CATULLUS
Twenty-eight further Poems
(in English Verse)
by John Anthony Bernard Harrisson (1909-1983)
(All rights reserved)
Dedication from the original, extremely limited, private publication printed by the Southwold Press in 1980
To my wife
and to the memory of those who taught me
and gave me my love of the classics
at Eversley School, Southwold, and at Felsted.
By Robert Philp Esq. M.A., M.Litt. of Fettes College, Edinburgh
Kept alive through the Dark Ages in a single Veronese manuscript, the poems of Catullus can, and must be allowed to, speak clearly across the gulf of time. They are a window into the loves and hates, the savagery and the gentleness of one young, short life lived in that extraordinary time of the first century before Christ when the Roman Republic was languishing, soon to die. Catullus was the love-poet, par excellence, but, when in the mood, the most acute of social observers, registering foibles, caricaturing absurd individuals, tickled by the follies of social climbers, spongers, bad poets and bores - almost a satirist, a precursor of that Roman satura (see note 1) of which Quintilian was to say 'tota nostra est' (see note 2).
Catullus is above all a poet to appreciate, not to use as a museum of linguistic specimens or a subject of exhaustive analysis. Beware of the deadening touch of "The Scholars":
 |
Bald heads forgetful of their sins, |
This lepidum novum libellum, therefore, contains translations of some of Catullus' social-comment poems, so that they can speak for themselves, uncomplicated, unannotated, direct to us. I feel it a privilege to be able to introduce briefly Tony Harrisson's second set of Catullan translations, with at the same time a word in memory of his friend and mine, Tony Chenevix-Trench, whose hoped-for preface to the first of them, had he lived to write it, would have sparkled with so much wit and sympathy. This little book is a distillation of a lifetime's love of Catullus.
Quare babe tibi quidquid hoc libelli qualecumque(see note 4) for it is a labour of love.
Robert H. Philp
Notes:
1. Literally 'a bowl of all sorts of fruit', and, as social comment,
satire.
2. It is all ours.
3. 'The Scholars' (W. B. Yeats)
4. Wherefore take to yourself this little book, such as it is (Catullus
I. 8. 9.)
A Short Introduction
Somewhere between 87 and 84 B.c. Gaius Valerius Catullus first saw the light of day. He came of a good family, and his father was friendly with, and often host to Julius Caesar, though Catullus him-self did not particularly care for him, as witness his little poem No. XCIII. As soon as he could get away from home, he did so,and made for Rome, where he met a number of people who were in,or on the fringes of Roman society, and fell violently in love with Clodia, who was married to the Consul Metellus Celer, and who was addressed as Lesbia in his poems. He had a yacht. a villa at Tibur, and others at Sirmio and Verona, but he was too fond of pleasure ever to have any money in his purse, which caused him to go on the staff of Memmius, the newly appointed governor of Bithynia, with some idea of easy pickings as a means of remedying his normal poverty-stricken condition, though it must be admitted that this appeared more a source of amusement to him than worry. On his way home he visited the grave of his brother, who had died in the Troad, made a tour through the best-known cities of Asia, and finally sailed his yacht back to Sirmio in 56 B.C. But he did not linger for long, preferring to return to Rome, where he died, probably aged about thirty, in approximately 54 B.c. which is generally assumed to have been the date of his death, as his poems do not refer to anything which occurred later than that date.
J.A.B.H.
That yacht, my friends, which there you see, is said
To have been swiftest under oars or sail;
None was there past whose bows she had not sped,
And this full many an Adriatic gale
Avows : Rhodes, famed in song, the Cyclades,
The grim Propontis, where in former days
She was a wood that quivered in the breeze:
Amastris and Cytorus too, she says,
Know her full well from the remotest spring
Of all her life on land or sea: and thence
She bore her master where the billows fling
Their foaming crests, uncaring ever whence
The wind was blowing, be it left or right,
Heaving in wild disorder all the deep,
Or dead astern, a gentle breeze and light,
Or taking both the sheets in one wild leap.
No vows she made to shore gods till she came
To this clear lake, wherein she takes her rest,
But now herself she gives, and all her fame
To you, Twin Brethren, glorious and blest!
Veranius, old friend of mine, you're home!
You that are worth three hundred thousand others -
Home, with your household gods, no more to roam,
Your aged mother's joy, joy to your brothers.
