by Horace
Not everyone is ready to rid our temples of all that low
whispering and mumbling and to bring his prayers into the open.
‘Good sense, good name, good character’ – these words ring out for strangers
to hear; under his breath he privately mutters ‘If only
10 uncle would pop off, what a splendid funeral we’d have!’ ‘If only
Hercules would let my spade thump on a crock of silver!’
‘Although I’m his guardian, I’d like to rub that youngster out.
I’m next in line, and he’s mangy and swollen
with jaundice.’ ‘That’s his third wife that Nerius is burying.’
To ensure these prayers are holy you duck your head each morning
three times or more in the Tiber and wash away the night.
Well now, tell me – it’s only a tiny point to clear up –
what’s your opinion of God? Would you rate him higher than – ‘Whom?’
Whom? Shall we say Staius? Or perhaps you balk at that?
20 Is there a finer judge, a more suitable guardian for orphans?
Well take this supplication, with which you are doing your best
to bend God’s ear, and make it to Staius. ‘Oh God!’ he would cry,
‘Good God!’ So why shouldn’t God himself cry‘Good God!’
Do you think you’re forgiven when an oak is split in a tempest
by a sulphurous bolt from heaven while you and your house escape?
You don’t lie buried in a clump of trees where lightning has struck,
obeying the ritual of a Tuscan crone and her sheep’s liver,
an object of dread and abhorrence. Does that mean Jove will let you
tweak his stupid beard? And what, may I ask, have you used
30 to bribe the ears of the gods? Offal and greasy guts?
Here we have a granny or superstitious aunt who has taken a baby
from his cot and now protects his forehead and dribbling lips
by smearing prophylactic spit with her horrible middle finger –
she’s skilled at checking the searing blast of the evil eye.
Dandling the scrap of hope in her arms, in fervent prayer
she projects him into Licinian domains or the hall of a Crassus.
‘May a king and queen choose him as a husband for their daughter; may girls
scramble to get him; may roses appear wherever he treads!’
I’d never allow a nurse to pray for me. Refuse,
40 O God, to grant her requests, though she ask in her Sunday best.
You pray for strong muscles, a physique that won’t let you down
when you’re old. Fine, but huge platefuls of thick goulash
prevent the gods from granting your prayer and impede Jove.
You hope to build up your assets by killing a bullock; you summon
Mercury with its liver. ‘Grant that my house may prosper;
grant growth to my flocks and herds!’ And how is that possible,
fat-head, when the tripe of so many heifers melts in the fire?
Yet the fellow strives to prevail on heaven with piles of innards
and cakes: ‘Now for more land, now for more sheep, yes now
50 my prayer will be answered, now!’ till the coin left at the bottom
of the money-box, cheated and hopeless, heaves a sigh of despair.
If I brought you a present of silver bowls heavily embossed
with gold, you’d break into a sweat; in the left side of your chest
your heart would beat with impetuous joy, expelling the drops.
That’s how you got the idea of smearing the faces of the gods
with gold proudly looted from the foe. ‘Within that bronze
fraternity, those who send us dreams most clear of catarrh
should stand out from the rest. Let them have beards of gold.’
Gold has pushed out Numa’s crockery and Saturn’s copperware;
60 Vestal urns of Tuscan clay are becoming outmoded.
Souls bent on earth, devoid of the things of heaven!
What profit is there in carrying our ways into the churches,
using this sinful flesh to decide what’s good for the gods?
The flesh has spoilt olive oil by mixing it into a perfume,
and soaked Calabrian fleece in unnatural crimson dye.
It’s the flesh that drives us to gouge pearl from shell and rip
the veins of glowing ore out of the raw slag.
The flesh is guilty, yes guilty; but at least it profits from sin.
But tell me, you men of god, what use is gold in a church?
70 As much as the dolls which a young bride offers to Venus.
Let’s give to the gods what mighty Messalla’s bloodshot offspring
can’t give from his mighty dish; a soul in which human
and divine commands are blended, a mind which is pure within,
a heart steeped in fine old honour. Let me bring these
to the temple, and I’ll win the favour of heaven with a handful of grain.
SATIRE 3
In the first half of the poem a lazy student, who represents Persius himself, is lectured by an older and wiser companion on the evils of sloth. In the second half (from v. 63 on) the address becomes more general. Sin is a form of disease; better nip it in thebud. Find out the true nature of human existence; forgo sensual pleasures; and live by the rules of Stoic philosophy.
‘So this is your diligent study!’
The bright morning sunshine
is streaming through the shutters, widening the narrow chinks
with its light. My snores continue, allowing the fierce Falernian
to simmer down as the shadow nudges the fifth line
on the dial.
‘Well, what’s this?’ says a friend. ‘It’s late. The mad
dog-star is baking the corn dry; the cattle are huddled
under the spreading elm.’
‘Really? Are you sure? Hurry up, then!
