About the Work
Momus is a Latin prose narrative by Leon Battista Alberti, identified in its own title as the work of “Leonis Baptistae Alberti, Florentini” — Alberti of Florence. It is a work of imaginative fiction built around the classical gods, written in a deliberately artful and many-layered Latin prose that mixes serious moral instruction with comedy, satire, and fable. The text survives to us through a manuscript held in the “Bibliotheca majori Coll. Rom. Societ. Jesu,” and the edition from which these notes are drawn carries a papal privilege granted by Pope Leo X, forbidding the printing or sale of the work for seven years. It also opens with a dedicatory letter from Iacobus Mazochius to Petrus Accoltus, Cardinal of Ancona, in which the editor explains his choice: he wished to dedicate some volume to the Cardinal as a public testimony of reverence, and selected this work of Alberti, “a man of the greatest genius and learning,” highly praised by all.
The dedicatory letter gives a valuable contemporary description of what kind of book Momus is meant to be. Mazochius presents it as full of precepts for living well and happily, and as representing human life “as in a clear mirror.” He notes that it is sprinkled with so many witty, elegant, and varied sayings that nothing could be more urbane, and that the author seems to wish to recall the ancient manner of philosophizing — using fables and comic truths to make serious matters more easily bearable. He praises Alberti’s balance: not morose in jest, not excessive in play, not tedious in stories, not inept in precepts. The reader is urged to proceed to Momus himself, “elegantissimum omnium invidum” — the most elegant of all the envious — who is brought forward as the central figure.
The work belongs to the tradition of learned humanist fiction: it is written in Latin by a Florentine author steeped in the classics, and it assumes a reader comfortable with the gods of Homer, Pindar, and Sophocles, with the philosophers of Greece, and with the moral vocabulary of antiquity. Its narrative spans heaven, earth, and the underworld of human society, and its cast includes Jupiter, Juno, Minerva, Pallas, Mercury, Hercules, Venus, Diana, Mars, Saturn, Phoebus, Fate, Virtue, Praise, Fame, Fortune, and a host of allegorical figures. At its center stands Momus, the god of fault-finding and mockery, whose exile, schemes, and eventual return drive the plot.
Context
The book announces its own intellectual lineage in its opening pages. The narrator reflects that it is difficult, almost impossible, to bring forward anything not already treated by the infinite number of writers, and cites the old proverb that nothing is said that has not been said before. He distinguishes two kinds of writers: those who meditate new and unheard-of things beyond all opinion and hope, and those who treat known and common things in a new and unexpected manner of writing. He places himself among the latter, judging that a writer who instructs readers to the fruit of a better life, and who delights and holds them with variety, gravity, and elegance, is not to be counted among the common.
This self-consciousness about literary tradition is matched by an explicit theory of why the work uses gods. The narrator explains that ancient writers so philosophized that they wished the powers of things to be understood under the names of gods — Pluto, Venus, Mars, blind Cupid, and on the other side Pallas, Jove, Hercules. Of these, some signify the allurements of desires and pleasures, or the labors, impulses, and furies of the mind; others signify the force of counsel and reason in human affairs, by which minds are imbued with virtue and moderated, or by which they engage in evil and rash action. Since the mind in humans is perpetually engaged in this difficult contest, Homer, Pindar, and Sophocles introduced such gods onto the stage. Alberti says he will treat of sacred things and gods elsewhere; here, imitating the poets, he has taken up gods to write about the Prince, who is like the mind and spirit governing the whole body.
The gods he takes up are deliberately mixed in character: some stupid, deformed, voluptuous, idle, light, and suspicious; others grave, mature, constant, active, clever, studious, and frugal — “as if by irony,” showing what people will be like in the course of life and the succession of things, when they enter this or that life. The narrator asks what praise or blame, what glory or ignominy, what firmness or overthrow of fortune follow from each way of living. This is the moral frame within which the whole fantastic narrative operates: the gods are not so much objects of belief as figures for the powers, passions, and choices that shape human life.
The work also situates itself in relation to philosophy, and especially to the philosophers of Greece. In the later books, Momus delivers a long indictment of a “race of men” who advance with eyes fixed on the ground, with forehead and bodily bearing composed to every ancient custom and a kind of scenic superstition, but whose life and habits are prone and headlong to every shameful disgrace. These men wish to be called spectators of things; they are endowed by nature with talents not slow or dull, but have polluted the most brilliant lights of virtue in them with the foulest dregs of filth. Among them, two opinions about the gods first existed, and then many and varied opinions flowed. Some denied that there were gods at all, saying the world was made by a certain fortuitous concurrence of the smallest bodies, by chance, not by the work or hand of gods. Others said gods exist though they themselves do not believe it; for if they believed, they would live otherwise, yet they wish it to be believed by the common people especially for their own sake, so that they may be venerated, and so that they may fortify their arms, camps, and empires by the nod of the gods. A third kind of men, most learned in doctrine and polished in excellent arts, but less desirous of praise and glory, could merit the fruit of posterity not by bold deeds or by counsel of things to be done, but by a certain shadowy art of walking about, commending their name to immortality. These men wander in speeches, assuming nothing certain and constant, hunting the ears of hearers with new enticements, and defending what they say by sophistical reasoning.
This satirical portrait of philosophers — and the later comic episodes in which Jupiter visits the Academy, encounters men who cannot find Plato, and meets Diogenes in his tub — places Momus in a rich tradition of humanist reflection on the limits of philosophy, the vanity of learning, and the gap between speculative wisdom and practical life. The work’s world is one in which the gods themselves are divided into factions, in which heaven is split into parties no less than the earth, and in which the fate of the whole “machine of the world” can be thrown into danger by the intrigues of a single malcontent.
Structure of the Book
Momus unfolds as a continuous narrative in prose, divided into books, and its action moves in a great arc from heaven to earth and back again. The opening book establishes the cosmic order: the Prince and Opifex of all things, the best and greatest God, has distributed all things so that each created thing should bear some mark of the highest divine praises, but has reserved one thing to Himself alone — to be one, unique, and full of complete divinity. The narrator reasons that what is first in divinity is to be one, unique, and alone; hence rare things, separated from the likeness of others, are thought by ancient opinion to be divine. Monsters, portents, and prodigies were judged by the ancients as indications of divine will. This meditation on rarity and divinity frames the entrance of Momus, the rarest and most singular of the gods in his fault-finding.
The first book then narrates the creation of humans, Jupiter’s promise to make them happier than the gods, and the sending of diseases, death, and sorrow into human minds. When humans become wretched — worse off than brute animals — they cease envying the gods and instead stir pity. Jupiter adorns the heavens, establishes a heavenly home, distributes it with stars, gold, gems, and delights, and assigns the highest power over all fiery things to Fate. The gods assemble at the royal court to thank him, praising his prudence; only Momus, with a sad face and morose gesture, disdains to congratulate the father. The goddess Perfidia notices Momus’s hidden hostility and prepares her arts; the goddess Fraus approaches him, draws him out, and tricks him into swearing on the altar that if he becomes king of the gods, Fraus will be held in Juno’s place. Jupiter, moved by suspicion of a plot, convenes the senate of gods and institutes a solemn trial. The whole assembly cries out with one voice, demanding Momus be accused of public hatred and majesty, seized as guilty, and bound in Prometheus’s place. Momus flees to the Eridanus, a heavenly river, and from there takes a leap with a second water to reach human regions; but while hurrying to avoid the noise of pursuers, he falls into a gaping whirlpool called the “well of heaven.” There, losing the flame — the gods’ insignia — he bursts into the Etruscan soil like a fugitive. He finds the Etruscan people devoted to religion, and therefore takes first-fruits, hoping to win pardon by divine worship.