What splendid news! Not long before I see
Your smiling face, and hear your voice, retailing
Scenes, feats and peoples, wrapped in ecstasy,
Lost in the vision of your distant sailing!
My arm about your shoulders, I shall kiss
Your lips so gay, and see your eyes grow tender -
Ah! sure, of all men I've the greatest bliss,
To give my friend my heart in full surrender!
I was strolling where t'was shady in the square,
When Varus came with eagerness disarming
And bore me off to see a lady fair,
As full of wit indeed as she was charming.
There we talked about Bithynia, I recall,
How fortune on the provinces was falling:
Said I, "For subaltern or general
The prospect's simply hopeless - quite appalling!
No hope of coming home with larded locks -
Mere errand boys, or so the praetor thought us".
Said she "You weren't completely on the rocks?
At least you did bring home with you some porters"?
I never had a fellow who could place
Beneath a broken piece of wood his shoulder,
But, as I badly wished to save my face,
"Oh yes, I've six or seven lads", I told her.
Said she, "Catullus! That is simply great"!
(For how should I foretell her wicked capers?)
"Please lend me them! I want to go in state
To worship at the temple of Serapis".
"A truce"! I cried. "I fear I never thought!
The real purchaser was Caius Cinna,
Whose goods I use as though myself had bought -
Wines, horses, slaves, and frequently a dinner!
But you're a plague, and hardly fit to live:
If I'd my way you'd be severely shaken!
T'would have been nicer of you to forgive
My slip - it's only that I was mistaken"!
Asinius, while we are deep in drink and lively frolic,
You steal our linen with your stealthy hand,
An action arrant, shabby, and completely melancholic,
Which you, you poor benighted fool, think grand!
If you will not give ear to me, then hearken to your brother,
Who'd sink a talent to compound your theft,
For he's a decent sort of boy, and more than any other,
Is blest alike with wit and humour deft!
So send me back my linen, or expect three hundred verses
Of a vitriolic nature, fine and free,
In every line a choice array of nicely balanced curses -
Those napkins, sir, are worth a lot to me!
True souvenirs of friendship, linen sent me by Fabullus
And Veranius from Saetabus in Spain,
Because of which the linen is regarded by Catullus
Very highly; wherefore, send it back again!
In a day or two, Fabullus,
Shall a noble feast be laid
In the house of your Catullus,
If you bring a sunny maid,
Food in plenty, salt and wine,
Dear Fabullus, come and dine!
Nobly shall you dine, Fabullus,
If yourself provide the stores,
For the purse of your Catullus
Simply teems with spider's gauze!
Only bring the food and wine,
And, Fabullus, you shall dine!
Not without return, Fabullus!
I will give you rare delight,
To the mistress of Catullus
Left by Venus in the night -
Once you smell its scent of roses
You will wish for twenty noses!
Calvus, really I should hate you for your most unkind surprise,
Were you not my oldest friend, and dearer to me than my eyes!
Why, oh why desire to poison me with these inanities?
May the gods with myriad torments torture him who sought to find
All this pile of rubbish (though I have an inkling in my mind
That its origin was Sulla, who was trying to be kind.)
Look, oh look, ye gods, at this tremendous volume which I hold,
Which my friend has sent to slay me - does he think that I'm too old?
Does he wish that on the Saturnalia my death be told?
It will bring its just reward, for to the bookshops I will fly -
Send you volumes dull and dreary, vast and wearisome and dry -
I will pay you back, you villain, with a dose of Aquini!
Get ye hence meanwhile, ye base pretenders to a magic art,
Back to those dim regions whence ye made your unpropitious start,
Poets only in your outward semblance, not in inmost heart!
I hear you want a fine new bridge on which to dance and
play,
And fear the ancient one you've got will very soon give way,
Turned upside down amid the swamps, its crazy shanks on high -
Well, you may have your fine new bridge and quickly if you try!
The orgies of the leaping god himself may happen there -
If you will grant this boon of mirth to me, the cost I'll bear -
I want a fellow townsman to be swung, with three times three,
Head first into the deepest, blackest mud that you can see.
He's a silly sort of fellow - why, a child of two years old,
Who slumbers on his father's arm, has much more sense, I'm told;
For when a maid was wed to him, as tender as a kid,
Who should have been looked after, this is what the zany did:
He let her play about with anybody whom she chose,
Poor fool! He couldn't see a thing an inch beyond his nose!
