shifts the emphasis to the role of the reader rather than the role of the
storyteller, and the latter is without a doubt the more important theme for Apuleius. Similarly,
the phrase “intended only for your private ear” does not carry the same connotations as aures
tuas benivolas, your kind ears, which alludes to the concept of captatio benevolentiae, the
practice of seeking the audience’s goodwill at the beginning of a letter or speech. Nevertheless,
Graves’s phrase does have at least one merit; in Latin, the pronoun tibi is noticeably singular,
and “private ear” emphasizes that the intended audience apparently consists of a single person,
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which the number-neutral English pronoun “you” cannot do. Finally, Graves mentions the
novel’s title, Transformations. However, Apuleius includes no title of any kind in his own
prologue; further, the common Latin title is Metamorphoseon, written on several manuscripts
and better translated as simply The Metamorphoses (Augustine attested that Apuleius’ original
title was Asinus Aureus, or The Golden Ass [Walsh xix]). So why say the work is called
Transformations?
But overall, Graves’s translation of the prologue effectively conveys Apuleius’ opening
in English. Loosely paraphrasing the text, he imitates Apuleius’ style of long, winding sentences
and includes nearly all important images. While Graves does not exactly replicate the tonal shift
between low and high rhetoric, his tone is accessible, understandable, and enjoyable while
simultaneously educated and sophisticated. Though someone using Graves’s translation as an
aid to understanding the original will have trouble determining the function of each Latin word,
the reader still gains a sense of what the Latin means, if not what it says.
Meanwhile, Walsh and Ruden write much more literal translations; on the whole, Ruden
is more successful than Walsh. Like Graves, Walsh does not capture the dramatic shift in tone
between at ego and modo si, but Ruden does a better job showing the tonal contrast. She begins
with the casual word, “Well,” and following the dash, her diction becomes higher, her
vocabulary less colloquial. Walsh and Ruden offer similar translations for a phrase Graves
omitted, argutia Nilotici calami. Walsh translates, “the sharpened point of a reed from the Nile,”
and Ruden has “a sharp pen from the Nile.” Neither translation correctly conveys the
connotations of arguti, a word etymologically related to the word for silver (argentum). Argutia
can indeed mean “sharp,” but in the context of sounds—cracking or rustling, like the wind
breezing through leaves, not like a physical point. But the more common meaning of argutia is
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witty or verbally clever (we use a similar metaphor in English when we say “a sharp sense of
humor”). Grammatically, there is no reason why argutia should modify the reed (calami) of the
Nile (Nilotici); the phrase literally means “the sharpness/wit of a Nile-reed,” meaning not that the
reed itself is sharp, but that the story has the kind of wit characteristic of Egyptian stories. If the
translators did not miss this point, their products are too subtle to convey it to the reader.
Ruden’s translation of the final portion of the first sentence is more vivid than Walsh’s.
“I’ll make you wonder” is snappier than “I want you to feel wonder” and better captures the
direct purpose implied by ut mireris. Her phrase “forms and fortunes” nicely duplicates the
alliteration of figuras fortunas; Walsh merely writes “shapes and destinies.” Her metaphor of
ripping and mending (“torn apart but then mended”) is her own creation, replacing and
embellishing both the mutuo nexu and the conversas and refectas (changing and restoring). Her
image expands the textile imagery of her first line, weaving together tales on a loom. An
imitation of Apuleius’ images, it effectively conveys the same sense as Apuleius’ original.
Walsh’s “chain of interconnection,” on the other hand is clunky, unusual, and falls flat on the
reader’s ears.
Finally, none of these three translators provides an adequate translation of exordior.
Graves omits the sentence entirely. Walsh—“So let me begin!”—is not terrible, but the
exclamation point is too dramatic and excited, at best an attempt to convey the surprising and
emphatic shortness of the sentence. Further, exordior is simply indicative; there is nothing to
imply that the speaker is asking for permission. Ruden, on the other hand, captures the tone
well, but is too interpretive in meaning. “Now to my preface” is a simple statement of fact, a
description of a transition from one section to another, so functions just as exordior does. But
exordior does not imply a preface, and the text preceding exordior is more of a preface than what
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follows.
Both authors attempt to metaphrase the text, but Ruden is looser than Walsh. As a result,
Walsh’s product would be most useful as a companion for scholars and students reading the
original Latin; his words are closest to the original, but not particularly pleasurable to read on
their own. Ruden’s deviations all seek to recreate the experience of reading the original; she
does a good job of preserving Apuleius’ tone, even if some of her choices cannot be justified by
the original Latin. Her vocabulary is very modern, often colloquial; she clearly intends her work
for an audience of her contemporaries. Walsh, on the other hand, uses a more standard, formal
lexicon; his translation will likely fare better among future generations.
My own translation attempts to address some of these problems, though I admit some of
my solutions err on the side of the dramatic or daring. I add the phrase “you know, those
romping, boisterous tales” to gloss “Milesian style,” since most readers will not know that the
main features of Milesian stories include travel, humor, nested stories, and eroticism. The phrase
also gives me the opportunity to play on the two meanings of conseram—I use the more regular
phrase, “I’ll tell” in the first line, but duplicate the word when I say “I can plant.” I make
another addition with “but soft!” I use this Shakespearean phrase to make abundantly obvious
the tonal shift between high and low. The phrase is tonally consistent with Apuleius’ writing in
general, as he uses phrases like ecce (“lo!”) frequently. “Silver-tongued wit that springs up by
the reeds of the Nile” is a long translation for argutia Nilotici calami, but I wanted to capture all
the connotations of argutia while making it clear that the wit is a separate entity from the reeds
themselves. “Bound to the page” is another addition to connect the ideas of mutuo nexu and
mireris. Finally, I translate exordior as “And so I begin.” The metaphrase would be simply “I
begin,” but this is abrupt and clunky in a way that exordior is not. “And so” is a fairly neutral
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addition, especially compared with the more interpretive language inserted by Walsh and Ruden.
I emphasize the surprising brevity of the sentence by making the sentence its own paragraph (a
four-word paragraph is much more striking than a four-word sentence), while Walsh and Ruden
both include their exordior translations within other paragraphs.
In general, the narrator Lucius demonstrates his dual identity as both an educated man
and a horny idiot throughout the work. He can sound like a scholar—and chooses to do so
often—but other times lapses into colloquial chatter. I try to preserve these fluctuations in tone,
using formal or Shakespearean English phrases (e.g., “but soft!”) or modern colloquialisms. I
also retain many of Apuleius’ idioms—they are not difficult to understand, but they are not
things we would usually say in English, and so the translation feels exotic, appropriate for a story
set in the ancient Mediterranean.
Many of these choices (particularly paraphrasing, making additions, and using peculiar
figures of speech) allow me to avoid footnotes, which would otherwise be necessary for full
understanding of the text. Nothing removes the reader from the experience of reading faster than
a footnote, and so I made the decision to eschew footnotes entirely. Nabokov, incidentally,
argues the exact opposite. He writes, “I want translations with copious footnotes, footnotes
reaching up like skyscrapers to the top of this or that page so as to leave only the gleam of one
textual line between commentary and eternity” (143). Footnotes allow the reader to fully grasp
the meaning and nuances of the original text in the original language—but my goal is not to
explain the original text, but rather to create new art from old material. To reiterate Dryden, “the
sense of an author . . . is to be sacred and inviolable.” Unless the original author uses footnotes
explaining his own text, the use of footnotes desecrates the experience of reading the text. A
footnote is an interruption, a rude intrusion, me telling you why I wrote what I wrote; if I have
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done my work well, that should be unnecessary.
IV. The Dangers and Difficulties of Translation
In addition to the challenges faced by the translators above, there are other challenges to
translation—at times, it almost seems an insurmountable task. Dryden laments that a translator
“is encumbered with so many difficulties at once, that he can never disentangle himself from all”
(18). In fact, translation can be so difficult that morbid imagery frequently accompanies
descriptions of it. Dryden, for example, describes translation as a disease, and then goes on to
write, “a good poet is no more like himself in a dull translation, than his carcass would be to his
living body” (22-23). That is, a bad translation will make the original author seem like a rotting,
decaying corpse, when the goal of the translator should be to flatter the author, presenting him
handsomely in the best light. Schleiermacher voices similar sentiments; in a bad translation,
“living speech has been irretrievably killed” (40). Arthur Schopenhauer is equally grim: “every
translation either remains dead and its style appears forced, wooden, and unnatural, or it frees
itself of the constraints of adherence to language, and therefore is satisfied with the notion of an
à peu près, which rings false” (33). Illness, corpses, murder, death—translation must be taken
with care, for creating a bad one is essentially a violent act (albeit unintentionally so) against the
original author.
The difficulty in translation originates from incompatible elements between two cultures,
and some “violence” might not only be inevitable but also necessary. Some words, some ideas,
simply will not translate. Margaret Sayers Peden writes, “We cannot translate until we ‘do
violence’ to the original literary work”; translation is a process of destruction and reconstruction
(14). Again demonstrating the dramatic life-or-death imagery of translation, Peden alludes to the
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inherent problems of metaphrase, that some things cannot be conveyed in another language
without straying from the text to find a similar, equivalent image that will better preserve the
author’s sense.
Even more troublesome than what occurs at a linguistic or artistic level are the concepts
that the author’s culture has that the translator’s culture does not. For example, hospitium was
terribly important for the Roman traveler, relating to the practice of exchanging favors and gifts
(which would always be reciprocated so that the two parties remain equally un-indebted to the
other). Hospitium refers to the relationship between an innkeeper (or other host) and a guest,
which would grow over time as the guest makes return visits. The host and guest would become
friendly, but it would not be a true friendship, amicitia. The guest and host are obligated to be
sociable, just as a Roman is obligated to return a favor when one is granted. So how should we
translate hospitium? “Hospitality” fails to capture the nuances of the concept; “friendship” is too
broad and carries the wrong connotations. “Guest-friendship” provides something closer to the
sense, but it is not an idiomatic phrase in English, and would stand out to the American reader,
becoming marked in a way that hospitium would not be to a Roman. Hans J. Vermeer comments
on this problem: “True translation . . . does not mean that the translator must adapt to the customs
and usage of the target culture, only that he can so adapt” (228). The translator should reflect on
multiple solutions with varying levels of explanation for his target audience before making an
informed, carefully considered decision.
Roman culture has several other practices that are especially significant in Apuleius—
when such ideas occur, should the translator make an emendation to gloss or explain the
concept? Or should he imbue his text with exotic elements, allowing the reader to puzzle at the
idea, and leaving it to them to research anything they wish to learn? Perhaps a middle route
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should be taken, glossing the most obscure references, but doing so lightly and sparingly. For
instance, it is not necessary to know that in Rome, a crucial component of glory was fame, in the
sense that people would talk about great exploits and the hero became well-known; nor is it
necessary for the reader to know that fortuna can refer to the goddess Fortune or simply
“chance” as a non-deity (though the translator should consider this question in order to provide
consistent treatment to the word). It might be more important to explain the concept of winemixing; Roman wine was very strong and never drunk straight, instead mixed with water before
serving. However, the translator can perhaps subtly imply important results of this practice
without an overt explanation, using a scornful tone when a character drinks unmixed wine
(something a modern alcoholic might do) or treating the practice of mixing water with wine as
perfectly natural.
And last, some concepts, while still technically alive in modern culture, are obscure or
out of date. For instance, Apuleius references the Antipodeans, whom the Romans hypothesized
lived on the other side of the earth in order to create balance in the world. Today, “the
Antipodes” is old-fashioned and markedly intellectual; though it can now refer to Australia and
New Zealand, a translator cannot write “Australians” because Rome had no knowledge of the
continent. The best solution may be to translate the idea rather than the term, but “the people
living on the other side of the earth” may be too long or clumsy.
A third challenge can come from grammatical concepts that one language has but the
other lacks. Roman Jakobson explains many of these in detail; nouns can cause particular
trouble for translators (148-9). For example, many European languages assign a gender to their
nouns—masculine, feminine, or neuter. Most of the time, gender is arbitrary and can be ignored
by a translator. However, gender can occasionally add significance to a text. Gender can
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provide extra information, for instance specifying whether an animal is male or female (e.g.
ursus vs. ursa), or it can color figurative language, indicating the gender when an abstract noun
is personified (e.g. Philosophia is always a woman). Another problem Jakobson points out,
which is not present in Latin, occurs in the “dual” number of nouns. Some languages have, in
addition to singular and plural endings, a “dual” ending specifying there are two of something.
When using plurals then, the translator must decide whether to specify the number as “two,”
“more than two,” or to introduce an ambiguity not present in the original.
Beyond the linguistic level, genre can provide particular challenges. An “accurate”
translation of a poem is nearly impossible to create, since both meaning and form (such as rhyme
scheme and meter) are equally important. Favoring one will sacrifice the other (as the old sexist
adage goes, “A translation is like a woman; if it is faithful, it is not beautiful, but if it is beautiful,
it is not faithful”). But since Apuleius writes in prose, we will not dwell on poetic problems.
Comedy, however, is nearly as difficult a genre as poetry, and Schleiermacher describes
several of its problems. Linguistically, “gracefulness and naturalness are [comedy’s] foremost
virtues . . . any approximation of a foreign language does damage to those virtues of
presentation” (51). The timing of a joke is essential for making the audience laugh, and the
translator must take care to preserve the “natural” way with which a joke is told. However, when
the timing takes advantage of a linguistic aspect only the original language has—such as Latin’s
flexible word order—the translator will struggle and might even fail to preserve all the original
humor. However, aspects of the new language can replace some features of the original. For
example, while Latin controls timing with word order, English has more powerful punctuation
that can control both tone and pace. Additionally, puns, as Jakobson points out, are often
virtually untranslatable (151).
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Cultural aspects create further problems in comedy: “the entire representation lives in the
morals of the time and of the people” (Schleiermacher 51). Jokes that rely on specific customs
or values will fail no matter how eloquently they are translated; who would laugh at a joke about
wine mixing the same way a Roman would? Even with the ability to understand the joke,
without sharing the same set of values, the reader will not laugh, failing to receive the same
experience as the ancient audience. Is it acceptable for the translator to replace the joke with an
imitation? Frame, discussing translating the comedic texts of Voltaire, writes, “I think the main
point in translating Voltaire is to avoid explaining his jokes and wit by overexplicit translation”
(80). The same holds true for Apuleius; providing necessary context to explain humor will
weigh down the text such that the humor disappears entirely.
Deena Berg and Douglass Parker translate five Roman comedies by Plautus and Terence,
and many of their comments are applicable to translating Apuleius. Form defines the main
difference between the plays and The Golden Ass: Plautus and Terence wrote verse drama, while
Apuleius composed prose fiction. Berg and Parker argue it is worth retranslating comedy
frequently; since the Roman authors used a modern vocabulary, the translations should be
equally modern (ix). Targeting a general audience, the pair invent stage directions and
frequently stray from literalism in the plays’ dialogue:
Our first loyalty is to our target language, English . . . Our job is to capture the humor, the
pace, and the sound of the ancient language. We have tried to make the dialogue seem as
natural as possible, while still keeping the high-flying wordplay that crops up: a
“colloquial rhetoric” that revels in the possibilities of High and Low American, and
especially in their melding . . . We can no more turn our backs to the comic sensibilities
of our audience than could Plautus or Terence. (x)
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I have chosen a similar approach in my translation, trying to render the Latin as faithfully in
possible in English, but choosing to stray from the original when the Latin, for whatever reason,
simply doesn’t “work” in English. And, just as Berg and Parker create new stage directions to
help visualize the text, I have glossed Apuleius’ more obscure allusions to help the reader more
fully understand the text.
Schleiermacher disgustedly concedes that there are often no suitable solutions to all the
problems comedy presents, and he would probably disagree with many of Berg and Parker’s
decisions. When the translator cuts problematic scenes and replaces them with something
similar that provides the reader with the same sense, this “destroy[s] the form and power of the
whole” (Schleiermacher 51). Berg and Parker’s translations are probably best described as loose
paraphrase with occasional imitation, attempting “to achieve the prodigal effect” of the original
(xi). But to Schleiermacher, imitation and the other two methods of translation are like oil and
water; they cannot mix. If the translator attempts this, the result will be an ugly collage, and the
reader will not be able to look at it for long.
After weighing the costs and benefits of the various methods of translation, both
Schopenhauer and Dryden favor paraphrase as the best way to overcome these difficulties in
translation. Even though paraphrase is less true to the author’s original words, when metaphrase
fails, it is more important to preserve the sense. Schopenhauer argues there is no “room for a
word-for-word rendering, but [we must] melt down our thoughts entirely and recast them into a
different form,” translating only “the pure thought content” (35). The “pure thought” is the most
important part of a work; often the precise way it is said contributes significantly to the thought,
but many other times a paraphrase suffices. Dryden also supports paraphrase because “it would
be unreasonable to limit a translator to the narrow compass of his author’s words: ‘tis enough if
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he choose out some expression which does not vitiate the sense” (21).
A translator not only needs to choose a philosophy to allow him to consistently overcome
the project’s hurdles, but he requires certain practical skills. Dryden and Schleiermacher
emphasize the language skills a translator obviously needs: “The qualification of a translator
worth reading must be a mastery of the language he translates out of” (Dryden 30).
Schleiermacher agrees, writing that a translator must employ an “art of understanding” that is
acquired “through the most diligent treatment of language” (39). But there is more to it than this
careful attention to language; the translator cannot be a mere master of languages, but he must be
an artist, a wordsmith, as well, with some understanding of what defines “art,” “aesthetics,” and
“the beautiful.” Dryden writes, “It is [not only] sufficient that [the translator] be able to judge of
words and style; but he must be a master of them too; he must perfectly understand his author’s
tongue, and absolutely command his own. So that to be a thorough translator, he must be a
thorough poet” (24). The translator must be fluent in the language of the original text, and needs
utter control over his own so that he can match the register, mood, and tone of the original.
Further, Nabokov elucidates the necessity of extensive background information about the culture
of the original author (137). Without complete understanding of customs and attitudes, the
translator will inevitably miss important nuances in the original text, and the resulting translation
will be a simplification, not a faithful rendering or recreation.
Unsurprisingly, this text from Apuleius is rife with problems for any translator. Many of
Apuleius’ words and phrases do not translate well into English; I will provide a few of the most
difficult problems from Liber I to illustrate. Some words carry the wrong connotations when the
most literal translation is used. For example, Veneriam poses a problem in the sentence “You
deserve this fate for putting Veneriam before the gods and your family” (1.8). Veneriam is
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simply a form of the name Venus, but in Latin means sexual desire or pleasure just as often as it
refers to the goddess herself; mythological connotations are not necessarily activated to a great
extent. So, it would be incorrect to say “for putting Venus before the gods and your family,”
since that would imply the worship of a goddess in a religious context. However, the
mythological connotations do exist to at least a minor extent, and we lose them completely if we
simply say “sexual pleasure.” I compromise, writing “Venus’ pleasure,” but it would be fair to
criticize that as an interpretive over-translation. A similar example involves the word pube,
referring to Socrates’ genitals (1.6). The word is not clinical—that is, it is a mild euphemism—
but it is not vulgar, slangy, academic, or childish. For these reasons, most phallic terminology
fails; I end up writing “nether regions,” though this is not a great solution because it is more
euphemistic and unusual than pube.
Like most comics, Apuleius loves wordplay. Like most wordplay, such instances are
extraordinarily difficult to translate. Scortum scorteum (1.8) literally means “a leather-skinned
whore,” but that translation fails; the pleasure of reading the original passage comes from the fact
that the two words differ by only a single letter. When I prepared a translation for that passage, I
decided that the image of leather skin could be sacrificed to preserve the wordplay. I racked my
brain for possible imitations that convey the idea of an unattractive or dangerous prostitute. My
list was extensive: prosthetic prostitute, holey whore, crummy courtesan, baggy old bag, leathery
leach, flabby flapper, escorted escort, skanked-out skank, too-many-times-called call girl . . . my
increasing desperation is apparent as the list goes on; none of these is adequate, either too casual
and slangy in register, or simply a phrase that doesn’t make sense. Finally, remembering how
the best translations are often born from collaboration, I discussed this problem with a writer
friend, and she suggested what I ended up using: an over-strummed strumpet. The tone is
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perhaps still a little too casual, the phrase perhaps a tad unusual, but the wordplay, which even
preserves the s-alliteration, makes up for these deficiencies.
Other times, Apuleius’ metaphors fail when translated literally into English. Describing a
witch’s powers, a character says, “Folia sunt artis”—“these are the leaves of her craft” (1.8).
And though the erudite reader would stop and ponder how these powers could be leaf-like,
perhaps even coming up with an appropriate interpretation, it is not a metaphor readily apparent
to an American audience. The question is then whether the metaphor would have been any more
accessible to the Romans, or if it would have been equally obscure to Apuleius’ audience.
Similar phrases do appear throughout Latin literature, so I chose to err on the side of
accessibility. The metaphor is essentially equivalent in meaning to our cliché “this was just the
tip of the iceberg”—leaves are just the outer surface of a tree—but I obviously cannot use that in
my translation, since the Romans had no notion of icebergs. I chose to replace the arboreal
image with a common clothing metaphor, “these are the fringes of her craft.”
Apuleius does not hesitate to use unusual grammatical constructions or make up his own
words, and in such instances I strive to be equally bizarre or innovative. For instance, he once
identifies one of two witches to a witch as illa cum gladio—“the one with the sword” (1.12).
That translation, however, sounds like perfectly normal English, whereas the Latin is unusual; it
is not normal to use the word cum (with) to signal that someone wields a tool or instrument.
Normal Latin would omit any preposition at all, which the translator would of course add; to
create a reciprocal situation, then, I removed the preposition we would normally use, translating
the phrase as “the besworded one.”
Finally, there are some difficult moments in Apuleius that don’t fall into any categories
and are simply weird or confusing. When Aristomenes wants to leave the inn he is staying at in
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the middle of the night, he seeks the doorkeeper to retrieve his horse from the stable. He asks a
perfectly reasonable question: “Ubi es tu?” (“Where are you?”) (1.15). Aristomenes then has an
altercation with the doorkeeper, decides not to leave the inn at that hour, and returns to his room.
A few minutes later, the doorkeeper bursts in to the aftermath of a chaotic scene and repeats the
question he had been asked earlier, “Ubi es tu?” (1.17). But asking where Aristomenes is
doesn’t make any sense—Aristomenes is right in front of him. “Where did you go?” could
perhaps make more sense (as in, “I thought you wanted to leave, but I lost track of where you
were”), but the Latin is present tense, not past. In context, “What on earth is going on here?”
would seem like a good interpretation of the line. How important is it to preserve the repetition,
to indicate to the reader that the guest and doorkeeper ask each other the exact same question?
Graves, Walsh, and Ruden all translate the first instance of the question as “Where are you?”
(13, 13, 11). Each translates the second instance differently; Graves: “What are you doing
here?” (14); Walsh: “Where have you got to?” (13); and Ruden: “Where are you?” (12). Like
Ruden, I decide to preserve the repetition, writing in both instances a question that has a fairly
neutral tone, “What’s going on?”
And so, every translator must be prepared to grapple with these problems; few, if any,
translation projects will be easy. Weaver concedes that no translation will be perfect, or even
completely correct (however one interprets “correct”). He writes:
Because there are no rules, no laws [in translating], there cannot be an absolute right or
an absolute wrong. There can be errors (and even the most experienced translator has an
occasional mishap); there can be lapses in tone. The worst mistake a translator can
commit is to reassure himself by saying, “that’s what it says in the original,” and
renouncing the struggle to do his best. The words of the original are only the starting
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point, a translator must do more than convey information. (117)
Weaver is perhaps even too forgiving on errors in translation—simple errors in translation
should be avoidable, and the tone and voice of the piece should be chosen with care—but his
later sentiment bodes true. Translators should never be so sure of themselves that they never
question their interpretation; they should never become lazy and say “close enough.” Translators
are artists, and should strive not only to replicate but to create beauty in the new tongue.
V. The Scope of This Translation
This project includes a translation and an adaptation of the first three chapter-length
books of Apuleius’ novel and most of the fourth book, which are among the most action-packed
and raunchy in the novel. I end just when an old woman begins the tale of Cupid and Psyche;
this tale is one of the most frequently translated and discussed passages, since it stands alone so
well. In addition, I prepare a series of partial translations in different styles targeting different
audiences. My goal is to demonstrate how one could convey Apuleius to a modern American
audience who would not know much, if anything, about ancient Roman culture. The multiple
translations (and this introduction) should allow the reader to examine different methods of
translating a text.
The short demonstration of different styles of translation experiments with targeting
different audiences. While the main translation targets adult Americans with a minimal but
cursory understanding of Roman culture, the following translations attempt to reach other
groups. I translate the opening sections of Liber I in various styles, and the juxtaposition of these
translations should be jarring, further illustrating the impact a translator’s choices can have on
tone, style, and fluidity. The styles of translation are as follows:
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•
Paraphrase, intended for children in late elementary school or early middle school.
•
Metaphrase, intended for a scholarly audience with a minimal knowledge of Latin.
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Kwame Anthony Appiah would call this a “thick translation,” an academic translation
that includes “annotations and . . . accompanying glosses to locate the text in a rich
cultural and linguistic context” (427).
•
Metaphrase, intended for high school or undergraduate Latin students.
The final part of this project is an adaptation of these portions of Apuleius’ text. I set the
story in the modern American Midwest. In the Greek original, our hero Lucius is traveling to
Hypata, a nice city where business people often convene. It is not a huge city, lacking the weight
of Athens or Rome, but it is significant in its own right. Most of all, it is a friendly, pleasant
town. As Byrrena, Lucius’ aunt, describes:
What I know is that [Hypata is] far better than all other towns, whether you’re looking at
temples, baths, or other buildings. Besides, we are quite strong in resources. Certainly,
you have your free choice of recreation, and the businessman from abroad can even find a
Roman crowd, and, to be sure, the guest of modest means can rest in a country house. So
you see, out of the whole province, we are a secluded place of pleasure. (2.19)
A suitable American equivalent for such a place—somewhat large, diverse, and friendly—
seemed to be Minneapolis.
I considered various modern occupations for Lucius, but the events of the story unfold
more closely to the original if Lucius owns a horse. Replacing horses with their modern
equivalent, automobiles, would approach absurdity, as Lucius spends significant time thinking
about the thoughts and feelings of his four-legged compatriots; this limits the sort of lifestyle the
modern Lucius can enjoy. And so, Lucius the Roman becomes Luke the American ranch
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manager, educated but rustic, urbane yet tough and manly, possessing a penchant for talking to
strangers and journeying through Wisconsin and Minnesota on his way to an agricultural
conference.
Many of Apuleius’ names have apt or significant meanings, and I have adapted many of
these to more familiar equivalents. Three examples: the businessman Lupus becomes Mr. Wolf,
a literal translation of the Latin word; the name Cerdo, which means “cobbler,” changes to
Schumacher; Philodespotus—Greek for “the lover of the master”—is rechristened Succup,
pronounced like “suck up.” For some names, I chose modern names with a similar sound.
The adaptation remains fairly close to the plot of Apuleius’ original; there is an
equivalent for every scene and major event, and even much of the dialogue follows the same
patterns and flow as Apuleius’ text. This does not need to be the case, however; other
adaptations could use Apuleius’ premise as a jumping-off point, taking the story in a new
direction. Or, an adaptation could begin closely following Apuleius but gradually diverge to
explore modern themes and storytelling conventions, rather than remaining tied to the original’s
overall structure.
VI. About The Golden Ass
Our author, Lucius Apuleius Madaurensis, lived in the second century CE (c. 124 – c.
170). He was born in North Africa (modern Algeria) when the area was a Roman province.
Walsh provides a brief biography of Apuleius in the introduction to his translation of The Golden
Ass; Apuleius had “a superior education, first at Carthage and later at Athens” and then traveled
extensively throughout the Mediterranean (xi-xii). In addition to his great work of fiction, The
Golden Ass, Apuleius dabbled in Platonic philosophy, composing numerous philosophical
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treatises. The Encyclopaedia Britannica summarizes many of his nonfiction writings, which
show that he “became interested in contemporary religious initiation rites, among them the
ceremonies associated with worship of the Egyptian goddess Isis.” These interests are apparent
throughout The Golden Ass, as Egyptian religious imagery—particularly that related to Isis—
becomes quite significant to the resolution of the plot. Apuleius’ interest in the strong goddess
Isis perhaps influenced his attitude toward women as well; many of his female characters wield
great power.
The novel is not an original narrative; rather, it is almost certainly a retelling and
expansion of a Greek story. Walsh identifies the main source for Apuleius’ work as Lucius or
the Ass and compares the similarities between the two works (xx-xxii). Gerald M. Browne
argues that this older text was likely composed by Lucius of Patrae before 67 CE (446). Though
the text is now lost, many ancient authors mention and describe the work, allowing Walsh to
make his comparisons. Apuleius combined this first story with other fables and traditions,
including, of course, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, which was completed around 8 CE. Scholars
disagree about the publication date of The Golden Ass. Some have suggested it is a youthful
work, written as early as the 150s, but others propose it was written toward the end of Apuleius’
life. Prose fiction was not a common literary style among the Romans. In fact, significant
portions of only one other Latin novel have survived to the present (Petronius’ Satyricon), and
The Golden Ass is the only ancient Roman novel to survive in its entirety. I am working from
Rudolf Helm’s 1909 edition of the text (revised in 1955), which Walsh explains is based off a
twelfth- or thirteenth-century copy of an eleventh-century manuscript (xliii-xliv).
Though the events of The Golden Ass are humorous and bawdy, the work is more than
mere entertainment. Apuleius fills his tale—particularly the final portions—with philosophical
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and religious messages. In addition to the extensive scholarship that has been written about the
text, Graves and Walsh each write an extended discussion of the novel’s themes and the interplay
between what is “serious” and what is comedic, so I will not rehash that here. In the first four
books of the novel, two of the major themes include storytelling and magic. The Golden Ass
presents stories within stories, the lengthy retelling of the myth of Cupid and Psyche being the
most famous. Within the portion I translate, there are several nested stories: in Liber I,
Aristomenes’ tale (in which Socrates also tells a short story); in Liber II, Telephron’s adventure;
in Liber III, Photis’ confession; and in Liber IV, the narration of the robbers’ expedition as well
as the maiden’s recounting of her kidnapping. Magic, witchcraft, and transformations all abound
in these anecdotes, which utterly fascinate Lucius. He is curiosus—which in Latin, is more than
simply “curious.” He is a busybody, nosy, inserting himself into other people’s business; it
might be helpful to remember the cliché “Curiosity killed the cat,” for Lucius’ curiositas is his
fatal flaw.
At last, we turn the page to The Golden Ass itself. Pay attention, dear reader. You’ll
enjoy the show.
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Works Cited
Appiah, Kwame Anthony. “Thick Translation.” 1993. The Translation Studies Reader. Ed.
Lawrence Venuti. New York: Routledge, 2000. 417-29. Print.
Apuleius. Metamorphoseon Libri XI. Ed. Rudolf Helm. 3rd ed. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008.
Print. Vol. 1 of Opera Quae Supersunt.
- - -. The Golden Ass. Trans. Robert Graves. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2009. Print.
- - -. The Golden Ass. Trans. Sarah Ruden. New Haven: Yale UP, 2011. Print.
- - -. The Golden Ass. Trans. P. G. Walsh. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008. Print.
Benjamin, Walter. “The Task of the Translator.” Trans. Harry Zohn. 1968. Theories of
Translation: An Anthology of Essays from Dryden to Derrida. Ed. Rainer Schulte and
John Biguenet. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992. 71-82. Print.
Berg, Denna, and Douglass Parker. Introduction. Five Comedies. By Plautus and Terence. Trans.
Deena Berg and Douglass Parker. Indianapolis: Hackett, 1999. vi-xii. Print.
Bonnefoy, Yves. Shakespeare and the French Poet. Ed. John Naughton. Chicago: U of Chicago
P, 2004. Print.
Browne, Gerald M. “On the Metamorphoses of Lucius of Patrae.” The American Journal of
Philology 99.4 (1978): 442-46. Print.
Davis, Lydia. “Loaf or Hot Water Bottle: Closely Translating Proust.” Yale Review 92.2 (2004):
51-70. Print.
Dryden, John. “On Translation.” 1961. Theories of Translation: An Anthology of Essays from
Dryden to Derrida. Ed. Rainer Schulte and John Biguenet. Chicago: U of Chicago P,
1992. 17-31. Print.
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Felstiner, John. “‘Ziv, That Light’: Translation and Tradition in Paul Celan.” The Craft of
Translation. Ed. John Biguenet and Rainer Schulte. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1989. 93116. Print.
Frame, Donald. “Pleasures and Problems of Translation.” The Craft of Translation. Ed. John
Biguenet and Rainer Schulte. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1989. 79-92. Print.
Gass, William H. Reading Rilke: Reflections on the Problems of Translation. New York: Alfred
A. Knopf, 1999. Print.
Jakobson, Roman. “On Linguistic Aspects of Translation.” 1987. Theories of Translation: An
Anthology of Essays from Dryden to Derrida. Ed. Rainer Schulte and John Biguenet.
Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992. 144-51. Print.
Logue, Christopher. Author’s Note. War Music: An Account of Books 1-4 and 16-19 of Homer’s
Iliad. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997. vii-x. Print.
“Lucius Apuleius.” Encyclopædia Britannica. 2013. Encyclopædia Britannica Online. Web. 23
Feb. 2014.
Nabokov, Vladimir. “Problems of Translation: Onegin in English.” 1955. Theories of
Translation: An Anthology of Essays from Dryden to Derrida. Ed. Rainer Schulte and
John Biguenet. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992. 127-43. Print.
Paz, Octavio. “Translation: Literature and Letters.” Trans. Irene Del Corral. 1971. Theories of
Translation: An Anthology of Essays from Dryden to Derrida. Ed. Rainer Schulte and
John Biguenet. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992. 152-62. Print.
Peden, Margaret Sayers. “Building a Translation, the Reconstruction Business: Poem 145 of Sor
Juana Inés de la Cruz.” The Craft of Translation. Ed. John Biguenet and Rainer Schulte.
Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1989. 13-27. Print.
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Rossetti, Dante Gabriel. “Preface to The Early Italian Poets.” 1861. Theories of Translation: An
Anthology of Essays from Dryden to Derrida. Ed. Rainer Schulte and John Biguenet.
Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992. 64-67. Print.
Schleiermacher, Friedrich. “From ‘On the Different Methods of Translating.’” Trans. Waltraud
Bartscht. 1938. Theories of Translation: An Anthology of Essays from Dryden to Derrida.
Ed. Rainer Schulte and John Biguenet. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992. 36-54. Print.
Schopenhauer, Arthur. “On Language and Words.” Trans. Peter Mollenhauer. 1891. Theories of
Translation: An Anthology of Essays from Dryden to Derrida. Ed. Rainer Schulte and
John Biguenet. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992. 32-35. Print.
Seidensticker, Edward. “On Trying to Translate Japanese.” The Craft of Translation. Ed. John
Biguenet and Rainer Schulte. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1989. 142-53. Print.
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “The Politics of Translation.” 1992. The Translation Studies
Reader. Ed. Lawrence Venuti. New York: Routledge, 2000. 397-416. Print.
Vermeer, Hans J. “Skopos and Commission in Translational Action.” Trans. Andrew
Chesterman. 1989. The Translation Studies Reader. Ed. Lawrence Venuti. New York:
Routledge, 2000. 221-32. Print.
Weaver, William. “The Process of Translation.” The Craft of Translation. Ed. John Biguenet and
Rainer Schulte. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1989. 117-24. Print.
Wills, Garry. Introduction. War Music: An Account of Books 1-4 and 16-19 of Homer’s Iliad. By
Christopher Logue. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997. vii-x. Print.
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Lucius Apuleius Madaurensis
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Liber I
Prologue
I’m thinking I’ll tell these stories to you in that Milesian style—you know, those
1.1
romping, boisterous tales in which I can plant so many things. I’ll please your kind ears with a
charming whisper… but soft! if only you would not scorn to acknowledge the Egyptian papyrus,
inscribed with the silver-tongued wit that springs up by the reeds of the Nile! I’ll show you the
figures and fates of men transformed into other shapes, only to be later turned back into
themselves. These chains of events will leave you bound to the page, astounded.
And so I begin.
But who am I? Allow me to briefly introduce myself. My ancestors are from Athens
and Sparta and everywhere in between—Hymettus, Epherea, and Taenaros, as the natives say—
living on fruitful lumps of land long since buried in books, which far surpass the land in
prosperity. It was there that I marched off to school, soldiering through lesson after lesson, and
in my service I became fluent in Greek.
And lo! Before the lapsing of too many years, I went to the Latin city, a stranger of all
things Quirinal, and, without a teacher no less, cultivated my skills in that tongue, as you can
see. I mention this and beg your pardon, for I may wind up speaking in my foreign idioms or
lapse into the rough language of the street. My ability to leap from language to language like a
vaulter flies from horse to horse at the circus calls me to this story. So let us begin our
Greekified fable.
Pay attention, dear reader. You’ll enjoy the show.
I was going to Thessaly—my mother is from Thessaly, by the way, and she’s descended
1.2
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from Plutarch, you know, the famous biographer, and not to mention his grandson, the
philosopher Sextus of Chaeronea, and they made our family famous—anyways, I was on my
way to Thessaly for a business trip. I surpassed the heights of the mountains, the crumbling
paths of the valleys, the dewy parts of the pastures, and the clumpy furrows of the fields, riding
on my native, pure-white horse. We were both exhausted, my horse and I, he from the journey
and me from sitting; so, now that we had passed through the thick vegetation, I jumped down to
shake off my weariness. I carefully wiped my horse’s sweaty forehead, stroked his ears, took
off his bridle, and slowly led him at a gentle pace, until nature could restore his weary troubles
and his empty belly, as it usually did. Meanwhile, he found his breakfast while we walked,
leaning toward the fields we passed with his mouth turned to the side.
By chance, we found ourselves walking a little ways near two companions, and I joined
their little group. I listened to the conversation they were having, and one of the men, erupting
with a deep guffaw, said, “That’s enough already, what you’re telling me is absurd, nothing but
enormous lies.”
Since I’m always thirsting for such a tale—or really, for any peculiarity—I said, “Oh,
come now, tell me your story. It’s not that I’m prying, but I’m just the kind of guy who wants
to know everything, or at least as much as I can. Not to mention, a delightful anecdote will ease
our difficult climb up this big hill we’re coming to.”
But the man who spoke first said, “If you told me that a whispered spell could make the
swiftest rivers flow backwards, turn the sea into something too lazy to swell, force the winds to
breathe out their last breath, stop the sun right in its tracks, wipe the shine off of the moon,
pluck out the stars from the sky, kidnap the day, and stretch out the night—if you told me all
that, I’d believe it exactly as much as I believe those lies of yours.”
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More confident than before, I spoke up again. “Hey, you,” I said, pointing to the one
who had already begun his story. “Don’t get fed up or bored, finish it for me.” To the doubter,
I said, “As for you, your ears are filled with mud. It’s with a stubborn heart that you reject what
very well could be true. By Hercules, you’re not that bright to have these depraved opinions,
thinking everything is a lie, even if the things sound strange to your ears, look like a heap of
codswallop, or seem too lofty to grasp. If you would just look a little more carefully, you would
see for yourself that not only are such things easy to find, they are even easy to do.”
I continued, “In fact, just last night, I was eating dinner with some co-banqueters, my
gastronomic rivals. I was eager to gobble up a sort-of-largish chunk of cheesy porridge, and
when the soft and sticky food stuck to my jaws and throat, I couldn’t breathe—I nearly died.
But this is nothing compared to what I saw swallowed on my recent trip to Athens. I was
visiting the Poecilen colonnade, you know, outside the famous picture gallery in the market
where Zeno liked to meet. I saw with my own two eyes a traveling performer swallow a very
sharp broadsword, the kind cavalry would carry, tip-first! Then, spurred onward by a small
coin, the very same man swallowed a hunting spear by the end which threatened to be his ruin,
burying it deep in his belly. And, right there in front of me, on top of the lance’s hilt, where the
handle of the upside-down weapon rose up through his mouth and out the back of his head, a
boy (who was quite the little princess) climbed up and, twisting and turning, began to dance,
contorting like he had no bones. Everyone there was dumbstruck. You would have said he was
the noble serpent that winds itself in a slippery embrace around the staff borne by the medicine
god, knotted with many half-pruned twigs. But now, if you don’t mind,” I finished, nodding to
the one who needed to finish his tale, “get on with it. Recount your story, and I alone will
believe you, even if that man won’t. And at the first tavern we come to, I’ll buy you dinner.
