NB. The 1929 Fairclough
translation contains a few explanatory notes for which I am indebted to Mr
Fairclough as well as Niall Rudd and Robert Cowan in the Penguin Classics and
Oxford World’s Classics editions, respectively.
Book I, Satire 1, lines 23-40
[Latin, ed.
E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., Vol. II, 1891]
Praeterea ne sic, ut qui
iocularia, ridens
Percurram: quamquam
ridentem dicere verum
Quid vetat? ut pueris olim
dant crustula blandi
Doctores, elementa velint
ut discere prima:
Sed tamen amoto quaeramus
seria ludo:
Ille gravem duro terram qui
vertit aratro,
Perfidus hic caupo, miles
nautaeque per omne
Audaces mare qui currunt,
hac mente laborem
Sese ferre, senes ut in
otia tuta recedant,
Aiunt, cum sibi sint
congesta cibaria: sicut
Parvula, nam exemplo est,
magni formica laboris
Ore trahit quodcunque
potest atque addit acervo,
Quem struit haud ignara ac
non incauta futuri.
Quae, simul inversum
contristat Aquarius annum,
Non usquam prorepit et
illis utitur ante
Quaesitis sapiens; cum te
neque fervidus aestus
Demoveat lucro, neque
hiems, ignis, mare, ferrum,
Nil obstet tibi dum ne sit
te ditior alter.
[Christopher
Smart, 1756, Everyman Library, 1911]
But further, that I may not run over
this in a laughing manner, like those [who treat] on ludicrous subjects (though
what hinders one being merry, while telling the truth? as good-natured teachers
at first give cakes to their boys, that they may be willing to learn their
first rudiments: raillery, however, apart, let us investigate serious matters).
He that turns the heavy glebe with the hard plough-share, this fraudulent
tavern-keeper, the soldier, and the sailors, who dauntless run through every
sea, profess that they endure toil with this intention, that as old men they
may retire into a secure resting-place, when once they have gotten together a
sufficient provision.
Thus the little ant, (for she is an
example,) of great industry, carries in her mouth whatever she is able, and
adds to the heap which she piles up, by no means ignorant and not careless for
the future. Which [ant, nevertheless,] as soon as Aquarius saddens the changed
year, never creeps abroad, but wisely makes use of those stores which were
provided before-hand: while neither sultry summer, nor winter, fire, ocean,
sword, can drive you from gain. You surmount every obstacle, that no other man
may be richer than yourself.
[John
Conington, 1874]
Well, not to treat things
lightly (though, for me,
Why truth may not be gay, I
cannot see:
Just as, we know, judicious
teachers coax
With sugar-plum or cake
their little folks
To learn their alphabet): –
still, we will try
A graver tone, and lay our
joking by.
The man that with his
plough subdues the land,
The soldier stout, the
vintner sly and bland,
The venturous sons of
ocean, all declare
That with one view the
toils of life they bear,
When age has come, and
labour has amassed
Enough to live on, to
retire at last:
E'en so the ant (for no bad
pattern she),
That tiny type of giant
industry,
Drags grain by grain, and
adds it to the sum
Of her full heap,
foreseeing cold to come:
Yet she, when winter turns
the year to chill,
Stirs not an inch beyond
her mounded hill,
But lives upon her savings:
you, more bold,
Ne'er quit your gain for
fiercest heat or cold:
Fire, ocean, sword, defying
all, you strive
To make yourself the
richest man alive.
[Henry
Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]
Furthermore, not to skim over the
subject with a laugh like a writer of witticisms – and yet what is to prevent
one from telling truth as he laughs, even as teachers sometimes give cookies to
children to coax them into learning their A B C? – still, putting jesting
aside, let us turn to serious thoughts: yon farmer, who with tough plough turns
up the heavy soil, our rascally host here, the soldier, the sailors who boldly
scour every sea, all say that they bear toil with this in view, that when old
they may retire into secure ease, once they have piled up their provisions;
even as the tiny, hard-working ant (for she is their model) drags all she can
with her mouth, and adds it to the heap she is building, because she is not
unaware and not heedless of the morrow. Yet she, soon as Aquarius saddens the
upturned year, stirs out no more but uses the store she gathered beforehand,
wise creature that she is; while as for you, neither burning heat, nor winter,
fire, sea, sword, can turn you aside from gain – nothing stops you, until no
second man be richer than yourself.
[Niall Rudd,
1973, rev. 1979, 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]
Again, not to skip over the subject
with a laugh like someone
telling a string of jokes – and yet
what harm can there be
in presenting the truth with a laugh,
as teachers sometimes give
their children biscuits to coax them
into learning their ABC?
However, joking aside, let’s take the
matter seriously.
That fellow turning the heavy soil with
his rough plough,
the crooked barman, the soldier, and
the sailors who dash so bravely
across the seven seas maintain that
their only object
in enduring hardship is to make their
pile, so when they are old
they can then retire with an easy
mind. In the same way
the tiny ant with immense industry (for
he is their model)
hauls whatever he can with his mouth
and adds it to the heap
he is building, thus making conscious
and careful provision for the future.
Then, as the year wheels round into
dismal Aquarius, the ant
never sets foot out of doors but, very
sensibly, lives
on what he has amassed. But you –
neither scorching heat nor the cold
of winter can divert you from your
money-grubbing; fire, tempest, sword –
nothing can stop you; no one else must
be richer than you.
[John Davie,
2011, Oxford World’s Classics]
Another point, not to dash over the
topic with a laugh, like someone telling jokes – and yet what’s the harm in
using humour to put across what is true, just as teachers sometimes offer their
pupils biscuits to coax them into wanting to learn their ABC? – just the same,
joking aside, let’s turn our attention to serious matters: our friend who turns
over the heavy soil with his stubborn plough, this cheating innkeeper here, the
soldier, and the sailors whose course takes them boldly over every sea declare
they have only one reason for enduring their toil: they want to retire to a
life of secure leisure after piling up for themselves enough to live on; just
as the tiny ant who works with such energy – their model – haul along whatever
her mount can carry and adds it to the heap she is building, for she knows the
future well and keeps it in mind. But as soon as Aquarius makes the year wheel
round and wear a gloomy face, she doesn’t venture out anywhere and makes wise
use of her previously gathered store; not like you, letting nothing deter you
from making profit, not scorching summer heat or winter cold, not fire, sea, or
sword, and moving heave and earth to stop another man becoming richer than
yourself.
Book I, Satire 1, lines 80-100
[Latin, ed.
E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., Vol. II, 1891]
‘At si condoluit tentatum
frigore corpus,
Aut alius casus lecto te
adfixit, habes qui
Adsideat, fomenta paret,
medicum roget ut te
Suscitet ac gnatis reddat
carisque propinquis.’
Non uxor salvum te volt,
non filius; omnes
Vicini oderunt, noti, pueri
atque puellae.
Miraris, quum tu argento
post omnia ponas,
Si nemo praestet quem non
merearis amorem?
An si cognatos, nullo
natura labore
Quos tibi dat, retinere
velis servareque amicos,
Infelix operam perdas, ut
si quis aşellum
In Campo doceat parentem
currere frenis?
Denique sit finis
quaerendi, cumque habeas plus
Pauperiem metuas minus, et
finire laborem
Incipias, parto quod
avebas, ne facias quop
Ummidius quidam: non longa
est fabula: dives
Ut metiretur nummos; ita
sordidus ut se
Non unquam servo melius
vestiret; adusque
Supremum tempus, ne se
penuria victus
Opprimeret metuebat. At
hunc liberta securi
Divisit medium, fortissima
Tyndaridarum.
[Christopher
Smart, 1756, Everyman Library, 1911]
But if your body should be disordered
by being seized with a cold, or any other casualty should confine you to your
bed, have you one that will abide by you, prepare medicines, entreat the
physician that he would set you upon your feet, and restore you to your
children and dear relations? Neither your wife, nor your son, desires your
recovery; all your neighbours, acquaintances, [nay the very] boys and girls hate
you. Do you wonder that no one tenders you the affection which you do not
merit, since you prefer your money to everything else? If you think to retain,
and preserve as friends, the relations which nature gives you, without taking any
pains; wretch that you are, you lose your labour equally, as if any one should
train an ass to be obedient to the rein, and run in the Campus [Martius].
Finally, let there be some end to your search: and, as your riches increase, be
in less dread of poverty; and begin to cease from your toil, that being
acquired which you coveted: nor do as did one Umidius, (it is no tedious
story,) who was so rich that he measured his money,, so sordid that he never
clothed himself any better than a slave; and, even to his last moments, was in
dread lest want of bread should oppress him: but his freedwoman, the bravest of
all the daughters of Tyndarus, cut him in two with a hatchet.
[John
Conington, 1874]
“But if you suffer from a
chill attack,
Or other chance should lay
you on your back,
You then have one who’ll
sit by your bed-side,
Will see the needful
remedies applied,
And call in a physician, to
restore
Your health, and give you
to your friends once more.”
Nor wife nor son desires
your welfare: all
Detest you, neighbours,
gossips, great and small.
What marvel if, when
wealth’s your one concern,
None offers you the love
you never earn?
Nay, would you win the
kinsmen Nature sends
Made ready to your hand,
and keep them friends,
‘Twere but lost labour, as
if one should train
A donkey for the course by
bit and rein.
Make then an end of
getting: know, the more
Your wealth, the less the
risk of being poor;
And, having gained the
object of your quest,
Begin to slack your efforts
and take rest;
Nor act like one Ummidius
(never fear,
The tale is short, and 'tis
the last you’ll hear),
So rich, his gold he by the
peck would tell,
So mean, the slave that
served him dressed as well;
E’en to his dying day he
went in dread
Of perishing for simple
want of bread,
Till a brave damsel, of
Tyndarid line
The true descendant, clove
him down the chine.
[Henry Rushton
Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]
“But if your body is seized with a
chill and racked with pain, or some other mishap has pinned you to your bed,
have you some one to sit by you, to get lotions ready, to call in the doctor so
as to raise you up and restore you to your children and dear kinsmen?” No, your
wife does not want you well, nor does your son: every one hates you, neighbours
and acquaintances, boys and girls. Can you wonder, when you put money above all
else, that nobody pays you the love you do not earn? Or, when Nature gives you
kinsfolk without trouble, if you sought to hold and keep their love, would it
be as fruitless a waste of effort, as if one were to train an ass to race upon
the Campus obedient to the rein?
In short, set bounds to the quest of
wealth, and as you increase your means let your fear of poverty lessen, and
when you have won your heart’s desire, begin to bring your toil to an end, lest
you fare like a certain Ummidius – ’tis a short story – so rich that he
measured his money, so miserly that he dressed no better than a slave; up to
his last hour he feared he would die of starvation. Yet a freed-woman cleft him
in twain with an axe, bravest of the Tyndarid breed[1].
[Niall Rudd,
1973, rev. 1979, 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]
But if, you say, you happen to have
caught a feverish chill,
or some other bit of bad luck has
nailed you to your bed, you have someone
to sit beside you, prepare poultices,
and get the doctor
to come and put you on your feet and
restore you to your nearest and dearest.
Don’t you believe it. You wife and son
don’t want you to recover.
Friends and neighbours, young and old,
they all hate you.
Since you put money before all else
small wonder that no one
offers you any affection. What do you
do to earn it?
Or take your relatives, given you by
nature with no effort
on your part – I suppose if you tried
to hold and keep their love
you’d find it a futile waste of time,
like training a donkey
to answer the rein and making him run
in the Park races.
So let’s put a limit to the scramble
for money. As you wealth increases
your fear of poverty should diminish,
and having got what you wanted
you ought to begin to bring that
struggle to an end. Or else
you may finish up like Ummidius. The
story won’t take long:
this Ummidius was so rich that instead
of counting
his money he weighed it, and so stingy
that his clothes were never
better than a servant’s, and yet to
his dying day he was sure
he’d succumb to starvation. In fact he
was split down the middle with an axe
swung by a freedwoman, one of
Clytemnestra’s indomitable breed.
[John Davie, 2011,
Oxford World’s Classics]
‘But if you go down with some feverish
chill or are struck in bed through some other misfortune, you have someone to
sit at your bedside, prepare poultices, and summon a doctor to bring you back
to health and restore you to your children and loving family.’ But your wife
doesn’t want you to get well, and neither does your son; all your friends and
neighbours, young and old, men and women, hate you. Are you surprised, when you
put money before everything else, that no one shows you affection? Have you
earned it? Or, should you wish to keep and retain the affection of relatives
given to you by nature with no effort on your part, would it be as pointless
and fruitless an ambition as a man trying to train a donkey to run in the races
on Mars’ Field, obedient to the reins?
So let’s put an end to the race for
wealth. As you become more prosperous, let your fear of poverty subside, and
having gained what you desired, you should make a start at bringing your
struggle to an end. You don’t want to end up like a certain Ummidius, whose
story can be briefly told: so rich that he weighed, not counted, his cash, so
miserly that he never dressed better than one of his slaves, he was afraid right
up to the hour of his death that he would die of starvation. In fact he was
split in two by an axe wielded by one of his freedwomen, the boldest of
Tyndareus’ daughters.
Book I, Satire 2, lines 23-63
[Latin, ed.
E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., Vol. II, 1891]
Si quis nunc quaerat, ‘Quo
res haec pertinet?’ illuc:
Dum vitant stulti vitia, in
contraria currunt.
Maltinus tunicis demissis
ambulat; est qui
Inguen ad obscoenum
subductis usque facetus;
Pastillos Rufillus olet,
Gargonius hircum.
Nil medium est. Sunt qui
nolint tetigisse nisi illas
Quarum subsuta talos tegat
instita veste;
Contra alius nullam nisi
olenti in fornice stantem.
Quidam notus homo cum
exiret fornice, ‘Macte
Virtute esto,’ inquit
sententia dia Catonis,
‘Nam simul ac venas
inflavit tetra libido
Huc iuvenes aequum est
descendere, non alienas
Permolere uxores.’ ‘Nolim
laudarier,’ inquit,
‘Sic me,’ mirator cunni
Cupiennius
Audire est operae pretium,
procedere recte
Qui moechis non vultis, ut
omni parte laborent;
Utque illis multo corrupta
dolore voluptas,
Atque haec rara cadat dura
inter saepe pericla.
Hic se praecipitem tecto
dedit; ille flagellis
Ad mortem caesus; fugiens
hic decidit acrem
Praedonum in turbam; dedit
hic pro corpore nummos;
Hunc perminxerunt calones ;
quin etiam illud
Accidit, ut quidam testes
caudamque salacem
Demeteret ferro. ‘Iure’
omnes; Galba negabat.
Tutior at quanto merx est
in classe secunda,
Libertinarum dico,
Sallustius in quas
Non minus insanit quam qui
moechatur. At hic si
Qua res, qua ratio suaderet,
quaque modeste
Munifico esse licet, vellet
bonus atque benignus
Esse, daret quantum satis
esset nec sibi damno
Dedecorique foret. Verum
hoc se amplectitur uno,
Hoc amat et laudat: ‘Matronam
nullam ego tango.’
Ut quondam Marsaeus, amator
Originis ille,
Qui patrium mimae donat
fundumque laremque,
‘Nil fuerit mi,’ inquit, ‘cum
uxoribus unquam alienis.’
Verum est cum mimis, est
cum meretricibus, unde
Fama malum gravius quam res
trahit. An tibi abunde
Personam satis est, non
illud quicquid ubique
Officit evitare? Bonam
deperdere famam,
Rem patris oblimare, malum est
ubicunque. Quid inter
Est in matrona, ancilla,
peccesne togata?
[Christopher
Smart, 1756, Everyman Library, 1911]
Now if any one should ask, “To what
does this matter tend?” To this; while fools shun [one sort of] vices, they
fall upon their opposite extremes. Malthinus walks with his garments trailing
upon the ground; there is another droll fellow, who [goes] with them tucked up
even to his middle; Rufillus smells like perfume itself, Gorgonius like a
he-goat. There is no mean. There are some who would not keep company with a
lady unless her modest garment perfectly conceal her feet. Another, again, will
only have such as take their station in a filthy brothel. When a certain noted
spark came out of a stew, the divine Cato [greeted] him with this sentence:
“Proceed (says he) in your virtuous course. For, when once foul lust has
inflamed the veins, it is right for young fellows to come hither, in comparison
of their meddling with other men’s wives.” I should not be willing to be
commended on such terms, says Cupiennius, an admirer of the silken veil.
Ye that do not wish well to the
proceedings of adulterers, it is worth your while to hear how they are hampered
on all sides; and that their pleasure, which happens to them but seldom, is
interrupted with a great deal of pain, and often in the midst of very great
dangers. One has thrown himself headlong from the top of a house: another has
been whipped almost to death: a third, in his flight, has fallen into a
merciless gang of thieves: another has paid a fine, [to avoid] corporal
[punishment]: the lowest servants have treated another with the vilest
indignities. Moreover, this misfortune happened to a certain person, he
entirely lost his manhood. Everybody said, it was with justice: Galba denied
it.
But how much safer is the traffic
among [women] of the second rate! I mean the freed-women: after which
Sallustius is not less mad, than he who commits adultery. But if he had a mind
to be good and generous, as far as his estate and reason would direct him, and
as far as a man might be liberal with moderation; he would give a sufficiency,
not what would bring upon himself ruin and infamy. However, he hugs himself in
this one [consideration]; this he delights in, this he extols; “I meddle with
no matron.” Just as Marsaeus, the lover of Origo, he who gives his paternal
estate and seat to an actress, says, “I never meddle with other men’s wives.”
But you have with actresses, you have with common strumpets: whence your
reputation derives a greater perdition, than your estate. What, is it
abundantly sufficient to avoid the person, and not the [vice] which is
universally noxious? To lose one’s good name, to squander a father’s effects,
is in all cases an evil. What is the difference, [then, with regard to
yourself,] whether you sin with the person of a matron, a maiden, or a
prostitute?
