Ovid: Tristia
Book Five
‘laeta fere laetus cecini, cano tristia tristis:
happy, I once sang happy things, sad
things
I sing in sadness:’
Ex Ponto III:IX:35
Translated by A. S. Kline © 2003 All Rights Reserved
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Contents
Book TV.I:1-48 To The Reader: His Theme
Book TV.I:49-80 To
The Reader: The Quality of His Work
Book TV.II:1-44 To
His Wife: A Complaint
Book TV.II:45-79
His Prayer to Augustus
Book TV.III:1-58
His Prayer to the God Bacchus
Book TV.IV:1-50
Letter To A True Friend
Book TV.V:1-26 His
Wife’s Birthday: His Greeting
Book TV.V:27-64
His Wife’s Birthday: His Wish
Book TV.VI:1-46 A
Plea For Loyalty
Book TV.VII:1-68
Among The Getae
Book TV.VIII:1-38
Letter To An Enemy
Book TV.IX:1-38 A
Letter Of Thanks
Book TV.X:1-53
Harsh Exile In Tomis
Book TV.XI:1-30 An
Insult To His Wife
Book TV.XII:1-68
Poetry In Exile
Book TV.XIII:1-34
Ill, And Wishing For Letters
Book TV.XIV:1-46
In Praise Of His Wife
Devoted
reader, add this book, now, to the four
that
I’ve already sent from the Getic
shore.
This
one too will be like its poet’s fate:
no
sweetness will visit its whole song.
As
my state is mournful so is my verse,
the
writing’s appropriate to the theme.
Untouched
and happy I toyed with youth
and
happiness, now I regret I wrote about them.
Since
I fell I’ve been the crier of sudden doom,
and
the author himself is his own theme.
As
the swans of Cayster, they say,
along its banks,
mourn
their own death with a fading cry,
so
I, exiled far off on the Sarmatian
shore,
take
care my funeral will not pass in silence.
If
anyone seeks the delights of wanton verse,
that’s
not what this writing is charged with.
Gallus would be better, or
smooth-tongued Propertius,
Tibullus, with his winning
nature, would be better.
Ah,
why was my Muse ever playful?
But
I pay the penalty, in Scythian
Danube’s lands,
the
player with Love’s quiver is exiled.
I’ve
turned people’s thoughts now to public verse,
and
instructed them to remember my name.
And
if any of you ask why I sing so many
sad
things: I’ve suffered many sad things.
I
don’t compose them with wit or skill,
the
content’s inspired by its own misfortunes.
And
how little of this fate is in my poetry.
Happy
the man who can count his sufferings!
As
the forest’s branches, as Tiber’s
yellow sand,
as
the tender grasses in the Field of
Mars,
so
the ills I’ve suffered without cure, or rest,
except
in the study and practise of the Muses.
‘What
end will there be to these sad songs, Ovid,’ you ask:
the
same end that there’ll be to this misfortune.
It
feeds me from a full fountain, of complaint,
nor
are the words mine, they are my fate’s.
But
if you restore me to my country, and my dear wife,
my
face will be joyful, I’ll be what I was.
If
invincible Caesar’s anger were milder to me,
then
I’d give you poetry filled with delight.
But
my verse will never play as it once played:
enough
that it once ran riot with my wit.
If
only a part of my sentence be reduced, I’ll sing
what
he’ll approve, free of fierce Getae
and barbarism.
Meanwhile
what should my books be: but sad?
Such
is the piping that befits my funeral rites.
‘But
you’d endure your troubles better in silence,’
you
say, ‘by mutely concealing your situation.’
Do
you require torture without a cry:
forbid
tears when a deep wound’s been suffered?
Even
Phalaris let Perillus, inside the bronze,
bellow
and moan through the bull’s mouth.
Though
Priam’s weeping did not offend Achilles,
do
you, crueller than an enemy, prevent my tears?
Though
Latona’s children made Niobe childless,
they
still did not order that her cheeks be dry.
To
ease a deadly pain with words, is something:
it
created Procne’s and Halcyone’s lament.
That
was why Philoctetes, son
of Poeas, in his
cold
cave, wearied the Lemnian rocks
with his cries.
A
grief suppressed chokes us, and seethes inside,
multiplying
its own strength under pressure.
Reader,
indulge me, or dispense with all
my
books, if what benefits me harms you.
But
it won’t harm you: my writings were never
pernicious:
hurt no one except their author.
‘But
it’s poor stuff.’ I admit it. Who forces you to read,
or,
if you feel cheated, stops you putting it aside?
I
don’t alter it, let it be read as written:
it’s
no more barbarous than this place.
