The Art of Love (12 page)

[L
ATIN
:
Omnia tradantur: portas…
]

    I’ve unbolted the gates, our defences are down,

The enemy’s in, the secrets of the town

Are about to be betrayed! Isn’t it reasonable

To be truly false, faithfully treasonable?

Too easy giving’s a bad regimen

To nourish lasting passion. Now and again,

Vary the fun and laughter with a rebuff.

Lock him out, let him camp rough

Outside your door (“oh, cruel door!”) and plead

And threaten till he’s blue in the face. Men need

Variety, we all enjoy

The jolt of bitter flavours; sweet things cloy;

Sometimes a skiff’s upset by favouring winds:

That’s why a woman often finds

Her husband’s ardour falling below scratch—

He has too easy access, the key of the latch.

But change the picture, throw in a door barred

And a doorman with a hard

Expression repeating “No,”

And you, too, will feel desire glow.

Put down your blunt foils now and have it out

With real swords (and I’ve no doubt

My own shafts will be aimed at my own head).

When your latest catch has fallen into your bed,

Let him think that he alone has a right to be there;

Then, later, make him aware

That he has a rival, that he has to share

His privilege. His ardour will soon wane

If you leave such tactics out of your campaign.

A game horse performs best in a race

When the field’s ahead of him, and he has to chase

And overtake. Resentment fans a failing fire—

I myself, I confess, can only feel desire

Under the stimulus of some hurt.

But it mustn’t be too gross or overt:

Let your lover worry away and always suppose

Much more than he knows.

Pretend your husband’s a jealous bore, that a spy,

Some scowling slave, is keeping an eye

On all you do—and he’ll be thrilled. Unalloyed,

Unmixed with danger, pleasure’s less enjoyed.

Though you’re as free as any courtesan,

Appear scared. Though the door’s safe, have the young man

Climb in through the window, while you act afraid.

Then arrange for a well-rehearsed maid

To burst in later, crying, “All is discovered!”

And hustle the quaking boy into a cupboard.

All the same,

In case he decides the nocturnal game

Isn’t worth the candle, dilute fear with a measure

Of pure, worry-free pleasure.

[L
ATIN
:
Qua vafer eludi…
]

    I had half a mind to omit

An account of the various ways you can outwit

A crafty husband or get round

His vigilant bloodhound.

Husbands should be respected

By wives, and wives be properly protected—

Nobody quarrels

With the claims of modesty, law and the new morals.

But for
you
, a newly emancipated slave,

To have guards checking on how you behave

Is intolerable. Attend to me:

I preach the doctrine of duplicity.

Though you’re surrounded by as many spies

As Argus had eyes,

Where there’s a will there’s a way. Can a guard prevent

You writing in your bath? Or a message being sent

Via a friend, either strapped to her calf,

Or snugly tucked inside her broad breast-scarf,

Or even, with a special billet-doux,

Wedged between the sole of her foot and her shoe?

If the guard sees through these tricks, she can go one better:

Offer her back to write on,
be
your letter.

Safe and undetectable by the eye

Is writing in milk—later, just apply

A sprinkling of coal-dust and presto! you can read.

Or write in oil of linseed

Oozing from a stalk of flax—

And your words are invisible on what seems blank wax.

Think how hard

Acrisius tried with Danaë—all access barred

But she made him a shocked grandfather. What can a guard

Do when Rome’s full of theatres, girls haunt the races,

Or shake the rattle of Isis and worship in places

Where men can’t follow (for example,

The Good Goddess’s temple

Which bans all male eyes from the rites

Except for her own chosen acolytes)?

When so many public baths provide

Clandestine fun for girls, while the guards outside

Look after their clothes? When a sly friend

Will always on request pretend

She’s unwell, yet be well enough to lend

The bed you need? How can a guard win

When there are more ways than a door to get in,

And the very words “duplicate key”

Instruct us in duplicity?

You can deal with a guard—fuddle him with wine

(Cheap Spanish will do fine);

There are drugs, too, which bring on

Deep sleep, total oblivion;

Or your friend can seduce the pest and make the fun

Last long enough for
your
business to get done.

But why tediously describe

These little dodges when the smallest bribe

Will do the trick? Believe me, bribes will buy

Favours not just on earth, but in the sky;

Even Jupiter lifts

His thundercloud when wooed with gifts.