The second book recounts how Momus was restored from exile to the grace of Jove, and how new and unheard-of disturbances nearly brought the gods, men, and the whole machine of the world into the last danger. The narrator promises “various and uncertain counsels, and the unexpected and inconstant events, and the frequent and memorable cases that followed.” Momus, observing the gods’ activities, feels hatred and disgust at the sight of their affairs; he both avoids them and, from afar, begins to behold the praised beauty of Virtue. Drawn by his sharpest wit, he resolves a vain plan: to approach the goddess Virtue as a suppliant, to put on the persona of a stern, austere, and holy commander, and to win her favor. He comes to her temple, where a crowd has rushed and where varied games and contrivances appear. Among the goddesses is a girl of most ingratiating wit and almost blazing eyes — Laus, Praise, a wanton girl pleasant to all, especially to those who can provide lavish clothing and perform charming arts. Momus grieves that he has offended so many rivals, but the goddess Virtue receives him kindly, and he recalls the old familiarity, mutual services, and the greatest goodwill toward the goddess; he deplores his calamities, asks for help, and in all ways makes himself commendable. The goddess, to restore the broken exile, replies maturely and gravely, admonishing him to act more moderately with the afflicted. Momus promises to do everything.
The third book — the notes for which are labeled Part 4 — contains one of the work’s most extraordinary episodes. Momus resolves to omit nothing useful for attaining Laus. He circles the closed temple, searching every approach, but finds all his attempts frustrated; understanding the temple’s doors are firmly shut, he abandons the siege. He notices a window left open and decides to seek his loves through it, whether by stealth or force. He sets up ladders in a public, crowded place, though the task is difficult and dangerous. Hanging by his eyes at the window, he deliberates much, dares much, fears everything, and is tossed between hope and fear by the torches of desire. He creeps up to the seat by the window, sees Laus combing her hair with her sisters, and waits prone and silent for a chance of amorous theft. Then, unable to bear his audacity, he embraces the girl and presses her with all his strength; he prevails. But some utterly worthless plebeian scoundrels, reverencing neither gods nor men, climb that same window to defile the temple; Momus, as if torn by the hair, is forced to fall with part of the wall rotten with age. He drags the shameless scoundrels toward a stinking torrent and plunges them under. The girl, terrified by Momus’s unexpected crime, feels herself made pregnant and, in the same moment, wondrously brings forth the fetus: a horrid, terrifying monster with as many eyes, ears, and tongues as the ivy itself had leaves. The parent tries to suppress it, but the divine offspring is subject to no one; it leaps here and there, flees, slips through hands, clothes, and laps. A pillow of swan’s plumage is brought, on which the girl tries to smother the monster, but it struggles wondrously, tears the pillow with claws and teeth, and creeps among the feathers. The goddess Virtue, seeing her daughter in such straits, rushes near and presses the monster’s flying neck with her right foot. The monster, though unmoved by threats, grows insolent with words, never mixing true with false. It swears that Triumphus and Trophaeus were not born of virtue but of chance and fortune, one stupid, the other mad. It mocks them, calling them “io Trophaece, io Triumphce,” telling Trophaeus to play knucklebones in the crossroads and show himself to boys and cobblers with mute signs and grimaces. It adds that praise is a squinting eye, and that posterity limps backward. To the goddess Virtue it says that Laus’s hair is sought at the forehead, and that her breast and lap are sprinkled with much filth of ordure. Virtue, moved by the monster’s loquacity, recalls that it is of the most talkative nature, easily neglecting old things provided it supplies new for slander, delighting in recent rumors, and always seizing some new fable. She says, “Go, evil Fame, do what you cannot be prevented from doing; compose other fables here.” And so Fame, as soon as she could move her limbs, begins to fly.
The fourth book — Part 5 of the notes — narrates the aftermath. Hercules is persuaded to take up arms against the monstrous enemy; when he sees souls armed and ready for battle, he turns away and vanishes, telling them to make sport of him. Fortune, judging this useful, acts so that no one may preoccupy the ears of Jove with envy at Hercules’ deed; she impresses the first forms of the matter on his mind and immediately urges Jove, persuading him that Hercules’ unexpected arrival is the best opportunity to be seized. For the majesty of the gods could not be shown to mortals for their worship and fear by any more illustrious argument than that they should learn that gods can be made. Fama, leaving Hercules in her eagerness to see, seeks the nearby halls of Jove. Terrified by her foul and fierce appearance, the gods are thrown into confusion throughout heaven, and those who had just seen Hercules carried to them now think he must not only be welcomed as a guest but even summoned back from the underworld. Hercules is therefore given the club of Jove, made by Vulcan’s art, with which he drives the monster Fama from all the inner chambers of the gods. Fama, deciding that nothing could be expedited for her by delay, throws herself headlong from the sky, and in coming down shouts with great commotion: “We are born of the gods before the rest, and we are the most powerful of mortals; we drive out the infamous and most shameful of mortals with arms. For such great injuries this is repaid, that those who have harmed us are enrolled in the number of the gods.” Saying these things, Fama shows the people new and unspeakable desires. Flying to her mother, she reports great things she had seen and cries out: “Flee hence, goddesses, flee! For the suitors and lovers of mortals are preparing to bring force to the temple.” The armed ones are present, prepared for the possession of heaven. At these gatherings of the goddess, and with the din of armed men heard, the goddess, stirred by such movements, begins to turn herself; there is creaking within. Outside around the temple gates there is uproar. The frightened gods flee to the lap of their mother. Mother Virtus warns them not to be caught in anger, and often warns them not to be carried away headlong into any rash action by folly. But the goddess Virtus, having dared and sworn at the cowardice of mortals, prays with the greatest vow to the great God that no access to heaven be open to the faithless hereafter, and that it not be permitted to the cowardly to be turned into one form. Having completed these excitements, flashing in lightning she flies away. The praise of Virtus, her daughter, having lost her cloak, turns to smoke and leaves her own imitators blinded. Momus, having observed the nefarious and foul crime of mortals, does not fail to do what he can. The senate of the gods decrees that a triumph should be celebrated in the temple of the gods in turn. Momus, having turned into air, hastens to the temple and asks the gods to turn themselves into whatever form, so that they might vindicate themselves into freedom. The gods deliberate about man, lest by any means he be changed, and armed with arms, and hostile to the gods, should kill them. And so Momus, having obtained this, warns that whoever seeks him in arms may fall by the same. He denies that the triumph is very much to his taste, and that he wishes to spend his time away from the consumption of the body in pleasures. Therefore, hiding himself in a pavilion, he creeps up, and slipping from the hands of the admiring ones with slippery wings, he flies away. Trophaeus, having crossed the body, remains in some stone of those who had moved their hand to him. The maiden goddess Posteritas, for dignity and the necessity of time, consults more rightly; for she turns herself into that goddess whom the Greeks call Echen, who, when these things were so, not without laughter snatches the cloak from the mortals and tears it hither and thither, and divides it into the smallest particles, and whatever chance had torn apart, they scattered.
