The Art of Love (5 page)
Authors: Ovid
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #History & Criticism, #Criticism & Theory, #Movements & Periods, #Poetry, #Ancient; Classical & Medieval
There’s a mistaken notion
That only those who work the fields or sail the ocean
Observe the seasons. You can’t entrust grain
To the treacherous earth, or hulls to the green main,
Any day of the year, and the same is the case
With catching girls: the right time and place
Improve the chances. Thus, on certain dates
(Her birthday; April the First, when Rome celebrates
Venus conjoined with Mars; and the Saturnalia,
When the Circus displays rich gifts and regalia,
Not the pottery images of a former age),
Postpone your attempt—then the worst storms rage,
The Pleiads glower, and the huge swell
Half drowns the little Kid. You’ll do well
To pause now. Blithely launch a boat,
And with luck and a spar you may just survive afloat.
Start work on a grim day, like the one when Allia’s water
Was crimsoned with the slaughter
Of Roman dead, or the sabbath feast
The Syrian Jews observe, the day least
Fit for business, when most trade is dead.
But view with superstitious dread
Your mistress’s birthday, surely the most unpleasant
Day in the calendar—you’re forced to give a present.
Dodge as you may, she’ll collect: every woman discovers
Ways of extracting loot from ravenous lovers.
When she’s in a spending mood,
Some half-naked, rude
Huckster comes up and spreads his wares for her,
Poor you sitting by. To make you feel like a connoisseur,
She begs you to look them over, then starts to ply
You with kisses and, finally, asks you to buy—
She wants it right now, it’ll please her for years to come,
Now’s the time to get it … Protest that you don’t have the sum
In cash in the house, she’ll demand
(You’ll wish you’d never learnt to write!) a note-of-hand.
Good God, she can have a birthday at will, can make
Any date an excuse for claiming a birthday-cake.
She can burst into tragic tears
And pretend that a jewel’s dropped from one of her ears.
They’re always borrowing things that don’t get returned:
It’s your loss, and not a thank-you earned.
I’d need ten mouths and ten tongues to list the damnable arts
Of these money-grubbing tarts.
Let the wax of the writing tablet smooth your way,
Let the wax, like a boat, cross over and convey
Your mind, and a cargo of flatteries in the style
Lovers use; however grand you are, pile
The entreaties on. By speaking fair
Priam made Achilles give back Hector’s body. Prayer
Moves even an angry god. By all means throw
Promises in. Do they do any harm? No.
We’re all rich men as far as promises go.
Hope, once trust starts her off, will run and run,
A deceptive goddess, but a useful one.
Once you’ve given her something, you may be dropped—reasonably so:
It’s hers, she’s lost nothing, she can let you go.
What you don’t give she’ll keep thinking she’s going to receive:
That’s how, so often, barren fields deceive
Their owners, how the gambler, for fear of loss,
Goes on losing with every toss
Of the dice which his greedy fingers ask
To have again and again. “Herein lies the task,
The great labour”
*
—to part with nothing before
She’s given herself, so she’ll give more and more
Lest she lose what she’s given already. So,
Let a persuasive letter go
In a careful hand, in order to find
A way forward and to test her mind.
By a message scratched on an apple Cydippe was betrayed:
The words, once read aloud, were hers, and trapped the maid.
Young Romans, study the noble art
Of eloquence—not merely to take the part
Of some trembling client: just as the common herd,
Grave judges, elected senators, find the power of the word
Irresistible, so do women. But take care
To hide your powers, avoid long words, too clever an air.
Who but a fool would be declamatory?
The effect of a letter can be most
un
amatory.
Write in a natural, credible style,
In words that are simple but can still beguile,
As though you were there, with her. If she rejects your letter
And sends it back unread, just hope for better
Luck tomorrow and hold fast
To your purpose. Time at last
Breaks stubborn oxen to the plough, in time the horse
Learns to put up with the bridle, in the course
Of time the rub of long use wears
An iron ring thin, and even ploughshares
Crack with the furrows’ friction.
It’s no contradiction
That water’s soft, stone hard, and yet
A drip can hollow rock. Don’t forget,
Troy took a long time to fall, but it fell:
Persist and you’ll take even Penelope’s citadel.
So she’s read it and won’t reply? You feel like assault and battery?
Just see that she goes on receiving regular flattery.
Once she’s consented to read, she’ll consent to answer. These
Matters proceed by gradual degrees.
First you may get an unfriendly note requesting
You to stop “this pestering and molesting.”
What she demands she dreads, she wants the unasked, in a word
Your pursuit. Press on, and you’ll catch your bird.
Meanwhile, if she’s being carried in the street,
Cushioned, in her litter, approach. Act cool, be discreet,
And to foil eavesdroppers mask your talk,
As well as you can, with double meanings. If she should walk
Down the colonnade, share her outing, adjust your speed,
Dawdling or brisk, to hers—you can trail her or take the lead.
Or slip round the columns between you—don’t be shy—
And in passing brush her thigh.
If she goes to the theatre, go too, your admiring glance
Following her (she’s sure to wear something to enhance
Those shoulders!). Turn round, gaze to your heart’s content,
And make your hands and eyebrows eloquent.
When a dancer plays a girl’s role, lead the cheers,
And clap whenever the lover appears.
When she rises, rise; as long as she stays, sit on. Kill
Time entirely at your mistress’s will.
Don’t torture your hair with curling-tongs
Or depilate your legs with pumice—that belongs
To Mother Cybele’s eunuch priests who shriek
Their Phrygian choruses. Casual chic
Suits men best. Theseus managed to win
Ariadne without benefit of a hair-pin.
Phaedra loved Hippolytus and he wasn’t smart;
Adonis, a man of the woods, captured a goddess’s heart.