[John
Conington, 1874]
[Omitted in this translation!]
[Henry
Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]
Should one now ask, “What is the point
of all this?” ’tis this: in avoiding a vice, fools run into its opposite.
Maltinus walks with his garments trailing low; another, a man of fashion, wears
them tucked up indecently as far as his waist. Rufillus smells like a
scent-box, Gargonius like a goat. There is no middle course. Some men would
deal only with women whose ankles are hidden by a robe with low-hanging
flounce; another is found only with such as live in a foul brothel. When from
such a place a man he knew was coming forth, “A blessing on thy well-doing”
runs Cato’s revered utterance; “for when shameful passion has swelled the
veins, ’tis well that young men come down hither, rather than tamper with other
men’s wives.” “I should not care to be praised on that count,” says Cupiennius,
an admirer of white-robed[2]
lechery.
It is worth your while, ye who would
have disaster wait on adulterers, to hear how on every side they fare ill, and
how for them pleasure is marred by much pain, and, rare as it is, comes oft amid
cruel perils. One man has thrown himself headlong from the roof; another has
been flogged to death; a third, in his flight, has fallen into a savage gang of
robbers; another has paid a price to save his life; another been abused by
stable-boys; nay, once it so befell that a man mowed down with the sword the
testicles and lustful member. “That’s the law,” cry all, Galba[3]
dissenting.
But how much safer is trafficking in
the second class – with freedwomen, I mean; after whom Sallustius runs just as
wild as an adulterer. Yet he, if he wished to be good and generous, so far as
his means and reason would direct, and so far as one might be liberal in
moderation, would give a sum sufficient, not such as would mean for him shame
and ruin. But no; because of this one thing he hugs himself, admires and plumes
himself, because, says he, “I meddle with no matron.” Just as was once said by
Marsaeus, Origo’s well-known lover, who gave his paternal home and farm to an
actress: “Never may I have dealings with other men’s wives!” But you have with
actresses and with courtesans, through whom your name loses more than does your
estate. Or is it enough for you to avoid the rôle, but not the thing, which in
any case works harm? To throw away a good name, to squander a father’s estate,
is at all times ruinous. What matters it, whether with matron you offend, or
with long-gowned maid[4]?
[Niall Rudd,
1973, rev. 1979, 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]
If anyone asks ‘Now what’s the point
of all this?’ I’ll tell him:
In avoiding one sort of fault fools rush into the opposite.
Maltinus minces around with his tunic
trailing low,
another has is hoisted obscenely up to
his crotch, the refined
Rufillus smells of sweet cachous, Gargonius
of goat.
There’s no middle way. There are some
who refuse to touch any women
unless their feet are concealed by a
flounce sewn on their dress;
another must have the type that stands
in a stinkind brothel.
The sight of a certain aristocrat
leaving a brothel drew
a famous remark from Cato: ‘Keep up
the good work! he said.
‘Wherever a young man’s veins are
swollen are swollen by accursed lust
he’s right to go down to that sort of
place instead of grinding
other men’s wives.’
‘I’d hate to
be praised for a thing like that,’
Cupiennius says. (He fancies cunts which
are dressed in white.)
It is worth your while to give an ear,
ye who wish ill success
to adulterous men, how on all sides
they are beset by troubles,
how their pleasure is spoiled by many
a pain, is won but rarely,
and then, as it often chances, amidst
atrocious perils.
One has jumped from a roof, another
has been flogged to death;
one while running away away has
blundered into a gang
of violent thugs; another has paid
cash for his life;
another has been raped repeatedly by
louts; there was even a case
where a man mowed the lover’s balls
and randy prick
with a sword. ‘Perfectly legal,’ said
everyone. Galba dissented.
How much safer it is to do business
with the second class –
freedwomen, I mean – though Sallust is
as crazy over them
as the man who chases other men’s
wives. Now if Sallust wanted
to be kind and liberal in keeping with
his means and the dictates of reason,
showing at the same time a moderately
generous spirit,
he would pay an adequate price which
didn’t involve ruin
and disgrace. Instead he smugly pats
himself on the back
for this alone: ‘I never touch a
married woman.’
He is like Marsaeus, Miss Newcome’s
boyfriend, who once presented
his entire estate and family home to a
striptease artist.
‘I’d never have anything to do,’ he
said, ‘with other men’s wives.’
But you have with striptease artists
and call-girls who damage your character
even worse than your finances. Or
perhaps you think it’s enough
to avoid the externals of adultery
without avoiding the thing
that causes harm irrespective of
class. To lose your good name
and to wreck your family inheritance
is always wrong. What matter
whether your partner is a married lady
or a wench with a cloak?
[John Davie,
2011, Oxford World’s Classics]
Suppose someone should now put the
question, ‘Where is all this leading?’ well, here’s my point: in seeking to
avoid one fault fools rush to embrace its opposite. Maltinus strolls along with
his tunic trailing; another with his hoisted up so high its exposes his private
parts, the height of fashion, he thinks. Rufillus smells of mouth lozenges,
Gargonius of a billy-goat. There’s no middle course. Some men will have nothing
to do with women whose ankles are not concealed by a low-handing flounce;
another, by contrast, will only lay hands on a woman who stands for sale in
some foul-smelling brothel. When a well-known person was emerging from a
brothel, ‘Bravo! Keep on that track!’ was the godlike verdict of Cato, ‘for the
moment that foul lust makes their members swell, it’s right for young men to
come down here, instead of grinding away at other men’s wives.’ ‘That’s not the sort of praise I’d like to have,’ says Cupiennius, who
gets his kicks from cunts wearing white.
It’s worth your while to lend an ear,
you wish good fortune to keep distant from adulterers, how on every side they
fare badly, how their pleasure is marred by considerable pain, and, seldom
coming, is often accompanied by cruel perils. One man flings himself from the
roof of a house; another is flogged to death; another while running away falls into
a fierce band of robbers; another parts with cash to save his life; another
gets himself irrigated by stableboys; once it actually happened that a husband
hacked off with his sword his victim’s balls and lustful prick. ‘That’s what
the law prescribes,’ is the general cry; Galba begged to differ.
But how less dangerous are the wares
you get in the second class – freedwomen, I mean – those Sallust goes as crazy
for as any adulterer. Yet, if Sallust wanted to be courteous and generous, so
far as his means and reason dictated, and allowing him to be liberal without
excess, he would part with a sum that was sufficient and would spare him the
shame of financial ruin. But no; on this point he prides himself, because of
this he basks in self-admiration and praise: ‘I keep my hands off all married
women.’ It reminds me of what Marsaeus said once, the celebrated lover of
Origo, who presented an actress with his ancestral hearth and home: ‘I’d never
get involved with other men’s wives.’ But you are involved with actresses, yes, and with prostitutes, too, and
this damages your reputation more seriously than it does your resources. No doubt
you’re perfectly happy to avoid the role of adulterer rather than what actually
does the harm, whatever the circumstances! To destroy your good name, to squander
an inheritance from your father is bad behaviour at all times. What difference
does it make whether you offend with a married woman or with a maid dressed in
a toga?
Book I, Satire 2, lines 111-134
[Latin, ed.
E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., Vol. II, 1891]
Nonne cupidinibus statuat
natura modum quem,
Quid latura sibi quid sit
dolitura negatum,
Quaerere plus prodest et
inane abscindere soldo?
Num tibi cum fauces urit
sitis aurea quaeris
Pocula? num esuriens
fastidis omnia praeter
Pavonem rhombumque? Tument
tibi cum inguina, num si
Ancilla aut verna est
praesto puer impetus in quem
Continuo fiat malis
tentigine rumpi?
Non ego: namque parabilem
amo venerem facilemque.
Illam, ‘Post paulo,’ ‘Sed
pluris,’ ‘Si exierit vir,’
Gallis, hanc Philodemus ait
sibi quae neque magno
Stet pretio neque cunctetur
cum est iussa venire.
Candida rectaque sit; munda
hactenus ut neque longa
Nec magis alba velit quam
dat natura videri.
Haec ubi supposuit dextro
corpus mihi laevum
Ilia et Egeria est: do
nomen quodlibet illi,
Nec vereor ne dum futuo vir
rure recurrat,
Ianua frangatur, latret
canis, undique magno
Pulsa domus strepitu
resonet, vepallida lecto
Desiliat mulier, miseram se
conscia clamet,
Cruribus haec metuat, doti
deprensa, egomet mi.
Discincta tunica fugiendum
est ac pede nudo,
Ne nummi pereant aut puga
aut denique fama.
Deprendi miserum est; Fabio
vel iudice vincam.
[Christopher
Smart, 1756, Everyman Library, 1911]
Would it not be more profitable to
inquire what boundary nature has affixed to the appetites, what she can
patiently do without, and what she would lament the deprivation of, and to
separate what is solid from what is vain? What! when thirst parches your jaws,
are you solicitous for golden cups to drink out of? What! when you are hungry,
do you despise everything but peacock and turbot? When your passions are
inflamed, and a common gratification is at hand, would you rather be consumed
with desire than possess it? I would not: for I love such pleasures as are of
easiest attainment. But she whose language is “By and by,” “But for a small
matter more,” “If my husband should be out of the way,” [is only] for
petit-maitres: and for himself, Philodemus says, he chooses her who neither
stands for a great price, nor delays to come when she is ordered. Let her be
fair, and straight, and so far decent as not to appear desirous of seeming
fairer than nature has made her. When I am in the company of such an one, she
is my Ilia and Aegeria; I give her any name. Nor am I apprehensive, while I am
in her company, lest her husband should return from the country; the door
should be broken open; the dog should bark; the house, shaken, should resound
on all sides with a great noise; the woman, pale [with fear], should bound away
from me; lest the maid, conscious [of guilt], should cry out, she is undone;
lest she should be in apprehension for her limbs, the detected wife for her
portion, I for myself; lest I must run away with my clothes all loose, and
bare-footed, for fear my money, or my person, or, finally, my character should
be demolished. It is a dreadful thing to be caught: I could prove this, even if
Fabius were the judge.
[John
Conington, 1874]
[Omitted in this translation!]
[Henry
Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]
Would it not be more profitable to ask
what limit nature assigns to desires, what satisfaction she will give herself,
what privation will cause her pain, and so to part the “void” from what is
“solid”? Or, when thirst parches your jaws, do you ask for cups of gold? When
hungry, do you disdain everything save peacock and turbot? When your passions
prove unruly, would you rather be torn with desire? I should not, for the
pleasures I love are those easy to attain. “By and by,” “Nay more,” “If my
husband goes out” – a woman who speaks thus is for the Galli[5],
says Philodemus; for himself he asks for one who is neither high-priced nor
slow to come when bidden. She must be fair and straight, and only so far
arranged that she will not wish to seem taller or fairer than nature allows.
When she and I embrace, she is to me an Ilia or an Egeria[6]:
I give her any name. No fears have I in her company, that a husband may rush
back from the country, the door burst open, the dog bark, the house ring
through and through with the din and clatter of his knocking; that the woman,
white as a sheet, will leap away, the maid in league with her cry out in
terror, she fearing for her limbs, her guilty mistress for her dowry, and I for
myself. With clothes dishevelled and bare of foot, I must run off, dreading
disaster in purse or person or at least repute. To be caught is an unhappy
fate: this I could prove, even with Fabius[7]
as umpire.
[Niall Rudd,
1973, rev. 1979, 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]
Would it not do more good to ask what
limit nature
sets to desire, what privations she’ll
bear, and what
will cause her pain, and so
distinguish solid from void?
When your throat is parched with
thirst, do you insist on having
a golden tankard? When famished do you
turn up your nose at all
but peacock and turbot? When your
organ is stiff, and a servant girl
or a young boy from the household is
near at hand and you know
you can make an immediate assault,
would you sooner burst with tension?
Not me. I like sex to be there and
easy to get.
‘Not just yet’, ‘But I need more money’,
‘If my husband’s away’ –
that kind of girl’s for the Gauls,
Philodemus says; he goes
for the one who isn’t too dear and who
comes promptly when called.
She ought to be fair, well-poised, and
smartly turned out, though she shouldn’t
try to appear more tall or pale than
she naturally is.
When a girl like this slips her left
side under my right
she is Lady Ilia or Countess Egeria; I
call her what I please.
No fear, while I’m fucking, that her
husband will rush back to town,
the door crash open, the dog bark, and
the house resound
with an awful din; that the woman,
deathly white, will jump
out of bed, her accomplice shriek, we’ll
all be in terror – the maid
for her legs, the guilty mistress for
her dowry, and me for myself.
I have to run off barefoot with my
clothes undone, or else
my cash or my arse or at least my respectability has had
it.
It’s tough to be caught; even Fabius
would grant me that.
[John Davie,
2011, Oxford World’s Classics]
Wouldn’t it benefit you more to endure
what limit nature sets upon desires, what she can supply for herself if denied
her, what, to her sorrow, she cannot, and to separate void from substance? When
your throat is parched by thirst, you don’t ask for a golden cup, do you? When
you’re hungry, do you turn your nose up at everything except peacock or turbot?
When your groin swells up and a maid or slave-boy of your household available
to get stuck into there and then, do you prefer to burst with lust? I don’t:
it’s love that’s available and easy to come by that I like.
The woman who says, ‘A bit later!
Well, it’ll cost you more! Only if my husband’s left the house!’ is for the
Galli, says Philodemus, who prefers for himself the type who doesn’t sell her
wares too expensively or waste time once she’s been summoned. Let her be tall, and
with good skin; smartly presented but without wishing to create the appearance
of greater height or a paler complexion that nature has given her. When such a
girl has slipped her left side under my right, she is Ilia and Egeria: I give
her whatever name I like and I don’t worry while screwing her in case her
husband comes dashing back from the country, the door is broken down, the dog
starts barking, the house is stormed and echoes to an almighty din on every
side, the woman (horrors) leaps out of bed, white as a sheet, her guilty maid
screams she is wretched, she fearing for her legs, her mistress, caught in
flagrante, for her dowry, and me for myself. Barefoot, I have to run for it,
tunic undone, to avert disastrous consequences to bank-balance or backside, or,
at least, to reputation. To be caught would be misery; I could make that case
even if Fabius were sitting in judgement!
Book I, Satire 3, lines 25-37
[Latin, ed.
E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., Vol. II, 1891]
Cum tua pervideas oculis mala
lippus inunctis,
Cur in amicorum vitiis tam
cernis acutum
Quam aut aquila aut serpens
Epidaurius? At tibi contra
Evenit, inquirant vitia ut
tua rursus et illi.
Iracundior est paulo, minus
aptus acutis
Naribus horum hominum;
rideri possit eo quod
Rusticius tonso toga
defluit, et male laxus
In pede calceus haeret: at
est bonus ut melior vir
Non alius quisquam, at tibi
amicus, at ingenium ingens
Inculto latet hoc sub
corpore. Denique te ipsum
Concute num qua tibi
vitiorum inseverit olim
Natura, aut etiam consuetudo
mala; namque
Neglectis urenda filix
innascitur agris.
[Christopher
Smart, 1756, Everyman Library, 1911]
When you look over your own vices,
winking at them, as it were,, with sore eyes; why are you with regard to those
of your friends as sharp-sighted as an eagle, or the Epidaurian serpent? But,
on the other hand, it is your lot that your friends should inquire into your
vices in turn. [A certain person] is a little too hasty in his temper; not well
calculated for the sharp-witted sneers of these men: he maybe made a jest of
because his gown hangs awkwardly, he [at the same time] being trimmed in a very
rustic manner, and his wide shoe hardly sticks to his foot. But he is so good,
that no man can be better; but he is your friend: but an immense genius is
concealed under this unpolished person of his. Finally, sift yourself
thoroughly, whether nature has originally sown the seeds of any vice in you, or
even an ill habit [has done it]. For the fern, fit [only] to be burned,
overruns the neglected fields.
[John
Conington, 1874]
You glance at your own
faults; your eyes are blear:
You eye your neighbour’s;
straightway you see clear,
Like hawk or basilisk: your
neighbours pry
Into your frailties with as
keen an eye.
A man is passionate,
perhaps misplaced
In social circles of
fastidious taste;
His ill-trimmed beard, his
dress of uncouth style,
His shoes ill-fitting, may
provoke a smile:
But he’s the soul of
virtue; but he’s kind;
But that coarse body hides
a mighty mind.
Now, having scanned his
breast, inspect your own,
And see if there no
failings have been sown
By Nature or by habit, as
the fern
Springs in neglected
fields, for men to burn.
[Henry
Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]
When you look over your own sins, your
eyes are rheumy and daubed with ointment; why, when you view the failings of
your friends, are you as keen of sight as an eagle or as a serpent of Epidaurus[8]?
But, on the other hand, the result for you is that they, too, in turn peer into
your faults.
“He is a little too hasty in temper,
ill-suited to the keen noses of folk nowadays. He might awake a smile because
his hair is cut in country style, his toga sits ill, and his loose shoe will
hardly stay on his foot.” But he’s a good man, none better; but he’s your friend;
but under that uncouth frame are hidden great gifts. In a word, give yourself a
shaking and see whether nature, or haply some bad habit, has not at some time
sown in you the seeds of folly; for in neglected fields there springs up
bracken, which you must burn.
[Niall Rudd,
1973, rev. 1979, 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]
Before examining your own faults you
smear ointment
on your bloodshot eyes, but when it
comes to your friends’ foibles
your sight is as sharp as an eagle’s
or the Epidaurian snake’s.
Unfortunately they in their turn
scrutinize your deficiencies.
So and so’s a bit more hot-tempered
and not quite up to the curling
nostrils of modern society; he may
cause amusement by his countrified
haircut, his sloppy toga, and the
shoes a size too large
which barely stay on his feet. And yet
he’s a good man –
none better, and he’s your friend, and
a prodigious talent
lurks beneath that uncouth exterior. So
give yourself a shaking
in case the seeds of wickedness have
already been planted in you
by nature or by some bad habit. If you
once neglect a field
bracken appears which eventually has
to be burnt out.