The second book — Part 6 of the notes — opens with Momus being summoned before Jupiter’s royal citadel, where, by ancient custom, the gods ascend daily to salute and honor the king. Jupiter, having relaxed his severity toward Momus, warns him that his prayers, unless moderated, will overwhelm him. Momus immediately interprets Jupiter’s words as a sign that his prayers have stirred up some trouble, and this prospect delights him so much that he cannot forget his sorrow or conceal his joy. Jupiter turns to Minerva and Pallas, asking whether they have brought Virtue back with them. Momus, following the old custom of ambassadors, replies that on his journey he attended to nothing except the one matter for which he had set out, and that he had more than enough business investigating Momus alone, who — as wretched and calamitous men do — lay hidden in solitude and squalor. Jupiter asks Momus whether he has seen Virtue among mortals. Momus, struck by a harsh suspicion that this question might pertain to his own exile, grows pale and falls silent; but quickly recovering himself, he turns to hope and, pretending confidence, says, “Do you not know, most worthy prince of the gods, what is being done among mortals?” Jupiter replies that he does not know, and asks Momus to tell and to answer. Momus again hesitates, and, doubtful, grows silent about what those words might mean; but again admonished by Jupiter to answer, he returns to his usual art of dissembling. Mercury, the most clever of all, says that if he knows anything new, he should reveal it, since Mercury uniquely loves Virtue, the most beautiful of goddesses, and his sweet loves have long been absent from him. Mercury, having laughed, asserts that he and Jupiter and all the other gods were so preoccupied with this one concern of prayers that they had no leisure for other things, and he thinks the goddess has been well consulted in withdrawing from so many troublesome affairs. Momus, on this matter, again grows angry, again is carried away by incredible joy, and when he sees Virtue, the goddess, desired among the gods at Jupiter’s court, he becomes a remarkably elegant speaker, and with artful expression, gesture, and countenance, he composes himself entirely for feigning, and recounts the earlier history of his own sufferings — but in such a way that, while exposing the crimes of mortals, he especially defends the human cause and begs pardon for their errors. Indeed, by insinuation from other stories, he arrives at his point so that, as if not by design but by the stories themselves, he falls into narrating how the young gods, terrified by a tumult in the temple, had fled, changed into various forms, and been terrified; and how, driven by hunger, they had fled, and how he himself, afflicted by the gravest misfortunes and having lost his beard in the middle, had escaped. Thus, by these very arguments, he omits nothing that could incite hatred against humans. Jupiter, hearing Momus conversing, and the gods who were present, are greatly moved — both for other reasons and because of the unfair and unworthy calamity of the goddess Virtue. On the other hand, they cannot help bursting into laughter, understanding the ridiculous misfortunes of Momus. When Momus sees them thus affected, he says, “In this matter, which of you will be able to judge my cause more clearly? I, by my own testimony, am led by the greatest faith to believe this; to you, indeed, O Jupiter, founder of things, my judgment seems both good and excellent, and those things which pertain to the glory and ornament of your empire — unless perhaps, as far as can be seen, something is lacking — you have no one who reports to you what is done among mortals, and that race, believe me, must not be neglected by me.” When he has said these things, Jupiter, hanging on himself, affirms that he wishes this matter to be brought forward. But among so great a number of his gods, he is grieved that he has no one after his own heart’s judgment whom he can send willing and fit to undertake the matter. But Momus says, “You have one to whom you may rightly and safely demand this province, one more ready and suitable than whom you will find nowhere else. For you have me, most eager for all things, and swift to whatever pertains to the matter.” Then she, most eager and most observant, promises that she will execute with the greatest faith and diligence what she is ordered, especially for his sake. Jupiter gives Momus thanks for the reminder and the promise. Therefore Momus says, “As a benefit — if it should be considered a benefit or rather an office of supplication to wretched and calamitous Momus — I ask you, most kind Jupiter, that if in that procreation I seem perhaps guilty of love’s fault, you compensate me for the pains of my torn beard.” He laughs, and having recognized the matter, indulges him. The arrival of angry Juno interrupts this conversation. For while they were thus conversing at Jupiter’s court, it happened that Pallas and Minerva slipped away to crown themselves, and to gratify Juno they withdrew; and they instructed Juno that Momus…
The third book — Part 7 of the notes — contains Momus’s paradoxical encomium of the beggar’s life. Momus argues that no way of life is more difficult than that of those who hold power, since a ruler must neglect his own affairs to manage others’, and must safeguard the leisure and tranquility of many at the cost of his own single care. Public business, he adds, is thoroughly arduous and full of obstacles: if you rely on your own labor you cannot suffice, and if you rely on others’ labor it is full of hazards and dangers. Neglecting duty, he says, leads to honor or disgrace, and to calamity or ruin. If one examines closely what is called empire, one understands it to be a public and intolerable slavery of fleeing things. Momus further claims that money-lenders and other profitable arts and faculties have been voluntarily abdicated by their practitioners, whether from satiety born of abundance, fastidiousness born of use, or weariness born of gain; or if desire draws one to wish for more, it brings a sordid and most illiberal anxiety. Finally he declares that no kind of life is, in every respect, more choiceworthy and desirable than that of those whom the common people call beggars, whom they name “errones” (vagabonds). This alone, he says, is an easy art, ready at hand, useful, free of inconveniences, full of liberty and pleasure. Momus demonstrates this with many arguments and festive reasoning. He compares the beggar’s art to geometry: geometry requires a teacher, but the beggars’ art is learned thoroughly with no master at all. Other arts have set times for teaching, labor of learning, industry of practice, a defined mode of acting, and require instruments and aids; this one art requires none of these. It is supported and made safe by negligence and want of all things others deem necessary. Here no vehicles, no ships, no tavern are needed; no teacher’s treachery, no robber’s injury, no hostile weather need be feared. One need not amass capital beyond effrontery, begging, and impudence; to squander one’s own and beg others’ requires no more trouble than to wish it. The beggar feeds on others’ sweat and vigils, and consumes his own leisure. He asks freely, denies impudently, takes from anyone: the wretched offer of their own accord, and the blessed do not refuse. Momus extols their liberty and unbound license of living: you accuse freely,
Inside the Book
The Dedication and the Nature of Rare Things
The volume opens with its title and author—Momus by Leon Battista Alberti, called “of Florence”—along with a note that it was digitized from the library of the Roman College of the Society of Jesus, and a papal privilege from Leo X forbidding its printing or sale for seven years. There follows a dedicatory letter from Iacobus Mazochius to Petrus Accoltus, Cardinal of Ancona, praising the Cardinal’s humanity, his gentleness toward the good and severity toward the wicked, his incorruptible integrity, and his freedom from avarice and pleasure. Mazochius explains that he wished to dedicate some volume to the Cardinal as public testimony of his reverence, and chose this work of Alberti, a man of the greatest genius and learning. The book, he argues, though pleasing by its own merit, will be more welcome issued under the Cardinal’s authority. It is full of precepts for living well and happily, representing human life as in a clear mirror, sprinkled with so many witty, elegant, and varied sayings that nothing could be more urbane. The author seems to recall the ancient manner of philosophizing, using fables and comic truths to make serious matters more bearable—never morose in jest, excessive in play, tedious in stories, or inept in precepts. He urges the reader to proceed to Momus himself, “the most elegant of all the envious,” who is brought forward here.
