Reading Ovid

by Peter Jones

cruent-us a um bloody

  134 sol-um ī 2n. ground (contrast sōlus and sōl)

  retrō back

  bux-um ī 2n. box-wood (here abl. of comparison)

  135 pallid-us a um pale

  exhorreō 2 shudder

  īnstar like (+ gen.)

  136 tremō 3 tremble

  summum: i.e. the surface

  stringō 3 ruffle

  137 remoror 1 dep. wait

  138 indign-us a um blameless

  plangor -is 3m. blow

  140 suppleō 2 supplēuī fill

  flēt-us ūs 4m. tears

  141 misceō 2 miscuī mingle

  142 adimō 3 adēmī remove, take away

  143 cār-us a um beloved, dear

  144 nōminō 1 name, call on

  exaudiō 4 listen, hear

  attollō 3 raise up

  145 Thisbēs: gen. s. of Thisbe

  grauō 1 weigh down

  146 ērīgō 3 ērēxī open

  uisāque . . . illā: abl. abs., ‘her having been seen’, ‘and when he had seen her’

  recondō 3 recondidī shut again (sc. oculōs)

  147 quae: i.e. Thisbe. Her ensuing speech is full of emotional doublets and antitheses (see e.g. 148–50 manus/amor, 152 causa/comes, 152–3 possum + reuellī, 156, 159)

  uestemque: the que anticipates et, ‘both . . . and’

  ēns-is is 3m. sword

  148 ebur -is 3n. ivory (sheath)

  149 in ūnum hoc: ‘for this one [sc. purpose]’, i.e. suicide

  150 in uulnera: ‘(in)to my wounds’, i.e. the wounds I intend to deal myself in order to die

  151 exstinct-us a um dead; understand tē

  lēt-um ī 2n. death

  152 quīque: ‘and you [note poterās] who’ (i.e. Pyramus)

  reuellō 3 pluck, tear from (+ abl.)

  153 nec: ‘not even’; i.e. death alone could have plucked Pyramus from me; now not even death will pluck him from me

  154 ambōrum: i.e. both of us

  estōte rogātī: ‘be asked’, ‘you must be asked’ (the subject is meus [parēns] illīusque parentēs, 155); hoc is the (effective) object. For estōte, see RLE1

  156 ut: this introduces the request to be made of their parents

  157 compōnō 3 place together

  158 tū: the arbor is being addressed

  160 signa: Thisbe is referring to the reddened mulberries

  pull-us a um sombre

  apt-us a um appropriate for (+ dat.)

  161 moniment-um ī 2n. memorial

  162 aptō 1 fit

  mucrō mucrōn-is 3m. sharp point (of sword)

  īm-us a um lower (part of)

  163 incumbō 3 incubuī lean on (+ dat.)

  ferr-um ī 2n. blade

  tepeō 2 grow warm

  165 permātūrēscō 3 permātūruī ripen

  166 rog-us ī 2m. funeral pyre

  requiēscō 3 rest, lie

  urn-a ae 1f. urn

  Notes

  55–64: Ovid at once establishes the location of the story: in the East (56), in Babylon (58). Its walls of baked mud (58) caused some comment in countries like Greece and Italy, where there was plenty of stone for building. The lovers live in adjacent properties (57), and Ovid describes how their young love, beginning so innocently, grew over time (59–60); but parental disapproval drove them ‘underground’, making the whole ‘affair’ all the more exciting (61–4). All this is sweetly stereotypical. Ovid well understands the clichéd thrills of private youthful infatuation – he sees into their minds and produces a delightfully sympathetic and amusing account of young ‘lurve’.

  65–80: In this new situation, the pair are at first able to communicate only through signs to each other when they just happen to meet (63). But there is a hole in the garden-wall that separates the properties (not an internal house-wall; 79, 91–2 make it clear the wall is outside, because they have to leave it when night falls). This pariēs . . . commūnis both separates them and allows them to communicate privately with each other – love picks up everything, Ovid charmingly puts it, as he drops into a complicitous apostrophe with uīdistis (68) – and they are thus enabled to pour out their sweet nothings without anyone else hearing (tūtae, 69–70). If they cannot hold each other, they can at least try to catch each other’s breath – a delightful conceit (72). They personify the wall, accusing it of getting in the way (73–7, cf. Narcissus at 3.448–50); not that they wish to offend it . . . (76–7). Note that innocent first love has now become a passionate desire for intercourse (tōtō . . . corpore, 74). They stop talking this sort of juvenile drivel (tālia . . . nēquīquam 78) only when night falls, when they part with unavailing kisses (79–80). Ovid here brilliantly recreates the intensely introspective world of adolescent love, which means so much to the young lovers and is the source of such innocent amusement for everyone else.

