Ovid: Tristia
Book One
‘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 ã2003 All Rights Reserved
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Contents
Book TI.I:1-68 The Poet to His Book: Its
Nature
Book TI.I:70-128
The Poet to His Book: His Works.
Book TI.II:1-74
The Journey: Storm at Sea
Book TI.II:75-110
The Journey: The Destination
Book TI.III:1-46
The Final Night in Rome: Preparation
Book TI.III:47-102
The Final Night in Rome: Departure
Book TI.IV:1-28
Troubled Waters
Book TI.V:1-44
Loyalty in Friendship
Book TI.VI:1-36
His Wife: Her Immortality
Book TI.VII:1-40
His Portrait: The Metamorphoses.
Book TI.VIII:1-50
A Friend’s Treachery
Book TI.IX:1-66 A
Faithful Friend
Book TI.X:1-50
Ovid’s Journey to Tomis
Book TI.XI:1-44
Ovid’s Apology for the Work
Little
book, go without me – I don’t begrudge it – to the city.
Ah,
alas, that your master’s not allowed to go!
Go,
but without ornament, as is fitting for an exile’s:
sad
one, wear the clothing of these times.
You’ll
not be cloaked, dyed with hyacinthine purple –
that’s
no fitting colour to go mourning –
no
vermilion title, no cedar-oiled paper,
no
white bosses, ‘horns’ to your dark ‘brow’.
Happier
books are decorated with these things:
you
instead should keep my fate in mind.
No
brittle pumice to polish your two edges,
so
you’re seen ragged, with straggling hair.
No
shame at your blots: he who sees them
will
know they were caused by my tears.
Go,
book, greet the dear places, with my words:
I’ll
walk among them on what ‘feet’ I can.
If,
in the crowd, there’s one who’s not forgot me,
if
there’s one, perhaps, who asks how I am,
say
I’m alive, but deny that I am well:
that
I’m even alive is a gift from a god.
Otherwise,
be silent – let him who wants more read –
beware
of saying by chance what isn’t needed!
The
reader, prompted, will soon recall my guilt,
the
crowd’s voice make me a common criminal.
Beware
of defending me, despite the biting words:
a
poor case will prove too much for advocacy.
Find
someone who sighs about my exile,
and
reads your verses with wet eyes,
and
silently wishes, unheard by enemies,
my
punishment lightened by a gentler Caesar.
For
myself, I wish whomever it is no ill,
who
asks the gods to be kind to suffering:
what
he wishes, let that be: the Leader’s anger done,
grant
me the right to die in my native country.
Though
you obey, book, you may still be blamed,
and
called inferior to the flower of my genius.
The
judge’s duty is to search out time
and
circumstance. You’re safe regarding time.
Fine-spun
verses come from a tranquil mind:
my
days are clouded by sudden miseries.
Verse
asks for a writer with leisure and privacy:
I’m
tossed by winter gales, the storms, the sea.
Every
fear harms verse: I’m lost and always
afraid
of a sword slicing at my throat.
Even
what I’ve created, will amaze just critics:
they’ll
read it, whatever it is, with indulgence.
Set
Homer, the Maeonian, in such
danger,
his
genius would fail among such troubles.
Go
then, book, untroubled by fame,
don’t
be ashamed to displease the reader.
Fortune’s
not so kind to me now
for
you to take account of any praise.
Secure,
I was touched by desire for fame,
and
I burned with ardour to win a name.
Enough
now if I don’t hate those studies, verses
that
hurt me, so that wit brought me
exile.
You
go for me, you, who can, gaze at Rome.
If
the gods could grant now that I were my book!
And
because you’re a foreigner in a mighty city
don’t
think you come as a stranger to the crowd.
Though
you lack a title, they’ll know the style:
though
wishing to deceive, it’s clear you’re mine.
But
enter quietly so my verse won’t hurt you,
it’s
not as popular as once it was.
If
anyone thinks you shouldn’t be read
because
you’re mine, and thrusts you away,
say:
‘Look at the title: I’m not love’s master:
that
work’s already got what it deserved.’
Perhaps
you’re wondering if I’ll send you
to
the high Palatine, to climb to Caesar’s
house.
That
august place and that place’s gods forgive me!
A
lightning bolt from that summit fell on my head.
I
know there are merciful powers on those heights
but
I still fear the gods who bring us harm.
