Reading Ovid

by Peter Jones

  504–11: Ovid here goes into full ‘what if?’ mode. What would a god say to a fleeing mortal to persuade her to stop? His argument moves through four stages:

  (a) 504–7 – I intend you no harm – it is amor that drives me (no effect)

  (b) 508–11 – to prove it, look how concerned I am for your safety (no effect)

  512–24: Any mere mortal could have said all that, of course. Apollo needs to raise the stakes:

  (c) 512–18 – my credentials

  (i) what I am not (512–15)

  (ii) what I am (515–18):

  royal power (515–16)

  paternity (517)

  personal capacities – prophecy and the lyre (517–18) (no effect)

  (d) 519–24 – but none of this counts beside my amor for you my mastery of the bow is as nothing to Cupid’s (519–20) my mastery of medicine cannot cure me of my feelings for you (521–4) (no effect).

  Apollo plays card after card. When the straight appeals (a)–(b) fail, he plays the power card (c); when that fails, he plays the helplessness card (d) – and he a god! But all to no avail whatsoever. One almost feels sorry for him: the eı – mihi (523) is surely heartfelt, such is the power of Cupid (as Apollo has effectively admitted). Apollo’s humiliation is nearly complete, from mighty Python-slayer to love-sick, baffled suitor. Even his divinity is of no use to him in this situation.

  There are delightful moments in this episode: Apollo’s informed critique of Daphne’s hair-style (498); the ascending tricolon (505–6) with its powerful conclusion at 507; his lover’s anguish (mē miserum, 508) that she may hurt herself; his (wonderful) assurance that he will slow down if she does (508–11) – only Ovid could have thought of that one; the ascending tricolon describing who he is not – the fastidious horridus is very amusing (512–14); and the resounding conclusion of 523–4 – the physician who heals others but is helpless to heal himself (cf. 491). A third tricolon occurs at 521–2: it is a favourite Ovidian device.

  525–39: And there was yet more to come from Apollo, apparently (525), but Daphne still did not want to know (525–6). Yet her flight makes no difference to Apollo. He has eyes only for her, and her beauty (527) is increased by her flight (530), not because she is announcing an unattainability which challenges his manhood, but because the winds are stripping her (527), revealing yet more of the beauty that earlier Apollo could only guess at (502). Note the precise tricolon: the winds reveal her limbs, the breezes flutter her dress, the light air blows back her tresses (527–9). Urged by amor, Apollo abandons all thought of persuasion and steps on it (530–2). Since this is another important moment, an extended simile decorates it (533–9), this one based on Virgil: Aeneas chases Turnus like a stag which ‘runs and runs back a thousand ways, but the untiring Umbrian hound / stays with him, jaws gaping; now he has him; now he seems to have him; / his jaws snap shut but, thwarted, he bites the empty air’ (Aeneid 12.753–5, adapted from West).

  540–56: The race is coming to an end, and Ovid shows us how both sides are progressing. Apollo is pressing Daphne hard, driven by amor (540), and almost on her (541–2). The picture of him literally breathing down her neck is lifted from Homer, when, in the funeral games for Achilles’ close companion Patroclus, Odysseus is hard on Locrian Ajax’s heels in the foot-race and ‘kept up so well that his breath fanned Ajax’s head’ (Iliad 23.765–6, Rieu–Jones). Daphne is physically spent (expressed in three different ways, 543–4; people do indeed go grey with exhaustion) but sees her father’s river and calls upon him for help. He had, after all, agreed that she remain a virgin (488), and she asks him now to ensure that promise is kept by transforming her and her beauty (546). Observe that she wonders whether rivers have the power so to do (545); and since some ancient editors thought they did not, they replaced our lines 545–6 with the following (whose omission is noted by [ ]), giving the transformative role to Earth: ‘Overcome by the toil of flight [=first half of 544] she says “Earth, open up, or destroy my beauty by transforming it [=second half 545], that beauty which causes me to be harmed.”’ But these lines miss the pathos of the appeal to her father; quā nimium placuī is a typically ironical Ovidian turn of phrase, while ‘that beauty that causes me to be harmed’ is wooden by comparison; and since Ovid anyway does not actually say which god transformed Daphne, nothing hangs on who actually did it.

