The Art of Love (3 page)
Authors: Ovid
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #History & Criticism, #Criticism & Theory, #Movements & Periods, #Poetry, #Ancient; Classical & Medieval
What sort of man was Ovid? The Romans were not given to self-portraiture—Horace has left us a few sentences, Virgil nothing—so we must be grateful that Ovid occasionally spoke of himself in his poetry, especially in exile, though he was at all times speaking through the poet’s mask, or persona. I get the impression of an affectionate nature: his expressed love for his parents, his brother and his last wife, his unjealous friendships with fellow poets, even his sexual teasing in the
Ars
strike me as the mark of a warm, not a cold person. He was entirely heterosexual in a society that was tolerantly not, but he thought some “gays” fair target for mockery. If he had a tendency to self-pity, he also had humour as well as wit, as is demonstrated (as I read it) by a story of Seneca’s. Knowing and disapproving
of Ovid’s weakness for verbal extravagance, three of his friends proposed to him that they should, in committee, select three of his lines that ought to be excised from his work. He agreed, but only on condition that he could select three lines that on no account should be sacrificed. The lines on each list were identical.
Francis Meres, a contemporary of Shakespeare, hit on a happy phrase—“the sweet witty soul of Ovid.” In the language of the nineteenth-century clubman, Macaulay tries to sum him up: “He seems to have been a very good fellow; rather too fond of women; a flatterer and a coward; but kind and generous, and free from envy, though a man of letters sufficiently vain of his literary performance.” I see no evidence for “coward,” I do not know where being fond of women should properly stop, and as for flattery (that old Whig obsession), what other weapon could Ovid have laid hands on in trying to get his sentence repealed? For me, he is a more complicated character—imaginative, self-indulgent, histrionic, but also tough, responsible and adaptable, as the facts prove. Above all, he was persistently, dedicatedly, a poet, with a superb ear, a genius for both compression and digression, and an exceptionally rich memory, enabling him to retell innumerable myths and legends that were part of his cultural heritage, if not of his, or any other sophisticated Roman’s, religious belief.
The
Ars Amatoria
is a mock-didactic poem. The traditional didactic poem—Virgil’s
Georgics
are its supreme culmination—was a practical versified guide to such prosaic subjects as bee-keeping or antidotes to poison. Ovid himself wrote a short one, at about this time, on facial cosmetics. What he now did was entirely original: he built a joke around the genre. From his self-appointed professorial podium he delivered a tongue-in-cheek verse lecture on the science of seduction, not in the expected hexameters, but in a metre associated with erotic poetry, elegiac couplets. New, too, was the tone of voice—here was no conventional, passive, melancholy love poet, but an unorthodox, positive ringmaster, exhibiting his tricks, totally in charge of the show. The first two books give advice to men on how to find a mistress, how to seduce her, and how to keep her.
The third book, added later and perhaps at the request of female friends (of which, one feels, Ovid was never short), purports to be an equivalent guide for women; but in it, although he pretends to be betraying male secrets and weaknesses to the other sex, he is really compounding the macho joke by giving away very little that matters. The poem is riddled with metaphors of war and the chase. It is also embroidered with illustrations from legend, set-pieces which teasingly delay the business in hand but without which we would be the poorer—the rape of the Sabine women, the princess Pasiphaë turned into a cow and mad with love for a white bull, Bacchus in his tiger-drawn chariot rescuing Ariadne from her desert island, and, best of all, the tragedy of the first aeronauts, Daedalus and Icarus. These bravura passages contrast amusingly with the sexual tips they interrupt. Contrast, ironic or parodic, between a lofty manner and down-to-earth concerns is at the heart of Ovid’s method. Nowhere is it more outrageously employed than when he borrows Virgil’s solemn phrase referring to the difficulty Aeneas will have in retracing his steps back from the Underworld,
“hoc opus, hic labor est”
(“herein lies the task, the great labour”) and finishes the line in his own way—
“primo sine munere iungi”
(“to part with nothing before she’s given herself”).
Ovid was a survivor, and so it’s fitting that his work too should have survived, not only in the manuscripts which the celibate monks, to whom we are smilingly grateful, preserved in monastery libraries, but in the judgment of posterity. He was Martial’s favourite poet after Catullus. Touchstone in
As You Like It
calls him, with intent to praise, “the most capricious poet,” and Marlowe, who translated the
Amores
while he was at university, brilliantly transferred his lover’s prayer into the mouth of Dr. Faustus desperately close to the stroke of midnight:
“O lente, lente currite, noctis equi!”
Milton admired his erotic poems. Macaulay read his entire works in Calcutta and pronounced the
Ars Amatoria
“decidedly his best.” For the next hundred years a Victorian reaction prevailed, at least publicly, and the
Ars
was described as “a shameless compendium in profligacy” and as
“l’art d’aimer sans amour.”
