In weighing the status and prestige of the poet, the Augustan elegists on occasion make use of an important term for ‘poet’: vates, the poet as seer, a designation with religious connotations including an ability to predict the future.68 Tibullus calls himself a sacer vates (‘holy seer’) in one of his poems (2.5.114), a poem we shall examine in the next chapter, while Propertius equates the calling of the poet with a prophet in 2.10 (19–20) – although, as we discussed earlier, he ultimately defers his own assumption of that grand position for a later time. Propertius labels himself a sacerdos or ‘priest’ in 3.1 (3), though, and he uses the term vates of a poet again in the first line of 4.6. Ovid subsequently shows his interest in the title beginning with the Amores, and he continually adjusts the idea to fit his poetic programme, seeking in part to redefine the role of poet as ‘erotic vates’, a term that may seem to many readers an oxymoron.69
Given the experimentation and innovation that defines the Amores, there is little doubt that Ovid’s elegiac output must be treated as doing more than ‘nailing down the lid of the coffin in which Roman elegy is to be interred’.70 In order to understand fully what Ovid achieved with his love poetry, however, we need to look more closely at Ovid’s other elegiac works to see how they continue to extend the boundaries of love poetry.
Elegy as Erotic Education?
In 1 BCE–1 CE Ovid published the first two books of the Ars Amatoria, followed soon after by a third book. In the same period are also placed two other works: the Remedia Amoris and Medicamina Faciei Femineae, the latter a poetic celebration of refinement and sophistication in elegiac metre of which only a hundred verses survive. All three works follow a similar twist in the elegiac genre: they are all didactic. The Ars Amatoria provides advice for men on the seduction of women (Book 1), on how to retain their love (Book 2) and how women can, in turn, conquer and seduce men (Book 3).
Didactic poetry had serious predecessors; from Hesiod and Aratus in the Greek poetic canon to Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura (On the Nature of Things) and Virgil’s Georgics, didactic poetry was generally not written in jest or for mere entertainment. By utilizing these models, Ovid therefore pushes the limits not only of the elegiac genre, but also of didactic poetry, combining the two in one sparkling and unbridled poetic tour de force. As we have seen, earlier love poets at times played with the idea of ‘erotic education’: Catullus and Propertius offer advice to their friends, Priapus advises Tibullus on how to pursue pueri, and the figure of the lena presents herself to the puella as an important mentor in the business of love. Rather than merely doling out ‘ad hoc’ advice, however, Ovid in the Ars Amatoria goes further in inventing a whole system of procedures and precepts.71 Even more, Ovid’s advice persistently calls attention to cultus, which acquires ‘the power to convert wild and instinctual love (amor/eros) into an elaborate and dynamic cultural game played by both parties’.72
Ovid makes his task very clear from the beginning: ‘Love must be ruled by skill’ (Ars 1.4), making ‘skill’ supreme and refuting any traditional deference to Cupid as the setter of rules. For the first time we see love not as the emotion dominating ego, but rather the force to be dominated. Yet Ovid’s attempt at bringing passion into a framework of rationality invariably threatens to trivialize the feeling of love and reduce it to the level of a strategy, one bolstered by a series of rote behaviours devoid of emotion.73 Ovid’s ideal lover is a far departure from the besotted and tormented lover of Catullus, Propertius and Tibullus. He (or she) is characterized by a complete lack of scruple and by a disregard for traditional morality and the much-praised mos maiorum (‘the custom of the ancestors’). The absoluteness of a single beloved is completely forgotten as Ovid advises, ‘Pick out any girl, and tell her: “You are the only one I fancy”’ (Ars 1.42).
In later chapters we shall examine Ovid’s use of urban topography in the Ars Amatoria, as well as some of the ways his playful account of love challenges contemporary Augustan morality and its expectations of respectability, leading to serious consequences for the poet. Here, however, we want to focus on the how the Ars provides Ovid with an opportunity to elaborate his evolving sensibility as poet. Emblematic of the new literary terrain he seeks to establish, Ovid mocks the previously revered sources of poetic inspiration in the opening book:
I will not lie, Apollo, that my skills have been given to me by you,
nor was I inspired by the voice of an aerial bird,
nor did Clio or her sisters appear to me […]
Experience sets this work in motion; obey an experienced poet.