1.4
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That’ll be the return on your investment.”
He replied, “I think that’s a fair and kind payment—yes, I’ll begin again what I started
1.5
before. But first, I swear to you, by the all-seeing sun god, that I’m telling you only the verified
truth. You two won’t doubt it any more if you go to the next Thessalian town. There, the entire
population is talking about these things that happened in plain sight.
“But first, let me tell you where I’m from, who I am. I am Aristomenes, from Aegium.
As for my job, I’m always running all around through Thessaly, Aetolia, and Boeotia with
honey and cheese and the like to trade with the inns. So, when I heard that a fresh cheese of a
renowned flavor was flying off the shelves in Hypata—a town more important than all of
Thessaly—due to an exceedingly low price, I rushed there to corner the market. But you know
how these things go, I got off on the wrong foot and my hope for a profit was dashed. You see,
a wholesaler, Lupus, had bought it all the day before. So, tired from my useless haste, I went to
the baths as the sun was setting.
“And who do you think I saw but my old buddy Socrates? He was sitting on the ground,
half-clothed in a torn and ragged cloak, and so pale that he almost looked like a different person.
He had been disfigured and emaciated in his poverty, and he was no different than the refuse of
Fortune, those beggars who always ask for coins at street corners. And although he had been
such a great and close friend, as I went closer to him my mind was full of doubt.
“‘Whoa!’ I cried. ‘My Socrates, what is all this? Why do you look this way? What is
this disgrace? Truly, they have finished weeping and mourning for you at home, and the state
lawyers have assigned guardians for your children. Your wife has been disfigured, long ago
paying the funerary duties with grief and sorrow, nearly weeping out her own eyes to the point
of blindness. Her parents are now trying to convince her to cheer up the misfortune in her home
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with the joys of a new marriage. But here you are, looking just like a ghost—shameful, is what
it is.’
“‘Aristomenes,’ he said, ‘Surely you know about fortune’s slippery twists and turns, its
unpredictable meanderings, and the ebbing river of life.’ Saying this, he covered his face with
his patchy clothing, as he had begun to blush from his shame, so that he exposed the rest of his
body from his belly down to his nether regions. At last I was unable to endure such a wretched
scene of affliction any longer. I threw out my hand and struggled to help him stand up.
“But he, with his head still veiled, said in this state, ‘Please, please—allow Fortune to
enjoy the victory she devised a little longer.’
“I got him to follow me, and while I was talking I pulled off one of my own two shirts
and I quickly clothed him—well, I covered him—and straight away I delivered him to the
bathhouse. I oiled him up, rubbed him down, and performed all the duties of an attendant,
painstakingly scraping off an enormous excess of filth. When he was clean and spiffy, I led him
to an inn, supporting the weary man with difficulty, for I was tired myself. I led him to rest on a
couch and brought him some food and wine to satisfy his empty belly. Finally, I entertained
him with speech, and soon he too had an easy inclination for talking and joking and joining in
with clever banter; we teased each other without inhibitions.
“But then, exhaling a torturous sigh from deep in his chest, Socrates struck his forehead
violently with his right hand. ‘Woe is me!’ he began. ‘I was only looking to have some fun
when I fell into these troubles; I was going to see a fairly famous gladiatorial show. As you
very well know, I had left for Macedonia on business, but in December I ran into some delays. I
turned toward home with more money than I had had when I left, but shortly before I reached
Larissa, where I had been planning to stop along my journey to see the show, I came across
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some hulking robbers. In a pathless valley full of places to hide, I was mugged and deprived of
all my property before I escaped. Utterly drained from this, I lodged at the inn of a woman
called Meroe. She’s an old woman, but very pretty. I told her the reasons for my long stay
abroad, my uneasiness about returning home, and my horrible experience with the robbers. She
addressed me very kindly and, getting right to work, she treated me to a delicious dinner. Soon
she became aroused with lust and ensnared me in her own bedroom.’
“He continued, ‘Immediately—as soon as I slept with her—I was cursed. From our
single act of intercourse I contracted a chronic disease. I even brought her my rags, the ones the
kind robbers had allowed me to keep to cover myself, and I gave her whatever pennies I earned
from slaving away making wallets, until this truly wonderful lady of mine—and terrible
Fortune—took me down into that appearance you saw a little while ago.’
“‘By god,’ I said, ‘you really deserve the worst things endurable, if there is anything
worse than what you’ve been through, for putting Venus’ pleasure and an over-strummed
strumpet before the household gods and your children.’ But he, placing his index finger over
his lips and shocked into silence, said, ‘Shut up! Shut up!’ And he shifted his gaze, checking to
see if it was safe to talk. ‘Don’t mention that sorceress, or else she’ll put a pox on you for your
headstrong tongue.’
“‘Is that so?’ I scoffed. ‘Who is this powerful woman, this Queen of Inn?’
“‘A witch,’ he said, ‘powerful in her conjury. She can bring down the sky, raise up the
earth, turn spring water to glass, dissolve mountains, summon ghosts, bring down the gods, put
out the stars, and illuminate Tartarus itself.’
“‘I’m begging you,’ I said, ‘Let your tragic curtain fall, fold up your backdrop, and tell it
to me plain.’
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“‘Do you wish,’ he said, ‘to hear about one or another—well, many—of her deeds? For
she not only makes the locals love her passionately, but, I swear, also the Indians and Ethiopians
and even the people living on the other side of the world—and these are simply the trifling
fringes of her craft. But as for what she accomplished in plain sight—just listen.
“‘With a single word, she transformed her own lover, after he allegedly defiled another
1.9
woman, into a wild beaver—a beast that, fearing capture, bites off its own testicles to free itself
from its pursuers. She wanted him to be exactly like that, all for having desire for another. And
as for that neighboring innkeeper, just because he was a competitor, she turned him into a frog.
Now the hoarse old man swims in a jar of his own wine. Resting on the dregs, he’ll address his
former customers with a dutiful croaking. She turned another man—this one from the forum; he
had spoken against her in court—into a ram, and now he pleads all his cases like that. She also
cursed her own lover’s wife, because she had spoken caustic insults against her. The woman
was already bearing the burden of pregnancy, and Meroe sealed up her uterus, holding her fetus
back in perpetual pregnancy. For eight years now, as everyone reckons, the poor thing has lived
with this burden; she is so stretched that she looks as if she is about to deliver an elephant.’
“Socrates continued, ‘As more and more people were harmed, public indignation
became widespread, and an order proclaimed that she would be severely punished the next day
by stoning. She foresaw this plan through the power of her witchcraft, and she acted like
Medea, that famous witch, who, during a reprieve of a single day that she won from Creon,
burned up his daughter, his whole household, and the old man himself using a crown of flames.
In the same way, Meroe went into a ditch and performed spells on some graves (as she told me
recently when she was drunk). She shut up everyone in their own houses with the silent ferocity
of the gods, so that for two whole days, the bars across the doors sustained no breaking, the
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doors did not permit being torn out from their frames, and even the walls themselves refused to
be tunneled through. At last, again and again they shouted in unison their identical plea; they
swore, in accordance with their holiest ritual, that they would not lay hands on her, and if
anyone would disagree, to bring help to keep her safe. She was propitiated by this and freed the
whole town. But—and this is the truth—in the dead of night she transported the author of that
meeting along with his whole house—that is, with the walls and the floor and the whole
foundation, as it was—to another town. This town was a hundred miles away and shut up at the
top of a craggy mountain, and due to this location it was barren and dry. Since the inhabitants
had packed their buildings densely, there was no place for a new guest, and so Meroe tossed his
house down in front of the town’s gate and departed.’
“‘My Socrates,’ I said, ‘you’re describing things that are as eerie as they are cruel. In
fact, I’m somewhat struck with concern for you—well, actually I’m quite alarmed. What you
have told me has hit me like a spear, not a pebble, and I’m afraid that the old woman will
become aware of our conversation, using her witchcraft just like she did before. Therefore, let’s
head to bed early, and when sleep has removed the weariness of night, let’s get as far away from
here as we can before dawn.’
“While I was still proposing this plan, my good man Socrates—no longer acclimated to
wine drinking and further tested by his long-lasting fatigue—was already snoring rather loudly,
fast asleep. And, truly, I shut the doors, tightened the locks, and even placed the bed before the
hinges and jammed it up against them tightly, and I made camp on top of it. At first my fear
kept me awake for a while, but then, halfway through the night, my eyes began to droop. I had
been snoozing soundly when suddenly the doors were opened with a bang, more forcefully than
anything you’d think robbers could do. No, truly, the doors were knocked to the floor, with the
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hinges torn out and utterly broken. Moreover, my short bed, which had a rotting frame and a
broken foot, was knocked over in so ferocious an attack. I was rolled out of bed and thrown
onto the ground, falling under the upside-down bed, which covered and hid me.
“Then I felt certain feelings giving way into their opposites, all on their own. It was just
1.12
like when you weep from being overjoyed: I, even in that excessive fear, could not contain my
giggles, thinking how the bed turned me from Aristomenes into a tortoise. And from the filth
where I had been hurled, protected by my handy bed, out of the corner of my eye I awaited what
would come. I saw two very old women; one was carrying a bright lamp, the other a sponge
and a bare sword. With this equipment, they gathered around Socrates, sleeping soundly.
“The besworded one began to speak: ‘Here he is, sister Panthia—it’s my dear Endymion,
my Ganymede, the man who day and night abused my youth for his pleasure, who not only
slandered me with insults, considering my affection beneath him, but who also prepared an
escape. But I will mourn my eternal loneliness; you could say I was deserted like Calypso in
her plight, caused by the cunning of Ulysses.’
“Then she extended her right hand and pointed me out to Panthia. ‘But this good man,’
she said, ‘is the counselor Aristomenes, who was the instigator of this flight. Now he lies near
death, stretched out on the ground, lying under his bed, and he watches all these things, thinking
he will slander me unscathed. One of these days—well, maybe today—no, right this very
minute—I’ll make him regret his earlier sarcasm and zealous nosiness.’
“As I heard these things, I was in a wretched state, flowing with a cold sweat. I trembled 1.13
and shook all through my body, so that, even from my slight quaking, my noisy bed was
jumping and palpitating above my back. But our heroine Panthia said, ‘So, sister, why don’t we
mangle this man first, like the Bacchants would? Why don’t we tie his limbs together and cut
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off his manliness?’
“Meroe replied—and I was thinking then that her name, ‘The Divider,’ really agreed
with Socrates’ stories—‘No, let him survive just to bury the body of this poor little man under a
little earth,’ and she sunk her whole sword, all the way up to the hilt, into his neck. His head
was turned, and the sword went right through the left side and out the other. She took out a
wineskin and carefully collected the fountain of blood; not a drop was visible anywhere—I saw
the whole thing with my own eyes. Yes, indeed, I don’t think she was deviating from the ritual
of a sacrifice. After all, she stuck her right hand down through his wound, deep down,
inspecting his entrails, and kind Meroe extracted my wretched companion’s heart.
“At that point, though his throat had been cut by the sword’s attack, he let his voice—
well, a sporadic hissing—flow out through the wound, and he bubbled out his life’s breath.
Where the wound was gaping widest, Panthia stuffed it up with a sponge. ‘Hear ye, ye sponge,
though you were born in the sea,’ she said, ‘don’t let this river flow through you.’ After she
said this, they left.
“But first, they pushed my bed back and straddled me. They perched above my face and
discharged their bladders, and I became soaked from this bath of foulest urine.
“And now they made their escape over the threshold. The doors rose up in one piece to
their original condition; the hinges settled down into their holes, the doorknobs clicked into
place, and the bolts hurried back into their locks. But now I was left as I was before: I was still
thrown onto the ground, motionless, naked, cold, and doused in urine, as if I had just been
born—well, actually, I was at the point of death. But also, I was a survivor of even my own
death, or, certainly, I was a now a candidate for my destiny: the cross.
“‘What will happen to me,’ I said, ‘when, in the morning, it becomes apparent his throat
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has been slit? If I tell the truth, who will think it’s plausible? They would say, “You could have
at least called for help, if a big hero like you couldn’t hold off a woman. This man was
murdered before your very eyes, and you were silent? And why didn’t she kill you in the same
assault? Or, why did savage Cruelty leave you as a witness, even though you could present
evidence about the crime? Therefore, since you escaped death, now you should return there.”’
“I was turning these things over and over in my mind, and night was becoming day.
Therefore, it seemed like the best thing to do would be to secretly escape before it was light and
commence my journey, though it would be with a terrified step. I packed my luggage and
unlocked the door—but those honest and faithful doors, though they had opened up by their
own will during the night, now would scarcely budge, and I had to insert the key again and
again, finally succeeding after exceeding difficulty.
“‘Hey you, what’s going on?’ I said to the doorkeeper, lying on the ground behind the
entrance of the inn. ‘Unlock the front doors, I want to leave before dawn.’
“Even now he was still half-asleep. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Don’t you know the roads are
infested with robbers? Are you really beginning your journey at this time of night? For even if
you want to die, perhaps because you’re an accomplice to some crime, I’m not such a pumpkinhead that I would die in your place.’
“‘Daylight isn’t far away,’ I said. ‘And besides, what could robbers take from a traveler
in the greatest poverty? Don’t you know, you fool, that someone who is already stripped can’t
be mugged by ten wrestling champions?’
“At these words, the exhausted, half-asleep man rolled over to his other side. ‘But how
do I know,’ he said, ‘that you’re not trying to protect yourself by running away? What if you
cut the throat of your companion, the man you were lodging with when you arrived late last
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night?’
“At that moment, I recall, it was as if the earth was gaping open, and I saw down to the
depths of Tartarus—straight ahead of me stood the dog Cerberus, ravenous for me. And it
dawned on me that good Meroe had certainly not spared my throat out of pity, but rather she
was saving me, out of her cruelty, for the cross.
“So, I returned to my bedroom and debated with myself about an improvised method of
1.16
death. But since Fortune didn’t give me any weapon to bring my death besides my bed, I said,
‘Now, now, O bed, dearest to my heart, you endured such troubles with me, you were an
accomplice and an onlooker to what was done last night, you are the only witness I can summon
to vouch my innocence in this charge—O bed, provide me a weapon to save myself as I hasten
to the dead.’
“As I spoke, I approached the bed to loosen the rope that bound its slats together. I
threw it around a small beam, jutting out below the window into the room, and fastened it there.
Wrapped in part of the thin rope—with the other part tied firmly into a knot—I climbed onto the
bed, rising up to my death, and I put the noose on around my neck. But while I was pushing
away the prop that was holding me up with one of my feet, so that, factoring in the downward
force of my weight, the rope would prevent my throat from fulfilling its duties of breathing
through the process of constriction, suddenly, in any event, the rotting and ancient cord snapped
in two. I rushed down from this height, falling onto Socrates—for he was lying near me—and
we tumbled onto the ground together.
“And then, in that very moment, the doorkeeper burst into the room, shouting loudly,
‘What’s going on? You were hurrying so much in the middle of the night, and now you snore,
snug in your covers.’
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“At these words—and I don’t know whether he was awakened from our fall or by the
grating sound of the doorkeeper’s voice—Socrates rose up, and before I could speak, he said,
‘All guests despise their innkeepers, and this is for good reason. For not only did that busybody
burst in inconveniently—and I believe he was eager to steal something—but he also shook me
from my very deep sleep, exhausted as I was, with his huge bellows.’
“I arose, happy, eager, and flooded with unexpected joy. I said, ‘Look at that! My most
trustworthy doorman, behold my comrade and brother—and in your drunkenness, you were
slandering me last night, falsely accusing me of murdering him.’ And saying this, I puckered up
my lips and embraced Socrates.
“But he was struck with the smell of that liquid with which those witches had soaked me
(more or less the foulest thing you’ve ever smelled), and he vehemently pushed me away.
‘Scram!’ he said. ‘You have the stench of the worst latrine.’ And he began to kindly inquire
about the origins of this odor.
“With an awkward joke that I thought up on the spot, I miserably tried to change the
subject. I grabbed his hand and said, ‘Why don’t we go and take advantage of a morning
journey?’
“I packed up my small bag, paid the innkeeper the price of the room, and we sallied
forth.
“After we had gone a fair distance, the whole world became illuminated by the rising of
the light of dawn. I was thinking carefully and attentively about my companion’s throat, where
I had seen a sword thrust through. ‘You had a crazy dream, you lunatic,’ I said to myself. ‘You
were overcome by those goblets of wine. Look right there—Socrates is uninjured, healthy, safe.
Where is the wound, where is the sponge? Where, finally, is the scar from something so deep
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and recent?’
“Aloud, I said, ‘It is for good reason that good doctors say that people full of food and
drink have terrible and painful dreams. Indeed, I didn’t exactly count my drinks last night, and
a hard night presented me with dreadful and savage phantoms—I still feel like I’m spattered and
tainted with human blood.’
“He smiled and replied, ‘But you are not drenched with blood, you are drenched with
urine. However, I too had a dream that my throat was slit! And I even had a pain in my throat,
and I thought my very heart had been plucked out of me. Even now I feel short of breath, my
knees are shaking, I’m faltering in my step, and I long for some food to refresh my spirits.’
“‘Look,’ I said, ‘your breakfast is served.’ Saying this, I pulled my bag off my shoulder
and quickly handed over some bread and cheese to him. ‘Let’s sit down under that plane tree.’
“We did that, and I unpacked some food from the same source. Observing him eating
greedily, I saw a man wasting away considerably with leanness and pallor, white like boxwood.
Indeed, his tinge was so disturbed that he looked as frightened as I had as been before, merely
picturing those nocturnal Furies. The first morsel of bread I picked up, though it was small,
stuck completely in the back of my throat—it could neither go down nor come back up. Indeed,
even the paucity of other travelers was piling up the fear inside me. For who would believe that
when one of two companions is killed, the other is without blame? So, as he had cut up enough
food, he had become impatiently thirsty; for he had greedily devoured a good portion of the best
cheese. A little ways away from the roots of the plane tree, a lazy, gentle river was flowing like
a placid marsh, with an appearance of silver contending with glass.
“‘Look,’ I said. ‘Satisfy yourself with the milky water of that spring.’
“He got up, paused a moment on the flatter part of the bank, bent down onto his knees,
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and leaned forward, greedily filling up his goblet. Yet he had done no more than graze the top
of the spray of water with the edge of his lips when the wound in his throat split into a gaping
opening. Suddenly, the sponge tumbled out of it; a very small amount of blood was its
companion. Then, his lifeless body almost fell head-first into the river, but I held him back—
barely—by one of his feet, and with difficulty I dragged him to the top of bank. After I had
mourned for my wretched companion for a time, I covered him with the sandy ground, forever
in the neighborhood of the river.
“I, then, was extremely nervous and afraid, and I fled from there through the distant and
pathless wilderness. Like an accomplice to a homicide, I have left my country and home behind
and embraced a voluntary exile. I now live in Aetolia with a new wife.”
And that was the story of Aristomenes.
But that companion of his, who had rejected his story from the very beginning with his
obstinate disbelief, immediately said, “There is no better example of a fairy tale than this fable,
and there is nothing more absurd than that lie.” Turning to me, he said, “But you—as a
distinguished man, judging from your dress and manners—do you agree with this story?”
“I do,” I said. “I don’t think anything is impossible, but according to whatever the Fates
have decreed, anything can happen to mortals. For you and I and all of humanity experience
many strange and nearly impossible things, but the credibility of these things dies when they’re
told to someone who wasn’t there. But this man? I believe him, by Hercules, and I thank him
for his pleasing tale. The charm of his agreeable story distracted us, and I escaped the rough
and long road without labor or boredom. I even think the kindness gladdened my steed, for we
made it all the way to the city gate without wearying him—I was carried not on his back, but on
my own ears.”
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And this is how our shared conversation and journey ended, for both companions went
1.21
off to a little country house that was nearby on the left. I, on the other hand, approached the
entry of the first inn that I saw, and I inquired from the innkeeper there, an old woman, “Is this
town Hypata?”
She nodded.
“Do you know Milo, one of the town’s foremost citizens?”
She laughed. “Yes, and I suppose you could say Milo is foremost, for he lives in the
first and foremost spot in the whole city—so foremost that he’s actually beyond the edge of
town!”
I replied, “Joking aside, mother dear, I beg you to tell me which neighborhood he lives
in and which building is his.”
“Do you see the farthest windows,” she said, “which look out on over the city? And on
the other side the doors face the neighboring alley? That’s where Milo lives, deeply wealthy
and very moneyed. Yes, he’s a man of unrivaled avarice, loathed for living in the lowest filth.
Indeed, he often lends out his gold and silver at very high interest rates. He’s shut up in his tiny
abode, always eager for copper, with the wife he has as a companion in their blight. And
besides one little servant-girl, he does not feed anyone else, and he’s always walking around
looking like a beggar.”
I laughed at these words. “My Demeas has advised me with nothing but kindness and
wisdom, connecting me with this great Milo for my travels abroad. In Milo’s hospitality I have
no need to fear the smoke and stench of a burning hearth!”
After I said this, I walked a little ways and I approached the front door. It was locked,
and I began to knock strongly and loudly. Finally, some small young woman appeared. “Hey
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you,” she said, “Mr. I-Can-Beat-the-Doors-Really-Loudly, what kind of collateral do you want
to give for the loan? Or are you the only one who doesn’t know that we admit no one besides
those who offer gold or silver?”
“You should assume better things,” I said, “and instead answer whether I might find
your master inside.”
“Of course,” she said, “but why do you ask?”
“I have a letter written to him from Demeas of Corinth.”
“Wait here, Your Excellency, while I proclaim this to His Majesty.” Saying this, she
again bolted the doors and marched inside. A little while later she returned, opening up the
house, and said, “He asks for you.”
I carried myself inside and I found him reclining on a very small bed. He was just
beginning to eat. His wife was perched at his feet, near an empty table. He pointed to it and
said, “Behold, our hospitality.”
“Wonderful!” I said, and I immediately handed Demeas’ letter to him.
He read it quickly and said, “I’m very fond of my Demeas, as he brought such a great
guest to me.” He ordered his wife to retire and he ordered me to sit in her place. I was delaying
out of politeness, but he dragged me down after he grabbed the edge of my shirt. “Sit,” he said,
“there. For due to our fear of robbers, we cannot prepare any seats or adequate furniture.”
I did as I was told.
This done, he said, “I would even guess, based on the handsome clothing on your body
and your utterly virgin-like modesty, that you come from noble and proper stock. But of course,
my Demeas announced this in his letter. So I beg you not to scorn the scantiness of our hovel.
You can use the adjacent room, that fine bedroom there, see? I insist that you live freely in our
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home. Indeed, your status will make our house greater, and you would be counted as a glorious
model, if you are content with our paltry abode, imitating the virtues of Theseus. You know the
one I mean, your father’s namesake, who did not spurn the meager hospitality of the old woman
Hecale.”
He called to his slave. “Photis, carefully move and put away the luggage of our guest
into that bedroom. Then at once you should go to the cupboard and take out the anointing oil, a
cleaning towel, and the other things for that, and lead my guest to the nearest baths. He is very
tired from his hard, long journey.”
When I heard these things, I made some conclusions about Milo’s habits and thrift. I
wanted to bring myself closer to him, so I said, “I don’t need any of those things, since they
accompany me everywhere on my journey. But I will inquire about the easiest way to the baths.
Of course, my biggest concern is for my horse, as he bore me strenuously. Photis, take this
money and buy hay and barley.”
After this, I deposited my things in the bedroom and proceeded to the baths. First, to
provide some food for myself, I sought the food market. There, I saw fish lavishly set out. I
asked the price, and the fishmonger said one hundred sesterces. I refused that price and
purchased them for twenty denarii—a twenty percent discount, and coincidentally exactly a
tenth of the price I paid for my horse.
As I was leaving the market, I ran into my old buddy Pythias, my classmate from the
Athenian school in Attica. Although such a considerable amount of time had passed, he
recognized me and attacked me lovingly with an embrace and a friendly peck. “My Lucius!” he
said. “By Pollux, it has been long enough since I last saw you! And by Hercules, wasn’t it
when we split up with our teacher Clytius? But why are you traveling abroad?”
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“You’ll know tomorrow,” I said. “But hey, what’s that? Congratulations! I see you
have a magistrate’s attendants, insignia, and garments.”
“I’m the aedile,” he said, “who manages the price of produce. So, if you want to buy
some food, I can certainly provide it.”
I shook my head, since obviously I had already bought plenty of fish for supper. But
when Pythias saw my little basket, he shook the fish flat to examine them and said, “But how
much did you pay for this rubbish?”
“I scarcely haggled the fishmonger down to twenty denarii,” I said.
As soon as he heard this, he seized my right arm and led me all the way back to the food- 1.25
market. He said, “From which of these men did you buy these trifling things?” I pointed out
the little old man; he was sitting on the corner. Rebuking him at once with the authority of his
office, he chided in his harshest voice, “Now, now, now, don’t you show the slightest
consideration to any visitors at all? You show them worthless fish at great prices, and you
starve the flower of our Thessalonian region into a barren wilderness with the high price of your
edibles. But not unpunished! For I’ll have you know that your evils ought to be restrained by
my office”—and he poured out my basket into the middle of the street. Then, he ordered his
own servant to step on my fish, mashing them with his feet. Satisfied by this severe behavior,
my Pythias urged me to go away. “A lesson just like this suffices for me, Sir Lucius. We taught
the old coot.”
I was dismayed and utterly confounded by these deeds, but, as per the powerful advice
of my wise classmate, I went straight to the baths. I’d been robbed of both my money and my
dinner, but having been bathed I returned to the hospitality of Milo and from there I headed to
bed.
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Then wouldn’t you know it, the slave-girl, Photis, said, “Your host asks for you.” But I
made a polite excuse, keenly aware of Milo’s frugality, saying I would do better to wash away
the stress of my trip not with food but with sleep. When he heard this, he himself came in, took
me by the hand, and gently assaulted me, dragging me behind him. While I delayed, struggling
mildly, he said, “I won’t leave until you follow me.” He followed this speech with a binding
oath of his own stubbornness, and he led me, unwilling yet obedient, to that little couch of his.
Sitting me down, he said, “How well is our Demeas doing? How is his wife? His children?
His domestics?”
I told him about each. He also inquired rather meticulously about my reasons for
traveling abroad. When I answered honestly, he even then asked most scrupulously about our
homeland and the leading citizens and finally about the governor himself. At last he perceived
how exhausted I was after the upheaval of my long journey, not to mention drowsy enough from
this succession of stories to break off speaking in the middle of a sentence. Having now failed
like this, I couldn’t stammer a single word with any uncertain roughness of speech, and he
finally allowed me to depart and lie down. With sleep I finally escaped the talkative and starved
banquet of the rotten old man. Though I wasn’t heavy with food, dining tonight only on stories,
I returned to my bedroom and finally obtained my desired quiet.
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Liber II
As night began to dissolve and a new sun created the day, I emerged from both sleep and
2.1
my bed, somewhat anxious and quite eager to learn things that are unusual and strange. I
thought over the fact that I was now held in the middle of Thessaly—anyone in the world would
tell you it’s a place known as a source of magic spells. I also reflected on the story of my
wonderful companion Aristomenes, as it had begun at the site of this very city. Additionally,
both my wish and zeal made me fretful; I examined everything carefully.
There was not anything in the city that, when I saw it, I believed it was what it was.
Rather, everything was completely transformed, with a deadly whisper, into another shape. So,
I believed the stones I bumped into were hardened men; the birds I heard were feathered from
the same source; the trees which circled the wall were similarly leafy; the water in the fountains
was flowing down from the bodies of humans. Now the statues and sculptures were about to
walk away, the walls were about to talk, the cows and all the farm animals were about to deliver
a prophecy, and even from the sky itself and from the Orb of Radiance an oracle would
suddenly come.
Dazed in this way—no, truly, I was senseless from my agonizing need—I wandered
around, yet entirely without a beginning or end to discovering everything I desired. I was
drifting from doorway to doorway, going to every single one at leisure, like a spendthrift in
luxury, when I suddenly and absentmindedly arrived at the food market. Then and there I
quickened my pace and grabbed hold of some woman walking, surrounded by a crowd of
servants. She had gold in her jewels and tunic; it was wrapping around here and woven in there,
marking her as an affluent woman.
An old man, heavy in years, was sticking to her side. As soon as he caught sight of me,
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he said, “By Hercules, it’s Lucius!” He presented me with a kiss and at once whispered
something I couldn’t hear into the ear of the woman. “Why don’t you approach your own
relative and greet her?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know who she is,” I said. At once I blushed, embarrassed, and waited
with my head cast down.
But she, after turning back around to gaze at me, said, “Look, he has the noble integrity
of his mother, our most venerable Sylvia. But, and curse me if I’m wrong, his body is her
spitting image—it’s exactly right. He’s tall, but not unusually so; he’s thin, but not starved; he’s
rosy, but mildly; his hair is yellow and natural; his eyes, though certainly steely, are alert and
gleaming when you look at them, like the eyes of an eagle; his face blooms in every way; and
walking, he is handsome and lithe.”
And she added, “Lucius dear, I raised you with my own hands—of course I did. I not
only share blood with your mother, but also an upbringing. For we were both born into the
family of Plutarch, we suckled the same nurse, and we grew up together bound by the knot of
sisterhood. And nothing distinguishes us except for social standing; while she married a public
figure, I married a private citizen. I’m Byrrena—perhaps you heard my name mentioned on
occasion by your teachers. So, you can be assured of our hospitality—no, truly, our household
is now yours.”
My blushes had dissolved during the time she spoke, and at these words I said, “God
forbid, aunt, that I desert Milo’s hospitality without any complaint. But, of course, I’ll do
absolutely anything I can without injuring anyone’s sense of obligation. As many times as I
have an opportunity for such an excursion, I will never turn away from your home.”
While we argued this point and other similar things, soon we had completed our walk
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and arrived at Byrrena’s house.
She had an incredibly beautiful atrium containing four columns, one standing in each
corner; each column supported statues. One statue had the shape of the prize-bearing goddess,
Victory, and twisting around with her unfolded wings she did not take off from her pedestal—
she held back her step, her dewy heels, so that they remained anchored, yet you would believe
that she should just fly away!
And over there! A stone—Parian marble!—was made into Diana, and she, placed in the
center of the whole room, created balance—oh, a perfectly splendid statue! Her garment was
blown backward as she moved forward vigorously, and she stood in the way of anyone entering
the room, venerable with the majesty of the gods. Dogs protected both sides of the goddess, and
these were made from the same marble. Their eyes were threatening, their ears were stiff, their
nostrils were wide open, and their mouths slavered. If barking bayed from anywhere nearby,
you would think it came from their stone jaws. The part of the work that proved just how
eminent this sculptor was, however, was the dogs’ balanced posture: rearing high up onto their
hind legs, their back feet dug into the earth while their front raced forwards.
Behind the back of this goddess, a stone rose up, forming a grotto, with moss and grass
and leaves and shoots and vines here and saplings there—everything blooming from the stone.
Inside, the rock’s shadow gleamed with the brightness of Diana’s statue. Under the lower edge
of the stone, apples and grapes hung down. They were polished ingeniously; the art rivaled
nature—it grew toward the real thing. You would think that some of them could be plucked
from there at a meal, when the autumn wind (full of unfermented wine) instills them with their
ripe color. And if you leant forward to look into the fountain, which flowed from the feet of the
goddess in two directions, glittering in a gentle wave, you would think that those clusters were
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hanging just like the others in the countryside, perfectly capable of truth and movement.
Among the center of the leaves was a stone statue of Actaeon, extending his nosy gaze onto the
goddess, waiting for Diana to bathe; and, whether you looked at the stone or his reflection in the
fountain, already he seemed wild, turning into a deer.
While I rummaged around and delighted in these things again and again, Byrrena said,
2.5
“Everything you see is yours.” And then she used a secret word to order everyone else to
depart. Once they had dispersed, she said, “By this goddess, my dearest Lucius, as I fear
anxiously for you, I want to keep my promise and provide for you for a long time. Be careful,
Lucius, but be especially careful around the wicked arts and vicious allure of that Pamphile!
She’s married to that Milo; you said he was your host. She’s believed to be a prominent and
accomplished witch, an instructress of every graveyard incantation. By breathing on some
shoots and pebbles and trifles like that, she knows how to plunge all the light of the starry world
into the depths of Tartarus and ancient Chaos. And likewise, when she catches sight of some
young man with a handsome build, she is captivated by his attractiveness, and at once she turns
her eye and her mind onto him. She plants flatteries, attacks his spirit, and binds him with the
eternal shackles of profound love. As for those who are less compliant and worthless to her for
their contempt, with a prick she transforms them into stones or cattle or any animal whatever,
and she actually kills others altogether. And so I’m afraid for you, and I think you should
beware. You see, she’s always burning with desire—your age and beauty make you suitable for
her.” These things had Byrrena quite worried.
But in any case I was curious, and as soon as I heard the name of the sorcery I’d always
wished to know, I hardly took any caution from Pamphile. Indeed, I was even eager to
volunteer myself for such instruction, wishing to hand myself over with a large sum of money. I
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would throw myself headlong into Hell itself with a rushing leap! So, inpatient and frenzied, I
freed myself from her hand (which was just like a chain), and with a fast “farewell” added I flew
out the door back to the hospitality of Milo.
While I quickened my pace like a lunatic, I said, “Do it, Lucius, be watchful and keep
your wits about you. You have the chance you always wanted; from your long-lasting prayer,
you will be able to fill up your heart with stunning stories. Stop being such a scared little boy,
invest everything to fight hand to hand with this situation. But also, heed the knot of honor
between you and your host, and religiously respect Milo’s wedded bed. Meanwhile, however,
the maid Photis can be desired earnestly. After all, she has scintillating beauty, a playful
attitude, and utter cleverness. Also, last night when you were going to bed, she escorted you to
your bedroom as a companion and arranged you pleasingly in the bed, tucking you in quite
lovingly and kissing the top of your head. She betrayed herself with her face, as she reluctantly
departed, indeed, pausing often to turn and look back. And so, good wishes and luck to you;
although it won’t be wholesome, endeavor for that Photis.”
As I discussed these things with myself, I approached Milo’s front door, and, as they
say, my feet made my decision for me. However, I did not find Milo or his wife at home, but
only my dear Photis. She was preparing diced mistletoe to use in a stuffing, and she was
chopping and mincing meat. My nose now foretold that there would be a very savory sausage.
She was clothed in a white, decorated tunic and had a shiny red ribbon as her belt, tied fairly
high up, just under her breasts. She was stirring a certain crock with her flowery fingers, in
circles; she was swerving her hips around and around in flexible orbits, slowly sliding her limbs
synchronously, alluringly waving her loins, shaking her supple spine—gently and gracefully she
undulated.
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I was fastened to the ground by that sight. I was dumbfounded. I stood amazed.
Standing firm were parts of me that had been lying down before. At last I said to her, “How
beautifully and delightfully you stir that little pot . . . not to mention your rump. How honeysweet you prepare the hors d’oeuvres. How happy and most certainly blessed is the man you
would allow to stick his finger into there!”
Then she, charming and chatty as usual, said, “Get away, you poor little man, get as far
as possible from my stove, get! For if my little tiny flame were to blow on you, you would be
deeply burned. Nothing could extinguish the fire except me, since I know how to shake both the
pot and the pleasant cot, flavoring both sweetly.”
Saying this, she looked at me and laughed. However, I didn’t leave until I had
meticulously examined everything about her. What can I say about the rest, since I only desire
to examine a head of hair (first in public, later fully enjoying it in my home)? I think I know the
reason for this judgment, established and reasoned out with certitude. That particular part of the
body, since it is in an uncovered and exposed position, is the first to meet the eye. And you
know how clothing blooms with color on the other limbs? This same brightness grows innately
on a head. Finally, most women, as they are about to demonstrate their true character and
esteem, remove every last hem and set aside their garments; they are eager to offer their naked
bodies, more pleasing with the rosy blush of skin than with the gold tint of clothing.
But truly—and it’s a crime to say this, and there might not even be an example of such a
dreadful thing—but if you would rob the head of a woman—even an exceptional, superlatively
beautiful one—of her hair, laying bare her face in its original appearance, it does not matter if
she was thrown down from heaven, born from the sea, led forth on the waves, even if she were
Venus herself and surrounded by a whole chorus of Graces, accompanied by the entire
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population of Cupids, ringed by her own belt, smelling of cinnamon and moist with balsam—if
she were to appear bald, she couldn’t even please Vulcan himself.
And what pleasing color and glittering brightness shine forth from hair! Facing the
2.9
sun’s sharp edge it gleams vividly, or it reflects it gently, or it changes into an opposite charm:
flashing gold hair is darkened into the light shadow of honey; raven-black hair imitates the
ornamental blue on the necks of doves. After it is anointed with Arabian oil, separated by the
thin teeth of a whispering comb, and gathered together in the back, when it faces the eyes of a
lover like a mirror, does anything return a more pleasing image? And what about when she
wears it piled on the top of her head, thick with so many strands, or when she stretches it out in
a braid, flowing down her luxurious back? This, then, is the worth of a head of hair. Although
a woman could go forth, adorned with golden clothing, golden jewels, and every other gold
ornament too, unless she has distinguished her hair, she is not able to be called “adorned.”
But—my Photis had not labored like this. Yet—being unadorned was adding charm to
her adornment. Namely, she had tied a knot, the ends all balled up on the top of her head, but
her abundant hair was starting to come loose, hanging down her neck and then falling here and
there around her shoulders, settling slowly for a little while on the curving, golden hem of her
tunic.
And for a long time I was not able to endure such a torture of extraordinary delight. I
leaned forward toward her. Where her hair reached its highest peak, there I placed the best
honey-sweet kiss I could. Then she twisted her neck around back toward me and gave me a
sidelong, puckered glance. “Hey, Mr. Know-It-All, you’re taking a bittersweet taste. Take care
not to gather too much sweet honey; it could make you contract the long-lasting bitterness of
bile.”
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“What are you saying?” I said. “Baby-cakes, I am prepared to be stretched out and
roasted above that fire of yours, as I can always be revived by a single kiss.” Saying this, I
embraced her tightly and began to kiss her. And then her own desire made her a rival in love;
she was equally ready to unite herself with me. Her parted lips revealed cinnamon-scented
breath, and she had a very forward, pleasing desire to give me a sweet-as-nectar lashing with her
vigorous tongue.
“I’m defeated,” I said. “Well, I think I’m well-past defeated, unless you have been
soothed.”
She replied, kissing me again, “Rest assured, our shared desire makes me your slave, and
our pleasure won’t be put off any longer. I’ll be in your bedroom as soon as the first torch is lit.
So go away and prepare yourself, for I will fight with you the whole night long, with all the
courage my soul can muster.”
We split ways with these and other such growling words between us. A little before
noon, Byrrena sent me some small gifts: a plump pig, five little chickens, and a jar of wine,
precious for its vintage. I called Photis and said, “Look! Bacchus, Venus’ provoker and armbearer, has arrived unaided. Let us drink all this wine today, so it quenches our fainthearted
modesty and fills us with the eager energy of desire. You see, the ship of Love only needs these
provisions: the lamp should abound with oil to keep watch in the night, and the cup should
abound with wine.”
We spent the rest of the day bathing and then dining. Kind Milo invited me to recline at
his elegant little table, sitting me where I was as safe as could be from the gaze of his wife (I
was being mindful of Byrrena’s warnings). I fearfully forced my eyes onto her face, just as if I
was gazing at that entrance to the underworld, the Avernal lake. But continually looking back at
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Photis as she was waiting on us here, my spirits were restored. Suddenly, Pamphile spoke up.
She was gazing into the lamp (it was evening now), and she said, “A great rainstorm will arrive
tomorrow.” Her husband asked how she learned that, and she replied that the lamp predicted it
for her.
Milo followed her words with a laugh. “We’re nurturing that lamp as a great Sibyl!” he
said. “She gazes on the whole business of the sky and the sun itself, all from the watch tower of
the lamp stand.”
“I’ve had experiences with this kind of prophecy before,” I interjected. “And it isn’t all
2.12
that extraordinary. Although this little flame is small and was made by human hands, it can
nevertheless recall a greater and celestial fire, like it’s remembering its parent. By divine
prognostication, it’s able to both know and announce to us whatever will be published in the
heavens above.”
I continued, “Even now, you see, near my home in Corinth there’s a certain visitor from
Chaldea who goes all about town, stirring everybody up with his strange answers. He declares
to a crowd—for small offerings, of course—the secrets of the Fates: what day to have a
wedding, how to build a wall that will last forever, which businessmen are worth dealing with,
when it is the best time to sail. Indeed, he told me (after I asked about my fate on this trip
abroad) all kinds of things, most of them utterly strange. For first he said my fame would really
bloom, then he said I would be a great history, an incredible fable, a whole book.”