The main text begins with the narrator declaring that the Prince and Opifex of all things, the best and greatest God, distributed all things so that each created thing should bear some mark of the highest divine praises, but reserved one thing to Himself alone: to be one, unique, and full of complete divinity. Having given brightness to the stars, beauty to the heavens, beauty of form to the earth, and reason and intellect to mortal minds, He willed Himself to be the one in whom complete virtue is found. What is first in divinity is to be one, unique, and alone; hence rare things, separated from the likeness of others, are thought by ancient opinion to be divine. Monsters, portents, and prodigies were judged by the ancients as indications of divine will. Nature, the greatest of things, has been observed to produce nothing elegant and grand unless it also seems rare and new. Those who excel in genius and are marked out by a multitude of delights are called divine and pursued with admiration and honors. Rare things partake of divinity, and unique and excellent things are held as separated from the number of others.
The narrator then reflects that it is difficult, almost impossible, to bring forward anything not already treated by the infinite number of writers—nothing is said that has not been said before. He distinguishes two kinds of writers: those who meditate new and unheard-of things beyond all opinion and hope, and those who treat known and common things in a new and unexpected manner. A writer who instructs readers to the fruit of a better life, and who delights and holds them with variety, gravity, and elegance, is not to be counted among the common. He wishes he had enough genius, and has applied study and diligence to this one matter. Some, while aiming at rarity, say things that are common and plebeian but deliver them with a certain severity of assumed persona, so that they are held worthy of the highest praise. He, by contrast, has labored so that things read may be seen and revealed in the light of truth and explanation, and not harsh. He has joined seriousness with jest, so that the greatest truth of things, seasoned with some condiment, is rendered more charming and sweet. He explains why he introduced gods, and why he abused poetic license in writing history. Ancient writers so philosophized that they wished the powers of things to be understood under the names of gods—Pluto, Venus, Mars, blind Cupid, and on the other side Pallas, Jove, Hercules. Some signify the allurements of desires and pleasures, or the labors, impulses, and furies of the mind; others signify the force of counsel and reason in human affairs, by which minds are imbued with virtue and moderated, or by which they engage in evil and rash action. Since the mind in humans is perpetually engaged in this difficult contest, Homer, Pindar, and Sophocles introduced such gods onto the stage. He will treat of sacred things and gods elsewhere. Imitating the poets, he has taken up gods to write about the Prince, who is like the mind and spirit governing the whole body. He has taken up gods, some stupid, deformed, voluptuous, idle, light, and suspicious; and on the contrary, grave, mature, constant, active, clever, studious, and frugal—as if by irony, showing what people will be like in the course of life and the succession of things, when they enter this or that life.
Jupiter’s Gifts and Momus’s Discontent
After the gods’ creation of humans, Jupiter promises to make humans happier than the gods, giving them a share of his own divinity. He sends diseases, death, and sorrow into human minds. When humans become wretched—worse off than brute animals—they cease envying the gods and instead stir pity. To increase his glory, Jupiter adorns the heavens, establishes a heavenly home, and distributes it with stars, gold, gems, and delights, granting portions to Phoebus, Mars, Saturn, Mercury, Venus, and Diana. Free of cares, he distributes magistracies and commands as he pleases. He assigns the highest power over all fiery things to Fate, who is always active and never idle. Fate affirms that the heaven is most desirous, and that nothing is more delightful to him than to enjoy pleasure freely with the other gods. The text digresses on the nature of these “fires”: there is a sacred eternal hearth among the gods, admirable because it burns without material or liquid, and renders things immortal and incorruptible so long as they remain united with it. If separated from this fate, earthly things flow back and are dissolved. In the “maps” woven by the goddess Virtus, this sacred fire flourishes. From this hearth a flame is drawn to the highest summit, and this fire has power among the gods to transform itself into whatever forms it wishes—into a golden shower, a swan, or other shapes, as Jupiter often does. Because Prometheus stole a ray from this hearth, he was bound to the Caucasus for sacrilege. To prevent further theft, a magistrate was created over the fires.
The heavenly inhabitants, grateful for Jupiter’s gifts, assemble at the royal court to thank him, praising his prudence in providing for them. Only Momus, with a sad face and morose gesture, disdains to congratulate the father, looking askance. The goddess Perfidia notices Momus’s hidden hostility toward Jupiter and prepares her arts. She orders the nymphs Vafra and Pellice to place Momus near the banquet table, so he may sit on the ground and overhear what is said. The goddess Fraus approaches Momus with a cheerful face, greets him, and after a pause asks what he thinks of Jupiter’s merit among the gods. She swears she loves him as her own eyes, and asks him to speak freely. Momus replies that Jupiter’s works may be foolish or ambitious. Fraus laughs and asks which. Momus says he speaks of counsel, not mere folly—that Jupiter should have deliberated more maturely before acting, weighing future consequences. A prince should not follow his own libido but consider what is useful.
Jupiter rejoices that humans are made, so he may have rivals to oppose. He decides to assign the ancient inhabitants to the upper seats, and to pour out his anger on humans. He sends lightning, thunder, plagues, and worse—whatever miseries human minds can devise—accumulating them together. On the other hand, he leaves humans the option to fight against evils, or to take refuge in Death’s camp. Momus mocks Jupiter’s providence, asking who is so foolish as not to understand that Jupiter himself is the author of human destruction, having given Fate such power. Fraus asks whether Momus thinks another could be king of the gods. Momus says it is not unlikely. Fraus asks who would dare depose Jupiter even if the fates ordered it. Momus calls it ridiculous that the gods are so small-minded as to think no one would accept an offered kingdom. Fraus says that if Momus is made king, she fears he will treat her badly. Momus says if he becomes king, Fraus will be his Juno. Fraus begins to weep, saying that whoever is ruled by libido has nothing lasting in his heart. She makes Momus swear on the altar that if he becomes king of the gods, Fraus will be held in Juno’s place. Then Fraus returns to the goddesses Verina and Proflua, instructing them what words, gestures, and hour to report to Jupiter at the altar.