  81–92: Next day the young lovers decide to act. Spurred by their whispered (83) despair at their situation (84), they agree to break out. Breathlessly, they plot the escapade. The absurdly detailed 84–6 (which boils down to ‘step one: leave town’) captures their excited sense of planning, 87 their sense of danger; 88–90 finally gets to the practical point. Given that they met soon after dawn (81–2; ah, young love!), 91–2 suggests it has taken much of the day to come up with this exciting adventure. tardē is a neat touch. Time usually flies for lovers, but because they are in such a haste to escape together, now it drags.

  93–104: ‘Skilful’ (93) Thisbe carefully opens the door and follows the plan to the letter, obediently sitting down under the tree (95), covering her face in addition (94), and terribly excited by the daring of it all (96). But when the moon (99, cf. tenebrās 93) conveniently reveals a lioness appearing fresh from the kill, Babylōnia Thisbe – note the epic ‘heroic’ epithet – retreats, timidō pede: not so heroic after all (96–100). Indeed, so quickly does she run for it that her uēlāmen falls off (101). The lioness gives it a thought-ful gnaw (sine ipsā amusingly suggests it was hoping to find someone inside) and disappears back into the woods (103–4).

  105–27: Pyramus arrives sērius on the scene (105) – Ovid does not explain why, but the story demands it – and even sērior in the sentence (107). He sees (presumably by the light of the moon) the lion’s tracks, and his worst fears are confirmed by the bloody uēlāmen (105–8). Pyramus did not actually ‘order’ Thisbe to come to the spot (111) – they agreed it together (84 ff.) – but he heroically takes responsibility for her (as he thinks) death because of his late arrival (112). Absurdly, he challenges the lions to eat him too (112–14), imagining a whole pride living in the cave where Thisbe is currently sheltering (presumably that is what sub hāc rūpe refers to, 114, cf. antrum 100), but then chooses the more heroic, and certain, option. All this is announced in high rhetorical style. Addressing a grand farewell to the veil, as if that were Thisbe herself (115–18: note the kisses and tears and the charming nōtae 117: it was clearly a favourite garment of hers), he plunges the sword into his groin (119), ‘where death in battle comes most painfully for wretched mortals’ (Homer, Iliad 13.568–9, Rieu–Jones). Heroic wounds are always feruēns, and so is this (120). But why does Pyramus pull the sword out so quickly? This is a heroic gesture (Pallas tries it at Aeneid 10.486–7), however misplaced for a suicide, but there is obviously another reason: Pyramus’ blood must spatter the mulberry, and Ovid imagines the sword needs to be removed for that to happen (125–7). In one of the funni-est similes in Metamorphōsēs (which has generated much tut-tutting about ‘lapse of taste’), Ovid uses the image of a burst and hissing lead water-pipe to describe how the blood shot up all over the bush (121–4; in epic a simile often accompanies a great hero’s death). This is medically accurate: Pyramus’ sword would have hit the femoral artery, whence the blood would have shot out many a mile. It is also anachronistic (ancient Babylonians did not have water delivered by lead pipe), but that never worried Ovid: it merely adds to the fun. It is also appropriate: the mulberry is extremely squ
ishy and juicy.

  128–46: Which leaves Thisbe. Fear and duty/love fight it out in her (128), not without an eager desire to share all her exciting adventures with her beloved (130) – a nice touch – but out she comes (129), to be bewildered by what she finds: a very differently coloured mulberry tree (131–2: wonderful bathos – no laughing, now). Her gaze moves from the mulberry tree to the ground – where limbs writhing on the bloody soil greet her. High emotions regularly attract a simile, and here she is likened to a breeze rippling over waters (135–6, cf. tremebunda 133); and when she sees who it is, she goes into full mourning ritual (138–9), apparently replacing Pyramus’ blood with her tears (cf. 118!), and getting only cold comfort from her kisses (140–1, cf. 117). Her cries are enough to rouse him for one last time. He responds, touchingly, to her name, not his (145), looks up at her, and dies (142–6). This is all gloriously melodramatic stuff, worthy of a 1920s silent movie.