Grinning at this, Milo said, “What did he look like, and what was the name of this here
Chaldean?”
“He was tall,” I said, “and a little tan. His name was Diophanes.”
“It’s him!” he said. “It couldn’t be anyone else. You see, he was here too, and he
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predicted for us many similar things. But he didn’t accept any trifling offerings—no! He
received exorbitant pay. Anyways, the poor man fell upon a torrid (actually, horrid) fate.”
Milo went on, “See, one day, when he was telling fortunes to a ring of bystanders—a
circle of people just packed together—a certain businessman named Cerdo approached him. He
wanted to know when would be a good day to travel abroad. Diophanes determined the best
day, and Cerdo laid down his purse, poured out his coins, and counted out one hundred denarii,
which Diophanes took as payment for the prophecy. But then, one of the young noble men,
creeping around from behind, seized Diophanes by the hem of his garment, spun the man
around, gave him the tightest of hugs, and assailed him with kisses.
“And Diophanes affectionately returned the kisses at first, and then he made the man sit
down next to him. Dumbstruck by the surprise of this sudden vision, he forgot all about the
present business he was waging. He began to speak to the man, ‘How long ago did you get
here? I’ve really missed you!’
“The other man responded, ‘Yesterday, just before nightfall. But it’s your turn, my
brother, tell me what happened after you swiftly sailed away from the island Euboea, and about
your journeys over sea and land.’
“At this, Diophanes, that distinguished Chaldean, was deprived of his mind and not yet
himself. He said, ‘May our enemies and all our foes experience something so awful—no, it was
worse, it was the voyage of Ulysses. For the ship itself, the one that carried us, was battered by
all kinds of waves in storm after storm. We painfully lost the rudders on both sides and we were
forced to the edge of the farther shore where our ship sunk straight down. We lost everything
and barely swam to safety. We had to take up a collection, using the pity of strangers and the
kindness of friends, but a band of robbers stole every last bit of it! Arignotus, my only brother,
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fought back against their effrontery, but the poor guy had his throat slit before my very eyes.’
“Even as he was still telling this tale, that businessman Cerdo snatched his own coins
back from the miserable man, the ones he had laid out as payment for the prophecy, and he fled
right away. Finally, then, at last, Diophanes snapped out of his trance and detected the debacle
of his own carelessness, especially when he saw that all of us who were standing around had
burst into loud laughter.
“But obviously, master Lucius, the Chaldean would have told the truth to you, you of all
people, so may you enjoy happiness and a long, favorable journey.”
As Milo talked on and on and on, I groaned silently. I was furiously angry with myself,
2.15
since not only had this series of unwanted stories been brought in, but I was losing a good part
of the evening, not to mention my most pleasurable enjoyment of it. Finally, at last, I
swallowed my modesty and said to Milo, “Let Diophanes have his fortune and let him again
divide the spoils of these people between sea and land! But really, I’m still wounded with
yesterday’s fatigue. Please, I would like to go to bed early.”
With these words I departed, hastening for my bedroom. There, I discovered that the
preparations for our feast had been set up quite elegantly. Even the slaves’ blankets had been
spread out on the ground, as far away from the door as possible—I assumed this was by their
choice, to banish the murmurings of the night. My bed was set up near a little table of food; the
leftovers it bore would be worthy of anyone. Large cups were already half-full with wine,
needing only to be mixed with water. Nearby a flask was lying open, its neck cut cleanly by a
sword to make it easy to pour. In short, it was an afternoon snack before our gladiatorial
combat with Venus.
I had barely climbed into bed when, would you look at that, it was my Photis! Her
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mistress had now returned to her own bed, so Photis happily came to me wearing a rose wreath
and a rose tucked freely between her swelling breasts. She pressed herself to me, covering me
with kisses, fastening a small garland around my head, and sprinkling me with blossoms. She
snatched up the goblet, pouring in some warm water and offering me a drink. Just before I
finished it, she mercifully took it back, looked back at me, and little by little sipped the rest
sweetly through her lips.
Following the third cup between us, we shared goblet after goblet, drinking in turns, and
I was wet with wine not only in my mind but also in my body. My desire was increasing, and
besides, I was restless and aggressive. Smitten for a little while now, I showed Photis the
impatience of my desire by moving the edge of my tunic away from my groin.
“Pity me,” I said, “and rescue me speedily. For, as you can see, the battle is nigh! You
declared this war on me without proper diplomats, and it’s left me exceedingly eager. When I
removed savage Cupid’s earlier arrow, after it pierced me deep in my chest, I myself vigorously
aimed my own bow. I’m utterly afraid that the bowstring will snap from being far too taut. But
if you would—pretty please?—loosen your streaming hair so that it flows in waves, and set
forth loveable embraces.”
At once we hurried to put away all the dishes of our snack. In her cheerful lust, Photis
stripped off all her clothes and let down her hair: she was Venus, rising above the sea-born
waves, created anew with beauty, even shadowing her hairless femininitude with her rosy palm
for a little while (to complete the illusion, not because she was hiding out of modesty).
“Fight!” she said. “And fight courageously! For I will not retreat from you nor turn my
back. Station your troops in my view, if you are a man, and fight me hand to hand. March forth
with all your heart! Die! You’re about to meet your maker. There will be no rest in today’s
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fight.”
While she was saying this, she mounted the bed, turned around, and sat atop me. Her
sinuous limbs leapt and plunged and leapt and plunged, her flexible spine shuddering; she
satisfied me with the pleasure of her pendulous Venus. This continued right up until the point
we became tired out, minds weary and limbs exhausted, collapsing at the same moment in a
mutual embrace, panting out our souls. Wrestling like this, we kept watch all the way up to the
next day’s light, now and then refreshing our weariness with goblets of wine, which spurred on
our desire and renewed our pleasure.
And using this night as a model, we piled on quite a few more in the same manner.
One day, by chance, Byrrena demanded with great gusto that I attend a little dinner party
at her house. Though I emptied my vault of excuses, she denied me any pardon. Therefore, I
needed to go to Photis and seek her approval and advice, just as if I was seeking an omen. And
although she was reluctant, since I would be farther away from her own clutch, she nevertheless
kindly granted this brief furlough from our military campaign of love.
However, she said, “Listen, you, take care to return pretty early from dinner, for a crazy
gang of super-rich kids harasses the public peace. Everywhere you’ll see slaughtered people
lying in the middle of the streets, and the guards are too far away to provide help in such a
calamity. Truly, the obviousness of your own fortune and the contempt they have for foreigners
make you a prime target for their ambushes.”
“Don’t worry, my Photis,” I said. “I’m not going to enjoy myself feasting with
strangers. Besides, I’ll return early—I can lay that fear of yours to rest. What’s more, I won’t
go unaccompanied. See, I’m equipped with my customary little sword here on my side, and so
I’m carrying the protection for my very health.”
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Armed like this, I marched myself off to dinner.
A crowd of banqueters frequented Byrrena’s house, and since she herself was a flower of 2.19
the city, all the women were prominent. The tables were richly furnished, glittering with citrus
wood and ivory; the couches were covered with gold coverlets; the large goblets were all
unique, but they shared a single costliness. Over here the glass was skillfully embellished; over
there was carved crystal. Elsewhere, there was bright silver, flashing gold, amber (marvelously
hollowed out!), and jewels you could drink from. Whatever you would say was impossible to
be made was there. A few waiters, clothed splendidly, elegantly supplied enormous trays, while
a great number of handsome boys with curled hair, bedecked in their uniforms, offered aged
wine in jewels fashioned into goblets. Lights had already been carried into the banquet hall,
conversation swelled among the banqueters, laughter was flowing, jokes were running free, and
there was banter absolutely everywhere.
Then Byrrena said to me, “How well have you enjoyed your stay in our homeland?
What I know is that we’re far better than all other towns, whether you’re looking at temples,
baths, or other buildings. Besides, we are quite strong in resources. Certainly, you have your
free choice of recreation, and the businessman from abroad can even find a Roman crowd, and,
to be sure, the guest of modest means can rest in a country house. So you see, out of the whole
province, we are a secluded place of pleasure.”
I replied, “What you say is true! I don’t believe I have been in any nation more free than
here. But—I’m exceedingly afraid of the inevitable hidden lairs of magical studies. After all,
it’s said that not even the tombs of the dead are safe, but they hunt for certain things left behind
in the graves and pyres—and things cut off of the corpses themselves—to destroy the fates of
the living. Just when the funeral apparatus is set in motion, the spell-casting hags prevent the
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stranger’s burial with their nimble celerity.”
Somebody else added to my words, “Well, actually, in this place not even any of the
living are spared. Someone, I’m not sure who, suffered like this—they maimed him, his face
was completely deformed in every way!”
During these words, the entire banquet erupted into unrestrained laughter. Everyone’s
gazes united on a certain man, lying alone in a corner. He was bewildered by the group’s
persistence, murmuring that this was intolerable when he wished to get up and leave.
“No, my Telephron,” said Byrrena. “Stay a little while. Give us your usual wit, tell us
that story you always tell, because my nephew Lucius here has not yet enjoyed the charm and
elegance of your speech.”
The man said, “Although you, mistress, truly do remain steadfast in your duty of hosting
with unfaltering kindness, I simply cannot endure the arrogance of certain people.” Such was
his outburst! But, at the insistence of Byrrena, who swore on her own health to convince him to
speak, he, albeit unwillingly, did as she wished.
So, he heaped up the blankets into a pile to raise him up and support him as he reclined
on the couch. He extended his right arm and, just like an orator, he skillfully shaped his hand:
he clenched his two lowest fingers, pointed the others, and slightly raised his angry thumb.
Telephron began to speak:
“When I was an orphan, I set out from Miletus to see the Olympic games. Since I also
wanted to see all the celebrated landmarks of Thessaly, I traveled all over that famous province,
but it was with dark omens that I reached Larissa. My travel allowance was stretched thin, so I
wandered around, seeking every solace for my poverty. While I was doing this, I spied a certain
tall old man in the middle of the forum, standing on a stone. In a clear voice, he was
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proclaiming that if anyone wished to watch over a corpse, the deed would fetch quite a price.
And I said to one of the passersby, ‘What’s he talking about? Do the dead in these parts usually
run away?’
“‘Quiet,’ he responded. ‘For you’re a boy in this town, not to mention a stranger, so of
course you don’t know you’re standing in Thessaly, where women—witches—nibble at the
faces of corpses everywhere. What they nibble becomes supplies for their magical arts.’
“I replied, ‘And please tell me, mister, about guarding a corpse.’
2.22
“‘Now, first,’ he responded, ‘You’d need to keep watch most diligently throughout the
whole night, always looking out onto the corpse, never blinking. You could never glance away
to look at any other place, no, not even out of the corner of your eye. This is obviously because
the most wicked shape-shifters sneak up secretly, looking like whatever animal they wish; they
can even easily deceive the very eyes of both the Sun and Justice. For they disguise themselves
as birds, and also dogs, and mice, and—dare I say it—even flies. Then, they overwhelm the
guards with sleep using dreadful curses. And no one can really specify how many tricks the
wickedest hags have devised for their pleasure.’
“‘Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘the pay offered for this deadly work is not more than
four or six gold pieces. Oh! And what I nearly forgot to say, if any body isn’t brought back
whole in the morning . . . whatever was plucked and stolen from the corpse will be rounded up
to patch it up, after it is cut off from the guard’s own face.’
“With those ideas I instilled my mind with manly courage. At once I approached the
herald and said, ‘Stop shouting now. Your guard is prepared and present, tell me my reward.’
“‘One thousand coins will be set aside for you,’ he said. ‘But, hey, boy, take diligent
care that you properly guard this corpse from the wicked Harpies. He was the son of the town’s
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most prominent family.’
“‘You’re telling me absurdities, mere nonsense! You see before you a man of iron. He
is sleepless, and certainly more observant than lynx-eyed Lynceus or Argus, whose whole body
is an eye.’
“Scarcely had I finished when at once he led me to some house. Since its doors were
locked, he called me inside through a squat back door. Opening a certain shadowy chamber (all
daylight was locked out), he showed me the lady of the house, tearful and covered with dark
clothing. Walking over to stand by her, he said, ‘This man has volunteered to hire himself out
to faithfully guard your husband.’
“Her hair was hanging down in front of her face, so she moved it aside here and there,
displaying a countenance splendid even in grief. Looking back at me she said, ‘See to it, I beg
you—attend to your duty, as much as you possibly can.’
“‘No need to worry,’ I said. ‘Just prepare a suitable tip.’
“She agreed to this, rose up, and led me into another bedroom. There was the corpse,
completely covered by bright linen sheets. Seven or so witnesses were brought in. She
unveiled the corpse and wept over it for a while. Then, each of the present witnesses
meticulously alleged their loyalty, as someone diligently recorded these solemn words on
writing tablets.
“‘Look,’ she said, ‘his nose is whole, his eyes are uninjured, his ears are healthy, his lips
are intact, his chin is firm. You will bestow testimony on this matter, good Roman citizens.’
After she said this and the tablets were sealed, she went away.
“But first I said, ‘Ma’am, give the order that everything I need to use be furnished for
me.’
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“‘And what’s that?’ she asked.
“‘A large lamp,’ I said, ‘and oil, enough to light it until morning. And warm water, with
wine-jars, and a goblet. And a plate, adorned with the leftovers from dinner.’
“Shaking her head, she then said, ‘Get out, you fool. You dare to ask for portions of
food in a grieving house? For quite a few days in a row already, no one has even seen any
smoke rising from our kitchens! Or were you under the impression that you had come to a big
party here? Why don’t you, instead, pretend to share our grief and tears in this place?’
“As she said this, she looked back at her little slave girl. She said, ‘Myrrhine, hand over
a lamp and oil right away, and then, at once, go away. Leave the guard shut in the bedroom.’
“Thus I was abandoned, left to be a comfort to the corpse. I rubbed my eyes to arm them 2.25
for the watch, and I stimulated my mind by singing. Soon—look!—it was twilight, then a late
night, then a deeper night, then deeper than my bedtime, and then it was the dead of night. And
I was utterly afraid for myself, indeed, increasingly so, when suddenly a weasel crawled in. It
paused, facing me, and it fixed against me a gaze that was so piercing that the itty-bitty animal
disturbed my mind with its own excessive courage.
“Finally I said to it, ‘Get out of here, you vile beast! Hide yourself among your kin in
the little garden, before you test my ready force. Get out of here!’
“It turned its back and it was immediately banished from the bedroom. But at once a
deep sleep suddenly sunk me into the bottommost chasm, so that not any god, not even Delphic
Apollo himself, could easily determine, between the two of us lying there, who was more dead.
And so I was lifeless and lacking another guard—it was almost as if I was not there.
“At the moment the cock-a-doodle-doos from a cohort of crested roosters signaled an
end to their battle with night, I was at last awakened, very frightened with intense panic. I
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rushed to the corpse and drew the light near to reveal his face. I examined each feature, and
everything was as it should be.
“And just then, his wretched, weeping wife burst in with yesterday’s witnesses.
Worried, she immediately rushed over to the corpse and kissed it long and hard. She
recognized, under the judgment of the light, all his features. She turned away and asked for her
steward Philodespotus, ordering him to give payment to the good guard without any delay.
“Offering it to me, she said, ‘Young man, we give you the greatest thanks. By Hercules,
due to your attentive service, we will count you among the rest of our close friends from now
on.’
“These words cheered me up—I had an unexpected profit, the gleaming gold coins,
which I was clinking together again and again in my hand. Astonished, I said, ‘No, Ma’am, you
will think of me as one of your own family. Whenever you desire my service, call on me with
confidence.’
“Scarcely had I said this when the whole family attacked me at once. They cursed me as
a criminal, grabbing any kind of weapon. Someone struck my jaws with his fists, another thrust
his elbows into my back, a third dug into my sides with weaponized palms. They kicked me
with their heels, pulling my hair and tearing my clothing. And so I was mangled and mutilated
like the arrogant Aonian youth—Pentheus, who was torn apart by his bacchant mother—or like
the musical bard of Mount Pipleia—Orpheus, who was ripped to shreds by Maenads. I was
driven from the house.
“While I caught my breath in the next street over, I, too late, thought about my
unfortunate and inconsiderate words. I agreed, quite rightly, that I deserved an even greater
whipping.
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“But over there! It was the corpse, at last all wept over and mourned, processing in an
ancestral right. Since he had been one of the aristocracy, he was led through the forum
according to the ceremony of a public funeral. Some sad old man, who was clothed in black,
crying, and tearing at his fancy white hair, rushed out and grabbed at the bier with both hands.
In a certainly restrained voice that was hindered by constant sobbing, he said, ‘By your trust,
Roman citizens, and by your public sense of duty, stop! This citizen has been murdered.
Punish severely that wicked woman there for her most extreme crime. For she, not any other,
killed a poor young man, the son of my sister, with poison, to charm her lover with the inherited
riches.’
“And so the old man loudly made his doleful complaints to everyone. Meanwhile, the
crowd raged, driven toward the believability of the accusation by how true the deed seemed.
They shouted for fire, asking for stones, encouraging each other to prepare slings to cause the
death of the woman. But she devised tears at these words, and as sincerely as she could, she
swore by all the gods and denied such a crime.
“Therefore the old man said, ‘Let’s make divine providence our judge of the truth.
Zatchlas, a distinguished Egyptian prophet, is here, and he had already agreed with me—for a
large payment—to bring back a spirit from the underworld for a little while, reviving its corpse
from completely beyond the threshold of death.’ With this said, he led some young man into the
middle of the crowd, wearing linen garments and sandals made of palm on his feet. His head
was completely shaved. For a long time, the old man kissed his hands and knelt down to touch
Zatchlas’ knees. ‘Pity us,’ he said. ‘O priest, pity us by the heavenly stars, by the gods of the
underworld, by the natural elements, by the silence of the night and the Egyptian sanctuaries, by
the secrets of Memphis and the Pharian rattle used to worship Isis. Give us a brief use of the
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sun and pour a little light into those eyes that had been shut for eternity. We do not struggle
against nor do we deny what belongs to the Earth, but we beg a span of life for the small solace
of revenge.’
“The prophet was convinced by this, and he placed a certain little herb in front of the
face of the corpse and another on its chest. Then he turned to the east and silently prayed for the
growth of the sacred sun. With the appearance of this awesome scene, The priest roused the
excitement of those present, jockeying with each other to see such a wonder.
“I went into the crowd of his companions and stood behind the bier, raised up a fair
amount on a rock. I witnessed everything with my diligent eyes. Already his chest was rising
up with a swelling, now his veins were healthy and beating, and then his body was filled with
breath. The corpse lifted itself up; the young man declared, ‘Why, I beg you, do you lead me
back to the temporary duties of life? I have already drunk the goblets of Lethe, the river of
forgetfulness, and swum in the Stygian marshes. Stop now, please, stop and allow me to rest.’
“That’s what the corpse said, but the considerably frenzied prophet replied, ‘Why don’t
you tell the people everything and illuminate the secret of your death? Or do you think that the
Furies can’t be called by my spells, that your tired limbs can’t be tortured?’
“The corpse raised himself up from the bier, and with a deep groan he addressed the
crowd: ‘I was killed by the wicked arts of my new wife, doomed by a poisoned goblet. I
surrendered my bed, which still felt warm from an adulterer.’
“Then the eminent wife seized the boldness she had at hand and bickered with her
husband, resisting his convictions with her sacrilegious mind. The crowd seethed, their
opinions inclining in different directions—some immediately argued the woman was the
wickedest living person and deserved to be buried with the body of her husband, others said that
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no one should place trust in the lies of a corpse.
“But the young man followed with a speech that divided the crowd’s hesitation, for he
groaned again, more deeply than before. ‘I’ll give you,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you clear proof of the
undefiled truth, and I’ll reveal what absolutely no one else could have known.’ Then, pointing
me out with his finger, he said, ‘For when this most diligent guard of my body was conducting
his long watch over me, some old hags threatened to strip me of spoils. But because of him, as
often as they transformed themselves, it was all in vain, as they couldn’t deceive his attentive
work. Finally, they threw a cloud of sleep into the room, and he became buried in that deep rest.
They did not stop summoning me by name until my dead arms and cold legs, with slow efforts,
struggled to follow the orders of their magic spell.’
“He pointed at me again. ‘This man, although in reality he was alive, was essentially
dead with sleep. And, since he’s called by the same name as me, when the witches called out
“Telephron,” he rose up—unaware of what was going on—and walked voluntarily, like a ghost.
Though the doors of the bedroom had been carefully shut, through a certain hole he was
butchered instead of me—first, they cut off his nose, and then his ears. And so that what was
left of him would allow them to get away with the crime, they molded wax exactly into the
shape of his dismembered ears, and did likewise for his nose, and stuck it on him. And now this
poor man stands nearby, having gained his reward not for a job well done, but for his
mutilation.’
“Terrified by these words, I attempted to touch my face. I threw up my hand and
grasped my nose—it followed my hand back down. I tugged on my ears—they fell off. And
while everyone present pointed me out with straight fingers and craning necks, bubbling out
their laughter, I escaped among the feet of the surrounding crowd, covered in a cold sweat. And
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afterwards, disfigured and laughable in this way, I was not able to return to my ancestral home.
I let my hair hang down on both sides to hide the wound of my ears, and, truly, I covered up the
shame of my nose by pressing on this bandage oh-so-becomingly.”
As soon as Telephron had finished his story, his co-imbibers, drunk with wine, again
2.31
renewed their laughter. And while they demanded their customary toast to Laughter, Byrrena
said this to me: “Tomorrow is a holiday that was established at the very origins of this city—it is
a day when we alone of mortals celebrate the holiest god Laughter with a cheerful and joyful
ritual. Your presence will make this day more precious for us. And if only you would think up
something gladdening from your own wit to honor the god, we would be able to please this
great divinity better and more abundantly.”
“That’s good,” I said. “It will be as you order. By Hercules, I would hope I can come
up with some material to allow such a god to dress himself luxuriously.” After this my slave
gave me a warning, reminding me of the night. I was now swollenly intoxicated myself, but I
rose up, quickly calling on Byrrena to say goodbye. I managed to return home with a staggering
path.
But when my slave and I walked down the first street, the torch we were depending on
was blown out by a sudden wind. We barely made it back to our lodging, freeing ourselves
from the darkness of the thoughtless night. We were exhausted, and our toes were severely
bruised from running into stones. We now approached together, and—would you look at
that!—three vigorous guys with rather hulking bodies were using their utmost strength to force
their way through our doors. These men were not even frightened a little bit by our presence,
but kept jumping against the gate in their contest of strength even more frequently than before.
And so it was with good reason that they seemed to us (especially me) to be robbers, and most
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savage ones at that. And then I immediately snatched my sword, the one I kept concealed in my
clothing to carry out for uses such as these, freeing it from my side. I did not delay; I rushed
into the middle of the robbers and I plunged the sword very deeply into each of them, as I
encountered and wrestled with each one. At last, pierced with huge and jam-packed wounds,
before my own feet they breathed out their last breaths.
After I fought such a fight, Photis was awakened by the tumult. She opened the house,
and I crept inside, panting and bathed with sweat. At once, since obviously I was exhausted
from a battle with three robbers—I felt like I had murdered triple-bodied Geryon—I surrendered
myself to both my bed and to sleep.
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Liber III
Just when Aurora rode over the sky with her blushing steeds, shaking her rosy arm,
3.1
Night tore me from my untroubled rest and handed me over to Day. When I recalled last night’s
deed, my agitated mind felt like it was being attacked. Indeed, I curled my feet up beneath me,
linking together my hands around my knees, interlocking my fingers, and I sat like this in a
crouch on my bed. I wept copiously, imagining first the forum and the trial, then the verdict,
and finally the executioner himself. “But maybe,” I thought, “a certain very gentle, very
benevolent judge will fall to my lot. Even though I’m smeared with the gore of a triple murder
and stained with the blood of the same number of citizens, might he be able to pronounce me
innocent? Is this the very journey that Chaldean Diophanes resolutely prophesied would make
me famous?”
I turned these thoughts over in my mind again and again, and bewailed my fortune.
Meanwhile, our doors were shaking and gates resounding with the crowd shouting outside them.
And not a second later, the doors were forced open in a huge assault, and the whole place was
filled up with magistrates, their servants, and a crowd of all sorts of people. At once, two
attendants (at the order of their magistrates) set their hands upon me and began to drag me
away. Sensibly, I didn’t struggle. And while we were treading through the nearest alley,
immediately the whole community—after they poured out in surprising abundance—followed
us in hordes.
And although I was now marching sadly with my head cast down to the earth—no, to
Hell itself—out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of something truly stunning. You see, out
of so many thousands of people walking with us, there was absolutely no one who wasn’t
splitting his sides with laughter. We wandered through all the streets, and I was led around
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every nook and cranny in the same way that they would lead sacrificial victims to the forum to
purify the streets, averting threatening bad omens. After that they made me stand in the forum
before their tribunal.
The magistrates were already sitting on their lofty platform when the official herald
shouted suddenly for silence, his voice echoing out to everyone. The crowd demanded, due to
their great number and density that threatened to crush them all, that this trial be relocated to the
theater. Without any delay, the crowd ran ahead and filled up the whole enclosure of the
stadium with amazing speed; they even crowded into the entryway and stuffed themselves onto
the roof. Many wrapped themselves around the columns, others dangled from statues, and a few
were half-visible through both the windows and paneled ceiling. At any rate, with a strange
eagerness for watching the trial, they disregarded any dangers to their health.
Then, the public officers led me across the stage, just like any victim, and they stopped
me in the middle of the orchestra. And so, summoned by more loud bellowing from the herald,
a certain old prosecutor rose up. He had a particular tiny container he used to measure how long
someone was speaking—he would pour in water, which a slender tube would emit drop-by-drop
like a sieve. Using this device, he addressed the people.
“Most venerable Romans! This is no small matter that is brought before you, especially
considering the peace of the whole community. It will be useful as a serious example.
Therefore, it is quite appropriate for each and every one of you to ensure, on behalf of our
public standing, that this wicked murderer will not have committed a butchery of so many
murders—which he savagely executed—unpunished.
“But do not think that I bluster from private enmity, that I’m infuriated by my own
hatred. Indeed, I am in charge of the night watch, and I don’t believe that anyone could have
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ever found fault with my diligent nightlong wakefulness from my first day on the job. At last, I
will now faithfully recount the incident itself and the things which were done last night. It was
nearly the third watch, and I was going around the whole town with scrupulous diligence,
examining everything doorway by doorway. It was then that I spotted that most bloodthirsty
young man there!”
He pointed at me. “His sword was drawn and he was committing murders everywhere.
Already three in number had been destroyed by his savagery—they were still breathing at his
feet, their bodies twitching in a great amount of blood. And truly, he was properly agitated by
his complicity in such a crime, and so he immediately fled to some house, hidden by the
protection of the shadows. He slipped away for the whole night. But, by the providence of the
gods, who permit none of the guilty to go unpunished, before he could escape on his secret
journey, in the morning I stood ready for him. I arranged to lead him to you, since you have
taken the most solemn vow to administer justice.
“Therefore, you have the culprit, stained with so many murders. You have the culprit,
caught red-handed before my very eyes. You have the culprit, a foreigner! Therefore firmly
bring a sentence onto this stranger for his crime, a crime which you would even severely punish
had one of your own citizens committed it.”
Thus he finished his speech; this most brutal prosecutor repressed his monstrous voice.
And immediately the herald was ordering me to begin, demanding whether there was anything I
wanted to respond to. But at that moment, I couldn’t do anything other than cry, considering—
by Hercules!—not so much the ferocious charge against me, but rather my own miserable
conscience. However, confidence sent down from heaven sprang up in me, and I was able to
make this reply to the prosecutor’s words:
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“I myself am not unaware how difficult it is to persuade a crowd such as yourself that a
man like me is innocent. After all, there are three bodies of citizens laid out against this man
who is accused of murder, even though he speaks the truth and acknowledges the deed
voluntarily. But if public courtesy would allot me a little of your attention, I will easily
convince you that it is by no fault of my own that I am now at risk of capital punishment.
Rather, it is by a coincidental result of my own reasonable anger that I now endure the great
hatred of this unfounded accusation.
“You see, when I was coming home from dinner last night, it was considerably late, not
to mention, I was rather drunk (clearly, I won’t deny my genuine guilt on that charge). And
when I was standing before the very gates of my host—and I’m lodging with your good citizen
Milo—I saw several extremely savage robbers trying to force an entrance. They were eager to
rip out the house’s doors by bending back the hinges and every lock, which had been bolted
most meticulously. They were violently discussing among themselves, once they had torn down
the doors, the murder of the inhabitants.
“Indeed, one of them—who was quicker with his hand and more monstrous in his
body—urged on the others with these words: ‘Come on, boys, let’s attack those sleeping people
with manly spirits and courageous strength. Drive out all hesitation and laziness from your
chests—draw your swords, and let murder march through the whole house. Whoever lies in a
deep sleep will be slaughtered; whoever tries to fight back will be slain. And so we will
withdraw unharmed, if we leave no one in the house alive.’
“I admit, citizens, that I was armed with a small sword that accompanies me for dangers
of this kind. I approached these vilest robbers to chase them and scare them off, having decided
it was the duty of a good citizen, but at the same time fearing greatly for my hosts and for
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myself. But those barbarians, those monstrous men, did not make their escape right away.
Although they saw me up in arms, they nevertheless resisted me boldly.
“The formed themselves into battle lines. And then the leader of the others, their
3.6
standard bearer, advanced on me immediately with his powerful strength. Seizing his hair with
both hands, tugging it all the way back, he was eager to destroy me with a stone. While he was
demanding that someone hand him such a stone, I luckily struck him down with a sure hand.
And soon I killed another as he clung to my feet with his teeth—I used a blow aimed between
his shoulder blades. A third, rushing toward me thoughtlessly, was killed when I nailed him in
the chest.
“I thus claimed peace, protecting both the house of my hosts as well as the common
safety. So, I was not only thinking that I would be unpunished, but that I would also be praised
by the public! After all, I have never been indicted on even the smallest charge, and I have
always been respected, as I always place integrity before any reward for myself. And I cannot
understand, regarding my just vengeance, with which I was provoked against those most
degenerate robbers, why I now face this accusation of yours, when no one is able to show that
either there was particular enmity between us before the crime or that these robbers were ever
known to me in any capacity at all. Or, better yet, let some spoils be produced! Surely the
desire for loot would have motivated my disgraceful crime.”
I finished my pronouncement, with tears again flowing and my hands stretched out in
prayer for public mercy. Gloomy, I entreated these people here, then those over there, by the
care they held for their loved ones. I believed everyone was now pretty affected by human
kindness, moved by their pity for my tears. I had sworn by the gazes of the Sun and Justice; I
had entrusted my present trial to the providence of the gods. But when I moved my own gaze a
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little higher, I caught sight of the whole population, utterly jovial—they were dissolving into
boisterous laughter. Even my good host, my all-but-father Milo, was dissolving with
exceptionally loud laughter.
But then I thought to myself, “Look at his honesty! Look at his remorse! Even though I
am brought in as a murderer and a defendant of a capital crime (both deeds done for the safety
of my host), he is not satisfied that he did not give me the comfort of standing by my side—
above all, he guffaws at my destruction.”
Meanwhile, some teary and weeping woman ran down through the middle of the theater,
clothed in mourning attire and bearing a very small child in the crook of her arms. Behind her
came another old woman, covered in horrid rags and equally miserable in tears. Both were
shaking olive branches, and they surrounded the bier that held the corpses of the murdered men.
They raised a shriek between themselves and wailed mournfully.
“By public mercy, by the common law of humanity,” they said, “take pity on these
undeservingly murdered youths. One of us is widowed, and the other is now alone; give us the
solace of vengeance. Certainly help the fortunes of this little one, destitute in his first years.
With the blood of this robber, you would do well to make a sacrifice to your laws and to public
discipline.”
After this, the magistrate, an older man, rose up and addressed the crowd. “Regarding
this wickedness, then, it must be punished seriously. Not even the very man who did the deed
can deny the crime. But there is still one other thing left over for us to do—we must find the
accomplices to such a crime. For it doesn’t seem true that this man killed these three very
strong young men all by himself. And so the truth must be uprooted by torture. Not to mention,
even the slave who was accompanying him secretly escaped. The case has reached the point
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that we must expose the other participants in the wickedness through our questioning, in order
to completely destroy our fear of such a brutal band.”
At once, in a kind of Greekish ceremony, fire, a wheel, and every kind of whip were all
3.9
brought in. My sorrow greatly increased—in fact, it doubled—since I would not even be
allowed to die whole. But that old woman, the one who had disturbed everyone with her tears,
said, “Finest citizens, before you fasten that robber, the killer of my poor children, to a cross,
allow the murdered bodies to be shown. In light of their handsomeness and youth, you will rage
more and more, aroused to righteous anger for a punishment that fits the manner of the crime.”
The crowd applauded her for these words, and the magistrate immediately ordered me to
uncover the corpses myself with my own hands. They had been placed on the bier, and I
struggled and refused for a long time. However, the attendants, at the order of the magistrates,
forced me as vehemently as they could to repeat my earlier crime with a new exposure. In the
end, they thrust my hand from my side to its own death, stretching it over the very corpses.
Eventually I was conquered, and I surrendered to what was inevitable. Though I was unwilling,
I drew away the shroud, revealing the bodies.
But good gods, what did I see? What was this sign? What was this unexpected change
of fortune? For although I had just now been counting myself among the property of
Persephone and the slaves of Hades, suddenly I was struck dumb by this opposite sight. I
hesitated, and even now I am not able to find the right words to describe the strange image. See,
the bodies of those slain men were three inflated wine skins. They had been punctured here and
there, and as I thought back to my battle from the night before, I realized the holes were gaping
open in the same places where I had wounded the robbers.
Then, the laughter of some people, which had been cunningly restrained for a while, at
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last flared up freely in the crowd. Some people chirped like jackdaws in their excess of joy,
others alleviated the pain in their stomach by squeezing it with their hands. Certainly, everyone
in the theater was deeply imbued with laughter; they looked back at me as they departed.
But as for me, I at first clutched the hem of my tunic, as stiff as a stone, and I stood
frozen, not at all unlike one of the other statues or columns in the theater. And I did not emerge
from these depths until my host Milo approached me; throwing out his hand, he dragged me
with him with gentle force. I struggled, my tears again twinkled, and I hiccupped repeatedly.
He saw a deserted road and led me to his own home along some spiraling route; even then I was
still sad and jumpy. He consoled me with various words. However, nothing he could do could
dispel my anger at the injustice, which had lodged itself rather deeply in my chest.
And look! The very magistrates themselves, wearing their official regalia, at once
entered our house, eager to mollify me with this advice: “We are not unaware of your worth or
even of your lineage, Sir Lucius. The fame of your celebrated house covers the whole province.
And you did not endure all that—what you now complain about vehemently—because we were
insulting you. Accordingly, send all the grief you now have out of your chest and drive away
any distress from your mind. Truly, it was all a joke! It was part of our annual public
celebration for the most pleasing god, Laughter, and such a trick always blossoms with some
creative new twist. When we propitiate the god, he will affectionately accompany causes and
acts of laughter everywhere, and he won’t ever allow you to be pained in your mind; he’ll
continually gladden your brow with cheerful charm. And the whole town offers you exceptional
honors for its gratitude; you see, they have named you a patron and decreed that your image will
stand in bronze.”
After these words, I turned my own speech around. “Truly, you have the most splendid
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and unique town in Thessaly, and I return equal thanks for such honors. Really, I urge you to
spare the statues and likenesses for men worthier and older than me.” And so I spoke modestly.
3.12
I smiled back at them for a moment with a cheerful face, feigning that I was happier for as long
as I could, and I politely addressed the magistrates as they were leaving.
But then a certain slave ran inside. “Your Aunt Byrrena,” he said, “asks for you, and
reminds you of the dinner party you promised to attend last night—it’s already almost time.”
Even though I was far away from her house, these words made me utterly dread and
shudder at even the mere building. “O Aunt,” I said, “how I wish to comply with your orders.
But, for heaven’s sake, I’m not allowed to do it! For my host Milo swore by the god most athand on this day to make me guarantee that I would dine with him tonight. He would not lay
down his arms or allow me to leave. So, for this reason, we must postpone the day at trial—to
feast.”
Even while I was still speaking, Milo thrust his hand firmly into mine, ordered the slaves
to follow with the bathing kits, and led me to the baths nearby. But I avoided everyone’s gaze
and dodged the laughter of the people in the street, the laughter I myself had created. I walked
beside him trying to hide behind his body. I don’t remember how I washed, how I scraped
myself down, how I returned home again, I was so ashamed! And so I was stupefied and not in
control of my mind, pointed out by everyone’s eyes, nods, and of course their hands.
Finally, after I speedily enjoyed Milo’s meager little dinner, I excused myself, alleging I
had a bad headache brought on by the day’s constant crying. I left to lie down, as Milo readily
granted the favor, and when I threw myself onto my bed I gloomily thought about everything
that had been done.
At last, my Photis arrived, having attended to preparing her own mistress for bed, but
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she was quite different—she lacked her cheerful face and witty banter, and wrinkles were rising
up in her grimacing forehead. She was very serious. Eventually, she said hesitantly and
timidly, “It was me. I voluntarily confess it, I was the cause of your harassment today.” She
took out some leather strap she had tucked in her bosom and extended it to me. “I beg you,” she
said, “take vengeance on this treacherous woman—no, instead begin any punishment
whatsoever, even greater than what you endured. However, I beg that you don’t think I
prepared this anguish for you willingly. May the gods be better to me! I don’t want you to
suffer even a tiny bit on my account. And if anything bad befalls you, let everything be atoned
for with my blood at once. But I was ordered to do this because of another matter, and it was
just because of my own unlucky circumstance that it came about in the form of your injury.”
Then, urged on by my usual curiosity and my eagerness to strip bare the hidden cause of
3.14
the deed, I answered, “That strap is without a doubt the vilest and most audacious thing of all!
You’ve decided it will be used to beat you, but it will be destroyed, cut up, and mangled by me
before it touches your feathery and milky skin. But tell me the truth—what misfortune caught
up with you and turned your actions toward my destruction? I swear by your head—which is
most dear to me—that I could not believe that anyone—least of all you, even if you declared it
emphatically—would say that you would have imagined any part of my ruin. As I said, any
occurrence—whether it’s uncertain or even hostile—cannot condemn harmless plans the same
as guilty deeds.”
With this end to my speech, I thirstily drank in the eyes of my Photis, which were wet,
trembling, and weak. They leaned forward with desire, half-shut, and I sipped them with lively
kisses.
Thus appeased, she said, “I beg you, first let me carefully shut the doors of the bedroom,
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in case I commit a great crime through the blasphemous impudence of a slip of the tongue.”
And saying this, she locked the bolts tightly, fastened the door hooks, and thereupon turned
back to me. She was entwined with my neck in both her hands, and in a thin and very small
voice she said, “I’m frightened. I wholly dread that I’ll uncover the mysteries of this house and
reveal the hidden secrets of my mistress. But I assume better things about you, judging by you
and your education, not to mention the noble rank of your birth, besides your lofty character—
you’ve witnessed the rites of many secret societies, so surely you have learned the sacred trust
of silence. So, no matter what I’m about to entrust to the innermost places of your pious heart,
please, always guard these things, shut them up inside your walls. I beg you, reward the candor
of my tale with your stubborn silence. To be sure, the love that holds me to you compels me to
reveal what I alone of humans know. Now you’ll know everything about our house, now you’ll
know the amazing secrets of my mistress, by which ghosts obey her, the stars shake about,
divine forces are rounded up, and the elements become her slaves. And the violence of her art
does not ever influence her more than when she gladly spies some youth, and this is something
that happens to her often.
“Even now she is desperately in love—dying from love—with some young man from
Boeotia, as handsome as one could be, and she ardently plays her entire hand of trickery and
practices every device she knows. I heard last night—I say I heard it with these ears right here
on my head—that because the sun had not set in the sky more quickly, because it had not retired
into night earlier to let her practice her magic spells, she threatened the sun itself with a cloudy
fog and a perpetual shadow.
“By chance, she caught sight of this young man yesterday in the barber’s shop when she
was returning from the baths. She privately ordered me to carry away his hairs, which were
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now lying on the ground as they had been cut by the hewing of the blades. Though I was
collecting the hair carefully and surreptitiously, the barber discovered me, and because we
generally have a notorious reputation for nefarious disciplines, he seized me. He mercilessly
rebuked me, ‘Don’t you ever stop stealing the hairs of the choicest young men? Unless you stop
this crime—at last!—I will firmly throw you before the magistrates.’