The Trial and Flight of Momus
Jupiter, moved by suspicion of a plot to seize his kingdom, becomes angry at Momus. Seeing a prepared adversary, he shows himself harsh in vengeance. At Jupiter’s anger, all tremble. The senate of gods is convened. Proflua, the nymph Verina’s daughter, is ordered to testify about what she overheard from Momus at the altar. Jupiter, father of gods and king of men, institutes a solemn trial, appointing judges to hear the case. But the whole assembly cries out with one voice, demanding Momus be accused of public hatred and majesty, seized as guilty, and bound in Prometheus’s place. With such conspiracy and anger rising against him, Momus, prostrate and trembling, decides to flee. He flees to the Eridanus, a heavenly river, and from there takes a leap with a second water to reach human regions. But while hurrying to avoid the noise of pursuers, he falls into a gaping whirlpool called the “well of heaven.” There, losing the flame—the gods’ insignia—he bursts into the Etruscan soil like a fugitive. He finds the Etruscan people devoted to religion, and therefore takes first-fruits, hoping to win pardon by divine worship. He begins to lead the Etruscans away from the cult of the gods.
Momus and the Goddess Virtue
Momus observes the gods’ activities and feels hatred and disgust at the sight of their affairs; he both avoids them and, from afar, begins to behold the praised beauty of Virtue. Drawn by his sharpest wit, he considers that the gods had been sent down as causes of his misfortunes, and, full of confidence, resolves a vain plan in his mind. He recalls that he had felt the causes of the gods’ anger, among whom he had lived as a celestial being, and remembers the crosses and torments the gods had inflicted. He does not think it would be easy for a god to approach the gods as an exile, nor that it would be without great significance, since he had been utterly cast down and demoted.
The Club of Jove and the Flight of Fama
Hercules is persuaded to take up arms against a monstrous enemy, but when he sees souls armed and ready for battle he turns away and vanishes, telling them to make sport of him. Fortune, judging this useful, acts so that no one may fill Jove’s ears with envy at Hercules’ deed; she impresses the first forms of the matter on his mind and urges Jove, persuading him that Hercules’ unexpected arrival is the best opportunity to be seized. For the majesty of the gods could not be shown to mortals for their worship and fear by any more illustrious argument than that they should learn that gods can be made. Meanwhile Fama, leaving Hercules in her eagerness to see, seeks the nearby halls of Jove. Terrified by her foul and fierce appearance, the gods are thrown into confusion throughout heaven, and those who had just seen Hercules carried to them now think he must not only be welcomed as a guest but even summoned back from the underworld, asserting that the greatest journey is to fight against an unusual and monstrous thing. Hercules is therefore given the club of Jove, made by Vulcan’s art, with which he drives the monster Fama from all the inner chambers of the gods; relying on this, he advances to meet her.
Fama, deciding that nothing could be expedited by delay and the utmost hesitation, throws herself headlong from the sky, and in coming down shouts with great commotion that they are born of the gods before the rest and are the most powerful of mortals, driving out the infamous and most shameful of mortals with arms; for such great injuries this is repaid, that those who have harmed them are enrolled in the number of the gods. Saying these things, Fama shows the people new and unspeakable desires. Flying to her mother, leaving other matters aside as if seething with the stench of souls, she reports great things she had seen and cries out that the goddesses should flee, for the suitors and lovers of mortals are preparing to bring force to the temple. The armed ones are present, prepared for the possession of heaven. At these gatherings of the goddess, and with the din of armed men heard, the goddess, stirred by such movements, begins to turn herself; there is creaking within. Outside around the temple gates there is uproar, and Fama herself attends to the man’s disturbance, lest armed men burst into the temple from the reflected streets. Here the frightened gods flee to the lap of their mother. Mother Virtus warns them not to be caught in anger, and often warns them not to be carried away headlong into any rash action by folly. They, dull and slow by nature and terrified in mind by the sight of armed men, hesitated. But the goddess Virtus, having dared and sworn at the cowardice of mortals, prayed with the greatest vow to the great God that no access to heaven be open to the faithless hereafter, and that it not be permitted to the cowardly to be turned into one form. Having completed these excitements, flashing in lightning she flew away. The praise of Virtus, her daughter, having lost her cloak, turned to smoke and left her own imitators blinded. Momus, having observed the nefarious and foul crime of mortals, did not fail to do what he could.
The senate of the gods decreed that a triumph should be celebrated in the temple of the gods in turn. Therefore, having turned into air, he hastened to the temple to the gods and asked them to turn themselves into whatever form, so that they might vindicate themselves into freedom. The gods deliberating about man, lest by any means he be changed, and armed with arms, and hostile to the gods, should kill them. And so Momus, having obtained this, warns that whoever seeks him in arms may fall by the same. He addresses the Camenae, saying that among mortals there is nothing so vivacious and hard that they may not lead it into the form of any living thing; for a mortal who has injured the body, when he has offended much, that heavy and unjust burden will press him, which he ought to bear of his own accord. Momus said these things, and denied that the triumph was very much to his taste, and that he wished to spend his time away from the consumption of the body in pleasures. Therefore, hiding himself in a pavilion, he crept up, and slipping from the hands of the admiring ones with slippery wings, he flew away. Trophaeus, having crossed the body, remained in some stone of those who had moved their hand to him. The maiden goddess Posteritas, for dignity and the necessity of time, consulted more rightly; for she turns herself into that goddess whom the Greeks call Echen, who, when these things were so, not without laughter snatched the cloak from the mortals and tore it hither and thither, and divided it into the smallest particles, and whatever chance had torn apart, they scattered.
Book Two: Momus Before the Council of the Gods
How the disturbances of Momus excited his exile among mortals has been recounted recently; now it must be said by what means he was restored from exile to the grace of Jove, and how new and unheard-of disturbances nearly brought the gods, men, and the whole machine of the world into the last danger. And indeed it is a work worth reading — the various and uncertain counsels, and the unexpected and inconstant events, and the frequent and memorable cases that followed, so that I do not know whether the dignity and magnitude of the matter, or the abundance of writing, may draw me more.
Momus is summoned before Jupiter’s royal citadel, where, by ancient custom, the gods ascend daily to salute and honor the king. Jupiter, having relaxed his severity toward Momus, warns him that his prayers, unless moderated, will overwhelm him, then falls briefly silent. Momus immediately interprets Jupiter’s words as a sign that his prayers have stirred up some trouble, and this prospect delights him so much that he cannot forget his sorrow or conceal his joy; he rejoices at this second, most welcome success of his mischief and mutters to himself that he seems to see something harmful here. Jupiter then turns to Minerva and Pallas, asking whether they have brought Virtue back with them, and what she is doing. Momus, following the old custom of ambassadors, replies that on his journey he attended to nothing except the one matter for which he had set out, and that he had more than enough business investigating Momus alone, who—as wretched and calamitous men do—lay hidden in solitude and squalor. Jupiter then begins to ask Momus whether he has seen Virtue among mortals. Momus, struck by a harsh suspicion that this question might pertain to his own exile, grows pale and falls silent; but quickly recovering himself, he turns to hope and, pretending confidence, asks whether Jupiter does not know what is being done among mortals. Jupiter replies that he does not know, and asks Momus to tell and to answer. Momus again hesitates, and, doubtful, grows silent about what those words might mean; but again admonished by Jupiter to answer, he returns to his usual art of dissembling.
