The Art of Love (11 page)
Authors: Ovid
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #History & Criticism, #Criticism & Theory, #Movements & Periods, #Poetry, #Ancient; Classical & Medieval
Yes, you’ve guessed right, I’d have every girl enhance
Her image by knowing how to dance,
So that when wine’s poured and guests call for an act,
She can oblige. Why not? Stage stars attract
Applause, such are the ballet’s charms,
By the sinuous movements of their hips and arms.
I feel ashamed to offer advice
About trivia, but girls should play knucklebones and dice
And board-games. You have to think ahead. Sacrifice
Or protect a piece? Retreat or attack?
For instance, in tric-trac,
Or the war-game, you mustn’t be rash, but plan
Coolly when under a pincer attack you lose a man,
And your lone king’s driven back to where he began.
Then there’s spillikins—the problem’s lifting
Them one by one without the whole heap shifting;
Backgammon—a twelve-point board with the same
Number of zones as the tricky year; and the game
With a small board and three counters each side—you fill
Three squares in a row for the kill.
There are any number, all sorts
Of games and sports:
It’s a shame when girls won’t learn them, for where they’re played
Friendships are easily made.
Yet cleverly exploiting the dice’s roll
Matters far less than self-control.
In games we’re rash, in our eagerness we reveal
The naked passions we feel:
Rage shows its ugly face, and lust for gain,
There are arguments, brawls, raw nerves, pain,
The air’s thick with accusations and the sound
Of raised voices, angry gods are invoked all round,
Someone’s suspicious—“The slate must be wiped clean!”—
Indeed, I’ve often seen
Tears running down faces.
If you want to stay in men’s good graces,
May Jupiter be your saviour
And keep you from such barbarous behaviour!
These are the pastimes which a
Lazy Nature has given women; men’s scope is richer—
They have ball-games, hoops, javelins, armed combat, horses
To train and manage round the courses.
You women custom bars
From the grounds and the icy baths in the Field of Mars,
And you don’t swim in the Tiber even when it’s flowing
Gently. Still, you have the pleasure of going
For a saunter in the shade,
When August scorches heads, down Pompey’s colonnade,
Or up the Palatine, to the temple where we thank
Laurelled Apollo who sank
Cleopatra’s fleet, to the monuments our revered
Leader’s sister and wife have reared,
And the statue of Agrippa, his great “son,”
With the crown of the naval victory he won.
Savour the incense in the Egyptian shrine
Of the cow-goddess; visit all three theatres and shine
In the best seats; go to the Circus—warm blood on the ground
And chariot-wheels red-hot as they round
The turning-post! Men can’t desire
What isn’t there to admire:
What’s unseen must stay unknown.
A pretty woman’s useless all alone.
Though you may deserve to be ranked among
The greatest divas who’ve ever sung,
You’ll give no pleasure voiceless, lyre unstrung.
If Apelles had never posed her just so
For that painting, Venus would be still below
The foam, invisibly lurking.
What are we dedicated poets working
So hard for but fame? It’s our goal, our prayer.
Both gods and monarchs used to care
For poets in the good old days:
Choirs were richly rewarded, poets reaped praise,
Prestige and titles, not to mention
Regular cash gifts, even a pension.
Though born in Calabria’s mountains, Ennius rose
By merit, and shares a tomb with the Scipios.
But the ivy-wreath’s ignored now, and the bard
Who sits up late labouring hard
For the Muses is called a layabout. All the same,
There is a reward for the sleepless quest for fame.
Who would have heard of Homer unless we had
The published proof, his evergreen
Iliad
?
Or of Danaë if she’d stayed in the king’s power
And ended up an old maid in her brazen tower?
You pretty girls, a crowd pays—join the group,
Cross your threshold, get around. The she-wolf stalks the troop
To seize one sheep, the eagle aims its swoop
At a flock of birds. A beautiful woman should show
Herself in public: you never know,
Out of the ruck
One man may spot you and be struck.
