by Horace
Virtue is a mean between vices, distant from both extremes.
10 The first is a clown, over-inclined to servility; sitting
beside the host, he anxiously watches the rich man’s nod,
echoes his words, and prevents the pearls from falling unheeded.
He’s like a schoolboy repeating his lesson, phrase by phrase,
to a brutal teacher, or a mime acting the second part.
The other often wrangles on how to define a tomato.
He dons his armour to fight about non-issues: ‘Imagine!
Not to receive instant credence! Not to yell out
what I really think! A second life would be poor compensation.’
And what is the question? ‘Is Castor or Smart the cleverer fighter?’
20 ‘Is the Appian or the Minucian the better road to Brindisi?’
The man who is stripped by ruinous sex or the tumbling dice,
who is dressed and perfumed beyond his means to satisfy vanity,
who is gripped by a morbid hunger and thirst for money, and the shame
and dread of poverty – he is shunned by his wealthy friend,
who has often a larger share of vices. The latter dislikes him –
or, if he doesn’t dislike him, he bosses him, and like a loving
mother wants him wiser and better than himself. He says,
with a measure of truth, ‘Because of my money, I’m allowed
to be a fool; don’t try to keep up; you can’t afford it.
30 A narrow toga suits a sensible client. It’s pointless
trying to rival me.’ When he wanted to injure a person
Witt would give him expensive clothes. ‘The lucky fellow
will put on, along with his fine tunics, new aspirations
and projects; he’ll sleep late, postpone respectable business
for the sake of a tart, and fatten his debts, ending up
as a Thracian, or earning his wages by driving a grocer’s nag.’
Never poke your nose into his private affairs.
Keep a secret, even when tortured by wine or anger.
Don’t praise your own interests or criticize others’.
40 And don’t become inspired when he wants to go hunting;
that’s how the brotherly love of the twins Amphíon and Zethus
was wrenched apart, till the lyre which the sterner so distrusted
ceased to play. Amphion, the story goes, gave in
to his brother’s feelings. So you accede to the gentle commands
of your powerful friend. Whenever he makes for the country, riding
in front of his hounds and his mules, which carry Aetolian nets,
dismiss the withdrawn, unsociable Muse, jump to your feet,
and work, as he does, to earn the relish you eat at supper.
It’s the age-old pastime of Roman heroes, improving one’s life
50 and standing and physique. You, moreover, are splendidly fit –
well able to outrun the hounds or take on a boar
in a trial of strength. No one can handle a man’s weapons
with a finer style. You know how loudly the onlookers cheer
when you compete in the Park contests. As a boy you fought
in the savage campaigns of the Spanish war under a general
who is now removing Roman standards from Parthian temples
and assigning whatever else is lacking to Italy’s empire.
Don’t opt out, or avoid being present without good reason.
Although you’re careful to avoid anything tasteless or foolish,
60 you do occasionally have some fun on your father’s estate.
The boats are divided between the armies. You and your brother
command opposite sides (the lake is the Adriatic),
and the lads, with authentic fury, stage the Actian battle,
till Victory swoops to crown with laurel one or the other.
When your patron believes you take an interest in his amusements,
he will gladly turn up his thumbs in favour of yours.
Another word of advice – if in fact you need an adviser:
watch what you say, and of which man, and to whom you say it.
Have nothing to do with inquisitive people – they’re also gossips.
70 You cannot rely on ready ears to contain a secret,
and once a word escapes, it flies beyond recall.
Don’t let any maid or lad arouse your desires
within the marble hall of the friend you hope to impress.
The owner may give you the pretty boy or the darling girl
(and add nothing of substance), or cause you pain by refusing.
Be very careful whom you present, for fear that later
the other’s conduct may cause embarrassment. Sometimes, in error,
we sponsor a second-rater. So, when you’ve been let down,
don’t protect a man who has brought trouble on himself.
80 Then, when someone you’re sure of is under attack and relying
on your support, you can clear his name and defend him. You know,
don’t you, that when he is surrounded and bitten by rats like Theon,
it won’t be long before the danger will spread to you.
It’s very much your affair when the house next door is ablaze.
Ignore a fire, and soon you’re faced with a conflagration.
Serving a powerful friend appeals to the uninformed;
others dread it. You, whose ship is well on its way,
stay alert, or the wind may shift and carry you back.
Jovial people dislike the gloomy, and vice versa;
90 lively jars on quiet, slack on keen and dynamic.
To decline a glass when it’s offered usually gives offence,
despite your plea that wine at bedtime doesn’t agree with you.
Lift the cloud from your brow. The shy man frequently gives
the appearance of being inscrutable; the silent of being morose.
