by Peter Jones
560–74: In seven crisp lines (560–6), Venus sketches the background: the young girl Atalanta, fleet of foot and a great beauty, is given a riddling response by the god to a question about marriage – she should not marry, but she will; and in doing so, she will lose herself. Like all girls in Ovid who decide not to marry, Atalanta at once takes to the woods (567); but not before laying down a challenge to the īnstantem turbam of suitors (568–9) – beat me in a race and win me, or die in the attempt (569–72). That she will show no mercy is clear (cf. uiolenta 568, immītis 573), but it makes no difference to the enthusiasm of her suitors, such is her beauty (573–4, cf. 563). Illogical as this is – if she does not want to marry, why give anyone the chance to marry her? – this is myth, which does not require strict narrative logic; its purpose is to lay the groundwork for Hippomenes’ entry into the story.
575–99: Hippomenes appears from nowhere (myth again) as a cynical spectator. inīquī (575) suggests his own view of the matter, confirmed by his comment about the perīcula involved (576), and nimiōs (577) reinforces his point: he is tut-tutting away about the folly of youth as if he is already drawing his pension. At this point, however, he has not actually seen a race because he has not seen Atalanta. When he does (578) – and Venus inserts a comment of her own to emphasise Atalanta’s desirability (579) – his whole perspective immediately changes (580–2). Observe the device of giving a sense of a person by the reaction (s)he evokes: here Hippomenes’ scorn followed by his immediate retraction at the sight of her suggests more about Atalanta’s beauty than any detailed description could (compare Homer Iliad 3.154–60, where the poet, faced with describing Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world, describes instead the admiring reaction to her of the old men of Troy, all well past it). At once Hippomenes feels passionate about Atalanta and desperately hopes no one will run faster; but then realises there is no reason why he should not compete for her too, though he realises that fortūna and a god will have to help him (582–6). While turning all this over in his mind, he sees Atalanta up close, flashing past. Her speed enhances her beauty (586–90). His gaze, caught by the flow of her trappings and hair, moves from her ankles (591) to her hair (592) and back down to her knees (593: observe how erotic Ovid makes the moment by not describing what we might expect him to describe – he leaves that to our imagination). Hippomenes then admires her whole body, observing its healthy flush (all that running), and a simile decorates the moment (594–6). Indeed, he is hardly watching the spectacle as a race at all, let alone thinking about the dangers, because while he is eyeing up Atalanta (597), the race suddenly finishes, she is crowned victor – and the losers pay the penalty (597–9). But what does a man suddenly in thrall to a woman care about that?
600–8: Standing up out of the (seated, 575) crowd, gaze firmly fixed on Atalanta (in admiration? confrontation?), Hippomenes casts aspersions on her other suitors and makes his challenge (600–3). His own honour is at stake here, but he knows that hers is too – for if she is beaten, she must marry the victor, and there will be no honour in that unless her opponent has shown he is worthy to defeat and marry her. So Hippomenes reveals that he comes from divine stock, and points out that if she triumphs, she will win a great nōmen for herself (603–8): in other words, whatever the result, there will be much for her to take pride in. His effect on Atalanta is immediate. This hard woman (568, 573) looks at him mollī uultū; for the first time, as it seems, she does not know what to do (609–10).
609–22: Now, apparently, she speaks (inquit, 611, cf. dīxerat 636), as if in reply. But this is impossible: for the content of the speech makes it obvious that, far from addressing Hippomenes, she is in fact talking to herself, weighing and assessing her fluctuating feelings. Ovid nods? Or is it Venus (who is telling the story) who nods, ignoring the precise context in order to tell us about Atalanta’s thoughts, representing her as talking to herself? Anyway, deus . . . inīquus, fōrmōsīs, and cārae immediately indicate Atalanta’s feelings about this young man (611–12); she cannot be worth the death of such a one (612–13). Modest, she is also too nice a girl to admit openly that his looks or person have persuaded her; she claims it is the fact that he is too young to die (613–15). But immediately she retracts (poteram . . . tangī, 614). She weighs up his mēns and his uirtūs, of both of which she can know little, but at least those are ‘proper’ reasons for a (Roman) girl to admire a man (616). So too is his ancestry (617). But the last of this tricolon, and most persuasive to her, is his love for her and readiness (like a good Roman) to die in her cause (618). Note that the fors that may deny her to him will seem to her to be dūra (619). So she urges him, in her mind, not to compete with her, because he will lose: she talks in vivid images of bloody beds and a cruel marriage (620–1). Her thoughts on what any sapiēns girl would do reflect her own feelings about herself as well as Hippomenes (621–2).
