Apollo slays the Python

The Earth herself spontaneously brought forth the other forms of animal life in all their diversity. After
the remaining moisture from the flood had grown warm from the rays of the sun, the wet mud of the
marshes swelled with heat, and the fertile seeds of life, nourished by life-giving soil, as though in a
mother’s womb, grew and gradually took on individual forms. [...] She brought back some old forms of
life, and created as well new monsters.

Although she had no desire to do so,1 she bore you too, enormous Python. A snake previously unheard
of, you were a terror to the newly-created humans, since you covered such a large expanse of the
mountainside. The bow-wielding god destroyed this monster with lethal weaponry never before used
except against does and agile goats, shooting a thousand arrows, almost going through his whole
quiver, until poisonous blood flowed from the black wounds. So that the passage of time could not
obscure the fame of this achievement, he established sacred games, celebrated by a contest, called the
Pythian Games2 after the serpent he had slain.

DAPHNE AND PHOEBUS

This is the first “love” story in the Metamorphoses. In the poem, “love” is more often unreciprocated
lust than mutual romance, and often involves violence, especially male violence against women, from
pursuit to rape. The male gods in general are serial rapists of mortal women. Ovid often evinces
sympathy for these women, but also frequently treats rape in a flippant manner that can be confronting
for modern readers. The Latin word for love, amor, has a broad range of meaning; sometimes I have
translated it as “love”, sometimes as “desire”, sometimes even as “lust”. The victims of divine lust in
the poem are frequently nymphs, who are technically minor nature deities, often associated with
particular places. However, nymphs are treated very similarly to mortal women, and the fact they are
technically goddesses grants them no immunity from the predation of male gods.

In this tale, Apollo, who is often referred to by his epithet Phoebus (“shining”), falls afoul of Cupid,
who forces him to fall in love with the beautiful Daphne, a companion of Artemis who refuses to marry,
while simultaneously causing her to be repelled by him. Artemis’ companions, who will feature heavily
elsewhere in this book, are known to reject marriage and male companionship, choosing instead to live
in the woods with other worshippers of Diana, spending their days hunting, a traditionally male
pursuit. These women additionally have no interest in the cosmetic accoutrements of conventional
femininity, preferring simple clothing and hairstyles. They are often the victims of rape in Ovid’s poem;
this rape is on one level a punishment for their refusal of traditional gender roles. Apollo is not
successful in his attempt to rape Daphne: she prays to her father, the river god Peneus, and he turns
her into a laurel tree, daphne in Greek. The laurel is Apollo’s sacred tree; even after she is
transformed, he takes ownership of her.

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1 The Python spontaneously emerges from the earth without the Earth’s consent.
2 In the ancient Greek world, there were four major athletic festivals: the Pythian, Olympic, Nemean, and Isthmian
Games. These festivals combined worship of the gods with athletic contests (like running, wrestling, and discus-
throwing). The Pythian games were sacred to Apollo; Ovid here provides an aetiology for them.
The first love of Phoebus was Daphne, the daughter of the river god Peneus. This was not due to
chance, but because of Cupid’s vicious anger. The Delian god,3 full of himself after his defeat of the
serpent, had recently seen Cupid bending his bow with a tightly-drawn string, and had said, “What use
are manly weapons to you, naughty boy? Those kinds of weapons are suitable for my shoulders, since I
can inflict wounds with sure aim on the beasts, my enemies, and I’ve just now done away with the
Python who was crushing acres with its pestilent bulk. I filled it with my arrows. You should be content
to stir up hidden desire with your torch, and not try to steal my honours for yourself!” To this Venus’
son responded, “Well then, Apollo, perhaps your bow pierces everything else, but my bow will pierce
you. Your glory is as inferior to mine as all other animals are to the gods.”

When he had said this, striking the air with his beating wings, he swiftly landed on the shadowy peak
of Parnassus.4 There, he took from his quiver two arrows with opposite effects: one of them repels
desire, and the other incites it. The one that incites desire is gold and shiny, with a sharp point; the one
that repels is blunt and has a lead tip. With the dull arrow the god shot the nymph, the daughter of
Peneus, but with the other he pierced the bone and marrow of Apollo. Immediately one of them fell in
love, and the other fled the very name of love, rejoicing in the deep shadows of the woods and the skins
of wild beasts she had caught, emulating unmarried Phoebe.5 A ribbon held back her messy hair. Many
men pursued her, but she recoiled from her pursuers. She had no experience with men, and couldn’t
stand them. Instead, she roamed the wild woods. She didn’t care what marriage, love, or sex meant.
Often her father said, “Daughter, you owe me a son-in-law”; often he said, “Daughter, you owe me
grandsons.” But she, hating the wedding torch as though it were criminal, would blush red with shame
all over her beautiful face, and, embracing her father’s neck with coaxing arms, would say: “Father
dearest, let me enjoy my virginity forever! Diana’s father has already given her that gift.”6