Just like an alder in a ditch, the victim of the blade
Of some Ligurian axeman, so the crazy fellow stayed
As dumb and deaf to everything that happened to befall,
As if, you well might put it, he had got no wife at all!
Well, seeing that's how matters stand, it might renew the fire
Of life if you will throw him from the bridge into the mire.
Suffenus, as you know full well, a polished man of town,
Writes far more verse than other men, and he has written down
Ten thousand verses at the least, and very likely more,
And none of them on paper which has known the pen before.
With virgin sheets and finials and scarlet leathers too,
And wrappers made of parchment, very faintly ruled in blue,
Planed carefully with pumice-stone, as fine as fine could be -
The very best of everything for him - it's plain to see!
But when you read these lovely books of his, what do you find?
Why, that this polished gentleman is nothing of the kind,
No better than a ditcher or a man that hews a tree,
So very inconsistent with his noble self is he!
In conversation, granted, you will find no finer wit,
But when it comes to poetry, he loses all of it -
Yet, strange to say, he's always nearest heaven at the time
When, pens and paper round him, he prepares himself for rhyme.
That's nothing new, of course. It's human nature to deceive
Ourselves that we are better than our fellow-men believe -
We all have our delusions in a bundle on our backs,
But we never see what things are at the bottom of the sacks!
My little homestead, Furius, bows low before the gale,
But not a wind from heaven is the trouble - here's the tale -
It's a bill for fifteen thousand odd that makes me stand aghast -
Was ever such a shrivelling and pestilential blast?
Young steward of Falernian wine, of vintage old and rare,
Pray, pour me some of rather sharper flavour;
Postumia our queen demands it. Let it be your care
To do her bidding - t'is the road to favour.
More fond of wine than is the grape, of water she'll have nought,
But exiles it with gloom and melancholy,
While wine is drunk unmixed, as was the goblet that was brought
To Bacchus, god of drinking and of folly.
Unfaithful one, betrayer of your friend,
Are you devoid completely of compassion?
Do you not tremble thus to make an end
And break your vows, you traitor, in this fashion?
The gods love not the mortal who betrays,
But you, uncaring, leave me thinking sadly
Of where to place my faith. In other days
Yourself desired my heart: I gave it gladly.
But now the words you spoke so long ago
Are swept away by wind and wrack, forgotten:
But think on this: the gods in Heaven know
This baseness, and by whom it was begotten;
Aye, they remember! Honour knows full well,
And though this moment may not bring you sorrow,
Yet shall you suffer all the pains of hell
At her behest on some unknown to-morrow.
XXXI. THE HAVEN WHERE HE WOULD BE
Sirmio, that almost island, yet of all the islands best,
Limpid lake or boundless ocean's offspring, by the sea-gods blest,
With what joy I gaily greet you, know at last I see again
All your loveliness in safety, far from Thynia's distant plain.
Can there be a greater blessing than to snap the cords of care,
When the mind no longer labours with a heavy load to bear,
Spent with toil in far-off places, homeward at the end to quest,
And to find in old familiar scenes, tranquillity and rest?
Surely this one moment far exceeds the worth of wordly gain
After weary years of waiting, years of misery and pain!
Greeting, lovely Sirmio, and give me welcome and rejoice.
Sing, ye Lydian waters, with the ring of laughter in your voice.
Let the merry sounds which haunt you ring a peal of gladsome mirth,
Welcoming a homing rover from the distant parts of earth!
XXXIV. HYMN TO DIANA
Pure unblemished children, we
Chant our tuneful hymn to thee;
Pure unblemished boys and maids
Praise Diana of the Glades.
Latona's child begot by Jove,
Offspring of his royal love,
Near the Delian olive tree,
Mistress of the woods to be:
Mistress of the babbling rills,
Forest lawns and rugged hills;
Mothers hail thee in their pain,
Cross-roads call thee not in vain.
Shining through the velvet night
As the moon, with alien light;
With the months to mark thy road,
Fill with first fruits each abode:
Hallowed by what name thou wilt,
We will serve thee to the hilt:
Bring us fortune from on high
As thou didst in days gone by.