623–37: But now the counter-argument – since many others have died, why should he be an exception (623–5)? But that is no argument, as she immediately sees: why should death be the price for someone who feels so passionately about her (626–7)? It is fast becoming obvious that no other suitor has ever made it clear that he really does love her. But she cannot escape from the logical bind – that she is bound to defeat him (628). As she says, it will not be her fault (629): he does not have to race her (630). All she can do is exclaim at his youthful innocence again (631) – which is obviously so appealing to her – and wish he had never seen her (632).
But at this point we may ask – why can she not take the logical step and decide to e.g. trip over and lose? But that is not an option, because at the start of the story, Atalanta was told not to marry (565) or she would lose herself (566). She knows therefore that she must defeat Hippomenes or meet an unspecified end. Hence her lament at 633–5: had she only been fēlīcior and fate not stood in the way, Hippomenes is the only person with whom she would have liked to share a bed. The imperatives of fate, life and desire fight it out in her. Ovid summarises: this is amor (which, of course, conquers all), but Atalanta, never having experienced it before, does not know it (636–7). What a master craftsman Ovid shows himself to be in depicting the wavering reflections of a young girl feeling amor’s darts for the first time in a situation over which, theoretically, she has complete control, if it were not for amor. So – will she or won’t she?
638–51: The people, not to mention Schoeneus, have a taste for blood (Ovid understands the Roman audience from his experience of gladiatorial games) and demand the next race (638). This is the moment of truth for Hippomenes, and Venus reveals that he now appealed to her for help (639–41). She admits that she was not unsympathetic (that mōtaque . . . fateor sounds slightly embarrassed, cradled as she currently is in Adonis’ embrace) and she acted at once (642–3). She went to a sanctuary dedicated to her on Cyprus where there grew a tree with golden apples (644–8). Plucking three, she secretly gave them to Hippomenes with instructions how to use them (649–51). She does not describe what the instructions were: Ovid keeps in suspense those who do not know the story.
652–80: Ovid decorates the ‘off’ with a simile: the pair race across the sand as one might imagine runners skimming over the sea or over a field of standing grain (651–4). The image is Homeric (Iliad 20.226–9), used of the racing foals sired by the North Wind: ‘These in their frolics could run across a field of corn, brushing the highest ears, and never break one; and when they frolicked on the broad back of the sea, they skimmed the white foam on the crests of the waves’ (Rieu–Jones); Virgil uses it of the warrior Camilla at Aeneid 7.808–11. The crowd to a man is on Hippomenes’ side, urging him on enthusiastically (656–9). Hippomenes is thrilled by the support – but so too is Atalanta (600). So entranced is she by the sight of him that she would rather not overtake, and does so only unwillingly (661–2). He, meanwhile, is in trouble – already breathing hard, and with the finishing post a long way off (663–4: mēta . . . longē give us his own view of the matter). Time, then, for
the first golden apple – and their purpose, to delay an Atalanta greedy for gold (666), is revealed. mīsit does not tell us where Hippomenes threw it; but she dēclīnat cursūs (667) so the apple took her off the straight and narrow. The crowd cheers as Hippomenes takes the lead (668), but Atalanta puts on a spurt (celerī cursū), makes up the difference and re-takes the lead (669–70). The same thing happens when Hippomenes throws the second apple (671–2). So far, then, the apples have been a complete failure. This is why Hippomenes prays to Venus for help on the final section of the course (672–3). It is the last throw of the apple: if it does not work, he is dead. This time, he throws it right out into the plain, (presumably) at a sharper angle to the ‘track’ than before (674–5) – so far, indeed, that even Atalanta hesitates to go for it (676). Atalanta, then, was not that greedy for gold: so will the third apple be a complete failure as well? No, but little thanks to the apple: Venus reveals that she now took charge, and not only forced Atalanta to chase after it but also added weight to the apples, thus impeding her further (676–8). After such a gross intervention, one rather wonders why Venus bothered with the apples at all; she might just as well have e.g. broken Atalanta’s leg. But this is myth. Venus cuts a long story short: Hippomenes passed the girl and won (679–80).
