Like as the Waves :: Eheu Fugaces II:14

Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore

So do our minutes hasten to their end

—Wm. Shakespeare, Sonnet LX

Eheu Fugaces is addressed to a man named Postumus or one called that because he had been born after his father had died. The name sets the tone, for this ode is about inevitable death and fleeting time and ends with a glimpse into the future, past our death to what is to come of all our efforts, of what we thought so important when we were alive.

Horace makes no earth-shattering revelation about death. There is none to be made. It happens—period. What he does do is tell us what he thought about it. Death, symbolized by Pluto, is illacrimabilis, incapable of tears, and powerful enough to hold back the three-bodied giant, King Geryon [Γερυών]. 

Death is a time of punishment for those like Sisyphus Aeolides [Σίσυφος Αἰολίδες], cursed to roll a huge boulder up a hill, or like Tityos [Τιτυός], whose liver was constantly fed on by a vulture, or like the ninety-nine Danaid daughters who, having slain their husbands, were forced for all eternity to fetch water in leaky pots. It is a time to cross the black Cocytos [Κωκυτός], literally 'the stream of wailing,' and leave everything behind. You'll be covered with cypress branches, sacred only to Pluto, and that will be that. 

The only mercy in death is that you will never know what happens to your 'stuff,' once you're gone—how it was squandered and scattered. Pretty grim words. No Omar Khayyam with his constant می نوش [mei nush], 'drink wine.' Horace's first word, eheu, 'oh shit!' says it all—that and his use of a curious Latin construction: the gerundive.

The gerundive is an adjective-like, verb-like rarity that has made the lives of students of Latin miserable for centuries. From today's ode, we have:

undā enavigandā: with the wave that must be sailed upon

visendus Cocytos: the Cocytos that must be gazed upon

linquenda tellus: the earth that must be left behind

We don't have any construction in English that carries the full force of the gerundive. I suppose we might say 'a wave to be sailed' as we might say 'a chocolate mousse to die for,' but somehow the facet of inevitablity is missing from any English translation of this Latin grammatical jewel—a jewel because so much can be said with so little.

translation:

Oh hell, they are flying by, Postumus. 

Postumus, the years are slipping away.

Doing right by the gods will not put off

the wrinkles, the old age, or even death 

standing steadfast by. 

No, friend, even if you with every 

passing day appease tearless Pluto with 

three hundred bulls, he will still keep at bay

three-bodied Geryon and Tityos

with a wave of grief

which we, yes, all of us who eat earth's gifts

must ride—be we kings or farmers dirt poor.

It's useless our avoiding bloody Mars, 

the crashing tides of the rough Adriatic; 

useless being scared 

every autumn that the southern wind will 

harm our bodies: we will be forced to look 

at the black Cocytos winding like a 

river languid, or at the infamous 

Danaid clan, or 

Sisyphus damned to labor unending. 

We'll have to leave earth, home and pleasing wife. 

Not any of the trees that you plant will 

follow you, brief master, beyond the scorned 

cypress tree—not one.

An heir more worthy than you will drink up 

the Caecubum you locked away under 

a hundred keys and with this superb wine, 

better than at a high priest's table he'll 

stain your lovely floor.

translation © 2010 by James Rumford

in prose:

Eheu, Postume, Postume, anni fugaces labuntur,

nec pietas moram rugîs senectae indomitaeque et morti instanti adferet. 

non, amice, si quotquot dies eunt,

trecenis tauris Plutona inlacrimabilem places,

qui conpescit ter amplum Geryonen Tityonque undā tristi, omnibus

scilicet enavigandā quicumque munere terrae vescimur (sive reges sive  coloni inopes erimus) .

frustra, Marte cruento fluctibus fractisque rauci Hadriae carebimus,

frustra, per autumnos Austrum nocentem corporibus metuemus:

Cocytos ater visendus errans flumine languido et Danai genus infame damnatusque Sisyphus Aeolides laboris longi.

tellus liquenda et domus et uxor placens neque harum arborum quas colis te, dominum brevem, praeter cupressos invisas ulla sequetur.

heres Caecuba servata dignior centum clavibus absumet et mero superbo pavimentum tinguet, cenis pontificum potiore.

commentarii: http://www.horatius.ru/index.xps?2.1.214

original:

Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume,
labuntur anni nec pietas moram
     rugis et instanti senectae
     adferet indomitaeque morti,

non, si trecenis quotquot eunt dies,               5
amice, places inlacrimabilem
     Plutona tauris, qui ter amplum
     Geryonen Tityonque tristi

compescit unda, scilicet omnibus
quicumque terrae munere uescimur               10
     enauiganda, siue reges
     siue inopes erimus coloni.

