Collected Works

Oenone to Paris.

Are you reading this? Or does your new wife forbid it? Read on; this letter is not written by a Mycenaean hand. I, Oenone of the Pegasi a nymph associated with the springs of Mount Ida, most famous in the Phrygian woods, am complaining—if you permit it yourself—about my own husband. What god has set his will against my prayers? What crime of mine hinders me from remaining yours? Whatever you suffer, if you have earned it, you must bear it; but the punishment that comes undeservedly is a cause for grief.

You were not yet so great when I, a nymph born of a great river, was content with you as my husband. You, who are now a son of Priam Priamides son of Priam—let respect for the truth be absent—you were a slave; and I, a nymph, endured marrying a slave. We often rested among the flocks, sheltered by a tree, and the grass mixed with leaves provided a bed for us. Often, upon straw and deep hay, white frost was pressed down in our humble hut. Who showed you the glades suitable for hunting? And in what rocky cave did the wild beast hide her cubs? I, your companion, often stretched out the nets marked with knots; often I drove the swift hounds across the highest ridges.

The beech trees bear the names I carved, and I am read as "Oenone," marked by your blade. There is a poplar—I remember it—planted on the riverbank, on which my name is inscribed, memorable to us. And as much as the trunks grow, so much do my names grow. Grow, and rise properly into my titles. Poplar, live, I pray, you who are planted on the edge of the bank and have this poem in your rugged bark: "Whenever Paris can breathe with Oenone abandoned, the water of the Xanthus will run backward." Xanthus, hurry backward, and you nymphs, run back! Paris dares to have abandoned Oenone.

That day led the fate of the wretched woman away from me; that worst winter of a changed love began on that day when Venus and Juno—and Minerva, more decent with weapons taken up—came to your judgment. My heart throbbed with astonishment, and a cold shudder ran through my hard bones; but you told me of it. I consulted—for I was not moderately troubled—the old women and aged men; it was determined that this was a disaster. The fir trees were felled, the beams were cut, and with the fleet prepared, the blue wave received the waxed ships.