681–95: Venus’ story is at an end. Its subject was, she had claimed at the start (553), an extraordinary ueteris . . . culpae, related (apparently) to her hatred of lions, about which Adonis had asked for an explanation (552). No such explanation has emerged so far: but the lion will now begin slowly to creep out of the bag. It emerges that Hippomenes had omitted to thank Venus for her efforts on his behalf (note the enraged questions and sense of personal insult 681–3; contrast Pygmalion, 10.290–1). The result was that Venus’ good will towards him was turned to anger, and she decided to make an example of both of them to warn others not to spurn her in the future (683–5: is there a covert warning here to Adonis, on whose breast she is, presumably, still reclining?). All this is typical of the ancient gods, whose love could turn to hatred in a trice, even for those closest to them. For example, when in Homer’s Iliad Aphrodite ordered Helen (of Troy) to sleep with her abductor Paris, and Helen refused, Aphrodite angrily turned on her (3.414–15): ‘Obstinate wretch! Don’t get the wrong side of me, or I may desert you in my anger and detest you as vehemently as I have loved you up till now’ (Rieu–Jones). Ancient deities are not gods of love. So when, exhausted during their long journey to Hippomenes’ home, the couple were crossing a temple tucked away in the woods and dedicated to the goddess Cybele (686–8), Venus prompted in Hippomenes a desire to have sexual intercourse with Atalanta (689–90). In a nearby, dimly lit cave, sacred of old to the gods and filled with their (ancient) wooden images (691–4), he took her and did the sacrilegious deed (695). The fact that Venus had planted the desire in him does not remove his guilt. Nor would it have made any difference if he had not known it was an area dedicated to the gods (it was, after all, dimly lit, 691). Intentions count for nothing with these deities; only what you do counts. Compare Homer’s Iliad 9.533–8, where king Oeneus makes a sacrifice to all the other gods, but not to Artemis: ‘perhaps he forgot her, perhaps he did not intend to do it – but in either case, it was a seriously deluded act. In her rage, Artemis . . .’ (Rieu–Jones).
696–707: The result is dramatic – even the statues look away in horror (696) – and Cybele, deciding that sending the couple to Hades there and then is too lenient a penalty (696–8), decides to – what? Ovid presents us with an unannounced transformation which offers a predominantly front-on image: he picks out a tawny mane that clothes their ‘smooth’ necks, the claws that their fingers become (698–9: note the ‘curve’ of the claws, like the curve of the fingers); the broadening and deepening of their shoulders and chests (and only then does his imagination travel down the body to the tail, sweeping the sand, 700–1); their angry faces (cf. 551); the growls they now emit; the woods which they use for intercourse – though now, tamed, they pull Cybele’s chariot (702–4). What are they? The last word reveals it – leōnēs (704). And so Atalanta’s oracle (564–6) is fulfilled. Venus ends by drawing the lesson for Adonis – steer clear of lions and every kind of wild animal that does not flee but stands and fights, because your courage may be disastrous for both of us (705–7). Nevertheless, it is not at all clear precisely how this story explains Venus’ fear and hatred of wild animals, the reason for which Adonis specifically asked at 552. If the logic is ‘I hated Hippomenes and Atalanta: they became wild animals: therefore I hate wild animals’, it is a pretty thin train of reasoning, especially since the wild animals (lions) in question are now tame ones. Not too thin, however, for Ovid, who has used it to insert another (wonderful) story into his Metamorphōsēs; and a useful excuse too for Venus to spend some time on the ground in Adonis’ arms.