Hawks,
the smallest sound of wings brings terror
to
the doves your talons wounded.
Nor
does the lamb dare stray far from the fold
once
torn from the jaws of a hungry wolf.
If
Phaethon lived he’d avoid the
sky, refuse
to
touch the horses he chose, foolishly.
I
too confess, I fear what I felt, Jove’s weapon:
I
think the hostile lightning seeks me when it thunders.
Every
Greek who escaped the Capherean
rocks
always
turned away from Euboean waters:
and
my vessel, shattered by a mighty storm,
dreads
to near the place where it was wrecked.
So
beware, book, look around with timid mind,
be
content to be read by the middle orders.
Seeking
too great a height on fragile wings
Icarus gave his name to the salt
waters.
It’s
hard to say from here, though, whether to use
oars
or breeze: take advice from the time and place.
If
you can be handed in when he’s at leisure, if
you
see all’s calm, if his anger’s lost its bite,
if,
while you’re hesitating, scared to go near,
someone
will hand you in, with a brief word, go.
On
a good day and with better luck than your master
may
you land there and ease my distress.
Either
no one can help, or in Achilles’s fashion,
only
that man can help who wounded
me.
Only
see you don’t do harm, while you’ve power to help –
since
my hope is less than my fear –
beware,
while that angry emotion’s quiet don’t rouse it,
don’t
you be a second cause for punishment!
Yet
when you’re admitted to my inner sanctum,
and
reach your own house, the curved bookcase,
you’ll
see your brothers there ranged in order,
all,
whom the same careful study crafted.
The
rest of the crowd will show their titles openly,
carrying
their names on their exposed faces:
but
you’ll see three hide far off in dark
places –
and
still, as all know, they teach how to love.
Avoid
them, or if you’ve the nerve, call them
parricides,
like Oedipus, and Telegonus.
I
warn you, if you’ve any care for your father,
don’t
love any of those three, though it taught you.
There
are also fifteen books on changing
forms,
songs
saved just now from my funeral rites.
Tell
them the face of my own fortunes
can
be reckoned among those Metamorphoses.
Now
that face is suddenly altered from before,
a
cause of weeping now, though, once, of joy.
I’ve
more orders for you if you ask me,
but
I fear to be any reason for delay:
and,
book, if you carried everything I think of,
you’d
be a heavy burden to the bearer.
Quick,
it’s a long way! I’ll be alive here at the end
of
the earth, in a land that’s far away from my land.
Gods
of the sea and sky – since what is left but prayer? –
don’t
shatter the ribs of our storm-tossed ship,
don’t,
I beg you, add to great Caesar’s
anger!
Often
when one god presses, another brings help.
Mulciber was against Troy, Apollo for her:
Venus was friendly to Trojans, Pallas hostile.
Saturnia hated Aeneas, supported Turnus:
yet
he was safe through Venus’s power.
Fierce
Neptune often challenged the
cunning Ulysses:
Minerva often saved him from her
uncle.
And
however different I am from them,
who
denies a power to me, against the angry god?
A
wretch, I’m wasting idle words in vain.
My
mouth that speaks is drenched by heavy waves,
and
fearful Notus hurls my words away,
and
won’t let my prayers reach the gods.
So
the same winds drive my sails and prayers
who
knows where, so I’m doubly punished.
Ah
me! What mountains of water churn!
Now,
now you think they’ll touch the highest stars.
What
abysses sink beneath the yawning flood!
Now,
now you think they’ll touch black Tartarus.
Wherever
I look there’s nothing but sea or air,
here
swollen waves, there threatening cloud,
between,
the roar and humming of the winds.
The
ocean waves don’t know what lord to obey.
Now
Eurus storms in power from the
purple east,
now
Zephyrus rushes in from late
evening,
Now
frozen Boreas raves from dry polar stars,
now
Notus wars with his opposing brow.
The
helmsman’s unsure of what to shun or where
to
steer for: his art is baffled by uncertain evils.
Surely
we’re done for, there’s no hope of safety,
while
I speak the waves drench my face.
The
breakers will crush this life of mine, with lips
praying
in vain, I’ll swallow the fatal waters.
But
my loyal wife grieves only for my
exile:
it’s
the only ill of mine she knows, and groans at.
She
doesn’t see me hurled through the vast seas,
pursued
by the winds, she doesn’t see death nearing.
It’s
good that I didn’t allow her to ship with me,
or
I, poor wretch, would endure a double death!
