The Art of Love (10 page)

[L
ATIN
:
Ordior a cultu…
]

    I’ll start with body care. The best wines

Come from well-tended vines,

And the tallest crops with the best yield

Are grown in a well-dug field.

Beauty’s a gift of the gods. How many of you can boast

That you have it? Frankly, most

Don’t. Attention helps: though you were graced

With the looks of Venus, neglected they’ll go to waste.

In the past girls may not have groomed themselves, but men

Were equally uncultivated then.

Do you wonder that Andromache wore

A rough smock?—she’d married a man of war.

And if you were Ajax’s wife, would you put on your best

For a fellow whose arrow-proof vest

Was a seven-layered ox-hide? In the days of old

Styles were crude and simple. Now Rome has gold,

The huge wealth of the conquered world. Compare

The new with the old Capitol and you’d swear

They belonged to different Jupiters. Who remembers

That our Senate House, now worthy of its members,

Was wattle-built under Tatius, and the Palatine,

Site of Apollo’s shrine

And the imperial palace now,

Once pastured oxen for the plough?

Let others venerate the past,
I
say

Thank goodness I’m alive today;

This age suits me—not because we mine

Stubborn gold from the earth, or gather fine

Shells from exotic shores, or dig

Marble from shrinking mountains, or thrust big

Villas into the bay’s blue water, but because

We have culture, and the coarse life that was

Natural to our grandfathers didn’t last

To our day, is a thing of the past.

[L
ATIN
:
Vos quoque nec…
]

    Don’t load your ears with expensive pearls that have been

Fished up by dark-skinned Indians from green

Tropical waters, don’t parade

In heavy, gold-embossed brocade—

Money displayed

For applause can have the opposite effect.

What we admire is elegance: don’t neglect

Your hair or let it stray too much;

Chic can be made or marred by a single touch.

There’s more than one way hair can be dressed:

Consult your mirror and choose the best

For
you
. An oval face prefers

Hair parted plainly (Laodamia did hers

Like that); a round face calls for a different style—

The hair in a neat pile

On top of the head, so the ears show.

One girl should let her tresses flow

Over her shoulders in a cascade,

Like Apollo when he plays the lyre; another should braid

Hers like Diana when, skirt tucked above the knee,

She hunts, and the wild things flee.

Some look good with it loose and tousled by the wind,

Others prefer it tied or pinned;

Some fancy tortoise-shell combs, others elect

To cultivate a wave-effect.

If the number of all acorns on all oak-trees,

If all the fauna of the Alps, if all the bees

On Hybla are beyond computation,

So are hair-styles—every day there’s a new creation.

Take the “careless look,” which suits a lot of girls:

To judge by their wild curls

You’d think they’d been slept on all night, but they’ve just

This moment been carefully mussed!

Art simulates chance effects. Think of the case

Of Hercules, who saw and loved the face

Of his unkempt captive, Iole; or forlorn,

Dishevelled Ariadne, borne

Away by Bacchus in his car

To the satyrs’ loud shouts of “hurrah!”

Nature’s treatment of your beauty’s more

Than kind—you’ve a thousand tricks to restore

The damage. We’re miserably stripped bare—

With age we lose our hair,

Which falls like gale-blown leaves. A woman can dye

Her grey streaks with German lotions, try

To enhance its natural colour, sport a big,

Thick, built-up wig,

New hair for old, which money buys—

There’s no embarrassment or disguise—

From the shop right under Hercules’ and the Muses’ eyes.

    Now, what about clothes? I can’t abide

Flounces or Tyrian-purple-dyed

Wool. It’s mad,

When so many cheaper colours can be had,

To load your back with the worth of a whole estate.

There’s the blue you see when the spring winds abate

And stop bringing rain, and the air’s

Cloudless; there’s

Tawny gold, like the ram

On whose back Phrixus and Helle swam

To escape from Ino’s malice; there’s grey-green,

The colour of the waves, which we call “marine”—

I imagine that’s what the sea-nymphs must have worn;

There’s saffron—the dewy goddess of the morn

Wears it when she drives the team that brings us light;

There’s myrtle-green, amethyst-purple, rose-white,

The grey of the Thracian crane,

Almond-pink, chestnut (here come your chestnuts again,

Amaryllis!), the “beeswax” tan of a fleece … Past numbering,

Like the flowers of the new earth when warm spring

Urges the vines to bud and winter’s gone,

Are the dyes wool takes on.

