Dialogues of the Gods (3.2-5.1)

I know Arethusa, and she’s not at all bad-looking. She’s translucent and gushes up pure. Her water makes a pretty picture along with her pebbles, all of it gleaming above them like silver.

You certainly do know my fountain, Poseidon. Well, I’m off to her.

Off with you, then, and good luck in your love. But tell me, where did you see her? You’re from Arcadia, and she’s at Syracuse.

I’m in a hurry, Poseidon, and you’re delaying me with these pointless questions.

Well spoken. Away with you to your beloved, come up from the sea, mingle with your fountain and become one water.

I’m willing to believe you turn into water, Proteus, since you come from the sea, and I can even put up with your becoming a tree, and even your changing into a lion is not quite beyond the bounds of belief—but that you can actually become fire, although you live in the sea, I find quite amazing and incredible.

Well you mustn’t, Menelaus, for it’s true enough.

I saw it with my own eyes. But I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s all a trick, and you cheat the eyes of the onlookers, and don’t turn into any of these things.

How could there be any deception when everything’s so clearly visible? Weren’t your eyes open when you saw all my changes? If you don’t believe it, and think it’s all a fraud and an optical illusion, just try touching me with your hand, my fine fellow, when I turn myself into fire. That will teach you whether I’m only to be seen with the eyes or can burn as well.

That would be dangerous, Proteus.

I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen an octopus, Menelaus, or know what happens to that sort of fish?

I have seen one, but please tell me what happens to it.

Whenever it goes to a rock and puts its suckers on it, clinging tight with the full length of its arms, it makes itself just like that rock, changing its colour to match it; thus it escapes the notice of fishermen, by blending with its surroundings, thereby remaining inconspicuous and looking just like the stone.

So people say. But your goings on, Proteus, are much harder to believe.

I don’t know what else will convince you, Menelaus, if you won’t believe your own eyes.

I admit I saw it. But it’s quite miraculous for one and the same person to be fire and water.

It’s greatly to the credit of you dolphins, that you’ve always been kind to men. Long ago you caught up Ino’s son [*] after his fall with his mother from the Scironian cliffs, and carried him to the Isthmus. And now one of you has picked up this harper from Methymna, [*] and swum away with him to Taenarum, robes and harp and all, stopping those seamen from murdering him.

Don’t be surprised, Poseidon, that we’re kind to men. We were men ourselves, before we became fishes. It wasn’t very nice of Dionysus to change our shape after he’d beaten us in that sea-battle; he ought merely to have reduced us to submission as he did to all the others.

But what’s the true story about Arion, my dear dolphin?