Now,
though I die, since she is free from danger,
at
least the other half of me will survive.
Ah!
What a swift flame flashes from the cloud!
What
a mighty crash resounds from the ether!
The
blow on her planks from the waves is no less
than
a siege-gun’s heavy thud against the walls.
Here
comes a wave that overtops them all:
after
the ninth and before the eleventh.
I
don’t fear dying: but this way of dying’s wretched.
Save
me from drowning, and death will be a blessing.
A
natural death or dying under the blade, at least
your
body rests on the solid ground, as you ebb,
and
there are requests to others, and hope of a tomb,
not
to be food for the fishes in the ocean.
Assume
I deserve such a death, I’m not the only
traveller
here. Why does my sentence drown the innocent?
Gods
above, and you of the green flood, who rule the seas,
both
crowds of you, desist from your threats:
an
unhappy man, let me carry the life that’s granted
by
Caesar’s relenting anger, to the chosen place.
If
you wish to punish me with the sentence I merit,
my
fault, even to my judge, does not
deserve death.
If
Caesar had wished to send me to Stygian waters,
he
wouldn’t have needed your help in this.
He
has a power, not to be grudged, over my life:
he’ll
take away what he’s given, when he wishes.
You,
I pray, whom surely no offence of mine
has
wounded, be content now with my troubles.
Yet,
if you’re all willing to save this wretch,
the
life that’s ruined can’t now be saved.
Though
the seas quieten, and kind winds blow,
though
you spare me, I’ll be no less an exile.
I
don’t plough the open sea to trade my goods
greedy
to acquire wealth without end,
nor
to reach Athens, I one sought as a
student,
nor
the Asian cities, nor places I’ve seen,
nor
do I sail to Alexander’s famous
city,
to
see your pleasures, happy Nile.
I
ask for favourable winds – who would credit it? –
to
set my sails for the Sarmatian
land.
I’m
forced to touch the wild left shore of Pontus:
I
complain my flight from my native land’s too slow.
I
pray for the journey to be shorter,
to
see the people of Tomis in their
unknown world.
If
you love me, hold back these breakers,
and
let your powers favour the ship:
or
if you hate me deeply, drive me to the land assigned,
part
of my punishment is in the place.
Drive
my body on swiftly, winds – why linger here? –
Why
do my sails desire Italy’s shores?
Caesar
does not want this. Why hold one he expels?
Let
the land of Pontus see my face.
He
orders it, I deserve it: nor do I think it pious
or
lawful to defend a guilt he condemns.
Yet
if mortal actions never deceive the gods,
you
know that crime was absent from my fault.
Ah,
if you know it, if my error has
misled me,
if
my thought was foolish, but not wicked,
if
as the humblest may I’ve favoured that House,
if
Augustus’s statutory law was enough for me,
if
I’ve sung of the happy age with him as Leader,
and
offered incense for Caesar and the Caesars –
if
such was my intent, spare me, gods!
If
not, may a towering wave drown my life!
Am
I wrong, or do heavy clouds begin to vanish.
is
the wave of the changing sea defeated, humbled?
No
accident, but you, called as witness,
whom
we cannot deceive, bring me this aid.
When
the saddest memory comes to mind,
of
that night, my last hour in the city,
when
I recall that night when I left so much
so
dear to me, even now tears fall from my eyes.
The
day was already here that Caesar ordered
for
my departure beyond Italy’s furthest shores.
There
wasn’t time or desire enough to prepare
what
was fitting, my heart was numb with long delay.
I’d
not thought about slaves or companions,
the
clothing or the other needs of an exile.
I
was as dazed as a man struck by Jove’s lightning,
who
lives, whose life’s unknown to the man himself.
But
when grief itself cleared my clouded mind,
and
at last my senses began to revive,
I
spoke to my sad friends at the end on
leaving,
the
one or two, of so many once, who remained.
As
I wept my loving wife wept more
bitterly in my arms,
tears
falling endlessly over her guiltless cheeks.
My
daughter was far away on the Libyan shore,
and
couldn’t be informed of my fate.
Wherever
you chanced, grief and mourning sounded,
and
inside was the semblance of a noisy funeral.
Women
and men, children too, cried at my obsequies,
and
every corner of home had its tears.
If
one might use a great example for a lesser,
this
was the face of Troy when she was
taken.