How odd! It may be
“naughty” but by no stretch of imagination is it pornographic and, as for “true love,” Ovid makes it clear that he is not dealing with that. In 1993 readers will find it easy, despite what is lost in translation, to enjoy it as they would Pope’s
Rape of the Lock
—as a sparklingly clever, gorgeously decorated, serio-comic masterpiece.
A word about this translation. Having just compared Ovid with Pope, I agree with Peter Green’s opinion that “Ovid has suffered more than most Roman poets from over-close association with the eighteenth century.” Put him into rhyming couplets and not only do you lose a great deal through forced compression, but you also turn, willy-nilly, a young Roman into a middle-aged gentleman, complete with wig, in Twickenham. Mr. Green’s excellent translation of the
Ars Amatoria
, published in the Penguin Classics, while still keeping to the couplet concept, uses lines of irregular length, with as many as seven or as few as two stresses. I have followed in his path, but feeling that the two primary elements in Ovid’s poetry, wit and technical virtuosity, had to be reflected somehow, I have added rhyme. If there is gain, it is in chic, a very Ovidian quality; if there is loss, it is that I am sometimes cheating the reader of the awareness that after every couplet there is in the original a definite pause. But the test of all translations is simple: is this what the author wrote, and do I enjoy what I’m reading? I can only guarantee you the first.
JAMES MICHIE
, 1993
HE
A
RT
OF
L
OVE
[ENGLISH].
B
OOK
O
NE
If any Roman knows nothing about love-making, please
Read this poem and graduate in expertise.
Ships and chariots with sails, oars, wheels, reins,
Speed through technique and control, and the same obtains
For love. As Automedon was Achilles’ charioteer
And Tiphys earned the right to steer
The
Argo
on Jason’s expedition,
So I am appointed by Venus as the technician
Of her art—my name will live on
As Love’s Tiphys, Love’s Automedon.
Love often fights against me, for he’s wild,
Yet he’s also controllable, for he’s still a child.
Chiron made Achilles expert with the lyre,
His cool tuition quenched youth’s primitive fire,
So that the boy who later became
A terror to friends and foes alike stood tame
In front of his aged teacher, so they say,
And the hand that Hector would feel one day
Was held out meekly to be rapped
At his schoolmaster’s bidding. Achilles was the apt
Pupil of Chiron, Love is mine—
Wild boys both, and both born of divine
Mothers; yet the heavy plough will make
Even the bull’s neck docile, and the friskiest colt will take
The bit in his teeth. Love shall be tamed under my hand,
Though his arrows riddle me, though his flaming brand
Is waved in my face. The worse the wounds, the fiercer the burn,
The prompter I’ll be to punish him in return.
I won’t pretend that I’m inspired by you, Apollo:
The hoot of an owl, the flight of a swallow,
Have taught me nothing; awake or asleep,
I never had a vision of the Muses tending sheep
In pastoral valleys. This poem springs
From experience. Listen, your poet sings
Of what he knows, he tells no lies.
Venus, mother of Love, assist my enterprise!
But you with headbands and ankle-length robes, staid matrons,
Stay well clear—
you
are not my patrons.
My theme is safe and licit love, stolen joys which women’ll
Condone; I’ll mention nothing criminal.
[L
ATIN
:
Principio, quod amare…
]
Your first job, then, love’s volunteer recruit,
Is to find the object of your pursuit;
Next comes the work of wooing and winning; and, last, ensuring
That the love you’ve won is enduring.
These are the limits of the ground my wheeled
Chariot will rapidly cover, my chosen field.
While you’re still unharnessed and can wander fancy-free,
Pick a girl and tell her, “You’re the only girl for me.”
A mistress, though, doesn’t float down from the sky:
You have to seek out the one who’s caught your eye.
A hunter has to work,
Know where to spread his stag-nets, in which glens boars lurk,
A fowler’s familiar with copses, fishermen learn
Which streams are the most rewarding, and you, if you yearn
For a long-term affair, won’t have one till you’ve found
The places where girls are thick on the ground.
Though Perseus brought back Andromeda from the Syrian coast
And Paris stole Helen from his foreign host,
You can achieve your ambition
More easily. I’m not recommending an expedition
Overseas or a gruelling march; look nearer home
And you’ll say, “The prettiest girls in the world are in Rome”—
They’re thicker than wheatsheaves on Gargara, grapes in Lesbos, birds in the trees,
Stars in the sky, fish in the seas,
For Venus is a strong presence
In the city her son founded. If you fancy adolescents,
One stunner out of plenty
Will emerge and dazzle you; if you like them over twenty,
The range of available talent is so rich
That your only problem will be which;
And if you prefer mature, experienced women,
Believe me, they’re as common
As blackberries.