[John Davie,
2011, Oxford World’s Classics]
When you examine your own faults with
eyes that are inflamed and covered with ointment, why in the case of friends’
faults is your eyesight sharper than an eagle’s or an Epidaurian snake’s? But,
on the other hand, what happens to you is that they also in turn start
examining your faults. He’s a little
too liable to lose his temper, not particularly in tune with the fastidious
standards of modern society; he might be laughed at because his haircut is less
than fashionable, his toga trails to one side and his ill-fitting shoe barely
stays on his foot: but he’s a good man, none better, and beneath that
unpolished exterior lurk considerable gifts. In short, give yourself a shaking
and see if nature or instead bad habit has at any time planted in you the seeds
of any faults; for it’s in neglected fields that ferns take root and need to be
burtn away.
Book I, Satire 3, lines 49-98
[Latin, ed.
E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., Vol. II, 1891]
Parcius hic vivit, frugi
dicatur. Ineptus
Et iactantior hic paulo
est, concinnus amicis
Postulat ut videatur. At
est truculentior atque
Plus aequo liber, simplex
fortisque habeatur;
Caldior ést, acres inter
numeretur. Opinor
Haec res et iungit iunctos
et servat amicos.
At nos virtutes ipsas
invertimus, atque
Sincerum cupimus vas
incrustare. Probus quis
Nobiscum vivit, multum
demissus homo; illi
Tardo cognomen, pingui,
damus. Hic fugit omnes
Insidias nullique malo
latus obdit apertum,
Cum genus hoc inter vitae
versemur ubi acris
Invidia atque vigent ubi
crimina; pro bene sano
Ac non incauto fictum
astutumque vocamus.
Simplicior quis et est,
qualem me saepe libenter
Obtulerim tibi, Maecenas,
ut forte legentem
Aut tacitum impellat quovis
sermone molestus;
‘Communi sensu plane caret,’
inquimus. Eheu,
Quam temere in nosmet legem
sancimus iniquam!
Nam vitiis nemo sine
nascitur; optimus ille est
Qui minimis urgetur. Amicus
dulcis ut aequum
Cum mea compenset vitiis
bona; pluribus hisce
(Si modo plura mihi bona
sunt) inclinet, amari
Si volet: hac lege in
trutina ponetur eadem.
Qui ne tuberibus propriis
offendat amicum
Postulat ignoscet verrucis
illius; aequum est
Peccatis veniam poscentem
reddere rursus.
Denique, quatenus excidi
penitus vitium irae
Cetera item nequeunt
stultis haerentia, cur non
Ponderibus modulisque suis
ratio utitur, ac res
Ut quaeque est ita
suppliciis delicta coercet?
Si quis eum servum patinam
qui tollere iussus
Semesos pisces tepidumque
ligurrierit ius
In cruce suffigat, Labeone
insanior inter
Sanos dicatur. Quanto hoc
furiosius atque
Maius peccatum est! paulum
deliquit amicus,
Quod nisi concedas habeare
insuavis: acerbus
Odisti et fugis ut Rusonem
debitor aeris,
Qui nisi, cum tristes
misero venere Kalendae,
Mercedem aut nummos unde
unde extricat, amaras
Porrecto iugulo historias
captivus ut audit.
Comminxit lectum potus
mensave catillum
Evandri manibus tritum
deiecit, ob hanc rem
Aut positum ante mea quia
pullum in parte catini
Sustulit esuriens, minus
hoc iucundus amicus
Sit mihi? Quid faciam si
furtum fecerit, aut si
Prodiderit commissa fide
sponsumve negarit?
Quis paria esse fere
placuit peccata, laborant
Cum ventum ad verum est;
sensus moresque repugnant
Atque ipsa utilitas, iusti
prope mater et aequi.
[Christopher
Smart, 1756, Everyman Library, 1911]
[Thus, does] this friend of yours live
more sparingly than ordinarily? Let him be styled a man of frugality. Is
another impertinent, and apt to brag a little? He requires to be reckoned
entertaining to his friends. But [another] is too rude, and takes greater
liberties than are fitting. Let him be esteemed a man of sincerity and bravery.
Is he too fiery? Let him be numbered among persons of spirit. This method, in
my opinion, both unites friends, and preserves them in a state of union. But we
invert the very virtues themselves, and are desirous of throwing dirt upon the
untainted vessel. Does a man of probity live among us? he is a person of
singular diffidence; we give him the name of a dull and fat-headed fellow. Does
this man avoid every snare, and lay himself open to no ill-designing villain;
since we live amidst such a race, where keen envy and accusations are
flourishing? Instead of a sensible and wary man, we call him a disguised and
subtle fellow. And is any one more open, [and less reserved] than usual in such
a degree as I often have presented myself to you, Maecenas, so as perhaps impertinently
to interrupt a person reading, or musing, with any kind of prate? We cry, “[this
fellow] actually wants common sense.” Alas! how indiscreetly do we ordain a severe
law against ourselves! For no one is born without vices: he is the best man who
is encumbered with the least. When my dear friend, as is just, weighs my good
qualities against my bad ones, let him, if he is willing to be beloved, turn
the scale to the majority of the former, (if I have indeed a majority of good
qualities,) on this condition, he shall be placed in the same balance. He who
requires that his friend should not take offence at his own protuberances, will
excuse his friend’s little warts. It is fair that he who entreats a pardon for
his own faults, should grant one in his turn.
Upon the whole, forasmuch as the vice
anger, as well as others inherent in foolish [mortals], cannot be totally eradicated,
why does not human reason make use of its own weights and measures; and so
punish faults, as the nature of the thing demands? If any man should punish
with the cross a slave, who being ordered to take away the dish should gorge
the half-eaten fish and warm sauce; he would, among people in their senses, be
called a madder man than Labeo. How much more irrational and heinous a crime is
this! Your friend has been guilty of a small error, (which, unless you forgive,
you ought to be reckoned a sour, ill-natured fellow,) you hate and avoid him,
as a debtor does Ruso; who, when the woeful calends come upon the unfortunate
man, unless he procures the interest or capital by hook or by crook, is
compelled to hear his miserable stories with his neck stretched out like a
slave. [Should my friend] in his liquor water my couch, or has he thrown down a
jar carved by the hands of Evander; shall he for this [trifling] affair, or
because in his hunger he has taken a chicken before me out of my part of the
dish, be the less agreeable friend to me? [If so], what could I do if he was
guilty of theft, or had betrayed things committed to him in confidence, or
broken his word. They who are pleased [to rank all] faults nearly on an equality
are troubled when they come to the truth of the matter: sense and morality are
against them, and utility itself, the mother almost of right and of equity.
[John
Conington, 1874]
A friend is close; call him
a careful man:
Another’s vain and fond of
boasting; say,
He talks in an engaging,
friendly way:
A third is a barbarian,
rude and free;
Straightforward and
courageous let him be:
A fourth is apt to break
into a flame;
An ardent spirit – make we
that his name.
This is the sovereign
recipe, be sure,
To win men's hearts, and
having won, secure.
But we put virtue down to
vice's score,
And foul the vessel that
was clean before:
See, here's a modest man,
who ranks too low
In his own judgment; him we
nickname slow:
Another, ever on his guard,
takes care
No enemy shall catch him
unaware,
(Small wonder, truly, in a
world like this,
Beset with dogs that growl
and snakes that hiss);
We turn his merit to a
fault, and style
His prudence mere disguise,
his caution guile.
Or take some honest soul,
who, full of glee,
Breaks on a patron's
solitude, like me,
Finds his Mæcenas book in
hand or dumb,
And pokes him with remarks,
the first that come;
We cry “He lacks e’en
common tact.” Alas!
What hasty laws against
ourselves we pass!
For none is born without
his faults: the best
But bears a lighter wallet
than the rest.
A man of genial nature, as
is fair,
My virtues with my vices
will compare,
And, as with good or bad he
fills the scale,
Lean to the better side,
should that prevail:
So, when he seeks my
friendship, I will trim
The wavering balance in my
turn for him.
He that has fears his
blotches may offend
Speaks gently of the
pimples of his friend:
For reciprocity exacts her
dues,
And they that need excuse
must needs excuse.
Now, since resentment,
spite of all we do,
Will haunt us fools, and
other vices too,
Why should not reason use
her own just sense,
And square her punishments
to each offence?
Suppose a slave, as he
removes the dish,
Licks the warm gravy or
remains of fish,
Should his vexed master
gibbet the poor lad,
He’d be a second Labeo,
staring mad.
Now take another instance,
and remark
A case of madness, grosser
and more stark.
A friend has crossed you: –
‘tis a slight affair;
Not to forgive it writes
you down a bear:–
You hate the man and his
acquaintance fly,
As Ruso’s debtors hide from
Ruso’s eye;
Poor victims, doomed, when
that black pay-day’s come,
Unless by hook or crook
they raise the sum,
To stretch their necks,
like captives to the knife,
And listen to dull
histories for dear life.
Say, he has drunk too much,
or smashed some ware,
Evander’s once, inestimably
rare,
Or stretched before me, in
his zeal to dine,
To snatch a chicken I had
meant for mine;
What then? is that a reason
he should seem
Less pleasant, less
deserving my esteem?
How could I treat him
worse, were he to thieve,
Betray a secret, or a trust
deceive?
Your men of words, who rate
all crimes alike,
Collapse and founder, when
on fact they strike:
Sense, custom, all, cry out
against the thing,
And high expedience,
right’s perennial spring.
[Henry
Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]
Is a friend somewhat close? Let us
call him thrifty. Does another fail in tact and show off a bit too much? He
wants his friends to think him agreeable. Or is he somewhat bluff and too
outspoken? Let him pass for frank and fearless. Hotheaded is he? Let him be
counted a man of spirit. This, I take it, is how to make friends, and to keep
them when made. But we turn virtues themselves upside down, and want to soil a
clean vessel. Does there live among us an honest soul, a truly modest fellow?
We nickname him slow and stupid. Does another shun every snare and offer no
exposed side to malice, seeing that we live in that kind of a world where keen
envy and slanders are so rife? Instead of his good sense and prudence we speak
of his craftiness and insincerity. Is one somewhat simple and such as often I
have freely shown myself to you, Maecenas, interrupting you perhaps while
reading or thinking with some annoying chatter?” He is quite devoid of social
tact,” we say. Ah, how lightly do we set up an unjust law to our own harm; For
no living wight is without faults: the best is he who is burdened with the
least. My kindly friend must, as is fair, weigh my virtues against my faults,
if he wishes to gain my love, and must turn the scales in their favour as being
the more numerous – if only my
virtues are the more numerous. On that condition he shall be weighed in the
same scale. One who expects his friend not to be offended by his own warts will
pardon the other’s pimples. It is but fair that one who craves indulgence for
failings should grant it in return.
In fine, since the fault of anger, and
all the other faults that cleave to fools cannot be wholly cut away, why does
not Reason use her own weights and measures, and visit offences with punishment
suited to each? If one were to crucify a slave who, when bidden to take away a
dish, has greedily licked up the half-eaten fish and its sauce, now cold, sane
men would call him more insane than Labeo.[9]
How much madder and grosser a sin is this: a friend has committed a slight
offence, which you would be thought ungracious not to pardon; you hate him
bitterly and shun him, as Ruso is shunned by his debtor, who, poor wretch, if
at the coming of the sad Kalends he cannot scrape up from some quarter either
interest or principal, must offer his throat like a prisoner of war and listen
to his captor’s dreary histories! What if in his cups my friend has wet the
couch or knocked off the table a bowl once fingered by Evander[10],
is he for such offence, or because when hungry he snatched up first a pullet
served on my side of the dish, to be less pleasing in my eyes? What shall I do
if he commits a theft, or betrays a trust, or disowns his bond? Those whose
creed is that all sins are much on a par are at a loss when they come to face
facts. Feelings and customs rebel, and so does Expedience herself, the mother,
we may say, of justice and right.
[Niall Rudd,
1973, rev. 1979, 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]
So if one of your friends is a bit
close-fisted, let’s say he’s thrifty;
if another is inclined to be tactless
and loud-mouthed – well, he wants
his friends to think him sociable; or
suppose he’s rather ill-mannered
and outspoken to the point of
rudeness, let’s call him fortright and fearless.
Is he something of a hot-head? Then put
him down as a keen type.
I really believe this habit both joins
and cements friendships.
But in fact we turn the good qualities upside down
in our zeal to dirty a clean jar. If
someone we know
is a decent and wholly unassuming
fellow, we give him the nickname
‘Slowcoach’ or ‘Fathead’; another
avoids every trap
and never leaves himself open to hostile
attack, because life
as we live it is a battlefield where
envy is sharp and slanders
fly thick and fast; instead of saying
he’s jolly sensible
and no fool, we call him crafty and
insincere.
If a man is rather uninhibited (the
sort of fellow I would often
wish you to think me, Maecenas), breaking in
with some tiresome chatter when his
friend is reading or quietly thinking.
we say ‘He’s
got absolutely no savoir faire.’ How
casually
we endorse a
law that is against ourselves! For no one is free
from faults;
the best is the man who is hampered by the smallest. A kindly
friend will
weigh, as is fair, my virtues against my failings,
and if he
wants my affection he will come down on the side
of my
virtues as being more numerous (if in fact they are more numerous!).
On that principle
he will be weighed in the same scales.
If you
expect your friend to put up with your boils
you’ll forget
about his warts. It’s fair that anyone who asks
indulgence
for his faults should grant the same in return.
Since, then,
anger and the other failings so deeply rooted
in human
folly can’t be cut out once and for all,
why doesn’t
Reason employ weights and measures of her own
and curb
offences with the type of punishment suited to each?
Suppose a
servant, told to remove a dish, has a lick
at the
half-eaten fish and the lukewarm sauce; if his master hanged him
sane people
would swear he was more insane than Labeo.
How much madder
and graver a fault is this: a friend
commits some
trivial offence which you really ought to ignore
if you’re
not to appear churlish; yet you loath him heartily and dodge him
like a
fellow who owes Ruso money and is bound to scrape up
the interest
or principal from somewhere before the pitiless first
of the month
or else put up his hands like a prisoner of war
and listen
to his creditor’s ‘Studies in History’ with teeth on edge.
What if a
friend in a tipsy moment wets the couch
or knocks
off the table a bowl which must have been worn thin
by old
Evander’s fingers? Or say he is feeling hungry
and grabs a
chicken that was served in my side of the dish,
shall I like
him any the less for that? What would I do
if he stole,
or went back on a pledge, or broke his word of honour?
Those who
hold that sins are largely the same are floored
by real situations.
Common sense and tradition say no,
and so does
Expediency, the virtual mother of justice and fairness.
[John Davie,
2011, Oxford World’s Classics]
This friend lives in a somewhat
penny-pinching fashion: let’s call him ‘careful with money’. Another is
tactless and a little too prone to showing off: he’s expecting his friends to
regard him as ‘amusing company’. This one, on the other hand, is rather
aggressive and outspoken: let him be thought of as ‘frank and not afraid to
speak his mind’. Another is a bit of a hothead: let’s count him among the men
of spirit. It’s this attitude, I reckon, that binds friends together and keeps their
friendship intact. But we turn actual merits upside down and are eager to
tarnish a container that’s clean. If someone sharing our circle is a decent
fellow and entirely modest, we give him the nickname ‘slowcoach’ or ‘dense’. Another
evades every trap and doesn’t leave a flank exposed to any shaft of malice, as
he’s involved in the type of life where envy has an edge and slanderous
criticisms are rife: instead of calling him ‘entirely sensible’ and ‘a prudent
fellow’ we speak of his ‘insincerity’ and ‘crafty ways’. If someone is rather
open in manner, the sort of impression I would hope you have often formed of
me, Maecenas, so that he interrupts a person when he’s reading, perhaps, or
engaged in quiet thought, and makes a nuisance of himself with some chatter or
other, ‘He’s quite lacking in consideration for other people,’ we declare. But,
ah, how foolishly we are establishing an unforgiving precedent against
ourselves! For no one is born free from faults: the best fellow is the one who
is burdened by the least. A kindly friend should, in fairness, balance my good
points against my bad ones, and, if he wants to keep my affection, he should
turn the scales in favour of the former as being more numerous – assuming, of
course, that my good points are in the
ascendancy: if he follows this principle he’ll be weighed on the same scale.
Someone who expects a friend to turn a blind eye to his own boils will view
with tolerance the other’s warts; when a person asks for forgiveness for
failings, it’s only fair that he grants it duly in return.
Again, given that it’s impossible to
cut out the fault of anger completely, and likewise all other faults that
attach themselves to fools, why does reason not employ her own weights and
measures, and bring to bear on offences the punishments that are appropriate to
each? Should a man’s slave lick up some half-eaten fish and its lukewarm sauce
when told to take away a dish, and then be crucified for this, men of sanity
would brand the master as less sane than Labeo. How much crazier and more
offensive a transgression is this! A friend has been guilty of some peccadillo
that you would be considerered ungracious not to forgive: you react with bitter
hatred and give him as wide a berth as someone owing money to Ruso gives him, for,
unless he manages to scrape up interest or principal from some source or other by
the time the gloomy Kalends have overtaken him, poor devil, he’s bound to
present a captive audience, as if his throat is bared to the knife, for Ruso’s
boring histories. Suppose a guest, when drunk, has wet the couch or knocked off
the table a cup worn thin by Evander’s hands, should I regard him as a less
agreeable friend on this account, or because, in a moment of hunger, he picked
up before me a chicken set down on my side of the dish? What am I to do if he
commits a theft, or betrays confidence, or reneges on a legal agreement?
Those who have established as their
view that all transgressions are much on a par find themselves in difficulty
when it comes to actual instances; instinct and convetion are armed against
them, as is expediency itself, the virtual mother of justice and fairness.