Now
the cries of men and dogs grew silent:
the
Moon on high steered her midnight
horses.
Gazing
at her, and, by her light, the Capitol,
close
to my house, though that was no use to me,
I
prayed: ‘You powers that own these sites nearby,
you
temples my eyes will never see again,
gods
who possess this great city of Quirinus,
I
relinquish, receive my salutation, for all time.
And
though I take up the shield too late, wounded,
free
this banishment from the burden of hate,
and
explain to that man-god what error
misled me,
so
that he doesn’t think my fault a crime,
so
my pain’s author knows what you know, too.
If
the god is content I can’t be wretched.’
I
spoke to the gods in prayer like this,
my
wife more so, sobs choking her half-heard cries.
She
threw herself before the Lares, hair
unbound,
touching
the cold hearth with trembling lips,
poured
out words to the Penates,
before her,
not
destined to help the husband she mourned.
Now
vanishing night denied me more delay,
and
the Arcadian Bear had turned about her axle.
What
could I do? Sweet love of country held me,
but
this was the last night before my decreed exile.
Ah!
How often I spoke as someone hastened by:
‘Why
hurry? Think where and whence you’re hurrying.’
Ah!
How often I said, deceptively, I’d a set time,
an
appropriate one for my intended journey.
I
touched the threshold three times, was called back
three
times, even my feet slow to match my intent.
Often,
having said ‘Farewell’, I spoke again at length,
and,
as if I was going, I gave the last kisses.
Often
I gave the same orders, and deceived myself,
eyes
turning back towards my dear ones.
At
last I said: ‘Why hurry? I’m off to Scythia,
I’m
leaving Rome. Both are good
reasons for delay.
Living,
my living wife’s denied to me forever,
my
house, and the sweet ones in that faithful home,
and
the friends that I’ve loved like brothers,
O
hearts joined to me by Thesean
loyalty!
I’ll
hug you while I can: perhaps I’ll never again
be
allowed to. This hour given me is so much gained.’
No
more delay, I left my words unfinished,
and
embraced each one dear to my heart.
While
I spoke and we wept, Lucifer had
risen,
brightest
in the high heavens, baleful star to me.
I
was torn, as though I had left my limbs behind,
and
half seemed severed from my body.
So
Mettus grieved when, punishing his
treachery,
the
horses were driven in different directions.
Then
truly the groans and cries of my people rose,
and
grieving hands beat on naked breasts.
Then
truly my wife, clinging to me at parting,
mingled
these sad words amongst my tears:
‘I
can’t be separated. Together, we’ll go together.
I’ll
follow you and be an exile’s wife in exile.
There’s
a path for me too, the far off land will take me:
my
going will add little weight to your fleeing ship.
Caesar’s
anger drives you to leave your country,
loyalty
orders me. Loyalty will be my Caesar.’
So
she tried, as she had tried before,
and,
with difficulty, ceased trying for my sake.
I
went, like one carried off before his funeral,
bedraggled,
hair straggling over unshaven cheeks.
Maddened
by grief they say she was overcome
by
darkness, and fell half-dead in the midst of the room,
and
when she rose, hair fouled with filthy dust,
and
lifted her body from the cold ground,
she
wept for herself, and the deserted Penates,
and
often called her lost husband’s name,
groaning
no less than if she’d seen the bodies
of
her daughter and me, on the stacked pyre,
and
wanted to die, to end those feelings by dying,
yet
out of care for me she did not die.
May
she live, and, since the fates have willed my absence,
live
so as always to help me with her aid.
Bootes, the guardian of the Erymanthian Bear, touches
the
Ocean and stirs the salt-waters with his stars.
I still plough the Ionian Sea, not by my will,
but
forced to bravery through my fear.
Ah
me! What winds swell the waves,
and
throw up boiling sand from the deep!
The
breaker leaps mountain-high on prow
and
curving stern, and strikes the painted gods.
The
pine planks echo, the rigging’s whipped by the wind,
and
the keel itself groans with my troubles.
The
sailor, confessing cold fear by his pallor,
defeated,
obeys his boat, doesn’t guide it by skill.
As
a weak rider lets the useless reins,
fall
loosely on his horse’s stubborn neck,
so,
I see, our charioteer has given the ship her head,
where
the wave’s force drives, not where he wishes.
Unless
Aeolus alters the winds he’s sent
I’ll
be carried to a place I must not visit.