(Ars 1.25–27, 29)
Instead of the divine inspiration claimed by former poets, Ovid emphatically asserts here that his poetry is based on the practice and experiences of the poet himself. Later the supreme confidence of Ovid’s voice is further revealed as he aggressively places his poetry above epic: ‘A happy lover awards with the green palm of victory my verses, more outstanding than Homer’s or Hesiod’s’ (Ars 2.3–4). This same confident tone also characterizes Ovid’s Remedia Amoris and Medicamina Faciei Femineae.
In the Remedia, which serves as a sequel to the Ars and an ‘antidote’ to any unhappy love gained by its methods,74 Ovid demonstrates his awareness of the stern criticism levied against his poetry, but he does not feel any need to apologize or strike a defensive pose:
Some recently have attacked my little books of poetry;
their criticism is that my Muse is scandalous.
While I would please my readers in this way, while I am sung throughout the world,
whoever wishes, let him impugn my work.
(Remedia 361–365)
Later the instruction on love becomes fused with articulation of his poetic brilliance, as Ovid places himself on an equal footing with Virgil (Remedia 395–396) and writing about love turns out to be as much a path to immortality as epic.
This poem, however, is not without its paradoxes. In a sense, the Remedia becomes a renunciation of elegiac love and even a critique of the act of composing elegy itself.75 For one, the advice given in the Remedia stands in direct opposition to that of the Ars, replacing the quest for love with more practical undertakings such as forensic work, warfare, travelling, hunting, fishing and farming. Near the end of the Remedia, Ovid even warns his readers away from two especially hazardous dangers, both leading back to the world of amatory pursuits: pantomime shows and love poetry. Both forms of expression, he claims, represent erotic passion so forcefully that they can easily cause anyone whose emotions are not stable to submit to the power of love (751–766). We have seen the same idea (namely that reading love poetry leads to loving) already exploited in earlier poets, but Ovid expands on the idea when he observes:
Indeed Sappho once made me better for my mistress,
and Anacreon’s Muse did not provide me with strict morals.
Who can read the poems of Tibullus and remain untouched
or your poems, [Propertius,] whose main theme was Cynthia?
Who can read Gallus and remain indifferent?
My poems also produce something of a similar effect.
(Remedia 761–766)
Thus, Ovid once again establishes his place in a continuing line of love poets, although he remains evasive about the impact of his poetry on the reader in contrast to the others. Furthermore, Ovid places the Remedia in the same amatory tradition as his earlier work, provoking a contradictory conclusion: if Ovid wants his student to believe that all love poetry, and elegiac poetry in particular, is unsafe to read, then the Remedia itself, as an example of elegy, should fall into the category of harmful material.
The elegiac genre for Ovid, then, appears always to carry with it erotic connotations, causing the disease of love to recur if one is exposed to it in any form. But this premise directly contradicts the content of the Remedia, meaning that Ovid, in effect, creates a poem whose elegiac metre is diametrically opposed to its didactic intentions. Or, in Christopher Brunelle’s apt phrasing, ‘Ovid creates a previou
sly unrecognized paradox between didactic content and elegiac style, and any student reading the Remedia to learn how to fall out of love should not be reading the Remedia.’76 It is possible, therefore, to read these lines as Ovid’s admission that both Greek and Roman love poetry hold enormous power, but that their time has come to an end and that Ovid himself is ready to turn the final page in the long and influential tradition, ultimately furnishing an antidote to the entire elegiac genre.77
In his later exilic poetry, Ovid radically reshapes the idea of the distressed lover, a figure now far removed from the slick world of earlier elegy, while also refocusing earlier claims about elegy’s immortality to accommodate his own reduced circumstances. Despite occasionally doubting his poetic achievement in light of the fact that his poetry brought about his exile, Ovid nonetheless assertively states in the Tristia that his poetic talent will win him an everlasting fame, one that will range beyond Augustus’ control of his destiny (Tristia 3.7.47–52). This bold declaration may be interpreted as a direct jab at Augustus’ ruthless treatment of him or as Ovid’s last attempt to appeal to Augustus’ mercy, prospects we shall explore more fully in Chapter 6.