Book I, Satire 4, lines 38-48
[Latin, ed.
E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., Vol. II, 1891]
Agedum, pauca
accipe contra.
Primum ego me illorum
dederim quibus esse poëtas
Excerpam numero: neque enim
concludere versum
Dixeris esse satis; neque
si qui scribat uti nos
Sermoni propiora, putes
hunc esse poëtam.
Ingenium cui sit, cui mens divinior
atque os
Magna sonaturum, des nominis
huius honorem.
Idcirco quidam comoedia
necne poëma
Esset quaesivere, quod acer
spiritus ac vis
Nec verbis nec rebus inest,
nisi quod pede certo
Differt sermoni, sermo
merus.
[Christopher
Smart, 1756, Everyman Library, 1911]
But, come on, attend to a few words on
the other side of the question.
In the first place, I will except
myself out of the number of those I would allow to be poets: for one must not
call it sufficient to tag a verse: nor if any person, like me, writes in a
style bordering on conversation, must you esteem him to be a poet. To him who
has genius, who has a soul of a diviner cast, and a greatness of expression,
give the honour of this appellation. On this account some have raised the
question, whether comedy be a poem or not: because an animated spirit and force
is neither in the style, nor the subject-matter: bating that it differs from
prose by a certain measure, it is mere prose.
[John
Conington, 1874]
A weighty accusation! now,
permit
Some few brief words, and I
will answer it:
First, be it understood, I
make no claim
To rank with those who bear
a poet's name:
‘Tis not enough to turn out
lines complete,
Each with its proper
quantum of five feet;
Colloquial verse a man may
write like me,
But (trust an author) ‘tis
not poetry.
No; keep that name for
genius, for a soul
Of Heaven's own fire, for
words that grandly roll.
Hence some have questioned
if the Muse we call
The Comic Muse be really
one at all:
Her subject ne’er aspires,
her style ne’er glows,
And, save that she talks
metre, she talks prose.
[Henry
Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]
Come now, listen to a few words in
answer. First I will take my own name from the list of such as I would allow to
be poets. For you would not call it enough to round off a verse, nor would you
count anyone poet who writes, as I do, lines more akin to prose. If one has
gifts inborn, if one has a soul divine and tongue of noble utterance, to such
give the honour of that name. Hence some have questioned whether Comedy is or is
not poetry; for neither in diction nor in matter has it the fire and force of
inspiration, and, save that it differs from prose-talk in its regular beat, it
is mere prose.
[Niall Rudd,
1973, rev. 1979, 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]
Now let me
say a few words in reply:
First, I’d exclude myself from those
who can properly be called
poets. You would not consider it enough
simply to turn
a metrical line. Nor, if a man wrote,
as I do,
in a style rather close to prose,
would you count him as a poet.
The honour of that name should be kept
for someone with a natural
gift, an inspired soul, and a voice of
mighty music.
That’s why people have asked whether
comedy is genuine poetry,
for in language and subject-matter it
lacks the fire and force
of passion, and except that it differs
from prose in the regularity
of its rhythm, it is prose pure and
simple.
[John Davie,
2011, Oxford World’s Classics]
In the first place I would exclude
myself from the number of those to whom I would give the name of poet. You
would not describe it as sufficient to produce a metrical line; and if, as I
do, a man should write what’s more akin to conversational prose, you wouldn’t
consider him a poet. The honour of this name you would confer upon one who
possesses genius, whose intelligence the gods have inspired, whose voice is
capable of an impressive resonance. It is for this reason that certain people
have raised the question whether comedy is poetry or not, since neither its
diction nor its content contains the fiery power of inspiration, and, apart
from the fact that it differs from prose by its fixed metre, it is
unadulterated prose.
Book I, Satire 4, lines 103-143
[Latin, ed.
E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., Vol. II, 1891]
Liberius si
Dixero quid, si forte
iocosius, hoc mihi iuris
Cum venia dabis: insuevit
pater optimus hoc me,
Ut fugerem exemplis
vitiorum quaeque notando.
Cum me hortaretur, parce,
frugaliter, atque
Viverem uti contentus eo
quod mi ipse parasset :
‘Nonne vides Albi ut male
vivat filius, utque
Baius inops? Magnum
documentum ne patriam rem
Perdere quis velit.’ A
turpi meretricis amore
Cum deterreret: ‘Scetani
dissimilis sis.’
Ne sequerer moechas
concessa cum venere uti
Possem: ‘Deprensi non bella
est fama Treboni,’
Aiebat. ‘Sapiens, vitatu
quidque petitu
Sit melius, causas reddet
tibi: mi satis est si
Traditum ab antiquis morem
servare tuamque,
Dum custodis eges, vitam
famamque tueri
Incolumem possum; simul ac
duraverit aetas
Membra animumque tuum,
nabis sine cortice.’ Sic me
Formabat puerum dictis; et
sive iubebat
Ut facerem quid: ‘Habes
auctorem quo facias hoc;’
Unum ex iudicibus selectis
obiiciebat;
Sive vetabat: ‘An hoc
inhonestum et inutile factu
Necne sit addubites,
flagret rumore malo cum
Hic atque ille?’ Avidos
vicinum funus ut aegros
Exanimat, mortisque metu
sibi parcere cogit,
Sic teneros animos aliena
opprobria saepe
Absterrent vitiis. Ex hoc ego
sanus ab illis
Perniciem quaecunque
ferunt, mediocribus et quis
Ignoscas vitiis teneor.
Fortassis et istinc
Largiter abstulerit longa
aetas, liber amicus,
Consilium proprium: neque
enim, cum lectulus aut me
Porticus excepit, desum
mihi: ‘Rectius hoc est:
Hoc faciens vivam melius:
Sic dulcis amicis
Occurram: Hoc quidam non
belle: numquid ego illi
Imprudens olim faciam
simile?’ Haec ego mecum
Compressis agito labris;
ubi quid datur oti
Illudo chartis. Hoc est
mediocribus illis
Ex vitiis unum; cui si
concedere nolis,
Multa poëtarum veniat manus
auxilio quae
Sit mihi (nam multo plures
sumus), ac veluti te
Iudaei cogemus in hanc
concedere turbam.
[Christopher
Smart, 1756, Everyman Library, 1911]
If I shall say anything too freely, if
perhaps too ludicrously, you must favour me by your indulgence with this
allowance. For my excellent father inured me to this custom, that by noting
each particular vice I might avoid it by the example [of others]. When he
exhorted me that I should live thriftily, frugally, and content with what he
had provided for me; don’t you see, [would he say,] how wretchedly the son of
Albius lives? And how miserably Barrus? A strong lesson to hinder any one from
squandering away his patrimony. When he would deter me from filthy fondness for
a light woman: [take care, said he,] that you do not resemble Sectanus. That I
might not follow adulteresses, when I could enjoy a lawful amour: the
character, cried he, of Trebonius, who was caught in the fact, is by no means
creditable. The philosopher may tell you the reasons for what is better to be
avoided, and what to be pursued. It is sufficient for me, if I can preserve the
morality traditional from my forefathers, and keep your life and reputation
inviolate, so long as you stand in need of a guardian: so soon as age shall
have strengthened your limbs and mind, you will swim without cork. In this
manner he formed me, as yet a boy: and whether he ordered me to do any
particular thing: You have an authority for doing this:[then] he instanced some
one out of the select magistrates: or did he forbid me [anything]; can you
doubt, [says he,]whether this thing be dishonourable, and against your interest
to be done, when this person and the other is become such a burning shame for
his bad character [on these accounts]? As a neighbouring funeral dispirits sick
gluttons, and through fear of death forces them to have mercy upon themselves;
so other men’s disgraces often deter tender minds from vices. From this [method
of education] I am clear from all such vices, as bring destruction along with
them: by lighter foibles, and such as you may excuse, I am possessed. And even
from these, perhaps, a maturer age, the sincerity of a friend, or my own
judgment, may make great reductions. For neither when I am in bed, or in the
piazzas, am I wanting to myself: this way of proceeding is better; by doing
such a thing I shall live more comfortably; by this means I shall render myself
agreeable to my friends; such a transaction was not clever; what, shall I, at
any time, imprudently commit anything like it? These things I revolve in
silence by myself. When I have any leisure, I amuse myself with my papers. This
is one of those lighter foibles [I was speaking of]: to which if you do not
grant your indulgence, a numerous band of poets shall come, which will take my
part, (for we are many more in number,) and, like the Jews, we will force you
to come over to our numerous party.
[John
Conington, 1874]
But if I still seem
personal and bold,
Perhaps you’ll pardon, when
my story’s told.
When my good father taught
me to be good,
Scarecrows he took of
living flesh and blood.
Thus, if he warned me not
to spend but spare
The moderate means I owe to
his wise care,
‘Twas, “See the life that
son of Albius leads!
Observe that Barrus, vilest
of ill weeds!
Plain beacons these for
heedless youth, whose taste
Might lead them else a fair
estate to waste:”
If lawless love were what
he bade me shun,
“Avoid Scetanius’ slough,”
his words would run:
“Wise men,” he’d add, “the
reasons will explain
Why you should follow this,
from that refrain:
For me, if I can train you
in the ways
Trod by the worthy folks of
earlier days,
And, while you need
direction, keep your name
And life unspotted, I’ve
attained my aim:
When riper years have
seasoned brain and limb,
You'll drop your corks, and
like a Triton swim.”
‘Twas thus he formed my
boyhood: if he sought
To make me do some action
that I ought,
“You see your warrant
there,” he’d say, and clench
His word with some grave
member of the bench:
So too with things forbidden:
“can you doubt
The deed’s a deed an honest
man should scout,
When, just for this same
matter, these and those,
Like open drains, are
stinking ‘neath your nose?”
Sick gluttons of a
next-door funeral hear,
And learn self-mastery in
the school of fear:
And so a neighbour’s
scandal many a time
Has kept young minds from
running into crime.
Thus I grew up, unstained
by serious ill,
Though venial faults, I
grant you, haunt me still:
Yet items I could name
retrenched e'en there
By time, plain speaking,
individual care;
For, when I chance to
stroll or lounge alone,
I’m not without a Mentor of
my own:
“This course were better:
that might help to mend
My daily life, improve me
as a friend:
There some one showed
ill-breeding: can I say
I might not fall into the like
one day?”
So with closed lips I
ruminate, and then
In leisure moments play
with ink and pen:
For that’s an instance, I
must needs avow,
Of those small faults I
hinted at just now:
Grant it your prompt
indulgence, or a throng
Of poets shall come up, some
hundred strong,
And by mere numbers, in
your own despite,
Force you, like Jews, to be
our proselyte.
[Henry
Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]
If in my words I am too free,
perchance too light, this bit of liberty you will indulgently grant me. ’Tis a
habit the best of fathers taught me, for, to enable me to steer clear of
follies, he would brand them, one by one, by his examples. Whenever he would
encourage me to live thriftily, frugally, and content with what he had saved for
me, “Do you not see,” he would say, “how badly fares young Albius, and how poor
is Baius? A striking lesson not to waste one’s patrimony!” When he would deter
me from a vulgar amour, “Don’t be like Scetanus.” And to prevent me from
courting another’s wife, when I might enjoy a love not forbidden, “Not pretty,”
he would say, is the repute of Trebonius, caught in the act. Your philosopher
will give you theories for shunning or seeking this or that: enough for me, if
I can uphold the rule our fathers have handed down, and if, so long as you need
a guardian, I can keep your health and name from harm. When years have brought
strength to body, and mind, you will swim without the cork.” With words like
these would he mould my boyhood; and whether he were advising me to do
something, “You have an example for so doing,” he would say, and point to one
of the special judges; or were forbidding me, “Can you doubt whether this is
dishonourable and disadvantageous or not, when so and so stands in the blaze of
ill repute?” As a neighbour’s funeral scares gluttons when sick, and makes
them, through fear of death, careful of themselves, so the tender mind is oft
deterred from vice by another’s shame.
Thanks to this training I am free from
vices which bring disaster, though subject to lesser frailties such as you
would excuse. Perhaps even from these much will be withdrawn by time’s advance,
candid friends, self-counsel; for when my couch welcomes me or I stroll in the
colonnade, I do not fail myself: “This is the better course: if I do that, I
shall fare more happily: thus I shall delight the friends I meet: that was ugly
conduct of so and so: is it possible that some day I may thoughtlessly do
anything like that?” Thus, with lips shut tight, I debate with myself; and when
I find a bit of leisure, I trifle with my papers. This is one of those lesser
frailties I spoke of, and if you should make no allowance for it, then would a
big band of poets come to my aid – for we are the big majority – and we, like
the Jews, will compel you to make one of our throng.
[Niall Rudd,
1973, rev. 1979, 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]
Yet if I’m a
little outspoken or perhaps
too fond of a joke, I hope you’ll
grant me that privilege.
My good father gave me the habit; to
warn me off
he used to point out various vices by
citing examples.
When urging me to practise thrift and
economy and to be content
with what he himself had managed to
save he used to say:
‘Notice what a miserable life young
Albius leads and how Baius
is down and out – a salutary warning
not to squander
the family’s money.’ Steering me away from
a squalid attachment
to a whole he would say: ‘Don’t be
like Scetanus!’ To stop me
chasing another man’s wife when
legitimate sex was available:
‘It isn’t nice to get a name like that
of Trebonius – he
was caught in the act.’ He would add: ‘A
philosopher will give you reasons
why this is desirable and that is
better avoided. For me
it’s enough to preserve the ways which
our forefathers handed down
to look after your physical safety and
keep your name untarnished
while you need a guardian. When time
has toughened your body and mind
you’ll be able to swim without a ring.’
And so by his talk
he would form my young character.
Recommending something he’d say:
‘You’ve a good precedent for that,’
and point to one of the judges
selected by the Praetor; or by way of
dissuading me: ‘How can you doubt,’
he’d say, ‘whether this is a wrong and
foolish thing to do
when X and Y are the centre of a
blazing scandal?’
The sick
who are tempted to over-eat are given
a fright by the funeral
of the man next door, and the terror
of death compels them to go easy;
young folk are often deterred from
doing wrong
by the ill repute of other people.
That is the reason
why I am free from the graver vices
and have to cope
only with milder, more venial, faults.
Perhaps even
these
may be largely removed by the lapse of
time or the straight talk
of a friend, or my own reflection. For
when I go off to my sofa
or the colonnade, I’m not idle: ‘This
is more honest;
this will help to improve my life;
this will endear me
to my friends; that was a dirty trick
so and so did; could I
ever be so thoughtless as to act like
that?’ Such is the discourse
that I hold behind closed lips. When I
get any free time
I amuse myself on paper. That’s one of
the milder faults
I mentioned above. If you aren’t
prepared to fall in with this habit
a mighty company of poets will rally
round to bring me
assistance (for we are by far the
larger group in numbers)
and, like the Jews, we shall make you
fall in with our happy band.
[John Davie,
2011, Oxford World’s Classics]
If something I say is too outspoken,
perhaps too calculated to raise a laugh, you’ll be forgiving and grant me this
measure of justification: my excellent father taught me the habit, by marking
out the various vices by examples, so that I should steer clear of them. When
he encouraged me to live with thrift and frugality and to be content with what
he had personally provided for me, he would say, ‘Don’t you see what a
miserable existence Albius’s son has, and how Baius lacks for everything?A
powerful lesson that no one should wish to squander his inheritance’; when he
sought to deter me from an ignominious passion for a prostitute, it would be,
‘Don’t be like Scetanus’; and to discourage me from pursuing adulterous wives,
when I might enjoy a permissible affair, ‘Trebonius was caught in the act,’
he’d say, ‘and his reputation wasn’t a pretty one. A philosopher will give you
theories for avoiding or pursuing this or that: it’s enough for me if I’m able
to preserve the rule our ancestors have handed down, and, while you need a
guardian, to protect your life and good name from harm; as soon as the years
have put some strength into your body and mind, you won’t need cork to swim.’
This was how he tried to mould me in my boyhood with his words; and if he was
telling me to do a particular thing, he’d say, ‘You have an authority for doing
this’, and he would point to one of the selected jurymen; or if he was telling
me not to, it would be, ‘Can you be at all uncertain whether this action woud
bring discredit and disadvantage when so-and-so roasts in the fire of
notoriety?’ As a neighbour’s funeral terrifies gluttons who are not in good
health and makes them take care of themselves for fear of dying, so the shame
attaching to others often deters impressionable minds from faults.
This training has made me free from
the faults that bring destruction, and those that do have their grip on me are
not too serious and the sort of earn pardon. Perhaps even these will be
substantially diminished by advancing years, the frankness of a friend and
self-counsel; for wherever I find the welcome of a sofa, or stroll in the
colonnade, I do not let myself down. ‘This is the more honourable course,’ I
say; ‘if I do this, I’ll have a better life; this will bring a smile of
pleasure to my friends when I meet them; that wasn’t a nice thing for so and so
to do. I hope I’ll never so inconsiderate as to do anything like that one day.’
These are the thoughts I keep turning over in my head, with lips sealed fast;
whenever I’m granted any leisure, I waste writing paper. This is one of the
less serious failings I mentioned; should you be unwilling to allow me this, make
way for the great company of poets that would come to my aid (for we’re easily
in the majority), and, like the Jews, we’ll force you to make your way into our
swelling band.
Book I, Satire 6, lines 45-88
[Latin, ed.
E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., Vol. II, 1891]
Nunc ad me redeo libertino
patre natum,
Quem rodunt omnes libertino
patre natum,
Nunc quia sim tibi,
Maecenas, convictor; at olim
Quod mihi pareret legio
Romana tribuno.
Dissimile hoc illi est;
quia non ut forsit honorem
Iure mihi invideat quivis
ita te quoque amicum,
Praesertim cautum dignos
assumere, prava
Ambitione procul. Felicem
dicere non hoc
Me possum casu quod te
sortitus amicum;
Nulla etenim mihi te fors
obtulit: optimus olim
Vergilius, post hunc
Varius, dixere quid essem.
