Seriously Playful: Philosophy in the Myths of Ovid's Metamorphoses

Seriously Playful: Philosophy in the Myths of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

Megan Beasley, B.A. (Hons)

This thesis is presented for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy of Classics of The University of Western Australia

School of Humanities Discipline of Classics and Ancient History

2012

For my parents

Abstract

This thesis aims to lay to rest arguments about whether Ovid is or is not a philosophical poet in the Metamorphoses. It does so by differentiating between philosophical poets and poetic philosophers; the former write poetry freighted with philosophical discourse while the latter write philosophy in a poetic medium. Ovid, it is argued, should be categorised as a philosophical poet, who infuses philosophical ideas from various schools into the Metamorphoses, producing a poem that, all told, neither expounds nor attacks any given philosophical school, but rather uses philosophy to imbue its constituent myths with greater wit, poignancy and psychological realism. Myth and philosophy are interwoven so intricately that it is impossible to separate them without doing violence to Ovid’s poem. It is not argued here that the Metamorphoses is a fundamentally serious poem which is enhanced, or marred, by occasional playfulness. Nor is it argued that the poem is fundamentally playful with occasional moments of dignity and high seriousness. Rather, the approach taken here assumes that seriousness and playfulness are so closely connected in the Metamorphoses that they are in fact the same thing. Four major myths from the Metamorphoses are studied here, from structurally significant points in the poem. The “Cosmogony” and the “Speech of Pythagoras” at the beginning and end of the poem have long been recognised as drawing on philosophy, and discussion of these two myths forms the beginning and end of the thesis. Much scholarly work on these two myths has focused on the natural philosophical material, and this thesis accordingly addresses the need for work on other philosophical topics such as ethics and epistemology. In addition to this philosophical ‘frame’, however, two myths from the inner books are also studied, the “Musomachia” and the “Orpheus”. The length and position of these four myths imply that they are of particular importance in the poem as whole. In order to draw out the connections between the four myths and trace the development of themes over the course of the Metamorphoses, the sequence of the myths in the poem has been followed in the structure of the thesis.

Table of Contents Acknowledgements ...... 11

Abbreviations and Ancient Sources ...... 13

Introduction ...... 15

i) Philosophy in the Metamorphoses...... 15

iii) The Intertextual Method ...... 27

iv) Myths from the Four Quarters of the Poem ...... 31

v) A Kaleidoscope of Competing Positions ...... 43

Part 1 ...... 45

Chapter 1: The Creation ...... 47

i) The Limits of the “Cosmogony” ...... 50

ii) Framing the Metamorphoses ...... 52

iii) Antiquum Chaos ...... 53

iv) A Poetic Cosmos ...... 57

v) Crafting the Cosmos ...... 59

vi) Zoogony...... 65

vii) Anthropogony ...... 69

Conclusion ...... 73

Chapter 2: Myths of the Cosmogony ...... 77

i) The Four Ages ...... 79

ii) Lycaon and the Gigantomachy ...... 84

iii) The Flood ...... 98

Conclusion ...... 108

Part 2 ...... 111

Chapter 3: The “Musomachia” ...... 113

i) Pyreneus ...... 115

ii) The “Musomachia” and Gigantomachy ...... 118

iii) Ontological Status in the “Musomachia” ...... 122

iii) Truth and Deception ...... 128 7

iv) The Song Contest ...... 132

Conclusion ...... 137

Chapter 4: The “Rape of Persephone” ...... 139

i) Venus ...... 141

ii) The Seasons ...... 143

iii) Agriculture ...... 145

iv) Renewal...... 149

v) The Stellio and the Bubo: Two Unheeded Warnings ...... 153

vi) Arethusa ...... 157

vii) Lucretian Reminiscences ...... 158

Conclusion ...... 160

Part 3 ...... 165

Chapter 5: The Life and Death of Orpheus ...... 167

i) The Divine and the Human ...... 168

ii) The Nature of Humanity ...... 184

iii) The Natural World ...... 193

Conclusion ...... 197

Chapter 6: The “Song of Orpheus” ...... 201

i) Grief among the Gods ...... 203

ii) A Prophylactic Love Song? ...... 209

iii) Perverted Love ...... 223

Conclusion ...... 234

Part 4 ...... 237

Chapter 7: Pythagoras’ Physics ...... 239

i) Pythagoras’ Introduction ...... 242

ii) The Elements ...... 247

iii) Continuity Through Change...... 250

iv) Animals ...... 257

v) The Mirabilia ...... 259 8

Conclusion ...... 268

Chapter 8: Pythagoras’ Ethics and Epistemology ...... 271

i) The Sources of Knowledge ...... 272

ii) A Vegetarian Golden Age ...... 284

iii) Death ...... 292

iv) A Pythagorean Utopia ...... 296

Conclusion ...... 301

Conclusion ...... 303

i) The Struggle for Truth and Knowledge ...... 305

ii) On the Nature of Gods, Humans and Animals ...... 308

iii) Ovid’s Use of Philosophy ...... 313

Bibliography ...... 317

Acknowledgements

I would like to acknowledge my supervisors, Professor Yasmin Haskell and Dr Neil O’Sullivan. Only Professor Haskell knows how much time and effort she has devoted to me, and her many suggestions have improved my thesis immeasurably. I am also grateful to Professor Haskell for organising numerous teaching opportunities and arranging for me to stay in Oxford for three months. Also, a very great debt indeed is owed to Professor Rob Stuart, the Graduate Research Coordinator for his endless and unfailing support. And special thanks are due to Dr Judith Maitland, who kindly and energetically took over the role of supervisor on a temporary basis while Professor Haskell was overseas, and to the Classics Secretary, Mr Richard Small, who has always gone above and beyond the call of duty in his willingness to help. I would also like to take this opportunity to thank the staff and fellow postgraduates of the Department of Classics and Ancient History for the stimulating and encouraging research culture they promote, and to acknowledge the patience and enthusiasm of my students while I was learning my craft. Naturally, any faults which remain are the sole responsibility of myself. Without the unfailing assistance from staff in the Reid Library, this thesis could never have been written. The staff in charge of the Inter-Library Loan System, in particular, retrieved resources in an astonishingly short space of time, making my task much easier than it would otherwise have been. I am equally indebted to the staff of the Bodleian, Sackler and Christchurch College Libraries in Oxford, all of whom provided invaluable assistance to an Antipodean postgraduate bewildered by the intricacies of the Oxford system. My gratitude is due to those scholars outside of the University of Western Australia who have rendered invaluable assistance, most of all to Professor David Konstan, who read many chapters and provided not only useful and interesting resources, but an incalculable amount of feedback and encouragement. Dr Myrto Garani, Dr Kathryn Balsley and Dr Leah Tomkins all kindly allowed me access to unpublished work. I would also like to thank the countless scholars and fellow postgraduates who attended various seminars and conferences, providing lively feedback which has improved my work.

Finally, and most of all, I wish to thank my family. My parents supported and encouraged me to an extent which it is impossible to quantify or describe. My grandmother, Mrs Eunice van Emden, proofread the entire thesis on several occasions and the emotional support provided by my fiancé and my brother has enabled me to withstand setbacks with more equanimity than I thought possible. I am also grateful for the insights into the academic system provided by my parents and grandparents, with their long association with academic institutions.

Abbreviations and Ancient Sources

Journal titles are abbreviated in accordance with L’année philologique. The names and titles of classical authors are abbreviated in accordance with the Oxford Classical Dictionary (3rd Edition).

Quotations from Presocratic sources are from Diels, H. & Kranz, W. (1954) Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker, Berlin: Weidmannsche Verlagsbuchhandlung, abbreviated to DK. All other Greek quotes and all Latin quotes are from the Loeb Classical Library series, unless otherwise stated. Translations are also taken from the Loeb Classical Library, unless otherwise stated.

Introduction

i) Philosophy in the Metamorphoses

The question of Ovid’s use of philosophy is a particularly polarising one, perhaps because scholars rarely explain what they mean by the concept of a ‘philosophical poet’. One of the exceptions is Volk, for whom a philosophical poet is a poet who espouses a single doctrine and has a clear, unified ‘message’, a poet like Lucretius or Empedocles. On this interpretation, ‘Ovid is anything but a philosophical poet – his fundamental irony prevents him from holding a single position for too long – and there is no point in trying to isolate in his work something like a larger message.’1 And yet, in the past few decades, there has been an increasing number of studies on Ovid’s use of philosophy in the Metamorphoses.2 In order to reconcile Volk’s uncompromising position with these studies, let us propose another kind of philosophical poet, a poet whose work engages with contemporary philosophical topics and debates, but who does not himself either propound or attack a single doctrine. Most of the studies of Ovid’s debt to philosophy concentrate on the passages of natural philosophy found in the “Cosmogony” of the first book and the “Speech of

1 K. Volk (2010) Ovid, Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, p.65. 2 E.g. C.P. Segal (1969a) ‘Myth and Philosophy in the Metamorphoses: Ovid's Augustanism and the Augustan Conclusion of Book XV’ in AJP 90.3: 257-292; R. McKim (1984) ‘Myth against Philosophy in Ovid’s Account of Creation’ in CJ 80.2: 97-108; P.R. Hardie (1988) ‘Lucretius and the Delusions of Narcissus’ in MD 20-21: 71-89; K.S. Myers (1994) Ovid’s Causes: Cosmogony and Aetiology in the Metamorphoses, Michigan: Michigan UP; P.R. Hardie (1995) ‘The Speech of Pythagoras in Ovid Metamorphoses 15: Empedoclean Epos’ in CQ n.s. 45.1: 204-214; C.P. Segal (2001) ‘Intertextuality and Immortality: Ovid, Pythagoras and Lucretius in Metamorphoses 15’ in MD 46: 63-101; A. Schiesaro (2002) ‘Ovid and the Professional Discourses of Scholarship, Religion, Rhetoric’ in P.R. Hardie (2002a): 62-75. Unfortunately, it has not been possible to consult the initial volumes of the new multi-author commentary edited by Alessandro Barchiesi. 15

Pythagoras” in the last.3 As a result of this work, a consensus is developing that these two passages form a pair, and their relation to the rest of the poem is a source of much critical discussion. There is still, however, an urgent need for an analysis of philosophy in the rest of the Metamorphoses, in order to develop an understanding of the presence and influence of philosophy on the poem as a whole. Placed at the beginning and end of the poem, the paired passages of the “Cosmogony” and the “Speech of Pythagoras” are sometimes referred to as a ‘philosophical frame’ for the whole poem4 – even though the “Speech of Pythagoras” is not the final episode in the Metamorphoses. There is a great deal of debate over the nature of this frame, and it will be argued here that the overt philosophical colouring of the frame should alert us to philosophical nuances in the inner myths, without imposing a coherent doctrine on the poem.

ii.i) Natural Philosophy

The parallels between the “Cosmogony” and the “Speech” are readily apparent, and it is natural to read them as a pair. The question that exercises critics is whether this philosophical frame provides a frame of reference within which to read the intervening myths, or a contrast to the myths. Does the philosophy of the frame also permeate the Metamorphoses, or is it an alternative form of discourse, used only for the two passages of the frame, perhaps as an example of generic variatio? Both positions are defended, but there are few works that attempt to show in detail how the internal myths reflect or oppose the natural philosophy of the frame. Philip Hardie’s article ‘The Delusions of Narcissus’ is one of the few to look for philosophy in the internal myths, discussing how the Epicurean doctrine of simulacra is used in the myth of Narcissus.5 Although few scholars explicitly attempt the philosophical reading invited by the frame, those who do so tend to look for natural philosophy, for physics or cosmology.6 This focus on natural philosophy is, perhaps, influenced by the overtly

3 E.g. P. DeLacy (1947) Philosophical Doctrine and Poetic Technique in Ovid’ in CJ 43.3: 153-161; Hardie (1995); McKim (1984); Myers (1994); Segal (1969a); Segal (2001); S.M. Wheeler (1995b) ‘Ovid’s Use of Lucretius in Metamorphoses 1.67-8’ in CQ n.s. 45.1: 200-203. 4 Hardie (1995), pp. 210-11. 5 Hardie (1988). 6 The cosmic themes in the Phaethon myth are discussed by R. Coleman (1971) ‘Structure and Intention in the Metamorphoses’ in CQ n.s. 21.2: 461-477; S.M. Wheeler (1995a) ‘Imago Mundi: Another View of the Creation in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ in AJP 116.1: 95-121 and R. Brown (1987) ‘The Palace of the Sun in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ in M. Whitby, P. Hardie & M. Whitby (1987): 211-220. The cosmic 16

physical material at the beginning and end of the poem. And yet, even within the frame, physics is not presented exclusively; ethics, in the form of vegetarianism, is in fact the ostensible reason for Pythagoras’ “Speech”. The ethics of Pythagoras’ “Speech”, however, are easily displaced from centre stage by the charge that vegetarianism could not have been taken seriously.7 Thus, the only truly ‘serious’, philosophical material left in the “Speech” is the physics. We are thus presented with a philosophical frame consisting of the physical section of the “Cosmogony” (1.5-88) and a “Speech of Pythagoras” stripped of all but its physical philosophy. The tendency of critics to look exclusively for natural philosophy is thus given textual support by the expurgated frame of natural philosophy. What, then, if we were to take a different view of the frame? What, if we were to accept that Pythagoras’ primary concern is, in fact, with ethics? The dismissal of vegetarianism as trivial and ridiculous – a dismissal in need of further argument8 – should not automatically be taken to compromise the ethical tone of Pythagoras’ “Speech”. Whether Ovid’s contemporaries might have agreed with the importance placed on vegetarianism or not – and such contemporaries might not have found the physical material compelling either, but would still have considered it to belong to natural philosophy – the fact remains that Pythagoras subordinates his doctrine of the transmigration of souls to the ethical behaviour that such a doctrine ought to inspire. Knowledge of the nature of the universe, of life and death, is thus presented as being important primarily insofar as it governs action. One’s behaviour must be based on principles drawn from an understanding de rerum natura, and such understanding is valuable because it leads to the principles on which ethical behaviour must be founded. This, indeed, is an eminently defensible philosophical position, also held by Epicurus and Lucretius. As will be shown in Part 4, it is ethics, not physics, that is Pythagoras’ primary concern.

importance of the Rape of Persephone is discussed by S. Hinds (1987) The Metamorphosis of Persephone: Ovid and the Self-Conscious Muse, Cambridge: CUP. 7 So Segal (1969a), p.281-83. 8 Segal claims that ‘Pythagorean vegetarianism [...] seems to have been a point of special ridicule in Roman literature’, basing this claim on a few lines in the satires of Juvenal and Horace, Sat.3.228-39 and Sat. 2.6.63 respectively. However, in his On Abstinence from Killing Animals, Porphyry states that philosophical attacks on vegetarianism have been advanced by Peripatetics, Stoics and Epicureans (De abst. 1.3.3). While this work is much later than Ovid, dating to the third century AD, Porphyry argues for a long history of philosophical debate over vegetarianism. Such a debate weakens Segal’s claim that vegetarianism was most often ‘satirized as mildly inane.’ (Segal (1969a), p.281). Porphyry, of course, has an interest in presenting vegetarianism as a live topic, but if he is right, the philosophers would scarcely have bothered to argue against something trivial. 17

However, even if we read the “Speech of Pythagoras” ethically, does this ethical concern appears only at the end of the poem? If the frame offers a field of reference for the poem as a whole, it is only on a rereading that we would be prepared for ethical philosophy – assuming that the “Cosmogony” is an exclusively physical passage.9 Certainly it is difficult to perceive any substantial focus on ethics in lines 1.5-88. We should, however, take a closer look at the limits of the Creation passage. Editors mark the “Cosmogony” as ending at 1.88, because that is the point at which the creation of the physical world is complete. Is it not, therefore, rather circular to argue that the “Cosmogony” passage – whose limits have been decided on the basis of physical philosophy – is exclusively physical because it ends when the overt natural philosophy ends? In fact, of course, 1.88 is not the last of the overt natural philosophy – that comes after the flood in the spontaneous (re-)generation of animals, which is described in terms ‘very close to ancient physical theories involving the generation of life from the interaction of the elements of heat and water in the earth’.10 Moreover, on stylistic grounds we might object to the concept of a frame in which the first part consists of 84 lines and the second of over 400 lines. This seems greatly unbalanced. If we change the limits of the “Cosmogony” passage, we can at least balance the two halves of this putative frame more neatly and include the passage on spontaneous generation. By extending the “Cosmogony” beyond the limits of physical creation up until the end of the Flood, we can include the theodicy myths of Lycaon and Deucalion. Both the “Cosmogony” and the “Speech of Pythagoras” would then include both ethical and physical material and these episodes would also be commensurate in size. The extension of the “Cosmogony” will be argued for in greater detail in Chapter 1. For now, let it be noted that it is possible to construct a frame which includes ethics in both halves, avoiding the tendency to focus only on natural philosophy. If the frame is not limited to natural philosophy, the implicit scholarly preoccupation with purely physical discussions is challenged, and a critical space is created for readings which include other branches of philosophy.

9 Compare Winkler’s comments on the rereading of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: ‘The reader who has thoroughly enjoyed the novel, but who is unsettled by this conclusion [in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses], may well be stimulated to re-read it and look for some premonitory patterns which, in hindsight at least, might seem to lead up to the conclusion’ (J. Winkler (1979) ‘Auctor and Actor: Apuleius and His Metamorphosis’ in Pacific Coast Philology 14: 84-91, p.85). 10 Myers (1994), pp.43-44. McKim sees this spontaneous generation as rather an example of the fertility of the imagination, completing ‘the poem’s progress from the sterility of Reason to the fertility of the imagination,’ (McKim (1984), p.108). Myers, however, is surely right to emphasise the connections with natural philosophy. 18

ii.ii) Gathering Ideas Like Bees

According to DeLacy in a very early article,11 a variety of philosophical doctrines was available to the Augustan poets; Lucretius and Cicero provided systematic presentations of the Epicurean, Stoic and Academic philosophies, while the works of Plato, Aristotle and Epicurus were widely available. The philosophical practice of eclecticism, noted by Marietta,12 clearly continues into the Roman period, since Seneca advises us to imitate bees, gathering knowledge from various sources and harmonising it into a single doctrine (nos quoque has apes debemus imitari et [...] adhibita ingenii nostri cura et facultate in unum saporem varia illa libamenta confundere, Ep. 84.5), although Seneca is not talking specifically about philosophy. Horace, however, in Epistles 14-19 does adopt philosophical eclecticism. Moles observes that ‘Horace’s eclecticism (problematic but useful term) must be taken seriously, because it parallels his refusal to be “included within any (poetical) ludus”.’13 For Horace, eclecticism ‘has obvious structural advantages, allowing the relatively unprejudiced exploration of a range of philosophical alternatives’14 and it is likely that Ovid will take advantage of eclecticism in a similar manner, using a variety of philosophical ideas and approaches in different situations. Rosenmeyer acknowledges that ‘‘[i]t is too commonly thought unless a writer advocates a consistent and easily identifiable philosophical position, his work cannot be said to be marked significantly by that philosophy.’15 The continuing tradition of eclecticism in Rome should restrain us from making such a serious mistake as to expect philosophical consistency in the case of Ovid. There is, of course, little chance of that with a poem as varied as the Metamorphoses. As early as DeLacy, it has been argued that Ovid has no interest in philosophy as such, using philosophical doctrines only as support for individual episodes and making no effort to connect these individual episodes in terms of philosophy.16 According to him, ‘[i]t is the effect, not the philosophy, that is primary

11 DeLacy (1947), pp.153-154. 12 D.E. Marietta Jr. (1998) Introduction to Ancient Philosophy, New York: M.E. Sharp, p.134. 13 Moles, J. (2002) ‘Poetry, Philosophy, Politics and Play’ in T. Woodman & D. Feeney (edd.) (2002) Traditions and Contexts in the Poetry of Horace, Cambridge: CUP: 141-157, p. 148. 14 Moles (2002), p.149. 15 T.G. Rosenmeyer (1989) Senecan Drama and Stoic Cosmology, Berkeley: California UP, p.xiii. 16 DeLacy (1947), p.155. 19

for Ovid’,17 and the effect of philosophical allusions will naturally vary with each use, as will the philosophy used. DeLacy argues that Ovid is familiar with and interested in contemporary philosophy, but ‘[does] not engage in the kind of systematic inquiry and reasoning that one expects of a philosopher’.18 Currie agrees with DeLacy, also arguing that ‘[p]hilosophical sectarianism has no place in his writings, but traces of some philosophical doctrines or other culled from one of the schools do appear fitfully’19 Currie does, however, cite Slater as disagreeing with this prevailing view and as maintaining ‘that the Pythagorean doctrine of the kinship of all animate things influenced the conception of the poem and that a unifying notion, “the interchange and interplay of all life in the world”, runs through the whole vast work, harmonizing its parts’.20 DeLacy’s observation of a lack of philosophical coherence is uncontroversial, but there may be a purpose in this incoherence beyond mere ‘effect’. More recently, Schiesaro has argued that Ovid’s attitude to philosophical doctrine shows an ‘in-depth knowledge of different traditions and very little inclination to adopt wholesale a coherent view of the world’.21 In Schiesaro’s insightful analysis, Ovid ‘drowns his predecessors’ fundamentalist certainties in a whirlwind of competing accounts and elusive contradictions’.22 Myers agrees with Schiesaro that Ovid ‘is exploring the validity of alternate modes of explanation for the world: epic and philosophical, scientific and mythological’.23 She argues for Ovid, as Kronenberg does for Vergil, that Ovid attempts ‘to expose the difficulty of trying to make sense at all of his world through either of these traditional means [philosophy and myth]’.24 This position means that Ovid, by denying the exclusive validity of either philosophy or theology, focuses attention on those explanatory models, and his ‘competing accounts and elusive contradictions’ forbid any simplistic definition of either myth or philosophy. Neither is allowed to dominate, and the resulting loss of certainty and faith (in either myth or philosophy) encourages speculation on the validity of each.

17 DeLacy (1947), p.159. 18 DeLacy (1947),, p.160. 19 H. Currie (1964) ‘Ovid’s Personality’ in CJ 59.4: 245-155, p.152. 20 Slater, Ovid in the Metamorphoses (Occasional publications of the Classical association, undated), cited in Currie (1964), p.152. Colavito also argues that the whole poem is suffused with Pythagoreanism (M.M. Colavito (1989) The Pythagorean Intertext in Ovid’s Metamorphoses: A New Interpretation, Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press). 21 Schiesaro (2002), pp. 63-64. 22 Schiesaro (2002), p.63. 23 Myers (1994), pp.20-21. 24 Myers (1994), p.136. 20

McKim comes to a similar view with regard to philosophy, arguing that Ovid examines the validity of philosophy and finds it wanting, and that he holds myth up as preferable. He claims that ‘if we consider Ovid’s cosmogony in relation to his ensuing account of the creation and early history of man, we will [...] discover that the poet assumes the role of the philosopher in a spirit of irreverent irony, and that his purpose is to expose philosophy as inferior to myth in its understanding of man and his world’.25 McKim’s argument, however, is limited by the fact that he confines himself to a study of the Cosmogony. He does not consider whether this apparently privileged status of myth continues throughout the poem. Schiesaro and Myers have the advantage of a broader view, which leads to a more penetrating analysis. McKim prefigures Myers and Schiesaro in his conclusion that ‘Ovid’s knowledge of past cosmogonies is haphazard and superficial, and that he was sublimely indifferent to the conflicting truth-claims of the hodge-podge of theories which he conflates’,26 but he implies that this incoherence entails a rejection of philosophy. Myers and Schiesaro are more cautious and do not make ‘coherence’ the criterion for a serious engagement with philosophy. Myers traces the way in which Ovid suggests ‘that his fantastic metamorphoses are somehow part of a natural process’ by using language suggestive of natural philosophy.27 His purpose, she posits, is to exploit ‘the incongruity of applying to these fantastic mythical stories language borrowed from natural-philosophical poetry, especially that of Lucretius, while simultaneously engaging in the debate over authority between physics and poetry in which his predecessors had been involved’28 (note again the focus on natural philosophy). DeLacy has asserted that no school of ancient philosophy would have accepted the mythical metamorphoses on philosophical grounds,29 concluding that Ovid cannot have intended his philosophical insertions to explain the myths and that he must consequently have had another purpose. In a context in which the philosophy cannot explain the myth, philosophy loses its explanatory power and becomes no more authoritative than myth. In placing myth and philosophy together and refusing to give pre-eminence to either, Ovid problematises the validity of both. Gee provides an instance of this interest in Fasti 4 where the Parilia is given seven possible explanations, ‘coming from natural science (fire as purifier),

25 McKim (1984), p.97. 26 McKim (1984), pp.97-98. 27 Myers (1994), p.56. 28 Myers (1994), p.27. 29 DeLacy (1947), p.157. 21

philosophy (fire and water as opposing elements), Roman custom, Greek myth, Roman myth, Roman history’.30 None of these explanations is presented as any more or less likely than any other, so that science, philosophy, myth and tradition are equally valid modes of explanation. While the general consensus is that the Metamorphoses neither presents nor attacks a coherent philosophical doctrine, more recent scholarship has begun to see this lack of coherence as a meaningful feature of the poem in its own right. In 1969, Segal attempted to forestall the interpretation of incoherence as meaningful, saying that ‘[i]t might be possible to argue that these inconsistencies are intended merely to suggest the range of possibilities open to man and the diversity of human nature. [...] But such schemes do not form part of any consistent pattern, nor do they really touch the essence of the poem.’31 However, it is not clear why we should look for a consistent pattern when attempting to explain inconsistency. The research exploring Ovid’s use of philosophy has quite recently been freed from its insistence on coherence, but it is still limited by the concentration on natural philosophy. There is a need for work exploring philosophy in the Metamorphoses with a broader focus.