To be admired, be seen all over the place,
Devote great care to your figure and your face.
Luck plays a big part. Keep your fish-hook dangling—
They’re where you least expect them, when you’re angling.
Hounds can scour mountain woods and draw a blank—
And then a stag, with only himself to thank,
Walks into the nets. Could chained Andromeda have dreamt
She would attract a lover, blubbering, unkempt?
Yet we know that when a man
Dies and the widow’s plan
Is to find a new one, a parade of funeral feeling—
Dishevelled hair, abandoned sobs—is quite appealing.
But steer clear of the young professor
Of elegance, the too good-looking, snappy dresser
Who’s always arranging his hair—he’ll tell you a stale,
Thousand-times-told tale;
His heart’s a gypsy, it camps, it moves.
What can a woman do when the man she loves
Is smoother than she is and, for all she can tell, Has more men than she does as well?
It’s hard to believe, but it’s true, Troy would have stayed
Unsacked had Cassandra’s warnings been obeyed.
Some men conduct their siege under a disguise
Of passion in order to lay hands on the prize—
A shameful ploy. Don’t be fooled by his sleek,
Scented hair, tight-laced shoe-tongues, chic,
Fine-textured togas, or the ring
(Single or plural) glittering
On his hand. The best-dressed one of the lot
May well be a thief who’s after what
You’re wearing, not your body. When one pounces,
The mugged girl cries, “That’s mine!” and the echo bounces
Round the piazza: “Give it back, that’s mine!”
While you, Venus, from your dazzling, golden shrine,
And your fountain nymphs observe the brawl
With no concern at all.
A few men are notorious bad hats,
But there are scores of false, philandering rats.
The sad stories other girls retail
Should teach you to quail
For your own safety: lock your door to a treacherous male.
Girls of Athens, don’t trust Theseus—the vow
He makes by the gods he’s broken before now;
Or you, Demophoön—
Like father, like son,
Once you left Phyllis you resigned all credit.
If a man’s made a fair offer, said it
In so many words, then promise in the same measure
And, if he pays, meet your side of the bargain of pleasure.
The girl who takes a gift and doesn’t honour
The pact could loot the shrine of Isis, give belladonna
And hemlock to a lover, cause the undying fire
Of the Vestal Virgins to expire!
I have the feeling
I’m getting out of hand. The reins, Muse! No free-wheeling!
Love should test the ground with the written word. (You’d better
Be sure the maid who takes his letter
Is trustworthy.) Read it closely, guess
Whether he’s faking or in real distress,
Then after a day or two write back—
Delay, as long as it’s short, keeps men on the rack.
On the one hand, don’t collapse without resistance,
On the other, don’t too harshly snub persistence.
Give him cause to hope and worry, then in each reply
Diminish worry, raise hope high.
You should write elegantly, yet choose
Plain words—the ones we ordinarily use
Are the best. Often a hesitant lover’s set ablaze
By a good letter; equally, a phrase
That’s barbarous or misquoted
Can spoil the image of the pretty girl who wrote it.
Even though you may not have achieved
Married status, you have men you want deceived,
So have your letters penned
By a maid or a slave, don’t trust each new boy-friend
With notes in your own hand. To hoard them, I admit,
He’d have to be a complete shit,
But they’re evidence all the same,
As danger-packed as Etna is with flame.
I’ve seen cases of wretched girls, scared pale,
Made life-slaves through such blackmail.
To me, repelling fraud by fraud makes sense—
Arms against arms are legal in self-defence.
Teach yourself the trick
Of writing in different hands (the men are sick
Who force me to give these tips!); to be safe, smooth over
The wax before use, or someone may discover
Two letters on one tablet; and address your lover
By a woman’s name—refer
Throughout to him as “her.”
Now, if I may, I’ll leave minor details
For bigger matters, spread my wind-filled sails.