Mercury, the most clever of all, says that if he knows anything new, he should reveal it, since Mercury uniquely loves Virtue, the most beautiful of goddesses, and his sweet loves have long been absent from him. Mercury, having laughed, asserts that he and Jupiter and all the other gods were so preoccupied with this one concern of prayers that they had no leisure for other things, and he thinks the goddess has been well consulted in withdrawing from so many troublesome affairs. Momus, on this matter, again grows angry, again is carried away by incredible joy, and when he sees Virtue, the goddess, desired among the gods at Jupiter’s court, he becomes a remarkably elegant speaker, and with artful expression, gesture, and countenance, he composes himself entirely for feigning, and recounts the earlier history of his own sufferings—but in such a way that, while exposing the crimes of mortals, he especially defends the human cause and begs pardon for their errors. Indeed, by insinuation from other stories, he arrives at his point so that, as if not by design but by the stories themselves, he falls into narrating how the young gods, terrified by a tumult in the temple, had fled, changed into various forms, and been terrified; and how, driven by hunger, they had fled, and how he himself, afflicted by the gravest misfortunes and having lost his beard in the middle, had escaped. Thus, by these very arguments, he omitted nothing that could incite hatred against humans. Behold, he exposed the whole force of his oration so that he most indignantly declared that fact.
Jupiter, hearing Momus conversing, and the gods who were present, were greatly moved—both for other reasons and because of the unfair and unworthy calamity of the goddess Virtue. On the other hand, they could not help bursting into laughter, understanding the ridiculous misfortunes of Momus. When Momus saw them thus affected, he said that in this matter, which of them would be able to judge his cause more clearly? He, by his own testimony, is led by the greatest faith to believe this; to Jupiter, indeed, founder of things, his judgment seems both good and excellent, and those things which pertain to the glory and ornament of Jupiter’s empire—unless perhaps, as far as can be seen, something is lacking—Jupiter has no one who reports to him what is done among mortals, and that race, believe him, must not be neglected by him. When he had said these things, Jupiter, hanging on himself, affirmed that he wished this matter to be brought forward. But among so great a number of his gods, he was grieved that he had no one after his own heart’s judgment whom he could send willing and fit to undertake the matter. But Momus says that Jupiter has one to whom he may rightly and safely demand this province, one more ready and suitable than whom he will find nowhere else. For Jupiter has him, most eager for all things, and swift to whatever pertains to the matter. Then she, most eager and most observant, promised that she would execute with the greatest faith and diligence what she was ordered, especially for his sake. Jupiter gave Momus thanks for the reminder and the promise. Therefore Momus says that as a benefit—if it should be considered a benefit or rather an office of supplication to wretched and calamitous Momus—he asks Jupiter, most kind, that if in that procreation he seems perhaps guilty of love’s fault, Jupiter compensate him for the pains of his torn beard. He laughed, and having recognized the matter, indulged him. The arrival of angry Juno interrupted this conversation. For while they were thus conversing at Jupiter’s court, it happened that Pallas and Minerva slipped away to crown themselves, and to gratify Juno they withdrew; and they instructed Juno that Momus was present.
Hercules Defends the Learned Before the Gods
Hercules rises before the assembled gods to answer Momus, arguing that reason, intelligence, memory, and the pursuit of noble things were granted to humankind by the supreme god as a gift, and that it is learned men in gymnasia and libraries—not the uneducated—who have proven these gifts through speech, warning, persuasion, and by showing what is fair, fitting, and proper. They did this not by flattering popular ears, mocking the afflicted, or provoking the sorrowful, but by honoring the gods, observing religious ceremonies, and cultivating piety, holiness, and virtue, seeking to make others better rather than to win empty glory. Hercules asks who among the gods except Momus alone would resent this, or deny that such men deserve gratitude, love, help, and preservation. He accuses Momus of being the gods’ bitterest enemy, of shamelessly hating them, and of turning heaven toward hatred by his verbal tricks—unless he fails to see that philosophers are the very source from which the gods receive so many excellent things for their majesty and glory. Some gods, stirred by Momus’s words, wish to destroy the students and the militia, preferring them not to be so insightful; yet Hercules insists he himself owes Momus much, since Momus, had he wished, could have raised him among the gods, and he praises Momus’s intention of warning mortals to do good and to weigh injuries. Turning to Jupiter, Hercules asks whom the king of the gods will love and deem worthy of heaven: those who disturb everything and accomplish nothing, or those whom reason, prepared by virtue, has opened a path to divine favor—men who by study, diligence, labor, and risk have sought much, found much, and brought to light what serves human use, life’s necessity, blessed living, honor, tranquility, and the safety and dignity of public and private affairs, along with knowledge and fear of the gods and the observance of religion.
The Collapse of Juno’s Work
At this point the quarrel between Hercules and Momus is interrupted: a sudden noise is heard from the threshold of heaven, and the gods rush to see it, leaving their cups behind. They marvel at a region adorned with the greatest variety of colors, as if built by a master and constructed with gold and votive offerings, so beautiful that the best heavenly architect could not deny its beauty and painters and sculptors would confess their talents surpassed. Some wonder what the heap means and whether it intends to enter the presence of the greatest god amid the crowd, and they hurry toward the royal hall in festive procession, anxious with eyes, ears, and minds turned in both directions. Then the air stirs more sharply, and scarcely have the gods arrived when that varied, huge work of Juno, built at such expense, collapses, tottering. At its crash the bronze and convex things struck give out a great sound; the echo, received by the resounding shield, marks musical notes for posterity, and they name that fallen, fragile work of Juno “Iris”—later, with the word corrupted, commonly called “Irim.” Jupiter and the other gods note from this the rashness, mind, and plan of a woman and her utterly foolish counsel, reflecting that the female sex always tends to stir up discord and dissension. To Juno’s old quarrels the last swarm of great contentions and acrimonies has been added, and Jupiter, greatly moved, turns to Hercules and complains that nothing accords with his opinion, that neither gods nor kings can hold an assembly without troublesome labor, and that he would rather be a prince provided that those over whom he presides—his sentence breaks off unfinished.