Now
Illyria’s shores are far
behind, to larboard,
and
forbidden Italy shows herself to me.
I
pray the wind ends its effort towards a land
denied
me, and obeys, with me, a mighty god.
While
I speak, fearful and yet eager to be driven back,
with
what power the waves pound at her sides!
Mercy,
you gods of the blue-green sea, mercy,
let
it be enough that Jove is angry
with me.
Rescue
my weary spirit from a cruel death,
if
one already lost may be un-lost.
O
you who’ll always be named the first
among my friends,
you
above all who thought it right to make my fate your own
who
were the first, carissime, the most dear, I remember
to
dare to sustain me with words when the bolt struck,
who
gave me the calm advice to go on living
when
my wretched heart was filled with desire for death,
truly
you know whom I mean, by these tokens of your name,
nor
are you unaware, friend, of the service you rendered.
These
things will always be fixed in my very marrow,
and
I’ll be an eternal debtor for the life that’s mine,
and
my spirit will melt away in the empty air,
leaving
my ashes on the cooling pyre,
before
the memory of your merit leaves my mind.
and
loyalty fades away through the long years.
May
the gods favour you, grant you good fortune
never
to be in need, a fate dissimilar to mine.
Still,
if this ship were borne on a favourable breeze,
perhaps
your faithfulness would go unacknowledged.
Pirithous would not have felt Theseus’s friendship
as
deeply, if he’d not gone down to the infernal waters.
That
Phocean Pylades was an
instance of true love
was
due to the Furies, sad Orestes.
If
Euryalus had not fallen among
the Rutulian host,
Hyrtacian
Nisus would have found no fame.
Just
as red gold is assessed in the flames,
faithfulness
is tested by hard times.
While
Fortune helps us, a smile on her calm face,
all
things follow our undiminished powers:
But
they flee with the thunder, and no one knows him,
who
a moment ago was circled by crowds of friends.
And
this, which I once knew from old examples,
I
know now to be true from my own troubles.
You,
barely two or three of so many friends, are left me:
the
rest were Fortune’s crew, not
mine.
So,
O few, aid my wounded state all the more,
and
grant a safe strand for my wreckage.
And
don’t be anxious with false fears, trembling,
lest
this faithfulness offends the god!
Often
Caesar praises loyalty among enemy
troops:
he
loves it in his own, approves it in opponents.
My
case is better, since I was no armed opponent
of
his, but earned this exile through naivety.
So
keep watch on my affairs, I pray you,
in
case the wrath of the god can be lessened.
If
anyone wishes to know all my misfortunes,
he
asks for more than circumstance allows.
I’ve
endured as many evils as stars in the sky,
or
as many tiny specks as the dry dust holds:
suffered
many greater than you’d credit,
that
won’t be believed, though they happened.
One
part of it, even, ought to perish with me,
and
I wish it could be veiled in concealment.
If
I’d an untiring voice, lungs stronger than brass,
and
many mouths with many tongues,
I
still couldn’t compass all my ills in words,
the
content is greater than my powers.
Wise
poets, write of my troubles not Ulysses’:
I’ve
suffered more than the Neritian.
He
wandered a narrow space for many years,
between
the palaces of Ithaca and Troy:
after
crossing seas whole constellations apart
I’m
carried by fate to Getic, and Sarmatian shores.
He
had a faithful crew and true companions:
I,
in my flight, am deserted by my friends.
Joyful
in victory, he sought his native land:
I
fled mine, defeated and an exile.
My
home’s not Dulichium, Ithaca or Same,
absence
from which is no great punishment,
but
Rome, that sees the world from
her seven hills,
Rome,
the place of Empire and the gods.
He
had a tough body, enduring toil:
my powers are delicate and slight.
He
was always engaged in savage warfare,
I
was used to gentler pursuits.
A
god crushed me, and no one eased my pain:
Minerva the war-goddess brought him
aid.
And
as the king of the swollen waves is less than Jove,
Jupiter’s anger oppressed me, Neptune’s him.
And,
the most part of his toil is fiction,
there’s
no mythology in my troubles.
Finally,
he found the household he
sought,
reaching
the fields he’d aimed at, for so long.
But
my native soil’s denied to me forever,
unless
the wounded god’s anger lessens.
Lyde was not so dear to Antimachus,
nor
Bittis so loved by her Philetas,
as
you, my wife, clinging to my heart,
worthy
of a happier, not truer husband.