Rome should not compare me with her
poets:
it’s
among the Sarmatians that
I’m a talent.
In
short, I don’t seek glory, or that fame
which
is commonly the spur to genius: even so,
I
don’t wish my mind to dissolve in endless cares,
that
break in upon me where they’re forbidden.
I’ve
explained my writing. You ask why I send it?
I
wish to be with you, by any means I can.
When
another letter reaches you from Pontus,
do
you grow pale, open it with anxious fingers?
Don’t
worry, I’m well: my body that was weak
before,
and unable to endure any effort, bears up,
hardened
by its own afflictions. Or is it more
that
I’m not granted the luxury of being unwell?
Yet
my mind’s ill, it gains no strength from time,
and
the effect on my spirits remains what it was.
The
wounds I thought would close, in due course,
hurt
me as if they’d been freshly made.
It’s
true: small troubles are lightened by the years:
the
pain of great ones increases with time.
For
ten years Philoctetes
nursed the foul wound
dealt
him by that snake swollen with venom.
Telephus would have died, wasted
by unending sickness,
if
the hand that wounded him had not brought relief.
If
I’ve committed no crime, I pray the one
who
made my wounds, might ease what he’s made.
and
satisfied at last by a measure of suffering,
drain
a little saltwater from this brimming sea.
Though
he takes much, much bitterness will remain,
and
a part of my sentence is as bad as the whole.
As
shells the sand, as flowers a rich rose-garden,
as
the host of seeds the soporific poppy owns,
as
creatures the forest shelters, or fishes that swim the waves,
or
the feathers with which a bird beats the gentle air,
so
I’m burdened with sorrows: if I tried to count them,
say
I’d tried to number the water-drops in the Icarian Sea.
To
say nothing of the journey’s danger, the bitter perils
of
the sea, or the hands raised against my person,
a
barbarous land holds me, the most alien in all
the
wide world, a place encircled by cruel enemies.
Since
my offence was bloodless, I could be transferred
from
here, if your love for me were as it ought to be.
That
god, in whom Rome’s power is
rooted,
was
often merciful to his enemy in victory.
Why
hesitate, why fear what’s harmless? Go, and ask him:
the
great globe has no one kinder than Caesar.
Ah!
What will I do, if those closest abandon me?
Do
you draw your neck from the shattered yoke as well?
Where
can I turn? Where seek solace for my weariness?
Not
a single anchor tethers my vessel now.
Do
it! Though I’m hated, I’ll have recourse
to
the sacred altar: the altar rejects no one’s hands.
A
distant suppliant, I address a distant god,
if
it’s allowed for mortals to address Jupiter.
Imperial
judge, through whom the security
of
all the gods of the Roman people is
assured,
O
glory, O symbol of the country that prospers
through
you, O hero equal to that world you rule –
so
may you live on earth, and heaven long for you,
so
may you pass at length, as promised, to the stars –
spare
me, I beg of you, and reduce the lightning-bolt’s
effect
a little! The punishment that’s left will be enough.
Indeed
your anger is moderated, you grant me life,
I’m not deprived of a citizen’s name or
rights,
my
possessions have not been given to others,
I’m
not called an ‘exul’ by the terms of your decree.
And
I feared these things because I knew I’d earned them:
yet
your anger is lighter than my offence.
You
ordered me to view Pontus’
fields as a ‘relegatus’,
cutting
the Scythian waves in a
fleeing vessel.
As
commanded, I’ve reached the featureless shores
of
the Euxine Sea – this land
beneath the frozen pole –
yet
I’m not so much tormented by this weather, never
free
of cold, this soil always hardened by white frost,
these
barbarian tongues ignorant of the Latin language,
this
Greek speech submerged in the sounds of Getic,
as
by the fact that I’m encircled, and shut in on all sides
by
nearby conflict: a thin wall scarcely
keeps the enemy out.
While
there’s peace at times, there’s no reliance on peace:
so
the place now endures attack, and now fears it.
If
only I could transfer from here, let Zanclean Charybdis
swallow
me, and send me down to Styx in
her waves,
or
let me suffer the flames, in the fires of greedy Etna,
or
be thrown in the ocean deep, offered to the Leucadian god.
What
I ask is punishment: truly, I don’t evade suffering,
but
I beg that I might suffer somewhere safer.
This
is the day, Bacchus, that the poets are accustomed
to
celebrate you, if only I’ve not got the date wrong,
wreathing
scented garlands round their foreheads,
and
singing your praises to the wine you gave us.
I
remember how, while my fortunes still allowed it,
I
often took part, among them, and didn’t displease you,
I
who am now subjected to the stars of the Little
Bear,
held
fast to the Sarmatian shore
of the savage Getae.