Her father agreed. But your extraordinary beauty, Daphne, prevented the fulfillment of your wish, and
your loveliness opposes your prayer. Phoebus desires her at first sight, and wants to marry her, and he
hopes for what he wants, but his own oracles deceive him. As the light stubble of the harvested grain
burns, as hedges are set on fire by a torch which a traveller has accidentally left too close or forgotten
in the morning, so Apollo burst into flame, so did he burn in his heart, feeding his futile desire with
hope. He looks at her hair hanging down her neck, disordered, and says, “What would it be like if it
was nicely arranged?” He sees her eyes glittering like stars, he sees her lips (and just looking isn’t
enough for him), he praises her fingers and her hands, her arms bare to the shoulder, and he thinks what
is covered must be even more beautiful. She flees swifter than the light breeze, and she doesn’t stop as
he calls after her:

“Nymph, daughter of Peneus, stay, please! I am not an enemy pursuing you – nymph, stay! This is how
the lamb flees the wolf, the deer the lion; this is how doves on fluttering wings flee from the eagle. In
this way every creature flees its enemies. I’m following you for the sake of love. I couldn’t stand it if
you fell on your face, or if the brambles tore your undeserving limbs, and I ended up causing you pain.
This is rugged terrain that you’re running through. Run slower, I’m begging you, stop fleeing, and I
will follow more slowly myself. At least ask who you have attracted. I’m not a mountain man or a
shepherd, not some bedraggled, nasty hillbilly who looks after flocks and herds. You don’t know who
you’re running from, hasty girl, and that must be why you’re running. The land of Delphi is mine,
Claros and Tenedos and Patara acknowledge me as ruler. Jupiter’s my father. Because of me, future,

3 Apollo was born on the island of Delos.

4 A mountain associated with Apollo.
5 Phoebe is an epithet of Diana.
6 According to the Greek poet Callimachus, who was admired by Roman poets, Diana/Artemis asked her father
Jupiter/Zeus to remain a virgin forever when she was still young. He granted her request. Daphne is a second Diana.
past, and present are revealed. Because of me, songs harmonize with the strings of the lyre. My own
arrow never misses, but regardless, there is an arrow that’s even more accurate than mine, and it’s that
one that wounded my previously relaxed heart. I discovered the art of medicine, I’m referred to all over
the world as the one who brings aid, and I’m in charge of the power of botanicals. Unfortunately for
me, there’s no herb that can cure love, and the skills that help everyone else can’t help me, even though
I’m their master.”

He would have said more, but the daughter of Peneus fled on her fearful way, and left him behind along
with his unfinished speech. She seemed beautiful even then; the winds exposed her body, the opposing
gusts fluttered around her garments, and a light breeze threw her streaming hair behind her. She was all
the more attractive because she was running away. But the young god had no more time to waste on
flattery, and he followed in her footsteps, his pace hastening, desire urging him on. It was like when a
Gallic hound has seen a hare in an open field: the hound seeks his prey on flying feet, while the hare
seeks safety; it seems like he is just about to sink his teeth into her, he hopes to catch her now, no, now,
and with his nose outstretched grazes her footsteps. The hare doesn’t know whether or not she’s been
caught, and, escaping his bites fast on her heels, leaves behind the maw just touching her. That’s what
the god and the virgin were like; he was swift because of his hope, she because of her fear. But he ran
faster, carried on the wings of Love, and gave her no time to rest. He hung over her fleeing shoulders
and breathed on the hair streaming over her neck. Now, all her strength gone, she grew pale. Overcome
by the effort of her swift flight, seeing the waters of her father Peneus nearby, she says, “Father, help
me! If your rivers have divine power, destroy the beauty that caused me to be all too attractive by
changing it into something else.”

She had scarcely ended her prayer when a heavy numbness seized her limbs, and her soft breast was
covered by thin bark. Her hair grew into leaves, and her arms into branches. Her feet, which had been
so swift only a moment ago, stuck fast with sluggish roots, and her face disappeared into the canopy.
Only her beauty remained. But Phoebus still loved her, and placing his hand on the trunk, he felt her
heart still quivering under the new bark. He embraced the branches like they were limbs and kissed the
wood. But even then the wood shrank from his kisses. The god said to her, “Since you cannot be my
wife, at least you will be my tree. My hair, quiver, and lyre will always be entwined with you, laurel.
You will crown Roman generals, when joyful songs of triumph ring out and the Capitol witnesses long
processions.7 You will stand in front of Augustus’ doors as a faithful guardian, protecting the oak placed
in the centre. Just as my head with its uncut hair is forever youthful, you too will wear the beauty of
perpetual foliage.” Apollo finished speaking. With her newly-made branches, the laurel nodded assent,
or seemed to, shaking her top like a head.

7 Victorious Roman generals celebrated “triumphs” upon their return to Rome, leading a procession of spoils and
captives, crowned with laurel wreaths. Again Ovid gives Greek myth a Roman flavour, and links his poem to the
emperor.