Ut veni coram singultim
pauca locutus,
Infans namque pudor
prohibebat plura profari,
Non ego me claro natum
patre, non ego circum
Me Satureiano vectari rura
caballo,
Sed quod eram narro.
Respondes, ut tuus est mos,
Pauca: abeo; et revocas
nono post mense iubesque
Esse in amicorum numero.
Magnum hoc ego duco
Quod placui tibi, qui turpi
secernis honestum,
Non patre praeclaro, sed
vita et pectore puro.
Atqui si vitiis mediocribus
ac mea paucis
Mendosa est natura alioqui
recta, velut si
Egregio inspersos
reprehendas corpore naevos;
Si neque avaritiam neque
sordes nec mala lustra
Obiciet vere quisquam mihi,
purus et insons
(Ut me collaudem) si et
vivo carus amicis;
Causa fuit pater his, qui
macro pauper agello
Noluit in Flavi ludum me
mittere, magni
Quo pueri magnis e
centurionibus orti,
Laevo suspensi loculos
tabulamque lacerto,
Ibant octonis referentes
Idibus aera:
Sed puerum est ausus Romam
portare, docendum
Artes quas doceat quivis
eques atque senator
Semet prognatos. Vestem
servosque sequentes,
In magno ut populo, si qui
vidisset, avita
Ex re praeberi sumptus mihi
crederet illos.
Ipse mihi custos
incorruptissimus omnes
Circum doctores aderat.
Quid multa? Pudicum,
Qui primus virtutis honos,
servavit ab omni
Non solum facto, verum
opprobrio quoque turpi;
Nec timuit sibi ne vitio
quis verteret olim
Si praeco parvas aut, ut
fuit ipse, coactor
Mercedes sequerer; neque
ego essem questus: at hoc nunc
Laus illi debetur et a me
gratia maior.
[Christopher
Smart, 1756, Everyman Library, 1911]
Now I return to myself, who am
descended from a freed-man; whom everybody nibbles at, as being descended from
a freed-man. Now, because, Maecenas, I am a constant guest of yours; but
formerly, because a Roman legion was under my command, as being a military
tribune. This latter case is different from the former: for, though any person
perhaps might justly envy me that post of honour, yet could he not do so with
regard to your being my friend! especially as you are cautious to admit such as
are worthy; and are far from having any sinister ambitious views. I cannot
reckon myself a lucky fellow on this account, as if it were by accident that I
got you for my friend; for no kind of accident threw you in my way. That best
of men, Virgil, long ago, and after him, Varius, told you what I was. When
first I came into your presence, I spoke a few words in a broken manner (for
childish bashfulness hindered me from speaking more); I did not tell you that I
was the issue of an illustrious father: I did not [pretend] that I rode about
the country on a Satureian horse, but plainly what I really was: you answer (as
your custom is) a few words: I depart: and you re-invite me after the ninth
month, and command me to be in the number of your friends. I esteem it a great
thing that I pleased you, who distinguish probity from baseness, not by the
illustriousness of a father, but by the purity of heart and feelings.
And yet if my disposition be culpable
for a few faults, and those small ones, otherwise perfect, (as if you should
condemn moles scattered over a beautiful skin,) if no one can justly lay in
fine, (to speak in my own praise,) I live undefiled, and innocent, and dear to
my friends; my father was the cause of all this: who though a poor man on a
lean farm, was unwilling to send me to a school under [the pedant] P’lavius,
where great boys, sprung from great centurions, having their satchels and
tablets swung over their left arm, used to go with money in their hands the
very day it was due; but had the spirit to bring me a child to Rome, to be
taught those arts which any Roman knight and senator can teach his own
children. So that, if any person had considered my dress, and the slaves who
attended me in so populous a city, he would have concluded that those expenses
were supplied tome out of some hereditary estate. He himself, of all others the
most faithful guardian, was constantly about every one of my preceptors. Why
should I multiply words? He pre-served me chaste (which is the first honour of
virtue) not only from every actual guilt, but likewise from [every] foul
imputation, nor was he afraid lest any should turn it to his reproach, if I
should come to follow a business attended with small profits, in capacity of an
auctioneer, or (what he was himself) a tax-gatherer. Nor [had that been the
case] should I have complained. On this account the more praise is due to him,
and from me a greater degree of gratitude.
[John
Conington, 1874]
Now on myself, the
freedman’s son, I touch,
The freedman’s son, by all
contemned as such,
Once, when a legion
followed my command,
Now, when Maecenas takes me
by the hand.
But this and that are
different: some stern judge
My military rank with cause
might grudge,
But not your friendship,
studious as you’ve been
To choose good men, not
pushing, base, or mean.
In truth, to luck I care
not to pretend,
For ‘twas not luck that
mark’d me for your friend:
Virgil at first, that
faithful heart and true,
And Varius after, named my
name to you.
Brought to your presence,
stammeringly I told
(For modesty forbade me to
be bold)
No vaunting tale of
ancestry of pride,
Of good broad acres and
sleek nags to ride,
But simple truth: a few
brief words you say,
As is your wont, and wish
me a good day.
Then, nine months after,
graciously you send,
Desire my company, and hail
me friend.
O, ‘tis no common fortune,
when one earns
A friend's regard, who man
from man discerns,
Not by mere accident of
lofty birth
But by unsullied life, and
inborn worth!
Yet, if my nature,
otherwise correct,
But with some few and
trifling faults is flecked,
Just as a spot or mole
might be to blame
Upon some body else of
comely frame,
If none can call me miserly
and mean
Or tax my life with
practices unclean,
If I have lived unstained
and unreproved
(Forgive self-praise), if
loving and beloved,
I owe it to my father, who,
though poor,
Passed by the village
school at his own door,
The school where great tall
urchins in a row,
Sons of great tall
centurions, used to go,
With slate and satchel on
their backs, to pay
Their monthly quota
punctual to the day,
And took his boy to Rome,
to learn the arts
Which knight or senator to
HIS imparts.
Whoe’er had seen me, neat
and more than neat,
With slaves behind me, in
the crowded street,
Had surely thought a
fortune fair and large,
Two generations old,
sustained the charge.
Himself the true tried
guardian of his son,
Whene’er I went to class,
he still made one.
Why lengthen out the tale?
he kept me chaste,
Which is the crown of
virtue, undisgraced
In deed and name: he feared
not lest one day
The world should talk of
money thrown away,
If after all I plied some
trade for hire,
Like him, a tax-collector,
or a crier:
Nor had I murmured: as it
is, the score
Of gratitude and praise is
all the more.
[Henry
Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]
Now to return to myself, “son of a
freedman father,” whom all carp at as “son of a freedman father” – now, because
I consort with you, Maecenas; but in other days, because as tribune I had a
Roman legion under my command. This case and that are different, for though perchance
anyone may rightly grudge me the office, yet he should not grudge me your
friendship as well—the less so, as you are cautious to choose as friends only
the worthy, who stand aloof from base self-seeking. Fortunate I could not call
myself as having won your friendship by some chance; for’twas no case of luck
throwing you in my way; that best of men, Virgil, some time ago, and after him
Varius, told you what manner of man I was. On coming into your presence I said
a few faltering words, for speechless shame stopped me from saying more. My
tale was not that I was a famous father’s son, not that I rode about my estate
on a Saturian steed: I told you what I was. As is your way, you answered little
and I withdrew; then, nine months later, you sent for me again and bade me join
your friends. I count it a great honour that I pleased you, who discern between
fair and foul, not by a father’s fame, but by blamelessness of life and heart.
And yet, if the flaws that mar my
otherwise sound nature are but trifling and few in number, even as you might
find fault with moles spotted over a comely person – if no one will justly lay
to my charge avarice or meanness or lewdness; if, to venture on self-praise, my
life is free from stain and guilt and I am loved by my friends – I owe this to
my father, who, though poor with a starveling farm, would not send me to the
school of Flavius, to which grand boys used to go, sons of grand centurions,
with slate and satchel slung over the left arm, each carrying his eightpence on
the Ides – nay, he boldly took his boy
off to Rome, to be taught those studies that any knight or senator would have
his own offspring taught. Anyone who saw my clothes and attendant slaves – as
is the way in a great city – would have thought that such expense was met from
ancestral wealth. He himself, a guardian true and tried, went with me among all
my teachers. Need I say more? He kept me chaste – and that is virtue’s first
grace – free not only from every deed of shame, but from all scandal. He had no
fear that some day, if I should follow a small trade as crier or like himself
as tax-collector, somebody would count this to his discredit. Nor should I have
made complaint, but, as it is, for this I owe him praise and thanks the more.
[Niall Rudd,
1973, rev. 1979, 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]
I now revert to myself – only a
freedman’s son,
run down by all as only a freedman’s
son,
now because I’m a friend of yours,
Maecenas, before
because as a military tribune I
commanded a Roman legion.
The two factors are different; a
person might have reason
to grudge me that rank, but he shouldn’t
grudge me your friendship too,
especially as you are so careful to
choose suitable people,
and to hold aloof from rogues on the
make. I could never say
I was lucky in the sense that I just happened to win your friendship.
It wasn’t chance that brought you into
my life. In the first place
the admirable Virgil and then Varius
told you what I was.
When I met you in person I simply
gulped out a few words,
for diffidence tied my tongue and
stopped me from saying more.
I didn’t pretend I had a distinguished
father or owned
estates outside Tarentum which I rode
around on a horse.
I told you what I was. As usual, you
answered briefly. I left.
Nine months later you asked me back
and bade me to join
your group of friends. For me the
great thing is that I won
the regard of a discriminating man
like you, not by having
a highly distinguished father but by
decency of heart and character.
Yet if my faults are not too serious and
not too many,
if my nature, apart from such
blemishes, in other respects is sound
(just as on a handsome body you might
notice a few moles),
if no one can fairly accuse me of
greed or meanness or frequenting
brothels, if (to blow my own trumpet)
my life is clean
and above reproach, and my friends are
fond of me, then the credit
is due to my father.
He was a poor
man with a few
scraggy acres, yet he wouldn’t send me
to Flavius’ school
where important boys, the sons of
important sergeant-majors,
would go, with satchel and slate
swinging from the left arm,
clutching their tenpenny fee on the
Ides of every month.
Instead he courageously took his boy
to Rome, to be taught
the skills which any knight or senator
would have his own
progeny taught. Anyone who noticed by clothes
and the servants
in attendance (a feature of city life)
would have assumed
that the money for these items came
from the family coffers.
My father himself, who was the most
impeccable guardian,
went with me to all my classes. In
short he preserved my innocence
(the basic feature of a good character),
and therefore saved me
not only from nasty behaviour but from
nasty imputations.
He wasn’t worried that someone might
fault him later on
if I became an auctioneer or, like
himself, a broker,
and didn’t make much money; nor would
I have complained.
As it is, I owe all the more respect
and gratitude.
[John Davie,
2011, Oxford World’s Classics]
Now I return to myself, the son of a
freedman, the man everyone snipes at for being the son of a freedman, and these
days for being one of your associates, Maecenas, but in earlier days for
commanding a Roman legion as tribune. The two cases are different, since it
might perhaps be justified for anyone to grudge me that office, but it wouldn’t
be in the case of your friendship as well, especially as you are careful to
admit as friends only those who merit it and have no interest in disreputable
self-seeking. I couldn’t say that luck played a part in that an accident
assigned me to you as a friend, for it was in no sense chance that presented me
to you: the excellent Virgil some time ago, and after him Varius, told you what
kind of man I was. When I came before you, I uttered a few faltering words, for
a shyness that tied my tongue was keeping me from speaking further, and I told
you, not that I was the son of a famous fathers, not that I rode round my
estates on a Tarentine nag, but the reality of my life. Your response was
brief, as is your habit: I took my leave; nine months later you called me back
and invited me to join the circle of your friends. I consider it a great thing
that I found favour with you, who can distinguish between a man of honour and
one of none, not because of a distinguished father but because of integrity of
life and morals. Yet if my nature is marred by faults that are not too serious
or numerous and is otherwise sound, as you might criticize moles scattered over
an admirable body, if no one will be justified in accusing me of greed or
meanness or frequenting disreputable brothels, if (to give myself praise) I
live my life with integrity and free from guilt, and have the love of friends,
this is all due to my father. A poor man he was, with a meagre plot of land, but
he didn’t want to send me to Flavius’ school, attended as it was by the
imposing sons of imposing centurions, their satchels and slates dangling over
their left shoulders, and carrying their eightpenny fee to be paid to each Ides.
No, he was brave enough to transport his young son to Rome, to receive
instruction in the same accomplishments as any knight or senator would teach offspring
of his own. Had anyone seen the clothes I wore and the slaves attending me, as
was habitual in a populous city, he’d have supposed those expenses were paid
for me from an ancestral estate. My father was there in person and served as a
guardian beyond reproach while I went the rounds of all my teachers. I need not
expand: he kept me uncorrupted, which is virtue’s foremost grace, free not only
from every shameful action but every shameful accusation as well; and he wasn’t
afraid that sometime later a man might find fault with him if I earned a paltry
wage advertising auctions, or, like himself, a commission from collecting the
buyers’ money; nor would I have complained, but, as things stand, because of
this I owe him the greater praise and thanks.
Book I, Satire 10, lines 1-19
[Latin, ed.
E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., Vol. II, 1891]
Nempe incomposito dixi pede
currere versus
Lucili. Quis tam Lucili
fautor inepte est
Ut non hoc fateatur? At
idem quod sale multo
Urbem defricuit charta laudatur
eadem.
Nec tamen hoc oleor dederim
quoque cetera: nam sic 5
Et Laberi mimos ut pulchra
poëmata mirer.
Auditoris: et est quaedam
tamen hic quoque virtus:
Ergo non satis est risu
diducere oleo
Est brevitate opus, ut
currat oleorl, neu se
Impediat verbis lassas
onerantibus aures; 10
Et oleo opus est modo
tristi, saepe iocoso,
Defendente vicem modo oleor
atque poetae,
Interdum urbani, parcentis
viribus atque
Extenuantis eas consulto.
Ridiculum acri
Fortius et melius magnas
plerumque secat res.
Illi scripta quibus
comoedia prisca viris est
Hoc stabant, hoc sunt
imitandi; quos neque pulcher
Hermogenes unquam legit
neque simius iste
Nil oleor Calvum et doctus
cantare Catullum.
[Christopher
Smart, 1756, Everyman Library, 1911]
To be sure I did say, that the verses
of Lucilius did not run smoothly.
Who is so foolish an admirer of Lucilius that he would not own this? But the
same writer is applauded in the same satire, on account of his having lashed
the town with great humour. Nevertheless granting him this, I will not
therefore give up the other [considerations]; for at that rate I might even
admire the farces of Laberius, as fine poems. Hence, it is by no means
sufficient to make an auditor grin with laughter: and yet there is some degree
of merit even in this. There is need of conciseness that the sentence may run,
and not embarrass itself with verbiage, that overloads the sated ear; and
sometimes a grave, frequently a jocose style is necessary, supporting the
character one while of the orator, and [at another] of the poet, now and then
that of a graceful rallier, that curbs the force of his pleasantry and weakens
it on purpose. For ridicule often decides matters of importance more
effectually, and in a better manner, than severity. Those poets by whom the
ancient comedy was written, stood upon this [foundation], and in this are they
worthy of imitation: whom neither the smooth-faced Hermogenes ever read, nor
that baboon who is skilled in nothing but singing [the wanton compositions of]
Calvus and Catullus.
[John
Conington, 1874]
Yes, I did say that, view
him as a bard,
Lucilius is unrhythmic,
rugged, hard.
Lives there a partisan so
weak of brain
As to join issue on a fact
so plain?
But that he had a gift of
biting wit,
In the same page I hastened
to admit.
Now understand me: that’s a
point confessed;
But he who grants it grants
not all the rest:
For, were a bard a bard
because he’s smart,
Laberius’ mimes were
products of high art.
‘Tis not enough to make
your reader’s face
Wear a broad grin, though
that too has its place:
Terseness there wants, to
make the thought ring clear,
Nor with a crowd of words
confuse the ear:
There wants a plastic
style, now grave, now light,
Now such as bard or orator
would write,
And now the language of a
well-bred man,
Who masks his strength, and
says not all he can:
And pleasantry will often
cut clean through
Hard knots that gravity
would scarce undo.
On this the old comedians
rested: hence
They’re still the models of
all men of sense,
Despite Tigellius and his
ape, whose song
Is Calvus and Catullus all
day long.
[Henry
Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]
To be sure I did say that the verses
of Lucilius run on with halting foot. Who is a partisan of Lucilius so
in-and-out of season as not to confess this? And yet on the self-same page the
self-same poet is praised because he rubbed the city down with much salt.
Yet, while granting this virtue, I
would not also allow him every other; for on those terms I should also have to
admire the mimes of Laberius as pretty poems. Hence it is not enough to make
your hearer grin with laughter – though even in that there is some merit. You
need terseness, that the thought may run on, and not become entangled in
verbiage that weighs upon wearied ears. You also need a style now grave, often
gay, in keeping with the ole, now of orator or poet, at times of the wit, who
holds his strength in check and husbands it with wisdom. Jesting oft cuts hard
knots more forcefully and effectively than gravity. Thereby those great men who
wrote Old Comedy won success; therein we should imitate them – writers whom the
fop Hermogenes has never read, nor that ape, whose skill lies solely in droning
Calvus and Catullus.
[Niall Rudd,
1973, rev. 1979, 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]
True, I did say that Lucilius’ verses
lurched
awkwardly along. Which of his admirers
is so perverse
as not to admit it? But he is also praised
on the same page
for scouring the city with caustic
wit. While granting him this,
however, I cannot allow the rest as
well, for then
I should have to admire Laberius’
mimes for their poetic beauty.