  147–66: Thisbe now recognises her uēlāmen and sees the empty scabbard (147: an important observation, for it proves Pyramus committed suicide) and draws the correct conclusion (148–9). Summoning up all her physical and mental strength (149–50), she decides to seek the heroic reputation (dīcar) of one who joined her lover in death (151–2 – note that she too takes the blame for it, causa, as he had at 110), emphasising that death could have been the one thing that separated them, but will not be allowed to now (152–3). She ends by calling on (i) her parents, who forbade their union, to allow them to be joined in death (154–7), and (ii) the mulberry (stop giggling) always to bear fruit the colour of blood in memory of their suicides (158–61). That said, she falls on Pyramus’ still warm sword (162–3). Her prayers move both gods and parents; not that the gods had anything to do with the story, but it makes a suitably tearful conclusion, heightened by the sentimental ūnā – urnā word-play (164–6): the two are finally united, but only in death, and as ashes. Thisbe’s self-dramatised posturing, embracing in the name of love a supreme self-sacrifice for no particular purpose, is very well done.

  In this tale Ovid beautifully mixes narrative and soliloquy and combines the innocent, the juvenile, the ludicrous and the rather sweet, with a good dose of high rhetoric too. It certainly makes an agreeable change from the destructive and cynical amōrēs of the gods.

  But there is more than that: there is parody – of romance (parents forbidding marriage; lovers escaping, then losing each other; mistaken suicides; together with all the overblown language); and of Roman love-elegy, in which the lover laments his inability to be with his beloved. Typical of such literature is the ‘excluded lover’, trying to get into his beloved’s room – a situation parodied here by reversal, as Pyramus and Thisbe have to leave their houses to be together (e.g. Thisbe silently opening the door is a regular feature of such poetry).

  10 Arethusa Metamorphōsēs 5.572–641

  Background

  Minerva is in conversation with the Muses, goddesses of the arts, who tell of the challenge to their skills thrown down by the mortal daughters of Pierus (the Pierides). In the ensuing contest of song, the Muses choose Calliope to represent them. First, one of the Muses says, Calliope sings of Pluto’s (Hades’) abduction of Proserpina (Persephone), daughter of Ceres (Demeter). Ceres scoured the world for her lost child, and eventually the Sicilian river-goddess Arethusa told her that she had seen her in the underworld. The incensed Ceres went to Jupiter, who negotiated a settlement – Proserpina was to spend six months with Hades in the underworld, and six months with Ceres on earth.

  The Muse now relates how Calliope described Ceres, relieved at her daughter’s return, asking Arethusa how she had arrived in Sicily and become a sacred spring. The mise-en-scène is Arethusa’s spring in Sicily, where Arethusa had given Ceres the news about her daughter.

  5.572–84: Arethusa describes how she never paid much attention to her looks

  †‘exigit alma Cerēs, nātā sēcūra receptā,

  quae †tibi causa fugae, cūr sīs, Arethūsa, sacer fōns.

  †conticuēre undae, quārum dea sustulit altō

  fonte caput, uiridēsque manū †siccāta capillōs,

  575

  flūminis †Ēlēī ueterēs nārrāuit amōrēs.

  “pars^ ego nymphārum, quae sunt in †Achāide,” dīxit

  “^ūna fuī, nec mē †studiōsius altera saltūs

  lēgit, nec posuit studiōsius altera †cassēs.

  sed quamuīs fōrmae numquam mihi fāma petīta est,

  580

  quamuīs fortis eram, †fōrmōsae nōmen habēbam,

  nec mea mē faciēs nimium laudāta †iuuābat.

  quāque aliae gaudēre solent, ego †rūstica dōte

  corporis ērubuī, †crīmenque placēre putāuī.” ’

  5.585–98: One day after hunting she stripped to bathe in a stream

  †‘lassa reuertēbar (meminī) Stymphālide siluā.

  585

  aestus erat, magnumque labor †gemināuerat aestum.

  inueniō sine uertice aquās, sine †murmure euntēs,

  †perspicuās ad humum, per quās numerābilis altē

  †calculus omnis erat, quās tū uix īre putārēs.