“Following the speech with deed, he stuck his hand down my shirt and probed between
my breasts, and he angrily snatched out the hair I had hidden there. After this, I felt awful. I
reflected on the habits of my mistress—usually, when she is rebuffed in this way, she is quite
sharply displeased, and she beats me most severely. So, I was already contemplating a plan of
flight, but when I thought of you I immediately threw that idea away.
“But when I was departing from there gloomy, not wanting to return completely emptyhanded, I noticed a leatherworker clipping goatskins with a little scissors. He had tied these up
properly, inflated them, and hung them up—when I saw them, I carried away quite a bit of their
hair, which was lying on the ground. The hair was yellow, and in fact rather similar to that of
the Boeotian young man. I gave it all over to my mistress, concealing the truth.
“And so, at the beginning of the night, before you came back from your dinner, my
Pamphile’s mind became frenzied. She climbed up the shingled roof, which has a room with an
unprotected window on the far side. Open to the air, it looks out in all directions, to the east and
to the rest. Since she made great adjustments to it for these arts of hers, she practices there in
secret. And the first thing she did was prepare her fatal workshop with her usual equipment—
all kinds of spices, metal plates inscribed with unknowable letters, and the surviving possessions
of unlucky ships. Quite a few limbs of mourned-for and buried corpses were strewn about: here
there were noses and fingers; there there were the nails used on crucifixes, bits of flesh sticking
3.17
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 100
to them; elsewhere she stored the blood of the slaughtered, as well as wild beasts’ mutilated
skulls, with their teeth wrenched out.
“Then she enchanted some steaming entrails and made an offering with various
3.18
liquids—first she poured a spring’s spray, now a cow’s milk, next a mountain’s honey, and last,
honeyed wine. This done, she tied the goat hairs together into knots, fastened and bound with
many odors, necessary for burning them on live coals.
“And then she immediately employed the invincible power of her magical abilities and
called upon the hidden force of the summoned gods. Several bodies—with smoking, hissing
hair—obtained human breath, and they saw, and they heard, and they walked around. They
arrived at where the stench of their own stripped-off hair led them, and instead of that Boeotian
youth, it was they who eagerly leapt upon the entrance and the doors. Then—look!—sodden
with drunkenness and deceived by the darkness of aimless night, boldly armed by a drawn
sword like the frenzied Ajax, it was you! But while Ajax attacked living sheep, slaughtering
whole herds, you killed three inflated goatskins. Indeed, you were far braver than him, as I was
able to embrace you after you slew the enemies without a spot of blood. See, now you’re not a
homicide, but a goatskinicide.”
I applauded Photis’ charming speech, but I bantered in turn, “Therefore, then, I am now
able to count that as my first glory of strength, just like the twelve labors of Hercules. After all,
either the triplet body of Geryon or the triple shape of Cerberus are equal to the same number of
goatskins killed. But in order for me to send all sin out of your mind, as I wish to do—the sin of
implicating me in such a sticky situation—you must give me what I yearn for with all my heart:
show me your mistress, when she labors at any part of her prophetic discipline, when she calls
the gods, and certainly when she changes her shape—let me see it! For I am a most ardent
3.19
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 101
desirer of personally getting to know magic.
“However, you don’t seem unskilled or lacking experience in these things yourself. I
know that, it’s obvious, really. Though I always scorn the embraces of a married woman, in this
case, you, with your twinkling eyes, your blushing cheeks, your gleaming hair, your openmouthed kisses, and your passionate breasts, you hold me as willing as a slave, bound and sold.
Now, in conclusion, I require no household, and I’m not preparing any return home. There’s
nothing I value more than a night with you.”
“How I wish,” she responded, “to bestow what you desire, Lucius. But, besides her
3.20
malevolent moods, she always performs her secrets like this—shut away in solitude, devoid of
the presence of everyone. But I will place your demand before danger to myself, and I will
carefully accomplish it, once I find an opportune time. Only, as I mentioned initially, give this
great matter your trustworthy silence.”
Chattering like this, a mutual desire roused both our minds and limbs simultaneously.
We tossed aside all our clothes until at last—uncovered, stripped bare, like Bacchus reveling
with Venus—Photis bestowed on me a childish flower garland. Indeed, her own brand of
generosity really tired me out! And now a deep sleep was poured into our eyes, drooping from
this vigil, and this sleep sustained us into the next day.
A few nights were pleasantly completed in this manner, when one day, Photis ran to me,
excited and trembling quite a bit. She announced that her mistress—since she hadn’t moved
forward at all in her affair using the rest of her spells—would, the next night, befeather herself
and fly down to her beloved in such a state. Therefore, I should cautiously prepare myself for
spying on such a great transformation. And now, around the night’s first watch, she led me to
that higher room with a light and soundless step. She ordered me to watch what was going on
3.21
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 102
through a certain crack in the doorway.
Now, first, Pamphile took off all her clothes and opened a certain small chest, from
which she brought out several small medicine boxes. She removed the lid from one of these and
brought out some ointment. For a long time, after she smeared it on her palms, she thoroughly
rubbed it all the way from the tips of her fingernails up to the top of her head. She spoke many
whispered words to her oil lamp, and she quivered in her limbs with a tremulous shaking.
While these gently swelled like waves, soft feathers sprang forth, powerful wings grew, her nose
became hard and curved, and talons were shaped into hooks.
Pamphile became an owl.
She emitted a plaintive hoot, jumped up from the earth, testing her wings little by little.
Soon she was raised on high by her whole wings, so she flew away outside.
And she was transformed, certainly, flying by her own magic spells, but I too was
bewitched—not by a spell, but fastened by my stupor at the present deed. I seemed to be
something other than Lucius; and so I was banished from my mind, dazed into a frenzy,
dreaming that I was awake. Truly, I rubbed my eyes for a long time, trying to find out whether I
was conscious. Finally, at last, I was returned to the feeling of present circumstances, and I
snatched the hand of Photis and brought it to my eyes.
“Allow me, I beg you,” I said, “while this chance declares itself, to fully enjoy this great
and single reward of your love. Give me a little ointment from that same jar. I beg you, by
those breasts of yours, my honey-dear—and so, with your unrepayable benevolence, bind me to
you forever as a slave. And now, make it so that I’ll appear before you as a winged cupid for
my Venus.”
“Are you serious?” she said. “Are you acting the fox, my love, and going to make me
3.22
The Golden Ass
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Earl 103
willingly strike an axe against my own legs? You’re already unarmed; I can scarcely keep you
safe from those little Thessalian whores. Turned into a bird, where will I look for you, when
will I see you?”
“But may the gods force me away from that crime,” I said, “even though I might have
3.23
access to the whole sky on the wings of the lofty eagle himself, as the trusty messenger of
supreme Jove or his happy armor bearer. May the gods ensure that I would still fly down to my
little nest again and again after that honor of wings. I swear by that sweet little knot of your
hair, with which you conquered my spirit, that I prefer no other to my Photis.
“Now, this also comes into my thoughts—when I have become all oiled up and put on
the guise of so excellent a bird once, I ought to avoid every house, keeping them at a distance.
For I would be such a handsome and lively lover as an owl. Won’t wives enjoy me? And,
there’s the fact that after those nocturnal birds have entered some house, we see them captured
and nailed to doors with anxious care. We put them there because they threaten death for our
families with their ominous wings, and so they atone on their own crosses. But what I almost
forgot to ask was what do I need to say or do to be stripped of those feathers and return to being
Lucius?”
“Rest assured about what relates to the cure of this transformation,” she said. “My
mistress showed me everything that can reshape such figures back into the appearance of men.
And don’t think that she did this out of any kindness—rather, it was so I could help her,
whenever she returns, with a wholesome remedy. Basically, look how small and worthless the
herbs you need are to administer such a powerful thing: a small amount of dill with the leaves of
a bay tree, mixed with spring water. Bathe yourself in it, and then drink it.”
She asserted these things again and again, and with great trepidation she crept into the
3.24
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 104
bedroom and fetched the chest with the box. First I embraced and kissed it, and then I prayed
for flight to ensure my triumph. I quickly threw aside all my clothes and greedily plunged my
hands into the jar. I drew up most of the ointment and rubbed it all over my body, arms and
legs. And now I was flapping my arms, swinging them in turn, trying to copy a bird—but there
were not any little feathers nor little wings anywhere. Instead, my hair distinctly thickened into
bristles; my tender skin hardened into a hide; on the ends of my palms, all my fingers had their
number destroyed as they gathered into single hooves; and at the end of my spine, a great tail
appeared. Now my face was huge, my mouth was wide, my nostrils were gaping, and my lips
swung like pendulums; and, like this, my ears became bristly with immeasurable growth. I
didn’t see any upside to this wretched transformation, except that my natural endowment was
increasing so much that I would no longer be able to hold Photis.
And while I was considering the lack of health in my whole body, I saw that I was not a
bird but an ass. I wanted to complain about what Photis had done, but I was now robbed of both
human gestures and voice. All I could do, however, was thrust out my lower lip and look back
at her out of the corner of my wet eyes, griping silently.
As soon as she saw me like this, she clawed at her own face with livid hands. She
shouted, “I’m done for, ruined! I was so frightened and hasty that I was deceived; the similarity
between the boxes tricked me. But on the bright side, the cure for this transformation couldn’t
be easier; it’s abundantly available. For once you nibble on some roses, you will cease to be
such a great ass—you’ll immediately return to being my Lucius and you’ll come back home.
And if only I had prepared some garlands for us tonight as usual, then you wouldn’t have even
suffered a delay as great as a single night. But first thing in the morning, the remedy will be
hastened to you.”
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Earl 105
And that’s the kind of thing she cried. I, however, although I was a perfect ass (being a
3.26
mule instead of Lucius), nevertheless preserved my human sentiments. For a long time, then, I
pondered over many things, like whether I ought to kill that most nefarious, most truculent
woman, striking her with my dense hooves and assaulting her with bites. But my good sense
recalled me from this reckless undertaking, stopping me from destroying my Photis with a
capital punishment—she would again be my saving aid.
Therefore, I turned my head away and shook it back and forth. I bore my indignity in
silence for a while. As a slave to this cruelest of all calamities, I surrendered myself to the
stable where my horse was, my most faithful steed. I also found stalled there another ass, one of
my host Milo’s. I supposed that if there was some silent and natural oath of allegiance between
us mute animals, my horse—whom I had brought into the stable!—with some recognition and
pity, would offer me room and board, accommodations fit for a king. But, dammit, by Jupiter,
God of Guests, and by Faith, with her divinity hidden! That noble steed of mine and the ass put
their heads together, and they immediately agreed on my destruction, as they were of course
fearing for their own food. They scarcely had time to see me approaching them in the stable;
with their ears pressed back, they advanced on me, wild with their dangerous hooves. I was
driven as far as possible from the barley, the very barley I had put out last night with my own
hands for that most grateful servant of mine.
Thus moved and banished into solitude, I had departed to a corner of the stable. And
while I mulled over the haughtiness of my colleagues, while I was planning tomorrow’s revenge
on the treacherous equines (when I would once again be Lucius, following my rosy help), I
looked back at the middle of a pillar. It was supporting the roof of the stable, and near its center
was a statue of Epona, the goddess of horses. She was sitting before her shrine, which had
3.27
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 106
actually been carefully adorned with garlands of fresh roses. At last I recognized the restorative
cure; full of hope, I extended my front feet as far as I could, leaning on the column. I rose up
powerfully, stretched out my neck, extended my lips quite a bit, all with the greatest effort I
could muster, seeking the garlands.
But I certainly have the worst luck. My young slave, to whom I had always entrusted
the care of the horse, suddenly caught sight of me as I was striving for the roses. He rose up and
he scornfully said in his best imitation of Cicero, “For how long will we endure that poorquality horse? A little earlier he was hostile to the feed of the mules, and now he’s also hostile
to the statues of the gods! Why shouldn’t I now abandon that weak and limping temple
defiler?”
Right after this he sought some weapon; he blindly bumped into a bundle of wood
placed on the ground, and he probed around inside for a largish and leafy club. He did not stop
beating my sorry self until there was an emphatic sound, an enormous uproar—people pounded
on the doors, and an alarming rumor flew around the neighborhood as people shouted,
“Robbers!” Terrified, my slave fled.
At once the room was forced open and a band of robbers entered. An armed faction
surrounded each and every building of the estate, and after help rapidly assembled from here
and there, a deployment of the enemy stood against them. Everyone was equipped with swords
and torches, and they lit up the night, fire and blade glittering like the rising sun.
Then they advanced on a certain storeroom that had been sealed off and bolted with
considerably strong bars. It had been set up in the middle of the house, stuffed full with Milo’s
treasure, and with strong axes they broke into it. Once it was open on all sides, they carried off
all his riches, hurriedly distributing tied-up bundles to each man. However, the size of the
3.28
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 107
burdens exceeded the number of bearers. So then they brought the excessive riches, which were
at a great standstill from their excessiveness, down to us two asses and my horse after we were
led out from the stable. They burdened us with the heavier bags—as many as possible—and
having emptied the house, they threatened us with sticks and drove us away.
They left behind one of their companions to observe and report on the investigation of
the crime. Beating us repeatedly, they led us rapidly through the pathless ways of the
mountains.
And now, given the weight of such a bounty of possessions, the steep path to the summit
of the mountain, and the exceedingly long journey, there was no difference between me in my
current state and a corpse. But—and though this thought did not come early, it did come
earnestly—it occurred to me to run for help from the townsfolk. I could speak the name of our
venerable emperor, thereby freeing myself from these troubles. The day’s light was bright when
we at last passed by some crowded and busy street. It was market day, and I tried to call out the
august name, “O Caesar,” among the small crowds in my native Greek voice. Truly, I shouted
“O” quite strongly and eloquently, but I was not able to pronounce the rest of Caesar’s name.
The robbers scorned my discordant shouting and they beat my poor hide from every side. They
did not even leave enough skin behind to be adequate for a sieve!
But finally, that Jupiter presented an unexpected solution for me. For when we passed
by many little cottages and spacious villas, I saw far off some little garden, pleasant enough. In
it, in front of the other beautiful plants, virgin roses were flourishing in the morning dew.
Coveting these with an open mouth, eager with this hope of salvation, and happy, I approached
nearer. And while I now aimed at them with slavering lips, a much more beneficial reality sank
into me: if I would spring up into Lucius with the ass again put away, I would definitely
3.29
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 108
encounter my destruction among the band of robbers, either for the suspicion of magical arts or
for my ability to indict them with evidence in the future. Then, therefore, I refrained from the
roses; indeed, it was from necessity. Bearing my present calamity, I gnawed some hay in the
shape of an ass.
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 109
Liber IV
When it was nearly midday or so, when the sun was now blazing and hot, we veered off
4.1
the road in a certain country village. Some old people, whom the robbers knew and were
friendly with, had a house there. And so, in fact, even though I was an ass, I was able to
observe their initial approach, their lengthy conversation, and their mutual kisses. For the
robbers also gave the old folks a few things fetched from my back, and with some whispered
murmuring they seemed to indicate that the stuff had been acquired through robbery.
And once we were relieved of all our baggage, they delivered us to a nearby meadow
which was free for grazing everywhere. A meeting in a common pasture with my ass or my
horse could not restrain me—besides, I was still unaccustomed to eating hay for lunch. Though
I was now ruined with hunger, I boldly raced for the little garden I had so clearly seen before. It
was behind a stable, and although the vegetables were raw, I still stuffed my stomach full. I
invoked all the gods, and I gazed over everything, hoping by chance I might spy the gleam of
roses in a nearby gardens. In fact, my very solitude now filled me with noble courage—since I
had been sequestered and hidden by the shrubs, if I obtained the cure, I was ready to rise up
from the hunched step of a four-footed mule, back into an upright man—after all, no one was
watching.
Therefore, then, when I was washed along by that wave of thought, I saw something
pretty far away. It was a shadowy valley shut in by a leafy wood, and among its various plants
and absolutely teeming greenery, the cinnabar-red color of roses shone forth. And now I
thought—since my heart was not entirely that of a wild beast—that I stood at the sacred grove
of Venus and the Graces. Among their shaded secrets the regal elegance of a festive flower
gleamed back at me. Then, after I prayed for a cheerful and fortunate Outcome, I rushed
4.2
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 110
forward in a rapid gallop. I was so fast, by Hercules, that I myself stopped thinking I was an
ass—instead, I thought I had been transformed into a racehorse of excessive speed!
However, my swift and noble effort was not able to prevent a mischance in my fortune.
For now that I was near the place, I did not see those soft and beautiful roses, moist with sacred
dew and nectar, begotten from fortunate brambles and blessed thorns. In fact, I didn’t even see
a valley anywhere, except for the area on the bank of the river, surrounded by thick trees. These
lavishly leafy trees had grown to look just like laurel trees. They produced cup-shaped flowers
that blushed red a little bit, just like their fragrant counterparts. And though these flowers
actually had no smell, uneducated commoners call them, in the country vernacular, “laurel
roses.” What’s more, eating them is lethal to all herd animals.
Entangled in such a fate, I willingly rejected my own safety—I was eager to take up the
poison of those roses. But while I hesitantly approached the tree to pluck its flowers, some
young man (at least he seemed young to me)—the gardener whose vegetables I had utterly and
wholly devastated, raging after he discovered so much damage—rushed toward me with a huge
stick. He seized my body and battered every inch of me with blows. It would have continued to
the point of endangering my very life had I not, however, wisely (in some respects) brought
myself help. I reared up onto my front legs, and I repeatedly threw the hooves of my hind feet
into him. Now that he had been seriously cudgeled and was lying face-down on the slope of the
mountain right next to us, I freed myself in flight.
But then, some woman—his wife, no doubt—looked down from on high and saw him
knocked over, half alive. As soon as she saw him, she immediately leapt toward him with a
shrieking wail, evidently to bring about my immediate destruction with her own pity. Indeed,
all the peasants who were roused by her crying immediately summoned their dogs, which, in
4.3
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 111
their madness, were excited to pull me to pieces. The dogs brought their attack, and they were
encouraged everywhere. Then, therefore, there was no doubt that I was on the threshold of
death. I saw the dogs—how great they were, how numerous they were, how fit they were for
fighting bears and lions. They were beckoned to be irritated with me, and I seized a plan when
this situation arose. I abandoned my flight, but with a swift step I brought myself back to the
stable where we had lodged. Though their dogs were now restrained with difficulty, I was
arrested with a strong leather strap which was fastened to a certain hook. They would have
utterly killed me by striking me again, except my stomach was compressed by the pain of their
blows. It was overflowing and sick with those undigested vegetables. With a slippery stream of
excrement cast out with a spray of the vilest liquid, I drove some of them away; others were
driven back by the stinking pungent smell coming from my back, which was now bruised.
It was already midday as the sun’s rays stretched forward, and there was no delay when
the robbers led back us from the stable. I in particular was laden with a far heavier load. A
good part of the journey had been completed now; I was tired from the length of the trip,
burdened by the weight of my luggage, fatigued by the blows of their clubs, not to mention
limping and staggering on worn-out hooves. I found a small brook with gently crawling water,
and happily stopping at this exquisite circumstance, I thought I would bend my legs skillfully
and throw down my whole body face-first. Certainly, I was determined that no beatings would
make me rise up to walk—nay! truly, I was not only prepared to meet my death by their club,
but I would also be stabbed by the sword. For I now supposed that, utterly exhausted and
crippled to the point of death, I deserved a discharge on account of my poor health. Certainly,
the robbers would distribute the luggage from my back to the two other beasts of burden—some
would be impatient from the delay, others eager for a hasty flight. Instead of taking a deeper
4.4
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 112
vengeance, they would leave me as prey for wolves and vultures.
But a most unfavorable fate anticipated so fine a plan of mine. Indeed, that other ass
4.5
guessed and obtained my thought first. He feigned exhaustion and spread himself over the
ground with all his stuff. He lay like he was dead, and neither blows, nor spurs, nor lifting up
his tail, ears, and legs to and from every side made him attempt to rise. At last, they wearied of
their final hope and they talked among themselves. To avoid delaying their flight for too long
serving the dead ass—well, actually, he was more of a rock—they distributed his luggage to me
and the horse, drew a sword, and cut right through his hamstrings. They dragged him a little
ways from the road and hurled him headfirst over the very high edge of the ravine into the
neighboring valley, even as he was still breathing.
I then thought about the fortune of my wretched comrade in arms and decided to present
myself now as an ass worthy of a good master, abandoning all my cunning and deceits. Indeed,
I had also paid attention to them speaking among themselves—they said that we would reach
our lodging very soon, and this would be a quiet end to our whole journey, since that place was
their home and residence. And at last, after crossing a mercifully tiny hill, we reached our
intended destination. Here, once everything was unpacked and put away inside, freeing me
from my burden, I dissipated my weariness not by taking a bath but by rolling in the dust.
This very situation demands that I publish a description of the places and the cave in
which the robbers were living. At the same time, I will also test my own character—I’ll make
you carefully decide whether I was an ass in mind as well as in feeling. It was a wild mountain,
shadowy in wooded greenery, and especially steep. Along its slanting slopes, where it was
surrounded by extremely sharp stones and therefore inaccessible, it was circled by ravines.
These ravines were full of holes and caves, and they were crowded with far too many thorn
4.6
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 113
bushes; the ravines were placed facing every side and offered natural defense. A fountain
gushed from the highest peak, flowing away with enormous bubbles; falling down along the
steep walls, it vomited out silver waves. And then, when it was scattered into many rivulets,
irrigating those valleys as those streams formed pools, it contained the whole valley like a
surrounding sea or a sluggish river.
A lofty tower rose up from the cave where the edges of the mountain broke off.
Railings, meant for penning sheep, were solidly built with sturdy wickerwork. Its sides
extended everywhere up to the entrance of a small footpath; it was used instead of constructed
walls. You could say—as I might call it—that it was the robbers’ atrium. And there wasn’t
anything nearby except a small cottage covered with reeds at random, where, as I later learned,
watchmen chosen by lot from the group of robbers kept watch in the night.
When each of them had crawled down there, scrunching up their limbs to fit, they
fastened us before the doors with a strong leather strap. There was a certain old woman there,
crooked in her painful old age. She seemed to be the only person to whom the well-being and
guardianship of such a number of youths could be entrusted. They accosted her, “You’re a vile
corpse, right out of the tomb, a chief disgrace of life, the only thing disgusting to Hell. Do you
still amuse yourself by sitting idly in our house? Won’t you present us, after deeds so great and
so dangerous, with the comfort of so late a dinner? For days and nights you do nothing at all
except greedily gorge yourself on unmixed wine for your raging stomach.”
The terrified old woman trembled at these words. With a creaking, weak voice, she said,
“But, O Bravest and Most Trustworthy Young Men, O Hosts of Mine, waiting for you are ample
portions of savory dishes, baked well with pleasing flavors; plentiful bread; wine in goblets
cleaned well all over, poured in generously; and, like usual, the warm water is prepared for your
4.7
The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 114
makeshift bath.”
At the end of this speech, they at once stripped themselves bare, revived themselves with
the heat of the most luxurious fire, poured hot water over themselves, thoroughly oiled
themselves, and took their seats at the tables prepared plentifully with a feast. Just as they
settled down, would you look at that! some other youths arrived, far greater in number, and you
would think at once they were also robbers. For they too brought in booty: gold and silver
coins, small vases, silk garments interwoven with gold threads. Just like the first group, these
men refreshed themselves with a bath and placed themselves among their companions on the
couches. Then they drew lots to see who would play waiter.
They devoured and drank like savages; the appetizers were in piles, the bread was
heaped up, the drinks arrived in armies. They teased each other with shouting voices; their
singing made a racket; they chattered and joked. The rest of them were like the half-wild
Lapitians, who dined and later fought with the Centaurs. Then, one of them, who stood before
the others in toughness, said, “Truly, it is we who bravely assaulted the house of Milo of
Hypata. Besides such a bounty of his fortune—which we obtained by our courage—when we
made for our camp, we were unharmed in number. And, if it makes any difference, we returned
richer by eight feet.” He nodded at my companion and me. “But you, you who attacked the
Boeotian cities, you returned weaker in number, deprived of your bravest leader Lamachus. I of
course would have preferred his safety over all those bundles you brought here. But indeed, no
matter how his excessive courage killed him, the memory of such a man will be as famous as
the glorious kings and leaders of battles. For you robbers are good and thrifty. You rather
timidly make small thefts, like you’re rebellious slaves. You creep through the baths and lowly
apartments of old women. Between all this, you could host a flea-market.”
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The Golden Ass
April 24, 2014
Earl 115
One of the latter number interrupted. “Are you the only one who doesn’t know that it’s
4.9
by far easier to attack larger houses? Obviously, although a large household of slaves might live
in its spacious walls, each of them, however, would rather look after his own health than the
wealth of their master. On the other hand, thrifty hermits fiercely protect their fortune, whether
small or large. They conceal it deceivingly and protect it at the risk of their own blood. Indeed,
the matter at hand will give credibility to my speech. For when we approached seven-gated
Thebes (which we scarcely accomplished)—and here’s my main point—we carefully searched
for the riches of the populace.
“A certain money-exchanger, Chryseros, who was truly the owner of a copious amount
of money, did not escape our notice. He concealed his great wealth with many tricks, fearing he
would be obligated to give public gifts. Indeed, he lived alone without a companion, but he was
content enough in his safe little cottage. Besides this, he dressed in rags, filthy, keeping a
jealous watch over his bags of gold. Therefore, we decided to approach his house first, as we
mocked the idea of him single-handedly putting up a fight—we would acquire his whole wealth
at our leisure, with no trouble at all.
“At once we waited at his doors for the beginning of night, but the doors seemed like we
could not raise them up, move them aside, or break through them, at least not without the sound
rousing the entire neighborhood to our ruin. Then, therefore, Lamachus—that exalted standardbearer of ours—relying on his own tested courage, stuck his hand into the keyhole, and he was
eager to pull out the bolt. But, of course, Chryseros—the vilest of all two-footed beings—had
been watching and perceiving every one of these events since a little before. He tiptoed quietly
with resolute silence, creeping forth little by little, and with a huge nail and very strong pressure
he suddenly fastened the hand of our leader to the panel of the door. Leaving him pilloried by
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this deadly binding, he climbed up to the roof of his hovel. From there, he shouted in a most
energetic voice, calling the neighbors, summoning each one of them by name, and warning
about the common safety. He spread the rumor that his own house had been seized by a sudden
fire. Consequently, each person, terrified by the close and neighboring danger, anxiously ran
out to help.
“And so we were placed in a two-fronted danger—either we would be overcome, or our
companion would be deserted. We devised a dramatic solution, with his consent, out of this
situation. We hacked off the part of our leader where his arm extended from the shoulder, using
a controlled blow right through the middle of the joint. Leaving the left arm behind there, we
stuffed the wound full with many rags so the drops of blood wouldn’t betray our path, and we
hurriedly carried away the rest of Lamachus.
“And while we were spurred on by the heavy commotion from the alarmed
neighborhood, scared into a flight by our fear of the approaching danger, our hero—esteemed
for his lofty courage and strength—could not follow us quickly or remain behind in safety.
With many speeches and prayers, he protested and beseeched us—‘by the right hand of Mars,
by the fidelity of our oath of allegiance’—that we free our good fellow soldier from his
suffering and captivity. For why should a brave robber outlive his hand, which is the only thing
able to steal and strangle? He would meet his own blessed death well enough; he wished it done
by an allied hand. And when this proposal to voluntarily kill our brother couldn’t persuade any
of us, with his remaining hand he drew his own sword. He kissed it for a long time, and with a
very strong blow through the middle of his chest he stabbed himself. We then united the
remaining parts of our noble leader’s body and paid his strength due homage. We rolled his
body in a linen blanket for hiding it in the sea, and now our Lamachus lies immersed in that
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whole element. And indeed, he laid down an end to his life worthy of his courage.
“But truly, however, our Alcimus was not able to redirect Fortune’s savage nod to aid
our clever plans. When he had climbed up to the rather high bedroom of a sleeping old woman,
after breaking into her little cottage, he should have killed her then at once by crushing her
throat. But first he preferred to toss each of her things through her wide window for us, of
course, to seize on the outside. And since, after he had diligently heaved out all her stuff, he
didn’t even want to spare the resting little old lady’s bed, he hurled her from it. Naturally, he
intended to throw down her blanket similarly (it had been covering her but had now fallen off),
but that vilest woman blathered at his knees, entreating him like this: ‘My boy, please tell me
why you’re giving the poor and tattered little things of this most wretched old woman to my rich
neighbors, whose house this window looks upon?’
“Alcimus was deceived by the cunning trick in this question; believing the words were
true, he feared that the things he had thrown earlier and the things he was about to throw next
had been cast down not to his allies but into the homes of strangers. Now certain of his error, he
hung himself from the window to get a closer look at everything, especially the adjoining house
she had mentioned, to judge how wealthy it was. Indeed, he was straining as he attempted this,
but also quite thoughtless, and that wicked old woman pushed him right out the window.
Although she was weak, her sudden and unexpected force was enough for the man, wavering,
hanging, and otherwise dazed in his lookout. Besides falling from an excessive height, he also
landed on an extraordinarily monstrous rock which was lying nearby. His ribcage was broken
and flattened, and he vomited a river of blood at the bottom. He told us what happened, and he
escaped life without suffering long. We buried him according to the earlier example, and we
gave him up, handing him over to be a good attendant to Lamachus.
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“Then, after we had been attacked by the double misfortune of our losses, we now
4.13
refused to continue our Theban efforts. We advanced to Plataea, the next town over. There, we
discovered an oft-repeated rumor about some guy, Demochares, who was planning to sponsor
the gladiatorial games. See, he was a man distinguished in birth, abundant in wealth, and
unique in his generosity, and he was preparing this public entertainment with a grandeur worthy
of his own fortune.
“Who has such a great talent, who has such eloquence, that they can explain every aspect
of his elaborate preparation with adequate words? The gladiators were from a famous band, and
the hunters were esteemed for their speed. Elsewhere, criminals, who had lost their carefree
lives, were preparing to fatten beasts—they themselves would be the feasts. Machines were
constructed; towers were built on piles of wood and joined together like portable houses, painted
with flowers, beautiful pens for a future hunt. Besides this, there was such a number, such a
sight of beasts! So with particular zeal he had even brought those noble funerals of the doomed
men outside. But besides the rest of the paraphernalia of the impressive spectacle, he had
purchased a huge number of monstrous bears using all the power of his inheritance whatsoever.
For beyond those captured on his household hunts, beyond those he acquired in lavish
purchases, there were also those that his friends gave him in a competition of various gifts. He
was feeding them all concernedly with luxurious care.
“However, these preparations for public enjoyment—so bright, so splendid—did not
escape the poisonous eye of Evil. That is, weary from their long captivity, exhausted by the
summer heat, and also sluggish from their endless lethargy, the bears were sized by a sudden
illness and returned to nearly zero in number. Along many streets, you would see a shipwreck
of wild beasts, their half-alive corpses lying here and there. Then, the low-class rabble—
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without a choice of food and with attenuated stomachs, forced by dirty poverty to seek out
soiled dietary supplements and free feasts—ran here and there to the lying dinners.
“Then, after this situation arose, the great Babulus and I devised this fine-spun plan. We
carried one of the bears, a heavier burden than the other bodies, as if we would prepare it as
food. We brought it back to our hideout, properly stripping it of its skin and preserving the
meat. We cleverly kept the claws whole, and left the head of the beast behind, intact all the way
to the joint with the neck. We made the whole back thin with vigorous scraping, and we put it
out in the sun to dry, after sprinkling it thoroughly with fine ash for cleaning. And while it was
being dried by the fiery warmth of the sun, we meanwhile gorged ourselves enthusiastically on
its meat. And so we had all our eager soldiers swear to their loyalty, so that one of our
number—one who wasn’t necessarily standing before the others in bodily strength but rather
strength of mind, and, most importantly, one who volunteered—would assume the likeness of
the bear, covered by its pelt. He would be carried in by the advantageous silence of the night to
Demochares’ house, and he would make an easy attack on the door for us.
“This clever plan did raise quite a few of our very brave brotherhood to attend to their
duty. Of these, Thrasyleon was chosen instead of the others through a group vote. He
underwent the risk of our dangerous scheme; with a cheerful face, he buried himself in the fitted
skin and its flexible softness. Next, we made the highest edges even to join the gap with a thin
stitch. Although it was narrow, we surrounded it with a thick mass of hair flowing around
where it connected with the throat, where the beast’s neck had been cut out, and we forced
Thrasyleon’s head up into it. We made small holes for breathing around the nose and eyes, and
now that our bravest companion was made exactly like a beast, we sent him into a cage we had
bought cheap. He crawled into it himself, swift with resolute vigor. In this way, after beginning
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the first part of the plan, we went on to the rest of the trick.
“We found out the name of a certain Nicanor—he had been reared with Thracian stock,
4.16
and he maintained the highest oath of friendship with our man Demochares. We forged a letter
to make it seem like this good friend was donating the first offerings of his own hunt to decorate
the show. Then, in the late evening, having taken advantage of the protection of the shadows,
we offered Thrasyleon’s cage to Demochares along with the counterfeit letter. Stunned by the
size of the beast and delighted by the well-timed kindness of his old friend, he at once ordered
the ten gold coins he had with him to be counted out for us from his own money-box, to tip the
carriers of his own joy. Then, since the newness of a sudden spectacle usually stirs up people’s
minds, many men flowed together to gawk at the beast. Our Thrasyleon quite skillfully curbed
their nosy gazes with frequent, threatening lunges. In a unanimous voice, the citizens again and
again honored Demochares as quite fortunate and blessed, since after such a great disaster to his
beasts, he was resisting bad Fortune with new success however he could. He ordered the beast
to be carried back immediately to his own fields with the greatest diligence.
“However, I interrupted, ‘Be careful, sir! She is tired from the sun’s blazing and the
long journey. You should avoid letting her meet other beasts, as I’ve heard yours are not
properly healthy. Instead, why don’t you provide a wide-open and airy place in your house—or
better yet, a place bordering and made cool by some pond? Or don’t you know that this kind of
beast always guards thickly planted groves, dewy caves, and pleasant streams?’
“Demochares, frightened by such a warning, reviewed in his head the number of bears
he had lost. It was not a difficult decision for him to approve of my plan, to let us position the
cage from our own judgment—he allowed it easily. ‘And we are even prepared,’ I said, ‘to lie
outdoors by the cage all night ourselves, to carefully present her with food and her customary
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drink in a timely manner, to spare the tired beast any inconvenient agitation or disturbance.’
“‘We don’t need any work like that from you,’ he responded. ‘Nearly all the slaves are
already skilled from their long practice of feeding my own bears.’
“After these words we said goodbye and withdrew, exiting the town gate. We caught
sight of a certain monument, far away from the road, placed in a remote and hidden spot. There
were tombs there, half-covered in their old age with rot, and living in these now were dusty and
ashy corpses. Here and there we opened some up as hiding places for our future booty, and
according to the tradecraft of our profession, we waited for the moon to set—this is when sleep,
hostile and quite strong, invades and presses the hearts of mortals in its first attack. We set up
our band, after they were armed with swords, before Demochares’ very gates, just as if we were
due in court, except tonight it would be a court of plunder.
“And without any delay, Thrasyleon crawled forth from his cage, seizing the perfect
moment of night for a robbery. He at once finished off the guards one and all with his sword—
they were just resting nearby, fast asleep—and soon he finished off the doorkeeper too.
Removing the bolt from the lock, he spread back the doors from their frame, and we flew
together and met up in the belly of the house. He promptly showed us the treasury, where he
had perceptively seen plentiful silver hidden away during our evening watch. At once, packing
ourselves close together, we broke into it with the force of our band. I ordered each one of our
comrades to carry away as much gold or silver as he possibly could, to hide it quickly in the
houses of those very trustworthy corpses, and to repeat this with a rapid step, hastening back for
more bundles. And since it would be for the advantage of everyone, I waited alone in front of
the threshold of the house until they returned, keeping watch over everything carefully. Indeed,
even the appearance of the bear, running about in the middle of the house, seemed useful for
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scaring off any of the household who might perhaps be awake. For who, even if they were
strong and fearless, wouldn’t immediately spur themselves into flight when confronted with the
monstrous shape of such a beast, particularly if they encountered it at night? Wouldn’t they
confine themselves in their bedrooms, frightened and terrified, fastening the bolt tight?
“Even though everything was conducted correctly according to our sound plan, we
4.19
encountered a sinister chance of fate. For while I was waiting anxiously for the return of my
companions, one of the young slaves, restless from our noise—or actually from an act of
heaven—crept forward silently. Once he saw the beast as it was going to and fro through the
whole residence, running around freely, he preserved his determined silence, turned on his heel,
and somehow announced the sight to everyone in the house. At once, the whole building was
crowded and filled up with much of the household. The shadows were illuminated by torches,
lamps, wax-candles, tallow-candles, and other instruments of nocturnal light. No one in the
great crowd advanced unarmed; each of them defended the doorways, armed with clubs, spears,
and even unsheathed swords. And in the same way they encouraged the hunting dogs, ears
alert, hair bristling, to pursue the beast.
“Then, I cautiously walked away from that commotion (which was still swelling),
making my flight from the house. However, I clearly saw Thrasyleon fighting against the dogs
impressively, though he was concealed behind a door. For although he was reaching his life’s
last ends, struggling against the gaping jaws of Cerberus, nonetheless he did not forget himself,
us, or his original courage. Indeed, until his last breath he remained in the role he had willingly
undertaken, this moment fleeing, that moment making a stand using the many different shapes
and actions of his own body. Finally, he slipped from the house.
“Nevertheless, although he had achieved freedom in the open, he was not able to seek
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safety through his flight. Naturally, all the dogs from the next alleyway—which were quite
ferocious and plentiful—joined the ranks of the hunting dogs in a battle line (the latter group
was advancing at that moment from the house, pursuing Thrasyleon in the same way). I saw
this wretched and fatal sight, our Thrasyleon surrounded and besieged by swarms of savage
dogs, and mangled by a copious number of jaws. Indeed, I was unable to bear such grief. I
became mixed in with the crowd of people flowing around, and in the only way I could bring
subtle help to my good comrade, I deterred the leaders of the ring of huntsmen like this: ‘Oh!
It’s a great and vile outrage,’ I said, ‘when we destroy such a large—and, truly, expensive—
beast.’
“However, my crafty speech was not helpful to our oh-so-unlucky young man. In fact,
some tall, strong man ran from the house and hurled his spear, not hesitating at all. It struck the
middle of the bear’s heart. Another acted no differently, and right before my eyes many had
their fear dissipated, and they too collected their swords from nearby, contending with each
other. To be sure, Thrasyleon was the extraordinary glory of our party, and in the end,
immortality was appropriate for him. He was conquered more in his ability to breathe than in
his ability to suffer, and, truly, he did not betray the duty of his oath by shouting or wailing. But
now, as he was shredded by bites and mangled by immovable swords, he reserved glory for
himself with the bellowing and roaring of wild beasts, bearing the present disaster with noble
strength. He returned his life to Fate.
“Nonetheless, he had troubled the crowd with so much terror, tension, and trepidation
that right up until dawn—no, later in the day—there wasn’t anyone who dared even to touch the
beast with their finger, though it was just lying there. At last, a certain butcher, only somewhat
more confident than the rest, slowly and timidly cut open the belly of the beast, and he stole the
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magnificent robber from the bear. And this is how even our Thrasyleon was lost, but he did not
lose his glory.
“Therefore, without delay, after we had tied up those bags that the faithful corpses had
protected for us, we swiftly departed Plataea’s borders. We thought over these events in our
minds again and again—deservedly, no faith would be found in our lives, because it had already
departed to the shades and the dead, hateful of our treachery. And so, between the burden of
carrying our luggage and the difficulty of the road, we were all tired. Though we were missing
three of our comrades, we conveyed this booty that you see here.”
After the end of this speech, they raised their golden goblets of unmixed wine to the
memory of their dead companions. Next they sang some songs to please the god Mars, and then
they napped for a little while. The old woman, now rested, gave us ample barley, without any
measure, so that even my horse, as he dined on such a bounty, thought that he alone had
acquired a feast fit for the sumptuous Solian priests of Mars. But I had never been fed raw
barley before—I was always used to it being crushed into little bits and made into porridge—so
I poked around in the corner, where a whole feast’s worth of leftover bread had been piled up. I
vigorously exercised my jaws, which had long since become weak and cobwebby from my
starvation.