Someone! Is nobody there?’ My glistening bile swells up
and I burst. You’d think Arcadia’s asses were braying in concert.
10 I reach for a book and the two-tone parchment with its hair removed,
also for sheets of paper and a pen of knotty reed.
First I complain that a thick blob is hanging from the nib.
I make the black stuff thinner by adding water, and then
complain that the pen deposits a series of runny drops.
‘God help us! Things get worse every day. Has it come to this?’
‘Ah, why not do like a pampered dove or a rich man’s baby –
demand to have your din-din pre-chewed, and then throw a fit
of temper refusing to let your mammy sing you a lullaby?’
‘How can I work with such a pen?’
‘Who are you kidding? No more
20 snivelling excuses; the joke’s on you; You’re oozing away
mindlessly; you’ll be rejected. When a half-baked jar is tapped,
the greenish clay gives a dull answer betraying its quality.
You are soft, damp, earth; away and have yourself moulded
on the whirling wheel till you’re properly finished. Oh yes, your family
estate gives a fair yield; you’ve a pure and spotless salt-cellar
(no need to worry) and a comfortable dish for the rites of the hearth.
Is that enough? Or again, should you puff up your lungs till they burst
because you, descendant one thousand, trace your family tree
to Tuscan stock and parade for your Censor in full regalia?
30 Let the mob have your trappings; I know what you’re like underneath,
in the flesh. Aren’t you ashamed to live like sloppy Natta?
But vice has made him insensible; thick fat has surrounded
his conscience; he has no feelings of guilt, no notion of
loss.
Lying on the bottom, he has ceased to send any bubbles to the surface.
O mighty father of the gods, when sadistic lust with its dagger
dipped in fiery poison incites dictators to crime,
may it please thee to punish their cruelty in this and this way only:
let them see Goodness, and waste with remorse at having betrayed her.
Were the roars more frightful which came from Sicily’s brazen bull,
40 and did the blade dangling from the gilded ceiling cause more terror
to the purple neck below than for a man to say to himself
“I’m falling, falling headlong!” and blanch in his heart, poor devil,
as he thinks of a crime which his own dear wife must never hear of?
‘I remember as a youngster I often smeared olive oil on my eyes
to avoid learning the dying Cato’s magnificent speech.
(I knew my moronic teacher would praise it highly, and my father
would listen in a sweat of excitement with the friends he had dragged along.)
Why not? My highest aim was to learn what I stood to win
from a treble six, what I’d lose on three ruinous ones,
50 never to let the narrow-necked jar avoid my marble,
never to yield first place at whipping a wooden top.
But you’re no novice at spotting crooked behaviour and grasping
the doctrines of the learned Porch with its mural of trousered Persians –
doctrines swotted to the small hours by sleepless, crew-cut
students sustained by lentil soup and bowls of porridge.
Pythagoras’ Ч betokens a young man’s moral choice.
Your eyes are set on the path which climbs steeply to the right.
Still snoring! Your head’s lolling, neck-joints undone
and jaws unfastened at both sides, yawning off yesterday.
60 Have you any goal to strive for? Any target to hit?
Or do you chase wild geese with stones and broken bottles,
not caring where your legs carry you, living at random?
‘It’s no use clamouring for hellebore when your flesh is already sick
and bloated. Nip the disease in the bud. Just what’s the point
of promising the earth in fees to Doctor Cráterus? Listen,
you poor unfortunates, and learn the purpose of human existence –
what we are, what kind of life we are born to live;
which is our lane, where the turn, and when to begin it;
how much money’s enough, what prayers are right, what advantage
70 are crisp notes, how much should be set aside for the state
and for your nearest and dearest; what role the lord has asked you
to play, what post you have been assigned in the human service.
Learn this; never mind those jars piled in a barrister’s larder
as rewards for defending some greasy Umbrians, rotting beside
the pepper and hams (“tokens of gratitude” from a Marsian client)
while the first tin of sardines still contains a survivor.
‘Here a sergeant-major – one of that smelly fraternity –
may say “I know all I need to know. The last thing I want
is to be like Arcésilas or a woebegone Solon – people who wander
80 about with head hanging down, their eyes fixed on the ground,
champing their silent mutterings in rabid self-absorption,
protruding their lips to serve as a balance for weighing their words,
repeating over and over the dreams of a sick old fool:
‘Nothing comes from nothing, nothing reverts to nothing.’
Is this why you’re pale? Would this detain a man from his dinner?”
That gets a laugh from the crowd, and the lads with the big muscles
send brays of merriment ringing through their contemptuous nostrils.
‘“Have a look,” says the patient to his doctor. “I’m getting odd palpitations
here in my chest; I’ve a sore throat, and I’m short of breath.
Please have a look.” He is ordered to bed. By the third night
90 his veins are flowing gently. So he sends a thirstyish flagon
to the house of a rich friend, requesting some smooth Surrentine
to drink at bath-time.
