[The famous story of Diana and Acteon, in Book 3 of Ovid's Metamorphosis, inspired generations of writers and garden sculptors. The writing is graphic. The scene is delightful. The incident is puzzling: should girls bepleased that men are attracted to their nakedness, or should they be affronted by the threat to their modesty and chasity? The metamorphosis of Acteon, from a man to a stag, implies a profound truth about nature and gardens: seeds become flowers; flowers decay; mould grows fungi; life begins again. The Metamorphoses has many tales of things metamorphosing into something else and remains one of the most popular works by any Latin author. Ovid's Art of Love was scandalous, popular and not above using the garden metaphorically. Ovid was exiled by the Emperor Augustus, to Tomis on the Black Sea. There are many references to Diana in the history of garden design and most were inspired by Ovid. Boccacio's Tenth Story of the Sixth Day was most probably inspired by Ovid.]
It was one of Cadmus' grandsons, Actaeon, who brought distress to Cadmus. Antlers, foreign to his human shape, sprouted from the youth's forehead. His hounds gorged themselves on their master's blood. But calm reflection will show that destiny was to blame for Actaeon's misfortunes, not any guilt on his own part. There is nothing sinful in losing one's way.
This event took place on a mountain where the ground was stained with the blood of wild beasts. The midday heat had shortened the shadows. The sun was between the eastern and his western horizon. The young Actaeon called to his comrades, as they roamed the lonely thickets. He said in a gentle tone: 'My friends, our nets and swords are dripping with blood from the beasts we have killed. We have had enough game for one day. When the dawn, riding in a saffron car, brings another day, we shall return to our sport. But now the sun is at its highest, halfway on its daily course, cracking open the fields with its heat. Put an end to your hunting, and gather in your nets. The men did as he said and stopped their strenuous activity for a time.
There was a valley, thickly overgrown with pine and sharp-needled cypress trees. The valley was called Gargaphie and was sacred to Diana, the goddess of the hunt. In a deep recess lay a woodland cave, not made by man. Nature had imitated art. She had formed a natural arch from the living stone and the soft tufa. To the right was a murmuring spring of water, spreading out into a wide pool with grassy banks. Here the goddess Diana, when of hunting in the woods, used to bathe her limbs in the pure water. When she entered the grotto she gave her spear to one of the nymphs, who acted as her armour-bearer, and held her quiver and unstrung bow. Another nymph held her cloak and hung it across her arm. Two more nymphs took off her sandals. Another attendant, Crocale, the daughter of Ismenus, held the tresses of hair which lay on the goddess' shoulders, and formed them into a knot, though her own hair hung loose. Nephele, Hyale, Rhanis, Psecas, and Phiale drew up the water in capacious jars, and poured it over their mistress Diana.
While Diana was bathing in the stream, Cadmus' grandson, who had stopped hunting, came wandering hesitantly through the wood which he had never visited before. He reached the grove and entered the cave, which was damp with spray. The nymphs,
discovered naked by a man, beat their breasts and filled all grove with their outcry. Crowding round Diana, they sheltered her with their own naked bodies. But the goddess was head and shoulders taller than they. When she was caught without clothes, a blush spread over her cheeks, as bright as when clouds reflect the sunlight, as rosy as the dawn. Though hidden by her comrades, she stood turned aside, looking over her shoulder. She wished she had her bow and arrows. Instead, she took a handful of the water and threw it in the young man's face. As she sprinkled his hair with water she spoke ominous words of coming disaster. 'If you can, tell how you saw me when I was naked.' She uttered no more threats but began to turn him into a stag. Horns grew where she had scattered water on his brow. She lengthened Acteon's neck, made the tips of his ears pointed, changed his hands into feet, made his arms into long legs, covered his body with dappled skin. Then she put panic fear into his heart.
Acteon fled. As he ran, he was amazed to find himself so swift. When he saw his face and his horns, reflected in the water, he tried to say 'Alas!' but could not speak. He groaned. That was all he could do. Tears ran down his changed cheeks. Only his mind remained the same. What was he to do? Should he return home or hide in the woods? He was ashamed to do the return, afraid to do hide in the woods.
As Acteon hesitated, his own hunting hounds found him. Melampus and the wise Ichnobates were the first, then the Cretan Ichnobates and the Spartan Melampus. Then the others rushed to join the chase, faster than the wind: Pamphagus and Dorceus and Oribasus, the strong Nebrophonus, the fierce Theron and Laelaps, and Pterelas, the fast runner, and the keen-scented Agre, and Hylaeus who had lately been gored by a wild boar, and Nape, born of the wolf Poemenis, and the shepherd dog, Harpyia with her two pups, and Ladon from Sicyon, and Dromas and Canace, Sticte and Tigris, and Alce, and the white Leucon, and the black Asbolus; and the strong Lacon, and the stout Aello, and Thom and Lycisce and her brother Cyprius, and Harpalus with a white spot and Melaneus and Lachne and Lebros and Agriodus, born of a Cretan mother and a Spartan father, and the shrill Hylactor, and others too.