When fools love bribes, what’s the wise man to do?

Take them, of course, and keep his mouth shut too.

But buy your guard outright, once and for all:

What he granted then will always be on call.

    I remember grumbling once that a man can’t trust

His close friends, but it’s just

As true of a woman. If you believe

Too easily, if you’re naive,

Other women will snatch

The fruit in your orchard, others hunt and catch

Your coveted hare.

That helpful girl with a room and bed to spare

Has more than once, let me tell you, been in there

With me, alone. And beware

Of maids who are beauties—

I’ve often known them take on their employer’s duties.

[L
ATIN
:
Quo feror insanus…
]

    I’m rambling wildly. What’s the sense

Of charging the foe chest bare, with no defence?

Why betray myself with my own evidence?

A bird doesn’t show the fowlers his hiding-place,

Or a hind teach deer-hounds how to chase.

But to hell with male advantage! I shall keep my side

Of the bargain, I’ll provide

Swords for those women of Lemnos cursed with stinking breath,

Even at the risk of my own death.

Make us believe that we’re desired:

It’s easy—men are suckers when their fancy’s fired.

If your lover’s late, throw him a sweet glance, sigh

Dramatically, deeply, ask him why,

Then begin to cry

As though in a jealous passion—and then

Claw his face with your nails. By now most men

Will be convinced, feel sorry for you, conclude,

“She must be mad about me—hence this mood.”

(If he happens to be some overdressed ass

Who likes what he sees in the looking-glass,

He won’t find anything odd

In a goddess falling in love with a god.)

But however badly he treats you, keep your cool;

If he hints at a mistress, don’t be a fool

And leap to conclusions, reflect

On the dreadful case of Procris, too quick to suspect.

[L
ATIN
:
Est prope purpureos…
]

    There’s a sacred fountain

On the slopes of that flowery, sunset-violet mountain

Hymettus. There the grass grows green and lush,

Trees form a low copse, the arbutus bush

Covers the turf, the air is redolent

Of rosemary, bay and myrtle scent,

Thick-leaved box-trees abound, fragile tamarisks, fine

Lucerne, and the domestic pine.

All these varieties of leaves

Sway and dance and the tall grass heaves

In the good, warm winds blowing from the west.

Here Cephalus used to enjoy a rest—

Huntsmen dismissed, tired of the chase,

He often favoured this siesta place.

“Come to me, fickle Aura,” he’d entreat

The breeze. “Come to my breast, relieve my heat!”

Some stupid busybody overheard

What he sighed and reported it, word for word,

To his nervous wife. Procris, in the belief

That Aura was a rival, speechless with grief,

Fainted, and lay as pale as the last leaf

When early winter’s breath makes the vines wince,

Pale as the ripe, bough-bending quince,

Pale as the berry,

Not yet ripe for our palates, of the cornel cherry.

When she returned to consciousness,

She ripped her delicate dress,

Tore her innocent cheeks with her nails and, hair streaming,

Ran through the streets like a god-crazed maenad, screaming,

Till she reached Hymettus. She left her maids below,

And climbed and bravely entered the wood alone, tiptoe.

What went on in your half-mad mind while you lurked

In that wood, Procris? What fiery passions worked

On your heart? “Aura, whoever she may be,

Is coming at any moment, I shall see

Their shame with my own eyes,” you thought.

One minute you were glad you’d come—they’d be caught;

The next you were sorry—

You didn’t really want to find your quarry.

Love vacillated, your heart veered.

Place, name, witness, they all appeared

Conclusive; besides, the mind

Always believes what it’s afraid to find.

When you saw the grass impressed

By a body’s weight, you guessed

The worst, your heart beat faster, lurched in your breast.

Look, it is noon, the shadows are short-drawn,

The half-way point dividing dusk and dawn,

And Cephalus, Hermes’ son, fresh from the chase,

Bathes in spring water his flushed face

(Procris crouched tensely in her hiding-place),

Stretches himself on the usual grassy spot

And sighs, “Come, Aura. I’m so hot!

Sweet breeze, blow!” When the poor girl learned

The happy truth, her wits, her colour returned,

And she sprang up, burst through the bushes and ran

To be embraced by her man.