708–16: Venus gives her advice and swans off (708–9), but she has a limited understanding of a young man’s priorities. To someone like Adonis, uirtūs is not some airy ideal to which he must occasionally nod. It has to be demonstrated, here and now, if he wants to be counted in the ranks of heroes. In other words, all his training stands in denial of Venus’ injunctions (709, cf. 547). Ovid cuts at once to the chase, with brilliant concision portraying the unfolding scene (710–12): boar – hiding place – definite tracks – follow them – dogs – roused it out – the woods the boar is preparing to leave – he hit him! – from the side – Adonis did – with a blow. With its economy and precision, and with a master such as Ovid wielding it, Latin does all this quite brilliantly. The boar knocks out the spears with his snout and goes for Adonis, buries his tusks in his (ah!) groin and flattens him (713–16). In seven lines and forty-one words, a complete hunt has unfolded vividly before our eyes.
717–39: So immediate has been Adonis’ return to the hunt that Venus has not even reached home in Cyprus before she hears his scream of agony, turns back and sees from the skies his bloodied corpse (717–21). Leaping down, she goes into full lamentation routine (722–3: note the alliteration with ‘p’), swears to establish an annual festival in his name to commemorate her grief (724–7) and, drawing on Persephone’s example, demands that Adonis too be allowed to be transformed (728–31). Adonis’ blood, drenched in nectar, swells like a bubble, and an hour later a flower rises from it, rather like that of a pomegranate, but short-lived and easily flattened by the winds – the anemone. This is Ovid’s aetiology; its purpose is to compare the fall of the youthful Adonis with the fall of the short-lived flower. Pliny the Elder offers a different account: the anemone is so called because it opens only when the wind blows.
19 Midas, Metamorphōsēs 11.100–45
Background
Bacchus, enraged at the death of Orpheus, the singer of his mysteries (see passage 16), punished his killers the Maenads by turning them into oak trees. He also abandoned Thrace, and took himself off with his followers to Lydia (southern Turkey). But Bacchus’ foster-father Silenus was not among them; he had been captured by Phrygians (central Turkey) and presented to their king Midas. Midas, who had been initiated into Bacchic rites, was delighted when he recognised Silenus and celebrated his arrival with a ten-day festival. Next day, Midas left Phrygia for Lydia to return Silenus to a grateful Bacchus – who gives Midas a wish.
11.100–5: Midas asks for everything he touches to become gold
†hc deus^ optandī grātum, sed inūtile, fēcit
100
mūneris †arbitrium, ^gaudēns altōre receptō.
†ille, male ūsūrus dōnīs, ait ‘effice, quicquid
corpore contigerō, †fuluum uertātur in aurum.’
†adnuit optātīs nocitūraque mūnera soluit
†Līber, et indoluit quod nōn meliōra petisset.
105
11.106–26: Thrilled at first, Midas comes to realise the drawbacks
laetus abit gaudetque malō †Berecyntius hērōs,
†pollicitīque fidem tangendō singula temptat,
; uixque sibī crēdēns, nōn altā fronde †uirentem
†īlice dētrāxit uirgam: uirga aurea facta est.
tollit humō saxum: saxum quoque †palluit aurō.
110
contigit et †glaebam: contāctū glaeba potentī
†massa fit. ārentēs Cereris dēcerpsit aristās:
aurea †messis erat. dēmptum tenet arbore pōmum:
†Hesperidas dōnāsse putēs. sī postibus altīs
admōuit digitōs, †postēs radiāre uidentur.
115
ille etiam liquidīs †palmās ubi lāuerat undīs,
unda †fluēns palmīs Danaēn ēlūdere posset.
uix spēs ipse suās animō †capit, aurea^ fingēns
^omnia. gaudentī †mēnsās posuēre ministrī
†exstrūctās dapibus nec tostae frūgis egentēs.
120
tum uēro, †sīue ille suā Cereālia dextrā
mūnera contigerat, Cereālia dōna †rigēbant.
sīue dapēs †auidō conuellere dente parābat,
†lammina fulua dapēs, admōtō dente, premēbat.
†miscuerat pūrīs auctōrem mūneris undīs;
125
†fūsile per rictūs aurum fluitāre uidērēs.
11.127–45: Bacchus agrees when Midas asks for his wish to be reversed
attonitus †nouitāte malī dīuesque miserque
effugere optat opēs, et quae modo †uōuerat, ōdit.
