by Horace
without success and was therefore one which I could perhaps
develop – though always below its inventor. I wouldn’t presume
to snatch from his head the crown which he wears with such distinction.
50 But I said he flowed muddily on, and that in the stuff he brought down
there was often more to be removed than retained. Well now, do you
with all your learning find nothing to fault in mighty Homer?
Does your charming Lucilius let Accius’ tragedies pass without change?
Does he not laugh at those lines of Ennius which fail in dignity,
without speaking of himself as superior to the men he faults?
So why shouldn’t we inquire as we read Lucilius’ writings
whether it was his own harsh nature or that of his times
which prevented his verses from being more finished and smoothly flowing
than those of a man whose only concern is to force his matter
60 into a framework of six feet, and who gaily produces
two hundred lines before dinner and as many after –
just like the Etruscan Cassius whose creative power was fiercer
than a raging river and who, we are told, was burnt on a pyre
made of his own books, cases and all?
Very well,
let us grant Lucilius had a charming and civilized wit; let us grant
he was also more polished than the author of a crude verse never handled
by the Greeks and than the older crowd of Roman poets;
still, if fate had postponed his birth till our own day,
he would file his work drastically down and prune whatever
70 rambled beyond the proper limit, and in shaping his verses
he would often scratch his head and nibble his nails to the quick.
If you hope to deserve a second reading you must often employ
the rubber at the end of your pencil. Don’t seek mass adulation.
Be content with a few readers – or are you so mad
as to want your poems dictated in shabby schools? Not me.
‘I’m happy if the better classes applaud me,’ as the dauntless Miss Tree
remarked when hissed off the stage – she had only contempt for the rest.
Should I be worried by that louse Carper, or suffer agonies
because Demetrius sneers behind my back or the silly
80 Fannius (toady of Hermogenes Tigellius) runs me down?
I should like these poems to win the approval of Plotius and Varius,
Maecenas and Virgil, Valgius, Octavius, and the excellent Fuscus;
and I hope the Viscus brothers will enjoy them; I can also mention
you, Pollio, without incurring any suspicion
of flattery, you,
Messalla, and your brother, and also you, Bibulus and Servius, and with them you, my candid Furnius,
and several others whom I knowingly omit, though friends and men of
letters. I should like them to find my work attractive,
such as it is; I’d be sorry if it caused them disappointment.
90 But you, Demetrius and you, Tigellius, do me a favour –
go and wail to your lady pupils in their easy chairs.
Off with you, boy; add this at once to my little volume.
BOOK II
SATIRE 1
Although this poem serves as an introduction to the second book it was probably written later than the other pieces. It purports to explain why Horace continues to write satire – he can’t sleep, he is committed to writing, he comes from a long line of fighting men, he has an irresistible inner impulse, he is following the example of Lucilius, he is confident of avoiding prosecution. But the explanation is not quite what it appears to be, for each assertion is a subtle evasion of the point. Horace never actually says that his satire will be fearless and aggressive – naturally enough, for the other seven pieces are for the most part inoffensive. This poem, which is cast in the form of a dialogue with a distinguished legal expert, is therefore in essence a humorous charade, though it does contain some genuine information about Horace’s outlook on life and literature.
To some I am too sharp in my satire and seem to be stretching
the form beyond its legitimate limits; the rest maintain
that whatever I write is slack and that a thousand verses like mine
could be wound off every day. Please advise me, Trebatius;
what am I to do?
‘Take a rest.’
Not write verses at all,
you mean?
‘I do.’
Dammit you’re right; that would be the best thing.
But I can’t get to sleep.
‘For sound sleep: take an oil massage;
swim the Tiber three times; before retiring
ensure that the system is thoroughly soaked in strong wine.
Or, if you’re so carried away by this passion for writing,
10
try your hand at recounting the triumphs of Caesar. Your trouble
will be most handsomely rewarded.’
I only wish I could, sir;
but I lack the power. Not everyone, after all, can portray
lines of battle bristling with lances, Gauls dying
with their spears splintered, or the wounded Parthian slipping from his steed.
‘But you could depict his fairness and courage, as Lucilius wisely
did with Scipio.
‘I shan’t be found wanting when the chance occurs.
If the moment isn’t right, then Floppy’s words won’t penetrate
Caesar’s pricked-up ear. Rub him the wrong way
20 and he’ll lash out right and left with his hooves in self-defence.
‘That would be infinitely better than writing acid verse
which hurts Grab-all the sponger and the waster Nomentanus,
and makes everyone, though quite unscathed, nervous and hostile.’
What am I to do? Milonius dances when the heat mounts
to his reeling brain, bringing a vision of double lights.