When the sun’s on the back of Hercules’
Lion, in high summer, just stroll at your ease
Down Pompey’s shady colonnade,
Or Octavia’s (which she made
More beautiful, when her son died,
With rich marblework on the outside),
Or the one that’s named
After its founder, Livia, famed
For its antique paintings. Don’t forget to go
To the Danaids’ portico
Where the fifty sculptured virgins meditate
Their luckless cousins’ fate—
The multiple murder planned
By their fierce father Belus (here shown sword in hand).
And don’t miss the shrine where Venus weeps
For Adonis, the synagogue where Syrian Jewry keeps
The sabbath sacred, or the Memphian temple
Of the linen-clad heifer Io, whose example
Has taught many a courtesan
To offer her body to a man
As she did hers to Jove.
The law-courts, too, are fertile grounds for love,
Believe it or not—yes, desire
From dry forensic tinder can catch fire.
There where the Appian nymph tosses her water-jets
High from beneath the marble shrine, Venus’s nets
Trap even lawyers. The man who knows how to lend
His eloquence to defend others can’t defend
Himself, words fail him, he has to look after
A new case now—his own. Meanwhile the goddess’s laughter
Tinkles from her nearby temple at the sight
Of the advocate turned client overnight.
Above all, comb the curved theatre—that’s the place
Richest in spoils of the sexual chase.
There you’ll find someone to love, or a playmate, there
You can opt for one night or a solid affair.
As ants in column bustle up and down their lanes,
Jaws clutching their wheat-grains,
As bees in their fragrant glades and pastures hover
Above flowers and thyme and clover,
Our smart women swarm to the games in such numbers my vision
And judgment blur—often I lose my powers of decision.
They come to see and be seen;
Modesty, chastity mean
Nothing there. Romulus, it was all your fault,
It was your games that first featured rape and assault—
Those Sabine women and sex-hungry men.
The theatre had no marble seats or awnings then,
Nor was the stage red-dyed
With sweet-smelling saffron; the Palatine woods supplied
A backdrop of greenery,
And nature without artifice the scenery;
Shaggy-headed, the spectators sat
On tiered turf seats, any old leaves as a hat
To shade the sun. Alert, each man
Brooded silently and formed his plan,
Having marked with a glance his selected girl.
Then, to the skirl
Of Etruscan flutes, the dancers’ feet
Stamped the smooth floor in the triple beat
Until amid loud hoorays
(Applause was pretty crude in the old days)
The king gave the sign they were waiting for
And the Rape began. Up they sprang with a lustful roar
And grabbed the virgins. As eagles scatter a flock
Of timid doves or wolves scare lambs, so the shock
Of this wild male charge spread panic. Colour drained
From every girl’s face; a common terror reigned,
Though its features varied. Some sat there numb
With fear, some tore their hair; one girl, struck dumb,
Simply wept, another
Called ineffectually for her mother;
They shrieked or stared, they froze or fled.
And so, as plunder of the marriage-bed,
They were carried away, and I dare say their alarm
Gave some of them a piquant extra charm.
A girl who struggled and wouldn’t co-operate
Was hoisted up and hauled off by her new mate
With “Why spoil those tender eyes with tears? Never mind,
I’ll be as kind to you as your father was kind
To your mother.” Romulus, you found the right reward
For soldiers—for
that
I’ll enlist myself, with a sword!
Since then time-honoured custom has made our Roman
Theatres danger spots for pretty women.
And don’t miss the chariot races: the big Circus
Offers lots of chances for smart workers.
No need of finger-language here, no need to guess
That a nod of the head means yes:
You can sit as close to a girl as you please,
So make the most of touching thighs and knees
(The seating arrangements almost force
Physical intimacy as a matter of course).
At this point casually volunteer
An opening remark for anyone to hear.
Ask with keen interest, “Whose team’s that going by?”
And “Who are you backing?” Given a reply,
Add instantly, “So am I!”
When the gods’ ivory statues pass in the grand
Procession, give Venus a big hand,
And if a speck of dust, as it well may,
Falls in her lap, brush it away—
Brush it away even if there’s no dust:
Any gallant excuse in the service of lust.
If her cloak trails on the ground, make a great scene
Of lifting it up to keep it clean,
And if you’ve played it right
You’re rewarded at once—with her permission, the sight
Of her ankles. (Watch out for the man behind—
His knee may be giving the small of her back a grind.)
A frivolous mind
Is won by small attentions. Many a man
Has scored by arranging a cushion or plying a fan
Or slipping a little stool
Under the dainty feet of a sweet fool.