ii.iii) Mythos and Logos in Ancient Literature

Let us begin by situating Ovid within a contemporary context in which the meaning of myth is very much a subject for debate, as is its relationship with philosophy. With the publication of Nestle’s Vom Mythos Zum Logos in 1940, scholars came to see myth and reason as mutually incompatible. However, many modern scholars argue for a less exclusive relationship, and nuance the distinction between myth and reason.32 Buxton has recently outlined several strategies for exploring this relationship.33 The most radical, and perhaps least useful, is to argue that the concept of ‘myth’ is a modern Western concept which cannot legitimately be imposed on ancient literature.34 This is a position which at one stroke denies the validity of all work done on myth and reason (and by extension philosophy) in classical literature. More fruitful is the view that we

30 E. Gee (2000) Ovid, Aratus and Augustus: Astronomy in Ovid’s Fasti, Cambridge: CUP, p.122. 31 Segal (1969a), p.265. 32 See esp. R. Buxton (ed.) (1999a) From Myth to Reason? Studies in the Development of Greek Thought, Oxford: OUP. 33 R. Buxton (1999b) ‘Introduction’ in R. Buxton (1999a): 1-21, pp.6-11. 34 Buxton (1999b), pp.10-11. Claude Calame is an exponent of this position. 22

should explore the use and meaning the mythos-logos opposition in the ancient period, rather than simply denying its existence.35 In her discussion of Ovid’s use of philosophy, Myers finds that mythological poetry ‘at a very early stage was granted autonomy by both critics and poets’,36 and goes on to discuss the ancient critical tradition of poetry as falsum or fabula,37 a tradition which presupposes a distinction between mythos and logos. In this tradition, there are three narrative forms, arranged according to ‘their assumed degree of verisimilitude’,38 as described by Quintilian. Quintilian lists, in increasing order of truthfulness, fabulae, argumenta and historiae, with fabulae including carmina and described as non a veritate modo, sed etiam a forma veritatis remota (Institutio oratoria 2.4.2). Quintilian’s neat differentiation appears to leave no theoretical room for any crossing of these categories. Nevertheless, in practice these categories are transgressed, either through allegory or through what Most has called rhetoric.39 Where allegory attempts to uncover a hidden meaning, revealing truth in something superficially false, rhetoric disregards truth entirely, focusing on effect. Plato rejects allegory in the Republic, arguing that children cannot distinguish what is and is not allegory (Rep. 2.378d-e).40 His own work, however, implies that philosophically instructed adults may understand and appreciate allegory, since he regularly uses myth in his philosophical works, especially the Republic itself. For Smith, if the dialogues ‘are a portrayal of the philosophic quest, the very presence of myth in the dialogues indicates that it has contributions to make to this quest’.41 She suggests that, for Plato, myth, through both its content and its form, provokes further investigation in order to separate truth from fiction.42 Plato’s employment of myth, such as the myth of Er at the end of the Republic, suggests that for him it could be a vehicle for truth;43 indeed, Socrates says that the stories told to children are mostly

35 Buxton (1999b), pp.6-7. This approach is exemplified by T.K. Johansen (1999) ‘Myth and Logos in Aristotle’ in R. Buxton (1999a): 279-291. 36 Myers (1994), p.49-50. 37 Myers (1994), pp.50-51. 38 Myers (1994), p.50. 39 G.W. Most (1999b) ‘The Poetics of Early Greek Philosophy’ in A.A. Long (1999a): 332-362, p.341. 40 ὁ γὰρ νέος οὐχ οἷός τε κρίνειν ὅτι τε ὑπόνοια καὶ ὃ μή, ἀλλ᾽ ἃ ἂν τηλικοῦτος ὢν λάβῃ ἐν ταῖς δόξαις δυσέκνιπτά τε καὶ ἀμετάστατα φιλεῖ γίγνεσθαι (Rep. 2.378d-e). 41 Smith, (1986) ‘Plato’s Use of Myth in the Education of Philosophic Man’ in Phoenix 40.1: 20-34, p.25. 42 Smith (1986), pp.20-34. 43 We should, perhaps, compare Lucretius’ idea that poetic language, including myth, has a function for adults analogous to the function that honey has on the rim of medicine cups given to children (DRN 4.12- 19). 23

fictional, but contain some truth (Rep. 2.377a).44 This is a precursor to Quintilian’s definition, in that ‘problematic truth status is a characteristic of myth’, although in this case mythos, as Murray says, ‘is nevertheless a kind of logos’.45 Socrates’ objection to some myths, such as the myth of Cronos’ mutilation of his father Ouranos, proves that, for Plato, the truth status of myth is not central to its value.46 Rather, Socrates argues that such a myth should be condemned ‘even if it were true’ because it portrays unacceptable behaviour (Rep. 2.378a).47 This exemplifies the focus on effect, rather than on intrinsic meaning, which Most has identified as the defining feature of a rhetorical interpretation of myth.48 What matters is ‘the moral and social purpose which the myth is designed to achieve’.49 Plato does not use myth as a ‘last resort’, recognising the necessity of myths and ‘hence the importance of appropriating myth from the domination of the poets’, as Murray argues.50 Rowe observes that the continual play of myth and logos which Murray uncovers in Plato requires that the distinction between the mythical and the non-mythical ‘must nevertheless somehow survive, battered but intact, if we are to be able to attach any sense to the play’.51 It is, therefore, the enduring distinction between mythos and logos which makes their interaction meaningful. Even when allegory is rejected, myth finds value as an educational tool, modelling appropriate moral and social behaviour. Allegory, however, has a long history, both before and after Plato;52 Porphyry attributes its origin to Theagenes of Rhegium (DK 8 A2).53 Like Plato, Aristotle finds the truth status of myth to be problematic. According to Johansen’s study, Aristotle sometimes uses ‘mythos’ to connote falsehood.54 When Aristotle describes another’s work as mythos, he implicitly rejects that work as false. However, Johansen

44 οὐ μανθάνεις, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ὅτι πρῶτον τοῖς παιδίοις μύθους λέγομεν; τοῦτο δέ που ὡς τὸ ὅλον εἰπεῖν ψεῦδος, ἔνι δὲ καὶ ἀληθῆ. πρότερον δὲ μύθοις πρὸς τὰ παιδία ἢ γυμνασίοις χρώμεθα (Rep. 2.377a). 45 P. Murray (1999) ‘What is a Muthos for Plato?’ in R. Buxton (1999a): 251-262, p.251. 46 Murray (1999), p.252. 47 τὰ δὲ δὴ τοῦ Κρόνου ἔργα καὶ πάθη ὑπὸ τοῦ ὑέος, οὐδ᾽ ἂν εἰ ἦν ἀληθῆ ᾤμην δεῖν ῥᾳδίως οὕτως λέγεσθαι πρὸς ἄφρονάς τε καὶ νέους (Rep. 2.378a). 48 Most (1999b), p.341. 49 Murray (1999), p.254. 50 Murray (1999) pp.257-58. 51 C. Rowe (1999) ‘Myth, History and Dialectic in Plato’s Republic and Timaeus-Critias’ in R. Buxton (1999a): 263-278, p.278. 52 See, e.g. R. Lamberton (1989) Homer the Theologian: Neoplatonist Allegorical Reading and the Growth of the Epic Tradition, Berkeley: California UP; R. Lamberton & J.J. Keaney (edd.) (1992) Homer’s Ancient Readers, Princeton: Princeton UP and G.R. Boys-Stones (ed) (2003a) Metaphor, Allegory, and the Classical Tradition: Ancient Thought and Modern Revisions, Oxford: OUP. 53 Gale observes that Theagenes’ floruit ‘seems to have ben roughly contemporary with Xenophanes [an early critic of Homer’s immoral gods], suggesting that allegorism was put forward as a defence of Homer almost as soon as criticism of his “impiety” began’ (Gale (1994), p.22). 54 Johansen (1999), p.282. 24

demonstrates that this method serves to obscure continuities in thought or practice between the rejected rival and Aristotle himself.55 Further, Aristotle is shown to consider myth as ‘an attempt to answer the same questions as science’,56 and consequently to be worth close examination rather than outright dismissal.57 This leads Aristotle to an allegorical interpretation of myth, as he attempts to uncover the embedded theories. Poetry becomes ‘something more philosophical and of graver import than history’ since ‘history remains at the level of the particular, limited to description as faithful as possible, while poetry rises from the particular to the universal’.58 Allegorical interpretation of myth is particularly taken up by Stoicism, one of the more influential philosophical schools in Rome.59 By the Hellenistic period, therefore, there is an entrenched ambivalence about myth and its use. This discussion about the meaning of myth continues in Roman literature. In his De natura deorum, Cicero refers to Stoic allegory several times, presenting both Stoic and anti-Stoic views (DND 1.14.36, 41; 2.24.62, 64-28.72; 3.24.62). Brisson has recently identified two main types of Stoic allegory in the DND: cosmological or metaphysical allegory and historical/geographical (which he terms ‘realist’) allegory.60 In the DND, the Epicurean spokesman Velleius criticises Stoic metaphysical allegory for anachronism, since it turns early poets such as Homer and Hesiod into Stoic philosophers (DND 1.39-41). Drawing on the moralising allegorisation of Homer, Horace takes a more cautious approach in Epistle 1.2.1-31, arguing that Homer presents us with examples of human foolishness and wisdom and is a more useful guide to right living than are philosophers such as Chrysippus and Crantor (qui quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non, / planius ac melius Chrysippo et Crantore dicit, Ep. 1.2,3-4). However, while Velleius’ criticism may be valid for allegorical interpretations of early poets, poets writing in the Roman period were well aware of allegory and consequently perfectly capable of writing allegorical myths.61

55 Johansen (1999), p.280. 56 Aristotle argues that both philosophy and myth arise out of a sense of wonder. Metaphysics 982B12- 20. Cited in Johansen (1999), p.284. 57 It should be noted that this definition of mythos is clearly distinct from the technical use of mythos in Aristotle’s Poetics, where the term is defined as the plot of a drama. 58 L. Brisson (2004) How Philosophers Saved Myths: Allegorical Interpretation and Classical Mythology, (trans. C. Tihanyi), Chicago: Chicago UP, p.31. 59 See, e.g., G.R. Boys-Stones (2003c) ‘The Stoics’ Two Types of Allegory’ in G.R. Boys-Stones (2003a): 189-216 and F. Buffiere (1956) Les mythes d’Homère et la pensée grecque, Paris: Les Belles Lettres, esp.pp.138-41. 60 Brisson (2004), p.47. 61 Morgan, for example, argues that Vergil’s Proteus is allegorised (L. Morgan (1999) Patterns of Redemption in Virgil’s Georgics, Cambridge: CUP, pp.75-93. 25

Myers claims that in Rome ‘the development of the epic tradition from Ennius’ Annales… guaranteed that Latin epic poetry would be connected with philosophic speculation, as well as Roman history’,62 and of the two great examples of Roman epic, the De rerum natura and the Aeneid, the first is a philosophical text and the latter is certainly influenced by philosophy – most obviously in the Song of Iopas in Book1 and the Speech of Anchises in Book 6. The influence of philosophy on Roman poetry would have been encouraged by Philodemus, who ‘taught the literary men of the generation of Horace and Vergil (Varius and Tucca, Quintilius Varus, Vergil, probably Horace also)’.63 While it is the opinion of Sider that Epicurean views found in poets after Horace ‘tend to become more literary motifs and borrowings (often from Philodemus)’,64 this does not constitute evidence that such views were not seriously entertained in Rome at this time. Lucretius’ use of myth is well documented by Gale, who argues that he uses it to establish an Epicurean system of interpretation. Lucretius ‘focuses on two groups of myths which are often specifically cited by his contemporaries as examples of stories which no one believes’.65 The obvious fictionality of his chosen myths ensures that they cannot be taken at face value and must, therefore, be interpreted. The interpretation thus becomes central.66 Lucretius interprets myths of the Underworld as projections of mental tortures which are suffered by the foolish (DRN 3.984-1023). Gale argues that this method is rather unusual for Lucretius, in that it approaches allegory.67 Lucretius, indeed, appears to have been rather hostile towards conventional allegory.68 While tending to an allegorical view, however, it also harks back to the Platonic position that any truth recoverable from a myth is less important than its effect. The other group of myths identified by Gale involves myths of composite creatures, such as centaurs or Scyllas. It is with these especially that Lucretius shows how explanation of myth can lead to Epicurean truth: images of composite creatures appear because the simulacra thrown off by individual creatures can adhere to one another in

62 Myers, (1994), pp.52-53 63 D. Armstrong (1995) ‘The Impossibility of Metathesis: Philodemus and Lucretius on Form and Content in Poetry’ in D. Obbink (1995a): 210-232, p.224. 64 D. Sider (1995a) ‘Epicurean Poetics: Response and Dialogue’ in D. Obbink (1995a): 35-41, p.38n11. 65 M.R. Gale (1994) Myth and Poetry in Lucretius, Cambridge: CUP, p.91. 66 Gale (1994), p.94. 67 Gale (1994), pp.93-94. 68 Gale notes that his extended and varied allegorical treatment of the Magna Mater in Book 2 is set at a distance, as something veteres Graium docti cecinere poetae (DRN 2.600) (Gale (1994), pp.27-28). 26

flight (DRN 4.742). In understanding the origin of myths about centaurs, then, Epicurean truth is revealed. Ovid writes in a poetic environment in which the debate over the meaning of myth is still active. Plato has conceded poetry some educational value, while Aristotle attributes philosophical value to poetry. 69 Among Roman poets, models of philosophy in poetry are provided by Vergil and, particularly, Lucretius, while the importance of including philosophy in poetry is explicitly stated in Horace’s Ars poetica: scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fons / rem tibi Socraticae poterunt ostendere chartae (AP 309-10).

iii) The Intertextual Method

The variety of opinions regarding Ovid’s philosophy indicates that the poem itself gives no clear guidance as to how it should be read. According to older scholars, such as DeLacy and Currie, Ovid uses philosophy as a kind of seasoning.70 According to McKim, philosophy is deliberately rejected; more recently, as Myers and Schiesaro propose, it is problematised.71 Of the very few scholars who find a coherent philosophy in the Metamorphoses, Colavito’s work on the Pythagoreanism of the poem is a good example.72 If both McKim’s total, thematised, rejection of philosophy and Colavito’s interpretation of a coherent philosophical position can be supported by the poem, how are we to orient ourselves?

iii.i) The Author as Touchstone

It is common now to dismiss appeals to authorial intention by referring to the ‘intentional fallacy’ of attributing the attitude of a poem’s persona to its author. This intentional fallacy is the fallacy of assuming that the author’s intention can be known, but it does not necessarily follow that the impossibility of definitively identifying the

69 The very danger of traditional poetry, for Plato, lies in its educational power. It is while discussing the education of Guardians that Plato criticises poetry for its dangerous stories and proposes to ‘supervise the production of stories’ in order to provide a suitable education (Rep. 2.377B). According to Aristotle, the origin of myth is the same as the origin of philosophy – a sense of wonder at the universwe (Metaphysics 982B12-20). 70 DeLacy (1947); Currie (1964). 71 McKim (1984); Myers (1994); Schiesaro (2002). 72 Colavito (1989). 27

author’s intention renders discussion of intentions ‘useless’ for interpretation.73 Hinds warns that it is a mistake to take this impossibility as ‘a reason to lose our curiosity about what poets mean to do when they allude’.74 Hinds advises against an ‘intertextualist fundamentalism’ that ‘privileges readerly reception so single-mindedly as to wish the alluding author out of existence altogether’.75 Edmunds’ rather bloodless formulation of the author as ‘the source of the psychophysiological activity necessary to the production of the poem’76 leans towards this wishful erasure. The ‘death of the author’ is a metaphor that is easily taken too far and, for Hinds, ‘[i]t is (or should be) much harder to justify the occlusion of the poet as a player in matters involving the close textual explications of particular phrases, lines or paragraphs.’77 If we are trying to understand the way in which a contemporary audience might have read the Metamorphoses, we need to reject all the ‘retroactive intertextual effects’78 that a reader aware of subsequent literature might perceive. The author’s actual intention may be irretrievable, but in order to understand a poem’s contemporary meaning, we should admit only readings that could have been intended by the author, readings based on concepts and literature that were available in the place and time of writing. The author (or the contemporary reader) thus becomes a touchstone for interpretation. The appeal to authorial intent, therefore, need not be an ‘add-on that, in classics, satisfies the discipline’s need for an objective criterion of historical truth’.79 It can, on the contrary, be integral to an argument that attempts to understand the contemporary reaction(s) to the poem. The author is, as Hinds observes, thus ‘good to think with’.80 In taking the author as a touchstone and focussing on what he could have intended, we eliminate Edmunds’ ‘retroactive intertextual effects’ – all interpretations that are based ultimately on the later reception of the poem. We do, however, leave ourselves with the difficulty of ‘distinguishing “genuine” allusions from casual similarities of expression, structure or technique which might be attributable merely to

73 L. Edmunds (2001) Intertextuality and the Reading of Roman Poetry, Baltimore: John Hopkins UP, p.37. 74 S. Hinds (1998) Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of Appropriation in Roman Poetry, Cambridge: CUP, p.144. 75 Hinds (1998), p.48. 76 Edmunds (2001), pp.19, 82. 77 S. Hinds (1998), p.48. 78 L. Edmunds (2001), p.107. 79 L. Edmunds (2001), p.34. 80 S. Hinds (1998), p.50. 28

the authors’ common cultural context or to generic propriety rather than to “significant” influence by one author on another’.81 Similarities which are due to a common cultural context have been called ‘accidental confluences’,82 and Hinds finds the distinction between genuine references and accidental confluences to be problematic.83 In practice, an interpreter seldom has unambiguous evidence on which to base a judgement that a particular feature is either a genuine reference or an accidental confluence. It is surely better to allow for greater rather than lesser awareness on the part of the author and his contemporary readers, and not to attempt to shut down interpretation by labelling a possible reference an ‘accidental confluence’. Hinds rightly points out that ancient critics do not discuss accidental confluences, preferring to talk about ‘borrowings’ or ‘thefts’.84 Let us, with Hinds, retain an understanding of ‘allusion’ that involves an ‘intention-bearing author’.85 There is a middle way between the fundamentalist erasure of the author and the dogmatic insistence on total authorial control of a text. It is the working assumption of this analysis that authors intend their poems to have ‘meaning’ – or, at least, direct their interactions with other works in ways that are ‘meaningful’ to the author. Even if the intention-bearing poet ‘is a figure whom we ourselves read out from the text to test our readings in an interpretative move which is necessarily circular’, the attempt to reconstruct the poet’s meaning generates a very real energy.86 It also places a limit on how far we can read, as it were, narcissistically. If we think of the poem as a pool of water, Narcissus sees only a mirror reflecting himself, while another might see the life below the reflective surface. By always referring our readings back to the possibility of authorial intent, we avoid the solipsistic focus on ourselves that is the ultimate fate of a too-readerly focus. In accordance with this deference to the author, the poetic persona of the Metamorphoses will be called ‘Ovid’ – not merely as a metonymy for the text,87 but to allow for the possibility of recovering, however locally, the author’s intent. This also allows us to avoid awkward circumlocutions such as ‘the poet-narrator’.

81 M.R. Gale (2000) Virgil on the Nature of Things: The Georgics, Lucretius and the Didactic Tradition, Cambridge: CUP, p.4. 82 R.F. Thomas (1999) Reading Virgil and His Texts: Studies in Intertextuality, Ann Arbor: Michigan UP, p.116. 83 S. Hinds (1998), p.20. 84 Hinds (1998), p.22 85 Hinds (1998), p.50. 86 Hinds (1998), p.144. 87 Edmunds (2001), p.35; M. Lowrie (1997) ‘“Spleen” and the “Momentum”: Memory in Horace and Baudelaire’ in Comparative Literature 49: 42-58, p.7. 29

iii.ii) What Makes an Allusion an Allusion?

Intertextual references encourage the reader to recognise that a work is intended to be read in a context which encompasses the other works to which the writer refers. To some extent, we can identify philosophical themes in the Metamorphoses through reference to ideas current in the Augustan period, by appealing to Ovid’s intellectual and cultural milieu. Certain philosophical ideas, such as the Stoic doctrine of ekpyrōsis, may be identified, without requiring attribution to any particular source. In order to pin down Ovid’s use of philosophy more precisely, however, we will be largely dependent on intertextual awareness, which is activated by the recognition of specific textual allusions.88 The presence of allusions, then, will be taken to invite an intertextual reading of a passage. We need, therefore, a key for identifying allusions. There is of course the obvious form of a (more or less) direct quotation. There are, however, other, subtler ways in which one author can allude to another. A single word can, depending on how unusual it is and in what context it is found, call to mind another poet – as Ovid does when he coins a new word novatrix, transforming Lucretius’ natura creatrix (DRN 1.629) into natura novatrix (Met. 15.252).89 The word novatrix is an Ovidian invention, and its rarity emphasises the connection with Lucretius. Wills notes that an effective allusion needs to exploit a culturally recognisable feature ‘in a sufficiently striking degree (what one might call the amplitude of the marking),’ and this ‘amplitude’ is often gained through unusual expression.90 The example of novatrix is a particularly marked allusion, since the “Speech of Pythagoras” is marked from the beginning as being intertextual with the De rerum natura – thus ensuring that the context will alert the reader to the more detailed allusion in novatrix. Again, Wills is alert to the importance of a ‘larger reference’ in making a particular reference effective.91 Allusions thus range from the vague correspondence of context to the very specific use of particular words. Intertextuality might also be signalled through the use

88 On the activation of intertextuality, see Gale (2000), p.5. 89 Segal (2001), p.81. 90 J. Wills (1996) Repetition in Latin Poetry: Figures of Allusion, Oxford: Clarendon, p.23. Wills outlines a taxonomy of linguistic references (as opposed to imitation of content or close verbal imitation) at pp.18- 23. 91 Wills (1996), p.28. 30

of ‘motifs’ from the source text, although caution should be exercised when identifying motifs common to both texts. With motifs, Gale’s concept of ‘cumulative allusions’ is especially helpful. Gale suggests that once a reader has been ‘sensitised’ to the importance of a particular intertext – through more obvious allusions – ‘apparently casual similarities will often be enough to “reactivate” that intertext’.92 For Gale, the ‘cumulative effect’ of indubitable allusive markers ‘gives the reader sufficient encouragement to treat these more general parallels as significant’.93 We are thus able to see reference to the ‘individual contexts and connotations of individual prior instances’ even within a topos, if we have been primed to do so by cumulative allusions. Ovid is known to be particularly sophisticated in his use of allusions, employing elaborate ‘double allusions’, which Hinds calls ‘two tier allusions’,94 to reference both an immediate model and that model’s source. I will argue for another type of allusion, which will appear sporadically in the following chapters, whereby Ovid displaces a detail from its original context in his source and reassigns it to another context in order to form a link between his own version of the source context and the new context, a type of allusion we shall call ‘connective displacement’. For example, when Jupiter plans to destroy the human race in Book I, the gods fear the loss of incense (1. 246-49), a detail found in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter (351-56) but not in Ovid’s own account of the Rape of Persephone. There are several links between the Flood and Famine passages of Books I and V, and Ovid’s connective displacement is an allusive marker that plays on these links.

iv) Myths from the Four Quarters of the Poem

It is, unfortunately, impractical to attempt an analysis of every episode in the Metamorphoses, making it necessary to choose representative myths for detailed attention. There is already an abundance of work on the philosophical frame, and so in this thesis we shall venture beyond the frame to explore the philosophical content of the inner myths. Since it is impossible to discuss the interrelation of myth and philosophy adequately without analysing the frame, however, we shall analyse the internal myths in the light of the frame. For the inner myths, we have chosen myths that occur in

92 Gale (2000), p.16. 93 Gale (2000), p.16. 94 Hinds (1998), p.31. 31

structurally significant locations,95 and are thematically linked with the myths of the frame. In this way, both the overtly philosophical and the overtly mythical material can be covered, and their relation to each other discussed. There are extended episodes (each of 400 lines or more) which appear at key junctures within the Metamorphoses. In Book I, there is the “Cosmogony”, which comprises roughly 400 lines if it is taken to extend to the second creation of living beings after the Flood (1.4-437). In Book V there is the “Musomachia”, from 5.250- 678. The myth of Orpheus in Book X is the longest in the whole poem, covering 10.1- 11.84; it can hardly be neglected in any analysis claiming relevance for the whole poem. The “Speech of Pythagoras” in Book XV takes up 15.1-478 and, since it is both the longest episode in the final book and the second half of the philosophical frame, it must of course be included. Each of these episodes, then, is of considerable length and occupies a defining position in a pentad. Furthermore, the myths of the “Cosmogony” and the Rape of Persephone (the central myth in the “Musomachia”) also make appearances in comparable positions in the Fasti. In Book I of the Fasti, Janus provides an account of cosmogony (Fast. 1.101- 14), while the Rape of Persephone occurs in Book IV of the Fasti (Fast. 4.417-620). As in the Metamorphoses, the cosmogony is the first story told in the Fasti, while the Rape of Persephone begins midway through a book. Moreover, Books I and IV of the Fasti occupy the same relative positions in a projected twelve books as Books I and V of the Metamorphoses occupy in a fifteen-book poem. These myths, then, appear in roughly the same position in both the Metamorphoses and the Fasti, indicating that they are of particular importance in both works. If we are right to see a pattern here, we could speculate that, had Ovid completed a full twelve books of the Fasti, we might have found myths in Books VIII and XII which appear also in Books X and XV of the Metamorphoses. As the longest and most memorable episodes in each case (in fact, as the only episode, strictly speaking, for Book X), we must posit Orpheus and Pythagoras as the most likely candidates. If we can comfortably say that the “Cosmogony” and the “Speech of Pythagoras” may be fruitfully discussed for the interrelation of myth and philosophy,

95 One of the working assumptions of this thesis is that extended myths in structurally significant locations are likely to be reasonably representative of the poem as a whole, and that we might therefore legitimately apply our findings to the whole poem – with perhaps a degree of caution, given that Ovid is a poet known for flouting expectations. On the use of structure as a tool of ambiguity, both building and frustrating expectations, see, e.g. Zetzel, J.E.G. (1980) “Horace’s Liber Sermonvm: The Structure of Ambiguity” in Arethusa 13.1: 59-78. 32

can we also say that of the “Musomachia” and “Orpheus”? Neither of these two myths is overtly concerned with natural philosophy, and we have so far justified their inclusion only by noting a possible structural pattern and their length, both of which imply their importance to the poem as a whole. Yet, where is the evidence that such significance is in the least ‘philosophical’? In the “Musomachia” there is a contest between mortal and immortal, since the human Pierides challenge the Muses. The Pierides sing a (very unusual) Gigantomachy, while the Muses respond with the Rape of Persephone. These songs will be discussed in detail in Part 2, but let it be noted here that each contestant uses myth to represent and support her own viewpoint. The manipulation of myth to serve an ulterior purpose is, therefore, foregrounded. As will be seen, there are also very important references to Lucretius in this episode, references which place the myth unambiguously in a philosophical context. The Orpheus myth initially appears rather more difficult to assimilate to the current project. However, the links between the “Orpheus” and the “Musomachia”, in which Orpheus’ mother Calliope sings the Muses’ contribution, invite us to situate the Orpheus episode in a larger, philosophical, context. Again, there are philosophical and mystical connections between Orpheus and Pythagoras which will form a link between the Orpheus episode and the last of our four myths, the “Speech of Pythagoras”. Most of the Orpheus myth is comprised of Orpheus’ Song, which is essentially a miniature Metamorphoses, in which Orpheus manipulates myth to support his rejection of love, a tried and true philosophical topos.96 It is also in the Orpheus episode that we can most clearly see Ovid’s engagement with ethical ideas, as well as juridical discourses. The potential for ethical and ideological manipulation of myth is evident in each of the four myths to be discussed. Although the cosmogony itself is narrated by the primary narrator, there is a particularly important section where Jupiter relates the story of Lycaon (1.182-243) in order to justify his decision to flood the earth. In the “Musomachia” there are two competing accounts of myth, each narrated by a character manipulating the myths in order to serve their own ends. The Orpheus myth includes two songs by Orpheus, in the first of which Orpheus persuades the infernal gods to return Eurydice, drawing on the story of the Rape of Persephone for support, and in the second of which several different myths reveal Orpheus’ concerns and state of mind.