XXXV. URGENT!
Little paper, bid my friend and comrade hurry to my side,
Bid him hasten to Verona, leaving Larius' waters wide,
Comum's ramparts far behind him, for I wish him to attend
So that he may hear some brief premeditations from a friend.
Wherefore, if he's wise, he'll press his journey onward, though a maid
Call him back a thousand times and pray that he may be delayed,
Who, if all I hear be true, is dying of an endless love
Lavished on him,pricked no doubt by Cupid's arrows from above.
Since she read his noble poem on Cybele, Heaven's queen,
She's been more in love with him than any other girl has been;
Still, I give you pardon, maiden, for you were of more avail
Than the Lesbian muse, so well Caecilius has told his tale!
XXXVIII AN IMPATIENT PATIENT
Though I, your friend, am very ill indeed, and growing weak,
And suffering the very pangs of hell,
You've never once been near me, never spared the time to speak
Cheering words, or even hope I'd soon be well.
I am far from pleased about it - I consider it a slight
That a friend my bed of pain so plainly flees -
So send forthwith your sympathy - repair your oversight
In sadder words than wrote Simonides!
XXXIX. THE SMILE
Egnatius, whose teeth are very white,
Smiles broadly every time that he appears,
Even beside a prisoner in court
Whose advocate is moving men to tears,
Or at the burial of some good son,
Whose mother mourns her loss on bended knees -
No matter where he finds himself, he smiles;
It's more than habit now - it's a disease!
Egnatius, a whisper in your ear -
It's not polite, it simply isn't done
To flash your teeth in never-ending smiles
By anybody who is anyone!
Were you a Roman born, or Tiburtine,
Sabine, Etruscan, Transpadane like me,
You shouldn't do it, for the greatest fools
On earth are those who smile incessantly -
What? You're a Celtiberiao? I see!
XLIV. A CURE
Be you Sabine or Tiburtine, little country home of mine,
(Some who would not hurt my feelings call you by the latter name,
While those, who like to wound the hearts of others if they can, combine
To call you Sabine) let me say how very glad I am I came
To your quiet rural beauty where I knew I'd soon shake off
What my belly made me catch, and serve me right, a hacking cough.
That's what came of hankering too fondly after food and drink -
When asked to dine with Sestius a speech of his I read,
Reeking with bile and spleen, I vow, writ large in vitriolic ink,
'Gainst Antius, the candidate. A cold assailed me in the head,
And, as I said before, I caught a very nasty hacking cough,
But now your peacefulness and calm, plus nettle tea, have passed it off.
Wherefore take my grateful thanks that you have never tried to gain
Your vengeance on your master, who has owned to his mistake.
Nor shall I crave your mercy now, if I offend by chance again
And pile his dreadful books upon my shelves until they bend and break -
I hope that this will bring to him and not to me the vile catarrh
And cough - he only asks me when I've read the dullest books there are!
XLV. SEPTIMIUS AND ACME
He held her close against his breast and whispered soft and low
"Heart of my heart, my little one, I love you, love you so!
For ever and for ever, dear, no matter where I stand;
In darkest Africa maybe, or India's coral strand,
Or even should I chance to meet, while wandering out there,
A green-eyed lion, I'd think of you, and thus confound his stare"!
And as he spoke these words, Love smiled; the god was very pleased,
And from the left toward the right in approbation sneezed.
Then Acme, tilting back her head to kiss his tender eyes
With lips like parted rose-buds which the golden sunlight dyes,
Said, "Constant slaves of sovran Love we'll be, for in me glows
A greater and a fiercer fire than e'er Vesuvius knows.
Your love for me is very great I know, but it is true
That yours is no whit greater than the love I bear for you"!
And as she spoke these words, Love smiled, and delicately sneezed
From left to right to indicate that he was very pleased!
Now started on their favoured way they render love for love;
Septimius prefers his bride to all your stars above.
Your Britains and your Syrias, your rich and fertile fields,
And to Septimius alone his loyal Acme yields
Herself in love, for love's delights and passion's pleasures rare
Afford a never-ceasing joy to this delightful pair:
None ever saw two people happier than these two are,
For love could not have flowered 'neath a better omened star!
XLVI. A PARTING OF THE WAYS
Spring is here again and brings us warmth unfrozen, while the gale
Slowly dies away in stillness, and the western breezes blow,
Leave behind the Phrygian plains, Catullus, and Nicaea's vale,
Fertile though it be, and turn to Asian cities that you know.