I,
who led a life of ease, free of labour,
in
my studies, among the Pierian
choir,
after
many sufferings on sea and land, I’m surrounded
by
the noise of Getic weapons, and far from home.
Whether
chance or the anger of the gods caused it,
or
whether a dark Fate attended my
birth,
you,
at least, with divine power, should have aided
one
of the worshippers of your sacred ivy.
Or
is it that what the Sisters, the Mistresses of Fate,
ordain
is no longer wholly in the god’s power?
You
yourself were admitted to the heavens, on merit,
to
which one makes one’s way with no little toil.
You
did not live in your native land, but went
all
the way to snowy Strymon, and
the warlike Getae,
to
Persia, and the wide-flowing River Ganges,
and
all the waters the dusky Indian drinks.
This
was the destiny for sure that the Parcae, who spun
the
fatal thread, twice ordained for you, at your double birth.
I
too, if it’s right to take the gods as examples,
am
crushed by a difficult, an iron fate in life.
I’ve
fallen no less heavily than Capaneus,
whom Jupiter
drove,
for his pride, from Thebes’
walls, with lightning.
And
when you heard a poet had been struck by fire,
you
might have remembered your mother, Semele,
and
had sympathy, and gazing at the bards round your altar,
have
said: ‘One of my worshippers is missing.’
Help
me, good Liber: and may another vine
burden the elm,
and
the grapes be filled with the imprisoned juice,
may
the Bacchae and the vigorous young Satyrs
be
here, and their cries of inspiration not be silent,
may
the bones of Lycurgus the
axe-bearer be crushed,
and
Pentheus’ impious shade never
free of torment,
may
your Ariadne’s crown glitter brightly
in the sky,
and
shine more brilliantly than the neighbouring stars:
be
here, and ease my fate, loveliest of the gods,
remembering
that I am one of your own.
The
gods traffic between themselves. Bacchus,
try
to influence Caesar’s power with your own.
You
too, loyal crowd of poets who share my studies,
drink
the neat wine, and make the same request.
And
one of you, mentioning Ovid’s name,
pledge
him in a cup mixed with your own tears,
and
when you’ve gazed around you, say in memory
of
me: ‘Where’s Ovid, who was lately one of our choir?’
This
only if I’ve earned your approval by my honesty,
and
never a book’s been wounded by my criticism:
if,
though I revere the noble writings of ancient men,
I
still think the recent ones to be worth no less.
So,
as you may make songs empowered by Apollo,
keep
my name fresh among you, as is right.
A
letter of Ovid’s, I come from the Euxine
shore,
wearied
by the sea-lanes, wearied by the roads,
to
whom, weeping, he said: ‘You, go look on Rome,
who
can do so. Ah, how much better your fate than mine!’
He
wrote me weeping, too, and he lifted the gem
I
was sealed with to his wet cheeks, first, not his lips.
Whoever
seeks to know the cause of his sadness,
must
need to have the sun pointed out to him,
is
unable to see the leaves in the woods, soft grass
in
the open meadow, or water in the overflowing river:
he’ll
wonder why Priam grieved when Hector was taken,
and
why Philoctetes groaned at
the serpent’s bite.
May
the gods grant such circumstances for Ovid
that
he has no cause of sorrow to make him grieve!
Yet
he endures bitter trouble patiently, as he should,
and
doesn’t shy at the bit like an unbroken horse.
He
hopes the god’s anger won’t last forever
conscious
there was no evil in his offence.
Often
he remembers how great the god’s mercy is,
accustomed,
too, to treat himself as an example:
since he keeps his family possessions,
and the name
of
citizen, in short it’s a gift of the god that he’s alive.
Yet
you (oh, if you trust me in anything,
dearer to him
than
all) you he keeps always in the depths of his heart.
He
calls you his Patroclus: Pylades to his Orestes:
he
calls you his Theseus, and his Euryalus.
He
misses his country and the many things
in
his country whose absence he feels,
no
less than your face and eyes, O you, sweeter
than
the honey the Attic bee stores in
the hive.
Often
he remembers, as he laments that time,
grieving
it was not prevented by his death,
when
others fled the contagion of his sudden downfall,
unwilling
to approach the threshold of a stricken house,
remembers
how you and a few others stayed loyal,
if
one might call two or three others a few.
Though
stunned, he was conscious of it all, that you
grieved
at his misfortune no less than he did.
He
often recalls your words, your face, your cries,
and
his own chest, soaked by your tears:
how
you supported him, with what help you consoled
your
friend, though you yourself needed comfort.
Because
of it he assures you he’ll remember and be true,
whether
he sees the day, or is covered by the earth,
swearing
it on his own life, and on yours,
that
I know he holds no less dear than his own.