  ‘What if?’ looms: how does a girl turn into a tree? First, she must stop; Ovid tells us she can feel her limbs growing heavy (547). Next, bark begins to encase her body: since the purpose of her prayer is that her desirability should be destroyed, it begins by covering her breasts (549: note the sympathetic mollia). Leaves? Her hair. Branches? Her arms. Roots? Her feet (note the crunchy uēlōx pigrīs). Tree-top? Her face. The only indication of her human beauty is the shine of the leaves (549–52). Her body grows into the tree-trunk (553), in which Apollo can still feel her heart beating – a wonderful conceit (554). Even better is yet to come: his amor for her has not changed, and he embraces the branches as if they were her limbs, kisses the bark – and it recoils back from him (555–6)! Only Ovid could get away with this, but it serves to raise the question: is this a story of a potentially brutal, but frustrated, rape? What would a rapist do if the object of his lust turned into a tree? It seems to make no difference to Apollo’s feelings; nor to hers either. At least we can conclude – game, set and match to Cupid.

  557–67: The story ends, as often, with aetiology: in this case, the explanation of how the bay-tree/bay-laurel/laurel (Greek daphnē) came to play such an important part in the cult of Apollo and in Roman life (Ovid, again, using Greek myth to explain Roman customs). In depictions of Apollo, the laurel does indeed frequently decorate his hair, lyre and arrows (559); Roman generals wore wreaths of laurel, signifying victory, when they led triumphs into Rome, consisting of long (561) processions of senators, magistrates, soldiers, booty, captives and bands weaving their way from the Campus Martius to the great temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline hill, and the happy watching crowds crying iō triumphe! as they did so (560); outside the entrance to the emperor Augustus’ palace on the Palatine hill, two laurel trees grew, and on the palace door was hung a wreath of oak-leaves (562–3). This was an award for saving a soldier’s life in battle, granted by the Romans to Augustus for saving the nation. Ovid is laying on the Augustan associations pretty thick here. Finally, Apollo makes the laurel an evergreen: as his own youthful hair is never cut (564), the leaves of the laurel will never fall and will thus eternally signal the honour Apollo has bestowed on them (565) – an outcome to which Daphne accedes, adnuit (566–7). Ovid has moved, effortlessly, from the heroic destruction of the hideous Python, via Cupid’s darts and a humiliating sylvan failure for the Python’s destroyer, to Augustus and contemporary Rome. This poet is the master of all literary genres, styles and effects.

  3 Io (and Syrinx), Metamorphōsēs 1.583–746

  Background

  When Daphne is transformed, Ovid tells us that all the other river-gods come to visit her father Peneus, not knowing whether to congratulate or console him. That is a shrewd observation. These are tactful river-gods, sensitive to a difficult social occasion; they have to find out Peneus’ reaction before knowing how best to respond to him (not that Ovid tells us Peneus’ feelings). Ovid at once goes on to say, however, that one river-god is absent: Inachus, because he is grieving for his lost daughter Io. With this ‘negative association’ – a common device in Ovid – the poet Ovid constructs the transition from Apollo and Daphne to the next metamorphosis.

  1.583–7: Inachus does not know where his daughter Io has gone

  Īnachus ūnus abest, īmōque †reconditus antrō,

  †flētibus auget aquās, nātamque^ miserrimus ^Īō

  †lūget ut ^āmissam: nescit, uītāne fruātur,

  585

  an sit apud †mānēs; sed quam nōn inuenit usquam,

  esse putat †nusquam, atque animō pēiōra uerētur.

  1.588–600: In fact Jupiter had sp
otted and ravished her

  †uīderat ā patriō^ redeuntem* Iuppiter *illam

  ^flūmine, et ‘ō uirgō^ Ioue ^digna, tuōque* beātum

  †nescioquem ^factūra *torō, pete’ dīxerat ‘umbrās

  590

  altōrum nemorum’ (et nemorum †mōnstrāuerat umbrās)

  ‘dum †calet, et mediō^ sōl est altissimus ^orbe!

  quodsī sōla timēs †latebrās intrāre ferārum,

  †praeside^ tūta ^deō, nemorum sēcrēta subībis –

  nec †dē plēbe deō, sed quī caelestia magnā^

  595

  †scēptra ^manū teneō, sed quī uaga fulmina mittō.