As well as all this, you must read and sift the books of the experts
to find what system may help you to pass your days in peace;
will greed, which is never free from want, plague and torment you,
or fears and hopes about things of no essential importance?
Is moral goodness achieved by learning, or granted by nature?
100 What reduces worry, makes you at peace with yourself,
and gives you perfect calm – prestige, or a nice little nest-egg,
or the hidden path and the course of life that passes unnoticed?
Every time I regain my health in the icy Digentia –
the stream drunk by Mandela, that village wrinkled with cold –
what, my friend, do you think is my state of mind and my prayer?
May I have what I have now, or less, and live for myself
what’s left of my life (if heaven decides that any is left);
may I have a decent supply of books and enough food
for the year; may my spirits not depend on the hour’s caprice.
110 And yet it’s enough to ask Jove, the giver and taker,
to grant me life and subsistence; I’ll find my own stability.
EPISTLE 19
The rewards and disadvantages of originality.
If, my cultured Maecenas, old Cratínus was right,
poems written by water-drinkers will never enjoy
long life or acclaim. Since Bacchus enlisted frenzied
poets among his Satyrs and Fauns, the dulcet Muses
have usually smelt of drink first thing in the morning.
His praises of wine prove that Homer was fond of the grape;
father Ennius himself never sprang to his tale
of arms, unless he was drunk. ‘The Stock Exchange and the City
shall be reserved for the sober; the stern are forbidden to sing’ –
10 since I iss
ued this edict, poets have never ceased
drinking in competition by night, and stinking by day.
But wait. If someone were to imitate Cato, going barefoot,
wearing a fierce, grim expression and a skimpy style
of toga, would he reproduce Cato’s moral character?
Iarbítas burst in his efforts to rival Timágenes’ tongue.
(He was straining so hard to achieve a name for wit and eloquence.)
Models deceive: their faults are easy to copy. And so,
if I were sallow, they’d drink cumin to make them pale.
Imitators! Bah! A slavish herd. How often their antics
20 have made me wild with rage! How often they’ve made me laugh!
Beholden to no one I blazed a trail over virgin country;
nobody had trodden that ground. The one who trusts himself
will rule and lead the swarm. I was the first to show
the iambics of Paros to Latium, keeping Archilochus’ rhythms
and fire, but not his themes or the words which hunted Lycambes.
In case, however, you think I deserve a smaller garland
because I declined to change his metres and verse technique,
manly Sappho largely retains Archilochus’ metres;
Alcaeus does the same, though different in themes and arrangement;
30 he doesn’t look for a father-in-law to smear with invective,
or make a noose for his bride out of his scarifying verses.
I, the lyrist of Latium, have made him familiar – a poet
never sung before. I am glad to be held and read
by the better sort, and to offer things that no one has uttered.
Perhaps you would like to know why readers enjoy and praise
my pieces at home, and ungratefully run them down in public?
I’m not the kind to hunt for the votes of the fickle rabble
by standing dinners and giving presents of worn-out clothes.
I listen to distinguished writers and pay them back; but I don’t
40 approach academic critics on their platforms to beg their support.
Hence the grief. If I say ‘I’m ashamed to recite my writings
(they aren’t fit for a crowded hall) and to treat trifles
as important,’
‘You’re teasing,’ they say; ‘they’re reserved for Jupiter’s ear.
You’re so conceited, you firmly believe that you alone
distil poetry’s honey.’ I’m afraid to show my contempt;
and so, to avoid getting scratched by a sharp nail in the struggle,
‘That position’s unfair!’ I shout, and call for a break.
For sport tends to give rise to heated strife and anger;
anger in turn brings savage feuds and war to the death.
EPISTLE 20
Horace sends his book of Epistles into the world.
Eyeing Vertumnus and Janus, my young book? I suppose
you want to be smoothed by the Sosii’s pumice and stand on sale.
You’ve no patience with the keys and seals which modesty welcomes.
Private viewings are a bore; you want public exposure.
You didn’t learn that from me. Well – you’re keen to be off.
Good-bye. When you’ve gone, there’s no way back. ‘What have I done?
What came over me?’ you’ll cry, when you’re roughly handled, or find
that you’re being kept very tight by a weary and sated admirer.
Unless the prophet is misled by pique at your misbehaviour,
10 you’ll be well loved in Rome until your youth deserts you.
When, having been through numerous dirty hands, you lose
your attractions, you’ll be left unnoticed, gathering boorish maggots;
or be banished to Utica; or tied up and sent to Ilerda.
The friend whose advice you ignored will laugh, like the man who pushed
his stubborn donkey over a cliff in exasperation.
(For who would bother to save a creature against his will?)
This, too, lies ahead: when mumbling age overtakes you,
you’ll be teaching children how to read at the end of a street.