Full
thanks will be rendered for so many fine deeds:
he’ll
not allow your oxen to plough the sands.
Only
do you, endlessly, protect the exile: what he
who
knows you well does not ask, I ask.
My
wife’s birthday, returning, demands its customary
honour:
my hands go perform affection’s holy rites.
So
Ulysses, the hero, at the ends of
the earth
perhaps,
once spent his lady’s day of celebration.
Let
that tongue be graced, forgetful of my troubles,
that
I think, by now, has unlearned propitious speech:
and
let me wear the clothes I wear only once a year,
of
shining white so different in colour to my fate:
let
them erect a green altar of grassy turf,
and
veil the warm hearth with a woven garland,
Boy,
give me incense that delivers a rich flame,
and
wine that hisses, poured on the sacred fire.
Brightest
of birthday spirits, so unlike my own,
I
beg you, though I’m far away, be radiantly here,
and
if any sad hurt threatens my lady,
may
it be annulled by my troubles:
and
may the vessel that was more than shaken
by
the recent storm, and survived, sail safely on.
May
she enjoy her home, her daughter and her country
-
enough that they’ve been snatched from me alone –
and
since she’s not blessed with her dear husband,
let
the rest of her life be free of dark clouds.
May
she live, and love her husband, though forced
to
be parted from him, and, at length, fulfil her days.
I’d
add mine to hers, but I fear lest a contagion
might
spread from my fate to poison hers as well.
Nothing’s
certain for humankind. Who’d have thought
that
I’d be performing these rites among the Getae?
Yet
see how the wind blows the smoke that rises
from
the altar towards Italy, and the fortunate lands.
So
there’s meaning in the fumes the fire emits:
Pontus, they flee your skies with
a purpose.
Purposefully,
when the joint offering’s made
on
the altar, to the brothers who
killed each other,
the
discordant ashes, as if at their command,
separate
darkly into two distinct heaps.
I
remember I once said it was impossible,
and,
in my opinion, Callimachus was
mistaken:
now
I believe it implicitly, since you wise vapours
turn
from the Bears and search out Italy.
So
this is the day, and if it had not dawned
there
would have been no festive day for me.
It
engendered a character equal to those heroines,
Eetion’s Andromache, and Icarius’s Penelope.
On
this day chastity was born, courage and loyalty,
but
no joys were born on this day, rather effort
and
trouble, a fate your character didn’t deserve,
and
all too justified a complaint over your empty bed.
Truly
virtue schooled in adversity offers
a
theme for praise in the saddest times.
If
tough Ulysses had seen no
misfortunes
Penelope would have been happy
not famous.
If
her husband, Capaneus, had entered
Thebes in triumph,
perhaps
Evadne would have been unknown
in her land.
Though
Pelias had many daughters,
why’s Alcestis well-known? Surely
because she married the ill-starred Admetus.
Let
another have touched the sands of Troy
first
and
there’d be no reason to remember Laodamia.
And
your loyalty would be hidden, as you’d wish,
if
favourable winds failed my sails.
Yet,
you gods, and Caesar, destined to be a god,
but
only when your days have equalled Nestor’s,
spare
her who grieves without deserving grief,
not
me, who confess I deserved your punishment.
Do
you too, once the mainstay of my fortunes,
who
were my refuge, who were my harbour,
do
you too cease to care for the friend you protected,
and
shrug off duty’s honest charge so speedily?
I’m
a burden, I confess, but you shouldn’t have taken it up.
if
you were going to drop it at a difficult time for me.
Do
you abandon ship, Palinurus,
in mid-ocean?
Don’t
go: don’t let your loyalty be less than your skill.
Did
Automedon lose faith and in the
fierceness of battle
did
he abandon the horses of Achilles?
Once
Podalirius had accepted a
case, he never
failed
to bring the sick the help he’d promised.
It’s
worse to eject a guest than not receive them:
let
the altar I can reach be steady in my hands.
At
first you were only saving me: but now
support
your judgement and myself as well,
so
long as there’s no new fault to find in me,
and
my guilt’s not suddenly altered your loyalty.
This
I wish, that my breath, that I breathe ill
in
the Scythian air, might leave
my body,
before
your heart’s wounded through my fault,
and
I seem to be rightly worth less to you.
I’m
not so wholly crushed by fate’s adversity
that
my mind’s disturbed by my enduring troubles.
But
suppose it is disturbed, don’t you think Orestes
Agamemnon’s son, often cursed Pylades?
It’s
not far from the truth to say he struck him:
yet
his friend remained no less firm in his friendship.