You’re
the support on which my ruins rest,
if
I’m still anyone, it’s all your gift.
It’s
your doing that I’m not despoiled, stripped bare
by
those who sought the planks from my shipwreck.
As
a wolf raging with the goad of hunger,
eager
for blood, catches the fold unguarded,
or
as a greedy vulture peers around
to
see if it can find an unburied corpse,
so
someone, faithless, in my bitter trouble,
would
have come into my wealth, if you’d let them.
Your
courage, with our friends, drove them off, bravely,
friends
I can never thank as they deserve.
So
you’re proven, by one who’s as true as he’s wretched,
if
such a witness carries any weight.
Neither
Andromache, nor Laodamia, companion
of
her husband in death, exceeds you in probity.
If
you’d been assigned to Homer, the
Maonian bard,
Penelope’s fame would be second
to yours:
either
you owe it to your own self, not being taught loyalty
by
some teacher, but through the character granted you at birth,
or,
if it’s allowed to compare the small and great,
Livia, first lady, honoured by you all
those years,
teaches
you to be the model of a good wife,
becoming
like her, through long-acquired habit.
Alas,
my poetry has no great powers,
my
lips are inadequate to sing your worth! –
if
I had any inborn vigour long ago,
it’s
extinct, quenched by enduring sorrows! –
or
you’d be first among the sacred heroines,
seen
to be first, for the virtues of your heart.
Yet
in so far as my praise has any power,
you
will still live, for all time, in my verse.
Whoever
has a likeness, an image of my face,
take
the ivy, Bacchus’s crown, from my
hair.
such
tokens of fortune suit happy poets,
a
wreath is not becoming to my brow.
Hide
it, yet know it, I say this to you, best
friend,
who
fetch and carry me on your finger,
clasping
my semblance in the yellow gold,
seeing
all you can of the exile, his dear
face.
Perhaps,
when you gaze, it will prompt you to say:
‘How
far away our friend Ovid is from us!’
Your
love is a comfort. Yet my verses are a better
likeness,
I ask you to read them such as they are,
verses that speak about altered human
forms,
the
work cut short by it’s author’s sad flight.
Leaving,
mournful, I threw it on the fire, myself,
along
with so many other things of mine.
As
Althaea, they say, burning the
brand, burned
her
son, and proved a better sister than a mother,
so
I threw the innocent books, that had to die with me,
my
vital parts, on the devouring pyre:
because
I detested the Muses, my accusers,
or
because the poem was rough and still unfinished.
The
verses were not totally destroyed: they survive –
several
copies of the writings, I think, were made –
Now
I pray they live, and with industrious leisure
delight
the reader, serve as a reminder of me.
Yet
they can’t be read patiently by anyone
whose
unaware they lack the final touch.
That
work was won from me while on the anvil
and
the writing lacks the last rasp of the file.
I
ask forgiveness not praise, I’ll be praised in full,
if
you don’t despise me, reader.
Have
these six lines too, if you think they’re worth
placing
at the very front of those books:
‘Whoever
touches these volumes, bereft of their author,
at
least let them have a place in your city,
a
greater favour, since he didn’t publish them,
but
they were almost snatched from his funeral.
So
whatever weakness this rough work may have,
I’d
have amended it, if I’d been allowed.’
From
the sea, deep rivers will flow backwards
to
their source: the hurrying Sun
reverse his wheeling team,
earth
will bear stars, and skies be cut by the plough,
water
yield flames, and fire yield water:
all
things will move against the natural laws,
no
part of the universe will hold its course:
now
all things will be, that I denied could be,
and
there’ll be nothing that you can’t believe.
This
I prophesy since I’ve been betrayed by one
whom
I thought would bring me help in misery.
Traitor,
did you forget me so completely,
or
were so afraid to come near my disaster, cruel one,
that
you’d no regard, or solace for my downfall,
not
even to follow in my funeral train?
Does
that sacred and honoured name of friend
lie
beneath your feet, a worthless thing?
What
effort to visit a comrade, crushed by a mighty blow,
and
comfort him, you also, with your words,
and
if not to shed a tear at my misfortune
still
to offer a few words of feigned distress,
and,
at least, say something, as even strangers do,
follow
the common speech, public phrases –
see
my mournful features, never to be seen again,
while
you could, on that final day,
and
hear, and return to me, in the same tone,
the
never to be repeated, forever, ‘Farewell’?