Riding is Castor’s passion; boxing that of the twin
born of the self-same egg. Take a thousand men, you’ll find
a thousand hobbies. Mine is enclosing words in metre,
as Lucilius did – a better man than either of us.
30 He in the past would confide his secrets to his books, which he trusted
like friends; and whether things went well or badly he’d always
turn to them; in consequence, the whole of the old man’s life
is laid before us, as if it were painted on a votive tablet.
I follow him, as a son of Lucania – or is it Apulia?
Because the Venusian settler ploughs on the border of both.
He was sent out, as the story has it, after the Samnites
were expelled, so that if the wild Apulian or Lucanian folk
unleashed a war they might be prevented from dashing on Rome
across the open space. But this steely point
40 will never attack a living soul, unless provoked.
I’ll carry it for self-defence, like a sword in its scabbard. Why bother
to draw it so long as I’m safe from lawless attack? O Jupiter,
father and king, grant that my weapon may hang there, corroding
with rust, and that no one may injure a peace-loving man like me.
But whoever stirs me up (better keep your distance, I’m telling you!)
will be sorry; he’ll become a thing of derision throughout the city.
When angry, Cervius points to the ballot-box and the laws;
Canidia cows her opponents with the poison that did for Albucius;
Turius threatens a heavy fine if you come before him;
50 everyone uses his strongest weapon to frighten potential
enemies. That is Nature’s royal decree. For consider:
t
he wolf attacks with his fangs, the bull with his horns – why,
if not impelled by instinct? Trust a waster like Hand
with his elderly mother; the affectionate lad won’t lay a finger on her.
Surprising? But then a wolf doesn’t kick or an ox bite.
A cocktail of honey and hemlock will finish the old girl off.
In short, whether a serene old age awaits me or whether
death is already hovering near on sable wing,
in Rome or if fortune so ordains in exile – whatever
60 the complexion of my life, I’ll continue to write.
‘My lad, I’m afraid
you may not be long for this world. One of your powerful friends
may freeze you stiff.’
But why? When Lucilius first had the courage
to write this kind of poetry and remove the glossy skin
in which people were parading before the world and concealing
their ugliness, was Laelius offended by his wit or the man who rightly
took on the name of the African city which he overthrew?
Or did they feel any pain when Metellus was wounded and Lupus
was smothered in a shower of abusive verse? And yet Lucilius
indicted the foremost citizens and the whole populace, tribe
70 by tribe, showing indulgence only to Worth and her friends.
Why, when the worthy Scipio and the wise and gentle Laelius
left the stage of public life for the privacy of home,
they would let their hair down and join the poet in a bit of horseplay,
as they waited for the greens to cook. Whatever I am, and however
inferior to Lucilius in rank and talent, Envy will have
to admit, like it or not, that I’ve moved in important circles.
She may think I’m fragile, but she’ll find me a tough nut
to crack. But perhaps, my learned Trebatius, you hold a different opinion?
‘No, I find that argument entirely solid.
80 I must warn you, notwithstanding, to beware of trouble arising
from ignorance of the majesty of the law: if a party compose
foul verses to another’s hurt, a hearing and trial
ensue.’
Foul verses, yes; but what if a party compose
fine verses which win a favourable verdict from Caesar?
Or snarl at a public menace when he himself is blameless?
‘The charge will be dissolved in laughter, and you’ll go free.’
SATIRE 2
This sermon on the virtues of simple living is put into the mouth of Ofellus, a peasant whom Horace knew in his boyhood days. ‘Pleasure in eating depends more on one’s appetite than on the price of the food. So-called epicures often admire a bird or a fish for quite irrelevant reasons. Enjoyment is diminished by excess; it can also be prevented by meanness. Unlike the wise man the glutton ruins his health, his reputation, and his fortune.’ The closing section describes how Ofellus lived according to his philosophy.
My friends, I want you to hear the virtues of plain living.
(This talk isn’t mine but the teaching of the farmer Ofellus,
an unprofessional philosopher of sturdy common sense.)
Let’s consider it, not surrounded by shining tables
and plate, when the eye is dazzled by senseless glitter and the mind
swings in favour of the sham rejecting better things,
but right here, before we have breakfast.
‘What’s the point?’
I’ll try to explain. No judge that has been corrupted
can properly weigh the truth. When you’re tired from hunting hare
10 or breaking a horse – or if Roman army sports are too tough
for someone with Greek habits, perhaps a fast game of ball
appeals to you (the harsh exertion is sweetened and disguised by the fun)
or throwing a discus: if so, scatter the air with a discus –
when exertion has knocked the choosiness out of you, and you’re hungry and thirsty,
turn up your nose at plain food: refuse to drink mead
unless the wine is Falernian and the honey from Hymettus! The butler
is out, the fish are protected by a dark and wintry sea;
well, bread and salt will do to appease your growling stomach.