If you want to please, be neat and clean; when it’s hot,
Tan in the Campus; wear a toga that fits, without spot;
As for shoes, don’t lace them too tightly, take care
That the buckles are rust-free, and never wear
A too large size that your feet swim in; your hair
Should be well cut so that it doesn’t stand
At all angles—hair and beard need an expert’s hand;
Nails should be pared and kept clean;
Make sure there isn’t an obscene
Tuft in your nostrils; and guard against halitosis,
Don’t be a prime goat who offends all noses.
Further refinements leave to the courtesan
And the half-man cruising for another man.
Lo, Bacchus summons his bard, the god who carries a torch
For lovers, who feels, himself, the flames that scorch—
As, fresh from sleep, the Cretan princess found,
Grief-crazed, barefoot, robe ungirt, blonde hair unbound,
Pacing the unknown shores of Naxos (little isle
In the great weltering ocean), all the while
Crying “Cruel Theseus!” The sea hears
Nothing, the innocent tears
Run down her tender cheeks, she weeps, she screams,
Yet still, somehow, she seems
Beautiful, her allure unrobbed
By the tears. Hands beating her soft breasts, she sobbed,
“He’s betrayed me, he’s gone! What will become of me?
What …” Suddenly,
The whole shore resounded
With the noise of cymbals and drums frenziedly pounded.
She broke off, the blood drained from her cold,
Limp body, she fainted with fear. Behold
The wild-tressed bacchanals, the wanton, gay
Satyrs, the rout that leads the wine-god’s way,
Old reeling-drunk Silenus in the train,
Half off his sway-backed donkey, clutching its mane,
While the maenads tease him with hide-and-seek,
Fleeing, then pouncing, until the weak
Rider, whipping the beast on, falls
Off his long-eared mount on his head, to the satyrs’ calls
Of “Get up again, Daddy!” Then the god arrives.
In his chariot roofed with grape-clusters, he drives
A team of tigers with golden harness on.
Her voice, her colour, her Theseus, all gone,
Three times the girl attempted flight,
Three times stayed rooted to the spot with fright,
Shivering like a slender cornstalk in a harsh
Wind, or a frail reed in a marsh.
“I am here,” said the god, “a truer lover than he was. Your life
Is in no danger. You shall be Bacchus’ wife.
The sky is your dowry; henceforward you are
The Cretan Crown; a looked-for star,
You will act as a guide to ships lost at night.”
And lest she should take fright
At the tigers, he leapt down (the sand held the print of his foot)
And went to her and put
His arms round her and carried her off. No struggle—with ease
The gods accomplish anything they please.
Some sang a wedding chorus, others cried
“Long live Bacchus!” And so to bed go god and bride.
So, when the gifts of Bacchus bless the board
And a girl’s sharing your couch, pray to the Lord
Of Night and Licence not to allow
His wine to fuddle your head, for now
Is the time for ambiguities and hidden sense,
Which she’ll feel are solely for her. Trace compliments
In spilt wine on the table so she’ll surmise
That she’s your sweetheart, gaze into her eyes
With obvious ardour—a long, silent look
Can say as much as a speech or a book.
If she puts her wine down, be the first to snatch it up
And drink from the side of the cup
Her lips have touched; if she’s fingered some food, demand
That bit, and in reaching for it brush her hand.
If she’s come escorted, your best plan
Is (he could be useful) to cultivate the man:
When you dice for the drinking order, let him instead
Of you have the honour; give him the garland from your head;
Whether he’s placed below or with you, let him be
The first to be served; defer to him, agree.
A safe and well-worn ploy is to pretend
To be the husband’s friend—
Safe and practised all the time,
But nevertheless a crime,
As if some greedy steward were to enlarge
His master’s remit and take total charge.
Next, advice on the bounds you should set to drinking.
Feet and mind should do their duty, walking and thinking.
Beware, above all, of brawls brought on
By liquor, of short-fused fist-fights. Eurytion
The centaur died through mindless boozing. The table
And wine are meant for good fun. If you’re able
To sing, sing; if you’re supple, dance a measure:
Please with whatever talent can give pleasure.
Real drunkenness can harm you, but when it’s feigned
It can be of use. With a clever tongue, trained
To slip and slur, the risqué things you say or do
Will be blamed on the wine, not you.
Toast the lady, toast “the man who shares her bed”
(Secretly wishing him dead);
But when the tables are moved and the guests go, if the crowd
Parts and you’re allowed
The chance, mingle, drift close, and as you both leave
Touch her foot with yours, tug at her sleeve.
Now comes the chat-up stage. Away with naive
Ploughboy shyness! Behave
Boldly—Fortune and Venus favour the brave.
Speak, but don’t follow some poet’s rule of thumb:
Just show you desire her, and the eloquence will come.
Play the lover to the hilt, you’re “desperate,” “heart-sick”;
To get her to believe it employ any trick:
It’s not hard—all women think they’re worth loving, the plain
And the pretty being, in that way, equally vain.
(Besides, sometimes an actor will begin
To feel real love, his role become genuine.
So be nice, you girls, to those who pretend:
A bogus passion may turn out true in the end.)
Like a stream eroding the bank hanging above it,
Undermine her subtly with flattery—she’ll love it.
Neat feet, slim fingers, good features, charming curls—
Never tire of praising them. Even good girls
Adore extravagant compliments, even virgins take
Loving care over the impression they make.
Why else should Juno and Pallas still begrudge
The prize lost in the Trojan glade when Paris was judge?
Juno’s peacock displays
The jewels of her plumage at a word of praise,
But shuts up shop before a silent gaze.
And racehorses, between sprints on the track,
Love their necks patted and their manes combed back.