And look! After night moved on through, the robbers who were awake roused the camp.
Equipping themselves in various ways—part became armed with swords, part disguised
themselves as malevolent ghosts—they rushed away swiftly. However, not even imminent
sleep could hinder me as I chewed urgently and bravely. And although I would have retired
from the table if I had been the previous Lucius, content with the first or second loaf, now I was
a slave to so profound a stomach that I was ruminating on nearly my third basketful. While I
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was spellbound by this work, bright light fell upon me.
At last, then, I was led by my asinine modesty (though still with difficulty), and I
4.23
departed to mitigate my thirst in a nearby river. At that moment the robbers returned, more
anxious and worried than usual. They bore no baggage at all, absolutely nothing, not even a
worthless rag! With all their swords, all their hands, indeed, with all the men of their band, they
only carried with them a single maiden. From her clothing she seemed honorable—it indicated
she was one of the noble and eminent ladies of the region. By Hercules, she was a girl even an
ass like me could covet, despite her grief—she tore at both her hair and her clothes.
At the same time they led her inside the cave, they spoke to her to try to lessen her
sorrow. “Truly, you don’t need to worry about your health and chastity. Give us a little
patience for our profit—the difficult straits of our poverty have driven us to this way of life.
And your parents will prepare a suitable ransom from their great piles of wealth to rescue their
own blood. Even though they’re greedy, they’ll do it without delay.”
But these and other similar blatherings did not allay any of the girl’s grief. Why would
they? She wept without limit, her head placed between her knees. Inside, the robbers ordered
the old woman to sit and console her with reassuring words as persuasively as she could;
meanwhile, they reunited themselves with their usual habits. However, none of the old
woman’s words could dissuade the girl from the crying she had begun. She wailed louder,
shaking her sides with incessant sobbing, even inducing some tears from me.
And she said, “How can I stop my crying? I’m miserable. I’ve been abducted from my
excellent home, away from my great household—my very dear slaves, my most venerable
parents. I’m the prize of an unfortunate robbery, I’ve been put in chains. I’ve been shut up in
this stony prison like a slave, deprived of all the pleasures I grew up with. I’m uncertain
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whether I’ll be safe or tortured in this butcher’s shop—there are so many robbers here, they’re
so large, they’re a dreadful nation of gladiators. So how can I stop my crying, or even live at
all?”
After she lamented like this, her pained soul, her breaking voice, and her weary body
4.25
made her tired, and she let down her heavy eyes into a deep sleep. But just after she closed her
eyes, she was immediately struck in her sleep by a ritual-like frenzy: her eyes began to dart
everywhere; with claw-like palms, she began to beat herself and her chest far more violently
than before; she began to hit her shining face. And when the little old woman insistently asked
about the causes of this new, restored grief, she sighed more deeply and spoke again. “Ah!
Truly now, absolutely surely, I’m done for, I’ve now rejected my saving hope. I must seize
either the noose or the sword, or at least—without a doubt—a plunge off a cliff.”
At these words, the old woman—rather angry now, her face quite savage—ordered the
girl to say why, dammit, she was crying. She asked how, after crossing the threshold to being
sound asleep, she had suddenly become excited again, wailing unrestrainedly. “Evidently,” said
the old woman, “you are determined to cheat my young men of the great price of your ransom?
Robbers don’t usually assign any value to tears like yours. If you go on like this any longer, I’ll
make sure you’re burned alive.”
This speech discouraged the girl, but kissing the old woman’s hand, she said, “Please,
dear mother, be mindful of your human duty. Stop for a little while in my hour of greatest need.
For I reckon that compassion has not completely dried up in you, since your long lifetime has
matured you and given you venerable grey hair. Just look at the scene of my catastrophe. A
young man—chiefly handsome among his peers, whom the whole town chose as their common
son—had pledged himself to me. He was also my first cousin, only three years older than me,
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and from childhood we were raised together. After we grew up we had an inseparable
companionship in our little house—well, actually, in our bedroom . . . our bed—and we shared
the mutual affection of unbreakable love. Some time ago we became engaged with marriage
vows and a nuptial agreement, with the consent of my parents noted in the record books, I could
even call him ‘husband.’
“On our wedding day he was surrounded by the obligated crowd of family and friends as
he made sacrifices in the temples and public houses. Our whole house was overgrown with
laurels, shining with torches, resounding with Greek wedding chants. My own unhappy mother,
carrying me in her arms, dressed me up beautifully with wedding ornaments. She frequently
thrust honey-sweet kisses upon me, extending her future hope of children with anxious prayers.
But then, at that moment, we were assaulted! Gladiators made a sudden attack, raging like there
was a war going on, brandishing drawn and hostile swords. Their hands, however, did not
deliver slaughter or plunder—they packed themselves into a dense, wedge-shaped formation,
and immediately invaded my bedroom. Not a single person in our household fought back or
even resisted the tiniest bit, and so the robbers snatched miserable me, breathless in my fierce
panic—they took me right out of the terrified arms of my mother. It was just like the fates of
castrated Attis or doomed Protesilaus: that’s how my wedding was spotted and broken up.
“But see, I was just now awakened by the most horrible dream—no, really, misfortune is
being heaped on top of me. I dreamed I was violently pulled from my house, from my marriage,
from my bedroom, indeed, from my very bed. I was taken through the pathless wilderness,
calling the name of my most unfortunate husband. As soon as he was separated from my
embraces, still wet with perfume and wearing his flowery garland, he followed my footsteps,
though I was being carried by the feet of a stranger. And as he was bewailing the capture of his
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beautiful wife with excited shouts, he called upon people for help. One of the robbers, moved to
indignation by my husband’s indecorous pursuit, seized a huge stone that was at his feet and
struck my poor little young husband, killing him. Terrified by such a horrifying sight, I was
shaken awake afraid from my deadly sleep.”
Then, in response to her crying, the old woman said, “Don’t worry, my mistress, don’t
fear the empty fictions of dreams. Besides, daytime dreams are considered false, and even
nighttime visions sometimes announce incorrect outcomes. Not to mention, dreams about
crying, being beaten, and having your throat slit sometimes indicate lucrative and prosperous
circumstances, while laughing, stuffing your stomach with honeyed sweets, or meeting someone
in Venus’ pleasure can predict a path that will be walked with sadness in your soul, a feeble
body, and other hardships. But, without any delay, I’ll distract you with an old woman’s
charming tales and stories.” And so she began.
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Stylistic Changes in Translation
The Golden Ass for Different Audiences
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Discussion
This part of this project briefly explores how a translation must change to target different
groups. In this section, I have translated two of Apuleius’ sections for each of three audiences:
late elementary- or middle school-aged children, a scholarly audience, and students who have
just begun to study Latin or Greek.
Sections 1.1 and 1.2 target children; I wanted to make this translation accessible and
enjoyable, to plant a seed that might encourage children to study the classics more seriously as
they age. When preparing this translation, I paraphrased nearly every sentence, using short
sentences while avoiding big words or overly high diction. While these particular sections do
not have many violent or sexual moments, a complete translation for this audience would
downplay these themes. The translation might exaggerate violence, making it cartoony and
funny, but the violence would not be too gory, gruesome, or disturbing. Sexual scenes would be
shortened and euphemized, probably implying nothing more than kissing. Finally, the translation
would emphasize physical comedy and potty humor as the story progresses, as such moments
both appeal fairly universally to children and are in Apuleius’ spirit.
As I wrote this translation for children, I felt that my paraphrase was so loose that I was
practically writing an imitation (as I contend Graves did, though he was targeting an older
audience). However, the sentence-to-sentence correspondence keeps the product in the broad
realm of “translation.” Nevertheless, there are quite a few dramatic and notable differences
between this paraphrase, the Latin original, and the main translation above. I strike a much more
playful tone, and stick to this fairly consistently rather than alternating between high and low
styles as Apuleius does. I use the second person to speak directly to the audience more
frequently than Apuleius (who usually does so in the form of an imperative). I use in-text
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glosses to explain the meaning of Apuleius’ references more often than in other translations, and,
likewise, I am more interpretive in my phrasing, eliminating much of the original’s ambiguity to
make the writing easier to follow. I also found it more difficult to retain every metaphor and
image for this audience, and the metaphors I do use are more heavy-handed than in the original.
Finally, I again chose not to use footnotes, as the purpose of this translation is to tell a story in
the style of Apuleius, but not to fully explain his original text.
The second translation—sections 1.3 and 1.4—is for scholars. Classicists, of course,
would read the original Latin, but a scholarly translation could find an audience in other fields.
For example, scholars of comparative literature whose primary expertise is in another language
might use this sort of “thick translation” (to use Appiah’s term) in a study of, perhaps, “the
European novel.” So, using metaphrase, I remain as close to the original as I can, preserving the
order and meanings of words to the greatest extent possible. I still avoid lapsing into
“translationese,” but the text is not as readable as a translation that employs paraphrase more
frequently. In this translation, I also avoid interpreting ambiguous phrases, letting the reader
work out what puzzling passages could mean. The most significant difference between this
translation and the previous ones is the use of footnotes, which I use for two purposes. First,
when a metaphrase of a phrase is impossible, I provide a footnote to give a literal translation of
the original Latin and to justify my paraphrase. The footnotes discuss some of my other
translation decisions as well as linguistic oddities in the text, but I assume the audience has
sufficient knowledge about Roman and Greek history and culture. While I do not explain the
more obvious cultural features, I secondly use the notes to make connections with other writings
or philosophical ideas, such as the note on the tropes associated with witchcraft. This translation
is meant “to locate the text in a rich cultural and linguistic context,” as Appiah writes, and comes
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closest to Nabokov’s vision of a translation with so many footnotes that the reader will fully
understand the original (Appiah 427). However, my assumption of the reader’s significant
background knowledge limits my annotations, so I’m sure Nabokov would say this translation is
shamefully sparse.
The third translation, sections 1.5-1.6, targets students who are just beginning to seriously
study Latin or Greek, probably late high school students or early undergraduates. These students
might be taking, for example, a class surveying Latin literature in translation, and possess
varying levels of Latinity. I strive for an accessible, easy-to-read translation that remains as
close to the original as possible; I want a lively, enjoyable translation to keep students interested
in ancient Greece and Rome. In other words, my goal is to metaphrase, but I have no qualms
about paraphrasing for the sake of accessibility. These guidelines are quite similar to what I had
in mind for my main translation (for adults without a background in the classics); the most
significant difference is again the addition of footnotes. In this translation, I use footnotes as
opportunities to teach the reader about Greek and Roman culture, and I use a more instructive
tone in my notes here than in my notes for seasoned scholars; the endnotes in P. G. Walsh’s
translation of The Golden Ass were especially helpful in preparing these. However, I avoid
discussing linguistic problems. Apuleius’ language is too difficult for most beginning Latin
students to translate, so notes about the original Latin would only distract from the text. If new
students were to attempt to translate the original, they would need a heavily annotated student
edition of the text—much more help than a few notes in a translation could provide. And so,
while this translation assumes no knowledge of Latin from the part of the reader, it nevertheless
strives to be appropriate for serious study of the classics.
I begin with the passage discussed in the introduction, the beginning of section 1.1,
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unchanged from my main translation. This should provide a “neutral” reference point for
comparison with the tone and style of the other translations, which follow in succession. While
these three translations all appear together as if part of a unified whole, they of course would not
be published together outside of this context of a practical exploration of preparing translations
for different audiences. Each translation could grow to include all of The Golden Ass, each
translation filling a different scholarly niche.
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The Golden Ass
Metaphrase for Adults
I’m thinking I’ll tell these stories to you in that Milesian style—you know, those
romping, boisterous tales in which I can plant so many things. I’ll please your kind ears with a
charming whisper . . . but soft! if only you would not scorn to acknowledge the Egyptian
papyrus, inscribed with the silver-tongued wit that springs up by the reeds of the Nile! I’ll show
you the figures and fates of men transformed into other shapes, only to be later turned back into
themselves. These chains of events will leave you bound to the page, astounded.
And so I begin.
Paraphrase for Children
But you might be wondering who I am. Let me introduce myself! My ancestors are
from faraway places, and my guess is you haven’t heard of a lot of them. Do you know where
Athens and Sparta are? How about Hymettus, Epherea, and Taenaros? They’re all the way
across the Atlantic Ocean in a country called Greece—places you might only read about in
books these days. The land used to be great for farming, but now I’d dare say that the books
about the land bring in more money for us than the land itself!
I went to school in Greece, marching off to my lessons day after day like a young little
soldier, and that’s where I learned to read, write, and speak Greek. But of course that’s not a
language you can understand. So soon I went to Rome, even though I didn’t know any of the
1.1
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customs there. I didn’t have a teacher, but I was able to learn their language.
I mention this, and ask for your forgiveness, in case I say anything that’s hard to
understand or a little rude! But I think I can jump from language to language like an acrobat at
the circus, leaping from horse to horse, and that’s why I’m telling this story. So let us begin this
fable, which is somewhat Greek and somewhat Roman. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show!
One day, not too long ago, I was going to Thessaly—that’s a region in Greece—for a
business trip. Ah! I forgot to mention, my mom’s from Thessaly, and she’s descended from a
famous biographer named Plutarch and a philosopher named Sextus, so our family name is
famous. On my way to Thessaly, I climbed over tall mountains, traveled through crumbling
valleys, tromped through dewy pastures, and walked through clumpy, plowed fields. The whole
time I was riding on my pure-white horse, who was born in Greece.
We were both very tired—he had been walking too long and I had been sitting too long.
After we passed through an area of really thick plant growth, I jumped down to walk on foot. I
carefully wiped my horse’s sweaty forehead, stroked his ears, and took off his bridle. We
walked slowly, at a gentle pace, until he got his usual help from Mother Nature. He was soon
revived from his troublesome tiredness and had a full belly too. That’s because, while we
walked, he stretched his head toward the fields we were passing, turned his mouth to the side,
and ate whatever plants he could reach.
Coincidentally, we were walking near two other men traveling together, and I decided to
walk with them. I listened in on their conversation, and one of the men suddenly burst out
laughing, but not because he thought the other man’s story was funny. “Lighten up, man!
Everything you say is absurd, nothing but enormous lies!”
1.2
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I, on the other hand, have always loved tales like this (or anything strange or peculiar,
for that matter), so I interrupted them. “Don’t listen to him,” I said. “Tell me your story. I’m
not trying to be nosy—I just want to hear and learn about everything, or at least as much as
possible. Plus, an amusing story will distract us while we climb that big hill up ahead.”
Metaphrase for Scholars
But the man who had begun said, “Your lies are no more true than if someone wanted to
1.3
say that, caused by a whispered spell 1, the swiftest rivers would be turned backwards, the sea
would be immobilized, lazy, the winds would breathe out their last breaths, the sun would be
held in place, the moon would cease foaming, the stars would be plucked out, the day would be
stolen away, and the night would stay.” 2
Then I, more confident than before, spoke up again. “Hey, you,” I said, “you who were
telling your story earlier, don’t get fed up or bored, finish it for me.” To the other man, I said,
“As for you, your ears are filled with mud. It’s with a stubborn heart that you reject what could
perhaps be true. By Hercules, you’re less knowledgeable with these depraved opinions,
1
Magico susurramine, literally a “magical whisper,” of course refers to a spell or incantation. Magico is
etymologically related to magus, a “wise man.”
2
This list—similar to other lists throughout this novel—is composed of stock tropes associated with witches.
Compare, for example, these lines from The Aeneid:
Haec se carminibus promittit solvere mentes
With her incantations she promises to set free
quas velit, ast aliis duras immittere curas,
what hearts she wishes, but bring cruel pain to others:
sistere aquam fluviis et vertere sidera retro,
to stop the rivers flowing, and turn back the stars:
nocturnosque movet manis: mugire videbis
she wakes nocturnal Spirits: you’ll see earth yawn
sub pedibus terram et descendere montibus ornos. under your feet, and the ash trees march from the hills.
(4.487-491)
(Translated by A. S. Kline)
R. G. Austin and A. S. Pease place Dido’s words in the rich tradition of witches: “These are all the conventional
powers of magic; cf. Apoll. Rhod. iii. 532f. . . . Tibullus i. 2. 43ff., Ovid, Am. ii. I. 23ff.” (Austin 146). Pease
provides other comparable examples from ancient writers, including many instances in Ovid’s writing: Heroides 6,
85-88; Remedia Amoris 253-259; Metamorphoses 7.199-214; and Ex Ponto 4.6.45-48 (Pease 401).
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thinking everything is a lie, even if the things sound strange, look unsophisticated, or seem too
lofty to be grasped by your thoughts. If you would just look a little more carefully, you would
see for yourself that not only are such things easy to find, they are even easy to do. In fact, last
night, I was eating dinner competitively with some co-banqueters, eager to gobble up a sort-oflargish chunk of cheesy porridge, and when the soft and sticky food stuck in my jaws and
throat 3, I couldn’t breathe—I nearly died. But still, when I was recently in Athens, before the
Poecilen colonnade 4, I saw with my own two eyes a traveling performer swallow a sharpened
cavalryman’s broadsword by its dangerous tip! Then, spurred onward by a small coin, the same
man swallowed a hunting spear by the end which threatened to be his ruin, burying it deep in his
belly. And—look!—on top of the lance’s hilt, where the handle of the upside-down weapon
rose up through his mouth and out the back of his head, a boy (who was quite the little
princess 5) climbed up and, twisting and turning, unfurled a boneless dance. Everyone there was
dumbstruck. You would have said he was the noble serpent that, in a slippery embrace, clings
to the medicine god’s staff, knotted with half-pruned twigs. But, please, get on with it! You
began the story, now tell it again. I alone will believe these things of yours instead of that man,
and at the first tavern we come to, I’ll share lunch with you. That’ll be the return on your
investment.” 6
3
Meacula spiritus is literally “little passages of breathing” rather than a throat. Meacula is diminutive and variant
spelling of meatus, but some editors have suggested emending the text to mea gula.
4
The Poecile was a famous picture-gallery in the Athenian marketplace as well as a well-known meeting place for
Stoic philosophers; Apuleius primes the reader for his later, more philosophical portions of the novel.
5
A more literal translation of in mollitiem decorus, such as “beautiful in his effeminacy,” does not capture the
implicit judgment on gender (that the boy is nice looking, but only from feminine standards).
6
The financial metaphor refers to the common practice of returning a deposit, and possibly engages with the earlier
imperative remetire (“tell it again”), which can also mean to measure/pay back with money.
1.4
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Metaphrase for New Latin Students
He replied, 7 “I think what you promise is a fair and kind payment 8—yes, I’ll begin what
1.5
I started before again. But first, I swear to you, by the all-seeing sun god, that I’m telling you
only the verified truth. You two won’t doubt it any more if you go to the next Thessalian 9 town.
There, the entire population is talking about everywhere these things that happened in plain
sight.
“But first, let me tell you where I’m from, who I am. I am Aristomenes, 10 from
Aegium. 11 Also, listen to how I make a profit for myself: I’m always running all around
through Thessaly, Aetolia, and Boeotia 12 with honey and cheese and the like to trade with the
inns. So, when I learned that a fresh cheese of a renowned flavor was flying off the shelves in
Hypata 13—a town more important than all of Thessaly—due to an exceedingly low price, I
rushed there to corner the market. But as often happens, I got off on the wrong foot and my
hope for a profit was dashed. You see, a wholesaler, Lupus, 14 had bought it all the day before.
So, therefore, tired from my useless haste, I went to the baths as the sun was setting.
“And look! I saw my old buddy Socrates! 15 He was sitting on the ground, half-clothed
7
Apuleius frequently includes nested stories (stories within stories) in his novel: Aristomenes’ tale, which begins
here, takes up more than half of Liber I.
8
Notice that Apuleius continues the financial metaphor from the previous sentence.
9
Thessaly, in northern Greece, is frequently associated with witchcraft in ancient literature.
10
Aristomenes was the name of a king of Messina celebrated for engaging in a war with Sparta. The name literally
means “best force.”
11
A minor city in western Greece.
12
Thessaly, Aetolia, and Boeotia are all regions in northern Greece.
13
Hypata is in central Greece, a little south of Thessaly, and also happens to be Lucius’ destination. In ancient times
Hypata was a moderately important city—Aristomenes exaggerates its significance in his narration.
14
The name means “wolf” or “Mr. Wolf.” The scholar and translator P. G. Walsh suggests that this implies Lupus is
a “business predator” (Walsh 242).
15
This is, of course, not the famous Greek philosopher Socrates, who lived several hundred years before this novel
takes places.
1.6
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in a torn and ragged cloak, and so pale that he almost looked like a different person. He had
been disfigured and emaciated in his poverty, just like the refuse of Fortune, 16 those beggars
who always ask for coins at street corners. And although he had been such a great and close
friend, as I went closer to him my mind was full of doubt.
“‘Whoa!’ I cried. ‘My Socrates, what is all this? Why do you look this way? What is
this disgrace? Truly, they have finished weeping and mourning for you at home, and the state
lawyers have assigned guardians for your children. Your wife has been disfigured, 17 long ago
paying the funerary duties with grief and sorrow, nearly weeping out her own eyes to utter
blindness. She is now being forced by her own parents to cheer up the misfortune in her home
with the joys of a new marriage. But here you are, looking just like a ghost—it’s absolutely
shameful.’
“‘Aristomenes,’ he said, ‘Surely you know about Fortune’s slippery twists and turns, its
unpredictable meanderings, and its fluctuating changes.’ 18 Saying this, he covered his face with
his patchy clothing, as he had begun to blush from his shame, so that he exposed the rest of his
body from his belly down to his groin. At last I was unable to endure such a wretched scene of
affliction any longer. I threw out my hand and struggled to help him stand up.
16
The Romans frequently deified forces and emotions, such as Fortune (or Fate, Evil, etc.). It is not always clear in
an ancient text whether the author intends the word to refer to the deity itself or just to what the deity represents.
17
Notice that Apuleius uses the same word (“disfigured,” or, in Latin, deformatus/deformata) to describe the effects
of Socrates’ ordeal on Socrates and on his wife.
18
Socrates’ tone here is very lofty and baroque, and he says essentially the same thing three times in a row—this is
humorous, given his lowly circumstances.
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Works Cited
Appiah, Kwame Anthony. “Thick Translation.” 1993. The Translation Studies Reader. Ed.
Lawrence Venuti. New York: Routledge, 2000. 417-29. Print.
Apuleius. The Golden Ass. Trans. P. G. Walsh. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2008. Print.
Nabokov, Vladimir. “Problems of Translation: Onegin in English.” 1955. Theories of
Translation: An Anthology of Essays from Dryden to Derrida. Ed. Rainer Schulte and
John Biguenet. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992. 127-43. Print.
Vergil. Aeneidos: Liber Quartus. Ed. R. G. Austin. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1955. Print.
Vergil. Aeneidos: Liber Quartus. Ed. A. S. Pease. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1935. Print.
Vergil. “The Aeneid Book IV.” Trans. A. S. Kline. Poetry in Translation, 2002. Web. 18 Apr.
2014.
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The Golden Ass
An Adaptation
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Part 1: My Journey to Milo’s House
Chapter 1: I Begin My Tale
Hello there. You’re probably wondering what kind of book you have here. It’s an
unusual book, I can tell you that, and an unusual tale. It’s part travelogue, part literary
humoresque, part erotica. You’ll enjoy it, if you don’t mind me mentioning the stories of yore
once in a while, or me waxing poetic when I am filled with great passion. Enchantment is real, I
can tell you that firsthand, and over the course of my travels I’ve heard about—and met—many
people who were transformed. No, not metaphorically, as is prone to happen in literature, but
literally, their shape changed from one thing to another. It’s a compelling story. I guarantee it.
Ah! But where are my manners? Let me introduce myself. I’m not from around here—
my family has lived in New York City and Buffalo and everywhere in between—Pittsburgh and
Columbus and Baltimore, to name a few places. Believe it or not, I’m related to Benjamin
Franklin and Richard Wainwright, Franklin’s considerably less famous descendent.
We’ve always been agricultural folk (though my mom tried to rebel from this pattern,
marrying a state senator. Little did she know that his passion was farm subsidies!). Farming’s in
my blood, and I now manage a ranch in Wisconsin, raising horses and cows and the like. I grew
up out East, however, and I went to school in New York, before moving to Chicago for my
master’s, so forgive me if I don’t always sound like a true Midwesterner. It was in college that I
discovered my true calling, ranching. Once I had saved enough money, I quit my day job and
bought a small farm. My first horse, Silver, is long-since gone, but her daughter Tatiana is my
favorite of the herd. She’s sure-footed, gentle, and has the endurance of a locomotive—you
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couldn’t ask for a better companion. She always travels with me, her trailer hitched to the back
of my pickup truck; she loves to explore new trails, climb new mountains, drink from new
streams.
So, this story really begins when I was rumbling along the highway in my big pickup
truck, Tatiana hitched to my rear, my stableman Jim sleeping in the back seat, all of us on our
way to Minneapolis for a business trip—I was making one of my periodic pilgrimages to the
National Cattle and Horse Ranchers Convention—when I spotted a couple of hitchhikers along
the side of the road, their two thumbs stuck out, straight and quivering like the tails of dogs on
the hunt. They seemed to be arguing; I pulled over.
“Get in!” I called, and they piled in next to me on the long bench seat in the front of my
truck.
“Thanks,” said one icily.
“My name’s Luke,” I said. “I’m heading to Minneapolis.”
“Great, we are too!”
“You guys fighting?”
“No.”
“Yes,” said the other at the same moment.
“I take it you are.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Nothing. Maybe I can help, though. I’ve always thought of myself as a people person,
a problem solver.”
“Well, Luke, here’s the problem. This guy, says his name is Arthur, is telling me what
happened to him last month, but it’s completely outlandish. I can’t swallow any more of his
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lies!”
“I’ve told nothing but the truth!”
“Is it that you can’t handle the truth?” I asked Arthur’s friend.
His gaze, which had until now been cold as ice, thawed out, momentarily becoming quite
a comfortable temperature as he appreciated my wry cultural acumen, and then it began to fume,
smoke, and burn a hole into my skull.
“If you told me that you had the power to fly, to turn invisible, to withstand bullets by the
strength of your skin, I’d believe you exactly as much as I now believe Arthur.”
“In my experience,” I said, “it’s better to believe what you hear, since the world is a
strange place. The Star-Tribune is filled with stories and happenings you wouldn’t think could
happen if there hadn’t been witnesses. If you automatically assume everything you hear is a lie,
you’ll miss out on many wonders in this world.”
Arthur’s friend—I realized I never asked his name—still seemed skeptical. It was a long
trip, so I decided to indulge myself.
“Let me tell you about something that happened to me the last time I was in New York. I
was walking through Times Square, and there was a crowd of people circling around a street
performer. Since I’ve always had an appetite for the lurid and exciting, I pushed my way to the
front of the crowd. There was a sword swallower there, shirtless with sequined shorts. He
removed a dagger from his throat, tossed it up in the air, and caught it in his belt without using
his hands. His assistant—a young boy, maybe ten or eleven—then handed him an enormous
sword, the kind an old cavalryman would wield. He very carefully slid this down his throat and
spun around to let the whole crowd see the hilt protruding from his gullet. His boy ran around
the crowd with a little hat, collecting tips. Once he had received a suitable amount, the boy and
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the man rewarded the crowd’s generosity. The boy reached into a large duffle bag at the man’s
feet and pulled out a stepladder. He unfolded it, climbed to the top step, and leaped straight into
the air, somersaulted, and landed nimbly on the hilt of the sword. I kid you not, I saw it with my
own eyes. The sword swallower didn’t even flinch, and the boy stood up straight and began to
river-dance. With each step I feared the sword would slip from whatever was supporting it and
tear through the brave man’s guts, spilling them onto the street. And the boy kept making little
jumps and leaps, causing the crowd to gasp and shriek, but he landed every time with grace and
poise.
“So if this could happen to me, I would not hesitate to believe another man’s story,
however bizarre it might sound. Arthur, I’d love to hear your tale. Start it over from the
beginning, if you will! I’ll pay for your dinner when we stop, I think that’s fair payment for a
little entertainment.”
Arthur’s friend groaned aloud, but Arthur and I glared at him. He shut up. Arthur smiled
and said, “Thanks, Luke. I warn you that my story is a little more unbelievable than yours, but I
swear right now, every word of it is true. Just ask anyone in Minnesota, it’s all they’re talking
about.”
And Arthur began.
Chapter 2: The Adventure of Arthur King
First, said Arthur, let me tell you a little bit more about myself. My name is Arthur,
Arthur King, and I’m a cheese merchant. I used to travel from town to town selling the finest
cheese Wisconsin had to offer. I was based in Milwaukee, and I traveled between there, Iowa,
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and Minnesota, delivering my cheeses—wheels, blocks, and spreads—to vendors big and small.
I’ve fallen on hard times, now, as you can see—forced to travel on just my outstretched thumb!
A couple weeks ago, a rumor spread among us cheese merchants that a certain cheesemaker—I shouldn’t say who, but I can tell you his cheese is some of the tastiest you will ever
have—was having a huge sale in Minneapolis, trying to clear his warehouse to make room for
the next season’s batch, a new variety he was evidently very excited about. When I heard, I
packed up my truck as quickly as I could and drove the six hours to Minneapolis, planning to
buy all the cheese for myself. But the journey was doomed from the start. I wasn’t even to
Madison when my rear tire blew out, setting me back several hours.
By the time I got to the city, all the cheese had been purchased by Wolf, one of my
biggest competitors—he runs Wolf’s Cheeses and Wines. I was just furious, of course, since I’d
wasted so much time and gas on the trip. I decided to take a walk to calm down—I’ve always
liked downtown Minneapolis, full of paths and parks. There was a homeless guy sitting at a
street corner, and he asked me for some change. He was pale and emaciated, so I got out a tendollar bill to hand him, nearly dropping my cellphone in the process. He snatched it greedily,
and when he said thank you, we made eye contact.
I had to rub my eyes to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. But no, beneath the shaggy
hair and unkempt beard was the face of my old buddy, Albert Einstein!
“Al!” I said. “Is that you?”
“Hello, Arthur,” he said. “Yes, it’s me.”
“Al, you look terrible! God, you’re white as a sheet, you’re nothing but skin and bones.”
It seemed that nothing but clichés could express my shock.
“I’m fine, really,” he said.
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“You’re not fine! You’re the opposite of fine!”
“I know things look bad, but . . .”
“There’s no ‘but’ about it man, things are bad! Don’t you know everyone at home thinks
you’re dead?”
“They do?”
“Of course they do! You’ve been missing for over a year! We had a funeral for you and
everything. Your will was read and your property distributed, your wife mourned you for
months. She’s thinking about remarrying now.”
Al looked crestfallen, and he started to cry. He was wearing only a long, ragged shirt that
stretched down past his knees. The Schlitz beer logo was fading on the front of it. He scrunched
it up to blow his nose, raising it up past his waist. I realized he wasn’t wearing any underwear.
“I’m so hungry,” he said.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” I patted him on the back and thankfully
he let his shirt drop back down. Of course, no restaurant would admit us given his wretched,
filthy state, so I ran into a deli and bought him a sandwich. He devoured the whole thing in
about two bites; it was gone before we reached the end of the block. There was a Holiday Inn
not far away, so we walked back to my car and I got us a room. I gave Al my razor and a change
of clothes, and he spent over an hour in the bathroom, shaving and scrubbing and scouring
himself.
At last he came out, looking like a new man. “I’m still hungry,” he said.
“Clearly—you look like a bean pole. Let’s get some dinner.”
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Chapter 3: Arthur’s Dinner with Albert Einstein
After we ordered, I told Al , “Okay, enough chitchat, you’ve got to tell me what
happened to you.”
He looked around the restaurant, trying to decide if anyone might be listening in on our
conversation. He lowered his voice. “You won’t believe it.”
“Sure I will. Everyone thought you were dead and gone, but here you are, hundreds of
miles from Milwaukee living on the streets. If you told me you had died and come back as a
ghost, I’d even believe that.”
“That’s not terribly far off from the truth.”
“You’re joking!”
“Hardly.”
“Dear God.”
“If only He were here to help.”
“Get on with it.”
“All right. Well, as you know, when I left Milwaukee, I was heading to Winnipeg for
business. I made it to Saint Paul, when I saw that the Saint Paul Winter Carnival was in town.
Since I travel through Saint Paul frequently, I’ve always been curious about the event—Saint
Paulites boast about the legendary ice sculptures. I’d never been in town during the carnival
before, so I jumped at my chance to experience it.”
Our food arrived, and Albert began shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth. “Slow
down,” I said.
“Sorry. Anyways, all the big hotels were booked, and I guess I shouldn’t’ve been
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surprised, but I was certainly disappointed. One of the front desk clerks suggested I try a bed
and breakfast on the outskirts of town, and he gave me directions to one in particular he knew of
that almost always had a vacancy. I was a bit hesitant to stay at a B&B, but my desperation
made me decide it was worth a try.”
Albert began cutting into his meatloaf.
“I pulled up to the B&B—it was on a quiet street, kind of isolated, surrounded by pine
trees. You couldn’t see any other houses from the driveway—it seemed like the perfect secluded
romantic getaway. I got out of my car, and a group of thugs came out of the pine trees! They’d
been completely hidden by shadows, and next thing I knew they were literally on top of me. No
talk, no negotiation, just pummeling. They took my wallet and phone and car keys and drove
away, leaving me bruised and broken on the icy ground. I’m lucky to be alive!” Al paused with
an air of finality about him.
“Good God,” I said. “But even if everything you had was taken from you by the robbers,
that still doesn’t explain how you ended up on the streets.”
“Unfortunately, the mugging was only the beginning of my ordeal. I managed to crawl to
the B&B’s front door and the innkeeper heard my feeble knocking. She let me in, said her name
was Meroe. She was an old woman, but surprisingly beautiful. She gave me a bowl of soup that
made me feel much better. Each sip replaced my painful bruises with a hearty warmth. My
hands and knees were covered with bloody scratches where I hit the ground, though, and I was
still covered with mud, just utterly filthy. Meroe asked if she could help me get cleaned up, and I
said yes. She helped me out of my shirt and pants and gave me a sponge bath. She was very
gentle, and then she began sweet-talking me. ‘Your arms are so muscular! What a sharp chin
you have. The crime around here is just awful, you must have been really brave to have chased
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them all away.’ Stuff like that. And soon she was all I could think about, her soft, tender hands,
her soothing voice, her long, silver hair. One thing led to another and soon we were in the
bedroom, both completely naked, and well, you can guess what happens next.”
“Al, no, you didn’t!”
“Unfortunately yes. And from that moment on, I was cursed, her slave. I got a job as a
custodian at a bank in downtown Saint Paul, and I gave her every cent I earned.”
“I don’t believe it, Al. You slept with her? You deserve everything you got—you, a
married man, having an affair on a business trip! Do you realize how much your absence hurt
your family? Do you know how crushed your wife would be if she knew you cheated on her?”
Al chewed his meatloaf numbly. “Yeah, I do.”
“Well, what happened next? You might as well tell me the rest of it.”
“So, like you said, I realized my family must be concerned, though I didn’t think they
would count me among the dead. I wanted to go home, but I couldn’t. I had no money, no
means of transport, and part of Meroe’s curse was that phones stopped working for me. I’d
always get a busy signal or lose the connection or the buttons would be stuck. When I say I was
cursed, I mean that in the most literal sense. Meroe—she’s a witch.”
“Jesus, a witch?”
“A witch! She makes handsome young men fall in love with her, I saw their pictures
hung up all around the B&B. All in the same pose—they grin at the camera, and she leans up to
kiss them on the cheek. One time, one of her lovers cheated on her, and she turned him into a
beaver. Another time, an owner of a rival B&B began slandering her, calling her a witch
(imagine that), and his business boomed while she suffered. What does she do? She turns him
into a frog. Now he croaks a welcome to all his customers, and operates his cash register with
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his long sticky tongue. And when she desired a married man, she invited the couple over for
dinner. For dessert, she fed them a strawberry rhubarb pie that was enchanted with a spell to
plug up the pregnant wife’s uterus. She still has not been able to deliver—it’s been eight years,
if my sources are accurate—and she waddles around town like she’s about to give birth to a baby
elephant.”
“Surely people found out about her!”
“Of course they did. You can’t be so brazen a witch and not be discovered. Stories like
this get around.”
“So how come she’s still at large?”
“Haven’t you been listening to what I’ve been saying? She’s a witch! A few years ago, a
man gathered a group of people to complain about her. They went to a city council meeting, and
the residents demanded she be evicted from her bed and breakfast. The alderpeople were too
timid to take action, so the righteous Saint Paulites took matters into their own hands. They
climbed into their station wagons, minivans, and hybrids and drove to Meroe’s. Believe it or not,
she didn’t like the angry mob forming outside her house, so she mixed together some cumin,
coriander, and cockroaches in a kettle and spread the concoction over her crusty eyelids. She
stepped out onto her balcony—the crowd bellowed. She stared at the closest man and blinked—
he disappeared. She blinked at a woman. She disappeared. She stared at each person in the mob
and blinked them back to their homes, where they found the doors and windows locked up tight
and completely unopenable. After a few days, they realized they were utterly powerless, and
agreed to let Meroe live in peace. But as for the leader of the mob, the man who started it all,
she teleported his house and everything in it to Anchorage, where I believe he still lives to this
day.”
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Al took a big gulp from his wine glass and burped loudly.
“That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“But you escaped.”
“Obviously.”
“How?”
“You know, I don’t remember.” He scratched his head.
Despite his spotty memory, I believed his story. “What you’ve told me is quite
alarming,” I said. “Let’s pay for our dinner and head back to the hotel. I’m afraid someone here
might have overheard us and will report back to your kind hostess. We should head to bed early
and make a fast start in the morning.”
“Sounds good to me! Gosh, that was a delicious dinner.” He yawned heavily and patted
his belly.
Chapter 4: The Sword and the Sponge
When we got back to our room, I drew the blinds and locked up tight. I fastened the bolt
and connected the chain. Al and I even pushed my bed in front of the door to form a barricade.
We were taking no chances tonight.
“Good night, Al,” I said.
“Good night, Arthur.”
I clicked off the lights. At first, I couldn’t sleep, Al’s story running through my mind. I
kept imagining Meroe bursting into the room, knocking the door of its hinges, coming to retrieve
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the man who fled her, and then killing me, the only witness to the abduction. But at last I fell
asleep.
I woke up to the sound of the door being knocked off its hinges. And since we had
placed the bed up against the door, in one stomach-churning motion that brought back nauseating
childhood memories of sailing on Lake Michigan, the door flipped the bed upside down, pinning
me beneath it. Only my head protruded from beneath its springy bottom. Two silver-haired
hags—one regally elegant, the other looking more like an anthropomorphized toad—stood
silhouetted in the doorway. The regal one had a long, unsheathed sword that gleamed in the
hallway’s fluorescent lights; the other carried a big, puffy bath sponge.
“Here we are, sister Panthia,” said the one with the sword. “Here is my dear Albert
Einstein, my eternal lover and companion—eternal from his perspective, that is.”
“Why are there two of them? I thought we were going after only one.”
“The one under the bed is the good Arthur King, who kindly took it upon himself not
only to advise my dear Albert to run away, but to assist in the matter. We shall reward him for
his troubles.”
Panthia and Meroe—for who else could it have been?—cackled.
Their shrieking laughter finally wakened Al, who had somehow slept through the
crashing of the door and bed. He sat bolt upright and began to quake, even more violently than I
was shaking.
“Did you miss me, Albert?”
Al said nothing.
“Cat got your tongue, eh?”
Al still didn’t answer.
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“You’re so boring when you’re not naked,” said Meroe. Without another word, she
marched over to Al, Panthia in lockstep behind her. Meroe raised her sword and thrust it through
Al’s throat. As he gurgled and sputtered, his last words a desperate hissing, she produced a
canteen and carefully collected the blood as it flowed from his neck. Then, she tilted back his
head, exposing his larynx and esophagus and spine and I don’t know what else, and shoved her
hand straight down into his chest. She probed around for a few seconds, exclaimed “Eureka!,”
and pulled out Al’s heart, still beating feebly.
Panthia stepped forward then, and raised her sponge to the heavens. “Oh, Sponge,” she
proclaimed, “stanch the wound of this man, absorb the blood so that not a drop falls onto this so
cleanly carpeted floor. You have sopped up raging rivers with your porous skin; do the same for
Albert Einstein.” With that, she shoved the sponge into Al’s throat and sewed up the wound
with a needle and thread.
The two headed for the door, but before leaving, they stopped at my head. “What do we
do about him?”