Ovid’s nagging dissatisfaction with the association of elegy and love poetry manifests itself quite differently in his Fasti, a work composed between 2 and 8 CE. Left only half-finished, the Fasti consists of a poetic calendar in elegiac metre, focusing on the ancient myths and customs of Latium. The precise tone of the poem has been disputed by scholars, but given that Augustus served as the head of Rome’s state religion, an elegiac poem focused on the Roman religious calendar might suggest a certain degree of conformism on Ovid’s part.78 The themes of the work underline Ovid’s ascent from erotic to weightier themes while signalling, at the same time, the end of amatory elegy. Significantly, the programmatic opening of the Fasti, with its singling out of aetiology as its theme (‘times [of festivals] with their causes’), closely echoes Propertius’ attempts to become the ‘Roman Callimachus’ (Propertius 4.1a.64).79
We have already seen Propertius’ multidimensional use of Callimachus in affirming his status as love poet, but we now want to turn more fully to another aspect of the Callimachean legacy: the interest in aetiology, a topic that invites broader examination of the Roman love poets’ creative use of landscape, including their continuing fascination with the city of Rome itself.
V
Country and City
But Rome will give you such beautiful women that you
will say, ‘This city has everything in the world!’
Ovid, Ars 1.55–56
IN BOOK 12 OF HIS EPIGRAMS, Martial writes to a friend that ‘Rome gives you as many kisses on your return after fifteen years as Lesbia did not give Catullus’ (12.59.1–3). A sarcastic rejoinder to Catullus’ exuberant kiss poems, Martial’s epigram crafts Rome as a more enthusiastic lover than Lesbia, and so captures well the ways in which the city itself features as a dominant presence throughout earlier Latin love poetry. The Augustan elegists in particular respond in different ways to the princeps’ ongoing attempts to ‘rebuild’ the city and establish Rome itself as a critical text of the new era. As Catharine Edwards writes, ‘topography, for Romans, perhaps played a greater role than chronology in making sense of the past,’1 and Augustus’ energetic urban programme, one that carefully juxtaposed the Roman past and present, ‘encouraged the community to engage in a dialogue on what it meant to return to the values and virtues of early Rome’.2 It was a conversation the Augustan poets would enter with gusto, seeking in their own ways to interpret the meaning of the city and its remarkable transformations.
During the Augustan era, the world outside the city was also piquing the Roman imagination as expansion and military conquest brought more and more foreign spaces into Rome’s horizon.3 Closer to home, the ideals of rural life had long been promoted by the Roman upper class, many of whom owned estates outside the city to provide a retreat from their urban pursuits.4 So it was not merely the city of Rome itself, but the intricate juxtaposition of worlds inside and outside the city, of city and country, imperial centre and its peripheries, that mattered in Augustan thought, and these oppositions were enthusiastically explored by the elegists in the course of defining the meaning of love, as well as the roles of its varied participants.
Since the elegiac poets were keenly aware of their forerunners, it is beneficial to look briefly at the meaning of landscape in both Catullus and Virgil before turning to the elegists themselves.
Landscape in Catullus
Perhaps the most poignant evocation of the natural world in Catullus is poem 31, where the poet addresses Sirmio, an inlet near his hometown of Verona, rejoicing in his arrival home after a tour in Bithynia. In an earlier poem, Catullus punctures some of the pretentions of rural life, however, when he complains about the winds his ‘little farm’ is exposed to (poem 26). Humorously endorsing the pastoral setting as an alternative to – even a cure for – Roman public life, Catullus later addresses the farm itself in poem 44, noting wryly that he recovered there from a sickness he caught when reading one of Sestius’ speeches (11–15).5 Catullus imagines more determined activity outside the city in poem 11: announcing that he plans to embark on a trip with friends, he predicts an ambitious route that may include India or Parthian territory or even Gaul, where they can see ‘the monuments of great Caesar’ (10–11). Catullus concludes the poem with a poignant image from the pastoral world, professing that his love for Lesbia has been destroyed like a flower run over by a plough, an image we discussed in Chapter 2. In the course of the poem, then, Catullus begins by noting masculine achievement in the world outside the city, but he eventually turns to a feminine world of nature endangered by male intervention to illustrate his loss.