96 It will be argued in Chapter 6 that Orpheus’ inclusion of Hyacinthus, Adonis and Ganymede does not support his turn to pederasty, but rather (at least where Hyacinthus and Adonis are concerned) provides further arguments against love in general. 33

Finally, in the “Speech of Pythagoras”, Pythagoras sets forth his own vision of the nature of the universe, and although most of his speech depends on argumentation rather than on myth, it is squarely placed within the realm of myth by the famous anachronism of the teaching of Numa by Pythagoras, an anachronism which provides Ovid with the opportunity to relate Pythagoras’ lecture. Furthermore, Pythagoras does draw on myth in various ways in his speech. The theme of the manipulation of myth to serve the narrator’s purpose runs through all four of the myths at hand. Another theme which connects the four myths is the theme of conflict between human and divine. It is the conflict between Lycaon and Jupiter which incites Jupiter to flood the earth, when Lycaon attempts to test Jupiter’s divinity (experiar deus hic discrimine aperto /an sit mortalis, 1.222-3), rejecting as insufficient evidence the signs of divinity (signa, 1.220) given by Jupiter himself. Then, in Book V, the Pierides challenge the Muses to a song contest, the prize for which is to be land. The Pierides agree to cede the Emathian fields to the Muses should the latter win the contest, and demand, in the event of their own victory, Helicon itself (and, by implication, divine status for themselves). Unlike Lycaon and the Pierides, Orpheus does not doubt the divinity or power of the gods, and descends as a suppliant mortal to Hades. However, his songs have the effect not of bringing him up to the level of the divine (as the Pierides seek to achieve for themselves), but of bringing the gods down to the level of humans. When Orpheus sings in Tartarus, Ovid says: tunc primum lacrimis victarum carmine fama est / Eumenidum maduisse genas (10.45-6), and yet the audience has already learned that gods cannot weep (neque enim caelestia tingui / ora licet lacrimis, 2.622-3 and again, in the Rape of Persephone episode in the Fasti: neque enim lacrimare deorum est, Fast. 4.522). Orpheus’ song, then, has the effect of narrowing the gap between human and divine, as the divine experiences (mortal) tears. Finally, in Book XV, Pythagoras exclaims (15.147-52):

... iuvat ire per alta astra, iuvat terris et inerti sede relicta nube vehi validique umeris insistere Atlantis palantesque homines passim et rationis egentes despectare procul trepidosque obitumque timentes sic exhortari seriemque evolvere fati!

We will discuss the intertextual references here in Part 4. For now, let us note that in these lines, Pythagoras is imputed a position of divine perspective. Lycaon wishes to test Jupiter’s divinity, the Pierides claim divine status, Orpheus equates gods with 34

humans and ultimately Pythagoras attains divine omniscience and perspective. There is clearly an engagement with the relationship between the gods and humans throughout these four myths. Certainly, an interest in the ontological hierarchy is embedded in epic poetry from Homer and Hesiod onwards. However, references to philosophers such as Lucretius and the referencing of philosophical language of psychology and the emotions indicate that Ovid’s is, at least in part, a philosophical exploration of the ontological hierarchy.

iv.i) Mirroring the Text

On the assumption that Ovid’s myths are interconnected, that subsequent myths may well refer to or, as it were, reflect, earlier myths, we shall attempt to reflect in our analysis the poetic structure of Ovid’s poem. This mirroring technique, we speculate, may allow us to see connections among the different myths that might not be apparent if individual themes were to be explored separately. The “Cosmogony” and the “Speech of Pythagoras” frame the whole poem and share an overt concern with natural philosophy, although, as we have seen, the concerns of other branches of philosophy can also be found in these episodes. The “Musomachia” and the “Orpheus” also share an important feature: their structural organisation as a frame story and embedded narrative. Ovid thus employs a chiastic structure, in which the “Cosmogony” and the “Speech” can both be divided into physical and non-physical sections, while the inner myths we are studying can both be divided into frame and embedded narratives. This organisation will be followed here, in the hope that the development of themes in our analysis will thus follow the development of those themes in the text. Parts 1 and 4 will each comprise two chapters, one on physics and one on non-physical philosophy. Parts 2 and 3 will each be divided, with one chapter on the frame narrative and another on the embedded narrative.

iv.ii) Part 1

Chapter 1 explores the way in which Ovid draws on poets, such as Homer, Hesiod, Apollonius and, especially, Lucretius in order to locate his own poem within a canon of cosmological poetry. In particular, Ovid uses Lucretian language and material to 35

construct his own, anti-Lucretian, cosmos – a cosmos created by a god and which fulfils its purpose only when fit for use by living creatures. This chapter discusses precosmic Chaos, the cosmos of the Metamorphoses and the inhabitants of that cosmos. Chapter 2 analyses the myths of the “Cosmogony”, myths that would normally be left out of discussions of cosmogony, since they occur outside the traditional end point of 1.88. They do, however, lead up to the final anthropogony of the Metamorphoses, with Deucalion’s and Pyrrha’s creation of humans from stones. This is the race that Ovid claims as his own, and so from this point on the Metamorphoses chronicles the development of the world in which we live. These myths include the Four Ages of Man, the Gigantomachy and Lycaon and Deucalion’s Flood. The myth of the Four Ages is recurrent in Latin literature, and Ovid draws on two different versions: the canonic, Hesiodic, version of degeneration from an ideal and the Lucretian version of progress towards a lawful civilisation. Ovid harmonises these two traditions, of ‘soft’ and ‘hard’ primitivism,97 while adopting the basic Hesiodic framework of four increasingly degenerate Ages. This degeneration leads to the Gigantomachy and a new race, born from the blood of the Giants. The myth of Lycaon follows immediately on the Gigantomachy and Lycaon, who is presumably a member of this bloody new race, is described in terms that link him unmistakably with that conflict. Ovid departs from other Latin versions of the Gigantomachy here, in providing a double focus. Jupiter, as narrator, emphasises the traditional impiety of the Giants and of Lycaon, narrating what is for him a moral story. There are, however, traces in Jupiter’s account of Lycaon’s own perspective, and Lycaon clearly sees himself as a seeker after truth. It is argued that the Lycaon episode draws on the motif of philosophical Gigantomachy, one that derives ultimately from Plato. The final myth in the cosmogonic series is that of Deucalion’s Flood. This episode is marked early on as natural-philosophical, when Jupiter avoids the thunderbolt in fear of the fated final conflagration of the cosmos (a clear reference to Stoic ekpyrōsis). This description of ekpyrōsis, however, draws on Lucretian proofs of the mortality of the cosmos, so that Ovid co-opts Epicurean language to present a Stoic idea. The Flood itself is presented as threatening the stable cosmos created by the Creator, since it confounds the boundaries of land and sea. In confounding these

97For these terms, see A.O. Lovejoy & G. Boas (1935) Primitivism and Related Ideas in Antiquity, Baltimore: John Hopkins UP (repr. 1993, New York: Octagon), p.10. 36

boundaries, the Flood imitates precosmic Chaos and the regeneration of life afterwards echoes the earlier creation passages. Throughout the “Cosmogony”, Ovid engages with Lucretius’ De rerum natura, without adopting wholesale the Epicurean doctrines of that poem. I will argue that he draws freely on other cosmological poets and philosophers, such as Plato. It will become quite clear that while Ovid does not expound or endorse any single philosophical doctrine, the whole poem, including the myths, is charged with philosophical ideas and problems – which Ovid intends us to recognise as such. We are not justified in relegating the philosophy of the Metamorphoses to only those few passages that are overtly philosophical – and it is usually the passages of natural philosophy that are deemed philosophical, while other branches of philosophy are left undiscussed and other passages left unexplored.98 The main focus in this analysis, therefore, will be to elicit references to other branches of philosophy, particularly epistemology and ethics. The myth of Lycaon is the first metamorphosis myth of the poem (unless the Creation is seen as a metamorphosis), and it is reasonable to suppose that it sets up an expectation. The interrelation of philosophy and myth in the Lycaon episode should prepare us to recognise philosophical material in the later myths. In particular, we should beware of identifying philosophy too narrowly with natural philosophy, or physics. The creation of the cosmos draws on physics, but we shall argue that the Lycaon myth is primarily epistemological and that our interpretation of other myths may be enriched by exploring their relation with other branches of philosophy.

iv.iii) Part 2

In the second part of this thesis, the song contest between the Muses and human challengers, the Pierides, is discussed. Chapter 3 is concerned with the frame story of the “Musomachia”, while Chapter 4 discusses the embedded myth of the Rape of Persephone. Chapter 3 begins by analysing the episode immediately preceding the account of the song contest. This is the myth of Pyreneus, who offers hospitality to the Muses and then attempts to rape them. It is argued that this myth does not fulfil its ostensible

98 See, however, P.R. Hardie (1988) for a philosophical analysis of an episode that is not natural- philosophical. 37

purpose, in that it does not show the Muses to be unsafe in their own locus, since they are accosted while away from Helicon. The Pyreneus episode has close parallels with the Lycaon myth, and serves to alert the audience to a broader parallel between Lycaon and the myth of the Pierides that follows. Guided by the similarities with the Lycaon myth, the “Musomachia” is read as a Gigantomachic contest in which the human challengers draw on the Lucretian image of Gigantomachy in the De rerum natura. The Pierides sing a Gigantomachy, in which they suppress the ultimate victory of the Olympians. Their song is thus an analogue of their own contest, and the Pierides are identified with the Giants. However, the Lucretian version of Gigantomachy provides a moral focus different from the traditional interpretation of Gigantomachy as an impious assault on legitimate power. For the Pierides, therefore, their challenge is not impious, as Epicurus’ is not, but rather an attempt to wrest power and knowledge from a religious power structure that is not beneficial to humans. It is argued that the Pierides are modelled on Lucretius’ Epicurus, although unlike Epicurus they are not successful. This attempt by the Pierides to gain divinity reveals their underlying ideological position, that there is no ontological difference in status between gods and humans. If the Pierides can claim Helicon as their prize, they must be capable of becoming alternate Muses. It is not only the power of the gods that is under threat, but their divine nature. In this, the Pierides reprise and elaborate on Lycaon’s concerns. Where Lycaon wants to prove or disprove Jupiter’s divinity for certain, showing an interest in the nature of the gods and in true knowledge, the Pierides go further, claiming that divinity can be passed on to whoever is most worthy. It will be argued that there are Euhemeristic overtones here. The nature of divinity is linked to the ability to perform the tasks required by that god’s status; essential.99 For the Pierides, the tasks involved in the position of ‘Muse’ require an ability to link sweet song with truthfulness, honey and wormwood in Lucretian terms. The Pierides accuse the Muses of dishonesty, and make that part of the basis for their challenge. Ovid is, therefore, engaging in a debate on the nature of poetry, picking up on concerns that are particularly striking in Lucretius’ De rerum natura, in the simile of

99 It is not, of course, my intention to suggest that ontology is the only concern here. The Lycaon and Musomachia myths, in particular, have clear political implications – one need only think of the Romanised description of Olympus and the gods at Met. 1.168-76, 200-05 and of Venus’ echo of the Aeneid at the beginning of the speech that sets the Rape of Persephone in motion (arma manusque, Met 5.365). 38

the honeyed cup. The “Musomachia”, therefore, reprises several themes from the “Cosmogony”, particularly those from the story of Lycaon. The nature of divinity is put to the test, and the importance of truth is emphasised. The “Musomachia”, no less than the Lycaon episode, is concerned with epistemology, and explores this concern through its problematisation of poetic truth. If the contestants’ songs reflect their respective ideological positions, then Calliope’s version of the Rape of Persephone cannot fully be understood until set in the context of the Musomachia. Nor is it likely to be a coincidence that the Muses choose Calliope to combat the Pierides’ Lucretian song, thus reversing the philosophical coding of Calliope in the De rerum natura (callida musa / Calliope, DRN 6.93-94). Calliope scatters her song with warnings for the Pierides: an account of Typhoeus’ defeat and two accounts of humans punished for offending goddesses. In doing so, she emphasises the power of the gods and their right to exercise that power. Offences against the gods are presented as deserving of punishment, and the gods are the arbiters of morality. Even the Rape of Persephone is, in Calliope’s version, at least partly the punishment of a recalcitrant woman by a more powerful goddess. Diverging from other versions of the Rape, Calliope has Venus inspire Pluto’s desire for Persephone in order to prevent Persephone from choosing a life of virginity and thus denying Venus. The Pierides take the Gigantomachy as their model and as their subject, following Lycaon’s concern with truth and the nature of the gods. Calliope, however, takes the end of the Golden Age as her model. Her account of the Rape of Persephone is an aetion for the seasonal year and Ceres’ gift of agriculture is the last detail in the song. Calliope is thus engaging with the themes of the cosmogonic myths. She is, like Jupiter in the Lycaon episode, desirous not only of victory over her opponents, but of crushing their aspirations to divine truth, which she sees as impious hubris. Just as the rape itself is pressed into service as an example of divine vengeance against a weaker challenger, so Ceres’ resultant anger over her lost daughter is mobilised. Ceres’ Famine is devastating on a massive scale, and thus recalls Jupiter’s Flood. As Jupiter punishes all humanity for a single man’s impiety, so Ceres punishes all humanity in her anger at losing her daughter. The renewal after the Famine, in the form of the creation of agriculture, thus mirrors the renewal after the Flood. While the Pierides draw on Lycaon as a model for themselves, Calliope draws on Jupiter and her own account of Ceres as a model of the retribution awaiting such aspirants as Lycaon and the Pierides.

iv.iv) Part 3

Any analysis of the Metamorphoses aspiring to provide conclusions relevant to the whole poem must, of course, take account of Orpheus. This part of the thesis is divided in the same way as Part 2, with Chapter 5 being devoted to the frame story of Orpheus and Eurydice and Chapter 6 discussing the embedded narrative of Orpheus’ long song. In Chapter 5, particular attention is paid to Orpheus’ song in the Underworld. This song is famously suppressed in Vergil’s Georgics, but Ovid repeats it verbatim. By quoting the song that has such famous effects, Ovid focuses attention on how that particular song is able to achieve those effects. How can a human persuade the gods to restore his beloved from the dead? It is the nature of the gods, and their relation to humans, that is important here – as indeed it was in the Lycaon and Pierides myths. Lycaon and the Pierides both fail in their attempt to understand the nature of the gods, and their failure is narrated by the very gods whom they challenged. Orpheus, however, is clearly successful, and we are privy to his own words. It is argued that Orpheus explicitly places himself in a position of affiliation with with, but also subordination to, the gods. He plays on their emotions – the shared subjection of gods and men to love and pity (for himself). He also invokes their putative legal responsibilities, thus weaving them ever tighter into a web of human social interactions. Orpheus explicitly respects the ontological gap between humans and gods, but finds community with the gods in emotion– this is most strikingly shown by the weeping Eumenides. Orpheus makes the shared nature of love central to his plea. He teases out the erotic and affective concerns of his mother, Calliope, in her Song. For Orpheus, love is a transcendent force, one that helps to dissolve the distinctions between humans and gods. Grief is another shared emotion, one that is also foreshadowed in Calliope’s song. Orpheus is in many ways parallel to Ceres – both lose a beloved woman and seek to reclaim her from the realm of death. The nexus of love and grief is central to Orpheus’ own story, and we are reminded of this nexus by the myth of Cyparissus. Orpheus himself will also sing about grief and love in his long song, and he focuses on the grief and love of the gods in the myths of Hyacinthus and Adonis. In Orpheus’ song, then, the emotions are illuminated by Ovid as the common property of gods and humans. Orpheus’ Apollo and Venus are shown to be not so very different from himself and Cyparissus. 40

It is not only the distinctions between human and god that Orpheus blurs. As he brings the gods down to the human level, he also lifts the natural world up to the human level. Orpheus’ songs give plants the power of movement, stones the sensibility of a suppliant, and animals the harmony of a civilised society. In blurring the boundary between human and animal, there is perhaps already a hint of Orphic vegetarianism in this. This, of course, is a theme that be developed by Pythagoras in Book XV. Chapter 6 analyses the long song that Orpheus sings after his failure to retrieve Eurydice. This song explores the nature of love, although not necessarily from the perspective of elegiac poetry. There is, on the contrary, a close engagement with philosophical diatribes against love, primarily that of Lucretius in De rerum natura 4. Apollo and, to a lesser extent, Venus abandon their normal duties in order to present themselves as willing erotic companions. Although this idea draws on the elegiac theme of servitium amoris, Ovid’s tone is much more Lucretian. The servitude and neglect of one’s officia are not presented positively, as in elegiac poetry. Rather, they are shameful – even more so since in each case it is a god who is degrading himself/herself – as Lucretius argues. The ugliness and inappropriateness of the lover’s behaviour is emphasised, recalling a philosophical therapeutic technique that aims to focus the patient’s attention on the deforming consequences of the emotion. This technique was used by philosophers in the Roman world, such as Philodemus and Seneca in their works On Anger. It is not only gods who are subjected to this effectively Lucretian vision of love’s excesses. Pygmalion is particularly ridiculous in his attempts to woo a statue with gifts. He gives both inexpensive gifts, such as birds and balls, and expensive gifts, such as amber. According to the conventions of elegiac love poetry, then, he plays the part both of the poet-lover and of the rich rival. It is argued here that his behaviour is better understood in Lucretian terms. Lucretius condemns the squandering of wealth on gifts for puellae, and Pygmalion’s squandering of his wealth on gifts for a statue is even more risible.100 Pygmalion’s granddaughter, Myrrha, continues the theme of depraved love, oscillating between a conviction that incest is criminal and an attempt to justify incest through reference to animals and other human societies. She attempts, through internal

100 Despite Pygmalion’s ultimate success, when the statue is miraculously transformed into a woman, Pygmalion himself is at no point aware of this possibility. He does not even dare to request it: non ausus ‘eburnea virgo’ / dicere, Pygmalion ‘similis mea’ dixit ‘eburnae’ (Met. 10.275-76). His actions are not predictated on even the possibility of success. 41

dialogue, to alter her beliefs regarding incest. The focus on belief in her soliloquising recalls the Stoic theory that emotions are judgements. I shall argue that Myrrha attempts to justify her illicit desire by changing her judgement that incest is a crime, clearly drawing on Stoic emotional theory to do so. We shall argue, indeed, that these emotions are explored in the “Orpheus” through multiple philosophical lenses such as Aristotelian views of pity, Stoic theory of emotions as judgements and Epicurean-Lucretian observations on love. In this turn to emotion, the “Orpheus” is very different from the previous myths of the “Cosmogony” and the “Musomachia”, although it builds on the erotic foundations of the “Musomachia”. Throughout the “Orpheus”, there are intertextual links with the “Musomachia”, just as that myth has intertextual links with the “Cosmogony”. The concern with the nature of divinity comes through strongly in the “Orpheus”, and modulates into a parallel concern with the nature of animals, thereby setting us up for the “Speech of Pythagoras”. Ontological themes appear throughout the four myths discussed here; Lycaon wishes to know the true limits of divinity and humanity, the Pierides wish to deny them, and Orpheus to merge them. Pythagoras, too, is concerned with the nature of humans and animals.

iv.v) Part 4

The final part of this thesis is, of course, concerned with Ovid’s Pythagoras. Since the “Speech of Pythagoras” forms a pair with the “Cosmogony”, Part 4 has been divided along the lines of Part 1. Chapter 1 is devoted to the natural philosophy of the creation scenes, and Chapter 7 is likewise devoted to Pythagoras’ physics. Pythagoras’ language, especially in the physical sections, is markedly Lucretian, although his overall doctrine of metempsychosis is irreconcilably opposed to Epicureanism. This playing with Lucretius in the “Speech of Pythagoras” thus recalls that of the “Cosmogony”. Pythagoras’ Speech includes a section on examples of change and mirabilia (Met 15.259-452), which, despite its length, is clearly marked as a digression (ne tamen oblitis ad metam tendere longe / exspatiemur equis, Met. 15.453-54). Pythagoras very rarely provides any explanations as to how these phenomena come about, in contrast to Lucretius who is very keen to ensure that his audience understands the causes of events. It will be argued that this lack of interest in explanation is compatible with a sense that

the universe is fluid, and not subject to fixed laws. Lucretius’ Epicurean cosmos depends on fixed laws, which determine what is and is not possible; Pythagoras’ universe is so changeable that there are very few laws that could govern it. His failure to provide explanations, then, can be seen as an appropriate response to a universe that is, ultimately, inexplicable. The fact that a fluid universe largely prohibits explanations leads nicely into a discussion of Pythagoras’ epistemology in Chapter 8. In Part 1, the more anthropocentric concerns, such as piety and epistemology were reserved for the second chapter and our second chapter in Part 4 likewise deals with Pythagoras’ epistemological and ethical views. Rather than explain the causes behind events, as Lucretius does, Pythagoras provides two different types of argument: empirical arguments based on his audience’s personal experience and arguments from authority, largely based on his own, divinely granted, understanding. Following this discussion of epistemology, the rest of the chapter is devoted to Pythagoras’ ethical views. The substantial physical component of his “Speech” is seen to be presented as a support for the doctrine of metempsychosis, which in turn demands the ethical behaviour of vegetarianism. Thus, physics becomes the basis for ethics, while ethics is the reason it is important to learn physics.

v) A Kaleidoscope of Competing Positions

The emphasis throughout this thesis will be on ethics and epistemology. The nature of humanity is explored through its relationships with gods and with animals, and each of these relationships is portrayed in different ways by different characters; Calliope, for example, espouses a strict hierarchy, which the Pierides challenge, positing their own more fluid categorisation. It is important to remember that the different points of view which are explored in the myths of the Metamorphoses are often placed in the mouths of characters. In the myths discussed here, for example, only the “Cosmogony” is narrated in the poet’s own voice, and even there Jupiter narrates a lengthy section. At all times, van Sickle’s warning with respect to Vergil’s Eclogues should be remembered:

One pattern does not exclude the other ... no one pattern exhausts. Every description of pattern selects somewhat arbitrarily and abstracts, exposes some chains of meaning at 43

the expense of others, renders static what is constantly moving, interweaving, developing in the reading. A kind of principle of uncertainty governs interpretation; each approach allows us to discern its kind of meaning, but tempts us to deny others.101

No attempt, therefore, is made to argue that Ovid is using any, or all, of his characters as mouthpieces for his own preferred doctrines(s). On the contrary, the variety of voices is taken to indicate that Ovid is not presenting his own arguments, but playfully exploring a multitude of differing perspectives. No one philosophy is endorsed by the poet himself; rather, many different philosophical (and non-philosophical!) themes and ideas add an intellectual dimension to his stories, which shine – and which will have shone all the more for an elite Roman audience – because of their serious playfulness.