Others,
bound to me by no ties, did this,
and
shed tears in token of their feelings.
What,
weren’t there powerful reasons for our friendship
in
our mutual life and our continuing love?
What,
didn’t you share so many of my serious
and
trivial moments, and didn’t I share yours?
What,
didn’t you not only know me in Rome,
but
in so many sorts of foreign places?
Was
it all in vain, lost in the ocean winds?
Is
it all gone, drowned in Lethe’s
waters?
I
don’t think of you as born in Quirinus’s
tranquil city,
the
city my feet must never more re-enter,
but
on cliffs, that this sinister Black
Sea raises,
or
in the wild Scythian or Sarmatian hills,
and
your heart circled with veins of flint,
and
iron seeded in your rigid breast,
and
your nurse a tigress, once, offering
full
udders to be drained by your tender throat,
or
you’d think my ills less alien to you now,
and
wouldn’t stand accused by me of harshness.
But
since it is added to my fatal loss,
that
those youthful times are discounted, now
endeavour
to make me forget this failing, and praise
your
efforts with these lips with which I complain.
You
who read this work of mine without malice,
may
you reach life’s goal without hindrance.
And
may my prayers that failed to reach the harsh gods,
on
my own behalf, have power for you!
You’ll
have many friends while you’re fortunate:
when
the weather’s cloudy, you’ll be alone.
See
how the doves fly to a whitened dovecote,
but
a weathered turret never attracts the birds.
Ants
never head for an empty granary:
no
friends gather round when your wealth is gone.
As
a shadow trails those passing through the sun,
and
flies when it’s hidden, weighed down by the cloud,
so
the fickle crowd chases the glow of Fortune:
when
it’s clothed in night’s veil, the crowd is gone.
I
pray this might always prove false for you:
yet
it’s truth must be admitted from my case.
While
I stood firm, my house was crowded enough,
indeed,
well known, though it wasn’t ostentatious.
But
when the blow came, they all feared its downfall,
and
discreetly turned away, in shared flight.
No
surprise, since they fear the savage lightning
whose
fires often blast everything nearby.
But
Caesar approves of a friend who
stays loyal
in
hard times, however he hates him as an enemy.
and
is never angered – no one shows greater restraint –
when
someone loves, in adversity, what they loved.
They
say even Thoas approved of Pylades,
hearing
the tale about Orestes’s friend.
Patroclus’s constant loyalty to
Achilles
was
often praised by Hector’s lips.
When
faithful Theseus went with his
friend to the Shades,
they
say Pluto, god of Tartarus, was grieved.
Told
of the loyalty of Euryalus and
Nisus,
Turnus, we credit your cheeks were
wet with tears.
There’s
faith even for the miserable, approved even in a foe.
Ah
me! How few of you my words can move!
Such
is my state, such is my fortune now,
there
should be no limit to my tears.
Yet
my heart, though grieving at my own disaster,
has
been made calmer by your own success.
I
knew it would happen, dear friend, far back,
when
the wind then drove your sail less swiftly.
If
there’s a prize for character, or a faultless life,
no
one could be more highly valued:
or
if anyone’s climbed high through the liberal arts –
well,
every cause is made good by your eloquence.
Straightaway,
feeling this, I said to you:
‘My
friend, a great stage awaits your talents.’
No
sheep’s liver, thunder on the left, or the cry
or
the flight of some bird I observed, taught it me:
it
was augury, a future prediction, based on reason:
that’s
how I divined it, and gained my knowledge.
Now
it’s true, I congratulate you with all my heart,
and
myself, that your genius is not hidden.
If
only mine had been buried in deep darkness!
It
would have been best if light had failed my studies.
Just
as the serious arts serve you, eloquent one,
so
dissimilar arts have injured me.
Yet
my life’s known to you. You know their author’s
conduct
held those same arts at a distance:
you
know those verses were the fun of my youth:
though
not worth praising, they were still witty.
So,
I think, though my offence can’t be defended
by
eloquence, such an excuse for it can be found.
Make
that excuse, as far as you can, don’t abandon
a
friend’s cause: always go on as well as you’ve begun.
Golden-haired
Minerva’s protection’s mine, and
will be,
I
pray, and the ship’s name’s from her painted helm.
Under
sail, she runs well before the lightest wind,
if
oars are used, the rowers speed her onward.