Meroe kicked my head softly. “Even now he’s thinking that he’ll escape here alive and
tell the world of our deeds.”
“Then let’s kill him at once! Let’s chop off his balls and feed them to him and then cut
off his fingers one by one until he dies of blood loss!”
“I think not. I think we’ll leave him alive, just long enough to bury Albert’s body.”
“Can we give him a parting gift, at least?”
“Of course.”
Panthia and Meroe pulled down their pants, squatted over me, and let their bladders
loose. I squeezed shut my eyes and sealed up my mouth, but it was to no avail. There is nothing
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more disgusting than a shower of witch urine, you can take my word for it.
At last the witches left, and the door rose up from where it had landed and slammed into
its frame; the hinges flew back into place, the screws drilling themselves into their holes; the bed
rose off of me and landed right side up in its proper position. Everything was back to normal,
except for Al, who had no pulse.
Chapter 5: The Escape from Holiday Inn
I’m not ashamed to tell you this, Luke—I panicked. I mean, what would you do if your
buddy was murdered right in front of your own two eyes? And who would believe me if I said
witches did it? I would be the prime suspect—I had to get out of there, fast.
I went down to the front desk and banged the bell for service. “I’d like to check out,
please!” The hotel staff were bound to find the body when they cleaned the room; it would look
more suspicious if I had left without a trace. I had to keep up a semblance of normalcy.
A disgruntled clerk appeared at the desk. “What, at this hour?” he said. His eyes grew
wide when he saw that my hair was dripping with what appeared to be (and of course was) urine.
“Well, it’s the funniest thing!” I blabbered. “You see, I’m on my way to Mil—I mean,
Winnipeg—for a cheese conference. I’m a cheese merchant. And I’m going to a conference,
yes. Here’s my card, it proves my story. And this conference, I thought it was on the twentieth,
but it’s actually on the nineteenth, which is, technically speaking, today. So I really must check
out now.”
“You seem a little nervous.”
“Nervous? Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not nervous.” I wiped my brow; it was slick with
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sweat. “That is, I’m not nervous, but I’m terrified I’m going to be late for my cheese conference
in Canada, which is where I’m going.”
“How do I know you haven’t committed some crime and aren’t trying to escape in the
middle of the night?”
“If I was trying to escape secretly, I wouldn’t be talking to you, would I?”
“You’d be talking to me if you wanted to keep up a semblance of normalcy.”
I gulped; the clerk seemed to be reading my mind.
“How do I know you haven’t slit the throat of that companion of yours? What if his
corpse is laying on the floor of your hotel room?”
“You know, I was in such a hurry, I’ve noticed I forgot my suitcase! How silly of me! I
won’t be needing to check out right now after all. In fact, I even forgot to pack, and my room’s
simply a mess. I’ll just leave in the morning, I think.”
Soaked with sweat and piss, I returned to the elevators and jammed the button repeatedly,
leaving the clerk glaring at me suspiciously. Back in the room, one other means of escape
occurred to me. I turned on the bath tap and stripped while I waited for the tub to fill. I picked
up the hairdryer and offered it my plea.
“Oh, hair dryer! How warmly you blow, with your settings for both high and low. It’s
fitting really, for you must see guests in times of high and low. You’ve certainly seen me low.
You’re the only witness to my innocence, but alas, you cannot speak. With your long, twisty
cord, you will set me free from my certain doom!”
I turned the hairdryer on, submerged myself in the bathwater, and dropped the dryer in on
top of me, awaiting my electrocution. Nothing happened. I picked up my windy companion to
examine it more closely. The words “NEW WATERPROOF SAFETY -CASE” were printed on its
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bottom. I stood up to contemplate whether I could hang myself by fashioning a noose out of the
cord and stringing it from the shower rod, but then the door burst open. It was the front desk
clerk.
“Hey! What’s going on in here?”
“I’m just taking a bath,” I said. I had left the bathroom door open so the clerk could see
me quite clearly, standing in the tub holding a blowing, dripping hairdryer.
“Taking a bath? Didn’t you want to leave a few minutes ago?”
“I told you, I changed my mind. The hell are you doing in here anyways?”
“I just wanted to make sure everything’s all right in here.”
“Of course everything’s all right in here,” groaned Albert. “Do you have any idea what
time it is?”
If I had been wearing pants, I would have peed them.
“I can see why everyone says such terrible things about Holiday Inn,” Al continued.
“Clerks bursting in at three in the morning! For Christ’s sake. If you think I won’t be taking my
business elsewhere, you are sorely mistaken! I could sue you for violating our privacy.”
“My sincere apologies. Please, if there is anything I can do to make the rest of your stay
more comfortable, do not hesitate to let me know.”
“Get out!” said Al. “Honestly, what was he thinking?” he went on after the door clicked
shut.
“I have no idea.”
“The heck are you doing in there anyway?”
“Um, taking a bath.”
“Right, good, you smell like piss. Well, I’m going back to bed. I’m exhausted! I feel
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like I’ve run to the gates of Hell and back.”
I toweled myself off and climbed into my own bed, though I’m not sure I slept another
wink before morning.
Once the sun had risen, the front desk clerk—a different one than last night’s, luckily—
gave us no trouble when we checked out. We loaded my van and headed south.
“It’s true what they say,” I said once we got on the Interstate. “Too much food and drink
can give you the strangest dreams. The ribs and wine I had last night gave me one of the most
vivid I’ve ever had. I dreamt your witch Meroe visited our hotel room with her sister. They cut
your throat, pulled out your heart, and replaced it with a sponge. Then they peed on my face and
left.”
“Well isn’t that the funniest thing! I had the same dream!”
“You did?”
“Yes! Meroe had a huge sword and what’s-her-face, Panthia, had a puffy sponge. It was
the most painful dream I’ve ever had. I can still feel the cut on my throat.” He rubbed his neck
tenderly, though there was no cut nor scar. “I’m hungry. Can we stop for lunch?”
We had skipped breakfast, so I agreed—Al was looking a little pale. We pulled into a
little mom and pop diner and ordered some sandwiches. I was full after one, but Al ordered a
second, and then a third. I reminded him who was paying for lunch, since of course he didn’t
have any money of his own. “Right, sorry,” he said, “where are my manners? I haven’t truly
thanked you yet for your generosity. So, thank you, Arthur!” And he followed this speech by
ordering a fourth sandwich.
Despite his enormous appetite, Al’s complexion didn’t become any more ruddy; if
anything, it was taking on a greenish tint.
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“Are you feeling alright?”
“Never better!”
At last, Al finished lunch.
“Let’s use the restroom before we go,” I said.
“Good idea.”
The diner had two single-occupancy bathrooms, one for men and one for women, with a
drinking fountain in between the doors. Al waited outside while I went, and when I came out, Al
was smacking his lips.
“Have some water if you’re still thirsty.”
Al laughed. “I didn’t even notice the bubbler was there!”
He leaned down to get a drink, and as he craned his neck forward, a necklace of blood
suddenly began to flow. It grew more and more profuse until the very wound Meroe had
inflicted the night before burst open, and the sponge toppled out into the water fountain. Al
collapsed, stone dead.
As I think I’ve mentioned, I don’t act too rationally in stressful circumstances. I gave Al
a proper funeral by dragging him out the emergency exit and ceremoniously dumping the body
in a ditch. I covered it with mud and dirt, said a short prayer, and he now rests as a perpetual
customer to the diner. As far as I know, nobody knows he’s there.
Chapter 6: I Arrive at Milo’s House
And this was the end of Arthur King’s story.
“Utter nonsense,” said Arthur’s companion. “You don’t believe it, do you?”
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“Of course I believe it! I have no reason to believe Arthur isn’t an honest man, so I’ll
take him at his word.”
“It’s a fairy tale. Everyone knows there’s no such thing as witches.”
“I claim to know no such thing. Call me a witch-gnostic!”
“You’re not furious your time was wasted by this liar?”
“My time was hardly wasted! Even if the story isn’t true, it was still a delightful
diversion during our drive. Much more pleasant than listening to someone gripe and complain
the whole ride.”
And then we split ways. I had to go to the city’s outskirts, so the companions left my
truck to trek downtown themselves. I was supposed to stay with a man named Milo, a man
whom I had never met. He was friends with my friend Douglas, who had been happy to ask if I
could stay at Milo’s house when he heard I was traveling to the city for an extended stay.
Traveling with a horse made it virtually impossible to stay in hotels. Milo had graciously agreed,
barely asking for anything in rent, though I was a bit nervous about intruding on a stranger.
Unfortunately, Milo did not live at the address I had written down. I was expecting the
street in question to be rural, but instead a strip mall had erupted next to the highway. I found a
little coffee shop and decided to buy a snack and ask for directions.
“I’m from out of town and a bit lost,” I told the barista. Her middle-aged eyes pierced
through my own gaze. She was judging me, memorizing me.
“Where are you trying to go?” she asked.
“I’m looking for a man, Milo, and I thought he was supposed to live around here. He
owns a small farm, so obviously I’m in the wrong spot.”
“Do you have his address?”
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“Yeah, but it’s wrong.” I showed her the index card on which I had jotted it down.
“Ah! I think I know the problem. The address says Highway 52, but I think you really
meant Highway 55. It’s not far, though.”
“You know, I bet you’re right. Writing down a two instead of a five is exactly the kind
of thing I would do.”
“You said he’s a farmer named Milo?”
“I did.”
“Yes, you definitely want Highway 55.” She gave me directions to his area.
“You know him?”
“Everyone around here knows him. He’s always making some stink about taxes being
too high, food prices being too high, gas being too high. A few years ago he tried to make a
ruckus at city hall—but his so-called ‘Riot for Reform’ managed to attract a grand total of three
other supporters. I’ve never seen someone wearing a sandwich board look so pathetic.
Anyways, the newspaper did a profile about him after that. Apparently he lives with his wife
and someone to help him take care of the farm, and they refuse almost all material goods, trying
to save their money for a time when prices rise to literally apocalyptic levels.”
“No kidding. Well, I’m sure glad my friend Douglas introduced me to him! It sounds
like I won’t need to fear a lot of the many inconveniences of visiting someone else’s home—
water that’s so hot it burns you, a kitchen that’s always filled with suffocating odors from
cooking, furniture that’s so soft you can hardly move without groaning.”
“You’ve got that right. Milo won’t be providing you a single one of those things.”
“Thanks for the help.”
The barista’s instructions were spot on, and I found Milo’s farm without any trouble. A
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long, dirt driveway led my truck and trailer off the highway to a fenced-in ranch house, badly
needing a new coat of paint. Not far away stood a barn where I could stable Tatiana. I took a
deep breath and advanced to the front door.
I heard the lock click back, and a young woman answered my knocking. “Hello?”
“Is Milo home?”
“Of course he is, why wouldn’t he be?”
“Can you tell him it’s Luke, Douglas’s friend?”
“And what should I tell him is your collateral?”
“Excuse me?”
“Milo only gives out loans when you have sufficient collateral.”
“Oh! I’m not here for a loan. I’m spending a few weeks here, mainly for the Ranchers
Convention but also doing some other business while I’m in the area.”
“I’ll tell him you’re here.”
“I appreciate it.”
She shut the door and locked it. A few minutes later she returned. “He says you can
come in.”
The house lived up to Milo’s frugal reputation. There were a few pieces of furniture that
looked older than my mother; the wallpaper hung off the walls like partially peeled banana skins;
a single lamp illuminated the living room.
“You must be Luke!”
“And you must be Milo. Nice to meet you.” I offered my hand to shake. “I really
appreciate you opening your home to me while I’m in town.”
“Please, it’s my pleasure. I’ll always do a favor for Douglas. Now, I want you to make
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yourself at home while you’re here. You can have that bedroom there—” he pointed to a room
off to the right— “and help yourself to anything else you see. I’m afraid we don’t have much in
the way of luxury. I’m afraid robbers—or worse, the government—would come and take
anything nice, and so we have nothing nice at all. But can I offer you anything to drink, to eat?”
“I’m quite all right, thank you,” I said, not wanting to cut short Milo’s generosity. I
feared his good nature might only be temporary.
“Let me introduce you to my wife, Pamela,” said Milo, gesturing to a mousy woman
sitting in an old recliner, and we exchanged pleasantries. “And I believe you’ve already met my
farmhand, Flo.”
“Not formally. Nice to meet you, Flo.”
“Likewise.” She winked.
“Flo, help Luke unpack his things. I’m sure he’s exhausted after such a long journey.”
“Oh, I can manage my luggage, no problem. But if you could make Tatiana—my
horse—comfortable, I would be most obliged.”
“No problem, Luke,” said Flo.
“Cold you also take my stableman Jim out to purchase some hay for her? He’ll need to
know best place to buy it while we’re here.”
“Tatiana can share what the other horses have,” said Milo. “We’ll take care of the hay.”
“Nonsense, I insist on paying for what I use. You’re being generous enough already with
this insanely cheap sublet!”
We argued like this for a while, but eventually found a resolution satisfactory to
everyone. Flo led Tatiana to the barn, and I took my two bags from my truck to my new
bedroom. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few errands to run in the city before I get settled.”
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“Of course. We’ll be home all evening.”
I pulled out of Milo’s driveway, thoroughly bemused by the friendly old miser.
Chapter 7: I Meet an Old Friend
I had lied to Milo; I didn’t really have any errands to run. I just wasn’t ready for a dinner
with the family, much preferring to eat out. As friendly as Milo was, he seemed exceedingly
weird to me. I decided to reward myself for a smooth, successful journey and drove to the
Oceanaire Seafood Room.
“The chef’s special tonight is swordfish, with an herb marinade and garlic butter,” said
the waitress.
“Mmm, that sounds delicious. How much is it?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“Two hundred! I’ll give you half that.”
“Sir, we can’t just give you a fifty percent discount.”
“Please, I used to work in food service. I know how arbitrary the prices are, especially
for specials, and how much the markup is. One hundred twenty-five.”
“Let me have a word with my manager.” When she returned, she said, “We can serve it
for a hundred and sixty.”
My stomach rumbled loudly. “Done.”
My table was in view of the front door, and while I was waiting for my swordfish, a
burly, bearded man shouldered his way into the restaurant. He flashed a badge to the waitress
who smiled, gave a small curtsy, and said she would tell the manager on duty he had arrived. He
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noticed me staring at him, and he stared back.
“Luke?” he said.
“Yes . . . ?”
“It’s Peter.”
“Peter! By gum, so it is. I didn’t recognize you with your beard!”
“It’s essential this far north.”
“How have you been, man? I haven’t seen you since graduation!”
“Ah, that was a farewell worth remembering. Me, you, and Professor Capanelli at that
bar?”
“Those were the days. What have you been up to? Looks like you’re pretty hot stuff
around here!”
“Well, I went to culinary school, and then I dropped out. I do health and safety
inspections at restaurants these days.” He showed me his badge.
“Chief Restaurant Inspector, I see. Congratulations!”
My food arrived. Steam wafted up from perfectly grilled swordfish, glistening with herbs
and oil, lying softly on a bed of lemon and orzo. It smelled like the food of the gods. “Would
you care to inspect my dinner? I can spare you a bite.” He accepted my knife and fork and took
a small bite.
“Ugh, that’s disgusting! How much did you pay for this, anyways?”
“I managed to haggle the price down to a hundred and sixty.”
“A hundred and sixty!” Peter erupted. All heads in the quiet restaurant turned toward
him. “I have never heard of such a rip-off in my entire life! I can’t believe one of Minneapolis’s
finest institutions would dare to sell such bullshit for what amounts to highway robbery!”
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The manager was at our table in a heartbeat. “Is there a problem, sirs?”
“Not at all!” I insisted. “Peter, calm down.”
“Is there a problem? Is there a problem?! What do you see on this plate here?”
“I see the chef’s special, one of the finest dishes on our menu.”
“Well I see a pile of CRAP. Do you know that this man here is a visitor to our fair city?
Did you know he paid one hundred and sixty dollars for this? This is absurd. Outrageous!”
“We use only the finest ingredients in our kitchen,” began the manager.
“Well let me add an ingredient of my own!” added Peter. He spat onto my fish.
“Peter, what the hell?”
“I will not stand idly by while my friends are taken advantage of in the restaurants that
fall under my domain!” And he picked up my plate and hurled it at the manager’s feet. It
shattered. “That’ll teach you to charge these astronomical rates. Come on, Luke, let’s go.” He
began dragging me toward the door.
“But—my dinner?”
“You won’t be giving these crooks any more of your business. We sure showed them.”
Peter stalked outside and I heard his car squeal away.
Humiliated, I retrieved my coat. I found the exit blocked by a waiter and the manager.
“I’m so sorry about that. I have no idea who that was.”
“You seemed to be college buddies, if I heard correctly.”
“I mean, we went to the same school, but I wouldn’t say we were buddies! I’ll just be on
my way, I sincerely apologize for any trouble we may have caused.”
“We can’t let you leave before you pay, sir. I’m sure you understand. And we’ll be
charging you for a new plate, too.”
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My cheeks burned, and I silently handed over my credit card. With my bank account
approaching the emptiness of my stomach, I drove around town for a while before resigning
myself to a night shut up sulking in my room. I was tired enough that I wouldn’t have any
trouble falling asleep. But Milo would not even allow this small mercy. Flo knocked on my
door just as I was about to undress. “Milo wants you to join him in the living room.” I sighed
and followed her out.
“Luke! I hope you had a good trip. How is our Douglas doing?”
I told him what I knew and started to rise to go to bed, but Milo asked, “How is his
wife?”
I told him.
“His kids? His farmhands? His animals? His cousins, uncles, and aunts? How’s the
mayor been, what’s he been up to?”
Question after question after question. The man would not let me leave until he had
interrogated me on more details than I could ever imagine someone wanting to know. At last,
when I think I stopped talking mid-sentence, he perceived how tired I was. “Ah, but you must be
exhausted! Please, don’t let me keep you up too late.”
“Thank you,” I said. Sleep finally allowed me to escape the annoying old miser, and
though I had dined only on stories today, my vacant belly did not keep me awake.
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Part 2: Banquets and Bloodshed
Chapter 1: Aunt Bryanna
Meroe was advancing on me with a drawn sword, Panthia behind her, coddling a sponge
like newborn babe. Just as Meroe slit my throat and the blood waterfalled down my neck, I
woke up.
It took several minutes to shake off the vivid terror from my dream. As I showered and
dressed, I thought about Arthur King’s story—it had happened right here in Minneapolis, after
all. If any city were home to witches, it would certainly be this one. The frigid winter weather
and the availability of all kinds of magical herbs at the farmer’s market made enchantment seem
not just a possibility but an inevitability.
I decided to spend the day at the Mall of America to shop for some food, clothes, and
gifts. But even if I didn’t need to buy anything, I probably would have gone to the Mall
anyways—I love the crowds of people, the performers in the thoroughfares, the families at the
indoor theme park. It’s a grand spectacle. But today, as I walked from store to store, I couldn’t
help but think that everything I saw was a person or thing cursed by witches. The animals on the
carousel were about to prance away; the people in the Seurat-inspired mural were about to talk;
the statues in the fountain were women petrified for some infraction; the giant Lego people in the
Imagination Center were men and boys transformed for a similarly petty reason.
I was just emerging from the food court after a filling lunch when I accidentally walked
right into a middle-aged couple. They looked like they had just come from a formal function;
both were dressed splendidly. The woman wore a dress, gloves, and a copious amount of
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jewelry; the man had an Italian suit and shoes that reflected my face better than the old mirror in
Milo’s bathroom. “I’m so sorry,” I muttered.
“What, aren’t you going to give your relatives a proper ‘hello’?” said the man.
“It’s so good to see you, Luke,” said the woman, who I assumed was his wife. She
extended her arms for a hug.
I stood there, mouth agape. I had never seen these people before in my life.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I think you must be mistaking me for some other Luke, because I’m
afraid I don’t know who you are.”
The woman slapped her forehead, sending her earrings into a pendulous swinging. “Of
course you don’t remember us! We haven’t seen you since you were about this high.” She bent
down to place her hand about a foot from the ground.
“This is your Aunt Bryanna,” said the man. “I’m her husband, Bob.”
“Well, I’m pleased to meet you,” I said, a bit startled to be meeting a relative I had no
memories of.
“I’m sure your mom mentioned us when you were growing up,” said Bryanna.
“Um, once or twice.” The crowd was jostling us, so we began to walk to avoid becoming
a human roadblock.
“You look just like my sister,” said Bryanna. “Flowing locks of curly blonde hair, tall
but not too tall, full-bodied but not pudgy, and the exact same steely gray eyes.”
“Everyone says I look like her.”
“Because you do! Your mom and I were raised together, you know; we were very close.
We suckled the same breast, played with the same toys, had the same teachers at school—we
shared everything, even boyfriends for a while.” She paused to giggle and cover her mouth; she
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flushed, realizing she had said perhaps more than she meant to. “The only difference between us
was that while she married a rotten politician, I married the handsomest doctor alive and moved
to Minnesota.”
I thought I could guess why she and Mom had fallen out of touch.
“Anyways, you simply must come over for dinner sometime. We have little get-togethers
fairly often, and you would be more than welcome.”
“Oh, you’re very kind, but I certainly wouldn’t want to intrude on your dinner parties.
I’m sure they’re much fancier affairs than anything I’m used to. I wouldn’t know how to act!”
“Nonsense, you’ll be fine. But at the very least, I insist you come over to our house this
afternoon for coffee.”
“Well, I’m staying with Milo—a farmer just outside of town—and told him I’d be back
for dinner with him this evening . . . ”
“Milo? We know him! I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you were a tad late, and besides,
we won’t keep you too long. And I won’t relent—you must dine with us some other time too.”
Our stroll had taken us to one of the mall exits. “Our car’s right there,” said Bob,
pointing to a BMW convertible.
“Well, all right then.”
“We’ll drive you there; our chauffer can take you back here to pick up your car later.”
I had no will to argue against a ride in a Beamer like theirs, and even if I had, I don’t
think there would have been any convincing Bryanna to adopt a new plan.
We pulled into a long, curving driveway; Bob parked in a subterranean six-car garage.
We walked through the door into the basement and my eyebrows shot upward of their own
volition.
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A large garden was growing in the center of the room—cherry trees, hydrangeas,
rhododendrons, and all kinds of flowering and fruit-bearing plants bloomed colorfully. Except
for a cement ring hugging the basement walls, spongy, fertile dirt and woodchip paths covered
the floor. On the opposite wall, at least a hundred yards away, a huge bay window overlooked a
hill leading down to a lake.
“Please feel free to look around,” said Bryanna. “Everything you see is yours.”
I began to walk through the garden, admiring statues and fountains. I saw one that could
only be the Greek goddess Diana—she carried a bow, a quiver of arrows was slung around her
shoulder, and a crescent moon was inscribed on the sleeves of her short tunic. Statues of a pack
of dogs bounded past her feet, racing toward a man turning into a deer: antlers were sprouting
from his head; his hands and feet had become hooves; he hunched over painfully; a tiny tail was
beginning to protrude from his rear. It was Actaeon, punished for spotting Diana in a private
moment. I took a long look at the woman he was not allowed to see.
Various servants were working in the basement, tending the plants and keeping things
clean. Bryanna clapped her hands three times, and the servants immediately stopped their work
and left the basement. “Luke, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said once we were alone.
“What’s that?”
“I’m worried about you, Luke.”
“Worried about me?”
“Yes, because of that Milo you’re staying with—just be careful over there. And
especially watch out for his wife.”
“Huh?”
“You see, and don’t think I’m crazy for saying this, Pamela’s a witch.”
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“You’re joking!”
“Not at all. She’s an expert sorceress, a witch of the highest degree! Give her the right
ingredients—and most magical ingredients are not hard to find—and she can block out the stars,
raise the dead, or bring the moon crashing into the earth. But her favorite pastime is to cast her
spell on some handsome young man, and he falls head over heels in love with her. And if he
somehow resists, she’ll turn him into a rock or a cow when he least expects it. So since you’re
such a lithe and handsome man, Luke, I think you might be a prime target for her. So, take care
of yourself, please.”
“Wow. You’ve certainly given me a lot to mull over. I think I need to see myself out to
have some time to myself.”
“Of course, dear. We’ll be in touch! I insist you join us for dinner before you return
home. I won’t have it any other way.”
“It’s a plan. It was lovely to meet you, Aunt Bryanna.”
But Bryanna’s warning did not have me trembling with fear. No, I was ecstatic! A
witch! I’ve always been fascinated by magic, and now I had the potential to observe and
possibly learn some of the arts right under Milo’s own roof. But Bryanna didn’t warn me for no
reason—as interesting as Pamela might be, she could also be dangerous. I would watch her
carefully, and take measures for remaining in control of my faculties. For example—I wouldn’t
sleep with her. That would be an utterly dangerous act, not to mention a terrible insult to Milo.
But Flo—she might be worth pursuing. Last night, hadn’t she said “good night” to me
oh-so-sweetly? Hadn’t she asked if I was comfortable, tucking me in under my covers and even
giving me a little kiss on the forehead? There was really only one way to interpret that—Flo had
a crush on me! And when I realized this, I realized I had a crush on her too.
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Chapter 2: Back at Milo’s Farm
These thoughts carried me all the way home. When I walked in, Milo and Pamela were
out doing errands, and Flo was chopping vegetables in the kitchen.
“Smells good!” I called from the doorway.
“I hope you like beef stew,” she said. I entered the kitchen and noticed that each time she
brought down the knife onto the onion, her whole body jiggled most pleasingly. She was
wearing tight denim overalls and a flannel shirt, the top few buttons unbuttoned.
“I love it. Especially when it’s made by a chef as talented and gifted as you.”
Flo grinned and dumped the onion into the frying pan. It sizzled loudly in the hot oil. As
she stirred, she hummed a little song and swayed her backside back and forth. She was
tantalizing. I stood beside her at the stove; savory scents wafted up from a pot of gravy.
Sticking my finger in to taste, I said, “There’s another pot I’d like to stick my finger into, if you
get my drift.”
She whapped me on the head with her wooden spatula. “Get the hell away, you
overeager sweetie, get the hell outta my kitchen! If you get burned from my stove, only I’d be
able to put out the fire. Right now, dinner’s my priority.” She threw back her head and laughed.
But I didn’t leave until I had examined her whole body, her fine, delicate hands; her
curvy hips; her strong, toned arms; her full lips; her cheeks, ruddy and gleaming from the steam
of the stove; and most of all, her hair. Hair’s what I like most about women—when they undress
to go to bed, they never take off their hair. If you ask me, women without hair are never near as
attractive as their haired counterparts. I like a woman who grooms her hair, adorns it
elaborately—but Flo’s was just tied back in a simple ponytail. Nevertheless, her hair was
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stunning, absolutely pleasing, bringing out her features and inviting me to undo the tie.
I had unconsciously begun stroking her hair, and she didn’t brush my hand away. She
leaned toward me. “I think you have some sauce on your lips,” I said, and we kissed.
When we pulled apart, she said, “It might be sweet now, but watch out! It could turn
bitter and poisonous at any time.”
“Not to worry, baby, a single kiss from you can revive me from any malady.”
She slapped me lightly on the cheek and followed with another quick peck on the lips. “I
mean it now, get out of here, you’re a distraction. Perhaps we can rendezvous in the evening, in
your bedroom.”
“Perhaps we shall,” I said with a wink.
Later in the day, Bryanna had a gift basket delivered to me. “Welcome to Minneapolis,
nephew!” said the card. It was full of cheese, crackers, and wine, and I showed it to Flo. There
were two bottles, from different local wineries: Second Planet Vineyards and Chateau Bromios.
“It’s a sign from the gods, I think, in approval of our evening plans.”
Milo and Pamela were home for dinner, and the three of us ate together while Flo waited
on us. I suggested she join us at the table, but Milo said she was paid to work for him, not to eat
with him. Flo rolled her eyes behind her boss’s back. I sat with Milo between his wife and me,
remembering the potential danger of being caught in her gaze. Though this placed her across
from me, two tall candles sat on the table, obstructing my view of the witch.
We made excruciating small talk about my life as a ranch manager and my plans for my
time in the city, until Pamela slapped the table loudly. “One of the cows will be sick tomorrow,”
she said.
“Now how could you know that?” asked Milo.
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“I saw it in the candlelight,” she replied.
“Our candlesticks are apparently the watchtowers for great prophets,” said Milo to me.
“It makes sense to me,” I said, feeling a certain eloquence suddenly flow into me, as
sometimes happens. “People have always said that the stars contain the secrets of the future, and
what’s a candle except a tiny star? A candle bursts into flame with all the knowledge of its
celestial parents, and it has chosen to convey a small piece of its wisdom to Pamela.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that,” said Milo. “Perhaps I should start taking her
predictions more seriously.”
“Believe it or not,” I said, inspired to share a story, “I’ve had experience with this kind of
prophecy before. When I was preparing to leave for this trip, a fortuneteller came to Madison.
He was from the Middle East, an Arab, and he would walk up and down State Street telling the
fortunes of people passing by for a small donation. He’ll tell you when to have your wedding,
where to buy a house, who to do business with, when you should leave for easy travel—anything
you want to know! I frequently saw him at the farmers’ market this summer, and on a whim I
decided to ask him if he could foretell anything about my trip to Minnesota. He did indeed have
a fortune for me! Luckily, it was a favorable one. He said that over the course of my journey I’d
become famous for amazing deeds, and that my story would be forever remembered in a long
book!”
“And you take this fortune seriously?” asked Milo.
“Of course I do.”
Milo thought for a moment. “Say, what did he look like, the fortuneteller?”
“Well, he was tall, tan, and wore a rainbow turban.”
“Did he call himself ‘Diophanes, the Transparent One’?”
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“As a matter of fact, yes, he did!”
Milo threw his head back and roared with laughter. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh,” he
said once he recovered himself. “It’s just that he was in Minneapolis a few years ago, and let’s
just say he didn’t meet the best fortune while he was here.”
“How ironic.”
“Exactly!” Milo roared again. “I’ll tell you what happened.”
And so he did.
Chapter 3: Diophanes, the Transparent One
Unlike what he charged in Madison, said Milo, Diophanes didn’t tell fortunes for a few
pennies here and there. He only accepted exorbitant pay, and the funny thing was, people paid it.
He had a little kiosk in the Mall of America and people would crowd around whenever he had a
customer. One day, a man named Schumacher wanted to know his fate. Schumacher placed the
necessary stack of bills on the counter, and Diophanes began to read Schumacher’s palm.
But he was interrupted when a man burst through the ring of spectators. “Diophanes!”
cried the man.
Diophanes jumped, his trancelike concentration broken by the sound of his name. He
was furious at first, but soon a wide grin replaced his anger.
“Eduardo!” exclaimed Diophanes.
“I thought you were dead! What the hell happened to you? You made it through the
storm? All of us back at the camp were told there were no survivors.”
“Oh, lord, sometimes I wish I had died. I would only wish the journey on my worst
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enemy. After we left on the ferry, the winds picked up, waves rocked the boat back and forth,
and I was as seasick as anyone’s ever been. As I’m puking up our farewell dinner into the sea,
over the din of the storm a creaking grew into a terrible groan, and the boat split in two. All our
possessions sunk into the sea with our boat and only by swimming as hard as we could did we
make it back to shore.”
“But at least you’re alive!”
“True, but that was only the beginning of our struggle. A local church took us in, giving
us shelter and taking up a collection to help us get back on our feet. In the middle of the night,
some burglars came into the church and broke into the office. My brother Adam woke up and
realized they were trying to take what had been collected for us, so he went to confront them.
They shot him in cold blood!”
While Eduardo was patting Diophanes on the back, consoling the distraught man,
Schumacher grabbed the stack of bills lying on the counter and fled. At this point, Diophanes
remembered where he was, and the whole crowd, myself included, burst into laughter.
So of course, Luke, I’m sure this Diophanes told the truth to you. I raise this glass to
your happiness and a long, fortunate journey.
Chapter 4: Battle at Bedtime
I groaned silently. Milo was prattling on and on and his story didn’t seem to have any
point at all. Not only was I bored out of my mind, but I was losing precious moments of the
evening that I could be spending with Flo. At last I couldn’t take any more and I exploded. “Oh,
shut up! Let Diophanes have whatever fortune befalls him! I don’t care a whit for him or his
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dead brother!”
Milo and Pamela stared at me, shocked.
“I’m sorry, I’ve had a long day. I think I’m still tired from my long journey.”
“Of course you are, Luke,” said Pamela.
“Still, I shouldn’t have shouted. I think I’m going to excuse myself and go to bed.”
“Have a good night, Luke,” said Milo.
When I got to my room, I saw that Flo had nicely arranged Bryanna’s cheese and
crackers on a plate and poured two large glasses of wine. Flo had bought some roses from the
supermarket—a vase of them graced the end table and petals were sprinkled around the bed. I
picked up a glass, sipping gently, and was not waiting long when Flo came in, after she finished
cleaning up dinner and helping Milo and Pamela get ready for bed. She had adorned her head
with a garland of roses, their red petals glowing vividly against her dark brown hair. I bowed
down to her, “Flo, the Rose Queen! Your servant awaits.” Laughing, she placed a second
garland onto my own head. Stacking a piece of Swiss cheese on a water cracker, she fed me
something as delightful as anything I had eaten all day.
We snuggled together on the bed, eating cheese, sipping wine, murmuring sweet nothings
to each other. By the third or fourth glass of wine, my body was becoming impatient. “Flo, my
sword has been drawn! I hereby challenge you to a duel!”
“You’re going down, sir! Position your army, and get ready to fight hand to hand.
Prepare to die!”
We lunged at each other, lips lashing, tongues twisting, teeth tearing. Our clothes were
the first casualties of the battle, lying shredded and mangled on the floor like mutilated corpses.
Flo, worthy opponent that she was, made a retreat from the bed, and suddenly she was no longer
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a warrior, but Venus, rising up from the foam of the sea. She covered herself, not from any
modesty, but to complete the illusion of the goddess riding to shore on a seashell.
But I, as Mars, god of war, could not accept her proffered truce and engaged Flo in a
wrestling match. The bed was our mat, and her farmhand strength proved too much for me. She
had me pinned down, and I was defeated as she plunged up and down above me, until she too
collapsed into my embrace. But fueled by wine, the war did not end there—we had several more
bouts and battles before morning arrived.
And the next several nights were spent similarly.
One day, Bryanna demanded that I attend a dinner party at her mansion. She sent one of
her staff over to hand-deliver an invitation. Though Flo was not keen on the idea, I was tempted
to go—a dinner with Bryanna was bound to be an extravagant affair, and I had promised her I
would dine with her. I asked Flo to be my date, but she refused. “Spend the evening with rich,
college-educated snobs? I don’t think so! You’d be laughed out of her house if you showed up
with a farmhand hanging on your arm.”
“I think I’ll go anyways.”
“Do you have to?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Wouldn’t you rather spend the evening with me?”
“I won’t stay too late—the night will still be young by the time I get back.”
“Will you promise not to talk to any women there?”
“Of course not! You’re not so jealous that you’d insist on that, are you?”
“I guess not.” She pouted. “But I’m serious about this: be careful when you come home,
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thugs are known to wander around the rich part of town at night, checking for unlocked doors.”
“Don’t worry about that! I never travel alone at night.” I reached into my back pocket to
pull out my old “Strut-and-Cut,” an assisted-opening knife I purchased back in the 90s. “See?
My companion will keep me safe if I run into any trouble.”
Flo groaned.
Bryanna’s dinner was perhaps the most luxurious evening I’ve ever experienced.
Wearing my best suit, I felt underdressed. She had converted her basement garden into a dining
area, placing four large tables near the statue of Diana. Though I would have thought the hall
needed no decoration beyond the plants in the garden, soft lights had been strung from the
ceiling, suspended above the dining area like fairies illuminating our meal. I would have sworn
there were more statues than there were during my last visit, and there certainly had not been
chickadees chirping in the trees, nor a live pianist softly playing Chopin’s mazurkas.
Eight of us sat at each table; I was seated near Bryanna. Tuxedoed servants brought in
course after course after course—salad with figs, dates, and an exotic dressing; bread topped
with eggplant caponata and goat cheese; a course consisting entirely of different kinds of cheese,
imported from all around the world; soup filled with oysters, clams, and tiny octopuses; ovenseared salmon accompanied by a mango salsa; yogurt with honey and walnuts; a rich, chocolate
cake with chocolate ganache. The wine flowed freely, a new pairing provided for each course.
The gold dinnerware, the crystal wine goblets, and silverware (silver in its most literal sense) felt
out of place in my large, calloused hands, perpetually stained with dirt.
“How are you enjoying Minneapolis?” Bryanna asked me. “I’ve found it’s a wonderful
place to live, a culturally rich city with much to offer in the way of art and entertainment, a
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vibrant community at the forefront of technology and medicine, a hub of business with bars and
restaurants where business people can congregate, catching up with old friends or meeting new
partners. But it’s the people who make Minneapolis truly special—we’re all friendly folk here,
imbued with a trademark Midwestern can-do attitude.”
I laughed at her enthusiasm. “What you say is true! I’ve certainly loved my time here,
and I won’t deny any part of what you’ve said.” Hoping to draw a story out of my kind hostess,
I lowered my voice and continued, “But will admit that I’m worried about witches. We’ve all
heard the stories that Minnesota—Minneapolis in particular—is the home to a large number of
sorceresses, and I’m scared that one might get the best of me if I’m not careful.”
At these words, the whole table burst into laughter, except for one shaggy-haired man
with a bandage covering his entire nose whom Bryanna had introduced to me as Laurel Hardy.
He stretched, yawned exaggeratedly, and said, “Ugh, it’s getting late, I really must be going.”
“Nonsense, Laurel, sit down,” said Bryanna. “Luke here has not truly enjoyed the
eloquence and wit of your conversational abilities. Please, do us all the honor of sharing that tale
you always tell, our favorite one!”
“Bryanna, you flatter me.” Laurel motioned to the waiter to refill his wine glass and
made himself comfortable in his seat. “Very well, I’ll tell him.”
And as if on cue, the pianist stopped playing and the whole room fell silent, eager for
Laurel’s words.
Chapter 5: On Guarding a Corpse
When I was a young man, said Laurel, I was traveling from the Second City, as some
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would call my hometown, to Los Angeles to see the Summer Olympics. I didn’t have a car or
even money for bus fare, so I was planning to hitchhike all the way. One of the first men I met
offered to take me here, to Minneapolis, and on a whim, I decided to go. It was a little far north,
but I still had a few weeks before the games began, and I wanted to see my country almost as
much as I wanted to see the Olympics themselves.
My driver and I stopped for dinner as soon as we got to the city, and he purchased a paper
to read while he ate. He let me look at the classifieds, and a large help-wanted notice caught my
eye. “$$$$ GUARD A CORPSE $$$$” it said, with a phone number below.
“Any idea what this is about?” I asked my companion. “Why would a corpse need a
guard? Do dead bodies around here get up and walk away?”
“It’s because of the witches, son, witches. Unless a corpse is guarded, they’ll sneak up
on it in the middle of the night and steal its fingers, noses, blood, hair—anything they need for
one of their brews. I can’t tell you how many distraught widows I’ve seen, wailing because they
woke up the next morning to find half of their husband’s body missing.”
“And the corpse guards, they’re paid well?”
“Oh, yes! It’s dangerous work, you see, no one wants to do it. If you fall asleep, rest
your eyes, or take your gaze off the body for even a second, you’re just as dead as the corpse.
The witches will stop at nothing to defeat you. They’ll disguise themselves as dogs or mice or
even flies and get past a guard unnoticed. They’ll cast a spell on him, putting him to sleep or just
killing him outright. Few guards make it through the night in one piece!”
“How much?”
“Hmm?”
“How much are they paid?”
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“More than I make in a month, probably, depending on how rich the client is. But you’re
not seriously considering this, are you?”
“Hot damn! For that kind of money I’d do anything!”
I called the number on the ad on the diner’s pay phone. “This is your corpse’s new
guard,” I said when they asked who was calling, “so long as the pay is right.”
“Is $25,000 acceptable?”
I dropped the phone. “Sorry, $25,000 you said? Yes, that should be fine.”
“You’re sure you’re up to it?” asked the voice on the other end.
“Absolutely! I’ve been called the Man of Steel, the Sleepless Wonder, and Lynx-Eyed
Laurel for my ability to stand watch throughout the night.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
I received an address and my kind driver dropped me off outside the front gates. “Thanks
for the ride!”
“Good luck, kid. Watch yourself tonight.”
A butler answered my buzz and led me to an elegant room toward the back of the house.