Frustra cruento Marte carebimus
fractisque rauci fluctibus Hadriae,
     frustra per autumnos nocentem               15
     corporibus metuemus Austrum:

uisendus ater flumine languido
Cocytos errans et Danai genus
     infame damnatusque longi
     Sisyphus Aeolides laboris.               20

Linquenda tellus et domus et placens
uxor, neque harum quas colis arborum
     te praeter inuisas cupressos
     ulla breuem dominum sequetur;

absumet heres Caecuba dignior               25
seruata centum clauibus et mero
     tinguet pauimentum superbo,
     pontificum potiore cenis.

The Common Greatness :: Iam Pauca Aratro :: II:15

These three expressions from Ode II:15 say it all—

census privatus — private property

commune magnum — the common greatness

sumptus publicus — public expense

—and show the relevance of this poem for America today. We are engaged in a great debate over what constitutes the common good, the commonwealth, the common greatness. I like this last translation of commune magnum because to paraphrase an ancient Chinese king, how we take care of the least among us determines how great a people we are.

According to scholars, conspicuous consumption at the expense of the common good was a familiar theme of stoics in Rome during Horace's time. We've all seen movies of the excesses of the Romans, and some of us have looked around at our own way of life and seen similarities.

Having grown up in California, I saw the salty Lucrine-like lakes south of Los Angeles give way to housing developments, then giant houses, then, as someone said, looking over once beautiful, sleepy La Jolla, starter castles. I also saw the orange groves disappear one by one much as Horace saw the destruction of olive groves, and I saw the giant eucalyptus trees used as windbreaks systematically cut down so that their pungent, almost cat-pee smell, disappeared from the air. Horace, too, bemoaned the loss of the fragrance of olives and the elm trees that farmers used as trellises for their grape vines, wedding, as they described it, the climbing plant to the trunks of such trees–something impossible to do with celibate plane trees whose shade was so thick that no vine could survive. 

So our problem in America is not unique. It is one of any great empire that fosters the excesses of the rich in order that they will think nothing of opening up their coffers to maintain and feed not the unwashed masses but vast armies to protect their wealth. 

A few notes:  Romulus founded Rome. Cato Intonsus was Cato the Censor (234—149 BC) or the Untonsured One because he didn't keep his hair trimmed. A grassy piece of sod was used for simple altars and for repairing roofs. The north in the poem is referred to as arktos (ἄρκτος), the bear constellation.  

my translation:

Soon starter castles'll leave little room for the plow.

All over you'll see koi ponds bigger than Lucrine.

Unmarried plane trees will take over the elms;

violet beds and myrtle—their smell will overwhelm

the abundant olive groves of owners past and thick

laurel branches will shut out the hammering sun.

Not this way the laws of Romulus or Unkempt 

Cato or under the norms of the people of old.

To them private property was small, the common

land great; there were no porches for the private man

measured in rods that pointed to the shady north,

no laws that despised a bit of sod heaven sent, 

but orders that the towns and temples of the gods

be faced at public expense with new-quarried stone.

translation © 2010 by James Rumford

in prose [hyphens indicate word groups]:

Iam moles-regiae iugera-pauca aratro relinquent,

undique stagna-extenta Lucrino-lacu latius-visentur,

platanusque-caelebs ulmos evincet; 

tum violaria et myrtus et omnis-copia odorem narium olivetis-fertilibus domino-priori spargent,

tum laurea-spissa ramis ictus-fervidos excludet.

non ita praescriptum-Romuli-et-Cantonis-intonsi auspiciis normaque-veterum.

illis census-privatus erat brevis,

commune magnum:

nulla porticus-decempedis-metata privatis arcton-opacam excipiebat

nec leges sinebant caespitem-fortuitum spernere,

[leges] iubentes oppida et templa-deorum saxo-novo sumptu-publico decorare .

commentarii: http://www.horatius.ru/index.xps?2.1.215

original:

Iam pauca aratro iugera regiae
moles relinquent, undique latius
     extenta uisentur Lucrino
     stagna lacu platanusque caelebs

euincet ulmos; tum uiolaria et               5
myrtus et omnis copia narium
     spargent oliuetis odorem
     fertilibus domino priori;

tum spissa ramis laurea feruidos
excludet ictus. Non ita Romuli               10
     praescriptum et intonsi Catonis
     auspiciis ueterumque norma.