Momus’s Counsel and Jupiter’s Secret Plan
Momus claims that if he could express his pleasure without danger he would do so, and praises the man who could persuade the prince to undertake such great things. He resolves to push the matter forward, saying he will incur envy but will be content if he is of one mind with Jupiter; he urges that the deed be done, or if already done, approved, and offers to show that whatever pleases the prince pleases him. He declares he will prepare this goat so that the king may judge him most capable of the celestials, and that he will be an arbiter among the leaders and among the greatest studies. Jupiter, once he has taken up anger, gives more to it and does not want to seem unmindful of injuries. Finding no form of a new world he would not postpone or despise compared to the old, and understanding that his own genius was insufficient, he decides to rely on others’ counsel—seeking to capture the minds of experts so that if anything praiseworthy were brought forward, he would owe no honors or thanks to the inventor but would count the envy of new things as the glory of invention. He summons Momus, whom he judges to surpass all others in genius, and discusses the matter with him in long insinuating speeches. Jupiter finds no one whose industry he approves; few excel in genius; rare are those who do not reject the labors of thinking, and all seem to want to appear to know more than they do. Hearing that philosophers are so approved by the whole heaven, he can scarcely be restrained from wanting to meet them and heap new envy on the old. He considers admitting the whole crowd of philosophers among the celestial gods, which would make his kingdom most illustrious, but decides it is not useful to have those with him whom he cannot command but to whom he must obey because of their gravity and dignity; he should have with him those he fears and by whom he wishes to be observed, not those he must fear, and he objects to those who teach how to act rightly, preferring those who will not refuse to do what he commands. Deliberating long about whom to send to consult the philosophers, he realizes he has no one among his familiars suitable for such a task, and grieves that all his people are so rude and unskilled that they know nothing of good arts except what they learned from long servitude. He resolves to approach the philosophers alone, laying aside royal pomp as an unknown mortal. First he has Momus inform him of the names, marks, faces, and conditions of the most excellent philosophers; Momus hands him small tablets from his bosom, telling Jupiter to trust them, and Jupiter, having sent Momus away, does not open them but throws them neglected into an inner room and prepares for the journey with an eager mind.
Jupiter Among the Philosophers
The journey turns out ungrateful. Arriving among mortals, Jupiter enters the Academy and finds many wandering through all corners as if laboring to find hidden treasure. Astonished, he hesitates at the gymnasium entrance, then sees them with pale faces, muscles, and beards, holding their fingers and using these as signs in shadow—and he laughs. When they ask who he is, one insolently says, “O mortal, have you come to ask about the philosophers of Jupiter?” Jupiter asks whom they mean; they say they seek Plato, a monster of nature, known to be in the gymnasium but nowhere found—they sometimes hear a voice, sometimes a face appears before their eyes, but he is nowhere. They say, “We are doing your business; where is your light?” At these words Jupiter is in suspense, fearing that these men, who have persuaded themselves they know all things even the most hidden, will expose his joke as if on a stage, and that when he is present among the gods he will be understood but nowhere sufficiently recognized. Withdrawing, he begins to accuse his own perfection. Meanwhile he feels himself carried in a moment and sees a man shut in a jar, turning himself about; when he comes closer, the man confined in the jar is rolled into a ball and intercepts the sun’s rays. The enclosed man, with fierce eyes and harsh voice, says, “Get away, insolent spectator; if you cannot give, do not take away the sun.” Jupiter, angered by the sharpness of this most abject man and forgetful of his own indignation, says, “You ask for a light; I will give you the sun.” When the man hears this, he puts his head out of the jar like a turtle and begins to shout, calling the people, and a multitude of craftsmen runs.
Mercury’s Embassy and the Assault on Diogenes
Jupiter tells Mercury that although he is free to go, there is need of a certain task, because he knows Mercury is curious and suited to joining new alliances, making peace, and conducting trade; Jupiter foresees that the god of languages might learn something from the Peripatetic philosophers and report everything he knows and does not know. Meanwhile among the gods partisan zeal has grown into such enmities and factions that the whole sky is divided into parties no less than the earth. On one side Juno, burning with a passion for building, controls the greatest share of her factions, compelling them by good and evil arts and instructing them for the safety of men; on the other side that populist crowd, whose affairs were conducted with the state of their own interests, willingly agrees but is restrained by an immoderate desire for revolution, honoring the leaders of the gods by a zeal of gratifying them. A certain third middle kind, thinking the head of the ignoble and frivolous mob grave and dangerous and refusing to be subject to any private individual, declares that even in quiet times the outcome of contentions must be awaited, yet leaps out opportunely as seems safe and draws the state at will. These press Jupiter with one and the same matter for various causes: some to congratulate themselves on succeeding beyond expectation, others to provide in advance for matters not succeeding as hoped, others to use past occasions opportunely—namely, that Jupiter should decide something about renewing the world. Jupiter, to exclude from himself the troublesome and hateful anxiety of such a matter, relying especially on Mercury’s embassy, which had persuaded him that among the rude vulgar crowd of gods he would obtain much grace and glory by the most beautiful invention of the philosophers, announces that he will hold an assembly on the next Kalends and explain what he has decided. But this hope greatly deceives him: when Mercury reaches the lands and, having put aside his wings, seeks the Academy, he finds Socrates in that very narrow harbor, solitary; seeing him barefoot and standing in a worn cloak, thinking him some plebeian, he begins to confer with him on liberal and no doubt divine matters, asking where those men are through whom men are learned and good. Socrates, endowed with wonderful affability, having caught sight of the stranger—a young man of excellent form and distinguished face—out of innate kindness begins with his clever method of disputing to draw out other conversations, so as to learn who Mercury is, why he has landed, and what the gods are preparing. Meanwhile an old man and likewise a second approach from Socrates’ hearers; when Socrates understands that not a few are present for the matter to be done, he first attacks Mercury. One present says, “Friends, seize this man, otherwise endowed with noble and liberal qualities but laboring under unheard-of and incredible opinions—O the worst condition of men, which has many approaches to disturb us and mock us. Why does this man proclaim himself Mercury and, sent down from Olympus, seek the Virtue that has gone into exile from heaven, and prepare to renew the world?
Apollo Demands Vengeance, and the Gods Consult the Fates
The book’s final movement opens with Apollo pressing Jupiter to punish Momus, reminding him that Momus had once been Socrates’ companion and had even bragged of persuading the philosopher to commit theft, mocking Socrates as a buffoon and his school as a workshop of abuse. Momus had also gloated that he had correctly predicted mortals would become thieves, so that even the lame would rob with their feet. When Momus finally rested from his word-flinging, Jupiter rushed in and asked Apollo whether he was a crab from Democritus, so inflamed with anger, since a crab has all its force of arms and sinews supplied for attacking. Jupiter points out that Apollo, burning with rage and scarcely master of himself, has nothing left for pursuing vengeance: what will he do, whom will he seek, by what means will he punish the absent or attack the innocent, when they have nothing? Apollo advises Jupiter that one offended by the smallest things wishes to overturn the whole world, and complains that he has lost his riches while Jupiter orders him blamed. Apollo says he could destroy mortals in his heat, if permitted; Jupiter replies that he could, but will do nothing, since nothing among the gods would thereafter be established that would not lie open to mortals, for philosophers, by their own arts or aided by Jupiter’s fates, will foresee everything and avoid with their wisdom what the gods will do. Jupiter orders Apollo to set aside these emotional impulses and cease lamenting; they will consider later what to do about the wicked gods. Apollo says he will obey, but one thing remains: the fates must be consulted about how the gods should be interpreted and by what reasoning. They decide to consult the fates.