101 Van Sickle, J (1980) “The Book-Roll and Some Conventions of the Poetic Book” in Arethusa 13.1: 5- 42, p.23. 44

Part 1

Chapter 1: The Creation

In his short proem (Met. 1.1-4), Ovid invokes the assistance of the gods in extending his song from the beginning of the world to his own times (primaque ab origine mundi / ad mea [...] tempora, Met. 3-4). Ovid, therefore, begins his poem with the creation of the cosmos (Met. 1.5-88), although, as will be discussed in Section (i), the creation scene extends to 1.437. It is well recognised that the opening passages up to 1.88 are overtly philosophical, and in Chapter 2 we will trace the philosophical influences up to 1.437.102 In fact, even before the Creation scene 1.5-88, Ovid signals his debt to Lucretius in his proem, where primaque ab origine mundi (1.3) echoes Lucretius’ prima concepta ab origine mundi (DRN 5.548). Myers sees this echo as clear evidence ‘that Ovid has in mind Lucretius’ natural-philosophical epic,’ and she suggests that references to Lucretius appear throughout the Metamorphoses because Ovid is engaged in ‘an intertextual dialogue with Lucretius’ poem that involves charting the similarities and differences in their themes and aims – often to humorous purpose’.103 For Wheeler, this allusion in Ovid’s proem to Lucretius implies ‘that metamorphosis is a “natural” process in its own right that can explain the origin of things,’104 and also alludes to Vergil (o dea, si prima repetens ab origine peragam, Aen. 1.372).105

102 Robbins refers to the ‘plainly philosophical character’ of the passage (F.E. Robbins (1913) ‘The Creation Story in Ovid Met.i’ in CP 8.4: 401-414, pp.408-9. Otis calls the creation scene ‘didactic and philosophical’ (B. Otis (1966) Ovid as an Epic Poet, Cambridge: CUP, p.94). Little identifies a dichotomy between myth and philosophy in ‘his “philosophical” account of the creation (D. Little (1970) ‘The Speech of Pythagoras in Metamorphoses 15 and the Structure of the Metamorphoses’ in Hermes 98.3: 340-360, p.349). Hardie calls the passage ‘semi-philosophical’ (P.R. Hardie (2002d) Ovid’s Poetics of Illusion, Cambridge: CUP, p.178) and posits that the Creation scene forms a philosophical frame with the “Speech of Pythagoras” in Book XV (Hardie (1995), pp. 210-211). Myers also argues that these two myths establish a ‘scientific’ frame of sorts (Myers (1994), pp.27). 103 Myers (1994), p.6. 104 S.M. Wheeler (1999) A Discourse of Wonders: Audience and Performance in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Philadelphia: Pennsylvania UP, p.21. 105 Wheeler (1999), p.23. 47

Scholars are largely agreed that Ovid is not following any particular philosophical doctrine,106 although the nature of his eclecticism is debated. For some, like McKim, Solodow and Otis, Ovid’s eclecticism reveals a fundamental lack of interest in philosophy. McKim finds that ‘Ovid’s knowledge of past cosmogonies is haphazard and superficial [...] he was sublimely indifferent to the conflicting truth- claims of the hodge-podge of theories which he conflates.’107 According to McKim, this eclecticism shows that Ovid is exposing philosophy ‘as inferior to myth in its understanding of man and his world’.108 Similarly, for Solodow, ‘several philosophies seem mixed together,’ a fact which, he argues, makes it ‘difficult to believe that he was aiming at a particularly philosophical portrayal of the Creation’.109 Solodow does not go quite so far as McKim, but he does imply that the philosophical tone of the Creation passages is seriously undermined by Ovid’s apparent lack of commitment to any single doctrine. The same feature had led Otis to the view that ‘Ovid did not want at this point to compose a theological essay, to justify his myths in philosophical terms, but simply to write the most exalted and sober exordium in his power.’110 More recently, however, scholars such as Schiesaro, Myers and Wheeler have interpreted Ovid’s eclecticism differently, as a loosely philosophical position in its own right. For Schiesaro, through his lack of any consistent philosophical position ‘Ovid [...] problematizes further the very notion of knowing, and drowns his predecessors’ fundamentalist certainties in a whirlwind of competing accounts and elusive contradictions.’111 In a similar vein, Myers argues that ‘Ovid [...] is exploring the validity of alternate modes of explanation for the world: epic and philosophical, scientific and mythological.’112 Taking a rather different tack, Wheeler argues that Ovid ‘does not set out to correct erroneous beliefs and introduce philosophical enlightenment,’ rather inviting his readers ‘to share the assumptions of a popular philosophical view of the world that has gained normative status in Augustan Rome’.113 There is, then, still no consensus on how Ovid’s philosophical Creation passage should be interpreted, although scholars are moving towards a more generous

106 Note, however, the important exception of Colavito, who argues that the whole poem is Pythagorean (Colavito (1989). 107 McKim (1984), pp.97-98. 108 McKim (1984) p.97. 109 J.B. Solodow (1988) The World of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Chapel Hill: North Carolina UP, p.215. 110 Otis (1966), p.94. 111 Schiesaro (2002), p.63. 112 Myers (1994), pp.20-21. 113 Wheeler (1999), p.30. 48

interpretation of his eclecticism. We certainly cannot argue that his philosophical material is a straightforward exposition (or criticism) of the doctrines of a particular school, although individual episodes may well be indebted to a single doctrine. Nor does he seem to be synthesising different philosophical traditions into a new doctrine; Wheeler is right to remark that ‘Ovid does not surprise his readership with a controversial new doctrine about the nature of the universe.’114 Rather, the bewildering kaleidoscope of references seems designed to draw attention to the fact that it is derived from multiple sources. And yet, does this lack of a consistent doctrine permit us to agree with McKim, and perhaps Solodow, that Ovid is showing philosophy to be insufficient as a means of explaining the cosmos? Such a conclusion, I argue, is unjustified. Schiesaro and Myers have already shown that eclecticism can have philosophical significance in its own right. We need not, therefore, attempt to construct a coherent dogma out of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. This sets us free to identify a variety of philosophical topics and doctrines in the poem, and the following chapters will discuss topics such as epistemology and theories of the emotions, drawing primarily on Epicurean and Stoic philosophy, as the dominant contemporary schools. Ovid’s eclecticism is not arbitrary; there is a consistent engagement with topics important in contemporary philosophical schools. Since he is not bound by dogmatic allegiances, Ovid is able to adopt and adapt philosophical positions that are prompted by the particular myth at hand. In his Creation scene, Ovid refers primarily to cosmological poets, such as Homer, Hesiod, Apollonius Rhodius, Lucretius and Vergil. Ovid alludes to them in order to situate himself within a canon of cosmological poets. We should, then, consider Ovid’s philosophical borrowings alongside his poetic borrowings, particularly since the sources are often the same. Myers observes that Ovid’s opening ‘suggests that the Metamorphoses is the type of mythological cosmogonic history that Apollonius Rhodius and Vergil had attributed to mythical bards in their poems: Orpheus (Argon. 1.492-511), Clymene (Geo. 4.345-47), Silenus (Ecl. 6), and Iopas (Aen. 1.740-46)’.115 If poetry and philosophy are so closely related, should we look for a single philosophical point of view any more than we look for a single poetic allegiance? It seems better to posit that Ovid makes use of such doctrines as seem appropriate for his local poetic purposes, just as he draws on whatever poems and poetic genres he pleases.

114 Wheeler (1999), p.30. 115 Myers (1994), p.7. 49

i) The Limits of the “Cosmogony”

When is the creation of the cosmos complete? Indeed, is it ever complete, or is there only an eternal flux? As Bass has observed in the context of the Phaethon episode, it is necessary to determine the limits of any episode, before attempting to discuss its structure and constituent parts.116 It is especially urgent to determine the limits of the “Cosmogony” episode, since we may reasonably assume that a stable cosmos emerges once the Creation is complete – and thus we may begin to understand the nature of Ovid’s cosmos. This assumption presupposes that it will be a simple matter to pinpoint the end of the Cosmogony, since we need only identify the point in the poem at which the cosmos becomes stable. It is, however, surprisingly difficult to do this. The beginning may be fixed as 1.5, following the short proem, but determining the ending is more complicated. Editors tend to locate the end of the Cosmogony at 1.88, with the (first) creation of humanity,117 but there are indications that this may not be the point at which the creation is complete. Certainly, the cosmos is not yet the one we, the current race of humans, know. There are several different possible end points, and each division illuminates something about the Creation and about the Metamorphoses as a whole. The most extreme interpretation of the limits of the “Cosmogony” could claim, as Tissol does, that the creation is never complete, that the Metamorphoses is ‘a creation story from beginning to end’.118 Myers argues that the third anthropogony indicates that ‘the harmony of the elements depicted in the divinely ordered universe of the opening cosmogony has permanently broken down and that, because of the basic instability of the elements, the processes of destruction and creation are doomed to be repeated’.119 For all that the third anthropogony concentrates on the ease of transition from stone to flesh (quae tamen ex illis aliquo pars umida suco / et terrena fuit, versa est in corporis usum; quod solidum est flectique nequit, mutatur in ossa / quae modo vena fuit, sub

116 R.C. Bass (1977) ‘Some Aspects of the Structure of the Phaethon Episode in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ in CQ n.s. 27.2: 402-402, p.402. 117 E.g. F.J. Miller in the Loeb edition. 118 G. Tissol (1997) The Face of Nature: Wit, Narrative, and Cosmic Origins in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Princeton, Princeton UP, p.191. 119 K.S. Myers (1994), p.44. 50

eodem nomine mansit, 1.407-10), it still requires divine intervention (superorum numine, 1.411) for stones to become human. The categories and distinctions set up in the creation scene are deliberately dissolved in this instance, and what Myers calls ‘the basic instability of the elements’ becomes evident. The creation scene (1.5-88) appears to end in a stable and ordered cosmos, but we now see that it has not. This supports Tissol’s claim that the whole poem is essentially a cosmogony. However, such a view precludes an intensive study of the creation scene qua creation scene (rather than as an initial part of the creation). Clearly, there is some appeal in the idea that the whole poem is a creation poem, and yet we do not have to jettison the idea that there is also a creation scene that sets up the cosmos. The fluidity of a cosmos that is never complete need not mean that there is no moment of creation. What is created, however, is not a stable and ordered cosmos, but rather a fluid system with enough laws to keep it from degenerating back into Chaos – although certain events threaten such a regression.120 Let us then select as our end-point neither the end of the poem, nor the end of the creation of the cosmos. Rather, let us choose the moment at which the cosmos with which we are familiar begins to emerge. The second book of the Metamorphoses begins with the ekphrasis on the doors of the Palace of the Sun. This ekphrasis depicts the cosmos, which Phaethon is to imperil (2.1-18).121 The cosmos is therefore sufficiently established for Phaethon to be able to endanger it, to the extent that the earth fears a regression to Chaos (2.299). The ekphrasis thus looks forward to the destruction caused by Phaethon’s ride, as Bass argues, but also back to the “Cosmogony”, showing us the cosmos that has now been created. We may thus conclude that the end of the cosmogony is to be located within the first book of the poem. It is possible that the whole of Book I is cosmogonic, but the fact that “Phaethon’s Ride” crosses the boundary of the two books argues against identifying the end-point of the cosmogony with the end of the book. However, if we are looking for a moment when the cosmos with which we are familiar emerges, this must surely be the moment when we, that is, Ovid’s own race of humans, emerge. There are three anthropogonies to choose from: 1.76-88 (when humans are created either divino semine or by Prometheus), 1.156-62 (when Terra creates a new human race from the Giants’ blood) and 1.398-415 (when Deucalion and Pyrrha create a third race from stones). It is only with the third creation that the narrator

120 In the Phaethon myth, for example, the scorched earth cries out in chaos antiquum confundimur (2.299). 121 Bass (1977), p.404. 51

uses a first person verb to describe the human race; he observes that the stony origin makes us a hard race (inde genus durum sumus, 1.414). The first person verb shows that, at last, the current race has appeared. We can, therefore, conclude that it is this third race that endures and is our own, a conclusion supported by the fact that there is no fourth anthropogony in the Metamorphoses. As our own race has now emerged, it is clear that this is now our cosmos (if lacking several features that will appear in the aetiological myths). Although the myths of Daphne, Io and Syrinx that end the book are all aetiological, after the post-diluvian anthropogony and zoogony, there is no further creation scene in the rest of Book I. Therefore, we must conclude that it is with the post-diluvian creation that the cosmogony is finally complete, or at least that the cosmos of which we are a part is now complete.122 Ovid’s first person verbs sumus and damus (1.414-15) signal a significant break with the past and the end of the cosmogony (except for the zoogony immediately following). The world is now the current world, and the progression within it to Roman culture is a development of that world, rather than a transition to a new one. We will therefore adopt as the end-point of the “Cosmogony” verse 1.437 (tellingly, this verse ends with the word creavit).

ii) Framing the Metamorphoses

It is often argued that the “Cosmogony” and the “Speech of Pythagoras” in the first and last books respectively should be taken together to form a pair. Hardie calls these episodes ‘the two parts of a philosophical frame to the whole poem’, while Myers argues that the pair of myths ‘establish a sort of “scientific” field of reference in which Ovid suggests we may read his mythical stories’, although she equivocates a little by claiming that ‘the metamorphic fictional world of the bulk of the poem does not allow for or require such a philosophical underpinning’.123 Two decades earlier, this suggestion had been dismissed by Coleman, who claimed that, although the two myths ‘have sometimes been interpreted as providing a serious philosophical setting of res prudentes for the intervening fabulae’, close examination ‘reveals that neither passage

122 The concept of successive human races which culminate in the author’s own is, of course, part of traditional Greek thought; we might well compare Hesiod’s Five Ages of Man in Works and Days. I am grateful to David Konstan for the comparison. 123 Hardie (1995), pp. 210-211; Myers (1994), pp.27, 134. 52

has more than a superficial relevance to the mythological theme’.124 More recently, Volk has stated categorically that ‘the speech cannot have been intended as a kind of philosophical explanation of the events narrated in the poem’.125 Whatever the relationship between the frame and the inner myths, it is clear that there is an explicitly philosophical tone in the “Cosmogony” and the “Speech”, and that any philosophical ideas in the rest of the poem are not made so explicit. The close correspondences between the “Speech of Pythagoras” and the “Cosmogony” indicate that the two do form a pair. We are not, however, obliged to accept that the framework provides a field of reference in which to read the rest of the poem. Such a reading would be too simplistic, laying the idea of a frame open to criticisms such as those made by Coleman and Volk.126 Rather, as we shall see, Ovid introduces certain themes in the “Cosmogony” that reappear in the “Speech of Pythagoras” and are explored in the inner myths. We can safely posit that the overt philosophy in the frame primes us to look for philosophical influence in the inner myths, without requiring that a consistent philosophical doctrine be identified. Moreover, the location of the philosophical myths at the beginning and end should not necessarily be taken to give those myths priority, a paradigmatic function that is denied to the inner myths. Each influences the other. For now, let us merely note that the explicitly philosophical tone of the “Cosmogony” and the “Speech” encourages the reader to see a connection between the two episodes, and to hypothesise further that this pair of myths has some significance for our interpretation of the rest of the poem.

iii) Antiquum Chaos

Despite the well-recognised fact that Ovid’s “Cosmogony” explicitly references philosophical language and traditions, these are by and large mediated by earlier poetic

124 Coleman (1971), p.462. 125 K. Volk (2002) The Poetics of Latin Didactic: Lucretius, Vergil, Ovid, Manilius, Oxford: OUP, p.66. 126 Furthermore, while the “Cosmogony” is indeed placed at the beginning, the “Speech of Pythagoras” is not, in fact, placed at the end. While it occupies a substantial section of the final book, it begins rather than ends that book, and is followed by the Roman stories. If we are to take the “Cosmogony” and the “Speech” as a frame, what are we to make of those stories that lie outside the frame? Are they uninfluenced by whatever philosophical effects the frame has on the rest of the poem? It should be remembered, however, that limits are not always well observed in the Metamorphoses. Several myths, such as “Phaethon’s Ride” and “Orpheus” overrun the book boundaries, and we should be alert to the possible significance of myths overrunning (apparent) frames. Myths that overrun their boundaries might signify, for example, that the world of the Metamorphoses cannot be neatly divided up into categories and divisions. 53

constructions of the cosmos and its creation. The very first sentence in the “Cosmogony” (ante mare et terras et quod tegit omnia caelum / unus erat toto naturae vultus in orbe, 1.5-6) contains allusions to multiple accounts, situating Ovid’s version of the Creation within a philosophical and poetic tradition. For the pre-cosmic state, Ovid draws on Hesiod, Lucretius, Apollonius and even his own alternate account of the Cosmogony in the Fasti, as we shall see. This sentence introduces the first part of Creation (the second major part of the cosmogony being that following the Flood), which is described in predominantly philosophical terms. Such a strong natural- philosophical tone does not arise in the poem again until the post-diluvian zoogony, and it therefore appears to be reserved specifically for creation passages (although it does not necessarily inform all the creation passages). As the opening of the Cosmogony and of the whole poem, this is the passage which sets up our expectations and invites us to read the whole poem in a particular way. The careful allusions allow Ovid to locate his poem within a literary tradition of cosmological poetry. Ovid’s pre-cosmic state is called ‘Chaos’, an obvious allusion to Hesiod’s Theogony: ἤτοι μὲν πρώτιστα Χάος γένετ’ (Th. 116), the origin of the concept of pre- cosmic chaos. Ovid makes it clear that he is alluding to previous authors with the Alexandrian tag quem dixere Chaos (1.7). His Chaos, however, differs from the Hesiodic in that it is a rudis indigestaque moles (1.7), rather than a gap or chasm.127 This conception of Chaos as a ‘confused and disordered cosmogonic reservoir supplying raw material for the foundation of the universe’ was prevalent during the Roman period,128 and the same concept appears in the De rerum natura. Lucretius, however, does not call this state Chaos, but a nova tempestas, a moles [...] coorta / omnigenis e principiis, before going on to describe the discordia of the first-beginnings (DRN 5.436). Lucretius’ account is clearly a precursor to Ovid’s, in both thought and language.129 Like Lucretius, Ovid calls this heap of things a moles, and refers to the discordia of the first-beginnings (Met. 1.9, discordia semina rerum).

127 This type of Chaos also appears in Ovid’s other cosmogonies, at Fasti 1.105-06 and A.A. 2.467. But see R. Mondi (1989) ‘Χάος and the Hesiodic Cosmogony’ in HSCP 92: 1-41, esp. pp.6-21 on the evidence for interpreting Χάος as Χάσμα. 128 Mondi (1989), p.2. 129 There are two further, perhaps minor, allusions worth noting, one from Ovid’s Fasti and one from Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica. In Ovid’s other cosmogony, in the Fasti, Janus says me Chaos antiqui (nam sum res prisca) vocabant (Fast. 1.103). The traditional nature of Ovid’s cosmogonical accounts, in both the Fasti and the Metamorphoses, is thus emphasized, and their place in the canon of cosmological writings assured. The second allusion worth noting is to the cosmogonic song of Orpheus in Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica (1.494-511). Ovid, like Apollonius’ Orpheus, begins by giving order to chaos 54

Semina rerum is, of course, one of the poetic glosses Lucretius invents for Epicurean atoms at DRN 1.50-61 (the others are primordia rerum, materia, genitalia corpora and corpora prima). Ovid uses the term again, to describe the spontaneous generation of animals (from mud) after the Flood (1.419). In fact, Ovid uses semina in this Lucretian sense only in his descriptions of creation in Book I, and allusively in the final book, when Pythagoras argues that semina limus habet virides generantia ranas (15.375). Pythagoras’ language here recalls Lucretius, who discusses the spontaneous generation of worms from decaying corpses and speaks of semina [...] vermiculorum (DRN 3.727-28). Ovid’s use of this technical philosophical term thus occurs only in his two episodes most obviously concerned with philosophy. Ovid describes Chaos in negative terms, explaining that the parts of the cosmos were not yet distinguishable, a common technique in efforts ‘to conceptualize the pre- cosmic state [...] in early speculative thought’.130 His list of negations includes the facts that the sun, moon, earth and ocean did not yet fulfil their functions. Note, however, that he implies that each of these parts of the world is already present, if useless. Each of these parts of the world is given its mythological name and personification: Titan, Phoebe, Tellus and Amphitrite. Ovid’s decision to use mythological names need not be taken as evidence that he intends to undermine the philosophical tone of this passage. We might note a similar passage in Eclogue 6, where Vergil follows a cosmogony influenced by Epicureanism (Silenus sings of the inane and semina of the four elements) with an account of how the earth began discludere Nerea ponto (Ecl. 6.35). Paschalis suggests, in the context of Eclogue 6, that this metonymic use of mythological names may be intended as a compromise between Lucretian and Hesiodic cosmogonies.131 Such names may be interpreted as allegorical, or they may be justified in a philosophical setting by a passage of the DRN, in which Lucretius explicitly allows divine names to be used as metonymies: dum vera re tamen ipse / religione animum turpi contingere parcat (DRN 2.659-60). Lucretius himself uses mythological characters, only to reveal the true nature of these characters later; the Venus of his

(Ἤειδεν δ᾽ ὡς γαῖα καὶ οὐρανὸς ἠδὲ θάλασσα, / τὸ πρὶν ἐπ᾽ ἀλλήλοισι μιῇ συναρηρότα μορφῇ, Arg. 4.496-97). However, Orpheus goes on to sing of the divine successions, while Ovid avoids anything more than a bare reference to the Gigantomachy (1.151-62), preferring, like Lucretius, to write about human development. 130 Mondi (1989), p.21. 131 M. Paschalis (2001) ‘Semina Ignis: The Interplay of Science and Myth in the Song of Silenus’ in AJPh 122.2: 201-122, pp.203-04. 55

proem (DRN 1.1-49) is deconstructed in Book IV and revealed to be sexual desire (haec Venus est nobis, DRN 4.1058).132 Lucretius’ own description of the pre-cosmic state is also composed of negative terms. Lucretius says that the sun and its light could not be seen, nor the stars, sea, sky, earth or air nec similis nostris rebus res ulla (DRN 5.432-435). Throughout his description of the sun, moon and sea, Ovid looks back to Homer: in the description of the Shield of Achilles, the triad of earth, heaven and sea is followed by sun, moon and stars, while the whole picture is encircled by Ocean (Il. 18.483-89.). This image is also exploited by Lucretius; in that poet’s attempt to show the mortality and birth of the mundus, he intends to explain how the assemblage of matter fundarit terram caelum mare sidera solem / lunaique globum (DRN 5.68-69). All six of the Homeric features thus appear in the De rerum natura, while Ovid’s cosmogony excludes the stars at this point – Ovid has something special planned for the stars, which are unmentioned until 1.69. Ovid next explains that land, air and sea were already present in Chaos, but that they, too, could not fulfil their functions, in that animate creatures could not use them. In his focus on the use of the world by animate creatures (instabilis, 1.16, innabilis, 1.16, lucis egens aer, 1.17), Ovid implies a teleological cosmos: the earth is truly earth only if it can be stood upon, the water must be swimmable and the air must permit vision. Innabilis is, in fact, an Ovidian coinage, based on the model of Lucretius’ instabilis.133 Lucretius, of course, attacks such teleological views of the cosmos at, e.g., DRN 5.110-234, where he argues that the cosmos was in no way prepared for us by a divine power, since it has so many faults (nequaquam nobis divinitus esse paratam / naturam rerum: tanta stat praedita culpa, DRN 5.198-199). This passage and others in the DRN argue strongly against the teleological arguments that Ovid hints at.134 Ovid’s final description of Chaos plays with the traditional Greek philosophical engagement with a conflict of opposites. Ovid opposes various pairs, beginning with the two most significant in Greek philosophy: hot and cold, and dry and wet (1.18-20). These were intimately connected to the four elements; earth was deemed to be cold and

132 On Lucretius’ practice of ‘underlin[ing] the artificial nature of these personifications’ see Gale (1994), pp.39-45. 133 A.G. Lee (1953, repr. 1992) Ovid: Metamorphoses I, Bristol: Bristol Classical Press, ad 1.16, p.72. 134 See, e.g., DRN 2.167-183, 4.823-857. Many of the passages arguing that the gods have no interest in human affairs also entail refutations of teleological arguments. 56

dry, water to be cold and wet, air to be wet and hot and fire to be dry and hot.135 There is a possible precursor to this passage in Lucretius’ account of the cosmogony, where Lucretius refers to the discordia of the atoms, a discord that mixes intervalla vias conexus pondera plagas / concursus motus (DRN 5.438-439).136 Ovid’s pairs of opposites, however, have also been identified as the Pythagorean dyad. According to Colavito, Chaos is the monad, the pairs of opposites represent the two in the tetractys, the Creator is the third principle, separating the two of the dyad, and the four elements resulting from this separation represent four.137 In this way, Colavito finds the complete Pythagorean tetractys in the Creation scene. Colavito’s fascinating, if occasionally a little forced, thesis is that the Pythagoreanism which appears explicitly only towards the end of the Metamorphoses is in fact a unifying theme in the whole poem. Ovid’s version of Chaos, in conclusion draws on two main sources. First, of course, there is Hesiod’s account of Χάος, but the genealogical cosmogony that Hesiod espouses makes no appearance in the Metamorphoses. In the “Cosmogony”, Ovid jettisons the genealogical view, while retaining the name of Chaos, and instead adopts the contemporary view of Chaos as a confused heap of things. This is the view that is found in Apollonius and Lucretius, neither of whom alludes to Hesiod by calling their pre-cosmic state Chaos. Ovid prefers this version of Chaos, in which all the primary features of the cosmos exist, but are undifferentiated and unusable. In order to create cosmos from chaos, he now only needs to find a force that is capable of differentiating this mass, of separating its parts into their appropriate categories.

iv) A Poetic Cosmos

Even before Ovid attempts to describe Chaos, he has shown us the basic nature of the cosmos that is to emerge. He does so by invoking the three categories that make up the Homeric tripartite cosmos. He begins with ante mare et terras et quod tegit omnia caelum, which refers to the tripartite division of the world into earth, sea and sky (1.5). This tripartite world is first found in the Iliad, on the Shield of Achilles, where

135 G.E.R. Lloyd (1964) ‘The Hot and the Cold, the Dry and the Wet in Greek Philosophy’ in JHS 84: 92- 106, p.93. 136 Lucretius, of course, discussing the Empedoclean elements at DRN 1.714-62, crediting Empedocles with a divinum pectus (1.731), but arguing against his theory of four elements. 137 Colavito (1989), pp. 18-20. 57