An open coffin lay in the middle of the room; the dead man rested inside peacefully. Wearing a
black dress, her hair tied back in a simple bun, his wife greeted me. “Thank you for coming. We
can’t tell you how much we appreciate your services.”
“No problem at all,” I replied. “So long as the tip is large!” I was the only one to laugh.
“Call in the witnesses,” she said to the butler. He left, returning a few moments later with
a group of six men and women, all dressed formally. A final man came with a legal pad and pen.
He sat down in a chair in the corner and began jotting down everything that was said.
“Please state your names,” said the woman, and each witness stated his or her name.
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“Let the record show that the body of Laurel Cargill III has two eyes, two ears, one nose,
two lips, a whole chin, and is otherwise intact and unharmed. Do you swear that this is the
truth?”
“I swear it,” said each witness in turn.
“Thank you, you are excused.” The seven newcomers filed out, leaving the butler and
the woman and me alone in the room.
“Do you have everything you need for your watch tonight?”
“Actually, if I could have another lamp, that’d be great. I think it’d be good to keep the
room as bright as possible. And a beer. A beer would really hit the spot right now. And if
there’s any leftovers from dinner, I would not mind a plate of those, I’m sure I’ll become a little
peckish later on.”
“What do you think we are, a hotel?” scorned the woman. “Our kitchen has been
dormant for days, and there is not a drop of alcohol in the house. Succup, get a lamp and some
water for our guard.”
The butler exited. Meanwhile, the woman went to the body and stroked its hair gently.
Bending down, she brushed its forehead with her lips. We waited in silence until the butler
returned with the lamp and a platter with a pitcher of water and a glass; the two left together,
locking me in.
I poured myself some water and sat down in the chair in the corner, realizing just how far
away morning was. I began to sing to pass the time. Old church hymns from when I was a kid,
songs I heard on the radio, my own extended improvisations of boo-dee-dweep (night fell) and
bah-dat-bah-dat-doo (it was past my bedtime) and rikitikikikikikikikikikikikikikikikikilalalalalalaloooohhhooooooohhohohoho (it was the dead of night). Not once did I take my eyes off the
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coffin.
I blinked, and suddenly a pair of eyes was staring back at me, sitting on the foot of the
box. “Jesus Christ!” I yelled. It was a weasel. I gasped in relief as the initial shock wore off,
but then doubts about my safety began to fill my mind. I became sure that this was my downfall,
that a witch, disguised as this vermin, had snuck past my vigilant watch and was ready to gouge
out my eyes and dash off with bits and pieces of the dead man’s body.
“Get out of here! Bug off!” I shouted at the weasel. It just stared at me. “Get!” I
screeched. “God dammit, leave me alone!” My voice was shrill, I was sure I would wake the
household, but I didn’t care, the weasel had to leave. At last I stood up from my chair and
swiped at it. It cocked its head. I roared, charging at the coffin, and the weasel leapt to the floor
and scampered out through a hole in the wall hidden behind a desk. Pushing the desk closer to
the wall to prevent the animal’s return, I collapsed, exhausted, into my chair in the corner, and
fell asleep. I admit that even God himself would have had trouble telling which of us was the
corpse, which the guard.
The next thing I knew, light was streaming in through the window and someone was
unlocking the door. It was morning—I had slept through the whole night. Jumping up from my
chair, I managed to greet the widow with a cheery good morning, maintaining the impression I
had been dutiful all night. She ignored me and rushed to the coffin while the witnesses and
Succup waited quietly at the door.
“Oh thank God,” she said, and embraced her husband, kissing his cold, pale lips. His
whole body was there, and I sighed in relief. After a long time, the widow and her husband
parted. Turning to me, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Hardy, you have done your job dutifully. Our
family will be forever grateful to you. Succup, write Mr. Hardy his check, please.”
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Twenty-five thousand dollars. I snapped the crisp paper a few times appreciatively.
“Ma’am, you can call on me any time, consider me one of the family. I truly hope that I can
perform such excellent service for you often.”
The smile on the widow’s face faltered, and suddenly hands were grabbing me by the
back of the shirt and giving me the bum’s rush out the door! “Ouch, you’re hitting me!” I cried
as blows landed all over my body. I was pinched, punched, kicked, and finally hurled to the
ground outside the front gate. Standing up, I brushed myself off, made sure I still had my check,
and whistled off into the morning.
Chapter 6: On Raising a Corpse
A few hours later, I was walking aimlessly through town, trying to decide what to spend
my money on—the front runner was a sports car. What better way to arrive at the Olympics? I
was meandering toward a car dealership someone had directed me toward, when a funeral
procession cut me off from crossing the street. In the lead car, I recognized the widow, so I
decided to follow. A few blocks away we reached a cemetery; hundreds of people were there to
witness the burial of this very wealthy man.
A priest stood up on a small platform and prepared to speak a few words before the
casket was lowered into the earth. “We gather here today to mourn the passing of Laurel Cargill
III,” he began.
“Stop the burial! Stop everything!” screamed a voice from somewhere in the crowd.
People looked around, confused, and an elderly man forced his way onto the platform. “Shove
it, Father,” said the man. “People of Minneapolis! I have terrible news! This man, my nephew,
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did not die of natural causes as his family claims, but he was murdered!”
The crowd gasped, murmured, a few people booed. “How can you say such a thing?”
wailed a woman.
“This widow poisoned her husband’s wine to inherit his fortune! The no-good, rotten
gold-digger should be charged with homicide!”
All eyes turned to the widow. “I categorically deny this,” she said. “Old Uncle Billy has
been struggling with dementia for years, somebody help him off the stage at once! Succup!”
“Wait!” yelled someone in the crowd. “What if he’s telling the truth? We can’t let a
murderer walk free!”
The crowd’s murmuring crescendoed; half seemed to side with the old man, and the other
half believed the wife. I was afraid it was about to turn into a mob when the old man spoke
again. “Silence! There is a way to uncover the truth.”
“How?” yelled the crowd.
“We will ask the corpse!”
Groans, gasps.
“I have with me my Egyptian friend Zatchlas, a priest of the old religion. He knows all
the ancient secrets—he can cause it to rain, make buildings crumble, and most importantly, raise
the dead. I’ve already paid him for a day of his services, and I can think of no better way to use
it than to achieve justice in this crime most foul. Zatchlas, join me here, please.”
Zatchlas—his head completely shaved, wearing a simple brown robe and plain leather
sandals—stood by the old man’s side. He whispered something in the old man’s ear.
“We only ask, Zatchlas, that you take some of the sun and instill it in this man’s eyes for
a few minutes, to allow him to reveal the truth. We do not wish to steal back what rightfully
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belongs in Heaven. A shred of his soul surely still remains in his body; it is not too late.”
Zatchlas agreed, then. Taking a small plastic bag from an inside pocket of his robe, he
rubbed an herb over the corpse’s face. He then bent himself prostrate toward the east,
murmuring prayers or incantations, to this day I’m not sure which. Before my own two eyes, the
corpse’s chest began to swell with breath; its skin became ruddy as blood rushed through arteries
and veins; its eyelids flickered and blinked open.
“Dammit,” it said.
Several women in the crowd gasped.
“What the hell?” it said.
“Laurel,” began his uncle.
“Jesus Fucking Christ,” it said. “Why did you wake me up?”
“It’s only temporary,” assured the old man.
“I just want to sleep,” it said, and rolled over.
“Let me handle this,” said the priest. “Corpse! Do you know what power you reckon
with? I am Zatchlas, and in my palm I wield the light of the sun, the weight of the earth, and the
mandate of Isis. Do you think that I can’t torture your body, whether it’s alive or dead? Do you
think that you are anything more than my puppet?”
The corpse turned to face Zatchlas and spat in his face. Zatchlas snapped his fingers and
the corpse winced. “That’s only a taste of what I can do. Tell us, corpse, how you died. That is
all we seek from you, and then you can return to the dead.”
“Dammit. All right then. I was poisoned; my wine was laced with arsenic, and my bed
was still warm from another man’s body. Good enough?”
The corpse clutched his heart as if about to die. “Not yet,” said Zatchlas. He sensed the
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crowd was not satisfied; half of them were yelling angrily to arrest the widow, but the other half
said that a corpse could not be trusted. “Not everyone believes you,” said the priest.
“Okay. I’ll tell you all something that only I could possibly know—if that doesn’t prove
that I’m telling the truth, nothing will.” The corpse pointed directly at me. “My guard, last
night, fell asleep at his post. While he was snoring, a trio of witches appeared in the room,
chanting a magic spell:
“We come for a nose and two things aural: come and donate them, Mr. Laurel.
“And luckily for me, my guard’s name was Laurel, just like mine! After he rose up in a
trance, shuffling over to their three outstretched hands (each hand wielding a knife), two witches
cut off an ear, and the middle one sliced away his nose. Before leaving, they glued on silicone
replacements, and no one was the wiser.”
I was quite alarmed by this. With the whole crowd watching me, I tested whether the
story was true. I yanked on my ears, and both of them came away from my head with my hands.
I rubbed my nose, and it fell into the dirt of the cemetery. Mortified, I ran from the crowd as
quickly as I could.
Chapter 7: Robbers Attack!
“So, that’s why I now keep my hair so long, and why I have this ridiculous bandage in
the middle of my face,” Laurel concluded, shaking his shaggy hair back to reveal two holes
where ears should have been.
All the banqueters erupted into laughter. “Thank you, Laurel, that was delightful!” said
Bryanna. As everyone resumed their previous conversations, my aunt turned to me and said,
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“Now, Luke, since you’re not from Minneapolis, you probably don’t know that tomorrow is the
Festival of Laughter.” Her face was somewhat swimming.
“The what?”
“It’s an annual holiday unique to our city. Everyone takes the day off work and we all try
and have as much fun as possible. The idea is that by dedicating one day to laughter and cheer,
we’ll be able to laugh the rest of the year—that’s from the Festival of Laughter Anthem, you
know.”
“That’s fairy vacillating,” I said.
“What?”
“Sorry, very fascinating. Was my seech splurring?”
“Yes, a little bit,” Bryanna laughed and I joined in, not at all embarrassed. She went on,
“Your presence in our city during the holiday signals that this will be one of the best Festivals
ever. If you could help us celebrate by having an extra good time tomorrow, thinking up
something funny to do or show, the holiday would be all the better.”
“Of course, Aunt Byrrena. Bryanna.” I hiccupped and looked at my watch, it was well
past the time I had told Flo I would be home. “Well, I must be going. Thank you for a
wonderful evening.” I said the rest of my goodbyes and soon was out the door.
One of Bryanna’s servants was kind enough to drive me home, dropping me off in front
of Milo’s house and then speeding away at once to chauffer other equally tipsy guests. I noticed
three men at Milo’s fence, which had been locked up tight for the night. They didn’t notice me.
“So we cut through the fence,” said the biggest man, a hulking beast of a human being, “and we
loot the place. We all know Milo has his gold hidden somewhere in there.”
“His safe!” said a scrawny man in a squeaking voice. The moonlight illuminated a
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deeply scarred face and a pair of beady little eyes.
“Yes, but where is the safe?” said the first man. “That’s what we don’t know.” He
turned to the other man. “You remembered your gun this time, right?”
“The gun and ammunition.”
“Good. We don’t want to leave anyone alive to raise an alarm before we’re well into
Canada. Milo’s such a hermit that no one will think his absence suspicious for a couple days, at
least.”
I was sweating profusely, faced not just with robbers, but with murderers! I couldn’t live
with myself if I slinked away into the night, letting the villains have their way with my host, his
wife, and most importantly, Flo. As the biggest man took out an enormous pair of wire cutters to
break through the chain-link fence, I silently snuck closer and, drawing my knife, leapt upon the
man who claimed to have a gun. I stabbed him again and again in the back and neck. He made a
noise like I’ve never heard a human make—it reminded me of one of my cows after it broke its
leg crossing a river. The others were upon me at once, wrestling me, beating me, pounding me,
but keeping a firm grip on my knife I tore into the hulking man’s stomach. The warm blood
spilled onto my suit; I felt his intestines tumble through my hands. Then the rat-like man, either
not realizing he was doomed or too stubborn to give up, was next to be disposed by my knife.
Gasping, I watched the last breaths of life sputter out of the bleeding bodies, regaining
my composure. Taking out the key Milo had given me, I unlocked the fence and trudged toward
the front door. Flo, who had evidently been roused by the racket, met me at the door, just
looking at me. I crept inside, bathed in blood and sweat. Too exhausted to do anything else, I
collapsed on my bed and immediately fell asleep.
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Part 3: The Festival of Laughter
Chapter 1: Waking up a Murderer
The sun’s rays roused me; their light warmed the room, warmed the soil outside, too,
sending the fragrant scent of dew and manure wafting through the open window. I rested in bed,
snug under my covers in the chill morning air, enjoying the melodious birdsong, until I stretched
my arms and remembered that I had blood on my hands. Unfortunately, this was literally true,
and I had made quite a mess of my sheets. As I left the realm of dreams and my thoughts
became more coherent, my worry quickly grew from whether I would be able to get all the
bloodstains out in the wash to whether I would be arrested and convicted. Arrest seemed
inevitable—I had killed three men, after all—and I was actually surprised I had not been
detained already, dragged from my bed during the night. But conviction was much less of a
certainty. Hadn’t I been acting in self-defense? Not only in self-defense, but to defend the life
and property of one of Minneapolis’s most upstanding citizens. And perhaps I would receive a
kind, lenient judge. I prayed that this would be so.
The chirping birds were interrupted by the wail of sirens, the screeching of tires, and
human voices. I quickly changed out of my bloody suit and put on a clean dress shirt and slacks.
Impression would be everything today.
Loud knocks at the door woke up the rest of the household. I heard Milo screaming for
everyone to go away and leave him alone, it’s the crack of dawn on a Saturday for Christ’s sake,
but apparently no one paid him any heed for soon footsteps were approaching my bedroom. I
took one last quick glance out the window as a free man and was startled to see that besides
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several squad cars outside, numerous onlookers were clustered together on Milo’s property, the
police hastily setting up barricades to keep everyone back. The crowd seemed curious, jovial,
like good friends and neighbors sharing in some delightful gossip.
“Are you Luke?” asked one of the several officers who had barged through my door.
“Yes, sir.” It was show time—I had to appear calm, confident, and candid.
“You are under arrest under the charge of a triple homicide,” he said, and he read me my
Miranda rights.
“I understand completely, officer, and I would expect nothing less from men of your
caliber. But I assure you that once I have a fair trial, I will be acquitted of all charges.”
“Save it for court,” said the officer.
I remained silent and went with them peacefully. As they led me through the house, Milo
continued to rant about this invasion to his privacy, and I heard Flo crying in her own bedroom.
Pamela was nowhere to be seen. My hands cuffed behind my back, we proceeded to the nearest
vehicle and they roughly pushed me into the back seat. Everything was progressing according to
the television police dramas I sometimes watched, except for the crowd—they were not stonyfaced and grim as they looked upon this suspected multiple murder, nor were they jeering at a
criminal being taken to Lady Law. No, they seemed to be suppressing smiles and a few were
even laughing jovially. Perhaps the goons I had killed were well-known, a real nuisance upon
society, and I would be let off scot free. I would be happy to celebrate with this crowd!
The officer driving turned on his siren and the crowd cleared a path in the road to let the
car through. Many of the bystanders got into their own vehicles, parked all along the street, and
followed, a few even running behind on foot. When we arrived at the jail, so many people came
into the building that the police had to ask some to leave. The whole time I couldn’t help but
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think that this was the friendliest mob I had ever seen.
I was escorted to a cell and the officer told me that he would return to tell me when my
court date had been set, to give me time to find a lawyer and prepare my defense. I happily told
him I would represent myself, thank you very much. He grinned and said, “Excellent.”
I wondered how long this cell would be my home, how many hours I would stare at these
stony grey walls, how many times I would need to use the tiny toilet in the corner, how many
nights I would spend on the thin mattress covered by thin sheets. I began to miss Flo, and
Tatiana, and even Milo and Pamela. Would I ever see them again? They say you don’t
appreciate the pleasures in life until you lose them, and I now understood that sentiment. Would
I ever ride another horse? Would I ever walk again through prairies and fields and forests?
Would I ever see my friends again, dine with Aunt Bryanna, or kiss another woman? The walls
were closing in on me, the cell was shrinking, I couldn’t breathe—there was nothing more
insufferable than this wretched, terrible confinement. I rattled the handle of the door, but it was
locked. I sat down on the bed, weeping. How long had I been in this hellhole? An hour? A
day? My trial couldn’t come a moment sooner.
Days after the guard left (well, it had apparently been only five minutes, according to his
watch), he returned to say that my trial had been slated for that very day, in about an hour. That
was shorter notice than I had expected; I gulped involuntarily. The officer said we should head
over to the courthouse at once so we could begin the trial on time. And so my terrible
confinement in my cell ended.
The courtroom they brought me to was small, so small, in fact, that people were sitting in
each other’s laps, standing in the aisles, and even poking their heads in through the windows
from the outside. The public interest in my trial was wearing on my nerves; how would I act
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with so many eyes upon me? The judge entered and at once told the bailiff that this was
unacceptable, completely ridiculous, not to mention a fire hazard, and ordered the trial be moved
and sent the bailiff out of the room to reschedule. I sighed in relief; perhaps the trial would have
a smaller number of spectators on a later date, even if it did mean spending a few more days in
jail. But when the bailiff returned and announced, “We will be moving to the Orpheum
Theatre,” I realized that the judge had not meant that the date be moved; rather, the location
would be.
The Orpheum, which I learned from my escort had a capacity of about 2,500 people, fit
the inexplicably happy crowd more or less comfortably. The staff had quickly set up some
chairs and tables on the main stage, and a harsh white light illuminated everybody. Microphones
were stationed all around to pick up everything we said. I sat at a table by myself, facing away
from the crowd; the prosecution sat at another; there was an empty table for the judge.
“All rise,” said the bailiff, and the crowd shuffled, groaned, and cheered behind me.
The judge entered from the wings and took his seat. He banged his gavel and the
chattering crowd grew silent.
Chapter 2: The Trial
“The defense is charged with three counts of intentional homicide,” said the judge.
“Would the prosecution please state the evidence against the defendant?”
The prosecutor, a silver-haired old man whose hunched back and wizened face signaled
to me many innocent men put behind bars by the gravitas of his words, stood up.
“Fellow Minneapolitans, good afternoon. This man”—the prosecutor pointed at me—“is
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a murderer. He took the life of three fine citizens, ending three promising futures, leaving three
dark stains on the history of our city. He is not even one of our own residents, but rather a guest
from out of town. When we would even punish our own citizens for a crime of this magnitude,
surely we would not let a visitor waltz in here and walk away unpunished. Let Luke be an
example for future criminals, let his terrible fate deter anyone else who is considering such a
crime. I’d like to call my first witness to the stand: Officer Bostick, please rise.”
Officer Bostick, supported by crutches, came onto the stage; the bailiff swore him in.
“Officer Bostick, what do you do for a living?”
“I am a police officer.”
“And would you say you are good at your job?”
“Yes, sir. I have been awarded Officer of the Month four times in the past six months,
and I have never been disciplined for poor or inadequate conduct. I pride myself on my
diligence and honesty.”
“Officer Bostick, did you see this man any time yesterday?”
“I did, last night.”
“Please tell the judge what you observed.”
“I was patrolling the streets during my shift, around two thirty in the morning. I was
driving down Highway 55 when I saw several people clustered around the fence of a residence. I
slowed down and one of them collapsed. I got out of my vehicle and started running toward the
scene and noticed another body on the ground—the grass was so slick with blood that I fell and
badly sprained my ankle.” Officer Bostick raised up one of his crutches. “I was unable to
intervene after my injury, so I radioed for backup. In the meantime, I saw the defendant,
staggering and raving in his absolute drunkenness, savagely turn on the final man he was
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attacking. He gripped his knife, dripping with the blood of his first two victims, and slashed at
the defenseless boy. He was like an animal, a monster—his eyes glanced my way and I swear
they were not human. He stabbed straight down, again and again and again—I’ve never seen
such brutality!”
Officer Bostick’s voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands. After regaining his
composure, he continued.
“The murderer then fled inside the house, locking the fence and front door behind him.
When the other officers finally arrived, I had them establish a perimeter around the premises
while I obtained a warrant for the man’s arrest. Dealing with such an armed and dangerous
criminal, we wanted to be as careful and prudent as possible, and I am pleased to say we
captured the man without injury to any of our staff, nor to any of the residents of the house the
criminal was hiding in. I’m confident that your fine judgment will bring this cruel murderer to
justice.”
Officer Bostick crutched himself into the main theater. The prosecutor stood up and said,
“My next witness is Maria Thompson.”
The doors at the back of the theater burst open, and two women stumbled toward the
stage. Clothed in black, both wept loudly. The younger of the two carried a toddler with her; the
older clutched a bouquet of poppies. The older one took a seat in a reserved seat in the front
row, and the younger one gave her the child before climbing onto the stage. The bailiff swore
her in once she gained control over her tears.
“State your name.”
“Maria Thompson.”
“And what is the nature of your relationship with the victims?”
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“Tom was my husband, the others were his friends.”
“Has your husband ever committed a crime?”
“He got a speeding ticket once.”
“Besides that?”
“Nothing.”
“The defendant will likely claim that the victims were thieves and murderers. Will his
claim be accurate?”
“Of course not! My husband was a good man, a good father. That man there has
condemned me to a broken home as a broken woman. I don’t know how I’m going to raise our
son, how I’m going to make a living and be a good mother. How could he be so vicious? The
bodies had dozens of stab wounds. Dozens! He has ruined our lives! Please, Your Honor,
sentence him as harshly as the law allows; knowing he is behind bars and unable to hurt others
will be my only comfort.”
She screeched and bawled and the prosecutor excused her from the stand. His silver hair
gleamed like a halo.
“So, one of our city’s noble police officers clearly witnessed the crime: a monstrous,
brutal, and unprovoked deed. The wives and mothers of the victims are distraught, their lives in
shambles. And even though you could hardly need more evidence, allow me to introduce
exhibits A, B, and C.”
Several members of the court staff wheeled in a large table from offstage. Covered by a
large white sheet, three bodies lay motionless.
“We have the bodies of the victims! Who can say this man is innocent when the
evidence of his cruelty lies here dead, right before your eyes? I rest my case.”
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The judge looked at me. “Luke, you are representing yourself, is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said.
“Please respond as you see fit.”
My hands trembled as I walked over to the makeshift witness stand. “I call myself as my
first and only witness,” I quavered. I took a deep breath, remembering my resolution to seem
nothing other than calm, confident, and candid.
“Fellow Americans,” I began, wincing internally at the corniness of my speech. I thought
back to my days on the speech team in college—the principles of rhetoric, the strategies for
effective improvised oration, the informal and sometimes farcical debates I’d had with my
teammates—and as I went on, I quickly gained confidence.
“My defense rests on this one point: I was acting in self-defense, and my actions last
night were not only rational but just. I will not say that Officer Bostick told you nothing but lies;
he is a good man with good intentions, and saw many things correctly, but he has the most
important parts of the story wrong. Yes, I admit I was drunk last night, but which of us hasn’t
had a few too many glasses of wine at a dinner party? That part of the story is true, but there’s
no harm in that. The prosecution is wrong to say, however, that I acted unprovoked.
“When I returned home from my Aunt Bryanna’s house last night, there were three men
attempting to break into the home of the man who has been so kind to lodge me, Milo. They
were hulking, threatening men—look at the shapes of their bodies on the table there. You
wouldn’t want to meet any of them in a dark alley, and that’s exactly what happened to me,
encountering all three at once. They were detailing their plan, spit flying from their mouths,
their eyes wild and rabid. ‘We’ll break in,’ they said, ‘and steal all of Milo’s possessions. If we
encounter anyone, we’ll kill them. In fact, we’d better kill everyone inside for good measure, to
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give us as long as possible to escape.’ They all had large, deadly guns, or at least I believed they
did. I saw one, a semiautomatic handgun that has no use besides killing people, which I’m sure
was recovered at the crime scene.
“Now, I’m not the sort of man who sits idly by when multiple murders are about to be
committed. I didn’t know how long it would take for help to arrive if I called the police or even
the neighbors, so I decided to take matters into my own hands, protecting our good citizens and
preventing a heinous crime. I drew my knife and yelled, I told them to get back, to leave. I
expected them to run off, that they wouldn’t really want a violent confrontation. But they just
laughed at my warning—and it was a fair warning, too, Your Honor. They advanced on me and
started to beat me, that’s how I got these bruises. They did not let up their attack, though I
screamed for help and asked for mercy. I was nearly killed myself, and so I had no choice about
what I did next. I did not want to kill them, but I acted to defend myself, using the only weapon
available to me, my knife. Even after the first man lay bleeding on the ground, the others
continued their assault. I was horrified by my actions, but at the same time, I realized that by
eliminating such a violent threat from the city, I was benefitting all of society.
“I’d like to conclude by emphasizing that I’ve always been a model citizen. I always
obey the law, and I seek to be a role model for everyone in my life. And so, regarding my
actions late last night, I am confident each of you would have done the same thing. In fact, I
woke up this morning fully expecting to be applauded for my deeds, not roughly dragged from
my home, locked in a jail cell, and slandered before this kind crowd. I thus proclaim my
innocence.”
I was fairly pleased with myself; I thought I had spoken well. I was beginning to think
that I might get off without further punishment; the prosecution’s testimony had not been any
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more powerful than mine. I looked out into the crowd, and was startled to see many people
smiling—not the smile you have when you hear an honest man speak, but full grins, nearly
derisive. I heard some chuckles and giggles. I saw Milo’s face in the crowd; even he was
chuckling softly. I fumed. This was the thanks I got for defending his home and his honor?
The judge banged his gavel.
“There is no question in this case, rarely do I have an easier verdict. This man is clearly
guilty of three counts of intentional homicide; not even he denies the charges against him. Three
men are dead, and the killer is right here—his sentence will be as harsh as the law allows, the
only justice on this tragic day.”
As cold fear flooded my body, the old woman who had accompanied Maria Thompson
stood up. “Your Honor, before you announce the sentence, please, make Luke uncover the
bodies on the table, so the crowd sees the true extent of his evil, so we all know that he deserves
everything you give him.”
The judge thought for a moment. “It’s unorthodox, but I think that’s fair. Luke, uncover
the bodies.”
I was aghast. Being forced to remove the sheet, revealing the mutilated corpses, was
surely cruel and unusual! But several officers, marching out from the wings, gripped my arms
and led me to the table. I didn’t, couldn’t resist them. They laid my hands on the top of the
sheet. “Pull,” commanded an officer.
I closed my eyes and pulled.
The crowd burst into laughter.
I looked down at the table and didn’t understand what I saw. There were no bodies on
the table, but three life-size inflatable dolls, deflated. I didn’t understand, but as I stared at them
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I realized they had puncture wounds exactly corresponding to where I had stabbed the robbers
last night.
The crowd was still laughing uproariously. The house lights had come on, and they were
applauding, standing, filing out of the theater. The judge was unzipping his robe, the staff were
clearing the tables and chairs off stage. “Move, please,” said one; I stood up, my chair was taken
away. Overwhelmed by emotion and confusion, I bent down on my knees and hid my face in my
hands.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Come on, Luke,” said Milo, grinning. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter 3: After the Trial
The whole trip home, anytime someone noticed me, they pointed and laughed. Milo took
a circuitous route to avoid the largest crowds, but it was still a miserable journey. I asked him
what had happened: “It was all a joke,” he said. “Don’t think anything of it.”
I didn’t understand how it could be just a joke, or how I could just forget about it, but
Milo either said my concerns were unwarranted or ignored me outright.
Later that day, the judge, prosecutor, and Officer Bostick (no longer on crutches) came to
Milo’s house. “We’d like to formally apologize for your ordeal this morning,” they said.
“Milo said it was all a joke?”
“Exactly!” said the judge, delighted I apparently understood.
“How was putting me through hell a joke?”
“Something like this happens every year. It’s all part of the Festival of Laughter, you
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see. The past few years, the jokes have been getting more and more elaborate.”
“So you’re not a judge?”
“Nope. We’re all paid actors.”
I sputtered, speechless.
“Luke, calm down. I have some good news for you. To thank you for being such a good
sport about this, I am pleased to offer you, on behalf of the city of Minneapolis, the title of this
year’s Festival of Laughter Hero, a nice cash settlement, and the key to the city. And, I almost
forgot, your statue will be erected along the Festival of Laughter Walk of Fame. Just sign this
non-liability form.”
There was suddenly a legal document and pen in front of me. I sighed, weighing the pros
and cons of a legal battle against the city for the mental anguish I suffered, and—seeing the
generous value of the settlement—I decided it wasn’t worth it. I signed the form, and the three
actors left.
As they left the house, one of Bryanna’s staff was walking up to the door. “Hello, Luke!”
he called.
“Hello!” I called back, hoping he wouldn’t realize I didn’t remember his name.
“I’m here to personally deliver an invitation from Bryanna to attend a dinner soiree at her
home tonight. I have a note.”
Dearest Luke, it said. I would be delighted to have you over for dinner again tonight!
I’m sure our guests would be thrilled to hear about what you went through today. I absolutely
insist that you attend. Much love, Bryanna
“Please give Bryanna my sincerest apologies,” I told the messenger. “I already promised
Milo that I would dine with him and Pamela tonight, and I would feel just awful calling off our
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plans.”
As if on cue, Milo came out of the living room and joined me at the front door. “Come
on, Luke, we’re not moping inside all day, remember? Let’s leave for the mall in ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Milo,” I said, and the messenger left.
“Are we really going to the mall?”
“Yep. I feel bad about this morning. I mean, I’m not going to buy anything, of course.”
I laughed. “Of course.”
Our walk through the mall was worse than the ride home from the Orpheum Theatre,
since hiding behind Milo was much less effective than slouching down in the seat of his car.
People kept pointing and celebrating the theme of the day’s festival. I bought some chocolate
from a candy store, but it didn’t cheer me up.
“Why did you think this would be a good idea?”
“Better to know what people are thinking than leaving it to your imagination, right?”
“Of course not! I’m the laughing stock of the whole city!” Someone took a picture of
me. “That’s it, we’re leaving.”
At home we had dinner, one of Milo’s specialties: Kraft macaroni and cheese. We ate in
silence, and I went to bed early.
Flo came to my room around ten. She was very dour, not her usual chatty, playful,
teasing self. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “You look more upset than I feel. And that’s saying
something, given my day.”
Flo groaned at this. “Oh, Luke, it’s all my fault!”
“What?”
“I’m the one who picked you to be the Festival Hero.”
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I stared at her, furious at first, but she looked so apologetic, so upset, that I couldn’t stay
angry at her.
She walked to my closet and grabbed one of my belts. “Beat me.”
“What?”
“Beat me. Punish me so that we experience the same pain.”
“Flo, don’t be stupid, I’m not going to beat you.”
“Please?” She pressed the belt into my hands.
“No.” I walked to the closet and hung the belt back up. “But I still don’t know what
happened last night. I know I killed three people, but today they were toys. Can you explain
that?”
She looked at me thoughtfully. “Were you in a frat in college?”
“Yes, why?”
“Would you ever tell me about your frat’s secret rituals?”
“Of course not. We took a brotherly vow.”
“Good. I want you to treat what I tell you as if it was your frat’s most important mystery.
Can you swear to that?”
“I swear it.”
“Ok. I trust you. Please, don’t tell this to a soul—I’m about to explain some of Milo’s
secrets, and more importantly, his wife’s.”
Chapter 4: Flo’s Confession
As I suspect you already know, said Flo, Pamela is a witch. She’s quite a good witch too,
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able to animate plants and objects, and to change the shape of herself or her enemies. But she
has one weakness—handsome young men. Once she spies one who catches her eye just right,
she can’t get him out of her mind. She won’t be free of the thought of his attractive body until
she’s made a feast of him, chewing him up and spitting him out. She’s terribly afflicted right
now with her infatuation with a muscular young man from Iowa. Under the cover of darkness,
she’s been trying to concoct the perfect love potion for his strong, resistant soul.
The other day, we were walking past a barbershop and she saw this Iowan getting his hair
cut. She ordered me to sneak in and steal some of the hair. “I’ll meet you at home,” she said.
“Don’t come home without it.”
I tried to open the door quietly, but a little bell chimed and ruined my cover. “Can I help
you?” asked the barber.
“Um, uh, no,” I stammered, “I came in here by mistake. I’ll just be on my way.” I turned
to leave and said loudly, “Oh, my shoe’s untied.” I raised my foot onto the windowsill and
pretended to tie it, feigned losing my balance, and toppled over near the barber chair. I groaned,
lifted myself onto my hands and knees, and tried to grab two fistfuls of hair.
“Hey!” said the barber, yanking me up by my hair. “Don’t I know you?”
“I’ve never seen you before,” I said.
“You’re that girl who’s always following that witch around, whatshername, Pamela.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me, I remember you both clearly now. You were in here last year, trying to
steal another man’s hair, undoubtedly to curse him with some potion.”
I still had a few pieces of hair clutched in my palms, so I decided a strong offense would
be the best defense. “If you think you’re going to abuse and insult me like this, you’re wrong! I
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won’t have any of it—screw you!” I turned to march out the door, but the barber grabbed my
wrist.
“Open your fists.”
“No!”
“Open them.”
I struggled and tried to leave, but the barber was too strong. He wrenched open my
fingers and brushed off the last strands of the young man’s hair. Then he dragged me out the
door, locking it behind me.
Dejected, I began walking home, worried about what Pamela would say. She would
undoubtedly punish me for failing to get the hair, and let me tell you, Luke, no one ever wants to
be on the receiving end of Pamela’s fury.
When I got back here, I hid in the barn for a little while, not wanting to face her. I
stroked Tatiana and even brushed Milo’s donkey, looking absentmindedly at the animals grazing
in the pasture. Suddenly I realized that one of the goats had hair nearly exactly the same color as
the Iowan boy. I grabbed a scissors and cut off some of its fur.
At night Pamela and I went up to her secret workshop, which is hidden away on the roof
of our house. It’s a little room with windows facing every direction, allowing her to call upon
whatever winds or stars she might need for her craft. She has boxes and boxes of magical herbs
and plants and all sorts of spare body parts to aid in her transformation—a bag of beaks, a closet
of feathers and wings, a dozen cartons of noses, a heaping pile of fingers, a freezer full of entrails
and eyeballs and other organs, anything you might need, most of it a tad bloodstained but
nevertheless all usable for her purposes.
She was going to use the hair to capture the young man—she’d create some men she
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could use as puppets who would find the young man by the scent of his hair. So, she brewed up
a potion with sulfur, cinnamon, and three drops of her own blood. Last, she added the hairs I had
brought her earlier. As her cauldron boiled, hissed, and steamed, she blew up three inflatable
dolls that would be the foundation of each body. When she dipped each doll in the potion, they
enlarged, hardened, and writhed, becoming no different than another man.
She ordered them to find her target, and they leapt off the roof and sprinted into the
street. Sniffing like dogs, they realized that their prey was behind them, in Milo’s yard, but the
fence had latched and locked behind them. As they tried to get back in, you showed up, drunk
off your ass. You pulled out your knife and popped them, one after another. So you see, you’re
not a homicide, but a dollicide.
Chapter 5: On Becoming an Owl
I applauded Flo’s story. “It all makes sense now! And let me guess, when Pamela
discovered your deception, you said my confusion could become the house’s contribution to the
Festival of Laughter?”
“Yeah, it was either that or some torturous punishment.”
“Well, Flo, I’m not going to lie to you. What I went through today felt like torture.
There’s one more thing you could do to make it up to me.”
“Anything.”
“Bring me to Pamela’s workshop one night when she’s doing some spell. Let me watch
her in secret, let me see her raise the dead or create new life or change her shape. If I could
witness something so wonderful, that would make my entire ordeal worthwhile.”
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Flo didn’t respond for a few seconds, thinking hard. I tried to strengthen my case with a
little flattery. “It’s obvious that you’re also a bit magic yourself, you know everything Pamela is
up to around here. You’ve captured me as your slave, and I’ll willingly serve you forever—
showing me Pamela would strengthen the chain between us. I don’t want any money or gifts
from you, I have everything I need here, and I’m not planning to return home anytime soon. All
I ask is one night of observation—I’m sure you could conceal me so that Pamela would never
know I was even there.”
Flo took a deep breath, sighing heavily. “Fine. But, Luke, know that you’re asking a lot
from me. It’ll be very dangerous for both of us—if she catches us, we’re done for. I don’t know
when you’ll be able to spy on her, it’s not like she does magic every single night, but I’ll keep
my eyes open for a suitable opportunity.”
“That’s all I ask,” and leaning over I planted a kiss on her lips. She returned it, a bit
hesitantly at first, but with each kiss her guilt diminished, and her kisses became deeper and
livelier until at last we could bear it no more, tore off our clothes, and spent the night in each
other’s embrace. The next few nights were spent in this way as well.
Less than a week later, Flo came to me one evening and said, “Tonight you can watch
Pamela. She doesn’t need any help from me for this spell, so I can stand guard and keep us safe.
Meet me outside the barn at ten to midnight.”
It turned out that Flo and I spent the hours between ten and twelve together that evening,
so we simply headed up to the roof together, bypassing our barnyard rendezvous. There was a
hole in the wall of Pamela’s rooftop workshop, a surprisingly shabby structure of plaster and
drywall. Apparently Pamela had no carpentry spell. Flo said I could see everything through the
hole, and she would keep watch and help me hide or escape if Pamela suspected she was being
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watched.
Pamela was sitting by herself at a large worktable. Breathing deeply, she seemed to be
asleep, but I suspected she was gathering her energy for her magic.
When a bell tower a few streets away struck midnight, Pamela stood up. She stripped off
her clothes and took a jar out of one of the cabinets. I wondered what foul thing was inside it—
toenails? tongues? testicles? But no, when she opened it up, the jar just had an innocuouslooking tan cream. She took out a big gob of the stuff and replaced the jar in the cabinet. She
rubbed the cream all over herself, whispering incantations, and after a minute or two her body
began to change shape. Her nose and mouth hardened into a beak, feathers sprouted all over her
body, her arms grew into wings, her toes sharpened and curved into talons, and her whispers
began to sound like hoots.
Pamela became an owl.
She spread and folded her wings a few times, testing them. She hopped up onto a
windowsill and flew silently away into the night.
Chapter 6: On Not Becoming an Owl
Was I dreaming?
“Am I dreaming?” I asked Flo.
She laughed softly. “No, you’re not dreaming. Come on, let’s go downstairs.”
“Wait,” I said. “Let me try it.”
“Try what?”
“The ointment. I want to fly! It’s always been a dream of mine.”
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“No. The deal was you get to watch Pamela do magic, that’s it. You saw her do magic,
so it’s time to go.”
“Please, Flo, I beg you. If I could soar through the sky, leaving all my troubles behind
me on Earth, I’d be the happiest I’ve ever been.”
“Is that what I am? A trouble you want to leave behind?”
“Come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How do I know you’re not flying off to see some another woman? I have enough
trouble keeping my eye on you when you have both feet on the ground!”
“Flo, I would never be unfaithful to you. Never in a million years. I just want to be an
owl, to experience weightlessness, to be able to turn my head all the way around, to be able to
see for miles through the dark. That’s how I live my life, seeking new experiences, new stories
to tell, and you’re going to deny this to me?”
Flo huffed unhappily but said, “Fine. Hang on, I’ll get the ointment.”
We stepped into the workshop and I sat at the table where Pamela had been sitting just a
few minutes before. Flo brought me the jar.
I eagerly tossed off my clothes and unscrewed the lid. Dipping my hand into the jar, I
said, “Thank you, Flo, I’ll be back soon! Boy, won’t I make a good lover as an owl? Only
joking! Oh, and before I lose my power of speech, I should ask you, how do I become a human
again? Does the spell just wear off? I’d hate to flap my wings hundreds of feet in the air and
realize all I have are two flightless arms.”
“No, you don’t need to worry about that. You just prepare a simple remedy to become
human again. I can do it for you when you return. You’ll need to rinse yourself in a bath of
spring water, dill, and bay leaves, and drink some of the mixture too. That’s all there’s to it.”
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With that, I smeared the ointment in my palms all over my body. “Is there an incantation
I need to recite? Pamela was whispering something when we watched her.”
“She does that out of habit, but she makes these ointments powerful enough that they
work on their own. Just rub it in.”
I vigorously did so, and I felt myself begin to transform. My back became hunched, my
neck grew longer, I felt little hairs poking out all over my skin. I lost my fingers as my hands
touched the ground, my toes merged into two hooves, and I felt something swishing behind my
butt. I brayed in panic because I was very clearly not becoming an owl.