Choose them with care,

For not every colour suits every woman. A fair

Skin looks attractive with dark grey—

It suited Briseis; even on the day

She was captured and dragged away

She wore it. Dark skins look best

In white—Andromeda, you were ravishing dressed

In white, on your island which the jealous gods oppressed.

[L
ATIN
:
Quam paene admonui…
]

    I was about to devote

A few words to guarding against underarm “goat”

And bristling, hairy legs, but I’m talking to girls finer

Than the peasants in north-west Asia Minor

Or the rocky Caucasus. Why give you needless warnings,

Such as, Don’t forget to wash your hands in the mornings,

Or, Don’t neglect your teeth or they may go black?

You know how to add the bloom you lack

With powder, how to replace

The blood in an anaemic face

With rouge, how to fill in an eyebrow-line that’s weak,

How to stick a patch on one unblemished cheek,

And you’re not shy of using a touch of ash

Or a dash

Of Cilician saffron to enhance your eyelids. Look

At
Facial Treatment
, my little book—

It may be short, but it was a long slog

Writing it—in which I catalogue

The best cosmetic recipes. Among other lore,

You’ll find tips there on how to restore

Fading looks. Yes, my art

Is no slouch when it comes to taking your part.

But don’t let your lover see the boxes and jars

On your dressing-table—remember,
ars

Est celare artem
.
^*
The average man feels sick

At the sight of make-up put on so thick

That it melts and runs down a sweaty neck.

As for that facial grease

Extracted from an unwashed fleece,

Even though it’s “from Athens” it will offend

All noses. Nor can I recommend

Dabbing hind’s marrow cream on your face

Or cleaning your teeth in a public place.

It may improve your looks, but it doesn’t make good viewing:

What gives pleasure when done may be ugly in the doing.

A sculpture by Myron, signed, from his own

Workshop, was once a meaningless lump of stone;

To make that beautiful

Gold ring, crude ore was worked; that robe was filthy wool

Originally; the jewel you wear

Was a rough, uncut stone—now a cameo’s there:

Nude Venus wringing out her spray-wet hair.

We’d like to think that you’re asleep

While you’re at your toilet; women should keep,

Till the work’s perfected, out of sight.

Do I have to know why your complexion’s white?

Shut the boudoir door—why show

A half-finished painting? Men don’t need to know

Too much; most of what you do

Would shock us if it weren’t concealed from view.

The splendid statues in our theatres—you would sneer

If you looked at them closely: wood with gilt veneer.

That’s why the public aren’t allowed near

Until the work’s completed,

And why, too, we men shouldn’t be treated

To the sight of you making up. I don’t ban

Combing your hair out in front of a man

So that it ripples down your back, but take care

Not to lose your temper trying to repair

Knots and tangles. And please spare

Your lady’s-maid: I hate a girl who scratches

Her servant’s face, or snatches

A needle up and jabs her arm. The poor thing curses

The head she’s dressing and meanwhile nurses

A bloody wound, weeping, hating

The very hair she’s titivating.

If your hair’s a problem, either post a guard

At your boudoir door, or have it done where men are barred,

At the Good Goddess’s temple. I once bounced

Into a girl’s room unannounced,

And, flustered, she put her wig on the wrong way round.

I wouldn’t want my enemy to be found

In such a predicament—a disgrace

Fit for a female of the Parthian race.

A hornless bull, a bald field, a leafless bush

And a hairless head all make us wince and blush.

    Who are my pupils? Semele, or Leda, or the maid

From Sidon the false bull betrayed

And carried over the sea,

Or Helen, whom Menelaus, sensibly,

Wanted back and Paris, sensibly too,

Kept as his prize? No, it’s not stars like you

Who’ve come to consult me in my guru role,

But women as a whole,

Pretty and plain alike (alas,

Most of them in the latter class).

Real beauty has no need of
our

Advice: its dowry is its own unaided power.

When the sea’s face is smooth, the captain lolls on deck,

But it’s “All hands!” when it’s ugly, threatening wreck.