Priuatus illis census erat breuis,
commune magnum; nulla decempedis
     metata priuatis opacam               15
     porticus excipiebat Arcton,

nec fortuitum spernere caespitem
leges sinebant, oppida publico
     sumptu iubentes et deorum
     templa nouo decorare saxo.               20

Venus, If You Will :: Albi, Ne Doleas :: 1:33

Like the Frankie Avalon song, written by Ed Mitchell, Horace's ode is about Venus and love. But Horace's rejoinder to Mitchell's lines:— 

Venus, if you will,

Please send a little girl for me to thrill

A girl who wants my kisses and my arms

A girl with all the charms of you

( . . . . )

Venus, goddess of love that you are

Surely the things I ask

Can't be too great a task

would be: don't count on it.

People like Albius Tibullus (born 54 BC), the supposed addressee in Horace's ode, can write all the love songs and pretty elegies that they want, but, according to Horace, the goddess of love has a bit of a mean streak and loves a good joke, mismatching lovers in temperament and social status and delighting in those who are liars and cheats.

Here's a late nineteenth-century painting by Alma-Tadema of Albius Tibullus.

A lot of Tibullus' poetry still exists, which some scholars say is pleasant but monotonous. I haven't read it. Perhaps Horace was poking fun at Tibullus in this ode. It is hard to say.  Maybe the two poets had a good laugh over this poem, especially when Horace recounts his own exploits with a freedwoman name Myrtale. "Ipsum me," Horace writes, beginning his tale, as if to say "brother, you don't know the half of it!" 

There are a lot of names in this ode. They are probably all fictitious, but who knows whether they were code names for well-placed figures in high society? Glycera, Lycoris, and Myrtale were often the names of concubines, courtesans, freedwomen, and just plain women of the street. 

There are two expressions in this ode worth noting. The first is tenui fronte, which means a small forehead, that is, one made small with the hair combed forward, as painted by Alma-Tadema in the picture above. The ancients considered tenuis frons a mark of beauty.  All I can think of is Ruth Buzzi on the sixties show, Laugh-In. Not pretty.

Another interesting expression uses the word caprea, which can either mean 'she-goat' or 'doe.'  I think of deers and goats separately, but apparently, our Indo-European ancestors, linguistically speaking, did not.  For example, in English, a 'buck' doesn't just refer to male deer. It is also the male of several species, including our own. A thousand years ago 'buck' was bucca, a 'male goat.' ('Buck,' by the way, is related to the Persian word بُــز boz 'goat.') At any rate, for Horace, mating goats/deers with wolves is a metaphor for the impossible.

translation:

Albius, don't suffer much too much over your

sour sweetie, singing miserable love songs on why,

the trust now violated, a guy your junior 

outdazzles you.

Take the remarkable Licoris small of forehead—

her love for Cyrus is burning her up. Cyrus 

though has put her off for Pholoe, who would no more 

sully herself

with such a fowl lover than Apulian wolves

would with goats. Thus the will of Venus, who loves to 

pair mismatched bodies and souls under her bronze yoke, 

for a cruel laugh.

When a high-class venus asked for me, the ex-slave

Myrtle detained me with a pleasing leg iron, 

more biting than the sea, curve-carving the bays of 

Calabria.

translation ©2010 by James Rumford

in prose:

Albi, plus nimio memor Glycerae inmitis ne doleas 

neu elegos decantes miserabilis cur iunior fide laesa tibi praeniteat.

Amor Cyri Lycorida insignem tenui fronte torret.

Cyrus in Pholoen asperam declinat, 

sed prius quam Pholoe adultero turpi peccet, 

capreae lupis Apulis iungentur.

Sic visum Veneri cum ioco saevo, 

cui placet inpares formas atque animos sub iuga aenea mittere. 