I was an ass.
I had bristly, golden hair, four stumpy legs, a long black tail, and a mane that itched
worse than a half-grown beard. The only upside that I could see was that my favorite part of my
body had more than quadrupled in size.
I turned to Flo to complain, to reprimand her for letting this happen to me, but I couldn’t
say anything she could comprehend.
“Shoot!” said Flo. “I grabbed the wrong jar. They all look so similar.”
I stomped my foot angrily.
“Calm down, Luke, you look very handsome as an ass, much better than an owl!”
I stomped my foot harder.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you back to normal soon. All you need to do is chew some rose
petals. It’s too bad I’m all out! I’ll run downtown first thing in the morning and get you some. I
guess you’ll just have to stay in the stable tonight.”
I snorted dejectedly. This was without a doubt the worst day of my life, even worse than
the day of the false trial. At least then I had had a bed to sleep in!
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Flo climbed down from the workshop and grabbed some spare pieces of wooden siding
from the barn. She propped these up against the roof, making a steep ramp for me to slide down
on. I peered over the edge and scrambled backwards—it was a long fall to the ground!
“Come on, you scaredy cat,” said Flo. “I’ll give you a carrot when you get down.”
A carrot? She was treating me like an actual ass now, not the man I was! But I toed my
way onto the wood and tumbled safely to the ground. I turned my nose up at the carrot Flo
offered me.
I never realized what miserable places stables were until I was forced to spend the night
in one. There was no heat, no light, no bathroom, nothing that made modern life bearable. I
hoped that Tatiana and Milo’s ass would become my companions. Was there a secret language
binding animals together? Would they be able to understand me?
“Hello,” I neighed.
They cocked their heads. “It’s me, Luke,” I said. “I’m one of you for tonight.”
They had no idea what I was saying. I approached the pile of hay—hay that I myself had
put down that very afternoon—but they bared their teeth and growled like dogs. I hadn’t known
horses and asses could even do that. They advanced on me and drove me back into the far corner
of the stable, where my stableman Jim was sleeping. I stood quietly, not wanting to wake him
up. If he found a strange new animal in the stable, he would only complicate things and cause
trouble. He might have me taken to an animal shelter at once, that’s the kind of righteous gogetting do-gooder he was. As dank as Milo’s barn was, it was still preferable to many other
places I could spend the night.
Jim, a rather religious man, had hung a cross on the wall and with a little ledge beneath it.
On the ledge sat a portrait of the pope, a figure of the Virgin Mary, and five rose petals to
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symbolize Christ’s five wounds. Rose petals. I galloped to the wall and began desperately
trying to climb it, my hooves scraping loudly against the wood. I craned my neck as high as I
could, pushed my lips away from my teeth, and extended my tongue as far as possible, slapping
it clumsily against the ledge. It barely reached—I needed just a few more inches.
Jim had woken up. He grabbed a pitchfork and raced toward me. “I have a dream,” he
said, “that one day this world will be free of strange asses. I have a dream,” he continued, “that
one day beasts and men alike will stop attempting to befoul the wounds of our Lord and Savior
Jesus Christ.”
And with that he took the blunt end of the pitchfork and began beating my hide. “Get
back, ass!” But I would have none of it. I was so close to roses! I prepared to kick poor Jim so I
could reach the petals in peace. Noticing my increasing aggression, Jim turned the pitchfork
around, leaving me staring at four angry iron spikes. I hesitated, and Jim thwacked me on the
head with the sides of the fork. He hit me again and again and all I could do was cower. He was
interrupted, however, by Milo screaming, “Help! Robbers!”
Chapter 7: Actual Robbers Attack!
Jim gave me a final glare and rushed out of the barn to see what was going on. I crept
behind him, not wanting to miss any of the action. Milo was standing on his porch with a
shotgun, surrounded by a ring of men. They looked like a gang; they all had identical buzz cuts,
torn, old t-shirts or tank tops, holey blue jeans, and a few wore knit skullcaps.
“Get away from my house!” Milo yelled. “Luke! Pam! Flo! Jim! Help!”
Pamela and I obviously did not appear, not being human at the moment. I didn’t know
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where Flo was, but I hoped she was keeping her head down—especially after I spotted moonlight
glinting off a few of the men’s knives. Jim was frozen, a few yards in front of me, the pitchfork
limp in his hand.
“We’re armed, old man,” said the ringleader. “Give up, and don’t make us kill you. Put
down the gun.”
“No,” said Milo.
“Put down the gun, and give us the key to your safe.”
“No,” repeated Milo. “I’m going to count to three, and if you’re not off my property, I’ll
shoot.” He fired off a warning shot to emphasize his point, and the robbers flinched. “One.”
“Now!” yelled the leader, and the ring of men jumped on Milo. Before he could react,
they had him on the ground and were binding his hands and feet behind his back, his gun wrested
away before he could pull the trigger a second time. Milo let out a stream of curses. Jim,
meanwhile, sprinted down the street, the pitchfork landing on the soft ground with a thud.
“Hurry, boys, the police’ll be here soon,” said the leader.
Two men came to the barn and tied me and the other animals to the building. I tugged at
the rope but it was too strong to break easily, and one of the robbers kicked me when he noticed I
what I was doing. “Settle down, ass, easy, boy.”
Meanwhile, the rest of the men entered Milo’s house and began carrying out anything of
value. I didn’t think there would be much, given how miserly Milo was with his money, but
whatever he had, they found. I had never been in his basement—the door was always locked—
but the men must have broken in, because they brought out things I had had no idea Milo owned:
bottles of wine, ornate jewelry, electronics. Either Milo was not as miserly as he claimed to be,
or he was a lot richer than everyone thought. The robbers’ car was parked on the other side of
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the street, and the robbers loaded as much as they could into the trunk and back seat, leaving the
seats clear. They must have been sitting on each other’s laps when they drove here, because
there were far more robbers than seats in the little clunker of a sedan. There was still too much
remaining for the robbers to carry away, so everything that didn’t fit in the car was stuffed into
sacks and loaded onto me and my two stable companions.
A siren wailed in the distance.
“Let’s go!”
I counted seven robbers climbing into the tiny car, and five remained behind with us
animals. They untied us and led us away at a run, not along the road, but back through Milo’s
farm to exit on the back road. When we reached it, we marched northwest. The thought of
escape filled my mind. There was no way I could run, but if we met some people, perhaps they
could help me, or if I found any roses, I could return to human form. As dawn was breaking, the
robbers in the car joined our little troop. They grabbed all their belongings and pushed the car
into a lake; I guessed they had stolen it.
We came to a little rundown town, and I knew we were truly in rural Minnesota when I
saw another group of men walking with a horse. We didn’t seem out of place at all.
Nevertheless, I realized this might be my only chance to get help. I didn’t know where we were
going or how long we would be there—but what signal could I give to show I needed help? I
was a donkey with a burden, and any sign of agitation would be attributed to my asinine
situation. But if I spoke English, others would realize I was not truly an ass and would come to
investigate. I decided to say the name of the president. It’s a common sight to see a politician
who is an ass, but how often do you see an ass who is a politician? I would be Washington’s
darling if my plan worked. I got through the “O” easily enough, but the “bama” got stuck in my
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throat. I tried again and again, and one of the gang members took off his belt and whipped me
for braying so loudly. “Shut up, ass,” he snarled.
Out of town, we passed a farmhouse with a garden growing along the roadside. It had all
kinds of flowers in it—tulips, daffodils, and yes, even roses, everything within easy reach of my
watering mouth. I was about to chomp off the nearest flower when it occurred to me that if I
transformed in front of the robbers, they would surely kill me, either for using powerful
witchcraft that could threaten their entire band, or for becoming a human witness who could help
aid their capture. So instead of eating my fill of roses, I lowered my neck and chewed a little
grass. It was disgusting.
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Part 4: In the Robbers’ Hideout
Chapter 1: Our Journey Continues
Around midday we cane to another small town, full of rundown, abandoned houses with
broken windows and boarded-up doors. The few people we did see greeted the robbers warmly,
who at once handed over some of the goods stolen from Milo’s house. One old couple even
invited the robbers to sit down for lunch, and while they ate, I noticed a vegetable garden at one
of the neighbors’ houses. I sidled over and, after checking to make sure no one was looking,
gorged myself. I’m normally not a fan of raw veggies—particularly potatoes and onions—but I
had not eaten since I had transformed into an ass. I ate it all, leaving the garden looking like it
had been hit by an air raid.
Eventually surfacing for air to wash down the food, I looked around and—what was that?
Off in the distance, in another garden, a green bush with red flowers. Could they be roses? I
galloped toward the garden, surely faster than the winning horse at the Kentucky Derby, the
wind whooshing through my long, pointy ears, so eager to rid myself of this asinine figure and
return to my upright form, homo sapiens.
Oh woe! Oh wicked, cruel fate! There was indeed an escape from asshood in the garden,
but not the rosy one I had hoped for. The red flowers were not roses, but red buttercups, which
were poisonous to horses. (My negligence on a hike with Silver had taught me this years ago. It
had taken hours to clean up the mess her bloody diarrhea had made in her trailer.) Perhaps if I
ate enough of them, I would free myself from the robbers through death.
I nibbled off one of the buttercups, and it had a disgusting, bitter taste. I reached for
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another when—thwack!—a large stick whacked me on the back. It was not one of the robbers,
but a man I’d never seen before. A half-eaten turnip sticking out of the pocket of his overalls
made me conclude he was the owner of the vegetable patch I had devastated. He beat me
mercilessly, blows raining down on me like a summer thunderstorm, and so I fought back. I
lifted myself onto my front feet and kicked back with my hind legs, sending the farmer flying.
He sprawled on the ground, spattered with blood, and a far-off shriek pierced my sensitive ears.
“You killed him! You killed my Billy!” It was clearly the man’s wife. “Help,
somebody! There’s a mad ass on the loose!”
As she continued to wail, I realized the town was not as abandoned as it looked. Men
opened their doors, armed with shotguns; large, slavering dogs trained to hunt or herd raced
toward me. I was bitten, beaten, and shot at—luckily, the farmers did not shoot to kill, but just to
scare me into submission. I kicked my legs furiously trying to defend myself from the angry
men and savage hounds. But it was the buttercup that saved me. Rather predictably, it did not
sit well in my stomach, which was full of raw vegetables (and that feast had made me a little
queasy just on its own). A fountain of foul liquid sprayed forth from this ass’s ass; an equally
putrid waterfall gushed out of my mouth. The dogs tripped over themselves in their scramble to
get away; the men covered their noses and sprinted back to the sanctuaries of their homes. Only
one man remained—one of the robbers.
“Screw you, ass,” he said, and dragged me off by the rope still hanging limply from my
neck.
Soon we resumed our journey. The weight of Milo’s goods was beginning to take its toll.
My back felt like it was about to break under the burden. Every step was agony! If I ever
managed to return to my human form, I swore to myself I would never overburden an animal
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again.
A plan suddenly sprung into my mind fully formed, a plan that would surely result in my
freedom. I would play dead, collapsing under the hundreds of pounds of the bags and satchels
strapped to my back. I would refuse to budge, no matter how much the robbers prodded or
kicked or scolded me. Since they were an impatient bunch, they would take my burden and give
it to the other two beasts, and then leave me for dead like road kill. I would be free to wander
until I found a rosebush, and my horrid adventure would be over!
But son of a gun! The same thought must have occurred to Milo’s ass, because it stopped
walking and emitted an unearthly moan. Its legs buckling, it sunk to the ground and toppled over
on its side.
The robbers kicked it, and not gently. “Get up, ass!” Each blow made the poor creature
groan again. Eventually the kicks caused bits of vomit, blood, and mucus to spray from the
beast’s mouth, and its belly and back were bleeding where the robbers’ boots struck it. No
amount of kicking, tugging, pushing, or pulling could get the animal to move. The robbers
huddled together away from us animals—as if they thought we could compromise them if we
knew their plans—and then returned to the fallen ass. They unbuckled its bags and loaded them
onto Tatiana and me. I reflexively complained as my weight increased, and the robbers shot me
warning glares. “Don’t you start too, now,” they said. “Don’t worry, it’s not much farther.”
I was furious. Milo’s ass was going to avoid whatever situation the robbers were going
to put us into; it would surely rise up and saunter away as soon as we were out of sight. The
cunning, conniving, treacherous brute! It had no respect for its comrades, no deference to the
mentally superior of the three of us.
After the robbers had finished transferring the goods, one of them drew a knife and cut
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the animal’s hamstrings, crippling it permanently. Several men picked up the bleeding animal by
its legs and dragged it into a ditch. One drew a handgun and shot the ass through the head, at last
showing some semblance of mercy.
I was no longer furious, but now shaken by the life of my fellow ass being tossed aside so
callously. Realizing I was not yet ready to die—despite my earlier suicidal inclinations inspired
by the buttercups—I vowed to be a model ass, the best ass the robbers had ever seen, a quiet ass
who kept his head down and did not cause any trouble.
Chapter 2: The Robbers’ Hideout
I was grateful that the robbers had been telling the truth when they said our journey was
almost at an end. Less than a mile after we left Milo’s ass to the vultures, we cut off the road and
marched along an unkempt dirt trail that cut through a field for another half mile or so. We
approached what looked like an old barn—it had fading red paint and a silo with a few trucks
and tractors parked outside. As we drew nearer, however, I noticed that the barn was much
larger than any barn needed to be, and once they led Tatiana and me inside, it was clear that the
barn was not a barn at all.
Instead, it was some combination between a warehouse and living space. There was a
modern kitchen, complete with a stove, oven, refrigerator, microwave, and sink; two long tables
had enough seats for thirty men. Behind the tables, there were several rows of bunk beds, and a
few showerheads protruded from the far wall. In the corner nearest the showers sat a hot tub.
The most surprising part of the hideout was a small stable—two stalls were lined with hay, with
piles of the stuff for feeding. Evidently the robbers did not want any animals they captured to try
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to run off or make a racket any passersby on the road might hear. In fact, as soon as they
unburdened Tatiana and me, the robbers led us into the stables and bolted the gates. The rest of
the building—to be more precise, every single square foot that I haven’t already mentioned—
was stacked with boxes and boxes of what I assumed were stolen goods.
An old woman sat in a rocking chair in the kitchen, knitting. Her hair was snow white,
and wrinkles deep as any I’d ever seen formed furrows across her face. She didn’t look up when
the robbers entered the building.
“We’re home, bitch,” said a robber to her. She still didn’t look up. “I suppose you’ve
been drinking all our whiskey again while we’ve been away. I suppose you’ve been sitting here,
wallowing in your own laziness, not thinking a whit about us, even though we provide you with
shelter and food.”
“Actually,” said the old woman at last. “I’ve already made dinner”—and when she
mentioned it, I sniffed and noticed that the building smelled like bread and stew, a remarkable
accomplishment for a place that had a stable, dormitory, and shower all in the same room—“and
I haven’t touched your liquor. I turned the hot water heater back on a few hours ago, so it should
be ready for your showers.”
“Did you hear that, men?” shouted the same robber. “Shower time!”
And they stripped, leaving their clothes at their feet, and bounded over to the showers.
While they soaped and scrubbed themselves clean, the old woman gathered their clothes,
dumping them in a pile in the corner. She carefully laid out clean underwear, jeans, and plain
white t-shirts for each man.
The men seemed to be showering very quickly—the woman had scarcely finished dealing
with the clothes when they were toweling themselves dry and redressing themselves—and I soon
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saw why: the last two men to finish had to wait on the rest of the men, helping the old woman
serve food and pour drinks. One of the men, far stouter than the rest of them, glowered at the
duty. “Ah, ha, Porky, you’re our maître d’ again!”
No sooner had everyone gotten dressed than the door burst open and a gang of men
thundered into the room. My immediate thought was that this was a rival group on the attack,
but that was quickly proven false. These men also carried in loot, which they added to the pile
the first group of robbers had made, and the newly-cleaned robbers greeted them with smiles and
shouts. “Water’s hot!” yelled a few of the men, and the new arrivals stripped off their clothes
and showered as well.
Once everyone had showered, dressed, and seated themselves at the table, the leader of
the gang stood up.
“Now, I just want to say a few words before we eat,” he said. “Of our gang’s two teams,
ours is clearly the best. We hit Milo’s house yesterday, hit it good. We got every last penny he
had, except whatever’s in his bank account, but we helped ourselves to a big chunk of that with
his wallet and an ATM. But that’s not what’s important. We didn’t lose a single man, and we
didn’t kill no one neither. But all of you, you guys messed up big in Iowa. How could you have
lost Sherman? I’m not putting down his courage or nothing, no one who knew him would do
that, I’m just saying that this is what poor planning and poor execution of poor plans leads to.
What were you doing down there, anyways? Ambushing old women as they came out of
bathrooms? It looks like we could have a rummage sale with this pathetic excuse for a haul. I’d
rather have Sherman back than ten times what you brought back today.”
He sat back down, and another man stood up. “Hey, man, you’re right about a lot of that,
but you haven’t got the whole story yet. Let me tell you what really happened in Iowa.”
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Chapter 3: What Happened to Sherman
We all know, said the second robber, that it’s easier to attack large houses than small
ones. Large ones, you can slip through unseen—if there’s a security system, you disable it and
then no one will hear you if you’re quiet. Small houses, though, one shout, one thing dropped,
and you’re done for. The owner comes out with a gun, calls the police—you’re lucky if you get
out of there alive.
Now, Iowa is all small houses. There’s no mansions in Des Moines, there’s no manors in
Cedar Rapids, there’s no frickin’ estates in Ames. You got small houses in Iowa, and that’s it.
And if I recall, it was your idea that we try our luck robbing the “industry agriculture elite” while
you stayed home here in Minnesota. So don’t go blaming us for running into trouble in small
houses in Iowa.
We arrived in Des Moines about a week ago and started poking around to figure out who
was sitting on more money than he needed to have. We got wind of a man named Goldsmith
who had done very well with his farm. Somehow he just kept getting bumper crop after bumper
crop, but he never spent any of his profit, just kept living in the same old house. Same old small
house. And rumor was that he took all his money out of his bank account after the Great
Recession started, fearing all the banks were going under like they did in the ‘30s. Kept wads of
cash in his mattress or something. A perfect target for us, from all we heard.
So at night we approached his house, and the door’s locked, no surprises there. But right
next to the door, the window’s open, not even shut, just wide open, only a screen separating us
from the inside of the house, so Sherman cut a hole through it and began fumbling around with
the door, trying to unlatch the bolt so we could walk in. Problem was, there were three at least
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locks on the door, so Sherman was having some trouble getting it open for us.
Well, we must have made a bit of noise, either that or Goldsmith wakes up at the drop of
a pin, because the evil old miser tiptoed to his front door with a hammer and nail clutched
between his sweaty palms. He nailed Sherman’s hand right to the door—don’t think I’m
insulting his memory, his unrivaled bravery, when I say he screamed like a woman. We had cut
Goldsmith’s telephone line before making our approach, and when he realized his phone wasn’t
working, he climbed up onto the roof of our house and yelled, “Fire! Call 911! Fire! Fire!”
Meanwhile Sherman is screaming and the rest of us are panicking, not sure what to do. Before
long not only are the neighbors running our way, but we hear the wail of sirens too.
“Cut off my arm,” Sherman said then. “Cut it off now.”
“What?” we all protested.
“I can’t pull out my hand. So cut it off or we’re all screwed. The whole operation would
be finished.”
And so Arnold, who had the biggest knife of all of us, hacked off Sherman’s arm. We
tore up some of our shirts to bind and bandage the wound and we sprinted away, hiding in
ditches and fields. But Sherman was rapidly losing blood, he couldn’t really keep up with us, so
he said, “Kill me. I’d rather die honorably at the hands of one of you than in prison.”
“Kill you?”
“I can’t keep up with you. I don’t want to be captured, and I’m not going to let you all
get caught because I can’t run fast enough.”
“We’re not going to kill you, Sherman.”
“I have nothing to live for. Without my right hand, I can’t fight or steal. I wouldn’t be a
proper robber. Slit my throat, now.”
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None of us was willing to do it. None of us would be able to live with ourselves with the
reputation of the one who took Sherman’s life.
So Sherman drew his own knife, then, and though we protested none of us grabbed his
arm. It was fast, the knife going in and out, him collapsing on the ground. We said a quick
prayer and laid him to rest.
Chapter 4: Des Moines and Cedar Rapids
From there we made our way back into the city, and found a street with a row of small,
old houses, packed tightly together. They stood two or three stories tall, a few were duplexes.
We weren’t planning to stop at any of them, but Derek spotted one with its front door ajar. We
couldn’t resist such an easy target, and Derek went inside to see what he could find.
Apparently there was nothing on the first floor, because soon pieces of jewelry, clothes,
and furniture began flying from the upper window and landing at our feet. As things landed in
the yard, we gathered them up and packed them into bags, ready to make a quick getaway.
Derek should have just killed the old woman who was sleeping in there at once, but he didn’t.
Instead the fool pushed her out of bed to send her fine quilt out the window, and this, of course,
woke her up. We heard their voices through the open window.
“Oh my god!” she said. “Who are you?”
“Shut up, old woman.”
“Please don’t kill me. Have mercy on these weary old bones.”
“Keep quiet and I might let you live. Just stay where you are.”
“If I might ask you one question, though, why are you throwing my possessions into the
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back yard of my rich neighbor?”
Derek obviously had thought he had been throwing everything out to us in the front
yard—because that’s exactly what he was doing—and so the old woman’s question startled him.
He stuck his head out the window to see where her stuff was landing, and we gestured to him
silently to get back inside. But you all know that Derek wasn’t the smartest in our gang, so he
didn’t get our message. He must have been a little off balance too, because when the little old
woman snuck up behind him and shoved with all her might, he toppled right out the window.
The crown of his head landed on her sidewalk—remembering the sight now is sickening, I won’t
describe it right before dinner.
We dragged his body away and laid it to rest as respectfully as we could and said the
second prayer of the evening. Derek had always been Sherman’s right hand man in life, and now
he would be in death too.
We took our horrible string of bad luck as a sign that Des Moines would not have much
more to offer us, so we laid low for a few days to evade the police, but they weren’t looking for
us too hard because we didn’t actually take anything from Goldsmith, and the only people who
were killed were our own men. They had bigger things to worry about than the practically
worthless things Derek stole from the old lady. We made our way to Cedar Rapids without any
problems.
When we arrived we saw ads everywhere for the Cedar Rapids Fall Festival. Some ads
had pictures of corn, or art made from corn; some had tractors or combines or other heavy
equipment; but the most common thing on the ads, strangely enough, was bears, or bears eating
corn or riding on tractors. Billboards, posters, and the front pages of newspapers proclaimed the
wonders of the festival—the ads were everywhere, and eventually we realized that each one said
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“Sponsored by Larry Kennedy.” We decided to look up this Kennedy in the phone book—it
turned out he lived in town.
We asked a few people on the street what they knew about him, and they said he was a
philanthropist, moved to Iowa a few years ago, and he was funding the festival this year, making
it more elaborate than anyone could remember. He had built a new multi-purpose stadium and
renovated the fairgrounds. He rented all sorts of rides and stalls and novelty acts; the whole
town had a carnival atmosphere. A rollercoaster towered into the sky, not one but two Ferris
wheels stood at either end of the fairgrounds, and every building in downtown Cedar Rapids had
gotten a fresh coat of paint.
But the most unusual thing about Kennedy’s preparation for the festival was his
obsession with bears. He had somehow obtained hundreds of them, probably purchasing some
from zoos and hiring people to travel north and capture others. The creatures were exotic down
in Iowa, and everyone was thrilled to see the bears perform and fight and climb on farm
equipment. The problem was, they were dying left and right, and no one could figure out why.
It had gotten so bad that Kennedy evidently had no way to dispose of them—there was a pile of
rotting bear corpses outside his mansion, just lying on the curb as if the garbage men would take
them away, and people were coming to his house and helping themselves to bear corpses as
souvenirs.
Omar and I discovered this pile when we went to Kennedy’s house to see if he would be
worth robbing (which he was). Omar had the brilliant idea of grabbing a bear and taking it back
to where we had set up camp and fashioning it into a disguise. That’s exactly what we did. It
took the two of us hours to lug the beast home. We gutted it, carefully cut off the meat (why
dispose of a few perfectly good free meals?), and skinned and cleaned the fur. With a needle and
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thread we stitched the bear back together, attaching a zipper so someone could climb in and out.
We cut holes in the area of the eyes, nose, and mouth to help the wearer breathe and see.
When all this was done, we asked for volunteers—we didn’t want someone unwilling to
wear the bear costume. Several brave men volunteered, and we all discussed who would be best
for the job. We eventually voted for Leo. He wasn’t the strongest of us, but he was probably the
smartest, not to mention a pretty good actor. We needed someone who could sell himself as a
bear and use his head in case he got into any trouble. Leo happily confirmed his eagerness to be
the bear, and early the next morning he put on the costume. We set out.
Chapter 5: The Attack on Kennedy’s Mansion
We had been asking about Kennedy all around town, in bars and at the library—it
continues to amaze me what you can learn about someone just by asking. We found out he was
good friends with a man named Nigel, from England or somewhere, nearly as rich as Kennedy.
Nigel had already helped Kennedy with some of the preparations for the festival, so we forged a
letter from him, making it seem like he was helping some more, this time by providing a bear to
replace one of the many that had died.
A little before noon we arrived at Kennedy’s mansion in a U-Haul. Leo was in the bear
costume, pretending to sleep in a cage we had purchased pretty cheap, placed in the back of the
truck. We rang the bell on the front gate and a voice answered via intercom: “Kennedy
residence.”
“We have a delivery for Mr. Kennedy, courtesy of Nigel Waterfield.”
“We’ll be right out.”
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Kennedy came out with his butler or whatever he called his fancy-ass doorman and we
handed Kennedy the letter we forged. “Oh, Nigel, you’re always thinking of me!”
“It’s in the back,” we said, and opened up the back of the truck.
Kennedy clapped his hands. “What a magnificent beast! Truly stunning.”
“We can stay with him if you like, to help feed him and such.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary. The staff is so used to feeding bears that they can practically
do it blindfolded.”
“Alright. Then we recommend you don’t let him interact with whatever bears you still
have left alive. We’ve heard they might be diseased or something.”
“Hmm, yes, good point. We’ll keep him inside, since he’s already caged. The rest of the
bears are in the field out back. And let’s see, a little something for your troubles.” Kennedy
pulled out his wallet and gave us all the cash in it—a stack of Benjamins totaling nearly ten
thousand dollars.
Obviously we couldn’t loiter outside his house until nightfall, when Leo would unlock his
cage from the inside, disable the security system and kill anyone who tried to interfere, finally
letting us all in to loot the place, so we drove around town all day.
At night we coasted to a stop in front of Kennedy’s house, putting the U-Haul into neutral
a block away so the diesel engine wouldn’t wake anyone up. At the exact right moment, Leo
opened the front gate for us and we all slipped inside. Leo had killed the butler, but he
whispered to us that he was the only one. Leo gave us a quick tour of the house, pointing out the
most valuable possessions he had noticed as we passed them. We split up, all beginning to grab
as much as possible to carry out to the truck.
But then, disaster struck our group again. A member of the staff, I think it was the cook,
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got up to use the bathroom, and he saw Leo, still in the bear costume. “BEAR!” he screamed.
“LOOSE BEAR!”
And then he saw Smitty, dressed all in black with a bag of Kennedy’s stuff slung over his
shoulder. “ROBBERS!”
It was like a street fight, then. Kennedy’s staff was not a bunch of wimps. They grabbed
whatever they could find to use as weapons—little stone busts, knives from the kitchen, someone
even had his own revolver. We fought back as hard as we could, because we matched them
pretty equally in number. We were much more experienced fighters; their main advantage was
the imminent arrival of the police. We fought on the retreat, some of us brazenly snatching more
loot as we headed out the door.
I was one of the last to leave—I was at the front door and the only person left inside was
Leo. He was still playing the part of the bear, growling and fighting only with his razor-sharp
claws. The staff was closing in on him, and seeing he was about to be surrounded, he dashed
toward the front door on all fours. I held it open for him, pretending to cower at the massive
beast bounding toward me, and the rest of the staff pursued close behind. I thought he might
make it back to our truck, but then the cook pulled out his pistol and shot Leo in the leg. He
stumbled and fell and the rest of the staff was on him at once. I snuck behind them and into the
truck, where the rest of us were, and in horror we watched Leo fight to the finish. He was as
brave as Sherman, staying in character until the very end, and he never stopped swiping,
mauling, lunging. I’ve never seen him fight so fierce. I was desperate to save him, so hoping
that the staff wouldn’t realize I was one of the robbers I raced back toward the chaotic scene.
“Stop!” I yelled. “It’s us, the ones who delivered the bear! It would be an outrage to kill such a
noble, large beast. Won’t Kennedy be upset if you kill something so precious and expensive?
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He needs every last bear he can get!”
But the cook just looked at me coldly and shot Leo three times. I ran back to the U-Haul
then and said, “Let’s go.” We sped off. A few hours later a couple of us returned on foot to see
what sort of investigation was occurring. No one had touched the bear yet, a real testament to
Leo’s shocking ferocity. At last someone got the courage—or the order, I’m not sure which—to
examine the beast, and it was only then that they realized it was not a bear at all. We took this as
our cue to leave. So that’s how we came home with this bounty of treasure, but leaving
Sherman, Derek, and Leo behind.
Chapter 6: The Robbers’ Next Mission
When the robber finally finished speaking, the whole gang raised and clinked their shot
glasses together, each taking a gulp of whiskey in memory of the dead. Everyone began to eat
then, and while I’m usually not a stickler about etiquette, even I was shocked by the robbers’
lack of manners. They chewed with their mouths wide open, shoveling food into their gullets
like they would never eat again, drinking to excess. They helped themselves to food with their
bare hands, plopping piles of stew and stuffing and mashed potatoes onto their plates, or
sometimes bypassing their plates entirely and eating directly out of the serving bowls. One man
had a steak in each hand, alternating between the two as he tore of large chunks of meat with his
teeth. The conversation was raucous and friendly; men laughed drunkenly, bantered loudly, and
shouted across the room to each other.
Even Tatiana and I received a big feast; a whole bale of hay was brought inside for us to
eat. However, I didn’t like the taste of plain hay, so I waited until dinner was over, hoping there
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would be leftovers. And as ravenous as the men had been, the old woman had prepared so much
food that she tossed a large pile of leftover bread into the corner of the stable, and I helped
myself to about a dozen loaves. I felt a bit queasy.
In the middle of the night, an alarm clock went off waking me and everyone else in the
building. The robbers groggily sat up in bed. “Come on, men, this is no time to be slow,” said
their leader, and he ordered the men to do thirty pushups and thirty sit-ups. After that, the whole
group got dressed and slipped out the door. Relieved that they did not need me or Tatiana for
whatever mission they were embarking on (for my stomach had still not recovered from my
bready feast), I yawned. Settling back down on my bed of hay, I returned to sleep.
The sun streamed in through a lofty window on the east side of the building, flooding the
room with light. I woke up refreshed and revived, feeling like a new ass after I emptied my
bladder and bowels. The robbers still had not returned, and for the first time since I had been
transformed, I was bored. There was no work to do, nowhere to go, no one to listen to, nothing
new to look at. I stared at Tatiana, but she took no notice of me. She had been acting rather
disdainfully toward me the whole trip, since apparently she did not deem asses worth her
company. I wondered what animals did all day, every day, for their whole lives. Mere existence
was torture; I needed to do something, but I was still tied up. I began to bray and scratch at the
ground, hoping the old woman would take pity on me and let me out into the field. She didn’t.
She remained in the kitchen where she was preparing breakfast for thirty men.
Soon the robbers returned, but they didn’t carry a single thing with them. No bags of
cash, no televisions or laptops or smartphones. Perhaps they hadn’t been out looting at all, or
could not find a suitable target. But as the last stragglers filed into the room, still empty-handed,
I realized that they didn’t come back with nothing—they had a girl with them, and not just any
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girl, a bride, judging from her elaborate wedding dress. She was young—she looked like she
could still be a teenager. Her hands were tied up behind her back, and a piece of duct tape
gagged her mouth. Once the door was shut and locked behind her, they untied her hands and
removed the gag. She gasped for breath and screamed.
The robbers ignored her, but I couldn’t stop staring at her. If you ignored the red marks
from her bonds and the tear streaks, she was quite an attractive woman. Her body was slender
and curving in just the right places. Her face had delicate features: her nose and chin were both
small and pointy, and when she removed her hands from her eyes, even her bloodshot weariness
could not hide a piercing green sparkle. But her red hair was what I liked best. It was arranged
elaborately, a long braid wrapping around her neck piled up at the top of her head, with several
long tendrils curling back down past her ears. In any case, she was someone even an ass like me
could go for.
It was a pity I wasn’t a human right now.
It was also a pity she was kidnapped and guarded by a band of dangerous criminals.
She hadn’t stopped crying since the gag had been removed, and the robbers were getting
fed up. “Look, girl, be quiet, will you, please?” This request fell on deaf ears, and the speaker
turned to his companions helplessly. “What’s her name again? Jessica? Yes, Jessica, shut up!
You’re going to be fine. We’re not going to hurt you, we’re not going to lay a hand on you—I’ll
watch you day and night myself to make sure none of these guys try any funny business. All we
want is the ransom money from your parents. Mr. and Mrs. Steinhafel will pay a king’s ransom
to get their baby girl back. And a king’s ransom is all we’re demanding—either that or the entire
inventory of one of their Target stores.”
But if this speech was supposed to comfort Jessica, it had the opposite effect; she merely
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wailed more loudly.
The robber turned to the old woman, who had finished carrying heaping plates of eggs,
sausage, waffles, and syrup to the table. “You do something about her.”
And the robbers all sat down and began to eat, leaving the old woman to console Jessica,
wrapping her in a hug and patting her on the back. I wished there was something I could do.
“I know, it’s terrible,” I heard the old woman say. “But it will all be over soon. You
should try to make the best of the situation. I’m quite a good cook—have some waffles.”
“Oh, why shouldn’t I cry?” said Jessica, the first words she had spoken since arriving.
“This is the worst day of my life, but it was supposed to be the best. I’ve been taken from my
family and friends, from my fiancé too, no less. This place is a hellhole. And I don’t care how
good your cooking is, nothing can compare to what my father’s chef prepares each day. I
suppose I’m supposed to sleep in one of those ratty old bunk beds? They look dreadful and
diseased. It’s hot and uncomfortable in here, I don’t have a change of clothes so I’m stuck in this
stupid dress—”
“Take it off, then!” yelled one of the robbers, overhearing.
“And I’m surrounded by a bunch of boorish assholes.”
Sitting together on the floor, the old woman continued to embrace the girl, rocking her
gently back and forth, and before long the girl actually fell asleep. The old woman stood up
slowly and fetched a pillow and blanket for the girl, gently sliding them under her head and over
her body.
But not ten minutes later, the girl woke up, panicked and screaming. Her eyes rolled
around in a frenzy, she scratched at her face and pulled at her hair and clothes, beginning to
hyperventilate. The old woman was back at her side at once. “It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re safe,
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you’re here, with me, it was just a dream. Breathe. Deep breaths. That’s it.”
The girl calmed down, and seemed just about back to normal, but then her face scrunched
into a ball of pain and she began to sob. She beat her fists into the old woman’s shoulders.
“Why me? Why me? I wish I was dead. Bring me a knife or a gun, I know you have them. Or
will you make me drown myself in a lake?”
“Jessica!” said the old woman sharply. “Crying isn’t going to do you any good. These
men here, they don’t care how many tears you shed. And frankly, neither do I. We work hard in
this line of work and deserve compensation just like anyone else. You’re not getting out of here
until your family pays up. No one knows where you are, there’s not going to be some
miraculous rescue. So, please, girl, shut the hell up already.”
But Jessica did not stop crying. “You may have grown up,” said the old woman, her
voice soft and cold like ice, “in a place where throwing a temper tantrum got you whatever you
wanted. But we do not tolerate such antics here.” And with that, the old woman slapped Jessica
across the face, four red streaks forming where her fingers hit her cheek.
Jessica was silent.
“Thank you.”
Jessica began to speak again. “Please, ma’am, I beg mercy. I think you might be the
only friend I have left in the world. If I tell you how far I’ve fallen, perhaps you would have a
little more compassion for my wretchedness.”
The old woman said nothing, so Jessica kept speaking. The robbers gradually fell silent
at the breakfast tables, as they too were listening to her story.
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Chapter 7: The Arduous Account of Jessica Steinhafel
“As you know,” said Jessica, “my dad is Gregg Steinhafel, the President and CEO of
Target. His grandfather—great grandpa Steinhafel—founded the furniture chain named after our
family. So I grew up in fortunate circumstances, I guess most people would call us wealthy, and
I don’t deny that. Until today, I was pretty blessed to have the life I have.
“Daddy sent me to private school, and in kindergarten I met Richie, who became my best
friend. He’d come over after school, and we’d play Knights and Princesses in the yard, and I
would always end up saving him from a dragon. We grew up together, always taking the same
classes, helping each other with homework, and I think it was inevitable that our friendship grew
into something more. In high school we began to date, and our parents all approved, and we
spent less time doing homework and more time in the bedroom, doing, well, I’m not going to
say, but I think you can guess.
“Richie was my one true love, and I know a lot of people these days say there’s no such
thing as a one true love, but I’m an old fashioned kind of person and I think it’s true. We got
engaged six months ago, and today was supposed to be our wedding day. We were going to
have a small, simple wedding at Daddy’s house. We decorated the place with streamers and
balloons and set up chairs in the yard for the guests. Daddy’s chef made a beautiful wedding
cake—six layers tall!—and everything was prepared to make the day perfect. He bought me six
ponies to march around the grounds when the wedding was finished.
“But when Mommy and I were getting ready for the ceremony—she was inspecting my
hair and makeup, and giving me a blue ribbon for my hair—you lot burst into the room and went
straight for me. I screamed for help, but no one did anything. I don’t know why you wouldn’t
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help your own daughter—or your employer’s daughter—when she screams for help, but no one
did. And you guys picked me up and took me here, and I guess you know the rest of it.
“But just now I had what was probably the most horrible dream I’ve ever had. I dreamed
my fiancé was running after me, begging you all to let me go. I don’t know if you saw him when
you were kidnapping me, but Richie’s not a big guy, though he’s wonderful in every other way.
So you laughed at him for daring to chase after me, you called him a puny pipsqueak, and then
one of you pulled out a gun and shot him dead right there. So that’s why I woke up screaming.
“So you can see, I’ve just had a dreadful time today. So please be patient with me if I’m
a little irritable. I might cry again, I don’t know. Please don’t keep me here too long. I’m sure
you’re all wonderful people if I got to know you, but I really don’t care to find out.”
Jessica blushed, realizing she had perhaps delivered a fatal insult, and stopped talking
abruptly. The robbers glared at her, and I could imagine that they had no sympathy for the
“hardships” in Jessica’s life. I was sure each and every one of them had experienced far worse
than she. None of them had billionaire fathers or one true loves from private schools—if they
did, they certainly wouldn’t be spending their lives as part of this gang.
The lead robber shot a look at the old woman that clearly said, “Do something to shut her
up—I almost preferred when she was crying.”
Rolling her eyes when Jessica wasn’t looking, the old woman took Jessica’s hands.
“There, there, sweetie, it’ll be alright. Like you said, it was just a dream. Dreams don’t mean
anything—they don’t predict the future, so just forget about the horrible vision. We won’t keep
you here long, and you’ll be back with your fiancé soon. Let me tell you a story to pass the time
while we wait for your parents to deliver the ransom. Our middle man is already waiting for
them in town. So, listen. You might even learn a thing or two.”
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And the old woman began to weave a tale, charming the ears of everyone in the hall.
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Earl 240
Acknowledgments
This project would not have been possible without the boundless support from my two
faculty advisors, Professor John Schafer and Professor Brian Bouldrey. Professor Schafer’s
critical eye pushed me to improve every aspect of this project, and his endless treasury of
knowledge was as invaluable a resource as anything I could ever find in the library. Professor
Bouldrey’s enthusiasm and encouragement helped get this project off its feet, and our
conversations about translation and adaptation helped guide and hone my writing. I have
nothing but immense gratitude to the two of them for their feedback on hundreds of pages of
drafts and their constant assistance; our weekly conversations on Apuleius made this the most
fulfilling project I have ever completed.
I would also like to thank my friends and family, who have listened to me prattle on and
on about The Golden Ass, provided some excellent suggestions for improvement, and generally
put up with me as I locked myself away to read, translate, and write.