“I say, old man, you’re a bit pale.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Still, you’d better watch it, whatever it is.
Your skin’s rather yellow and it’s quietly swelling up.”
“Your own colour’s worse. Stop acting like nanny. I buried her
years ago; you’re next.”
“Carry on. Sorry I spoke.”
Bloated with food and queasy in the stomach our friend goes off
to his bath, with long sulphurous belches coming from his throat.
100 As he drinks his wine, a fit of the shakes comes over him, knocking
the warm tumbler from his fingers; his bared teeth chatter;
suddenly greasy savouries slither from his slackened lips.
The sequel is funeral march and candles. The late lamented,
plastered with heavy odours, reclines on a lofty bed,
pointing his stiff heels to the door. He is raised on the shoulders
of men whose caps proclaim them citizens – as of yesterday.
You poor fool – just take your pulse and put your hand
on your heart.
“No fever here.”
Feel your fingers and toes.
“They aren’t cold.”
What if your eye falls on a bundle
of notes, or you get an enticing smile from the pretty girl 110
next door? Is your heart-beat steady? You are served some leathery greens
on a cold plate with meal shaken through a common sieve;
let’s see your throat: very tender, with a septic ulcer at the back
which certainly mustn’t be chafed by rough proletarian beet.
You shiver when ghastly fear raises hairs on your body;
when a match ignites you, your blood boils, your eyes sparkle
with anger, and you do and say things which Orestes himself,
that legendary madman, would swear were signs of utter madness.’
SATIRE 4
‘The conceited young Alcibiades aspires to govern his country, although he manages his private life on the lowest principles.
‘No one looks into his own soul. Instead we carp at the faults of others. As a result we in turn are open to malicious attack. Self-deception cannot be maintained indefinitely, and popular acclaim is unreliable. Examine your own soul and see how inadequate it is.’
The first twenty-two verses are supposed to be addressed by Socrates to the young Alcibiades. The latter, who was active in the last quarter of the fifth centuryBC, represents the politician whose brilliance is not supported by moral integrity.
The setting is based on the pseudo-Platonic dialogue known as Alcibiades I.
Running the country are you? (The question comes from the bearded
sage who was carried off by that deadly swig of hemlock.)
By what right? Tell me, mighty Pericles’ ward.
Of course your native ability and ready grasp of affairs
have developed ahead of your beard. You can sense what has to be said
and what suppressed. And so, when the proles are seething with anger,
you feel impelled to reduce the feverish mob to silence
with a lordly gesture. And then what will you say? ‘My friends,
this, for instance, isn’t right; that’s bad; but that is better.’
10 You can weigh justice in the double pans of the swaying balance;
you can see the straight when it runs between two types of crooked,
or when the rule misleads because of a different standard,
and you do
n’t hesitate to condemn faults with a black x.
So why not doff that attractive skin (it does you no good),
and stop wagging your puppy’s tail at the flattering rabble?
You’d be better to lower whole Antícyras of neat hellebore!
What’s your idea of the highest good? To dine for ever
among the flesh-pots and pamper your skin with regular sunshine?
But wait – this hag will give the very same answer. Go on, then,
20 puff out your chest: ‘I’m Lady Dinómache’s son; and I’m handsome.’
Fine, but your motives aren’t any higher than those of wizened
old Baucis as she hawks her sexy herbs to a slob of a slave.
No one – no one – tries to delve into his heart;
everyone watches the bag on the back of the man in front.
If you ask ‘Do you know Vettidius’ place?’
‘Which Vettidius?’
‘The squire at Cures – the one with acres a kite couldn’t cross.’
‘Oh that damned creature. Even his own mother couldn’t love him.
On a public holiday he hangs up his yoke at the cross-road shrines;
reluctantly scraping the dirty old seal off his little wine-jar,
30 he groans “Cheers!” and downs the shrivelled dregs of his senile
vinegar, munching an onion in its jacket with a pinch of salt.
His slaves cheer excitedly at getting a bowl of porridge.’
But if, after a rub, you relax and focus the sun
on your skin, a stranger appears beside you, digs you with his elbow,
and spits abuse: ‘What a way to behave, weeding your privates
and the recesses of your rump, displaying your shrivelled vulva to the public!
On your jaws you keep a length of rug which you comb and perfume;
so why is your crotch plucked smooth around your dangling worm?
Though half a dozen masseurs in the gym uproot this plantation,
40 assailing your flabby buttocks with hot pitch and the claws
of tweezers, no plough ever made will tame that bracken.’
We shoot and in turn expose our legs to the barbs of others.
That’s how we live; it’s the way we know. You’ve a hidden wound
down in your groin, but it’s covered by a broad golden belt.
As you wish; play tricks and deceive your muscles, if you are able.
‘But the neighbours insist I’m a splendid fellow. Am I not to believe them?’
If you’re so greedy that you turn pale at the sight of cash,