  †cāna salicta dabant nūtrītaque pōpulus undā

  590

  †sponte suā nātās rīpīs dēclīuibus umbrās.

  accessī, prīmumque pedis uestīgia †tīnxī,

  †poplite dnde tenus; neque eō contenta, recingor

  molliaque †impōnō salicī uēlāmina curuae,

  nūdaque mergor aquīs. quās dum †feriōque trahōque

  595

  mīlle modīs lābēns †excussaque brācchia iactō,

  nescioquod mediō sēnsī sub †gurgite murmur,

  territaque †īnsistō propiōris margine rīpae.’

  5.599–617: The river (god) Alpheus calls out to her, and the chase begins

  ‘ “quō properās, Arethūsa?” suīs †Alphēus ab undīs,

  “quō properās?” iterum †raucō mihi dīxerat ōre.

  600

  sīcut eram, fugiō sine uestibus (altera uestēs

  rīpa meās habuit): †tantō magis īnstat et ardet,

  et quia nūda fuī, sum uīsa †parātior illī.

  sīc ego currēbam, sīc mē ferus ille premēbat,

  ut fugere †accipitrem pennā trepidante columbae,

  605

  ut solet accipiter †trepidās urgēre columbās.

  usque sub †Orchomenon Psōphīdaque Cyllēnēnque

  †Maenaliōsque sinūs gelidumque Erymanthon et Ēlin

  currere sustinuī, nec mē uēlōcior ille.

  sed †tolerāre diū cursūs ego uīribus impār

  610

  nōn poteram, longī †patiēns erat ille labōris.

  [But even through plains, mountains covered with trees,

  and rocks and crags and where there was no way, I ran.]

  sōl erat ā tergō: uīdī †praecēdere longam

  ante pedēs umbram, †nisi sī timor illa uidēbat;

  615

  sed certē †sonitusque pedum terrēbat, et ingēns^

  †crīnālēs uittās adflābat ^anhēlitus ōris.’

  5.618–41: Arethusa calls on Diana for help, who turns her into a stream

  ‘fessa labōre fugae “fer opem, dēprendimur,” inquam

  †“armigerae, Dīāna, tuae, c saepe dedistī

  ferre tuōs arcūs †inclūsaque tēla pharetrā!”

  620

  mōta dea est, †spissīsque ferēns ē nūbibus ūnam

  mē super †iniēcit. lūstrat cālīgine tēctam

  †amnis, et ignārus circum caua nūbila quaerit,

  †bisque locum, quō mē dea tēxerat, īnscius ambit,

  et bis †“iō Arethūsa, iō Arethūsa” uocāuit.

  625

  †quid mihi^ tunc animī ^miserae fuit? anne quod agnae est,

  si qua lupōs audit †circum stabula alta frementēs;

  aut leporī, quī, uepre latēns
, †hostīlia cernit

  ōra canum, nūllōsque audet dare corpore †mōtūs?

  nōn tamen †abscēdit; neque enim uestīgia cernit

  630

  †longius ūlla pedum: seruat nūbemque locumque.

  occupat †obsessōs sūdor mihi frīgidus artūs,

  †caeruleaeque cadunt tōtō dē corpore guttae,

  quāque pedem mōuī, †mānat locus, ēque capillīs

  rōs cadit et, †citius quam nunc tibi facta renārrō,

  635

  in †laticēs mūtor. sed enim cognōscit amātās

  amnis aquās, positōque uirī, †quod sūmpserat, ōre

  uertitur in †propriās, ut sē mihi misceat, undās.

  †Dēlia rūpit humum, caecīsque ego mersa cauernīs

  †aduehor Ortygiam quae^ mē, cognōmine dīuae*

  640

  ^grāta †*meae, superās ēdūxit ^prīma sub aurās.’

  Learning vocabulary for Passage 10, Arethusa

  accipiter accipitr-is 3m. hawk

  amn-is is 3m. river (god)

  bis twice

  columb-a ae 1f. dove

  murmur -is 3n. low noise, murmur

  nūb-es is 3f. cloud

  This is a splendid story. The theme may be commonplace but the telling, in the mouth of the woman who experienced it all, is not. It is full of vivid, pacy, narrative action and sharp, engaging observations.