But he, supposing he’d heard a deer,

With the zest of youth sprang to his feet and grabbed his spear.

Fool, what are you doing? Throw away

Your weapon—that’s no hunter’s prey!—

Too late! The gods above

Weep—with your spear you’ve struck the woman you love!

“Ah, Cephalus,” she cried, “you’ve pierced the part

You’ve pierced so many times—my loving heart.

Untimely to my grave I go,

But since at last I know

That I’m uninjured by a rival’s hate,

You, earth, will lie on me with far less weight.

My spirit’s leaving now for the air

Whose name once caused me such despair.

I’m faint, I’m failing, my life’s sands

Are running out … Close my eyes with your dear hands …”

He clasps her in the throes of death,

Raining tears on the cruel wound. The rash girl’s breath

Falters, and as her spirit slowly slips

From her breast it’s caught on her ill-starred lover’s lips.

[L
ATIN
:
Sed repetamus opus…
]

    But back to business. If I’m to limp to port

In my tired ship, I must deal with facts and make them short.

So you’re eager for me to escort

You to parties now, and in that department, too,

Advise you what to do?

Well, arrive late, when the lamps are lit,

And make a graceful entrance: it

Adds to your charm if you’ve been “delayed”

(Unpunctuality has often played

The role of bawd); even if you’re plain

Tipsy men will think you’re great, and then again,

The shadows will hide your faults. Handle your food

Tidily, good

Table manners matter—it’s a disgrace

To smear sauce all over your face.

Don’t snack at home first; equally, don’t indulge in greed:

Eat just a little less than you need.

If Paris had ever seen

His Helen guzzling, he’d have thought, “I’ve been

A fool—my prize looks quite obscene.”

It’s far more suitable, I think,

And more attractive, for a girl to drink,

For Cupid and Bacchus, love and wine,

Tend to combine

Successfully. Last, if you have a strong head, you’ll have no trouble

With your brain and your legs—but on no account see double.

A drunk, sprawling woman’s a revolting sight;

Whoever has her, serve her right.

And when the table’s cleared, don’t nod off, keep

Alert—gross things can happen to a girl asleep.

[L
ATIN
:
Ulteriora pudet docuisse…
]

    The rest I blush to write, but kind Venus can claim,

“I’ve a special concern for what you’re shy to name.”

Each woman should know herself, and in the act of sex

Adapt her body for the best effects.

No one method is best

For everybody. If you’re blessed

With a pretty face, lie supine in the sack;

If you’re proud of your back,

Then perform the act

Like a beast, two-backed,

And offer a lovely rear view to beholders.

Milanion had Atalanta’s legs on his shoulders—

That’s a good way

For elegant legs to come into play.

A small woman should sit astride

(Andromache, Hector’s Theban bride,

Was too tall for this cockhorse jockey’s ride).

If you’ve fine, long flanks, kneel on the bed,

Neck arched, head

Back-tilted. If you’ve perfect breasts and youthful thighs,

Have your lover stand, and you lie down slantwise.

Never blush to loosen your hair and let it float

Wild, like a maenad’s, round your arching throat.

If your belly shows stretch-marks, then turn over

And offer your lover

A rear engagement, as the Parthian cavalry might.

Love has a thousand postures to delight:

A simple one, and the least physically trying,

Is on the right side, half-sitting, half-lying.

But neither the oracle of Ammon or Apollo

Can give you better advice to follow

Than my Muse can. Trust me;

My long experience of the art deserves to be

Trusted—these verses are truth’s guarantee.

A fucked woman should melt to her core, and the pleasure

Be felt by both in equal measure.

As background music to your games,

Whisper endearments, use pet names,

Dirty words, even.

If nature hasn’t given

You the knack of orgasm, just make it

Sound as if you were coming, fake it.

(Unlucky the one who’s numb there, not to enjoy

What should be the birthright of both girl and boy.)

But take care that your bluff

Isn’t seen through. Lay on convincing stuff—

Writhing body, rolling eyes,

Gasps and ecstatic cries,

All the signs of pleasure—though, I’ll risk saying it,

That secret part has
its
way of betraying it.

Girls who demand an after-sex gift can’t expect

Their “pretty pleases” to have any effect.

Oh, and don’t bare all the windows to the light:

Much of your body’s best kept out of sight.