It’s
the one thing that links the wretched and the blessed,
that
it’s usual to offer courtesy to both: we give way
to
the blind, and those for whom the purple stripe,
and
the lictors’ rods and cries, demand
reverence.
If
you won’t consider me, you should consider my fate:
there’s
no place for any indignation against me.
Select
the very least of all my woes, the smallest,
and
that will be greater than you would imagine.
as
many as the reeds that shroud the sodden ditches,
as
many as the bees that flowery Hybla
knows,
or
the ants that carry the grains of wheat they find
down
little trails to their granaries underground,
so
dense is the crowd of evils that surrounds me.
Believe
me, what I complain of is less than the truth.
Whoever’s
dissatisfied with them is one who’d add
sand
to the shore, wheat to the fields, water to the waves.
So
check the swell of anger, it’s inappropriate,
don’t
desert our ship in the midst of the sea.
The
letter you’re reading comes to you from that land
where
the wide Danube adds its waters
to the sea.
If
you are still alive and have sweet health,
one
part of my fate retains its brightness.
Dearest friend, you’re doubtless asking
yourself
how
I am, though you know, even if I’m silent.
I’m
miserable: that’s a brief summary of my ills,
and
whoever lives on having offended Caesar, will be so.
Are
you interested to know what the people round Tomis
are
like, and the customs of those I live among?
Though
there’s a mix of Greeks and Getae
on this coast,
it’s
characterised more by the barely civilised Getae.
Great
hordes of Sarmatians and
Getae pass
to
and fro, along the trails, on horseback.
There’s
not one among them who doesn’t carry
bow,
quiver, and arrows pale yellow with viper’s gall:
Harsh
voices, grim faces, the true image of Mars,
neither
beard or hair trimmed, hands not slow
to
deal wounds with the ever-present knife
that
every barbarian carries, strapped to his side.
Alas,
dear friend, your poet is living among them,
seeing
them, hearing them, forgetting those he loves:
and
would he were not alive, and died among them,
so
that his shade might yet leave this hateful place.
You
write that my songs are being danced now
to
a crowded theatre, my verses applauded, dear friend,
though
for my part I’ve composed nothing for
the theatre,
as
you know yourself, my Muse isn’t
eager for applause.
Still
I’m not ungrateful for anything that prevents
my
being forgotten, and brings the exile’s name to the lips.
Though
I sometimes curse the poetry
that
has harmed me, and my Muses,
when
I’ve cursed them at length, I still can’t be without them,
I
seek the weapons blood-stained from my wounds,
and
the Greek ship battered by the waves of Euboea
dares
to run the waters of Cape Caphereus.
Yet
I don’t labour all night for the praise, or work
for
the sake of a future name that were better hidden.
I
occupy my mind with studies: beguile my sorrow,
trying
to deceive my cares with words.
What
else can I do, alone on this desert strand,
what
other help for these ills should I try to find?
If
I look at the place, the place is hateful,
and
nothing could be sadder on this earth,
if
at the people, they barely deserve the name,
they’ve
more cruel savagery in them than wolves.
They
fear no law: justice yields to force,
and
right is overturned by the sword’s aggression.
They
keep off the evils of cold with pelts
and
loose trousers, shaggy faces hidden in long hair.
A
few still retain vestiges of the Greek language,
though
even this the Getic pronunciation barbarises.
There’s
not a single one of the population who might
chance
to utter a few words of Latin while speaking.
I, the Roman poet – forgive me, Muses! –
am
forced to speak Sarmatian for the most part.
See,
I’m ashamed to admit it, from long disuse,
now,
the Latin words scarcely even occur to me.
I
don’t doubt there are more than a few barbarisms
in
this book: it’s not the man’s fault but this place.
Yet,
lest I lose the use of the Italian language,
and
my own voice be muted in its native tongue,
I
speak to myself, using forgotten phrases,
and
retrace the ill-fated symbols of my studies.
So
I drag out my life, and time, so I retreat from
and
banish the contemplation of my troubles.
I
seek forgetfulness of my misery in song:
if
I win that prize by my studies, it’s enough.
Abject
as I am, I’ve not fallen so low that
I’m
beneath you, whom nothing can be below.
Shameless
one, what stirs your animosity against me?
Why
exult in misfortunes you yourself might suffer?
My
troubles, which would make wild beasts weep,
don’t
thaw you, or reconcile you to one who’s down,
nor
do you fear the power of Fortune’s
precarious wheel,
nor
the proud words that the goddess hates.
Vengeful
Nemesis exacts punishment on
those
who
deserve it: why set foot where you trample on my fate?
I
saw a man who laughed at shipwrecks, drowned
in
the sea, and said: ‘The waves were never more just.’