The pack was eager for its prey and rushed over the rocks, crags and cliffs, through impenetrable places. Actaeon fled, running where he had often pursued his quarry, chased by his own faithful hounds. He longed to cry out: 'I am Actaeon! You know your own master!' but the words would not come. The rang with barking dogs. Melanchaetes sank his teeth into his master's back. Theridamas and Oresitrophus clung to his shoulder. They had taken a short cut over the mountains and held their master down while the rest of the pack gathered. Soon there was no part of his body left for tearing. Actaeon made a sound which, though not human, was such that no stag could produce. The mountains he knew so well were filled with his mournful wailing. He fell to his knees, like a supplicant in prayer. His head swayed and his arms stretched out, beseechingly. His companions urged on the mob of hounds. They looked and shouted for Actaeon, each crying louder than the other. They regretted that their leaders was absent, and that his slowness prevented him from seeing the end of the chase. Actaeon turned on hearing his name, wishing to be absent, but all too surely present. Well might he wish to see, but not to feel, the cruel deeds of his hounds. They surrounded him and tore the seeming stag to pieces. It was in fact their master. Only when he had been killed, so men say, was the anger of the quiver-bearing goddess, Diana, appeased.
Opinions were divided. Some people thought that the goddess had been too cruel. Others people praised her, declaring her act in keeping with her strictest chastity. Both sides could justify their point of view.
[This extract makes an analogy between choosing a lady and seeking flowers in a garden.]
There's hunting richer than you dared to hope.
There you shall find a mistress or a toy
To touch but once or be a lasting joy.
As ants that to and fro in endless train
Haste to bring home their wonted load of grain,
As mid their favourite glades and scented leas
O'er flowers and thyme-tops flit the swarming bees,
So to the play the well-dressed bevies throng,
Such wealth of choice as keeps one doubting long.
They come to look and to be looked at too.
Ah! Virtue, 'tis a fatal spot for you.
[This extract uses a garden as a metaphor for a woman's sex, scented with
'rosemary and dark myrtle'. The man's sex is 'Cephalus', 'in love with
quiet oft reclined']
Hard by Hymettus' gaily flowered mount
Mid soft green turf there springs a sacred fount,
Girt with low trees, the sward with arbute laid,
Bay, rosemary and dark myrtle scent the glade,
While dense-leaved box abounds and clover fine
And fragile tamarisk and graceful pine.
This wealth of leaves, these grassy surfaces
Dance to the Zephy's soft refreshing breeze.
Here Cephalus, hounds and servants left behind,
Tired and in love with quiet, oft reclined.
'Come, wanton air, to cool my sweltering heat,
Come nestle to my bosom,' he would repeat.
Some busy-body whispered word for word
In the shy ear of Procris what he'd heard.
At the word 'air', some fancied rival's name,
She swooned and dumb with sudden shock became.
She paled, as pale by early winter nipped
Late leaves in vineyards of their clusters stripped,
Or quinces ripe on bending branches hung,
Or cornels yet too sour for human tongue.
Revived, she rent her harmless cheeks and tore
The airy shjft that o'er her breast she wore,
Then swiftly down the ways with hair unbraced
Mad as a thyrsus'stricken M~nad raced.
Nearing the spot, within the vale she stayed
Her maids and boldly stole into the glade.
What was thy purpose, lurking there possessed,
What madness, Procris, burnt within thy breast?
Soon, didst thou think she'ld come, this Air unknown,
And to thy very eyes thy shame be shown?
Now rue'st thy coming, lest thou find him out,
Now dost rejoice and toss 'twixt fear and doubt.
All proves it; place and name and witness too,
And love's conviction that its fears are true.
At sight of limb-prints on the turf impressed
A quicker heart-beat shook her pulsing breast.
Now had the shadows to their shortest drawn,
And equidistant were both eve and dawn,
When Hermes' offspring, Cephalus, sought the glade
And at the spring his burning forehead sprayed.
Fearful sat Procris. On the wonted bed
Reclined, 'Come Zephyr, come sweet air,' he said.
Oh joy! the error of the name was plain,
And sense and native hue returned again.
She rose, and rushing to embrace her spouse
With eager limbs pushed through the barring boughs.
Thinking 'twas game he heard, with youthful heat,
Weapon in hand, he started to his feet.
What dost thou? stay thy bolt: no quarry's here:
Woe! wretch! thy lady's stricken by thy spear.
She cried 'Ah, thou hast pierced a loving heart,
E'er Cephalus wounds me in the self-same part.
Untimely, but dishonoured not, I die:
For this more lightly on me earth shall lie.
Into that suspect air my spirit flies,
I faint; oh hand beloved, close my eyes.'
On his sad breast his lady's form inert
He propped, and bathed with tears the cruel hurt;
Her reckless spirit slowly ebbed and passed,
Caught on her ill—starred lover's lips at last.
Castle Howard, England
Versailles, France
Anet, France
Fontainebleau, France
Aranjuez, Spain
Kaleirama, Washington, USA
Villa Castellazzo, Italy
La Granja, Spain
Jardin de la Fontaine, Nimes, France
Bushey Park, London, England
Weston Park, England
Afton Villa, Louisiana, USA
Caserta Palazzo Reale La Reggia, Italy