Hephaestus depicts ἐν μὲν γαῖαν ἔτευξ᾽, ἐν δ᾽ οὐρανόν, ἐν δὲ θάλασσαν (Il. 18.483). The cosmos that will emerge is, therefore, Homeric in structure. This tripartite division appears again in the ekphrasis on the doors of the Palace of the Sun (2.6-7), reinforcing the idea that the cosmos of the Metamorphoses is the Homeric tripartite cosmos, as well as indicating a connection between the “Cosmogony” and “Phaethon’s Ride”.138 Since verse 1.5 is followed by unus erat toto naturae vultus in orbe, Ovid appears to be following the structure of the very Empedoclean139 “Song of Orpheus” in Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica, which opens with the tripartite division and then refers to the original state and to its undifferentiated appearance: τὸ πρὶν ἐπ᾽ ἀλλήλοισι μιῇ συναρηρότα μορφῇ (Arg. 1.496-97). As we shall see, there are possible references to Empedocles in Ovid’s “Cosmogony”, references that stand out after the reference to the Argonautica has reminded us of Empedocles. Ovid refers more explicitly to the cosmic nature of the Shield of Achilles later, in the contest between Odysseus and Ajax for Achilles’ arms; during Ajax’s speech the shield is called clipeus vasti caelatus imagine mundi 13.110). Odysseus then describes the Shield in greater detail, referring to the tripartite division into Oceanum et terras cumque alto sidera caelo and to astronomical details (13.292). While the structure of Ovid’s opening sentence thus alludes to the Argonautica, his later references to the Shield of Achilles, and in particular to its universalising, cosmic decoration, make it clear that he is also alluding to Apollonius Rhodius’ source, Homer. This technique of ‘demonstrat[ing] his knowledge of traditional material through reference to Hellenistic intermediaries,’ is typically Ovidian.140

138 David Konstan has suggested that the Palace of the Sun also alludes to Parmenides’ proem (personal communication 09/09/2011). Parmenides’ chariot ride, guided by the Daughters of the Sun, is indeed a journey to the gates of Day and Night (fr. B1). However, Mourelatos has argued that ‘the locus of the revelation could be the Underworld’, even though the fragment ‘can be read as describing a journey to heaven’ (A.P.D. Mourelatos (2008) The Route of Parmenides, Las Vegas: Parmenides, pp.15, 14). Still, Ovid’s account of the Palace of the Sun is reminiscent of Parmenides. 139 Nelis observes that ‘the song of Orpheus begins with the separation of earth, sky and sea through the action of cosmic Strife [...] Both an ancient scholiast and modern commentators note that Apollonius is here drawing on Empedocles’ (D.P. Nelis (1992) ‘Demodocus and the Song of Orpheus: Ap. Rhod. Arg. .496-511’ in MH 49.3: 153-170, pp.157-58). On Apollonius’ use of Empedocles, see also Kyriakou, P. (1994) ‘Empedoclean Echoes in Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica’ in Hermes 122.3: 309-319. 140 P.E. Knox (1993) ‘Philetas and Roman Poetry’ in PLLS 7: 61-84, p.73. This technique is also Catullan (D. Konstan (2000) ‘A Pun in Virgil’s Aeneid?’ in CP 95.1: 74-76. I am grateful to David Konstan for the reference. 58

The tripartite world was an enduring image in Greek and Latin poetry, and is also used by Lucretius.141 In fact, the first appearance of the tripartite world in the DRN occurs in very nearly the same position as Ovid’s first use of this image in the Metamorphoses: DRN 1.6-9, cf. Met. 1.5 and its elaboration in Met. 1.10-16. This near- correspondence of location suggests that the opening line of Ovid’s cosmogony alludes not only to Apollonius and Homer, but also to Lucretius. Indeed, this last may be the most significant allusion, considering the sustained allusions to the De rerum natura that will appear throughout this section, and the Lucretian terminology that appears as early as Met. 1.9 (semina rerum). In the first sentence of his cosmogony, then, Ovid refers to the poets Homer, Hesiod, Apollonius Rhodius and Lucretius. He thus places himself within a poetic tradition of writing about the creation and nature of the world, and engenders an expectation that the rest of his cosmogony will invoke these authors – and no doubt other cosmological poets. However, while Homer and Hesiod discuss the nature of the world and its generation, neither poet expounds a philosophical system as Lucretius does. Homer, Hesiod and Apollonius Rhodius discuss the state of the cosmos and its earlier state, while Lucretius focuses on the underlying components of the cosmos, a primary concern of natural philosophy. Ovid is, therefore, not only placing himself within a poetic tradition of cosmology, he is also imbuing his own cosmological system with elements from both mythology and philosophy, much as Lucretius has done before him. This mixing of genres is central to the Metamorphoses, as is signalled by the sustained imitation of Lucretius’ cosmogony in a cosmogony that is profoundly anti- Lucretian in its insistence on a Creator and a teleological cosmos.142

v) Crafting the Cosmos

It is this Creator who is the force capable of separating the undifferentiated Chaos. When Ovid introduces the force which separates the cosmic elements, he diverges significantly from most of his poetic predecessors and assumes an unmistakably philosophical tone. Neither Homer nor Hesiod makes any mention of the power that

141 E.g. DRN 1.6-9: te, dea, te fugiunt venti, te nubila caeli / adventumque tuum,, tibi suavis daedala tellus / summittit flores, tibi rident aequora ponti / placatumque nitet diffuso lumine caelum; 1.1014: nec mare nec tellus neque caeli lucida templa. 142 In this context, it is worth remembering that Lucretius himself is deeply influenced by Empedocles. See D. Sedley (1998) Lucretius and the Transformation of Greek Wisdom, Cambridge: CUP. 59

creates the cosmos. Apollonius’ Orpheus and Vergil’s Silenus, each of whose chaos and cosmos are identifiably precursors to Ovid’s, do not explain how chaos separated and became cosmos.143 Orpheus merely says that the once-commingled earth, sea and heaven ‘after deadly strife were separated from each other’ (νείκεος ἐξ ὀλοοῖο διέκριθεν ἀμφὶς ἕκαστα, Arg. 1.498). There is no mention of what, precisely, is responsible for this separation – although νείκεος may imply an Empedoclean system. Vergil’s Silenus also focuses exclusively on the physical causes, without making any mention of a divine craftsman. Ovid’s introduction of an agent who controls and directs the Creation is thus a very significant divergence from models such as Vergil’s Silenus.144 Of the group of cosmological poets evoked in Ovid’s opening verses, the only one to discuss the power which creates the cosmos is Lucretius. The opening passage of Ovid’s creation scene (1.21-31) is both indebted to Lucretius and at the same time flaunts its difference from Lucretius. This passage begins with the statement that the strife (lis) of Chaos is given order by a god and by natura (deus et melior natura, Met. 1.21). Natura, of course, need not be taken as implying a natural process along the lines of that described in the DRN; this is not Lucretius’ rerum natura creatrix, despite Ovid’s later adaptation of the Lucretian term in Pythagoras’ rerum novatrix [...] natura (DRN 1.629, Met. 15.252-53). In contrast to Lucretius, Ovid’s account is heavily weighted towards a divine Creator (deus, 1.21; quisquis fuit ille deorum, 1.32; cura dei, 1.48; mundi fabricator, 1.57) and Ovid’s natura is therefore more likely to possess sentience, in line with a more Stoic, and indeed Platonic, conception of nature. Against this, it should be noted that on other occasions Ovid does give alternative accounts, most notably in the first anthropogony, where the question of who created humanity is left unanswered, with the opifex rerum and Prometheus as the two candidates (1.78-83). It is, of course, a very Lucretian practice to give alternate possible accounts when the true explanation is unknown, a technique described at DRN 5.526-33. However, since even in this open-ended section the two possible creators of humanity are conscious beings, the identification of natura with either the deus or with a Stoic or Platonic Providence/Nature, or indeed with both the deus and Nature, seems more secure. When Ovid attributes the creation of the cosmos to a deity, he diverges sharply from Lucretius who explicitly denies this possibility, insisting on a materialist evolution (DRN 5.156-94). The cosmogonies in the Argonautica and Eclogue 6 are likewise

143 Wheeler (1995a), p.95. 144 D. Feeney (1991) The Gods in Epic, Oxford: Clarendon, p.189. 60

formed on a materialist model and hence opposed to Ovid’s. Interestingly, Ovid appears to be diverging from his own cosmogonies in the Fasti and Ars Amatoria, each of which follows a more materialist model. In the Fasti, Janus says that the mass of Chaos was dissolved rerum [...] lite suarum,145 while the account in the Ars Amatoria has it that mox caelum impositum terris, humus aequore cincta est / inque suas partes cessit inane chaos (Fast. 1.107-08, A.A. 2.469-70). In the Ars, the passive voice used for the arrangement of sky, earth and sea might suggest a Creator, but the active voice used for the void, and the very inclusion of void, implies a mechanistic vision drawn from Epicureanism. Ovid’s departure in the Metamorphoses from such a cosmogony is thus marked, in that he is departing from his primary model, Lucretius, from earlier poets such as Vergil and Apollonius, and even from his own accounts in the Ars Amatoria and Fasti – although we should note the inclusion in the Fasti of strife, lis. ‘Strife’ is thus a point of connection between the Fasti and Metamorphoses accounts (the Creator separates litem at 1.21). Wheeler has attempted to identify a source for Ovid’s ‘creationist account’, since this account diverges from the poetic versions in his sources.146 Wheeler concludes that Ovid is perhaps imitating these sources cum variatione, by drawing also on a philosophical prose model.147 This model is either the Creator in Plato’s Timaeus or a Stoic account of divine providence such as those recorded by Cicero (DND 2.58) and Diogenes Laertius (7.136-37, 156).148 Ovid’s Creator is clearly a craftsman; Ovid’s language (mundi fabricator, 1 .57; ille opifex rerum, 1.79) implies ‘that the creator of the world is an artist himself’,149 like Ovid. This divine craftsman is compatible with both the Platonic philosophy of the Timaeus and Stoicism, in which Nature ‘is conceived as a “craftsman” (artistic fire)’.150 Ovid’s deus has long been seen as either Platonic or Stoic; Robbins has argued that the echoes of the Timaeus in Ovid’s Creation scene come from the adoption of the Timaeus by later philosophers, such as the Stoics.151 Robbins therefore settles for a Stoic deus – although, as we shall see in Chapter 2, there may be some evidence for direct reference to Plato. The Ovidian and Stoic accounts differ radically from their Presocratic counterparts in accepting divine

145 Janus also says that ‘Chaos’ is an ancient name for him (Fast. 1.103-14). 146 Wheeler (1995a), p.96. 147 Wheeler (1995a), p.96. 148 Wheeler (1995a), p.96. 149 Solodow (1988), p.215. 150 A.A. Long (1974) Hellenistic Philosophy: Stoics, Epicureans, Sceptics, London: Duckworth, p.169. 151 Robbins (1913), p.409. 61

agency.152 Ovid’s account of the Creator, however, is more fruitfully contrasted with the Epicurean account of the Creation than with Presocratic accounts, since Lucretius’ recent poem had made the Epicurean cosmogony more accessible. Despite the fundamental schism between the Ovidian and the Lucretian cosmogonies which the Creator represents, this very passage is still indebted to Lucretius. In the Ovidian passage, the Creator separates caelo terras, terris [...] undas and liquidum spisso [...] ab aere caelum (Met. 1.22-23). In the corresponding Lucretian section, the parts arrange themselves, separating a terris altum [...] caelum, and sea from aether (DRN 5.446-48). In each case, we have moved away from the tripartite world; the fourth division of aether or aer appears alongside the canonical earth, sea and sky. The two sections also correspond in structure; the quadripartite division of earth, sea, sky and aether is followed by a description of the process of those divisions. In the Metamorphoses, the four elements of earth, water, air and fire, corresponding to the world divisions, take their positions once the Creator has released them from their confusion; the disposition of the elements is also narrated in the Fasti (Met. 1.24-31. cf. Fast. 1.109-10). Weightless fire makes a place for itself (locum sibi fecit, Met. 1.27) at the highest point, then air, earth and finally water, which confines the land (1.26-31). In the De rerum natura, this process is described in greater detail, since Lucretius associates the traditional four elements with the Epicurean theory of atoms (DRN 5.449-508).153 In the De rerum natura, the heaviest atoms, those of earth, sink to the bottom, forcing out the lighter atoms (DRN 5.449-457). Then the ignifer aether raises itself (se sustulit), with a charming simile likening this arrangement of aether to the development of clouds (DRN 5.457-70). Next, the sun and moon develop, taking the place between earth and aether because their weight lies between those of earth and fire (DRN 5.471-79). After this, the earth sinks again, and the atoms of water are squeezed out (DRN 5.480-94). Ovid’s account of the arrangement of elements thus follows Lucretius’ quite closely. Each separates the elements loosely; Ovid’s elements are released by the Creator’s activity and Lucretius’ by the natural sinking of the heavier atoms. Each then elaborates on this separation, following the same pattern, with fire described first, then air, earth and finally water.154 Ovid imitates Lucretius particularly closely in the case of

152 Robbins (1913), p.410. 153 David Konstan suggests that this may go back to Epicurus. Personal communication 09.09.2011. 154 The element of air receives different treatment from each, however. In Lucretius, the placement of air is split, being described partly in the simile that describes the placement of fire, and partly in a 62

fire’s active movement: for Ovid locum sibi fecit and for Lucretius se sustulit (Met. 1.27, DRN 5.458). The idea that fire lifts itself upwards is appropriate to the Epicurean account, in which the movement of the atoms is natural to them and not imposed by any consciousness. It is more surprising in the Ovidian account, since Ovid’s cosmos is created by a Creator. Indeed, the inappropriateness of fire’s self-directed movement is highlighted, since it is immediately preceded by the Creator’s action in loosening the rudis indigestaque moles that holds the elements in an undifferentiated mass. After this, one would expect the elements to be arranged by the Creator, but instead we have fire moving itself, and since fire is the only element to command a reflexive pronoun in the De rerum natura, Ovid’s use of sibi here appears to be a deliberate echo. This section may also contain a poetic modification of Empedoclean cosmology. Ovid calls Chaos, the state in which there is no distinction among things, lis, or ‘strife’, a possible translation of the Empedoclean νείκος (Met. 1.21). According to Empedocles’ cosmological system, however, the line unus erat toto naturae vultus in orbe (Met. 1.6) should refer to φιλíα, while Ovid calls it lis, the precise opposite of Empedocles’ φιλíα. In Ovid’s scheme, then, separation brings order to strife, while in Empedocles’ cosmology, strife is separation.155 Verses 1.21-31 describe the imposition of order on Chaos, and include four different verbs of separation: dirimo, abscido, secerno and eximo. The idea of separation is reinforced by the description of the four elements taking separate locations.156 However, Sedley argues that Empedocles’ comparison of the creation of a lamp and the creation of the eye (fr. B84) gives the unmistakable impression of ‘an intelligent and purposive creative force’.157 We should thus include Empedocles along with Plato and the Stoics as a possible source for the deus et melior natura. There is some evidence to suggest that Ovid was acquainted with Empedoclean philosophy; Hardie has traced the Empedoclean parallels in the fifteenth book of the Metamorphoses, while Rusten notes that the famous line in the Ars Amatoria, semibovemque virum, semivirumque bovem, closely recalls Empedocles’

synecdoche through the creation of the sun and moon. In Ovid, the placement of air is explained in the line proximus est aer illi levitate locoque, which picks up the two main features of air in the Lucretian account, its position directly under the aether and its weight midway between earth and fire (Met. 1.28). 155 I am grateful to Joseph Farrell for the observation that Ovid’s oppositio in imitando here is likely intended to stress Empedocles’ importance. 156 McKim identifies six separation verbs in the first five verses and ten further words or phrases in the next twenty-five lines ‘which denote either God’s divisive acts or the impassable boundaries which he imposes to keep each element firmly in its Aristotelian place.’ McKim (1984), p.100. 157 Sedley (1998), p.20. 63

‘man-faced ox progeny and ox-headed offspring of man’.158 Given this, the play on lis in this section may well be a deliberate revision of Empedoclean philosophy. Myers sees the agent of this separation (deus et melior natura) as Stoic in origin.159 Currie and Robbins agree that it is Stoic, with Currie finding it ‘redolent of Posidonian Stoicism’ and Robbins arguing that melior natura refers to the Stoic identification of God and Nature, or Nature permeated by God.160 These separations, however, have also been interpreted in Pythagorean terms. Colavito finds the Creator’s cutting and dividing, labours whose fruit is described as ‘peaceful harmony’, to be ‘an allusion to the Pythagorean musical acts of cutting the string’.161 There is, however, no need to choose one or the other. Ovid is neither dogmatic nor exclusive in his referencing of philosophy, and it is not implausible that melior natura might be Stoic, while the separation activity has roots in the philosophies of Pythagoras and Empedocles.162 Why should Ovid not playfully synthesise different philosophical dogmas for the sheer intellectual pleasure of it? In the Ovidian account, once the Creator has prepared his materials by separating the elements, he moulds the earth itself ne non aequalis ab omni / parte foret (Met. 1.34-35). Ovid’s Creator is thus quite clearly an artist. The artistic nature of creation is reinforced in Deucalion’s and Pyrrha’s anthropogony, in which the metamorphosis of stone into flesh in described in the language of sculpture (Met. 1.400- 13). We should compare Ovid’s discussion of the importance of the spherical form with his parallel, and particularly precise, account in the Fasti:

ipsa volubilitas libratum sustinet orbem quique premat partes, angulus omnis abest cumque sit in media rerum regiona locata et tangat nullum plusve minusve latus ni convexa foret, parti vicinior esset nec medium terram mundus haberet onus (Fast. 6.271-76).

There may also be a reference here to Plato’s Timaeus, where Timaeus claims that the Creator ‘wrought it [sc. the cosmos] into a round, in the shape of a sphere

158 Hardie (1995); J.S. Rusten, (1982) ‘Ovid, Empedocles and the Minotaur’ in AJPh 103.3: 332-333; DK B61. 159 Myers (1994), p.43. 160 Currie (1964), p.152; Robbins (1913), p.409. 161 Colavito (1989), pp.23-24. 162 In defence of this argument of syncretism, we might note Seneca’s later attempts to harmonise aspects of Stoicism and Epicureanism. Seneca argues, for example, that Epicureans and Stoics both recommend leisure, if from different points of view: Primum deposita contentione depositoque odio quod implacabile diversa sequentibus indiximus, videamus, ut haec omnia ad idem sub alio atque alio titulo perveniant (De otio 7.1). 64

equidistant in all directions from the centre to the extremities, which of all shapes is the most perfect and the most self-similar’ (Tim. 33B).163 Timaeus’ version resembles Ovid’s more closely later, when he says that the Creator ‘made it smooth and even and equal on all sides from the centre’ (Tim. 34B).164 While the Stoics also believed in a spherical cosmos, there is a strong possibility that this particular section refers to the Timaeus, since in both the preceding and the following passages Ovid describes the relative weights of the elements. Such a description is also found in the Timaeus, immediately preceding the shaping of the cosmos (Tim. 32B). Ovid states only that air is as much heavier than fire as water is heavier than earth, while Plato has Timaeus describe air as ‘being to water as fire to air, and water being to earth as air to water’ (Met. 1.28-30, 52-53, Tim. 32B).165 We need not necessarily infer that Ovid is referring to the Greek text directly; if this is a reference to the Timaeus, Ovid may be dependent on Cicero’s translation. The likelihood that Ovid has Cicero in mind is supported by his description of the five terrestrial zones,166 designed as a parallel to the five celestial zones. At this point, Ovid may be thinking of something like the Somnium Scipionis in Cicero’s Republic, where Scipio is shown that the earth is divided into five zones (Rep. 6.20.21). Cicero and Ovid agree that the central zone is too hot for habitation, while the two outlying zones are uninhabitable by reason of the cold, and the two remaining zones are habitable. However, Cicero does not refer to the matching celestial zones, nor does Ovid’s language recall Cicero’s. The idea of the zones is not Cicero’s own, and Ovid may be familiar with Hellenistic sources.167 While we cannot, then, be sure whether Ovid was directly influenced by Plato, we can confidently say that Ovid is drawing on Greek philosophical ideas that are still in circulation in his own time.

vi) Zoogony

163 διὸ καὶ σφαιροειδές, ἐκ μέσου πάντῃ πρὸς τὰς τελευτὰς ἴσον ἀπέχον. Loeb trans. All translations are from this edition. 164 λεῖον καὶ ὁμαλὸν πανταχῇ τε ἐκ μέσου ἴσον καὶ ὅλον καὶ τέλεον ἐκ τελέων σωμάτων σῶμα ἐποίησεν. 165 ὅτιπερ πῦρ πρὸς ἀέρα, τοῦτο ἀέρα πρὸς ὕδωρ, καὶ ὅτι ἀὴρ πρὸς ὕδωρ, ὕδωρ πρὸς γῆν. 166 According to Strabo, the division of the earth into five zones was first suggested by Parmenides (DK28A54a). 167 I am grateful to David Konstan for this point. 65

A de facto zoogony is implied, rather than explained, in Ovid’s adoption of a teleological cosmos, with each division of the tripartite world designed for inhabitants. The confusion of these world divisions, therefore, means that none can fulfil its purpose, which is to support life. Of course, this teleological view appears to be somewhat at odds with the later division of the earth into five parts, three of which cannot sustain life (quarum quae media est, non est habitabilis aestu / nix tegit alta duas, 1.49-50).168 Farrell, however, has resolved this problem with reference to Vergil’s Georgics: while Lucretius argues that the uninhabitable majority proves the lack of divine craftsmanship (DRN 5.198-217), Vergil suggests that the inhabitable portion is a gift from the gods (duae mortalibus aegris / munere concessae divum, G. 1.237-38).169 Ovid, then, is able to draw on Vergil’s reconciliation of the earthly zones with a teleological perspective, thus avoiding an overly conspicuous self-contradiction. Once the world divisions are made and the earth is prepared for life, Ovid’s preliminary, implied zoogony begins with the stars. In most cosmological systems, the stars are created along with all other cosmic entities – for example, in the De rerum natura Lucretius associates the stars with the sun, moon, earth, sea and sky, explaining how each formed from an assemblage of matter (DRN 5.68-69). Ovid’s account is unusual in that the stars appear to have predated the Creator’s arrangement of matter; Ovid says that once the rudis indigestaque moles was set in order, the stars quae pressa diu fuerant caligine caeca began to shine (Met. 1. 69-71),170 an unusual position that presumably derives from Ovid’s notion that things were present before the creation, but did not fulfil their functions.171 Moreover, in Ovid’s cosmology, as in the Timaeus and Stoic philosophy, the stars are animate and divine. Ovid says that astra and the formae deorum dwelt in (tenent, Met. 1.73) heaven, so that no region would lack living beings (neu regio foret ulla suis animalibus orba, Met. 1.72, cf. Tim. 39E-40B). Ovid has four classes of animal, which he categorises in terms of habitation. In this, he agrees with the account in the Timaeus, which lists four categories of living

168 In fact, Lucretius argues that the heat-blasted and frost-covered zones (which he classifies as two parts of the world) preclude the possibility that the gods created the earth for human habitation: inde duas porro prope partis fervidus ardor / adsiduusque geli casus mortalibus aufert (DRN 5.204-05). 169 J. Farrell (1991) Vergil’s Georgics and the Traditions of Ancient Epic: The Art of Allusion in Literary History, Oxford: OUP, p.173. 170 While some manuscripts have quae pressa diu massa latuere sub illa, in both versions the stars appear to predate the Creator’s ordering of Chaos. The combination of diu and the pluperfect, in the version quoted earlier, especially indicates that the stars had existed in Chaos before the Creator’s organising activity. 171 I am grateful to David Konstan for this point. 66

beings: ‘one the heavenly kind of gods; another the winged kind which traverses the air; thirdly, the class which inhabits the waters; and fourthly, that which goes on foot on dry land’ (Tim. 39E-40A).172 Timaeus then describes the gods, including the stars, in more detail, saying that the Creator distributed them ‘round about all over the Heaven’ (Tim. 40A-B). Campbell notes how Plato departs from Presocratic practice in treating astronomy as part of his zoogony, rather than as part of his cosmogony.173 When we turn to Ovid’s categorisation, the stars and formae [...] deorum take heaven, the sea falls to the fish, earth takes the beasts and the air receives the volucres (Met. 1.72-75). However, for none of these four classes of living being does Ovid provide an origin. The stars are explicitly described as pre-existing, in defiance even of Plato, but the fish, beasts and birds are merely assigned to their respective dwelling places. Ovid gives us no indication of whether, or how, they are created beings (as are the humans, whose origin follows this brief zoogony), or pre-existing like the stars. There is, however, a second zoogony later in the “Cosmogony”, when Ovid replaces the animal life that has disappeared during the Flood – this is his zoogony proper. After the Flood, the (re)creation of animals is described in a fascinating account of spontaneous generation, or abiogenesis. In Lucretius’ first mention of abiogenesis, he argues that tellus generated mortalia (DRN 2.1153-56). Ovid picks up this Lucretian description, having tellus produce animalia by herself, sponte sua (Met. 1.416-17).174 Lucretius also has a fuller account of spontaneous generation, which shares many features with Ovid’s version, in Book V. Like Lucretius, Ovid supports his claim of original abiogenesis by referring to contemporary examples of spontaneous generation, although where Lucretius merely notes that multaque nunc etiam existunt animalia terris, Ovid gives a more detailed account of the discovery of animalia in the mud of the Nile (DRN 5.797, Met. 1.421- 29). The Nile is also a site for zoogony in Diodorus (1.10) and Pliny (HN 9.179). Ovid follows Lucretius, and much of Greek philosophy, in attributing abiogenesis to the action of heat on wet earth. Lucretius says that contemporary spontaneous generation (of lesser animals than the original abiogenesis) occurs from the

172 μία μὲν οὐράνιον θεῶν γένος, ἄλλη δὲ πτηνὸν καὶ ἀεροπόρον, τρίτη δὲ ἔνυδρον εἶδος, πεζὸν δὲ καὶ χερσαῖον τέταρτον. 173 G. Campbell (2000) ‘Zoogony and Evolution in Plato’s Timaeus, the Presocratics, Lucretius and Darwin’ in M.R. Wright (2000a): 145-180, p.159. 174 Note that Lucretius uses the phrase sponte sua (DRN 2.1158) shortly after his mention of spontaneous generation, describing how the earth produced crops freely. Cf. also Lucretius’ more extended discussion of spontaneous generation (DRN 5.795-836), where Lucretius contrasts earlier abiogenesis with the earth’s current ability to produce only lesser creatures in her old age. 67

earth and animals are formed through the interaction of rain and heat (imbribus et calido solis concreta vapore, DRN 5.798). He further states that the original spontaneous generation was driven by the interaction of rain and heat (tum tibi terra dedit primum mortalia saecla; / multus enim calor atque umor superabat in arvis, DRN 5.805-06), explaining that wombs grew from the earth (DRN 5.808-15). Vergil also makes use of the interaction of heat and moisture in his account of the spontaneous generation of bees, the bugonia (interea teneris tepefactus in ossibus umor / aestuat, G. 4.308-09). Ross argues that Ovid ‘as scientist writing on the creation is making good use of Virgil’s scientific poem’.175 Ovid is even more explicit than Vergil and Lucretius, telling us that the interaction of rain and heat generates life and that the ‘inharmonious harmony’ of fire and water is fitted for generation (Met. 1.430-33):

ubi temperiem sumpsere umorque calorque concipiunt, et ab his oriuntur cuncta duobus cumque sit ignis aquae pugnax, vapor umidus omnes res creat, es discors concordia fetibus apta est.