He
who once denied humble food to the poor
now
eats the bread of beggary himself.
Fortune
wanders, changeable, with uncertain footsteps,
never
remaining sure, nor fixed in the same place,
now
bringing happiness, now showing a bitter face,
and
only true in her inconstancy.
I
too flowered, but the flower was transient,
my
fire was a fire of straw, and was brief.
Still,
so cruel joy might not grip your soul complete,
my hope of placating the god’s not
wholly dead,
either
on the grounds that I offended without crime,
and
my fault, not free of shame, is free of odium,
or
because the whole world from dawn to dusk
contains
no one more merciful than him it obeys.
Isn’t
it true, that, though no power conquers him,
he
has a tender heart for the prayers of the fearful,
and,
following the example of the gods he’ll join,
when
he remits my sentence he’ll grant other requests.
If
you count the sunny or cloudy days in a year,
you’ll
find that it’s more often been bright,
so
don’t rejoice too much in my downfall,
when
you think that I too may be recalled:
think,
if the prince shows lenience, it may be
you’ll
be saddened by seeing my face in the city,
and
I may see you exiled, with greater cause:
after
my first wish that’s the next in turn.
Oh,
if you’d let your name be set
in my verse
how
often you’d have been set there by me!
Remembering
your help, I’d have sung only you,
without
you no page of my books would have been seen.
What
I owe to you would be known by the whole city:
if
I’m still read, as an exile, in the city I lost.
Present
times would be aware of your kindness,
and
future times, if only my writings endure,
and
wise readers would never cease to bless you:
your
honour, in rescuing a poet, would remain.
Caesar’s
gift is supreme: that I breathe the air:
it’s
you I need to thank, after the great gods.
He
gave life: you preserve what he gave,
and
make it possible to enjoy the gift received.
When
most men had a horror of my downfall,
some
even wishing it thought they’d feared it,
and
gazed at my shipwreck from a high hill,
and
gave no hand to the swimmer in wild seas,
you
alone dragged me, half-dead, from the waves.
This
too is your doing: that I’m able to remember.
May
Caesar and the gods always befriend you:
no
prayer of mine could be more heartfelt.
If
you allowed it, my work would set these things
in
the brightest of lights in eloquent books:
even
now my Muse, though ordered to be
silent,
can
scarcely hold back from naming you, against your wishes.
Like
a hound that’s scented the trail of a frightened deer,
baying,
and held in check by the strong leash,
like
an eager racehorse thudding on the unopened
starting-gate,
with its hooves, and even its brow,
so
my Thalia, chained and
imprisoned by your command,
longs
to pursue the glory of your forbidden name.
But,
so you’re not harmed by the homage of a friend
who
remembers, I’ll obey your orders – have no fear.
I
wouldn’t obey if you didn’t count on my remembering.
What
your voice doesn’t forbid, I will be: grateful.
While
I see the light of life – oh, let the time be brief –
my
spirit will be a slave to that duty.
Three times the Danube’s frozen with the cold,
three times
the
Black Sea’s waves have hardened,
since I’ve been in Pontus.
Yet
I seem to have been absent from my country already
for
as long as the ten years Troy
knew the Greek host.
You’d
think time stood still, it moves so slowly,
and
with lagging steps the year completes its course.
For
me the summer solstice hardly lessens the nights,
and
winter can’t make the days any shorter.
Surely
nature’s been altered, in my case,
and
makes all things as tedious as my cares.
Or
is time running its course in the usual way,
and
it’s more this period of my life that’s hard?
I’m
trapped by the shore of the Euxine,
that misnomer,
and
the truly sinister coast of the Scythian
Sea.
Innumerable
tribes round about threaten fierce war,
and
think it’s a disgrace to exist without pillage.
Nowhere’s
safe outside: the hill itself’s defended
by
fragile walls, and the ingenuity of its siting.
The
enemy descends, when least expected, like birds,
hardly
seen before they’re taking away their plunder.
Often
when the gates are shut, inside, we gather
arrows
that fell in the middle of the streets.
So
the man who dares to farm the fields is rare,
one
hand grips the plough, the other a weapon.
The
shepherd plays his reed-pipe glued with pitch,
under
a helmet, and frightened sheep fear war not wolves.
We’re
scarcely protected by the fortress’s shelter: and even
the
barbarous crowd inside, mixed with Greeks, inspire fear,
for
the barbarians live amongst us, without discrimination,
and
also occupy more than half the houses.
Even
if you don’t fear them, you’d hate the sight
of
their sheepskins, their chests covered by their long hair.
Those
too, who are thought to descend from the Greek colony,
wear
Persian trousers instead of their ancestral clothing.