Catullus conveys a certain humour about the countryside, but Rome’s urban setting remains more central to the overall feel of his poetry, supplying a notable frisson. Catullus’ city is emphatically a living city, conjured almost entirely through people and their varied activities, both erotic and social. In poem 5, Catullus underlines the role of constant surveillance and gossip in the city (of which he is elsewhere an enthusiastic participant), urging Lesbia to ignore the ‘talk of austere old men’ (5). On the other hand, references to the actual topography and monuments of Rome are few. In a poem we have already looked at, Catullus pointedly leaves the forum to visit Varus’ mistress (10.1), while she, in turn, wants to ‘borrow’ his non-existent slaves to go to the temple of Serapis (26). In poem 55, Catullus tries to chase down his friend Camerius, looking for him in places like the Circus Maximus, Jupiter’s temple on the Capitoline and the portico of Pompey (1–8), the final space where, he says, he interrogated all the women until one, coarsely baring her breasts, jokingly told him to look for Camerius there (9–12). In an earlier poem (37), Catullus threatens to deface a lecherous bar near the temple of Castor and Pollux, where Lesbia has now allegedly taken up residence.
While Catullus utilizes both the city and the country in disparate ways, the opposition of rus and urbs becomes much more central to Augustan elegy and its contours derive in large part from the influence of a poet whose shadow, as we have seen, looms large on the Roman literary landscape: Virgil.
Virgil’s Arcadia
At the centre of the Virgilian countryside – also known as Arcadia – is the farm, the plot of land cultivated and cared for by the individual farmer, a space at times idealized, albeit often entailing strenuous menial labour. Although Virgil is influenced by the pastoral Idylls of Theocritus, the Alexandrian poet’s bucolic world remains blissfully unaware of the city as a competing site. In Virgil, on the other hand, the city of Rome is palpably present; there is a strong infusion of contemporary reality in Arcadia, including land confiscations, population displacement and even death as Virgil adapts the main features of earlier pastoral to his own more precarious Roman context.6 Given the encroachment of traumatic events like war on Virgil’s rural landscape, we can dis
cern the presence of another meaning of the English word ‘country’ in Roman pastoral imagery: ‘country’ not as a rural space, but rather as political state or patria (‘homeland’). Furthermore, Roman allusions to rural life allow not merely a contrast of place, but also one of time, for references to the more simple pastoral landscape of early Rome helped Augustan poets reconsider Rome’s origins and, in so doing, ‘express their questions, hopes, and fears for Rome’s future’.7
In tracing the duelling meanings of country and city in Augustan elegy, we turn first to Tibullus, whose professed longing to lead the life of the trouble-free farmer distinguishes him from the rest of his Augustan cohort; yet his dream of rural bliss ultimately proves to compete precariously with his other desires.
Tibullus’ Rural Dreams
Anyone who reads Tibullus for the first time would hardly identify erotic love as his primary theme, given that his passion for the countryside seems to dominate the work.8 There are, however, a series of tensions that infuse his poetic landscape; as David Ross aptly observes,
here is a poet of the city, urbane in every sense, who nonetheless finds in the country all that is ultimately of value – serenity, idealized sufficiency, the steadying values of the faith of our fathers, and productive peace […] Yet, if these are Tibullus’ ultimate values, why do we find them rather unsatisfying, as if something were missing?9
At times Tibullus crafts the Virgilian Arcadia as a bipolar world, one divided between unassuming felicity and powerful ambition – poles represented by rus and urbs respectively – a conceit that allows the desperate complexities of Virgil’s Arcadia to become further crystallized and exposed.
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