In this insistence on the generative power of heat and moisture, Ovid draws out the hints from his first anthropogony, in which the earth that contains the seeds cognati caeli is mixed pluvialibus undis (Met. 1.80-83). The phrase discors concordia is taken from Horace’s twelfth Epistle, where it appears in a list of sublimia, topics of natural philosophy (Ep.12.19). In both content and language, then, this section on spontaneous generation depends on natural philosophy.176 Myers observes that Ovid’s spontaneous generation ‘is very close to ancient physical theories involving the generation of life from the interaction of the elements of heat and water in the earth’.177 Fantham makes the same observation, noting that Ovid ‘resorts to natural science and the theory of elements for the recreation of animals’.178 The spontaneous generation of animals from slime or mud (the earth is lutulenta, 1.434) goes back as far as Anaximander, when the drying earth

175 D.O. Ross, Jr. (1987) Virgil’s Elements: Physics and Poetry in the Georgics, Princeton: Princeton UP, p.217. 176 Ovid’s description of the Nile (Met. 1.423) reminds us of the most famous example of spontaneous generation, the bugonia, whose geographical context was Egypt (L. Morgan (1999), p.137). The bugonia makes no appearance in the Metamorphoses until the “Speech of Pythagoras” (Met. 15.361-71). Spontaneous generation thus forms a bridge of sorts between the mirabilia of Pythagoras’ “Speech” and natural philosophy. 177 Myers (1994), pp.43-44. 178 E. Fantham (2004) Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Oxford: OUP, p.31. 68

generates living creatures from its mud.179 Xenophanes also associates the generation of life from the interaction of earth and water in two fragments (frr. 29, 33).

vii) Anthropogony

From the description of the four categories of animal, Ovid moves to the creation of humankind. As noted above, Ovid gives three anthropogonies,180 providing two alternative possibilities for the first: either the Creator makes humans divino semine, or Prometheus makes them from earth and water. In the Metamorphoses, humanity is created because a creature quod dominari in cetera posset is lacking (Met. 1.77), a teleological rationale reminiscent of Cicero, who states that God created and equipped humanity quod principium reliquarum rerum esse voluit (Leg. 1.9.27). For McKim, the ‘bald juxtaposition’ of the need for a sanctius animal and the creation of humanity ‘does not answer but raises the question whether man filled the bill or not’.181 McKim believes that Ovid’s choice to elaborate on Prometheus’ creation, rather than on the Creator’s, ‘is the pivot on which his narrative suddenly but permanently turns against the “scientific” and towards the mythical world-view’.182 However, the description of humans’ erect posture, which is part of the elaboration of Prometheus’ creation, is drawn from a tradition of philosophical thought that associates bipedalism and philosophical capacity or divine kinship. In these two alternate possibilities of anthropogony, then, the distinction between philosophy and myth is not quite as stark as McKim claims. In both options, the kinship of humans and gods is central. The earth that Prometheus shapes retains something from the ‘kindred’ sky (cognati caeli, 1.81) and is shaped into the likeness of the gods (finxit in effigiem moderantum cuncta deorum, 1.83). This kinship is further emphasised in the elaboration of Prometheus’ work (pronaque cum spectent animalia cetera terram, / os homini sublime dedit caelumque videre / iussit et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus, 1.84-86). The connection between

179 K. Algra (1999) ‘The Beginnings of Cosmology’ in A.A. Long (1999a): 45-65, p.48. 180 On the significance of the number three here, see C.C. Rhorer (1980) ‘Ideology, Tripartition and Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ in Arethusa 13.2: 299-313, esp. pp. 301-02. Rhorer argues that Ovid’s three anthropogonies correspond to Hesiod’s Races of Gold and Silver, Bronze and Heroes and Iron, in that the first anthropogony focuses on the relationship with gods, the second on blood and the third on labour, thus matching Dumézil’s division of Hesiod’s Races into three categories. 181 McKim (1984), p.101. 182 McKim (1984), p.101. 69

human bipedalism and cognitive ability is a commonplace in ancient philosophy, and is picked up Roman writers such as Vitruvius, Cicero and Seneca.183 Cicero discusses bipedalism twice, in the De legibus and in the De natura deorum. In the De legibus, Cicero writes that while other animals look down at their food, natura has made humans look up to their original home, the sky (cum ceteras animantes abiecisset ad pastum, solum hominem erexit et ad caeli quasi cognationis domiciliique pristini conspectum excitavit, Leg. 1.9.26). In the DND, Cicero’s Stoic spokesman, Lucilius Balbus, attributes the upright posture to Nature’s beneficence, suggesting that the erect posture is intended to allow humans to gain knowledge of the gods by looking at the sky, which presumably means studying astronomy or astrology184 (quae primum eos humo excitatos celsos et erectos constituit, ut deorum cognitionem caelum intuentes capere possent, DND 2.56.140). For Seneca, it is natural for humans to look upwards, at the wondrous works of Nature (Illa vultus nostros erexit ad caelum et quidquid magnificum mirumque fecerat, videri a suspicientibus voluit, Ep. 94.56).185 Most accounts of bipedalism contain the ideas that animals are prone, looking at the ground, while humans are erect and watch the sky – and that this is due to the intention of a conscious being, either Ovid’s Creator or Cicero’s (and Vitruvius’) Natura. Perhaps we should understand this teleological Natura as the referent of melior natura at Met.1.21. Ovid tells us that, before the creation of humans, a creature sanctius mentisque capacius altae was lacking (Met. 1.76-77). After this, Ovid’s description of animals’ downward gaze is easily interpreted as meaning that their mental capacities are less than those of humans, and his statement that humans look at the sky clearly suggests that humans think about more important matters than animals do. Cicero achieves the same effect by saying that animals look ad pastum, connecting the downward gaze with thoughts of mundane, bodily matters (Leg. 1.9.26). Cicero’s humans, furthermore, look

183 Vitruvius observes that the erect posture of human allows them to gaze on the magnificence of the world and of the stars (habentes ab natura praemium praeter reliqua animalia, ut non proni sed erecti ambularent mundique et astrorum magnificentiam aspicerent, Vitr. 2.1.2). This is a bare description of human posture, although Vitruvius does call this posture a praemium. 184 For the Stoics, of course, Providence is proved by the efficacy of astrology. See, e.g., Manilius’ Astronomica 2.105-36). 185 In an earlier letter, Seneca alludes to this concept of bipedalism, when he argues that arts and crafts must have been discovered by someone with a keen, but not exalted mind, since they require a mind that looks on the earth (Utraque invenit aliquis excitati ingenii,, acuti, non magni nec elati, et quicquid aliud corpore incurvato et animo humum spectante quaerendum est, Ep. 90.13). This idea reappears at Ep. 92.30: Quaemadmodum corporum nostrorum habitus erigitur et spectat in caelum, ita animus, cui in quantum vult licet porrigi, in hoc a natura rerum formatum est, ut paria dis vellet). See also De otio 5.4: Nec erexit tantummodo hominem, sed etiam habilem contemplatione factura, ut ab ortu sidera in occasum labentia prosequi posset et vultum suum circumferre cum toto, sublime fecit illi caput et collo flexili imposuit. 70

at a sky that is their original home (Leg. 1.9.26). Ovid picks up this idea that humans are cognate with heaven when he suggests that humans were created divino semine (Met. 1.78). He also returns to this idea in his final book; when Jupiter predicts the apotheosis of Augustus, he says that Augustus will attain aetherias sedes cognataque sidera (Met. 15.839).186 This use of cognatus picks up the earlier references in Book I, creating a ring composition whereby humans come from and return to heaven. The association of bipedalism with philosophical thought goes back as far as Aristotle and Plato.187 Ovid’s dual focus on kinship with the divine and bipedalism especially recalls Aristotle, since the latter directly links a divine essence and an upright posture as cause and effect: ‘For he alone of the animals is upright, because his nature and essence are divine. The function of what is most divine is thought and understanding, and this is not easy if the upper body is large and pressing downwards, since the weight obstructs the movement of the intellect and of the common sensorium’ (Part. An. 4.10.686A24-B2). In the Cratylus, Plato explains the word ἄνθρωπος as deriving from an original sentence meaning ‘that which looks up at what it sees’ (399B- C). The hint here is drawn out in the Timaeus (47B-C) where the purpose of sight is so that men can observe the ‘revolutions of intelligence in the heavens, so that we may use their regular motions to guide the troubled movements of our own thinking’. Plato adds that humans are raised by the rational part of their soul, which is located at the top of the body, into an erect posture towards their kindred in the heavens (πρὸς δὲ τὴν ἐν οὐρανῷ συγγένειαν, 90A2-B1). Ovid’s alternative option, in which Prometheus moulds humans from earth and water, relates heat and moisture. The earth, recently separated ab alto aethere (the fiery division of the cosmos) and retaining cognati semina caeli, is mixed pluvialibus undis. The importance of heat and moisture in creating life is common to many cultures,188 and Ovid himself later says that ab his oriuntur cuncta duobus (Met. 1.431). McKim is right to observe a more mythological discourse beginning in Prometheus’ anthropogony,189 but traces of the philosophical remain in the bipedalism and the use of

186 Augustus, of course, is cognate to the gods in a different, more immediate way; as a member of the Julian family he is directly descended from Venus. The precise meaning of the word cognatus thus changes over the course of the poem. I am grateful to Joseph Farrell for reminding me of this change. 187 Also Xenophon, whose Socrates identifies a connection between bipedalism and the ability to observe the ‘things above’ (τὰ ὕπερθεν, Memorabilia 1.4.11). 188 See, e.g. B. Lincoln (2001) ‘The Centre of the World and the Origins of Life’ in History of Religions 40.4: 311-326. 189 I am grateful to David Konstan for pointing that the mention of Prometheus, even if only by patronymic, reminds the reader of Zeus’ rather harsh punishment of the Titan, and thus hints at an 71

heat and moisture, traces which will be absent from the final anthropogony following the Flood. In Ovid’s version of the anthropogony, the earth, the raw material that is mixed with water, possesses semina caeli. Lucretius says that we are sprung caelesti semine (DRN 2.991), a term with which Ovid’s semina caeli is clearly cognate, and to which divinum semen in Ovid’s first alternative clearly refers. In alluding to Lucretius’ (atomic) caelestum semen here, Ovid associates Lucretius again with a divine craftsman, in this case the Creator who creates humanity. Unlike Hesiod, who tells how the Olympians and Zeus made the Silver, Bronze and Hero races (Op. 127-28, 143-45, 156-60), Ovid does not include anthropogonies for the Silver, Bronze and Iron races. After the Gigantomachy, however, Terra is responsible for the second anthropogony, creating a new race from the blood of the Giants (1.157-60):

perfusam multo natorum sanguine Terram immaduisse ferunt calidumque animasse cruorem et, ne nulla suae stirpis monimenta manerent, in faciem vertisse hominum.

This, of course, is a nightmarish variation on the earlier creation of humans. Prometheus mixes earth (which retains the warm seeds of the sky, or aether) and water to create humans. The creation of the sanguine natos, however, occurs when earth is mixed with warm blood. The mixture of earth, warmth and moisture recurs, but here the moisture is blood rather than fresh water. This apparently mythical scene of anthropogony is, however, indebted to philosophical theories on the origin of life, just as the earlier anthropogony and the zoogony following the flood are. There is, however, no mention of the divine kinship that is so prominent in both versions of the first anthropogony. In the first anthropogony, the necessary warmth comes from the traces of aether, while here it is the lingering warmth of the Giants’ blood that quickens the earth. The third and final anthropogony occurs after the Flood, immediately preceding the zoogony, and will be discussed more fully in Chapter 2. This final anthropogony diverges significantly from the pattern of the preceding two, in that there is no mention here of the interaction of moisture and heat on earth. The earth does provide the material, but there is no heat and the only mention of moisture is the transformation of the earthy part of the stones into flesh (1.407-08).

ambiguity in Ovid’s presentation of Jupiter. It is worth keeping that ambiguous portrayal in mind, since it will be central to our discussion of Lycaon in Chapter 2. 72

This creation has little in common with the previous anthropogony scenes, being comparable rather to later scenes of metamorphosis. Ovid dwells on the transformation of each part of the stone into a corresponding part of a human, just as he does in many of the metamorphoses. Myers calls this ‘a sort of paradigm in reverse for the process of metamorphosis most common in the poem, the transformation from human form into natural elements’.190 In his final anthropogony, then, Ovid takes poetic liberties with the natural-philosophical systems that he has referenced in the previous anthropogonies, and establishes a pattern for the coming metamorphoses. We will see in Part 4 that Ovid’s Pythagoras provides a possible justification for Ovid’s concentration on the process of metamorphosis, since that character suggests that the universe is too changeable to be explicable and must therefore be experienced. The focus on process prepares us for Pythagoras’ concept of a world of ceaseless and occasionally marvellous change. The anthropogony which follows the Flood, however, shares with the second the fact that ‘the divine element of the initial creation is now significantly missing in the composition of humankind’.191 In the first creation of humanity, there is a close relationship between humans and gods, but the following anthropogonies do not posit any kinship between the two. As we shall see, this concern over the relationship between humans and gods will continue throughout the Metamorphoses, being of central importance to the first metamorphosis story of the poem, Lycaon’s conflict with Jupiter. In Chapter 2, we shall discuss how Lycaon’s desire to know Jupiter’s true nature introduces the topic of the ontological hierarchy, a topic that is also at the heart of the “Musomachia” and the “Orpheus”.

Conclusion

Ovid’s poetic allegiance in the Metamorphoses is famously both signalled and problematised in his short proem, when he asks the gods ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen (1.4). In singing a perpetuum carmen, Ovid is apparently departing from Callimachean ideals and adopting the ideals of the epic genre – length not least – as those ideals are described by Callimachus in the Aetia proem (ἕν ἄεισμα διηνεκὲς fr

190 Myers (1994), p.45. 191 Myers (1994), p.44. 73

1.3). And yet, the exhortation to the gods to spin (deducite) this unbroken song embraces the very Callimachean ideals that the adjective perpetuum appears to dismiss, alluding to the Callimachean carmen deductum.192 The verb deducite, then, acts ‘to modify the effect of “perpetuum ... carmen” with its apparent defiance of Callimachean principles. In this context, deducite would assure Ovid’s readers that there would be no betrayal of Callimachus.’193 Ovid’s proem, then, signals a dual allegiance to epic and to Callimacheanism. The Metamorphoses is to be an unbroken narrative written in the subtle, polished style appropriate to shorter, more delicate poems. However, the proem also serves to identify the poem as a universal history, with the key words perpetuus and deducere possessing historiographical, as well as metapoetic, significance.194 After this unusually brief proem, Ovid launches into the poem proper, with the cosmogony. However, Helzle claims that ‘Ovid’s cosmogony can be read as an oblique statement of its author’s poetic stand-point’,195 and he argues that the cosmogony encodes Ovid’s avoidance of Homeric and Vergilian epic in favour of a Callimachean and Hesiodic style. For Helzle, Ovid’s invocation of Hesiod in the description of Χάος also alludes to Callimachus, since Callimachus has identified a connection between his own poetry and Hesiod’s (in Epigram 27 and, indirectly, in the proem to the Aetia). Helzle thus sees three achievements in this passage: the alignment of the Metamorphoses ‘with the Roman followers of Callimachus, with Callimachus’ invocation of Hesiod at the beginning of the Aetia and finally also with Hesiod’s epic, which was viewed as an alternative to the Homeric branch of the genre’.196 He argues that ‘[Ovid] avoids the challenge of Homer and Vergil by writing in the Hesiodic tradition.’197 However, it is clear that there is still more to the Cosmogony. From the proem, we know to expect not only a carmen deductum, but also a carmen perpetuum, and we cannot deny the Homeric implications of the latter. The union of these two poetic traditions does, in fact, make an appearance at the very beginning of Ovid’s

192 Deducere is often used in Latin poetry to signify the polished style typical of Callimacheanism. E.g. Cornificius, fr.1 (Morel); Horace (Ep. 2.1.224-25); Vergil (Ecl. 6.4-5) and Propertius (1.16.41-42) 193 C.D. Gilbert (1976) ‘Ovid, Met. 1.4’ in CQ 26: 111-112, p.112. 194 S.M. Wheeler (2002) ‘Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Universal History’ in D.S. Levene & D.P. Nelis (2002): 163-190; P.R. Hardie (2002e) ‘The Historian in Ovid: The Roman History of Metamorphoses 14- 15’ in D.S. Levene & D.P. Nelis (2002): 191-210. 195 M. Helzle (1993) ‘Ovid’s Cosmogony: Metamorphoses 1.5-88 and the Traditions of Ancient Poetry’ in PLLS 7: 123-134, p.127. 196 Helzle (1993), p.126. 197 Helzle (1993), p.127. 74

Cosmogony. Helzle has not taken account of the fact that, before discussing the Hesiodic Chaos, Ovid opens with the tripartite world first described on Homer’s Shield of Achilles (Il. 18.483). The Homeric cosmos is forged from the Hesiodic chaos, thus harmonising the Homeric and the Hesiodic, traditional epic and Callimacheanism. Helzle is right to argue that ‘by beginning his narrative with a cosmogony Ovid makes a statement about the poetic tradition within which he sees himself as working’ and that ‘Ovid’s cosmogony thus becomes an oblique secondary proem that follows after the bare bones of the first four lines’.198 He is, however, mistaken in ejecting Homer from this secondary proem. Ovid is making a statement about his poetic allegiances and about the position that the Metamorphoses holds in the literary tradition. He is heir to both the Homeric/Vergilian majesty and the Hesiodic/Callimachean elegance. This ambitious inheritance is marked in the proem by reference to both the perpetuum carmen and the deductum carmen, and reinforced in the Cosmogony when Ovid opens with a universe that begins with Hesiodic chaos and becomes Homeric cosmos. Ovid’s cosmogonic scene, then, presents us with a totalising harmonisation of different poetic, and philosophical, traditions, a tidy arrangement that will be challenged by the introduction of humans and their interest in the nature of truth and piety. The Metamorphoses, then, does not claim a particular poetic allegiance but takes in a whole spectrum of poetic models. Ovid draws on cosmological poets as varied as Homer and Lucretius, and it should therefore be unsurprising if his cosmology is equally varied. There is no single philosophical doctrine espoused, since Ovid is a philosophical poet but not a poetic philosopher, but he does avoid glaring inconsistencies. Most indicative of Ovid’s intellectual freedom is his use of Lucretius. Ovid frequently alludes to Lucretian doctrines in the most anti-Lucretian contexts, thus emphasising both his use of philosophical sources and his independence from the doctrines of those sources. The way in which he combines Lucretian material with material from other philosophical schools, such as Stoicism, makes it clear that his use of Lucretius is not merely poetic aemulatio. It is not only the poetry of the De rerum natura but the philosophy on which Ovid draws. The philosophical colouring of the Creation is easily identifiable, since it is almost exclusively natural philosophy, and we have been primed to recognise this through our reading of Lucretius. Segal argues that as Book I continues, ‘the loftier and

198 Helzle (1993), pp.129-30. 75

more philosophical implications of the introduction become increasingly tenuous’.199 Certainly, natural philosophy makes little appearance, until the “Speech of Pythagoras”, but there is no reason to assume that Ovid is only interested in physics, and we should not dismiss the possibility of other philosophical material in the rest of the Metamorphoses. There is a tendency for scholars to expect that Ovid would have persevered with the same philosophical concerns, if he were interested in writing a philosophical poem. This expectation leads them to home in on the natural philosophical passages, neglecting to look for evidence of other philosophical questions. As we shall see, however, Ovid changes focus once he introduces humans into his cosmos. The introduction of humans allows for topics such as epistemology and ethics, which could not make an appearance while the world contained only geological features. As we will see, Ovid takes full advantage of the opportunity to include branches of philosophy other than physics, using the Lycaon myth in particular to cue a new emphasis on both epistemology and ethics.

199 Segal (1969a), p.263-64 76

Chapter 2: Myths of the Cosmogony

It is with the creation of humans that most editors end the Creation scene, and the introduction of humans into the world certainly brings about important changes in the Metamorphoses. McKim identifies this first anthropogony as the point where Ovid switches sharply from philosophy to myth, as a suggestion that ‘the rational cosmos and its God never existed in the first place, being figments of philosophers’ imaginations, and that the mythical cosmos of the poet’s imagination, though according to the narrative it follows on the rational one, is the only one of the two which resembles or represents the world that does exist’.200 We have already seen, however, that McKim’s mythical anthropogony, Prometheus’ sculpture, references Presocratic philosophy in the conjunction of heat and moisture. This undermines his claims for a ‘radical disjunction’,201 and it seems more likely that Ovid did not intend to draw such a sharp distinction between myth and philosophy. Our discussion of the zoogony and two anthropogonies which follow the Creation passage has already shown how the philosophical concerns continue. Ovid does, however, move away from overt natural philosophy. Rather than continuing with physics by, for example, discussing further the construction of the human body and its physical relationship with the rest of the cosmos, Ovid places an account of the development of human civilisation after the first anthropogony, focussing on the way in which humans live their lives. This development draws both on Hesiod’s myth of the Five Ages in Works and Days and on Lucretius’ more anthropological account of the development of civilisation in Book V of the DRN. The gradual moral degeneration inherent in the myth of the Four Ages of Man leads naturally into the Giants’ assault on Olympus and continues with the creation of the sanguine natos

200 McKim (1984), p.102. 201 McKim (1984), p.102. 77

(1.162) from the Giants’ blood.202 Due observes that morality is largely absent from the Creation: ‘[sanctius, 1.76], in connection with the phrase mundi melioris origo [1.79] ... gives the final passage of the Creation a certain moral tone which is almost absent from the rest of it,’ and he suggests that melior natura (1.21) is ‘the only and vague’ indication of morality prior to sanctius.203 Besides the vague melior natura, then, there is no hint of morality until the introduction of humans. This moral tone develops through the Four Ages and the Gigantomachy, climaxing in the Lycaon and Deucalion myths, where physics is overshadowed by ethics. The myth of Lycaon is in fact the bridge between the Gigantomachy and the Flood. Lycaon’s crimes are described, by Jupiter, in Gigantomachic terms, and Ovid appears to have originated the idea that Lycaon is the cause of the Flood.204 The myth of Lycaon is frequently read as a straightforward theodicy. It is, however, rather more complicated than that, and draws on the motif of philosophical Gigantomachy, first developed by Plato. By linking the stories of Lycaon and Deucalion, Ovid opposes these two characters. Lycaon the impious, punished by Jupiter, is in direct contrast to Deucalion the pious, spared by Jupiter.205 Morality, largely judged through interactions with the divine, is a central concern in the Lycaon and Deucalion myths, but it is not the only concern. The Flood itself quite clearly draws on philosophical ideas of periodic catastrophes, ideas found from Plato to the Stoics.206 Particular attention must be paid to the Stoic overtones of the Flood, where natural philosophy reappears. Natural philosophy, however, plays an ever-receding role in the Metamorphoses. Beginning with Lycaon in particular, ethics and even epistemology become the key philosophical discourses which recur throughout the poem.