They
hold communication in the common tongue:
I
have to make myself understood by gestures.
Here
I’m the barbarian no one comprehends,
the
Getae laugh foolishly at my Latin
words.
and
they often talk maliciously to my face,
quite
safely, taunting me perhaps for my exile.
As
is usual they think there’s something wrong
about
my only nodding no or yes to what to they say.
Add
to all this that the sharp sword dispenses justice
unjustly,
and wounds are often dealt in the forum.
Oh
harsh Lachesis, when I have such
adverse stars,
not
to have granted a shorter thread to my life.
That
I’m deprived of the sight of my country, and of you,
my
friends: that I sing of existence among the Scythian tribes:
both
are a heavy punishment. However much I deserved exile
from
the city, I didn’t perhaps deserve to exist in such a place.
Madman!
What am I saying? In offending Caesar’s
divine
will, I also deserved to lose life itself.
Your letter complains that someone
has said
that
you’re ‘an exile’s wife’, by way of insult.
I
was aggrieved, not so much that my fate is spoken of
with
malice, I’m used to suffering pain bravely now,
as
to think that I’m a cause of shame to you, to whom
I’d
wish it least of all, and that you blushed at our ills.
Endure,
and be true: you’ve suffered much worse,
when
the Prince’s anger tore me away from you.
Still
the one who called me ‘exile’ judges wrongly:
a
milder sentence punishes my fault.
My
worst punishment is having offended him,
and
I wish the hour of my death had come before.
Still
my ship was wrecked, but not drowned and sunk,
and
though deprived of harbour, it still floats.
He
didn’t take my life, my wealth, my civil rights,
though
I deserved to lose them all by my offence.
But
since no criminal act accompanied my sin,
he
only ordered I should leave my native hearth.
Caesar’s
power proved lenient to me,
as
to others, whose number is immeasurable.
He
applied the word relegatus to me not exul:
my
case is sound because he judged it so.
So
my verses, rightly, sing your praises, Caesar,
however
good they are, to the best of their abilities:
I
beg the gods, rightly, to close the gates of heaven
to
you still, and will you to be a god, separate from them.
So
the people pray: and as rivers run to the deep ocean
so
a stream runs too, with its meagre waters.
And
you, the one whose mouth calls me ‘exile’,
stop
burdening my fate with that lying name!
You
write: I should lighten my sad hours with work,
lest
my thoughts vanish through shameful neglect.
What
you advise is hard, my friend, since songs
are
the product of joy, and need a mind at peace.
My
fortunes are blown about by hostile winds,
and
nothing could be sadder than my fate.
You’re
urging Priam to dance at the
death of his sons,
and
Niobe, bereaved, to lead the festive
chorus.
You
think poetry and not mourning should claim
one
ordered off alone to the distant Getae?
Grant
me a heart strengthened by the vigorous power
they
say Socrates had, who was
accused by Anytus,
wisdom
still falls crushed by the weight of such misfortune:
a
god’s anger’s more powerful than human strength.
That
ancient, called wise by Apollo,
would have had
no
more power to write in this situation.
If
I could forget my country, and forget you,
if
all sense of what I’ve lost should leave me,
still
fear itself denies me peace to perform the task,
I
live in a place encircled by countless enemies.
And
add to that, my imagination’s dulled, harmed
by
long disuse, and much inferior to what it once was.
A
field that’s not refreshed by constant ploughing
will
produce nothing but weeds and brambles.
A
horse that’s stabled too long will race badly,
and
be last of those released from the starting-gate.
A
boat will be weakened by rot, and gape with cracks,
if
it’s separated from its accustomed waters too long.
Give
up hope for me, that little as I was before
I
can even become that man I was, once more.
My
talent’s extinguished by long sufferance of ills,
and
nothing of my former strength remains.
Yet
if I take up a writing tablet, as I have now,
and
wish to set words on their proper feet,
no
verses are composed, or only such as you see,
only
worthy of their author’s age and situation.
Lastly,
the thought of fame grants no small power
to
the mind: desire for praise makes for fertile thought.
Once,
while a following breeze drove my sails on,
I
was attracted by the glitter of celebrity and fame.
Now
things are not so good for me that I yearn for glory:
if
it were possible I’d wish no one to know of me.
Or
do you urge me to write because at first my verse
went
well, so as to follow up on my success?
With
your permission, Muses, let me say:
Sisters,
the
nine of you are the main cause of my exile.
As
Perillus, who made the bronze
bull, paid the price,
so
I’m paying the penalty for my art.
I
ought to have nothing more to do with verse,
one
shipwrecked I ought rightly to avoid all water.
And
if I were mad and tried the fatal art again,
consider
if this place equips me for song.