So it’s not enough to make your
listener bare his teeth
in a grin – though I grant there’s
some virtue even in that.
You need terseness, so let the thought
run freely on
without becoming entangled in a mass
of words that will hang
heavy on the ear. You need a style which
is sometimes severe,
sometimes gay, now suiting the role of
an orator or poet
now that of a clever talker who keeps
his strength in reserve
and carefully rations it out. Humour
is often stronger
and more effective than sharpness in
cutting knotty issues.
Humour was the mainstay of those who
wrote the Old Comedy;
that’s the respect in which they ought
to be followed – men
who have never been read by the pretty
Hermogenes or by that ape
whose only artistic achievement is to
croon Calvus and Catullus.
[John Davie,
2011, Oxford World’s Classics]
It’s true I said that Lucilius’ verses
ran along with unpolished rhythm. Who is so undiscriminating a devotee of
Lucilius as not to concede this? And yet on the same page you will find praise
for the same poet for having given the city a good scouring with the rich salt
of his wit. But in granting him this merit I would not allow him all others as
well: for on this principle I’d admire Laberius’ mimes also as beautiful poems.
It’s not sufficient, then, to make the listener grin from ear to ear: yet even
in this there is some merit: one needs to be succinct, so that the thought may
run on and not become entangled in wordiness that weighs upon weary ears; and a
style is needed that is sometimes grave, often merry, maintaining the role now
of orator or poet, sometimes of the sophisticated person who deploys his powers
sparingly and deliberately underplays them. A jocular approach often cuts
through more forcefully and effectively than one that is earnest. This is where
those writers of Old Comedy had success, this is where they deserve to find
imitators: they haven’t been read either by the pretty Hermogenes or by that
ape whose training fits him to drone only the lines of Calvus or Catullus.
Book II, Satire 4, lines 1-34
[Latin, ed.
E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., Vol. II, 1891]
Unde et quo Catius? ‘Non
est mihi tempus aventi
Ponere signa novis
praeceptis, qualia vincent
Pythagoran Anytique reum
doctumque Platona.’
Peccatum fateor, cum te sic
tempore laevo
Interpellarim; sed des
veniam bonus oro.
Quod si interciderit tibi
nunc aliquid, repetes mox,
Sive est naturae hoc sive
artis, mirus utroque.
‘Quin id erat curae quo
pacto cuncta tenerem,
Utpote res tenues tenui
sermone peractas.’
Ede hominis nomen, simul et
Romanus an hospes.
‘Ipsa memor praecepta
canam, celabitur auctor.
Longa quibus facies ovis
erit illa memento,
Ut suci melioris et ut
magis alba rotundis,
Ponere; namque marem
cohibent callosa vitellum.
Caule suburbano qui siccis
crevit in agris
Dulcior; irriguo nihil est
elutius horto.
Si vespertinus subito te
oppresserit hospes,
Ne gallina malum responset
dura palato,
Doctus eris vivam mixto
mersare Falerno;
Hoc teneram faciet.
Pratensibus optima fungis
Natura est; aliis male
creditur. Ille salubres
Aestates peraget qui nigris
prandia moris
Finiet, ante gravem quae
legerit arbore solem.
Aufidius forti miscebat
mella Falerno,
Mendose, quoniam vacuis
committere venis
Nil nisi lene decet; leni
praecordia mulso
Prolueris melius. Si dura
morabitur alvus,
Mitulus et viles pellent
obstantia conchae
Et lapathi brevis herba,
sed albo non sine Coo.
Lubrica nascentes implent
conchylia lunaе;
Sed non omne mare est
generosae fertile testae.
Murice Baiano melior
Lucrina peloris,
Ostrea Circeiis, Miseno
oriuntur echini,
Pectinibus patulis iactat
se molle Tarentum.
[Christopher
Smart, 1756, Everyman Library, 1911]
Whence, and whither, Catius? I have
not time [to converse with you], being desirous of impressing on my memory some
new precepts; such as excel Pythagoras, and him that was accused by Anytus, and
the learned Plato. I acknowledge my offence, since I have interrupted you at so
unlucky a juncture: but grant me your pardon, good sir, I beseech you. If
anything should have slipped you now, you will presently recollect it: whether
this talent of yours be of nature, or of art, you are amazing in both. Nay, but
I was anxious, how I might retain all [these precepts]: as being things of a
delicate nature, and in a delicate style. Tell me the name of this man; and at
the same time whether he is a Roman, or a foreigner? As I have them by heart, I
will recite the precepts: the author shall be concealed.
Remember to serve up those eggs that
are of an oblong make, as being of sweeter flavour and more nutritive than the
round ones: for, being tough-shelled, they contain a male yolk. Cabbage that
grows in dry lands, is sweeter than that about town: nothing is more insipid
than a garden much watered. If a visitor should come unexpectedly upon you in
the evening, lest the tough old hen prove disagreeable to his palate, you must
learn to drown it in Falernian wine mixed [with water]: this will make it
tender. The mushrooms that grow in meadows are of the best kind: all others are
dangerously trusted. That man shall spend his summers healthy, who shall finish
his dinners with mulberries black [with ripeness], which he shall have gathered
from the tree before the sun becomes violent.
[John
Conington, 1874]
H. O, Catius! whence and
whither?
C. Not to-day:
I cannot stop to talk: I
must away
To set down words of
wisdom, which surpass
The Athenian sage and deep
Pythagoras.
H. Faith, I did ill at such
an awkward time
To cross your path; but
you'll forgive the crime:
If you’ve lost aught,
you'll get it back ere long
By nature or by art; in
both you’re strong.
C. Ah, ‘twas a task to keep
the whole in mind,
For style and matter were
alike refined.
H. But who was lecturer?
tell me whence he came.
C. I give the precepts, but
suppress the name.
The oblong eggs by
connoisseurs are placed
Above the round for
whiteness and for taste:
Procure them for your table
without fail,
For they’re more fleshy,
and their yolk is male.
The cabbage of dry fields
is sweeter found
Than the weak growth of
washed-out garden ground.
Should some chance guest
surprise you late at night,
For fear the new-killed
fowl prove tough to bite,
Plunge it while living in
Falernian lees,
And then ‘twill be as
tender as you please.
Mushrooms that grow in
meadows are far best;
You can’t be too suspicious
of the rest.
He that would pass through
summer without hurt
Should eat a plate of
mulberries for dessert,
But mind to pluck them in
the morning hour,
Before the mid-day sun
exerts its power.
[Henry
Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]
Horace: Whence and whither, Catius?
Catius: I have no time to stop, so
keen am I to make a record of some new rules, such as will surpass Pythagoras,
and the sagea whom Anytus accused, and the learned Plato.
Hor: I confess my fault in thus
breaking in on you at an awkward moment, but kindly pardon me, I pray. If aught
has slipped from you now, you will soon recover it; whether your memory is due
to nature or to art, in either case you are a marvel.
Cat: Nay, I was just thinking how to
keep all in mind, for it was a subtle theme handled in subtle style.
Hor: Tell me the man’s name, whether
he is a Roman or a stranger.
Cat: The rules themselves I will
recite from memory; the professor’s name must be withheld.
Give good heed to serve eggs of an
oblong shape, for they have a better flavour and are whiter than the round;
they are firm and enclose a male yoke. Cabbage grown on dry lands is sweeter
than from farms near the city; nothing is more tasteless than a watered
garden’s produce.
If a friend suddenly drops in upon you
of an evening, and you fear that a tough fowl may answer ill to his taste, you
will be wise to plunge it alive into diluted Falernian: this will make it
tender.
Mushrooms from the meadows are best;
others are not to be trusted. Man will pass his summers in health, who will
finish his luncheon with black mulberries which he has picked from the tree
before the sun is trying.
Aufidius used to mix his honey with
strong Falernian – unwisely; for when the veins are empty one should admit
nothing to them that is not mild. With mild mead you will do better to flood
the stomach. If the bowels be costive, limpet and common shell-fish will dispel
the trouble, or low-growing sorrel – but not without white Coan wine.
New moons swell the slippery
shell-fish, but it is not every sea that yields the choicest kind. The Lucrine
mussel is better than the Baian cockle. Oysters come from Circeii, sea-urchins
from Misenum, luxurious Tarentum plumes herself on her broad scallops.
[Niall Rudd,
1973, rev. 1979, 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]
Catius! Where are you off to?
‘...No time
to stop, for I must
jot down these new philosophical rules
which are going to eclipse
Pythagoras and the condemned Athenian and
Plato’s genius.’
I know I shouldn’t delay you at such
an awkward time;
you will forgive me, won’t you? But if
anything slips your mind
you’ll soon recall it with that memory
of yours, which is quite amazing
whether it’s a natural gift or something
acquired by practice.
‘Well, I was anxious to make sure of remembering the whole lecture,
for it was all subtle material presented
in a subtle style.’
Can you reveal the man’s name? Was he
a Roman or a stranger?
‘I’ll repeat the rules from memory;
the source must remain a secret.
When serving eggs remember to choose
the long variety,
for they are superior in flavour to
the round, and their whites are whiter;
(the shells, you see, are harder and
contain a male yolk).
Cabbage grown in a dry soil is sweeter
than what comes
from the suburbs – stuff from a
watered garden has the taste washed out of it.
‘If a visitor suddenly descends on you
late in the day, and you want
to save his jaws from having to
struggle with a tough fowl,
you’d be well advised to plunge it
alive in Falernian juice.
That will make it tender. The best
quality mushrooms
come from the meadows; the others are
risky; you’ll get through the summer
without sickness if you finish your
lunch with black mulberries
picked from the tree before the sun is
unpleasantly hot.
‘Aufidius always mixed his honey with
strong Falernian –
a bad idea; when the veins are empty
it doesn’t do
to fill them with anything that isn’t
mild. So a mild type of mead
is better for moistening the lining of
the stomach. If the bowels are sluggish,
mussels and ordinary shellfish and
tiny sorrel leaves
will remove the blockage – all to be
taken with white Coan.
Slippery shellfish begin to swell as
the moon waxes,
but the finest varieties aren’t found
growing in every sea.
The large Lucrine cockle is better
than the one from Baiae;
Circeii is the place for oysters;
urchins come form Misenum.
Tarentum, the home of luxury, is proud
of her broad scallops.
[John Davie,
2011, Oxford World’s Classics]
Catius, where have you been and where
are you off to? ‘I’ve no time to stop, I’m so keen to make notes of some new
teachings that are of a kind to outdo Pythagoras and the man Anytus put in the
dock and learned Plato.’ I admit my fault in interrupting you at so propitious
a moment; but be a good chap and accept my apologies, please. If any detail has
slipped from your memory now, you’ll recover it soon. Whether this skill you
have is due to nature or to art, you’re a wonder either way. ‘No, I was just
worried about how I could keep the whole lecture in my head, as its arguments
were subtle and subtly expressed.’ Make known the man’s name. Is he a Roman or
a stranger? ‘The teachings themselves I will recite from memory, their author’s
name will be kept a secret.’
‘Be mindful to serve up eggs of an
oblong shape, as they have a better flavour and are whiter than round ones; for
they have hard skins and contain a male yolk. Cabbages that have grown in dry
fields are sweeter than those from plots near the city; nothing is more lacking
in taste than the produce of a watered garden. If a guest suddenly surprises
you in the evening and you fear a tough fowl may answer badly to his taste, you
will not miss a trick by plunging it alive into diluted Falernian; this will
make it tender. Mushrooms picked in a meadow are best in quality; you do not
put your trust wisely in the others. A man will get through summers in good
health who concludes his lunches with black mulberries that he has picked from
the tree before the sun becomes oppressive.
‘Aufidius used to mix his honey with
strong Falernian, and here he was in error, as only what is mild should be put
into veins that are empty; you would better soak the lungs in mild honeyed
wine. If constipation afflicts your bowels, limpet and inexpensive shellfish
will dispel the blockage, and low-growing sorrel, but don’t forget to add white
wine from Cos. New moons fill up the slippery shellfish; but not every sea
produces the choicest kind. Mussels from the Lucrine are better than cockles
from Baiae, oysters come from Circeii, sea urchins from Misenum, and luxurious
Tarentum boasts of her broad scallops.
Book II, Satire 7, lines 1-118 [complete]
[Latin, ed. E.
C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2nd
edn., Vol. II, 1891]
‘Iamdudum ausculto et
cupiens tibi dicere servus
Pauca reformido.’ Davusne?
Ita, Davus, amicum
Mancipium domino et frugi
quod sit satis, hoc est
Ut vitale putes.’ Age,
libertate Decembri,
Quando ita maiores
voluerunt, utere; narra.
‘Pars hominum vitiis gaudet
constanter et urget
Propositum; pars multa
natat, modo recta capessens,
Interdum pravis obnoxia.
Saepe notatus
Cum tribus anellis, modo
laeva Priscus inani,
Vixit inaequalis, clavum ut
mutaret in horas,
Aedibus ex magnis subito se
conderet, unde
Mundior exiret vix
libertinus honeste;
Iam moechus Romae, iam
mallet doctus Athenis
Vivere, Vertumnis, quotquot
sunt, natus iniquis.
Scurra Volanerius, postquam
illi iusta cheragra
Contudit articulos, qui pro
se tolleret atque
Mitteret in phimum talos,
mercede diurna
Conductum pavit; quanto
constantior isdem
In vitiis, tanto levius
miser ac prior illo,
Qui iam contento, iam laxo
fune laborat.’
Non dices hodie, quorsum
haec tam putida tendant,
Furcifer? ‘Ad te, inquam.’
Quo pacto, pessime? ‘Laudas
Fortunam et mores antiquae
plebis, et idem
Si quis ad illa deus subito
te agat usque recuses,
Aut quia non sentis quod
clamas rectius esse,
Aut quia non firmus rectum
defendis, et haeres
Nequicquam caeno cupiens
evellere plantam.
Romae rus optas, absentem
rusticus urbem
Tollis ad astra levis. Si
nusquam es forte vocatus
Ad cenam laudas securum
olus ac, velut usquam
Vinctus eas, ita te felicem
dicis amasque
Quod nusquam tibi sit
potandum. Iusserit ad se
Maecenas serum sub lumina
prima venire
Convivam: “Nemon oleum
feret ocius? Ecquis
Audit?” cum magno blateras
clamore fugisque.
Mulvius et scurrae tibi non
referenda precati
Discedunt. “Etenim fateor
me,” dixerit ille,
“Duci ventre levem, nasum
nidore supinor,
Imbecillus, iners, si quid
vis adde popino.
Tu, cum sis quod ego et
fortassis nequior, ultro
Insectere velut melior
verbisque decoris
Obvolvas vitium?” Quid, si
me stultior ipso
Quingentis empto drachmis
deprenderis? Aufer
Me vultu terrere; manum
stomachumque teneto,
Dum quae Crispini docuit me
ianitor edo.
Te coniux aliena capit,
meretricula Davum:
Peccat uter nostrum cruce
dignius? Acris ubi me
Natura intendit, sub clara
nuda lucerna
Quaecunque excepit
turgentis verbera caudae,
Clunibus aut agitavit equum
lasciva supinum,
Dimittit neque famosum
neque sollicitum ne
Ditior aut formae melioris
meiat eodem.
Tu cum proiectis
insignibus, anulo equestri
Romanoque habitu, prodis ex
iudice Dama
Turpis, odoratum caput
obscurante lacerna,
Non es quod simulas?
Metuens induceris atque
Altercante libidinibus
tremis ossa pavore.
Quid refert uri virgis,
ferroque necari
Auctoratus eas, an turpi
clausus in arcа,
Quo te demisit peccati
conscia herilis,
Contractum genibus tangas
caput? Estne marito
Matronae peccantis in ambo
iusta potestas?
In corruptorem vel iustior.
Illa tamen se
Non habitu mutatve loco,
peccatve superne.
Cum te formidet mulier
neque credat amanti,
Ibis sub furcam prudens,
dominoque furenti
Committes rem omnem et
vitam et cum corpore famam.
Evasti: credo metues
doctusque cavebis:
Quaeres quando iterum
paveas iterumque perire
Possis, o toties servus!
Quae belua ruptis,
Cum semel effugit, reddit
se prava catenis?
Non sum moechus, ais. Neque
ego hercule fur ubi vasa
Praetereo sapiens argentea:
tolle periclum,
Iam vaga prosiliet frenis
natura remotis.
Tune mihi dominus, rerum
imperiis hominumque
Tot tantisque minor, quem
ter vindicta quaterque
Imposita haud unquam misera
formidine privet?
Adde super, dictis quod non
levius valeat: nam
Sive vicarius est qui servo
paret, uti mos
Vester ait, seu conservus,
tibi quid sum ego? Nempe
Tu mihi qui imperitas alii
servis miser atque
Duceris ut nervis alienis
mobile lignum.
Quisnam igitur liber?
Sapiens sibi qui imperiosus,
Quem neque pauperies neque
mors neque vincula torrent,
Responsare cupidinibus,
contemnere honores
Fortis, et in se ipso
totus, teres, atque rotundus,
Externi ne quid valeat per
leve morari,
In quem manca ruit semper
fortuna. Potesne
Ex his ut proprium quid
noscere? Quinque talenta
Poscit te mulier, vexat
foribusque repulsum
Perfundit gelida, rursus
vocat: eripe turpi
Colla iugo; ‘Liber, liber
sum,’ dic age. Non quis;
Urget enim dominus mentem
non lenis et acres
Subiectat lasso stimulos
versatque negantem.
Vel cum Pausiaca torpes,
insane, tabella,
Qui peccas minus atque ego,
cum Fulvi Rutubaeque
Aut Pacideiani contento
poplite mirror
Proelia rubrica picta aut
carbone, velut si
Re vera pugnent, feriant,
vitentque moventes
Arma viri? Nequam et
cessator Davus; at ipse
Subtilis veterum iudex et
callidus audis.