She’s
not content to beat her peers in winged course,
she
overhauls boats that set out long before.
She
weathers the tides and the leaping billows,
not
drenched, or overwhelmed, by wild seas.
I
first joined her at Corinthian Cenchrae, and she
was
the loyal friend, and guide, of my anxious flight,
made
safe by the divine powers of Pallas,
through
all event, through waves struck by the wind.
Now,
I pray, she may also cleave the gates of wide Pontus,
and
reach the waters she seeks, by the Getic
shore.
As
soon as she brought me into Aeolian Helle’s sea,
and
reached the long passage through the narrows,
we
changed tack to larboard, and from Hector’s
city
came
to your port, Imbrian land, from
where
we
reached the Zerynthian shore
with a light breeze,
as
our wearied keel touched Samothrace.
It’s
only a short leap from there for someone seeking
Tempyra opposite: and as far as
she took me.
Now
I chose to travel the Bistonian
land on foot:
while
she sailed back through the Hellespont’s
waves
seeking
Dardania, named from its
founder,
and
you, Lampsacus, protected by the
rural god, Priapus,
and
virgin Helle’s straits, she
carried in flight so insecurely,
that
separate Sestos from Abydos’ town,
and
Cyzicos clinging to Propontis’s shore,
nobly
founded by the Haemonian
people,
and
Byzantium’s shores that guard the
jaws of Pontus,
the
giant gateway between the twin seas.
I
pray she wins by them, and driven on a strong southerly
may
she quickly pass the clashing rocks,
the
Thynian bay and from there
hold her course
past
Apollonia and Anchialus’s high walls.
Then
Mesembria’s harbour, and Odesos,
and
the citadel of Dionysopolis,
yours Bacchus,
and
the exiles from Alcathous’s walls
who,
they say, set their gods down in
this place.
From
there may she sail in safety to the Milesian
city,
Tomis, where the anger of an
injured god has sent me.
If
that comes to pass, a lamb will fall, deservedly, to Minerva,
my
resources won’t stretch to a larger sacrifice.
You
too, Tyndaridae, the Gemini,
this island honours,
I
beg you, guard our separate paths with gentle powers!
One
ship’s ready to thread the narrow Symplegades,
mine
to plough through the Bistonian
waters.
Though
we take different routes, let the one
find
favourable winds, no less than the other.
Every
letter you’ve read in this entire volume,
was
composed in the troubled days of my journey.
Either
the Adriatic saw me scribbling
these words
in
the midst of the waves, shivering in icy December,
or
the verses I wrote to the wild roaring of the sea,
astonished
the Aegean Cyclades, I suspect,
when
I’d passed the Isthmus and its two gulfs on my way,
and
boarded the second ship of my exile’s path.
I
marvel myself my skill didn’t fail me
in
such a turmoil of seas and feelings,
Whether
numbness or madness is the name for such efforts,
all
my troubles were eased by these troubles.
Often
I was tossed, precariously, by the stormy Kids:
often
the sea was menacing under the Pleiades,
or
the day was darkened by Bootes, the Bear-herd,
or
a southerly drew wintry rain from
the Hyades:
Often
the sea broke over the ship: still I spun
my
verse, such as it is, with shaking hand.
Now
the rigging shrieks, taut in a north
wind,
and
the curving breaker rises like a hillside.
The
helmsman himself raises his hands aloft,
begging
help, in prayer, forgetting his skills.
Wherever
I look, nothing but the shadow of a death
I
fear with anxious mind, and pray for in my fear.
If
I reach harbour, the harbour itself will scare me:
the
land has more terrors than the hostile sea.
I
endure the deceptions of waves and men,
and
sword and sea double my fears.
The
one, by my blood, hopes for plunder, I’m afraid,
the
other wants to win notice by my death.
A
barbarous coast to port, used to savage rapine,
always
full of bloodshed, murder, war,
and
though the ocean’s stirred by wintry waves,
my
heart is more turbulent than the sea.
So
grant them greater forgiveness, honest reader,
if
these verses are less than you hoped for, as they are.
They
weren’t written in my garden, as once
they were,
or
while you, my familiar couch, supported me.
I’m
tossed on the stormy deep, on a wintry day,
and
the paper itself is exposed to the dark waters.
Let
the storm defeat the man! Yet, at the same time,
let
him halt the music of his songs, as I do mine.
The End of
Tristia Book I