Cum Venus me ipsum melior peteret,

Myrtale libertina compede grata [me ipsum] detinuit,

acrior fretis Hadriae, curvantis sinus Calabros. 

commentarii: http://www.horatius.ru/index.xps?2.1.133

original:

Albi, ne doleas plus nimio memor
inmitis Glycerae neu miserabilis
descantes elegos, cur tibi iunior
     laesa praeniteat fide.

Insignem tenui fronte Lycorida               5
Cyri torret amor, Cyrus in asperam
declinat Pholoen: sed prius Apulis
     iungentur capreae lupis

quam turpi Pholoe peccet adultero.
Sic uisum Veneri, cui placet imparis               10
formas atque animos sub iuga aenea
     saeuo mittere cum ioco.

Ipsum me melior cum peteret Venus,
grata detinuit compede Myrtale
libertina, fretis acrior Hadriae               15
     curuantis Calabros sinus

Don't Go! :: Icci, Beatis Nunc :: I:29

The year is 26 BC. There is to be a military expedition led by Aelius Gallus to Arabia. Horace's friend, Iccius, has decided to do what Horace never thought he would: abandon his books and his studies and seek his fortune as a soldier in Happy Arabia, the Arabia Felix of untold wealth.

But this is a don't-count-your-chickens-before-they're-hatched poem: war doesn't always lead to wealth. It's a now-I've-seen-everything poem: bibliophiles don't always make good soldiers. 

Thus, there is a warning implied in this poem: Iccius, be careful.

There is also irony:  Iccius, you may have read the works of Panaetius, a Stoic philosopher, who wrote the book On Duties (Περὶ τοῦ Καθήκοντος), but is it your duty to enrich yourself on the spoils of war?

Early commentators remarked on the irony of this poem. Centuries later, editors wielding commas, periods, and question marks emphasized irony, for, to those who know Horace's poetry well, this poem comes as a surprise. Usually this Roman Rudyard Kipling is quick to rattle the saber and hoist the banner for the sake of the Empire, but not, for some reason, in the case of Iccius.

Who was this friend of his? A Mr. Milktoast, who although caught up in the fever of war, might perish in the sands of Arabia? Or was this a Lawrence of Arabia, destined for greatness? Or was he Horace's alter ego—a scholar who would abandon libri for loricae? Did Horace want to go,too, but, since he was unable, decided to ridicule his friend's efforts instead? All we know for sure is that Aelius Gallus' expedition ended in disaster. Most of the soldiers perished in the sands of Araby. Did Horace's friend die there, too?

Horace uses a few exotic words to add to the allure of the East. Gaza, treasure, comes from the Persian word ganj, گنج, which came to Latin via the Greek γάζα. (Ganj is found in the Bible, predictably in the Book of Esther, chapter iii:9 as גנזי המלכ.) The Sabaeae are the Sabeans or Shebans from Yeman, famous for their perfumes and one of the reasons that Arabia was so 'happy,' as traders came from all over the world to get the fragrances their customers desired. The word Sericas, 'Chinese' is also exotic. It means 'silk peoples' and comes ultimately from the Chinese word si 絲, silk.

translation: 

Iccius—you greedy now for the rich treasures 

of the Arabs? Prepared for a tough army life? 

Even before Sheba's kings are conquered? Before 

you've put the horrible Mede in chains? Which of the 

barbarous maidens, her husband dead, will serve you? 

What prince, his hair oiled, taught to shoot Chinese arrows 

with his father's bow, will stand by ready with the 

wine ladle? Who'd ever deny streams could flow up

steep hills or the Tiber flow backwards now that you, 

destined for better things, wish to trade for Spanish

breastplates the books on famous Panaetius and 

the Socratic school you purchased here and there?

translation © 2010 by James Rumford

in prose:

Icci, gazis beatis Arabum nunc invides

et militiam acrem paras

non ante regibus devictis Sabaeae

Medoque horribili catenas nectis?

Quae barbara virginum tibi sponso necato serviet,

quis puer capillis unctis, 

sagittas Sericas arcu paterno doctus tendere, ex aula ad cyathum satuetur?