202 Graf and Johnston note that ‘[i]n one variation of the Orphic tradition that comes down to us, humans spring from the earth wherever drops of the Titans’ blood fall upon it’ (F. Graf & S.I. Johnston (2007) Ritual Texts for the Afterlife: Orpheus and the Bacchic Gold Tablets, London: Routledge, p.86). Graf and Johnston do not suggest that Ovid may be drawing on this tradition, although they do suggest Ovid’s version as a parallel for the Orphic ‘if its roots go back far enough’ (p.88). 203 O.S. Due (1974) Changing Forms: Studies in the Metamorphoses of Ovid, Copenhagen: Gyldendal, pp.100, 180n39. 204 A.H.F. Griffin (1992) ‘Ovid’s Universal Flood’ in Hermathena 152: 39-58, p.51. 205 Griffin (1992), p.53. 206 πολλαὶ κατὰ πολλὰ φθοραὶ γεγόνασιν ἀνθρώπων καὶ ἔσονται, πυρὶ μὲν καὶ ὕδατι μέγισται, μυρίοις δὲ ἄλλοις ἕτεραι βραχύτεραι (Plato Timaeus 22C). See also Plato Laws 3.667A: τὸ πολλὰς ἀνθρώπων φθορὰς γεγονέναι κατακλυσμοῖς τε καὶ νόσοις καὶ ἄλλοις πολλοῖς, ἐν οἷς βραχύ τι τῶν ἀνθρώπων λείπεσθαι γένος. On Stoic theories of periodic catastrophe, see, e.g., Cicero DND 2.46.118: Ex quo eventurum nostri putant id de quo Panaetium addubitare dicebant, ut ad extremum omnis mundus ignesceret, … ita relinqui nihil praeter ignem, a quo rursum animante ac deo renovatio mundi fieret atque idem ornatus oreretur. 78

i) The Four Ages

After the creation of humanity, Ovid includes a long passage corresponding to Hesiod’s account of the Five Races (Met. 1.89-150, Op. 109-201). Ovid signposts this allusion, with aurea translating the first word of Hesiod’s account, χρύσεον (Met. 1.89, Op. 109). His own Golden Age, however, does not follow the Hesiodic version closely; while Hesiod’s Golden Race is described in primarily positive terms, Ovid’s strongly recalls his description of Chaos in that the Golden Age is also described in terms of absence.207 There are also several references to Lucretius’ account of the early life of humanity – an account which might itself owe something to Hesiod’s version, since both describe the first people as a γένος, or genus, possibly indicating a degree of separation from modern humans greater than that implied by Ovid’s own aetas – although Ovid also uses proles (Op. 109, DRN 5.925, cf. Met. 1.89).208 Ovid uses Lucretius’ description of primitive humans, which Lucretius does not call a Golden Age, as source material for some of his own account of the four ages, mostly drawing on Lucretius in the section dealing with the Golden Age. Ovid follows both Lucretius and Hesiod in making his Golden Age an age free from agricultural toil (καρπὸν δ᾽ ἔφερε ζείδωρος ἄρουρα / αὐτομάτη πολλόν τε καὶ ἄφθονον, Op. 117-18; nec robustus erat curvi moderator aratri / quisquam, nec scibat ferro molirier arva, DRN 5.933-34; ipsa quoque inmunis rastroque intacta nec ullis / saucia vomeribus per se dabat omnia tellus, Met. 1.101-02). Lucretius follows his description of the lack of agriculture with the positive statement that humans were satisfied with the food provided by the earth sponte sua (DRN 5.933-42). Ovid imitates this pattern, although he devotes much less attention to the lack of agriculture, saying merely that the earth provided the necessities of life ipsa and per se, picking up Lucretius’ sponte sua (which Ovid has already used to describe the manner in which this Golden Age observed justice (Met. 1.101-02, 1.90). Ovid then declares that humanity was content with food that did not need to be cultivated, developing the Lucretian idea that the earth’s gift was enough (contenti... cibis nullo cogente creatis, Met. 1.103; satis id placabat pectora donum, DRN 5.938).

207 I am grateful to David Konstan for reminding me that Aratus also describes the Golden Age in terms of absence rather than presence: οὔπω λευγαλέου τότε νείκεος ἠπίσταντο / οὐδέ διακρίσιος πολυμεμφέος οὐδέ κυδοιμοῦ, / αὕτως δ᾽ ἔζωον: χαλεπὴ δ᾽ ἀπέκειτο θάλασσα, / καὶ βίον οὔπω νῆες ἀπόπροθεν ἠγίνεσκον, / ἀλλὰ βόες καὶ ἄροτρα καὶ αὐτή, πότνια λαῶν, / μυρία πάντα παρεῖχε Δίκη, δώτειρα δικαίων (Phaen. 109-14). 208For the use of proles, see e.g. Met. 1.114: argentea proles. 79

The use of the ablative absolute nullo cogente in this verse probably alludes to the Vergilian nullo poscente (ipsa... tellus / omnia liberius nullo poscente ferebat, G. 1.127- 28). This is a nice example of Ovid’s tendency to allude to more than one source in a single verse, and shows how his description of the Golden Age oscillates between Vergilian and Lucretian influences. This oscillation is, of course, evidence of poetic aemulatio, but it is also evidence that Ovid is taking a philosophical view. Like Lucretius, Ovid takes care to provide reasons for every change in the human state. For example, Ovid tells us that people sought houses for shelter, rather than sheltering in caves and thickets, once the climate grew inhospitable with extremes of heat and cold in summer and winter (Met. 1.121-22). Ovid also follows Lucretius in detailing the food that the earth provided ipsa, extending the Lucretian list of only glandiferas quercus and arbita by adding montana fraga, corna and mora (Met. 1.104- 06, DRN 5.939-40). In the Georgics, Vergil says that Ceres taught men agriculture when glandes atque arbuta sacrae ... silvae began to fail, adopting Lucretius’ association of these foods with a primitive era (G. 1.147-49). Ovid, however, is more likely to be referring directly to the Lucretian source than to Vergil – although he may also have Vergil’s usage in mind – since he keeps the Lucretian connection of the acorn and its tree, writing quae deciderant patula Iovis arbore glandes (Met. 1.106). Lucretius explicitly defines this food as pabula dura ... miseris mortalibus ampla (DRN 5.944), while in the Ovidian account there is no explicit mention of the poverty of Golden Age fare. There is also no mention of meat,209 but Ovid does not emphasise or draw attention to vegetarianism, which was ‘an early and rather frequent feature of ancient chronological primitivism ... as an expression of the feeling that bloodshed in all its forms is sinful... commonly associated with the denunciation of animal sacrifices’.210 Both the vegetarianism and the lack of animal sacrifice in the Golden Age will, however, be important parts of the “Speech of Pythagoras” as will be discussed in Chapter 8. Yet, for all these similarities, this is by no means a Lucretian passage. Ovid’s account of the Four Ages shows, like Hesiod’s, a degeneration from an ideal time, whereas Lucretius’ is an account of progress towards a society governed by law – at

209 Lovejoy and Boas include vegetarianism among the features of Ovid’s version of the Golden Age (Lovejoy & Boas (1935), p.47). 210 Lovejoy & Boas (1935), p.14. 80

least until the discovery of gold causes the social structure to deteriorate.211 In the De rerum natura, the early life of humanity is consistently presented in terms of hardship – the pabula dura is fitted for a durius genus, as Lucretius calls this race (DRN 5.925-26). In the Metamorphoses, however, this concept of duritia does not appear until the post- diluvian anthropogony, when Ovid calls this new race a durum genus (Met. 1.414).212 In Ovid’s version of the Golden Age, a major difference from Lucretius is in the description of early society. Ovid devotes a considerable proportion of his Golden Age to a description of society, covering uncompelled lawfulness, a lack of naval exploration and freedom from war (Met. 1.89-100). By asserting that the golden race observed fidem and rectum without laws (sine lege, 1.90), Ovid contradicts Lucretius’ claim that without laws no one can observe the common weal (nec commune bonum poterant spectare, DRN 5.958).213 Ovid includes some of the hardships found in the De rerum natura, such as the glandes and arbuta, but these hardships are alleviated by the inclusion of other elements of the Golden Age myth. The glandes are traditional primitive fare,214 but just as Vergil points to Lucretius by pairing acorns with the less traditional arbuta,215 so does Ovid point to both Vergil and Lucretius by including arbuta. While retaining, and even extending, the pabula dura of Lucretius, for example, Ovid also includes fruges that the earth bore inarata, picking up the Hesiodic αὐτομάτη (Met. 1.109, Op. 118).216 In this section, immediately following his description of the pabula dura, Ovid mitigates the harshness implied earlier, by including such ideas as streams of milk and nectar and honey that is distilled from the oak-trees. This idea of honey in the oak is found as early as Hesiod, who does not, however, include it in his Golden Age. Rather, shortly after completing his account of the Five Races, Hesiod tells Perses that, for the just, δρῦς … φέρει … μέσση δὲ

211 Singleton argues that ‘[a] positive evaluation of civilisation involves an adverse evaluation of the Golden Age and vice versa’ (D. Singleton (1972) ‘Juvenal VI.1-20, and Some Ancient Attitudes to the Golden Age’ in G&R 2nd ser. 19.2: 151-165, p.164). 212 In Lovejoy’s and Boas’ terms, Lucretius proposes a ‘hard’ primitivism, while Ovid proposes a ‘soft’ primitivism (Lovejoy & Boas (1935), p.10). 213 See, however, D. Konstan (2008b) A Life Worthy of the Gods: The Materialist Psychology of Epicurus, Las Vegas: Parmenides, pp.79-125 on the just behaviour of people prior to the rule of law and the unappealing aspects of the rule of law in Epicureanism. I am grateful to David Konstan for the reference. 214 See e.g. Dicaearchus ap. Porph. Abst. 4.1.2, Paus. 8.1.6, Juv. 13.54-55, Macrob. In Somn. Scip 2.10.6. 215 M.R. Gale (1995) ‘Virgil’s Metamorphoses: Myth and Allusion in the Georgics’ in PCPS 41: 36-61 (reprinted in K. Volk (2008a): 94-127), p.106n32. 216 This also alludes more directly to Horace, Epode 16.43, where the blessed island set aside for the righteous bears crops without cultivation (Cererem tellus inarata). 81

μελίσσας (Op. 232-33). Δρῦς can mean either ‘tree’ or, more specifically, ‘oak’, and we know that Hesiod means the oak because he tells Perses that it bears βαλάνους (Op. 232-33). While Hesiod’s acorn- and honey-bearing oak is not placed in the Golden Age, both ideas are associated with the Golden Age in the Roman poets, particularly in Vergil, Horace and Ovid. Horace, in Epode 16, and Vergil, in Eclogue 4, both discuss a Golden Age or land with which they associate the trickling of honey from oaks. Vergil writes that durae quercus sudabunt roscida mella, while Horace speaks of a land where mella cava manant ex ilice (Ecl. 4.30, Ep. 16.47). Ovid writes flavaque de viridi stillabant ilice mella, choosing Horace’s ilex rather than the Vergilian quercus (Met. 1.112). Ovid appears to be juxtaposing two separate traditions; those accounts that associate acorns with the early age of humanity often emphasise hardship (this is found in the De rerum natura and implied in the Georgics), while honey-bearing oaks emphasise bounty (as in Epode 16 and Eclogue 4). Ovid follows an account of simple food with ver aeternum, spontaneous crops of wheat, streams of milk and nectar and, of course, the honey-bearing oaks (Met. 106-12), thereby harmonising two different traditions of human development. It is also instructive to compare Ovid’s brief account of early human existence in Ars Amatoria 2. This is a much more Lucretian passage than the Golden Age section of the Metamorphoses: the Ars passage characterises early humans as possessing merae vires et rude corpus, and truces animos (Ars. 2.474, 477), describing a pseudo-historical development to match Lucretius’ durius genus, which is validis aptum ... nervis (DRN 5.928). In the Metamorphoses, then, Ovid has departed from his Lucretian model, and from his own, much more Lucretian, account in the Ars. In following Lucretian pabula dura with Vergilian and Horatian mella, Ovid is perhaps not only juxtaposing the pseudo-historical tradition with the fantastical. He may also be using Vergil’s fantasy to supplement Lucretius’ pseudo-history, so that the historical and the fantastical become inextricably intertwined and their boundaries erased. Hesiod dates the Golden Age to Cronos’ reign, and describes its end as being part of Zeus’ plans (Op. 111, 121-23), implying a correlation between the ascent of Zeus and the end of the Golden Age. Vergil associates the introduction of agriculture with the ascent of Jupiter (ante Iovem nulli subigebant arva coloni, G. 1.125), following Aratus, who mentions three times Zeus’ providential care in commanding the stars to

mark the different seasons (Phaen. 1-13, 261-68, 741-43).217 Ovid also says that the Golden Age ended when Jupiter’s reign began (postquam Saturno tenebrosa in Tartara misso / sub Iove mundus erat, subiit argentea proles, 1.113-14). For Ovid, the end of the Golden Age, and the advent of the Silver, entails Jupiter’s creation of the seasons (1.116-18). Another aetion for the seasons will be provided in Book V, since the “Rape of Persephone” in that book has an aetiological function. As we will see in Chapter 4, Ovid reworks the end of the Golden Age and the beginning of the Silver in the “Rape of Persephone”, and the creation of the seasons is an important intratextual link. The creation of seasons leads Ovid’s silver race to build houses; before the Silver Age their homes, like those of Lucretius’ early people, had been caves and thickets (Lucretius has cavos where Ovid uses antra, while both use frutices, Met. 1.121-22, DRN 5.955-56). Lucretius also writes that the second period (indicated by inde) came about when the peoples had casas (DRN 5.1011). A second consequence of the seasonal year is the need to develop agriculture (semina tum primum longis Cerealia sulcis / obruta sunt, 1.123-24). Ovid’s silver race, then, is identifiably Lucretian in its development of marks of civilisation such as houses and agriculture, and in the care Ovid takes to provide reasons for each change. We should note in particular the close association between the seasons and the development of agriculture. Ovid disposes of the third, brazen, race in only two and a half lines, retaining Hesiod’s emphasis on the warlike nature of this race (Met, 1.125-27, Op 143-55).218 The Iron Age, however, is elaborated upon, exactly balancing the Golden Age passage. In this passage, Ovid echoes the brief description of the passage of ages that is found in Evander’s speech at Aeneid 8.314-36. Evander says that Saturn’s Golden Age deteriorated into belli rabies et amor successit habendi (Aen. 8.327). This is picked up by Ovid, who tells of the amor sceleratus habendi that replaces pudor verumque fidesque in the Iron Age (Met. 1.131). This passage also owes a great deal to Hesiod, as well as to the end of Catullus 64 (64.382-408), with those poets’ discussions of the perversion of relationships finding a corresponding discussion in Ovid. In the Hesiodic version, fathers and sons are not like-minded, nor are guests and hosts or comrades; brothers are not dear to one another (Op. 182-84). Ovid extends this list of perverted relationships, just as he earlier extended Lucretius’ list of pabula dura, including all the

217 I am grateful to David Konstan for directing me to the references in Aratus. 218 Rhorer argues that the cursory treatment of the Bronze Age occurs because ‘a tripartite structure has overwhelmed the quadripartite myth’ (Rhorer (1980), p.302). I am grateful to David Konstan for reminding me of Rhorer’s argument. 83

Hesiodic features except for the failure of comradeship (Met. 1.144-49). In particular, Ovid says that fratrum gratia rara est, picking up Hesiod’s οὐδὲ κασίγνητος φίλος ἔσσεται, ὡς τὸ πάρος περ (Met. 1.145, Op. 184).219 In a marked divergence from Hesiod, however, Ovid does not appear to place himself within the Iron Age. In Ovid’s account, the current race is that which Deucalion and Pyrrha create from stones after the Flood. It is clear that Ovid identifies this race as the current one, because for the first time in the poem he uses two first person plural verbs to describe it (sumus and damus, Met. 1.414-15). Ovid’s Iron Age leads into a brief Gigantomachy, providing an occasion for another race, the sanguine natos, born from the blood of the Giants because Terra feared ne nulla suae stirpis monimenta manerent (Met. 1.156-62). In this, Ovid goes beyond Horace’s account in Odes 3.4, where Terra simply dolet (Odes 3.4.73).220 The Gigantomachy also leads into the story of Lycaon, which is the impetus for the Flood. There is no indication that the sanguine natos completely supplant the Iron Race,221 and yet it is natural to assume that Lycaon is a member of the sanguine natos,222 since his story is told immediately after the account of the Gigantomachy and is intimately connected with it, as will be seen below. The particularly violent and impious race of the sanguine natos may hark back to Hesiod’s final epoch, which is described in the future tense, whether that is intended as a deterioration of the Iron race or as a following race.223

ii) Lycaon and the Gigantomachy

The myth of Lycaon is the first account of human metamorphosis in the Metamorphoses. As such, the reader is invited to interpret the myth as paradigmatic in some sense, and Anderson identifies two different ways in which Lycaon may be read

219 This section also picks up the account of perverted relations in Catullus 64 (64.397-406), which includes perfudere manus fraterno sanguine fratres (Catullus 64.399). 220 Ovid’s transition from the Iron Age to a Gigantomachy may owe something to Horace. In Odes 1.3, Horace claims that the audacity and hubris of humanity are an assault on heaven, implicitly likening this assault to that of the Giants (Odes 1.3.21-40). Ovid’s Iron Age is an age of human crime, and the Horatian association of human and Gigantic crime may have inspired Ovid’s transition from Iron Age to Gigantomachy. 221 T. Cole (2004) ‘Ovid, Varro, and Castor of Rhodes: The Chronological Architecture of the Metamorphoses’ in HSCP 102: 355-422, p.367n42; K.F.B. Fletcher (2010) ‘Ovidian “Correction” of the Biblical Flood?’ in CP 105.2: 209-213. 222 E.g. Rhorer (1980), p. 302. 223 Hesiod Op. 182-201. I am grateful to David Konstan for this observation. 84

as such: ‘A. We might read the story as a whole as a coherent structure that anticipates the organization and rationale of subsequent tales. B. We might focus on the actual description of metamorphosis.’224 Anderson himself believes that the Lycaon myth is set up as a false paradigm, supplanted by the subsequent tales in Book I. However, several episodes throughout the Metamorphoses, and particularly in the myths to be studied here,225 do mirror the Lycaon myth in important, if different, ways, thus supporting Anderson’s option A. In Book V, the brief accounts of Pyreneus and of Lyncus both recall Lycaon. Pyreneus attempts violence against his divine guests, the Muses, while Lyncus, whose very name recalls Lycaon,226 attempts violence against his divinely favoured guest, Triptolemus. These parallels will be discussed in more detail in Part 2, where it will also be argued that Lycaon’s story is a model for the Pierides’ challenge to the Muses. In Book X, the otherwise unattested story of the Cerastae also harks back to Lycaon; the Cerastae sacrifice their guests to Jupiter, thus recalling Lycaon’s murder of a guest, or hostage, in connection with Jupiter. These myths, of Pyreneus, Lyncus and the Cerastae, all adopt Lycaon as the model for a story about the abuse of hospitality. The Lycaon myth, however, can also be taken as a model for the set of myths dealing with contests between gods and humans. As such, it conditions the audience’s reaction to the myth of the Musomachia, as well as to the myths of Arachne or Latona and the peasants. Since the Lycaon myth sets up the contest myths, it is appropriate that Jupiter associates Lycaon with the Giants, since Gigantomachy is the paradigmatic example of a contest between the gods and another race.227 The Lycaon myth is ripe for association with the Gigantomachy, since in some versions of the myth, Lycaon’s sons have the names of Giants. Vian, in particular, has seen connections between Lycaon’s family and the Giants.228 Within the Metamorphoses, this connection is presented

224 W.S. Anderson (1989) ‘Lycaon: Ovid’s Deceptive Paradigm in Metamorphoses I’ in ICS 14: 91-101, p.91. 225 Forbes Irving notes the ‘close parallel’ of the Lycaon, Lyncus and Cerastae myths (P.M.C. Forbes Irving (1990) Metamorphosis in Greek Myths, Oxford: Clarendon, pp.56; 94), while Harries associates the Arachne myth with Lycaon and with Latona in B. Harries (1990) ‘The Spinner and the Poet: Arachne in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ in PCPS n.s. 36: 64-82, p.65. 226 On Ovid’s predilection for puns and wordplay, see F. Ahl (1985) Metaformations: Soundplay and Wordplay in Ovid and Other Classical Poets, Ithaca: Cornell UP. 227 Where the source material does not distinguish between the Titanomachy and Gigantomachy, the term “Gigantomachy” will be used for both. 228 ‘Il y a un parallélism certain entre les Géants et les Lykaonides, même si l’on ecarte des resemblances onomastiques fortuites.’ (F. Vian (1952) La Guerre des Géants: Le Mythe avant l’Époque Hellénistique, Paris: Klincksieck, p.240). See also G.W. Elderkin (1940) ‘Bronze Statuettes of Zeus Keraunios’ in AJA 44.2: 225-233, p.231; Forbes Irving (1990), p.217. 85

obliquely. We are not told whether the race born from the Giants’ blood is, replaces, or coexists with the Iron Race. It is, however, implied that Lycaon is a member of the sanguine natos,229 and Jupiter’s comparison of Lycaon and the Giants thus has several consequences. First, it hints at an earlier connection between Lycaon’s family and the Giants. Second, it helps to set the Lycaon myth up as a paradigm for the later contest myths. The third effect depends on the way in which we interpret Lycaon’s Gigantomachy.

ii.i) A Philosophical Gigantomachy

The Gigantomachy is traditionally interpreted allegorically, since any literal reading falls foul of the theological problem, expressed in Plato’s Republic, that the Gigantomachy impiously attributes quarrelsomeness to the gods.230 From an early date, therefore, the Gigantomachy ‘was regarded as a symbol of the triumph of order over chaos, civilization over barbarism’,231 and this moralistic and political interpretation endures well into the Augustan period.232 In the Augustan period, however, another interpretation of the Gigantomachy was available, the idea of Gigantomachy as symbolic of a conflict of differing views of the cosmos. Plato introduces this idea in the Sophist, where the Eleatic Stranger describes the conflict between idealists and materialists as ‘something like a Battle of Gods and Giants fought over the subject of reality’.233 This Gigantomachy is fought for the power to define the nature of the cosmos, and is therefore a philosophical battle. Volk has traced this philosophical Gigantomachy from Plato through Lucretius to Manilius,234 and it was thus evidently a

229 So Vian (1952), p.241; 230 οὐ μὰ τὸν Δία, ἦ δ᾽ ὅς, οὐδὲ αὐτῷ μοι δοκεῖ ἐπιτήδεια εἶναι λέγειν. οὐδέ γε, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, τὸ παράπαν ὡς θεοὶ θεοῖς πολεμοῦσί τε καὶ ἐπιβουλεύουσι καὶ μάχονται—οὐδὲ γὰρ ἀληθῆ—εἴ γε δεῖ ἡμῖν τοὺς μέλλοντας τὴν πόλιν φυλάξειν αἴσχιστον νομίζειν τὸ ῥᾳδίως ἀλλήλοις ἀπεχθάνεσθαι—πολλοῦ δεῖ γιγαντομαχίας τε μυθολογητέον αὐτοῖς καὶ ποικιλτέον, καὶ ἄλλας ἔχθρας πολλὰς καὶ παντοδαπὰς θεῶν τε καὶ ἡρώων πρὸς συγγενεῖς τε καὶ οἰκείους αὐτῶν, (Rep. II.378B-C). 231 D.A. Traill, (1983) ‘Horace C. 1.3: A Political Ode?’ in CJ 78.2: 131-137, p.132. 232 An example from Horace appears at Ode 3.4.42-44: scimus ut impios / Titanas immanemque turbam / fulmine sustulerit caduco. Note particularly the impios Titanas. 233 καὶ μὴν ἔοικέ γε ἐν αὐτοῖς οἷον γιγαντομαχία τις εἶναι διὰ τὴν ἀμφισβήτησιν περὶ τῆς οὐσίας πρὸς ἀ λλήλους (Soph. 246A). 234 K. Volk (2001) ‘Pious and Impious Approaches to Cosmology in Manilius’ in MD 47: 85-117. Volk also observes traces of this idea in Aristotle and Plutarch (pp.104-06). 86

current interpretation in Ovid’s time, if not the dominant one.235 In fact, we find a version of philosophical Gigantomachy in the Fasti, when Ovid says that we can reach the heavens with our minds, without needing to heap up the mountains Pelion and Ossa (sic petitur caelum: non ut ferat Ossan Olympus, / summaque Peliacus sidere tangat apex, Fast. 1.307-08).236 Here, Ovid is defining sky-reaching in opposition to Gigantomachy237, but it is interesting that he chooses to associate the two. The Eleatic Stranger casts his materialists in the mould of the Giants. Materialists, he says, try to ‘drag down everything to earth from heaven ... they define reality as identical with body’.238 By the time Epicureanism became an important doctrine, readers of the Sophist could hardly fail to identify these materialist Giants as, specifically, atomists. This association of atomist and Giant proves to be particularly fruitful for Lucretius, who adapts Plato’s philosophical Gigantomachy. As is well known, Lucretius’ atomist, Epicurus, takes the part of the Giants and storms the heavens (DRN 1.62-79). Epicurus’ opponent is Religio, who takes the part of the Gods, and his Gigantomachy reverses the traditional moral interpretation.239 As the prize for his victory, Epicurus gains knowledge, learning what can come into being, what cannot and the limits of everything (quid possit oriri / quid nequeat, finita potestas denique cuique / quanam sit ratione atque alte terminus haerens, DRN 1.75-77). Consequently, Religio is trampled underfoot (subiecta pedibus, DRN 1.78) and we are exalted as high as heaven (nos exaequat victoria caelo, DRN 1.78-79). The Giant Epicurus successfully replaces the Gods, conquering Religio with knowledge. His Gigantomachy is intellectual, but also morally irreproachable, since he aims to free humans from empty superstitions. In the first book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, there are two references to the Gigantomachy, the account of the Gigantomachy itself and Jupiter’s description of