A flawless face is rare:

Mask your blemishes as best you can, take care

To hide your body’s faults. If you’re dumpy, sit in a chair

(You could be taken for seated if on your feet!),

Or stretch yourself, however petite,

On a couch, legs under a wrap, out of sight,

So inquisitive eyes can’t estimate your height;

If you’re scrawny, go in for thick-woven, profuse

Garments, a robe hanging loose

Over the shoulders; if your skin’s pallid, puce

Stripes are the answer; if it’s swarthy, make use

Of white, contrasting linen from the Nile;

If you’ve ugly feet, conceal them in buskin-style

Bootees; if your calves are too lean,

Keep them confined, don’t let them be seen;

Pads help jutting shoulder-blades, and a bra is a must

For a flat bust;

If your nails are rough and your fingers fat,

Don’t gesticulate; if your breath’s bad, never chat

On an empty stomach, and leave a good space

Between your mouth and your lover’s face;

If you’ve a tooth that’s black, protruding, or askew,

To laugh’s a fatal thing to do.

Would you believe it, women study even the act

Of laughing! That, too, calls for tact.

The mouth should be opened only
so
wide,

The dimples kept small on either side,

And the top teeth at the tip

Just covered by the lower lip—

No interminable, side-splitting

Merriment, but a sort of light trill, as is befitting

To their sex. Whereas one girl will twist her

Face into a grotesque guffaw, her sister

Will stagger about bent double

So you’d think she was weeping in real trouble,

While a third emits a raucous, unpleasing sound

Like the bray of a donkey pushing the millstone round.

Where doesn’t art come in? They learn to cry so that men

Find it attractive, turn the tap where, and when,

And at any pressure they choose.

Damn it, don’t we hear them abuse

The laws of the alphabet, forcing their tongues to misp-

ronounce letters with an artificial lisp?

So a fault acquires chic, and they mangle words and teach

Themselves the power to spoil their power of speech.

Pay attention to all these points, they can do you good.

Learn how to use your body as a woman should:

The walk is a part of sex-appeal at which you can’t scoff—

It turns a stranger on or puts him off.

A. sways her hips skilfully, lets her robe flow and flare

With the welcomed air,

An arrogant, mincing charmer;

While B., like the sun-reddened wife of an Umbrian farmer,

Has a huge, gawky stride.

But here, as in most things, moderation should preside—

One woman moves like a bucolic spouse,

The other more decadently than taste allows.

In spite of which, by all means flaunt the charm

Of a naked upper right arm—

It especially suits you girls whose flesh is white;

Just the sight of a shoulder like that makes me long to kiss and bite!

    The Sirens, those bird-women of the main,

With their sweet voices could detain

The swiftest ship. Ulysses, though bound fast,

Almost wrenched himself free of the ropes round the mast

When he heard their song (the rest,

Ears plugged with wax, stayed self-possessed).

Song is a seductive thing:

All women should learn how to sing—

In many cases

The voice is as good a procuress as the face is.

Know the latest hits from the stage,

And the new tune from Egypt that’s all the rage.

An educated (my way) girl won’t lack the skill

To handle both the strings and quill.

When Orpheus touched his lyre, the sound

Moved rocks and beasts, and held spellbound

The rivers of Hell and the three-headed hound;

And when Amphion played

(That noble avenger of his mother’s shade),

Stones leapt gladly to form new walls for his city.

Even a dumb dolphin was moved to pity

By Arion’s lyre—you know the famous fable.

You should also be able

To cope with the Phoenician harp—a very

Suitable instrument when a party’s merry.

Know your poets: Callimachus, Philetas, and the bard

From Teos, that old man who drank so hard,

And Sappho (have you ever read such sexy verse?),

And Menander whose duped fathers always curse

Rascally slaves. Read tender Propertius; read Gallus;

And quote, of course, from you, Tibullus;

Read Varro’s epic tale of ancient Greece,

The Argonauts
, about the golden fleece

Which brought poor Helle little joy;

Read the
Aeneid
, whose hero fled from Troy

And from whose settlement towering Rome has sprung—

The noblest poem in our Latin tongue.

Who knows, one day my name may rank among

Theirs, and my works succeed

In escaping Lethe; someone will say, “Read

That stylish poem in which our Master provides

Brilliant advice for both sides

In the sex war; take from his
Love Poems
some choice

Passage and read it aloud in a feeling voice,

Or recite one of his
Heroines’ Letters
—here

Was a new art-form, he was the pioneer.”

O Apollo, Bacchus, the nine Muses, O you

Spirits of long-dead poets, make it come true!