Taken unawares by joy, my soul, impatient to be free,
Quickens, and with gladness do my eager feet at random roam;
Fare ye well, my joyous comrades - now the time has come that we
Take the diverse roads that call us, who together came from home.
XLVII. BAD HATS!
Socration and Porcius, ye pilferers of Piso,
The true lean kine and murrain of the earth,
Say, did he think, the lecherous old devil, it could be so
When he rated you as being of greater worth
Than my dear friend Veranius, my schoolfellow Fabullus?
Did you often start debauch ere close of day?
And speak the honest truth now - do not think that you can gull us -
Did they seek your invitations by the way?
XLIX TO CICERO
Most eloquent of Romulus' descendants
That were, are now, and ever more shall be,
Catullus, who is far the worst of poets,
Presents his humble gratitude to thee,
Catullus, quite as much the worst of poets
As thou art ranked the flower of orat'ry!
L. A BAD NIGHT
Licinius, in idle mood we sported yesterday,
And wrote our little verses, since we'd sworn ourselves to play;
We used this measure first, now that, before we drank our wine,
And then you left to seek your rest, and I in search of mine;
Your brilliance and humour all my eager soul inspired,
And I could not enjoy my food, nor sleep, although so tired,
But in a wild delirium I tossed about my bed,
And counted all the endless hours that wracked my aching head.
I longed for dawn, Licinius, to be with you once more,
That we might jest together, as upon the night before,
But, weary with their torment, when my limbs were well-nigh dead,
I gladly wrote this verse for you while lying on my bed,
To tell you all about it, in the hope that you would see
That I had passed the livelong night in sheerest agony!
Make haste, my friend, and answer me, and do not jest with Fate,
That most impulsive goddess, who is quickly moved to hate!
LIII. CALVUS
I had to laugh the other day - a fellow in the crowd,
When Calvus had completed a magnificent address,
Raised high his hands above his head - "Great Gods"! he cried
aloud,
"This little Cupid Calvus is an orator, no less"!
LX. HARD HEARTED
Say, was a lioness your dam in Libya's mountains wide,
Or Scylla with a bellyful of barking dogs within,
With mind so vile and cruel that you rudely wave aside
The anguish of a suppliant with a contemptuous grin?
Unnatural and evil that you are,
That heart of yours is hard, too hard by far!
LXXXIV. AITCHES
He said "Hadvantage" when he meant "Advantage";
"Hambush" instead of "Ambush" he would say.
Yet Arrius always thought that he was speaking
Quite a la mode, in a superior way -
Especially when "Hambush" he declaimed
As loudly as he could, quite unashamed.
Oh well! Why not? For all his blood-relations -
His mother, uncle, grandparents attest
By their own way of speech t'was inborn in him.
He went to Syria. We had a rest -
(At least, our ears did!) Now, these words were spoken
Softly and smoothly - a delight to hear -
When, on a sudden, a pernicious rumour
Fell like a thunderclap upon the ear,
Telling of Arrius, and saying he
Had now discovered the "Hionian" Sea!
XCIII. AN EPIGRAM
It's too much trouble, Caesar,
To please you. To be fair,
I don't know if you're black or white -
And I'm bothered if I care!
XCV. NINE YEARS HARD!
Nine harvests past and over,
Nine winters all gone by,
Since Cinna started "Zmyrna" -
And now demonstrably
It's finished. While Hortensius
May write, in just one span,
Five hundred thousand verses,
We'll find that "Zmyrna" can
(And will) reach where Satrachus
His unplumbed waters rolled,
And "Zmyrna" will be read when Time
Is really grey and old.
The "Annals" of Volusius
At Padua will die,
Where erst they saw the light of day -
Make wrappings for fish pie!
The small mementos of our friends
Are always dear to us -
No matter how the mob enjoy
That ass Antimachus!
XCVI. CONDOLENCE
Dear Calvus, if into the silent tomb
Can steal some satisfaction, even joy,
Developed from our sense of utter loss,
When, tenderly remembering, we know
Again old passions, and at times we weep
For friendships, bade farewell to long ago,
Surely that sorrow which Quintilia feels
For summer fading, such as her befell
Can never, never, never be compared
With happiness she has, knowing your love.