  †nē fuge mē!’ fugiēbat enim. iam pāscua Lernae

  †cōnsitaque^ arboribus ^Lyrcēa relīquerat ^arua,

  cum deus †inductā^ lātās ^cālīgine terrās

  †occuluit, tenuitque fugam, rapuitque pudōrem.

  600

  1.601–9: Juno suspects something is up and dispels the clouds

  intereā mediōs* †Iūnō^ dēspexit in *Argōs,

  et noctis faciem †nebulās fēcisse uolucrēs

  sub †nitidō* ^mīrāta *diē, nōn flūminis illās

  esse nec †ūmentī^ sēnsit ^tellūre remittī;

  atque †suus coniunx ubi sit circumspicit, ut quae

  605

  †dēprēnsī^ totiēns iam nōsset fūrta ^marītī.

  †quem postquam caelō nōn repperit, ‘aut ego fallor

  aut ego laedor’ ait, †dēlāpsaque ab aethere summō,

  cōnstitit in terrīs, †nebulāsque recēdere iussit.

  1.610–24: An embarrassed Jupiter has turned Io into a cow and gives her to Juno as a present

  coniugis †aduentum praesēnserat, inque nitentem^

  610

  †Īnachidos uultūs mūtāuerat ille ^iuuencam

  (†bōs quoque fōrmōsa est). speciem Sāturnia uaccae,

  quamquam inuīta, †probat, nec nōn et cus et unde

  quōue sit †armentō, uērī quasi nescia, quaerit.

  Iuppiter ē terrā †genitam mentītur, ut auctor

  615

  †dēsinat inquīrī. petit hanc Sāturnia mūnus.

  quid †faciat? crūdēle suōs addīcere amōrēs,

  †nōn dare suspectum est; pudor est quī suādeat illinc,

  †hinc dissuādet amor. uictus pudor esset amōre,

  sed †leue sī mūnus sociae generisque torīque

  620

  uacca negārētur, †poterat nōn uacca uidērī.

  †paelice dōnātā, nōn prōtinus exuit omnem^

  †dīua ^metum, timuitque Iouem, et fuit ānxia fūrtī,

  †dōnec Arestoridae^ seruandam trādidit ^Argō.

  1.625–38: Argus guards an Io baffled by her new state

  centum †lūminibus cīnctum caput Argus habēbat;

  625

  †inde suīs uicibus capiēbant bīna quiētem,

  cētera seruābant atque in †statiōne manēbant.

  cōnstiterat †quōcumque modō, spectābat ad Īō;

  ante oculōs Īō, quamuīs †āuersus, habēbat.

  †lūce sinit pāscī; cum sōl tellūre sub altā est,

  630

  †claudit et indignō circumdat uincula collō.

  †frondibus arboreīs et amārā pāscitur herbā;

  prōque torō terrae^ nōn semper †grāmen ^habentī

  †incubat īnfēlīx, līmōsaque flūmina pōtat.

  illa etiam †supplex Argō cum brācchia uellet

  635

  †tendere, nōn habuit quae brācchia tenderet Argō;

  †cōnātōque querī mūgītūs ēdidit ōre,

  †pertimuitque sonōs, propriāque exterrita uōce est.

  1.639–50: Io finally manages to communicate with Inachus

  uēnit et ad †rīpās, ubi ludere saepe solēbat,

  †Īnachidas rīpās, nouaque^ ut cōnspexit in undā

  640

  ^cornua, pertimuit sēque †exsternāta refūgit.

  †Nāides ignōrant, ignōrat et Īnachus ipse,

  quae sit; at illa patrem sequitur, sequiturque sorōrēs

  et patitur tangī sēque †admīrantibus offert.

  †dēcerptās^ senior porrēxerat Īnachus ^herbās;

  645

  illa manūs †lambit, patriīsque dat ōscula palmīs,

  nec †retinet lacrimās et, sī modo uerba sequantur,

  ōret opem, nōmenque suum cāsūsque loquātur.