The Mortals’ Great Games and Hercules’ Plea
Meanwhile, among mortals, hunger, thirst, and similar things raged because they had heard of the end and destruction of affairs; to lessen the sudden labor, they first began to vex human affairs, and many heads of the living were consumed. Frightened by the voice of the gods, the human race turned to the gods, decreeing great games and sacrifices with incredible preparation, adorning theaters and stages. Musicians, actors, and poets flowed together from all provinces and the farthest shores of the world; whatever was worthy of note from any nation was brought for the adornment of the temple, sacrifices, and games. The greatest theater and circus were adorned with golden veils and incredible work; statues of the greatest gods stood on the most honored tiers, and all glittered with gold and gems. Paintings, alabaster tables, and marvels of mirrors filled men not with admiration but with stupor. The gods, present at the gathering of men, could not fail to be moved; even those who had opposed the gods changed their opinion, partly from mercy, partly moved by the greatness of the numbers. Those who desired human affairs, led by Hercules, urged Jupiter to bind mortals by benefit rather than destroy them by punishments, arguing this would avail for gratitude and praise. Hercules warned Jupiter to consider whether these vows and sacrifices might be turned against him, and to recall Momus’s nature and character. He adjured by the shadow of his club that whatever Momus had accused against men, he himself had done the same crimes, and that Momus’s wicked sayings against the gods meant that the wisest understood what Jupiter wanted.
Stupor and the Scattering of the Statues
While the minds of the gods were thus engaged, Stupor, physically clumsy and so sluggish and inert that one would say he was suddenly carried off like a raging bacchant, undertook the matter of placing statues in the theater. His action was called ridiculous, but the rest, approving such conduct, began to imitate him. Some gods, stronger, called upon a rustic helper and soon subdued certain persons and consecrated them. A certain bearer of a beautiful image carried it off on his shoulders and placed it in a dark cave in a shady wood; returning from the theater soaked with sweat, he turns toward the statue he had carried away, and the empty place of the statue he occupies. Thus, by the example of Stupor, each person hid the statue in whatever place seemed good to him, nor did the desire desert Mercury; with such winged and swift supports, having broken through, they left the remaining things at the very top of the theater. While the gods were thus disposed in the theater, everything happened that was ridiculous and most worthy of memory, both in the wood at the statue of Stupor and in the theater.
Oenops Captured and Rescued by the Statue
In the wood, Oenops, imbued with the audacity and petulance of Momus against the gods, while preparing to celebrate the games, was captured by robbers and, having suffered many blows, led to the very cave in which the statue of Stupor had been exposed. The robbers debated whether to kill the captive or send him away alive with his eyes gouged out. Oenops, placed in such great danger, even if on that day he had believed there were no gods and that heaven was empty, now strove to commend his safety with all prayers to the greatest gods. The robbers decided to hold an inquiry about how much he would pay for his ransom. It was a dark night, and as they prepared ropes, rods, and fire, the first sparks gleamed and the robbers seemed to see something in the cave. By greater and greater light they clearly perceived the gods; struck dumb and terrified, they left the captive and fled, not without a shout. Some dropped their arms and rushed in flight; others fell over tree trunks; others showed their teeth stained with blood; others stood fixed as if struck by the statue of Stupor, then dissolved in sleep. Oenops, coming out, saw the crowd disturbed and prostrated, seized a weapon, hung the most stunned robber by the hair, bound him with the rope that had bound himself, and swore he believed nothing less than that there are no gods, whom he found so present in the ultimate danger.
Oenops Confronts the Drunken Actor
In the theater, Oenops finds his actors, who complain about him and about the gods not being well-merited. Among the actors he finds one soaked with wine, performing wicked and nefarious things at the statue of Jupiter. Oenops, looking at the image of the one doing such things, began to rebuke him with the gravest words and to drive him away. The servant, turning toward him, says: “Philosopher, are you here? You do not do this with me. Do you not see that this new religion of yours is creeping in, which denies the gods forever? This freezing statue and faithful image you honor.” And saying these things, he was preparing to place a burden on his belly. Oenops says: “O wicked one, do you not fear that another place will be given to you for such filthiness of crime?” Then that barbarian and drunken servant replies: “You philosophers…”
Gelastus Instructs Charon on Cause and Nature
Gelastus continues instructing Charon, who had complained that human affairs are too petty for grand words. Gelastus argues that the whole nature of things is made or happens for no empty cause; he defines “cause” as what conduces to motion and rest, rest being the end of motion, and motion being understood as when something comes to be from another. He says one must know whether motion occurs in the first and eternal forms of things or in the mutability of forms. Charon denies he has ever heard anything more orderly. Gelastus begins again: he who first made anything had it in mind and thought, and called the conceived and sealed species “form”; when he brought it forth it was simple, or mixed and compacted of parts, to which he gave form and filled out, or completed the form and made it solid. This last he called “matter,” but the work could not be completed without art and skill, which joins matter to form according to the mind’s intent — this artifice he called “motion.” Charon replies that he had heard all things are made by a kind of mutual and harmonious strife, and changed by daily additions and subtractions of minute parts. He mocks Gelastus for forgetting the way home, and threatens to lead him to the Tartarean regions, the black Styx, darkness, groans, wailings, and tortured springs. Gelastus laughs and says he has made this journey more than once. He explains the voice Charon heard was sound carried by air from the mortal camp, and unless it was a wolf, the second watch sang.
The Wolf, the Craftsman, and the Masks of Persons
Charon asks about the darkness and whether Gelastus claims to see the souls of the dead. Gelastus jokingly calls Charon “king,” and Charon objects that a quadruped genus among mortals is king — a mortal animal, long-lived, alien to the souls of the dead. A wolf had been eating corpses. Charon says the dead do not eat; he thought the wolf was a king who had a disputation with Pleniphusius on his ship. Gelastus asks if Charon has seen or heard kings or wolves. Charon says he heard a good philosopher who holds the courses of the stars and knows men’s fates. From Charon, Gelastus learns he does not know himself. Gelastus then recounts a rare thing: a certain craftsman, wishing to make a man, took firm honey and wax, and with two iron seals — one for the feet, legs, and face, the other for the head and back — pressed many species of men and selected the best. He made many forms of men, distinguished males from females, and gave them faces. He made various likenesses from another grove, and hopes of the living. With these resources, seeing men not delighted with their own form, he said those who wished could turn into other species of animals. He showed them their own houses on the mountain and urged them to climb by an easy path, promising abundance, but warning them not to enter by other ways. Some climbed, but others preferred to become oxen, asses, and quadrupeds. Others, led by desire, were carried over walls; caught in briars and thorns, they turned into various monsters and could hardly return to the primary way. The same craftsman, with similar mud, made masks and faces of others, and this art of personating men was almost eternal, unless the face was worn away by use. These masks are called “persons,” and they last until the Acheron’s waves; entering the river, they dissolve in vapor. No one reaches the other bank without losing his person. Charon says he knows this from the beards and eyebrows of persons. Gelastus asks if Charon is joking or telling truth. Charon, twisting his beard and eyebrows, says he is serious.
The Theater, and Charon’s Judgment on Human Works
They approach the theater. Gelastus asks who built such a mass and for what use. Learning it was made for plays, he laments human folly for consuming such labors building mountains into an immense mass.