Why do you think that’s so? The highest pleasure lies
20 not in the rich savoury smell but in you. So get
your sauce by sweat. The man who is pale and bloated from gluttony
will never enjoy his oysters and wrasse and imported grouse.
And yet you’ve a deep-rooted inclination, when a peacock is served,
to caress your palate with it rather than a chicken. Your judgement
is impaired by what doesn’t count: the bird is hard to come by,
it costs a packet, and its spreading tail is a colourful sight –
as if that mattered a damn! Do you actually eat those feathers
which you find so gorgeous? Does the thing look equally splendid when cooked?
In the meat there’s nothing to choose between them. And yet you go
30 for the peacock, deluded by the difference in looks! Well, let it pass.
By what process can you tell whether that gaping bass
was caught in the Tiber or the sea, in the current between the bridges
or near the mouth of the Tuscan river? Like a fool, you admire
a three-pound mullet which you have to cut into separate helpings.
I know, it’s the appearance that attracts you; but then why dislike
long bass? Because, no doubt, in the course of nature
bass reach a substantial size whereas mullet are small.
A hungry stomach rarely despises common food.
‘I’d love to see something huge stretched out on a huge dish!’
40 So says a gullet which for sheer greed would do credit to a Harpy.
Ye warm south winds, come and ‘cook’ their viands! And yet the boar
and turbot, however fresh, are already rotten, for the queasy
stomach is upset by too much food; gorged to repletion
it prefers radishes and sharp pickles.
Yet poverty hasn’t
entirely vanished from our barons’ menus; cheap eggs
and black olives still hold their place. It’s not so long
since the auctioneer Gallonius caused a scandal by serving
a sturgeon. Why? Did the sea breed fewer turbots then?
The turbot was safe and the stork safe in its nest before
50 the Praetor taught you his lesson. So now, if someone proclaimed
in an edict that roast seagull was nice, the youth of Rome
would accept it – always amenable to any perverse suggestion.
Ofellus maintains that a simple diet will be quite distinct
from a stingy one; for there’s no point in avoiding extravagance
if you then swerve off to the opposite vice. Avidienus,
who is called ‘the Dog’ (a name which has stuck for excellent reasons),
eats olives which are five years old and cornels from the woods.
He’s too mean to open his wine until it’s gone sour.
The smell of his oil is unbearable, and even when holding a wedding
60 or a birthday or some other celebration, dressed up in a clean toga,
he lets the oil drop onto the cabbage from a two-pound horn
which he holds himself, though he’s lavish enough with his nasty old vinegar.
So what standard should the wise man adopt, and which of these
will he imitate? Here’s the wolf, as they say, and here’s the dog.
He’ll be smart enough not to be branded as mean, and in his style
of living he will not come to grief in either way. He will not
be brutal to his servants when giving them orders, lik
e old Albucius,
nor, like Naevius, be so informal as to offer his guests
greasy water (that, too, is a serious blunder).
70 Now I come to the great benefits which accrue from simple
living. First, you have decent health. Think of the harm that
a conglomeration of stuff does to a man. Remember
the plain food that once agreed with you so well. But as soon
as you mix boiled with roast, and oysters with thrushes, the sweet
juices will turn to acid, and sticky phlegm will raise
a revolt in the interior. Notice how green they all look
as they come away from the ‘problem meal’! Worse still, the body,
heavy from yesterday’s guzzling, drags down the soul
and nails to the earth a particle of the divine spirit.
80 The other man, after a light supper, falls asleep
as his head hits the pillow, and gets up fresh for the work of the day.
And yet from time to time he can switch to a better diet
when, in the course of the year, some holiday comes around,
or when he is undernourished and in need of a treat, or when
with the advancing years his ageing body asks for some extra
comfort. But what have you to fall back on when you’re forced to bear
the strains of illness and of old age with its shuffling steps?
You’ve grabbed your comforts already, while you’re still young and healthy!
Our ancestors used to say that boar should be eaten high,
90 not because they had no noses; they meant, I assume,
that it should be kept for a guest who was late – though it might go off –
rather than gobbled up fresh by the head of the house. If only
I could have lived with that race of heroes, when the world was young!
Do you like to be well thought of? (No songs are sweeter to the ear
than songs of praise.) But the bigger the turbot and dish the bigger
the scandal, not to mention the waste of money. Also your uncle
and the neighbours will be furious; you’ll lose your self-respect and resolve
on suicide – except you’ll be so broke that you won’t have a penny
for a rope.
‘You can talk like that to Trausius,’ he says. ‘For he
100 deserves it. But I have a large income and a bigger fortune
than three kings put together.’
Well then, can’t you think of a better way
to get rid of your surplus? Why should any decent man