It’s beauty’s job to soften savage moods:
White peace suits man, dark rage the beast in the woods.
Anger bloats faces—veins bulge purple, eyes
Glitter bestially, Gorgon-wise.
When Pallas saw her puffed-out cheeks in the river,
She said, “Flute, you’re not worth it. Goodbye for ever.”
How many of you pretty creatures
In a tantrum would recognise your own features
In the mirror? Pride does as much harm
To your looks as anger—love should charm
With friendly eyes. I can’t bear
A haughty, stuck-up air—
Trust one who ought to know:
In a silent stare the seeds of hatred grow.
Always return a pleasant smile or glance,
And if a man takes a chance
And makes a sign, acknowledge it with a nod.
It’s after such foreplay that the god,
Abandoning the foils, starts
To pull from his quiver the transfixing darts.
Though Ajax loved Tecmessa, I hate sad girls: a Roman
Is a laughter-lover, he likes cheerful women.
Tragic Tecmessa, tearful Andromache,
Neither of you would have been the girl for me.
If it weren’t that your children prove the fact,
I could scarcely imagine you in the sexual act.
You, lugubrious Tecmessa, never, I bet,
Called Ajax “darling boy” or “my pet.”
Who’s to forbid me to illustrate
Petty concerns with great
Examples? Why should I shun
The title of general? As an able one
Will organise his force,
Choosing officers for the colours, the foot, the horse,
So you, too, should see that you get the most
Service from us—the right man in the right post.
Let the rich man give presents, the lawyer offer support
With advice and eloquence in court:
Poets can only do their best
And send you poems—it must be confessed,
We lot are more in tune with love than all the rest.
We are your publishers, we proclaim
The adored, the beautiful. Take any well-known name—
Lycoris, Cynthia, Nemesis—we spread its fame
From east to west; why, everybody asks
Who’s the real girl that my “Corinna” masks.
A poet by nature never double-deals:
His art, his calling, shape the way he feels.
We’re innocent of ambition, don’t care what we’re paid,
Despise the Forum, turn our backs on trade;
We prefer the couch, we cultivate the shade.
But we’re easily drawn, we’re stickers, and we burn
With a staunch love—too staunch (we never learn!).
Indeed, a poet’s temperament and heart
Reflect the gentle nature of his art.
So be kind, you girls, to poets—the darlings of the nine
Muses, there’s a divine
Spark in them all. We all conceal
A god within us, we all deal
With heaven direct, from whose high places we derive
The inspiration by which we live.
It’s a crime, it’s a shame,
To look for presents from such fine spirits; all the same,
I’m sorry to say, it’s a crime all girls commit.
But do please dissemble a bit,
Don’t be transparently avaricious:
New lovers may become suspicious,
Spot the net, and bolt.
You wouldn’t put the same bridle on a colt
As you would on a trained hack;
A callow youth and a seasoned older man
Require a different hunting plan.
Suppose Love’s fresh recruit, a tenderfoot in war,
Your latest prize, has passed your bedroom door—
Let him cling to you exclusively, know you alone:
High hedges must be grown
Round tender crops. Fend off rivals; as long
As you keep him to yourself you’re in a strong
Position; power-sharing brings
Uncertain reigns to lovers and to kings.
The old soldier’s approach is gradual, prudent;
He’ll tolerate a great deal that a student
Couldn’t endure; he won’t besiege your porch,
Assault doors with a crowbar or a torch,
Attack your tender cheeks with his nails, tear
Your, or his own, clothes, or pull your hair
By the roots till you’re weeping.
That sort of behaviour’s more in keeping
With youth’s hot blood and passion.
No, he’ll bear his wounds in stoic fashion.
And yet, poor man, he’ll smoulder in his way,
Like new-felled mountain timber, or damp hay;
He’ll give a slow, sure heat, the younger lover
A prodigal blaze that’s soon over.
Either way, reach out and pick
The fruit; it won’t hang long—be quick!