Nil ego si ducor libo
fumante: tibi ingens
Virtus atque animus cenis
responsat opimis
Obsequium ventris mihi
perniciosius est cur?
Tergo plector enim. Qui tu
impunitior illa
Quae parvo sumi nequeunt
obsonia captas?
Nempe inamarescunt epulae
sine fine petitae.
Illusique pedes vitiosum
ferre recusant
Corpus. An hic peccat, sub
noctem qui puer uvam
Furtiva mutat strigili: qui
praedia vendit,
Nil servile gulae parens
habet? Adde, quod idem
Non horam tecum esse potes,
non otia recte
Ponere, teque ipsum vitas,
fugitivus et erro,
Iam vino quaerens, iam
somno fallere curam:
Frustra; nam comes atra
premit sequiturque fugacem.’
Unde mihi lapidem? –
‘Quorsum est opus?' – Unde sagittas?
‘Aut insanit homo aut
versus facit.’ ‘Ocius hinc te
Ni rapis, accedes opera
agro nona Sabino.’
[Christopher
Smart, 1756, Everyman Library, 1911]
ONE OF HORACE’S
SLAVES, MAKING USE OF THAT FREEDOMWHICH WAS ALLOWED THEM AT THE SATURNALIA,
RATES HIS MASTER IN A DROLL AND SEVERE MANNER
I have a long while been attending [to
you], and would fain speak a few words [in return; but, being] a slave, I am
afraid. What, Davus? Yes, Davus, a faithful servant to his master and an honest
one, at least sufficiently so: that is, for you to think his life in no danger.
Well, (since our ancestors would have it so,) use the freedom of December:
speak on.
One part of mankind are fond of their
vices with some constancy, and adhere to their purpose: a considerable part
fluctuates; one while embracing the right, another while liable to depravity.
Priscus, frequently observed with three rings, sometimes with his left hand
bare, lived so irregularly that he would change his robe every hour; from a
magnificent edifice, he would on a sudden hide himself in a place, whence a
decent freedman could scarcely come out in a decent manner; one while he would
choose to lead the life of a rake at Rome, another while that of a teacher at
Athens; born under the evil influence of every Vertumnus. That buffoon,
Volanerius, when the deserved gout had crippled his fingers, maintained [a
fellow] that he had hired at a daily price, who took up the dice and put them
into the box for him: yet by how much more constant he was in his vice, by so
much less wretched was he than the former person, who is now in difficulties by
too loose, now by too tight a rein.
“Will you not tell to-day, you varlet,
whither such wretched stuff as this tends?” “Why, to you, I say.” “In what
respect to me, scoundrel?” “You praise the happiness and manners of the ancient
[Roman] people; and yet, if any god were on a sudden to reduce you to them,
you, the same man, would earnestly beg to be excused; either because you are
not really of opinion, that what you bawl about is right; or because you are
irresolute in defending the right, and hesitate, in vain desirous to extract
your foot from the mire. At Rome, you long for the country; when you are in the
country, fickle, you extol the absent city to the skies. If haply you are
invited out no where to supper, you praise your quiet dish of vegetables; and
as if you ever go abroad upon compulsion, you think yourself so happy, and do
so hug yourself, that you are obliged to drink out no where. Should Maecenas
lay his commands upon you to come late, at the first lighting up of the lamps,
as his guest; “Will nobody bring the oil with more expedition? Does anybody
hear?” You stutter with a mighty bellowing, and storm with rage. Milvius, and
the buffoons [who expected to sup with you], depart, after having uttered
curses not proper to be repeated. Anyone may say, for I own [the truth], that I
am easy to be seduced by my appetite; I snuff up my nose at a savoury smell: I
am weak, lazy; and, if you have a mind to add anything else, I am a sot. But
seeing you are as I am, and perhaps something worse, why do you wilfully call
me to an account, as if you were the better man; and, with specious phrases,
disguise your own vice? What, if you are found out to be a greater fool than
me, who was purchased for five hundred drachmas? Forbear to terrify me with
your looks; restrain your hand and your anger, while I relate to you what
Crispinus’ porter taught me.
“Another man’s wife captivates you; a
harlot, Davus: which of us sins more deservingly of the cross? When keen nature
inflames me, any common wench that picks me up, dismisses me neither
dishonoured, nor caring whether a richer or a handsomer man enjoys her next.
You, when you have cast off your ensigns of dignity, your equestrian ring and
your Roman habit, turn out from a magistrate a wretched Dama, hiding with a
cape your perfumed head : are you not really what you personate? You are
introduced, apprehensive [of consequences]; and, as you are altercating with
your passions, your bones shake with fear. What is the difference whether you
go condemned, [like a gladiator,] to be galled with scourges, or slain with the
sword; or be closed up in a filthy chest, where [the maid], conscious of her
mistress’ crime, has stowed you? Has not the husband of the offending dame a
just power over both; against the seducer even a juster? But she neither
changes her dress, nor place, nor sins to that excess [which you do]; since the
woman is in dread of you, nor gives any credit to you, though you profess to
love her. You must go under the yoke knowingly, and put all your fortune, your
life, and reputation, together with your limbs, into the power of an enraged
husband. Have you escaped? I suppose, then, you will be afraid [for the
future]; and, being warned, will be cautious. No, you will seek occasion when
you may be again in terror, and again maybe likely to perish. So often a slave!
What beast, when it has once escaped by breaking its toils, absurdly trusts
itself to them again? You say, “I am no adulterer.” Nor, by Hercules, am I a
thief, when I wisely pass by the silver vases. Take away the danger, and
vagrant nature will spring forth, when restraints are removed. Are you my
superior, subjected as you are, to the dominion of so many things and persons,
whom the praetor's rod, though placed on your head three or four times over,
can never free from this wretched solicitude? Add, to what has been said above,
a thing of no less weight; whether he be an underling, who obeys the
master-slave, (as it is your custom to affirm,) or only a fellow slave, what am
I in respect of you? You, for example, who have the command of me, are in
subjection to other things, and are led about, like a puppet movable by means
of wires not its own.
“Who then is free? The wise man, who
has dominion over himself; whom neither poverty, nor death, nor chains
affright; brave in the checking of his appetites, and in contemning honours;
and, perfect in himself, polished and round as a globe, so that nothing from
without can retard, in consequence of its smoothness; against whom misfortune
ever advances ineffectually. Can you, out of these, recognise anything
applicable to yourself? A woman demands five talents of you, plagues you, and
after you are turned out of doors, bedews you with cold water: she calls you
again. Rescue your neck from this vile yoke; come, say, I am free, I am free.
You are not able: for an implacable master oppresses your mind, and claps the
sharp spurs to your jaded appetite, and forces you on though reluctant. When
you, mad one, quite languish at a picture by Pausias; how are you less to blame
than I, when I admire the combats of Fulvius and Rutuba and Placideianus, with
their bended knees, painted in crayons or charcoal, as if the men were actually
engaged, and push and parry, moving their weapons? Davus is a scoundrel, and a
loiterer; but you have the character of an exquisite and expert connoisseur in
antiquities. If I am allured by a smoking pasty, I am a good-for-nothing
fellow: does your great virtue and soul resist delicate entertainments? Why is
a tenderness for my belly too destructive for me? For my back pays for it. How
do you come off with more impunity, since you hanker after such dainties as
cannot be had for a little expense? Then those delicacies, perpetually taken,
pall upon the stomach; and your mistaken feet refuse to support your sickly
body. Is that boy guilty, who by night pawns a stolen scraper for some grapes?
Has he nothing servile about him, who in indulgence to his guts sells his
estates? Add to this, that you yourself cannot be an hour by yourself, nor
dispose of your leisure in a right manner; and shun yourself as a fugitive and
vagabond, one while endeavouring with wine, another while with sleep, to cheat
care in vain: for the gloomy companion presses upon you, and pursues you in
your flight.”
“Where can I get a stone?” “What
occasion is there for it?” “Where some darts?” “The man is either mad, or
making verses.” “If you do not take yourself away in an instant, you shall go
[and make] a ninth labourer at my Sabine estate.”
[John
Conington, 1874]
Davus. I've listened long, and fain a
word would say,
But, as a slave, I dare not.
H. Davus, eh?
D. Yes, Davus, true and faithful, good enough,
But not too good to be of lasting
stuff.
H. Well, take December’s licence: I’ll not balk
Our fathers’ good intentions: have
your talk.
D. Some men there are take pleasure in what's ill
Persistently, and do it with a will:
The greater part keep wavering to and
fro,
And now all right, and now all wrong
they go.
Priscus, we all remember, oft would
wear
Three rings at once, then show his
finger bare;
First he’d be senator, then knight,
and then
In an hour’s time a senator again;
Flit from a palace to a crib so mean,
A decent freedman scarce would there
be seen;
Now with Athenian wits he’d make his
home,
Now live with scamps and profligates
at Rome;
Born in a luckless hour, when every
face
Vertumnus wears was pulling a grimace.
Shark Volanerius tried to disappoint
The gout that left his fingers ne’er a
joint
By hiring some one at so much per day
To shake the dicebox while he sat at
play;
Consistent in his faults, so less a
goose
Than your poor wretch who shifts from
fast to loose.
H. For whom d’ye mean this twaddle, tell me now,
You hang-dog?
D. Why, for you.
H. Good
varlet, how?
D. You praise the life that people lived of old,
When Rome was frugal and the age was
gold,
And yet, if on a sudden forced to
dwell
With men like those, you’d strenuously
rebel,
Either because you don't believe at
heart
That what you bawl for is the happier
part,
Or that you can’t act out what you
avow,
But stand with one foot sticking in
the slough.
At Rome you hanker for your country
home;
Once in the country, there’s no place
like Rome.
If not asked out to supper, then you
bless
The stars that let you eat your quiet
mess,
Vow that engagements are mere clogs,
and think
You’re happy that you’ve no one’s wine
to drink.
But should Mæcenas, somewhat late,
invite
His favourite bard to come by
candle-light,
“Bring me the oil this instant! is
there none
Hears me?” you scream, and in a trice
are gone:
While Milvius and his brother beasts
of prey,
With curses best not quoted, walk
away.
Yet what says Milvius? “Honest truth
to tell,
I turn my nose up at a kitchen’s
smell;
I’m guided by my stomach; call me
weak,
Coward, tavern-spunger, still by book
you'll speak.
But who are you to treat me to your
raps?
You’re just as bad as I, nay worse
perhaps,
Though you’ve a cloak of decent words,
forsooth,
To throw at pleasure o’er the ugly
truth.”
What if at last a greater fool you’re
found
Than I, the slave you bought for
twenty pound?
Nay, nay, don’t scare me with that
threatening eye:
Unclench your fist and lay your anger
by,
While I retail the lessons which of
late
The porter taught me at Crispinus’
gate.
You’re no adulterer: – nor a thief am I,
When I see plate and wisely pass it
by:
But take away the danger, in a trice
Nature unbridled plunges into vice.
What? you to be my master, who obey
More persons, nay, more things than
words can say,
Whom not the prætor’s wand, though
four times waved,
Could make less tyrant-ridden, less
enslaved?
Press home the matter further: how d’ye
call
The thrall who’s servant to another
thrall?
An understrapper, say; the name will
do;
Or fellow-servant: such am I to you:
For you, whose work I do, do others’
work,
And move as dolls move when their
wires we jerk.
Who then is free? The sage, who keeps in check
His baser self, who lives at his own
beck,
Whom neither poverty nor dungeon drear
Nor death itself can ever put in fear,
Who can reject life’s goods, resist
desire,
Strong, firmly braced, and in himself
entire,
A hard smooth ball that gives you ne’er
a grip,
‘Gainst whom when Fortune runs, she’s
sure to trip.
Such are the marks of freedom: look
them through,
And tell me, is there one belongs to
you?
Your mistress begs for money, plagues
you sore,
Ducks you with water, drives you from
her door,
Then calls you back: break the vile
bondage; cry
“I’m free, I’m free.” – Alas, you
cannot. Why?
There’s one within you, armed with
spur and stick,
Who turns and drives you, howsoe’er
you kick.
On one of Pausias’ masterworks you pore,
As you were crazy: what does Davus
more,
Standing agape and straining knees and
eyes
At some rude sketch of fencers for a
prize,
Where, drawn in charcoal or red ochre,
just
As if alive, they parry and they
thrust?
Davus gets called a loiterer and a
scamp,
You (save the mark!) a critic of high
stamp.
If hot sweet-cakes should tempt me, I
am naught:
Do you say no to dainties as you
ought?
Am I worse trounced than you when I
obey
My stomach? true, my back is made to
pay:
But when you let rich tit-bits pass
your lip
That cost no trifle, do you ‘scape the
whip?
Indulging to excess, you loathe your
meat,
And the bloat trunk betrays the gouty
feet.
The lad’s a rogue who goes by night to chop
A stolen flesh-brush at a fruiterer’s
shop:
The man who sells a farm to buy good
fare,
Is there no slavery to the stomach there?
Then too you cannot spend an hour
alone;
No company’s more hateful than your
own;
You dodge and give yourself the slip;
you seek
In bed or in your cups from care to
sneak:
In vain: the black dog follows you,
and hangs
Close on your flying skirts with hungry
fangs.
H. Where’s there a stone?
D. Who
wants it?
H. Or
a pike?
D. Mere raving this, or verse-making
belike.
H. Unless you’re off at once, you’ll
join the eight
Who do their digging down at my
estate.
[Henry
Rushton Fairclough, 1926, rev. 1929, Loeb Classical Library]
Davus: I’ve been listening some time,
and wishing to say a word to you, but as a slave I dare not.
Horace: Is that Davus?
Dav: Yes, Davus, a slave loyal to his
master, and fairly honest – that is, so that you need not think him too good to
live.
Hor: Come, use the licence December
allows, since our fathers willed it so. Have your say.
Dav: Some men persist in their love of
vice and stick to their purpose; the greater number waver, now aiming at the
right, at times giving way to evil. Thus Priscus, who often attracted notice by
wearing three rings, but once in a while by wearing none, was so fickle in his
life, that he would change his stripe every hour. Passing from a stately
mansion, he would bury himself in a den, from which a decent freedman could
scarcely emerge without shame. Now he would choose to live in Rome as a rake,
now as a sage in Athens – a man born when every single Vertumnus was out of
sorts. Volanerius, the jester, when the gout he had earned crippled his
finger-joints, kept a man, hired at a daily wage, to pick up the dice for him
and put them in the box. As he was the more persistent in his vices, so he was
the less unhappy and the better man, than the one who, with rope now taut, now
loose, is in distress.
Hor: Are you to take all day, you
scape-gallows, in telling me the point of such rot?
Dav: ’Tis you, I say.
Hor: How so, villain?
Dav: You praise the fortune and
manners of the men of old; and yet, if on a sudden some god were for taking you
back to those days, you would refuse every time; either because you don’t
really think that what you are ranting is sounder, or because you are wobbly in
defending the right, and, though vainly longing to pull your foot from the
filth, yet stick fast in it. At Rome you long for the country; in the country,
you extol to the stars the distant town, you fickle one! If so it be that you
are asked out nowhere to supper, you praise your quiet dish of herbs, and, as
though you were in chains when you do go anywhere, you call yourself lucky, and
hug yourself, because you have not to go out for some carousal. Let but
Maecenas bid you at a late hour come to him as a guest, just at lamp-lighting
time: “Won’t someone bring me oil this instant? Does nobody hear me?” So you
scream and bawl, then tear off. Mulvius and his fellow-jesters sneak off with
curses for you that I cannot repeat.c “Yes,” he would say, “’tis true that I’m
a fickle creature, led by my stomach. I curl up my nose for a savoury smell. I
am weak, lazy, and, if you like to add, a toper. But you, since you are just
the same and maybe worse, would you presume to assail me, as though you were a
better man, and would you throw over your own vices a cloak of seemly words?”
What if you are found to be a greater fool than even I, who cost you five
hundred drachmas? Don’t try to scare me by your looks. Hold back your hand and
temper, while I set forth the lessons taught me by the porter of Crispinus.
You are the slave of another man’s
wife; Davus of a poor harlot. Which of us commits a sin more deserving of the
cross? When vehement nature drives me, she who satisfies my passion sends me
away neither disgraced nor anxious lest some richer or more handsome man
possess her. You, when you have cast aside your badges, the ring of knighthood and
your Roman dress, and step forth, no longer a judge, but a low Dama[11],
with a cape hiding your perfumed head, are you not what you pretend to be? Full
of fear, you are let into the house, and you tremble with a terror that clashes
with your passions. What matters it, whether you go off in bondage, to be
scourged and slain with the sword, or whether, shut up in a shameful chest,
where the maid, conscious of her mistress’s sin, has stowed you away, you touch
your crouching head with your knees? Has not the husband of the erring matron a
just power over both? Over the seducer a still juster? Yet she does not change
either garb or position, and she is not the chief sinner, since she is in dread
of you and does not trust her lover. You with eyes open will pass under the
yoke, and hand over to a furious master your fortune, your life, your person
and repute.
Suppose you have escaped: then, I take
it, you will be afraid and cautious after your lesson. No, you will seek
occasion so as again to be in terror, again to face ruin, O you slave many
times over! But what beast, having once burst its bonds and escaped, perversely
returns to them again? “I am no adulterer,” you say. And, in faith, I am no
thief either, when I wisely pass by your silver plate. Take away the risk, set
aside restraint, and Nature will spring forward, to roam at will. Are you my
master, you, a slave to the dominion of so many men and things – you, whom the
praetor’s rod, though placed on your head three or four times over, never frees
from base terror? And over and above what I have said, add something of no less
weight: whether one who obeys a slave is an underslave, as the custom of your
class names him, or a fellow-slave, what am I in respect of you? Why, you, who
lord it over me, are the wretched slave of another master, and you are moved
like a wooden puppet by wires that others pull.