  †littera^ prō uerbīs, ^quam pēs in puluere dūxit,

  corporis^ †indicium ^mūtātī trīste perēgit.

  650

  1.651–67: Inachus’ lament for Io

  ‘mē miserum!’ †exclāmat pater Īnachus*, inque gementis^

  cornibus et †niueā *pendēns ceruīce ^iuuencae,

  ‘mē miserum!’ †ingeminat; ‘tūne es quaesīta per omnēs^

  nāta mihī ^terrās? tū nōn inuenta †repertā

  †luctus erās leuior; reticēs, nec mūtua^ nostrīs

  655

  ^dicta †refers, altō^ tantum suspīria dūcis

  ^pectore, †quodque ūnum potes, ad mea uerba remūgis!

  at tibi ego ignārus †thalamōs taedāsque parābam,

  spēsque fuit generī mihi prīma, secunda †nepōtum.

  dē †grege nunc tibi uir, nunc dē grege nātus habendus.

  660

  nec †fīnīre licet tantōs^ mihi morte ^dolōrēs;

  sed †nocet esse deum, praeclūsaque iānua lētī

  †aeternum^ nostrōs luctūs extendit in ^aeuum.’

  tālia †maerentem stellātus submouet Argus,

  ēreptamque^ †patrī dīuersa in pāscua ^nātam

  665

  †abstrahit. ipse procul montis sublīme cacūmen

  occupat, unde †sedēns partēs speculātur in omnēs.

  1.668–77: Jupiter instructs a disguised Mercury to kill Argus

  nec †superum rēctor mala tanta Phorōnidos ultrā

  ferre potest, †nātumque uocat, quem lūcida^ partū

  †^Plas ēnīxa est, lētōque det imperat Argum.

  670

  †parua mora est ālās pedibus uirgamque^ potentī*

  †^somniferam sūmpsisse *manū, tegumenque capillīs.

  haec ubi †disposuit, patriā^ Ioue nātus ab ^arce

  †dēsilit in terrās; illīc tegumenque remōuit,

  et posuit pennās; †tantummodo uirga retenta est:

  675

  †hāc agit, ut pāstor, per dēuia rūra capellās^

  †dum uenit ^abductās, et strūctīs cantat auēnīs.

  1.678–88: Argus is not sent to sleep by Mercury’s pan-pipes

  †uōce nouā captus, custōs Iūnōnius ‘at tū,

  quisquis es, hōc^ †poterās mēcum cōnsīdere ^saxō’

  Argus ait; ‘neque enim †pecorī fēcundior ūllō^

  680

  herba ^locō est, †aptamque^ uidēs pāstōribus ^umbram.’

  sēdit †Atlantiadēs, et euntem^ multa loquendō

  †dētinuit sermōne ^diem, iūnctīsque^ canendō

  uincere †^harundinibus seruantia lūmina temptat.

  ille tamen pugnat mollēs †ēuincere somnōs

  685

  et, quamuīs †sopor est oculōrum parte receptus,

  parte tamen †uigilat. quaerit quoque (namque reperta

  †fistula nūper erat), quā sit ratiōne reperta.

  The story of Syrinx (‘Pan-pipe’)

  Then the god said ‘In the cool mountains of Arcadia

  [690] where the Arcadian wood-nymphs lived,

  there was a famously beautiful nymph called Syrinx.

  Satyrs had pursued her more than once – so had every other god

  that lived in those shady woods and fertile country – but she had

  given them all the slip. It was Diana to whom she dedicated

  [695] both her devotion and her virginity. She dressed

  deceptive
ly like Diana and could be taken for her, except that

  her bow was made of horn, and Diana’s of gold.

  Even so, she passed for her. As she returned

  from the Lyrcaean hill, Pan, his head garlanded with pine-needles, saw her,

  [700] and began to say’ – but Mercury never finished to describe how,

  spurning his pleas, she raced off through the trackless paths

  till she reached the peaceful stream of sandy

  Ladon; how there, since the stream barred her escape, she