Quis neget rivos pronos posse montibus arduis relabi

et Tiberim reverti,

cum tu undique libros coemptos Panaeti nobilis

et domum Socraticam loricis Hiberis mutare,

meliora pollicitus, tendis?

commentarii: http://www.horatius.ru/index.xps?2.1.129

links:  an interesting site with links to Latin dictionaries of all kinds: http://www.lexilogos.com/english/latin_dictionary.htm

original:

Icci, beatis nunc Arabum inuides
gazis et acrem militiam paras
     non ante deuictis Sabaeae
     regibus horribilique Medo

nectis catenas? Quae tibi uirginum               5
sponso necato barbara seruiet?
     puer quis ex aula capillis
     ad cyathum statuetur unctis,

doctus sagittas tendere Sericas
arcu paterno? Quis neget arduis               10
     pronos relabi posse riuos
     montibus et Tiberim reuerti,

cum tu coemptos undique nobilis
libros Panaeti Socraticam et domum
      mutare loricis Hiberis,
     pollicitus meliora, tendis?               15

Hyperbaton Revisited

In my blog of September 15 of last year, I talked about hyperbaton, that trick that Latin poets love to play on the unsuspecting: jumbling up the sentence so that adjectives get separated from the nouns they modify and nouns from the nouns they go to.  Here is a well-known example of an adjective divorced from its noun:

magnā cum laude 

If we added puerī [of the boy],  school-book Latin would yield:

cum laude magnā puerī

But if we "hyperbated" the phrase, we might get:

puerī magnā cum laude.

Latin can do this fancy stuff because it is a highly inflected language. The gender of nouns and the different case endings tell the reader how to put the sentence back together after the poet has "destroyed" it for his own purposes. If you saw a phrase like:

magnī cum laude

you had better be looking for a noun to stick magnī  to, because it couldnʻt, per Hercule, go with laude, a feminine noun in the ablative case. 

There is, of course, another possibility. Maybe magnī doesnʻt go with any noun, but is a noun itself meaning "of the great one."

This "other" possibility has led me to realize something about hyperbaton. What if every noun and every adjective in Latin at some level in the Roman mind was a unit of meaning complete in itself? What if magnā didnʻt just mean 'great' but 'from the great feminine one'?  

It is hard to make sense of this in English because we no longer make adjectives agree in gender. Try French: de la grande. 

To a Frenchman, there is no need to look for a noun to stick grande to. In his mind 'grande' can either be an adjective or a noun. In other words, it is complete in itself, and for the Frenchman as well as for speakers of thousands of other languages, the distinction between adjectives and nouns is not so clear. Adjectives can be nouns. Unfortunately, this is not a feature of English.  We cannot say 'the big' and leave it at that. We have to add 'one,' making a clumsy ʻthe big one.' 

In lines 3 and 4 of yesterday's ode O DIVA GRATUM we find the adjective/noun superbōs [proud] being separated from its noun triumphōs [triumphal parade]:

superbos vertere funeribus triumphos

What if the Roman mind interpreted Horace in this way?

the proud-ones   to-turn   into-funerals   the-triumphal-parades

In other words, what if the Latin speaker wasnʻt as bothered by superbōs being suspended in midair as I am? To him superbōs could either stand alone or be attached to a noun. Then when he came to triumphōs, which agrees in gender, number, and case with superbōs, his mind automatically connected the two.

The endings in Latin make it possible to think of each word as a little bundle of meaning. These bundles can either stand alone or attach themselves to larger bundles, depending on the context. 

In lines 5 —6, we find pauper [poor] separated from colonus [tenant farmer] by four words:

te pauper ambit sollicita prece ruris colonus

This is an extreme case of hyperbaton and it offers a good example for English speakers of what must have gone through the Roman mind as he decoded Horaceʻs words:

you     the-pauper circles    with-the-solicited-one

So far so good. Everything makes sense. Now comes

   with-the-prayer 

Since with-the-prayer matches in case and gender with-the-solicited-one, they are merged yielding:

with-the-solicited prayer. 

Next comes: 

of-the-countryside   tenant-farmer 

The Roman interprets this easily as: 

the tenant farmer of the countryside.

Now the Roman does something extraordinary—to us English speakers. He realizes that he must decide whether pauper is a noun or an adjective. Since the sentence cannot have two subjects, he merges pauper with colonus and comes up with 'the poor tenant farmer.'

The dual nature of Latin adjectives—that they can be both adjectives and nouns—has been a revelation for me and lets me understand a bit more how and why hyperbaton works in Latin.