When the warmer sun brings you a larger group of listeners,
20 you will talk about me: ‘He was born in a home of slender means,
a freedman’s son; but his wingspan proved too large for the nest.’
(In this way what you take from my birth you will add to my merits.)
‘In war and peace he won the esteem of the country’s leaders.
Of small build, prematurely grey, and fond of the sun,
he was quick to lose his temper, but not hard to appease.’
If anyone happens to ask my age, you can let him know
that I arrived at the end of my forty-fourth December
in the year when Lollius declared Lepidus his fellow consul.
BOOK II
EPISTLE 1
To Augustus: a defence of modern poetry.
Since you carry so many weighty affairs on your shoulders,
strengthening Rome’s defences, promoting decent behaviour,
reforming our laws, it would damage the public interest, Caesar,
if I were to waste your time with a lengthy conversation.
Romulus, father Liber, and also Castor and Pollux
entered the holy temples after their huge achievements.
But while they tended the world of men – putting an end to
savage wars, assigning lands, establishing cities –
they complained of not receiving the gratitude they expected
10 in return for their services. He who crushed the terrible Hydra
and smashed those fabled monsters in inescapable labours
found resentment could only be quelled by ending his life.
A great man oppresses inferior talents; he sears
the eyes with his brilliance. When he’s gone out, everyone loves him.
But you are honoured in good time while still among us.
We build altars on which to swear by your divinity,
declaring your like has never been and never will be.
But this people of yours, though wise and right in exalting
you alone above other rulers, Greek or Roman,
20 judges everything else by quite a different system
and standard: unless a thing has patently had its day
and passed from the scene, they treat it with disgust and aversion.
They are so biased in favour of the old, they like to insist
that the criminal code which the Ten enacted, the regal treaties
fairly struck with Gabii’s men or the tough old Sabines,
the pontiffs’ ancient tomes and the musty scrolls of the prophets
were all proclaimed on the Alban Mount by the Muses in person!
True – with the Greeks the oldest writing in every genre
is quite the best. But if, in consequence, Roman writers
30 are judged by the same procedure, we needn’t go any further –
a nut hasn’t a shell; there’s no stone in an olive!
Rome as a country is top dog; so of course it follows
that in painting, music and wrestling we surpass the oily Achaeans!
If poems like wine improve with age, would somebody tell me
how old a page has to be before it acquires value?
Take a writer who sank to his grave a century back –
where should he be assigned? To the unapproachable classics
or the worthless moderns? To prevent argument let’s have a limit:
‘Anyone over a hundred is old and respectable.’ Well then,
40 what of the man who died a month or a year too late?
How shall we classify him? Is he a fine old poet
or one who deserves to be spat on by this and the next generation?
‘Naturally
one who is just too young by a month or even
a full year may fairly be counted among the classics.’
Exploiting this concession I gradually pluck away
one year after another, like hairs in a horse’s tail,
until by ‘the dwindling pile’ I effect the collapse of the critic
who relies on the calendar, using age as a measure of quality
and spurning whatever has not been hallowed by our Lady of Funerals.
50 Ennius, whom the pundits call ‘the wise’ and ‘the valiant’
and ‘a second Homer’, need (it is clear) no longer trouble
to vindicate his boast and his Pythagorean visions.
Is not Naevius read and remembered as if he’d been published
almost yesterday? Age ensures canonization.
When the question of placing comes up, Pacuvius is always awarded
the title of ‘learned’ and Accius that of ‘the lofty old man’.
Menander’s comic mantle fell, they say, on Afranius;
Epicharmus of Sicily’s pace served as a model for Plautus;
Caecilius wins the prize for dignity, Terence for art.
60 These are the men whom mighty Rome commits to memory
and watches, packed in a poky theatre; these are the poets
who comprise her tradition from Livius’ time to our own day.
Sometimes the public gets things right; sometimes it blunders.
If, in its worship and adulation of early poets,
it denies that anything’s better or even as good, it’s wrong.
If it maintains that some of their phrases are too archaic
and quite a number crude, and admits that many are lifeless,
it’s right, I’m with it, and Jove himself approves of the verdict.
I’m not attacking Livius’ poems, nor do I think
70 they should be destroyed (I remember learning them off as a schoolboy
for ‘whacker’ Orbilius); still, that they should be thought of as finished
and beautiful works, little short of perfection, astounds me.
We may on occasion catch the glitter of a lovely word,
or a couple of lines may strike us as better made than the rest,
but they ought not to carry and sell the entire creation.
It makes me annoyed that a thing should be faulted, not for being
crudely or clumsily made but simply for being recent,
and that praise and prizes should be asked for the old, instead of forbearance.