There
are no books here, no one to lend me an ear,
or
understand what my words signify.
Everywhere’s
filled with barbarism, cries of beasts:
everywhere’s
filled with the fear of hostile sounds.
I
myself have already un-learned Latin, I think,
now
I’ve learnt to speak Getic and Sarmatian.
Yet
still, to confess the truth to you, my Muse
can’t
be prevented from composing poems.
I
write, and burn the books I’ve written in the fire:
a
few ashes are the outcome of my labours.
I
can’t, and yet I long to, make some worthwhile verse:
therefore
my effort’s thrown into the flames,
and
only fragments of any of my work,
saved
by chance or guile, ever reach you.
If
only my Ars Amatoria, that ruined its
author,
who
anticipated no such thing, had turned to ashes!
This
‘Good health’ Ovid sends you from Getic
lands,
if
anyone can send what he lacks himself.
Sick
at heart I’ve drawn the sickness into my body,
so
no part of me might be free of torment,
and
for days I’ve been tortured by pains in my side:
so
winter’s immoderate cold has harmed me.
Yet
if only you are well, I’m partly well:
since
my ruin was supported by your shoulders.
Why,
when you’ve given me such great proof of love,
when
you protect my life in every way,
do
you sin by rarely consoling me with a letter,
offering
the fact of loyalty, denying me the words?
I
beg you to alter that! If you corrected that one thing
there’d
be no flaw in your illustrious person.
I’d
accuse you more strongly, except it’s possible
a
letter’s been sent that’s not reached me yet.
The
gods grant that my complaint’s baseless,
and
I’m wrong in thinking you’ve forgotten me.
It’s
clear what I pray for is so: since it’s wrong for me
to
believe that the strength of your feelings should change.
Sooner
would pale wormwood be missing from icy Pontus,
or
Sicilian Hybla lack its sweet-scented thyme,
than
anyone could convict you of forgetting a friend.
The
threads of my fate are not so dark as that.
Still,
beware of seeming what you’re not, so you
can
refute these false accusations of guilt.
As
we used to spend long hours in conversation,
until
the daylight failed us, while we talked,
so
letters now should bear our silent voices to and fro,
and
paper and hands perform the acts of tongues.
Lest
I seem too despairing of this ever being so,
and
may these few lines serve to remind you of it,
accept
that word with which a letter always ends –
and
may your fortunes be different from mine! – ‘Vale’.
You
see how great a monument I’ve reared
to
you in my books, wife dearer to
me than myself.
Though
Fortune might detract from their author,
you’ll
still be made glorious by my art:
as
long as I’m read, your virtue will be read,
nor
can you vanish utterly in the mournful pyre.
Though
your husband’s fate might make you seem
one
to be pitied, you’ll find those who’d wish to be
what
you are, who’d call you happy and envy you
in
that you share in our misfortunes.
I’d
not have given you more by giving you wealth:
the
rich take nothing to the ancestral shades.
I’ve
given you the fruits of immortal fame,
and
you possess a gift, the greatest I could give.
Add
that you’re the sole custodian of my estate,
a
burden to you that comes with no little honour:
that
my voice is never silent about you, and you
should
be proud of your husband’s testimony.
Stand
firm, so no one thinks it said thoughtlessly,
support
me and your faithful devotion equally.
While
I was untouched your virtue was free
of
vile accusations, and to that extent of reproach.
Now
a space is cleared for you, by our ruin:
let
your virtue build a house here for all to see.
It’s
easy to be good when what prevents it is remote,
and
a wife has nothing that obstructs her duties.
Not
to avoid the clouds, when the god thunders,
that’s
loyalty indeed, that’s wedded love.
That
virtue not governed by Fortune
is truly rare,
that
which remains still standing, when she vanishes.
Yet
whenever virtue itself is the prize it seeks,
and
faces what’s difficult, in less happy times,
no
age ignores it, though you add centuries,
it’s
a subject for admiration, wherever Earth’s paths extend.
Do
you see how Penelope’s
loyalty is praised
through
distant ages, with undying fame?
Do
you see how Alcestis, Admetus’s wife, is sung:
Hector’s Andromache: Evadne who dared the burning pyre?
How
Laodamia’s name lives, wife to
Phylacos’ grandson
Protesilaus, whose swift foot
first touched the Trojan shore?
You’d
be no help to me dead, rather loving and loyal, here:
you
don’t need to search for fame through suffering.
And
don’t think I’m admonishing you, for inaction:
I’m
raising sail on a ship that’s already under oars.
Who
tells you to do what you’re already doing, praises
your
actions, in telling, and approves them by his urging.
The End of Tristia Book V