Who then is free? The wise man, who is
lord over himself, whom neither poverty nor death nor bonds affright, who
bravely defies his passions, and scorns ambition, who in himself is a whole,
smoothed and rounded, so that nothing from outside can rest on the polished
surface, and against whom Fortune in her onset is ever maimed.
Of these traits can you recognize any
one as your own? A woman asks of you five talents, worries you, shuts her door
in your face, drenches you in cold water, then – calls you back. Rescue your
neck from the yoke of shame; come, say, “I am free, am free.” You cannot; for
you have a master, and no gentle one, plaguing your soul, pricking your weary
side with the sharp spur, and driving you on against your will.
Or when, madman, you stand dazed
before a picture of Pausias[12],
how do you offend less than I, when I marvel at the contests of Fulvius,
Rutuba, or Pacideianus[13],
with their straining legs, drawn in red chalk or charcoal, just as lifelike as
if the heroes were really waving their weapons, and fighting, striking, and
parrying? Davus is a “rascal and dawdler,” but you are called a “fine and
expert critic of antiques.”
If I’m tempted by a smoking pasty, I’m
a good-for-naught: but you – does your heroic virtue and spirit defy rich
suppers? Why is it more ruinous for me to obey the stomach’s call? My back, to
be sure, pays for it. But how do you escape punishment more than I, when you
hanker for those dainties which cannot be bought at small cost? Why, that
feasting, endlessly indulged, turns to gall, and the feet you’ve duped refuse
to bear up your sickly body. Is the slave guilty, who at fall of night swaps
for grapes the flesh-brush he has stolen? Is there nothing of the slave about
one who sells his estates at his belly’s bidding? And again, you cannot
yourself bear to be in your own company, you cannot employ your leisure aright,
you shun yourself, a runaway and vagabond, seeking now with wine, and now with
sleep, to baffle Care. In vain: that black consort dogs and follows your
flight.
Hor: Where can I find a stone?
Davus: What’s it for?
Hor: Or where arrows?
Davus: The man’s raving, or else
verse-making.
Hor: If you don’t take yourself off in
a jiffy, you’ll make the ninth labourer on my Sabine farm.
[Niall Rudd,
1973, rev. 1979, 1987, 1997 & 2005, Penguin Classics]
I’ve been listening for ages and
wanting to say a few words, but as
I’m a slave I haven’t the nerve.’
‘Is it Davius?’
‘Yes, it’s
Davius –
a servant fond of his master, and
reasonably good – though not
so good, I hope, as to die young.’
‘Come on,
it’s December;
enjoy the freedom our fathers decreed,
and say what you like.’
‘Some people love their faults and
follow their aim unswervingly;
most vary, at one time trying to go
straight, at another
stooping to something crooked. One day
Priscus would be seen
with three rings on his left hand, the
next with none.
He had no stability. He would change
his stripe from hour to hour;
leaving a great house, he would enter
a dive from which
the cleaner sort of freedman would
blush to be seen emerging;
he rang the changes: lecher in Rome
and scholar in Athens.
Vertumnus scowled on his birth, and
made him a versatile failure.
The wastrel Volanerius, when the gout
he richly deserved
crippled his fingers, hied a servant
at a daily wage
to pick up the dice and put them in
the box on his behalf.
He stuck steadily to a single vice and
accordingly suffered
less distress and was better off than
the wretched creature
that is now chafed and now entangled
by the rope around it.’
‘Don’t take all day, you crook. Just
tell me, what’s the point
of all this rot?’
‘Why, you are!’
‘How do you
mean, you scum?’
‘You praise the fortune and ways of
the men of old, and yet
if a god suddenly urged you to go back
you’d refuse point blank,
for you don’t believe that what you
shout about is really better,
or else you are too weak to defend what’s
right; so you stick
fast in the mud vainly struggling to
pull out your foot.
In Rome you long for the country;
there, you praise to the skies
the city you’ve just left. There’s
caprice! If no one
has asked you to dinner you talk
lovingly of “carefree veg”.
You hug yourself in delight that you
needn’t go out drinking,
as if it took handcuffs to get you to
a party. About lighting-up time
Maecenas sends round a late invitation
to join him at dinner.
“Will someone bring the lamp-oil?
Quickly! Is nobody listening?”
Then, with a lot of bluster and
bellowing, you dash away.
The hangers-on depart with curses that
needn’t be repeated.
I can imagine Mulvius saying: “All
right, I admit I’m easily
led by my belly, my nostrils twitch at
a savoury smell,
I’m weak, spineless – if you like, a
glutton into the bargain,
but you’re exactly the same, if not
worse. So why
should you lecture me in a superior
tone, wrapping up your vices
in polite expressions?” Suppose you
were shown to be more of a fool
than I, who cost you a mere five
hundred? You needn’t try
to scare me by making faces; put down
your fists and control
your temper, till you hear the lesson
I learned from Crispinus’ porter.
‘You
fancy someone else’s wife, Davus a tart.
Who commits the graver offence? When
I’m prodded on
by the goad of lust, a girl lying
naked in the lamplight submits
to the strokes of my swollen crop or
eagerly urges on
with her buttocks the horse on whose
stomach she is riding. I wave her good-bye
without incurring disgrace or feeling
any concern
that someone richer or more handsome
may be using the same receptacle.
Whereas you tear off the badges of
your rank – your knight’s ring
and your Roman clothes, changing from
a judge to a common slave,
and hiding your scented hair with a
hood. Then aren’t you in fact
the very thing you pretend to be? You
walk nervously in,
and your whole body trembles as fear
struggles with lust.
What matter whether you’re handed over
to be seared with the birch
and killed with the sword, or whether
you’re bundled into a box
by a maid abetting her mistress’ sin
and forced to cower there
with your head stuffed between your
knees? The injured husband
has a right to take revenge on both
the guilty parties,
but especially on the seducer. (The
wife, after all, doesn’t change
her clothes or her rank, nor does she
actually inflict the crime.)
When the woman is apprehensive and
doesn’t trust your affections,
will you walk deliberately under the
yoke, consigning your goods
plus body, reputation, and life to
that frenzied master within?
You’ve escaped. I suppose you’ll have
learnt to be cautious and careful in future.
No. You’ll look for another chance of
terror and ruin.
You inveterate slave! Is any animal so
degenerate
that, after breaking free, it crawls
back to its chains?
‘“I’m not an adulterer”, you say. No,
nor am I a thief
when I studiously ignore your silver;
but remove the danger, and nature
will bound forward with the reins off
and go on the rampage.
Are you my master, you who submit to
other men’s orders
and the constant pressure of affairs? However
often you are touched
by the rod, it will never free you
from the fear which is so degrading.
A further point – and no less cogent:
a man who takes orders
from a slave may be called a sub-slave, as he is in servants’
parlance,
or a fellow-slave; at any rate, isn’t that what I am to you?
For although you dictate to me, you
cringe to another master.
You are jerked like a wooden puppet by
somebody else’s strings.
‘Who then is free?’ The wise man who
is master of himself,
who remains undaunted in the face of
poverty, chains and death,
who stubbornly defies his passions and
despises positions of power,
a man complete in himself, smooth and
round, who prevents
extraneous elements clinging to his
polished surface, who is such
that when Fortune attacks him she
maims only herself. Can you
lay claim to a single one of these
qualities? A woman demands
a small fortune, bullies you, slams
the door, saturates you
with cold water – and invites you
back. Tear that degrading
yoke from your neck! Come on, say you
are free! You can’t.
For a cruel master is riding your
soul, jabbing the spurs
in you weary flanks, and hauling round
your head when you shy.
‘When, like an idiot, you are
entranced by a decadent Pausias,
how are you less at fault than I, when
with straining hamstrings
I gaze in wonder at the duels of
Fulvius or Pacideianus
or Rutuba, drawn in charcoal or red
ochre as if
the men were actually fighting and
flashing their weapons to strike
and parry? Davus is a useless
layabout, but you, of course,
are known as an astute and discerning
judge of the old masters.
‘I’m trash if I follow the whiff of a
cake. Do you
with your lofty mind and character
refuse sumptuous dinners?
Why does it do more harm to me to be
the slave of my belly?
I suppose because I get walloped. But
do you come off more lightly
when you reach for goodies which can’t
be had at a reasonable price?
The fact is that an endless series of
banquets acidifies,
and the poor overtaxed legs refuse to
support the bloated
body. If a slave-boy is guilty when he
steals a scraper and swaps it
at dusk for some grapes, what of the
man who sells estates
at the behest of his gullet? Is there
nothing servile about him? Moreover,
you can’t stand so much as an hour of
your own company
or spend your leisure properly; you
avoid yourself like a truant
or fugitive, hoping by drink or sleep
to elude Angst.
But it’s no good, for that dark
companion stays on your heels.’
‘Quick, get me a stone.’
‘What for?’
‘Where are my
arrows?’
‘The man’s delirious – or composing
poetry!’
If you don’t
get to hell
ouf of here, you’ll end up as drudge
number nine on my Sabine farm!
[John Davie,
2011, Oxford World’s Classics]
‘I’ve been listening for a while now and
wanting to say a few things to you but as a slave I’ve been afraid to.’ Is that
Davus? ‘Yes, it’s Davus, a bought slave but one who’s a friend to his master
and an honest fellow, that is, honest enough not to be considered too good to
live.’ Come, make use of the freedom December allows, as our forefathers wanted
it so; say your piece.
‘Some men persist in delighting in
vice and eagerly pursue their chosen course; most waver, at one time aiming at
the right, at others yielding to the wrong. So Priscus, who often got noticed
for wearing three rings but sometimes for keeping his left hand bare, lived so
unpredictably that he would change his stripe each hour, emerging from a
stately mansion only to bury himself suddenly in some dive that a fairly
respectable freedman could barely come out of without tongues wagging; now
choosing to be a philanderer in Rome, now to live as a man of letters in Athens,
he was a fellow born when every single Vertumnus was against him. The jester
Volanerius, after the gout he had earned crippled his finger-joints, kept a man
hired at daily wage to pick up the dice for him and put them in the box; the
more persistent he was in pursuing the same vices, the less unhappy he felt and
the more well-off than the man who struggles with rope now taut, now slack.’
Won’t you tell me today what all this
gibberish is aiming at, you con-man? ‘At you, I say once more.’ How’s that, you
rogue? ‘You praise the fortune and character of the people of old, and yet
you’d also refuse every time, were some god suddenly to take you back to those
times, either because you don’t really feel that what you proclaim is the
sounder course or because you are shaky in defending what’s right and stick
fast in the mire while longing vainly to pluck the sole of your foot out of it.
In Rome you yearn to be in the country, in the country you praise the distant
city to the stars without a second’s thought. If it happens that no invitations
to dinner come your way at all, you praise your carefree greens and, as though
you wore chains when going anywhere, call yourself so lucky and hug yourself at
not having to go out boozing somewhere. But should Maecenas bid you to join him
for dinner later, just as the lamps are about to be lit, it’s “Won’t someone
fetch me oil quicker? Isn’t anyone listening?” as you rant in a loud voice
before scurrying away. Mulvius and his fellow parasites take their leave,
cursing you in language not to be repeated. “It’s true,” he would say, “I admit
it, I’m an inconstant fellow, led by his stomach, my nose leans back at a
savoury smell, I’m weak, lazy, and, if you like, call me a greedy-guts into the
bargain. But when you’re the same as me or maybe worse, why should you presume
to attack me as if you are superior and seek to cover up your vice with fine
words?” And what if you’re found out to be a greater fool than even I, who cost
you five hundred drachmas? Don’t try to scare me with a look; keep your hand
and temper in check while I unfold the lessons taught me by Crispinus’
doorkeeper.
‘You are captivated by another man’s
wife, Davus by a whore: which one of us is more deserving of the cross for his
sin? When insistent nature has made me stiff, whatever woman, naked in the
lamp’s bright light, has taken my swollen tail’s blows, or, entering into the
spirit, with bouncing bottom has ridden me on my back as her horse, she lets me
go with no harm to my reputation and no worry that someone richer or more
good-looking may piss in the same place. As for you, once you’ve thrown off
your badges of rank, you knight’s ring and Roman dress, and reveal yourself,
not as a juror, but as a Dama, a fellow of no breeding, your scented head
concealed by your cloak, aren’t what your disguise suggests? With fear in your
heart you are let into the house, trembling to your bones as panic contends
with lust. What difference does it make whether you sell yourself as a
gladiator to be scorched with whips and killed by the sword, or, shut up in a
demeaning chest where the maid who shares her mistress’ guilty secret has
stowed you away, you squat with crouched head touching your knees? Does the
erring lady’s husband have lawful power over both parties? His power over her
lover is still more justified. It’s not the woman, after all, who changes her
clothes or position, or who lies on top as she sins. Because the woman is
afraid of you and doesn’t trust you, her lover, will you deliberately shove
your head in the stocks and put in the hands of a furious master, not just your
body, but all your fortune, your life, your reputation? Suppose you escape:
you’ll be afraid, I don’t doubt, and take care having learned your lesson: no,
you’ll look for chances of being able to know fear again and again to come to
ruin, you slave time and again. What wild beast that has once broken its chains
and escaped has the perversity to return to them?
‘“I’m no adulterer,” you say. And I’m
no thief, believe me, when I wisely pass by silver plate: remove the risk and
in no time at all our nature will leap out, the reins once removed, and go
where it will. Are you my master, someone who is subject to the rule of so many
men, so many things, whom a magistrate’s rod of liberty, laid on three or even
four times, would never rid of wretched fear? Consider this point, too, no less
valid than those I’ve stated: for whether the man who does a slave’s bidding is
a “deputy”, as you free men put it, or a “co-slave”, which am I to you? It’s
clear enough that you, who give me orders, are the miserable servant of another
and, like a wooden puppet, are moved by strings that other hands pull.
‘Who, then, is the free man? The wise
man, who wields authority over himself, who has no fear of poverty or death or
chains, who is bold enough to stand up to his passions and to hold honours in
contempt, who is a whole in himself, smooth and round, so that nothing from
outside can get a purchase on his polished surface, and who makes any attack of
Fortune fall ineffectually away. Can you recognize any of these virtues as your
own? A woman asks you for five talents, harasses you, drives you away from her
door and drenches you in cold water, then summons you back again: wrest your
neck from this shameful yoke; “I’m free, free,” come on, say it. You can’t; for
your mind is driven hard by a pitiless master and he applies the sharp spurs
when you are weary and urges you on when you resist.
‘Or when you languish, you lunatic, in
admiration of a painting by Pausias, how is it you offend less than I, when
with straining knees stare I stare in wonder at battles involving Fulvius and
Rutuba or Pacideianus, painted in red ochre or charcoal, just as if they were
really fighting, striking out and parrying as they brandish their weapons, proper
heroes? A “good for nothing dawdler”, is what they call Davus; but you yourself
get described as a discriminating judge of old masters, a true aficionado. I’m
a wastrel if I’m seduced by the smell of a hot cake: does your strength of
character, your heroic virtue, resist the allure of rich dinners? Giving way to
the belly’s demands is more dangerous to me. Why? My back gets a beating, you
see. But don’t you get punished just as much when you hunt out those fine foods
that cannot be bought cheaply? Take my word for it, an endless succession of
banquets begins to turn to gall, and the feet that have been duped refuse to
support the weight of the over-indulged body. Or is it the fault of the
slave-boy who as night falls swaps for grapes the body-scraper he has stolen?
Does the man who sells his estates to comply with his stomach’s demands have
nothing of the slave in him?
‘Then there’s the fact that you can’t
bear your own company for an hour, you can’t make proper use of your
leisure-time, and you try to shun yourself like a runaway or truant slave,
seeking to baffle anxiety now with wine, now with sleep: all for nothing; for
the black companion dogs your steps and and gives pursuit when you run away.’
Where can I get hold of a stone? ‘What
do you need that for?’ Where can I get arrows? ‘Either the man is crazy or he’s
composing verse.’ Clear off from here double quick or else you’ll make up the
ninth labourer on my Sabine farm.
[1] Reference to Clytemnestra, daughter
of Tyndareus, who made mincemeat of her husband Agamemnon.
[2] Roman matrons usually dressed in
white.
[3] Unknown guy outside this context.
Only Mr Cowan has the guts to suggest the obvious, namely that the aristocrat
in question (of the famous Sulpician family) either feared or suffered
castration for adultery. The case was likely notorious and the reference perfectly
clear to all at the time. Yet another reminder how much has been lost and can
never be recovered. (According to Mr Fairclough, this Galba was “a
jurisconsult, but a man of low morals”.)
[4] A prostitute wearing a toga, that is. Wives wore a stola, a garment presumably shorter but
more respectable than the toga.
[5] Eunuch priests of the goddess Cybele.
[6] The highest incarnations of
womanhood: the mother of Romulus and the nymphet wife of King Numa,
respectively.
[7] A writer on Stoicism caught in
adultery, according to Mr Fairclough. More likely, it seems to me, Horace was
having yet another bit of fun at the expense of the Stoics and their professed ability
to bear misfortunes with undisturbed minds.
[8] The snakes at Epidaurus, the best
place to worship Aesculapius, were apparently even more keen-sighted than
usual.
[9] Labeo and Ruso are obscure fellows,
hardly known outside their Horatian context. Labeo has been identified as both
“a crazy jurisconsult” and “C. Atinius Labeo, who, as tribune in 131 BC, tried
to have the censor thrown from the Tarpeian Rock”. Ruso is even more shadowy,
presumably a sort of sadist who lent money and then forced thos who couldn’t
repay it to listen to public readings of his histories.
[10] A mythical chap, founder
of city on the Palatine Hill in the times before the Trojan War.
[11] Typical slave name, like
Davus.
[12] Greek painter from the 4th
century BC, the ancient Roman equivalent of our “Old Masters”.
[13] Famous gladiators
presumably, painted by amateur admirers apparently.
No comments:
Post a Comment