235 A preliminary version of the argument in section (ii.i) has been published online as M. Beasley ‘A Philosophical Gigantomachy in the Metamorphoses’ in ASCS 31 (2010) Proceedings: classics.uwa.edu.au/ascs31. 236 A few lines earlier, Ovid writes that the first astronomers climbed the heavens in their minds and subjected the aether to their own ingenium (felices animae, quibus haec cognoscere primis / inque domus superas scandere cura fuit, Fast. 1.297-98; admovere oculis distantia sidera nostris / aetheraque ingenio supposuere suo, Fast. 1.305-06). The confusion of thought and action is central to the concept of philosophical gigantomachy, and the following lines about Pelion and Ossa make it quite clear that Ovid is drawing on the idea of philosophical gigantomachy here. 237 I am grateful to Philip for this point. 238 οἱ μὲν εἰς γῆν ἐξ οὐρανοῦ καὶ τοῦ ἀοράτου πάντα ἕλκουσι, ταῖς χερσὶν ἀτεχνῶς πέτρας καὶ δρῦς περιλαμβάνοντες. τῶν γὰρ τοιούτων ἐφαπτόμενοι πάντων διισχυρίζονται τοῦτο εἶναι μόνον ὃ παρέχει προσβολὴν καὶ ἐπαφήν τινα, ταὐτὸν σῶμα καὶ οὐσίαν ὁριζόμενοι, τῶν δὲ ἄλλων εἴ τίς <τι> φήσει μὴ σῶμα ἔχον εἶναι, καταφρονοῦντες τὸ παράπαν καὶ οὐδὲν ἐθέλοντες ἄλλο ἀκούειν, (Soph. 246A-B). 239 K. Volk (2001), p.107. 87

Lycaon as quasi-Gigantomachic (non ego pro mundi regno magis anxius illa / tempestate fui, qua centum quisque parabat / inicere anguipedum captivo bracchia caelo, Met. 1.82-84).240 In the first, Ovid tells us that the Giants attack heaven so that it would not be safer than earth (neve foret terris securior arduus aether / adfectasse ferunt regnum caeleste gigantas, 1.151-52). The race that springs from the blood of the Giants is also contemptrix superum (1.161). Given that this Gigantomachy occurs in the Iron Age of degenerate men, it appears to belong among the moralistic interpretations. With the Lycaon episode, however, Ovid plays with other aspects of the Gigantomachy myth in ways requiring further elaboration.241 The difficulty of interpreting this episode is that the horror of Lycaon’s crime may induce a moral revulsion and condemnation so strong as to preclude any intellectual interpretation. Indeed, this is certainly the response that Jupiter is trying to induce, in order to justify his planned retribution. As Anderson observes, ‘Jupiter is the narrator, it should be remembered, and he has an interest in presenting situations in black and white colors that favor himself and his sense of justice.’242 We should not be too quick to believe Jupiter, and Wheeler has well discussed the political implications of belief in this episode: ‘[t]o believe in Jupiter’s story of the wickedness of Lycaon and the justice of his punishment is to uphold the prerogatives of the ruling order; conversely, to doubt Jupiter’s authority is to run the risk of treason.’243 Wheeler rightly emphasises the difficulty of belief here, calling it ‘an impossible choice: respond to Jupiter with disbelief and become the lone wolf opposed to social order; or join the consensus that accepts official fictions without question’.244 Since Jupiter defines this episode as being just as threatening as the Giants’ assault on heaven (1.182-84), it ought to be looked at as a Gigantomachy. What is at stake is the sovereignty of the world (mundi regnum, 1.182), and human wickedness is compared to the Giants’ attempt to lay hands on heaven (centum quisque parabat / inicere anguipedum captivo bracchia caelo, 1.183-84). Despite the moralistic overtones, this language reminds us of Plato’s materialist Giants, who drag ‘everything

240 Griffin observes a congruity between Lycaon’s and the Giants’ personality traits, crimes and punishments (Griffin (1992), p.47). 241 While Volk has explored the motif of the intellectual Gigantomachy in Manilius’ Astronomica, there has as yet been no attempt to discuss the intellectual Gigantomachy in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. On Manilius and the intellectual Gigantomachy, see Volk (2001), pp.100-117. 242 Anderson (1989), p.96. 243 Wheeler (1999), p.172. 244 Wheeler (1999), p.181. 88

to earth from heaven’ and grasp ‘rocks and trees in their hands; for they lay hold of all such things’ (Soph. 246a-b).245 Jupiter’s descent to earth is prompted by a report246 (infamia 1.211, 215) of the post-Gigantic race’s impiety. When he reaches Lycaon’s home, he indicates that a god is present (signa dedi venisse deum, 1.220) and is immediately worshipped (vulgusque precari coeperat, 220-1). As Balsley observes, Jupiter’s method of testing the infamia appears to be his demand that mortals acknowledge his authority by believing him without evidence.247 Lycaon alone mocks (inridet, 1.221) and decides to test Jupiter’s godhead, saying experiar deus hic discrimine aperto / an sit mortalis: nec erit dubitabile verum (1.222-23).248 Since the common worship disproves Jupiter’s claims of universal impiety, it appears that Lycaon is not an example of the whole race, but merely a single (possibly the only) transgressor. He is then the Giant who rises against the Gods as represented by Jupiter. Lycaon’s “Gigantomachy” is untraditional in that he is the only one to challenge Jupiter. This fact aligns him with Epicurus, as Epicurus is the only one to stand against Religio;249 in both the Metamorphoses and the De rerum natura, there is only one combatant on either side. Although Lycaon makes no claim to sovereignty, we know from the De rerum natura that the consequence of standing against superstition and championing knowledge is that humanity becomes exalted as high as heaven (nos exaequat victoria caelo, 1.78-79). The struggle of a single man for knowledge, therefore, has wide-ranging consequences that involve the whole of humanity. This may provide some justification for Jupiter’s imputation of Lycaon’s criminality to the whole human race, since the whole race may benefit from such impiety. Jupiter’s universal punishment is problematic for critics, since it undermines any idea that the

245 The same language of ‘dragging down’ and ‘drawing down’ the heavens to earth appears in Manilius’ Astronomica (quis neget esse nefas invitum prendere mundum / et velut in semet captum deducere in orbem, 2.127-8) and Vergil’s Eclogues (carmina vel caelo possunt deducere lunam, Ecl. 8.69). Volk (2001), pp.92-8. 246 Balsley tentatively suggests that this infamia may be a reference to libel (K. Balsley (2011) ‘Truthseeking and Truthmaking in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 1.163-245’ in Law and Literature, 23.1: 48-70, pp.55-56). 247 Balsley (2011), p.62. 248 This concern with truth has occasionally been noted by scholars. Balsley describes Lycaon’s crimes as ‘test[ing] the validity of Jupiter’s claim’ (Balsley (2011), p.51), while Piccaluga notes Lycaon’s desire to test Jupiter’s divinity (G. Piccaluga (1968) Lykaon: Un Tema Mitico, Rome: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, pp.36- 37). 249 Lucretius writes primum Graius homo mortalis tollere contra / est oculos ausus primusque obsistere contra (DRN 1.66-67). 89

Lycaon myth is a straightforward theodicy.250 Wallace-Hadrill finds Jupiter ‘evidently hysterical: not content with turning Lycaon into a wolf, he proposes to exterminate the whole of mankind, despite the fact that, for all their iron-age depravity, they had fallen down and worshipped him’.251 If Lycaon is Epicurean in his search for knowledge, the whole of humanity might have benefited, had he succeeded, and is therefore implicated in his crime.252 Yet what is his motive? For Griffin, Lycaon’s crimes are ‘without motivation, mitigation or justification,’ springing naturally from Lycaon’s savagery, since ‘Ovid’s Lycaon is a monster through and through,’ the ‘personification of evil’.253 Impiety and innate savagery are central to many scholars’ conceptions of Lycaon’s character,254 and yet the glimpse of his thoughts that Jupiter permits does not focus on impiety or bloodlust. Nor does he seek, as the Giants do, to appropriate the sovereignty of heaven, but rather, like Epicurus, to attain true knowledge that is not based on the claims of superstition or on appeals to authority such as Jupiter’s claim of his own godhead. Lycaon does not accept a report without personal experience as proof,255 as, in fact, Jupiter himself does not when he decides to test the infamia. This shared empiricism and desire for knowledge mark Jupiter and Lycaon as similar.256 Feldherr calls

250 As we will see in Chapter 4, the punishment of all for the fault of one parallels Ceres’ actions in the “Rape of Persephone”. Ceres inflicts Famine on the whole world (Met. 5.474-86), even though she has not been injured by all humans (or even any, since it is Venus, Cupid and Pluto who have together deprived Ceres of her daughter). 251 A. Wallace-Hadrill (1982) ‘The Golden Age and Sin in Augustan Ideology’ in Past & Present 95: 19- 36, p.28. In a similar vein, Due has argued that Jupiter ‘either fools himself or acts unjustly in destroying the people who have piously adored him’ (Due (1974), p.106). 252 We might compare Jupiter’s decision to destroy the whole race to his intention in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound (230-38). There, after gaining sovereignty, Jupiter apportions responsibilities to the gods, ignoring humans and even intending to destroy the whole race and remake it. Only Prometheus prevents him from doing so. David Konstan has suggested to me that Lycaon is not only wicked, but also a potential Prometheus (Personal communication 07/10/2011). 253 Griffin (1992), p.52. 254 E.g. Scodel and Forbes Irving, who see Lycaon as an example of the wickedness of the sanguine natos (R. Scodel (1982) ‘The Achaean Wall and the Myth of Destruction’ in HSCP 86: 33-50, p.44n28; Forbes Irving (1990), p.92.). Feldherr and Anderson both agree with Jupiter that Lycaon’s dominant characteristic remains after his metamorphosis and is savagery (A. Feldherr (1997) ‘Metamorphosis and Sacrifice in Ovid’s Theban Narrative’ in MD 38: 25-55, p.170; Anderson (1989), p.98). 255 Lycaon ‘applies logic to a doubtful matter to reach the truth, and he is at no point swayed by the potential status of Jupiter’ (Balsley (2011), p.62). We might compare Lycurgus’ denial of Dionysus’ divinity in Iliad 6.130-40. In later accounts, Dionysus inflicts on the land a drought which will be relieved only by Lycurgus’ death (ps.-Apollodorus Bibl. 3.5.1. In his punishment of the whole populous, Dionysus acts very like Jupiter in the Lycaon episode. Note that the name Lycurgus has the same root at Lycaon. I am grateful to David Konstan for the parallel with Lycurgus. 256 And yet, Balsley well distinguishes between the epistemological methods employed by Jupiter and Lycaon, arguing that Lycaon represents ‘a scientific approach for determining truth (ratio)’ while Jupiter represents ‘a religious approach (religio)’ (Balsley (2011), p.60), although she does not connect the conflict between the two with Epicureanism. 90

Lycaon’s decision to test Jupiter an ‘attempt to take on the god’s role in the story’,257 anticipating my interpretation of Lycaon’s motive, rather than his actions, as the (to Jupiter) truly offensive crime. Neither Jupiter nor Lycaon will accept signs without evidence and personal experience. They are, therefore, placed on an equal footing, and are consequently fitting adversaries.258 Ovid underscores the similarity between human and divine when he calls the lesser gods plebs (1.173) and the dwelling place of the higher gods the palaces of heaven (magni Palatia caeli, 1.175). He also likens the gods’ zeal to learn of Lycaon’s impiety towards Jupiter to the human race’s concern following an attempted assassination on Caesar (1.199-205). The similarities between humans and gods, then, are of central importance to this myth. Not only does Ovid emphatically liken the gods to Romans, but Lycaon’s own activities are drawn from the same desire for knowledge that characterises Jupiter. This empiricism and desire for knowledge are also unmistakably Epicurean, particularly when connected with a Gigantomachy. However, Lycaon’s quest for knowledge takes a very different form from Epicurus’ mental journey. Lycaon does not attempt to overthrow humanity’s belief in the gods. Moreover, however powerful Lucretius’ Religio might be, her power is merely that of provoking groundless fear (DRN 1.102-11); Lycaon, on the other hand, faces the much more literal power of Jupiter as a praesens deus. Epicurus’ Religio is no more than empty superstition, but when Lycaon embarks on the same test, he finds that Jupiter is precisely what he says he is. Ovid has very likely invented Lycaon’s plot to murder Jupiter, which does not appear in other extant versions of the myth.259 Griffin thinks that Ovid uses this plan to blacken Lycaon’s character further, in a desire ‘to present Lycaon’s impiety in the most extreme terms’.260 However, we have only Jupiter as a witness.261 Jupiter might, in fact, have invented Lycaon’s murder plot himself, in order to whip the other gods into a

257 Feldherr (1997), p.170. 258 I am grateful to David Konstan for the reminder that Lycaon is like Tantalus in his desire to test divinity by serving up a human as food. On the Tantalus myth, see, e.g. Pindar Oly. 1.35-64. 259 Griffin (1992), p.51. 260 Griffin (1992), p.51. 261 Hardly a reliable witness. Not only is the earlier reference to Prometheus (Met 1.82) a possible reminder of Jupiter’s harshness, as David Konstan has suggested to me, but the god is later explicitly described as an unreliable witness in the Io episode (Iuppiter ... mentitur, Met. 1.615). 91

greater frenzy.262 If we do accept Jupiter’s testimony, we can explain the murder plot equally well as the most direct test of divinity, with the added advantage that we are no longer relying on unexplained, innate savagery as Lycaon’s motivation. Lycaon’s test is carefully constructed to draw out the truth of Jupiter’s nature; not only does he plan to kill Jupiter himself (impossible, of course, if Jupiter really is an immortal), but he also serves up a Molossian hostage (obses, 1.227) to test Jupiter Hospes.263 We should however, take note of Piccaluga’s observation that Jupiter is not called Hospes in the Lycaon episode, although, as she observes, the Cerastae in Book X use an altar to Jupiter Hospes (Iovis Hospitis ara, 10.224) for their human sacrifices.264 Lycaon’s experiment (experientia veri, 1.225) succeeds in proving Jupiter’s divinity, since the god avenges the Molossian hostage vindice flamma (1.230). Finally, of course, Lycaon is transformed into a wolf, although the agent of this transformation is unknown.265 In describing this metamorphosis, Jupiter strongly emphasises the continuity of Lycaon’s character (1.232-39):

territus ipse fugit nactusque silentia ruris exululat frustraque loqui conatur: ab ipso colligit os rabiem solitaeque cupidine caedis vertitur in pecudes et nunc quoque sanguine gaudet. in villos abeunt vestes, in crura lacerti: fit lupus et veteris servat vestigia formae: canities eadem est, eadem violentia vultus, idem oculi lucent, eadem feritatis imago est.

The continuity that Jupiter emphasises is the continuity of ferocity. This supports his moral interpretation of Lycaon’s Gigantomachic crime. Critics usually take Jupiter at his word.266 However, Lycaon’s own words have made it clear that simple ferocity is not the cause of his actions, but merely the method by which he attempts to increase his knowledge. Anderson sees the metamorphosis as a continuation of ‘that bestiality

262 Balsley suggests that the inclusion of attempted murder of the rex deorum serves to classify the episode as an example of a maiestas trial (Balsley (2011), p.55). She goes on to note that some inconsistencies leave Ovid’s audience ‘with the question of whether it is Ovid who is fashioning a new version of the myth or Jupiter (p.62). 263 Balsley makes the excellent observation that ‘Lycaon’s logic, his ratio, does in fact make perfect sense: if Jupiter were a god, Lycaon clearly could not kill him; if Jupiter were not a god, Lycaon would justly kill a man pretending to be a god’ (Balsley (2011), p.62). She argues that, in the same way, the cooking of the hostage doubles as either test or punishment: ‘Lycaon’s attempt to feed human flesh to the supposed god will either cause Jupiter to reveal his divinity or will punish the mortal for falsely claiming to be a god,’ since feeding human flesh to a god is a crime and to a mortal is a punishment (p.69n45). 264 Piccaluga (1968), p.39. 265 Feldherr notes that Jupiter does not claim responsibility for the metamorphosis (Feldherr (1997), p.170), while Anderson discusses the matter in more detail (Anderson (1989), pp.96-98). 266 E.g. Feldherr (1997), p.170; Anderson (1989), p.98; Piccaluga (1968), p.55. 92

which has already done enough damage to human beings’ and asks ‘why is it just to shift its operation against innocent animals?’ since Lycaon continues to get pleasure.267 Yet, in asking this question, Anderson is taking Jupiter’s narration to be correct in the details of the metamorphosis – precisely the error against which he has already warned when acknowledging that Jupiter is likely to be a biased narrator.268 Jupiter quotes Lycaon directly when he reports Lycaon’s desire to test whether Jupiter is a god or a mortal, and this quotation allows us to see that the god’s emphasis on the continuity of savagery in fact hides the more significant discontinuity. Lycaon commits his crime not for the love of blood, but for the sake of knowledge. In his transformation into a wolf, his method (ferocity) remains, while his motive (the desire for knowledge) seems to disappear.269 Jupiter’s comparison of Lycaon to the Giants indicates that Ovid is comparing Lycaon to Lucretius’ Epicurus but, unlike Epicurus, Lycaon does not find superstition empty. In the Metamorphoses, the gods are not unconcerned with the world – quite the contrary! In the Lycaon episode, the Epicurean redefinition of the gods is tested and rejected. Lucretius’ attempt to demythologise the gods is reversed, and the traditional gods of myth reassert themselves. However, gods and humans are marked as similar, and this very similarity is perhaps the reason for Jupiter’s concern with his own status; Lycaon’s intellectual curiosity threatens to set humans at the same level as gods, and consequently to devalue the gods themselves.270 In fact, Ovid himself, as the narrator, aids Lycaon in the assimilation of humans to gods when he describes the abode of the gods in strikingly human terms. As Wheeler has argued: ‘If Lycaon’s crime will be to

267 Anderson (1989), p.98. 268 Anderson (1989), p.96. 269 We should note that gods are the usual focalizers through whose eyes the metamorphosed individuals of Book I are seen, and that the gods pay no attention to the inner life of these individuals. Jupiter ignores Lycaon’s mind and focuses on his savagery and appearance. Likewise, when Daphne retains only her beauty (nitor, 1.551), the later verb visa est (1.567, whether taken as deponent or as passive) invites us to ask ‘by whom is she seen’ or ‘to whom does she seem’, thus indicating that Daphne herself is not the focalizer in this passage. It appears, rather, that Apollo is, and that he sees her beauty remain and that he interprets her waving treetop in a manner favourable to himself. Jupiter transforms Io into a heifer, allowing her to keep her whiteness and beauty (inque nitentem / Inachidos vultus mutaverat ille iuvencam. / bos quoque formosa est, 1.609-11). When she returns to human form, her whiteness remains (de bove nil superest formae nisi candor in illa, 1.742). When Jupiter acts on Io, and is presumably the focalizer, it is her appearance that is emphasised. The passages in between Io’s transformations, however, focus on Io’s own mind. Jupiter’s focus on the aspect of Lycaon that interests him – savagery – is thus quite consistent with the presentation of metamorphosed individuals in Book I, and therefore should be taken at face value no more than Apollo’s interpretation of Daphne’s waving treetop. 270 Again, this is reminiscent of Prometheus’ work on behalf of humanity. See note 51 above. 93

confuse the human and the divine and not to believe that Jupiter is a god, the Ovidian narrator begins to take a step in this direction in his own portrayal of the gods.’271 Jupiter attempts to disguise the Lycaon episode, presenting it in moral terms in order to justify his vengeance, and in this attempt he is aided by the general tendency to read the Gigantomachy as a morality tale. Unfortunately for him, however, he has not taken into account Plato’s and Lucretius’ rewriting of the Gigantomachy as a story of philosophical disagreement. These competing claims to authority invite us to choose between Jupiter’s and Lycaon’s perspectives, which Balsley calls religio and ratio272, in terms appropriate to our consideration of Epicureanism. Furthermore, Jupiter’s direct quotations of Lycaon’s words do not support his depiction of Lycaon’s impiety, as he wishes them to do, but rather indicate Lycaon’s philosophical desire to test the nature of divinity – leading us to the conclusion that such a desire is impious in the eyes of the gods. However much Jupiter strives for a straightforward Gigantomachy in which impious mortals rise against the just rule of the gods, we are left with a Lucretian Gigantomachy – albeit a rather unsuccessful one – in which a lone seeker after truth challenges the power of the gods. The great irony of the episode is that it is Jupiter’s direct quotation of his rival’s words, which could easily have been suppressed, that reveals Lycaon’s true motivation, and consequently reveals Jupiter’s attempted manipulation of the story: experiar deus hic discrimine aperto / an sit mortalis; nec erit dubitabile verum (1.222-23). Jupiter even echoes Lycaon’s words, calling the proposed crimes an experientia veri (1.225). Griffin interprets this ‘scornful’ echo as evidence of ‘Jupiter’s sense of outrage’,273 but it seems to be evidence of further ineptitude on Jupiter’s part. Jupiter goes to great lengths to paint Lycaon as irredeemably impious and savage, but the echo of Lycaon’s own words reinforces our understanding of Lycaon’s intentions. It therefore keeps before the audience the interpretation of Gigantomachy as philosophical.274 The immediate inspiration for this intellectualised version of the Gigantomachy is undoubtedly the Gigantomachic struggle of Epicurus in the De rerum natura; words

271 Wheeler (1999), p.173. Wheeler’s discussion of the political implications of this episode is excellent, when he observes that ‘[t]he narratorial audience ... is faced with an impossible choice: respond to Jupiter with disbelief and become the lone wolf opposed to social order; or join the consensus that accepts official fictions without question,’ pp.180-81. 272 Balsley (2011), p.63. 273 Griffin (1992), p.49. 274 Balsley reads both Jupiter and Lycaon as cautionary tales, arguing that Lycaon ‘goes too far in his rational approach, clouding his own judgment by becoming so detached from the contexts of the claim he sets out to investigate’ (Balsley (2011), p.63). 94

such as experiar, verum and experientia veri (1.222, 223, 225) strike an unmistakably empiricist and Lucretian note,275 while the very name Lycaon is reminiscent of Lucretius. However, Ovid is surely aware that the philosophical Gigantomachy is of Platonic origin. It is relevant that Ovid has chosen for his philosophical Gigantomachy a myth in which a tyrant becomes a wolf.276 The relationship between tyranny and wolves is one that appears in the Republic, when Socrates relates the story about the shrine of Zeus Lycaeus in Arcadia, saying that ‘the man who tastes a single piece of human flesh, mixed in with the rest of the sacrifice, is fated to become a wolf.’277 This story is then used to explain the degeneration of a leader into a tyrant, or wolf (Rep. 8.565E-566A). The relationship between tyrant and wolf makes another appearance in the Phaedo, where, speaking of reincarnation, Socrates says ‘those who have chosen injustice and tyranny and robbery pass into the bodies of wolves and hawks and kites’ (Phaedo 82a).278 While metamorphosis is not reincarnation, the transformation of Lycaon into a wolf thus agrees with Socrates’ judegment in the Phaedo that tyrants become wolves, and with his judgement in the Republic that tyrants in some sense are wolves.279 Furthermore, in the Republic, Socrates refers to the very myth that Ovid has chosen. Scholars have, indeed, identified some interaction between Ovid and Plato in the Lycaon episode; Ahl finds a nexus of relations among wolves, tyrants, Plato and the Caesars that Ovid ‘probably drew ... from Plato,’ arguing that Ovid ‘is playing Plato

275 I am grateful to David Konstan for the observation that experior and ἐμπειρίᾱ have the same root. These words have other connotations; Balsley notes that experiri ‘has a procedural overtone: although it can simply mean to test or try, it has in Latin the additional, formal meaning of going to court ... Experientia becomes the evidence a lawyer will produce to prove his case, to test the limits of veracity.’ In her discussion of these words, Balsley also notes that ‘in Ovid, as well as in Lucretius and Virgil, experientia is the mark of ratio’ (Balsley (2011), pp.60-1). Note in particular that Lucretius uses the word experientia to describe the development of technology and art (usus et impigrae simul experientia mentis / paulatim docuit pedemptim progredientis, DRN 5.1452-53). 276 It should also be noted that Ennius and Lucilius relate concilia deorum in which the gods ‘discuss wolfish men and the fates they are given for their actions on earth. In Ennius’ epic work the Annales, the council debates the deification of Romulus, Rome’s founder who was nursed by a she-wolf. In Lucilius’ satires, the council, which parodies Ennius’ council, discusses the fate of the senator Cornelius Lentulus Lupus – the play here being on the word lupus, which means wolf in Latin’ (Balsley (2011) p.51). 277 τίς ἀρχὴ οὖν μεταβολῆς ἐκ προστάτου ἐπὶ τύραννον; ἢ δῆλον ὅτι ἐπειδὰν ταὐτὸν ἄρξηται δρᾶν ὁ προστάτης τῷ ἐν τῷ μύθῳ ὃς περὶ τὸ ἐν Ἀρκαδίᾳ τὸ τοῦ Διὸς τοῦ Λυκαίου ἱερὸν λέγεται; ... ὡς ἄρα ὁ γευσάμενος τοῦ ἀνθρωπίνου σπλάγχνου, ἐν ἄλλοις ἄλλων ἱερείων ἑνὸς ἐγκατατετμημένου, ἀνάγκη δὴ τούτῳ λύκῳ γενέσθαι, (Rep. 8.565D-E). 278 τοὺς δέ γε ἀδικίας τε καὶ τυραννίδας καὶ ἁρπαγὰς προτετιμηκότας εἰς τὰ τῶν λύκων τε καὶ ἱεράκων καὶ ἰκτίνων γένη, (Phaedo 82A). 279 Of course, Pythagoras’ discussion of metempsychosis in Book XV does hint at a relationship between metempsychosis and the metamorphosis of the preceding myths. 95

against Roman ritual tradition throughout the LYCaeon episode’.280 Griffin also makes a connection between two features of Ovid’s account and the Republic: the association of cannibalism with Jupiter in Arcadia and the idea of the murderous tyrant who turns into a wolf.281 In choosing the myth of Lycaon, then, Ovid appears to be engaging with the Platonic corpus, and he has added to the ritual and political Platonisms identified by Ahl and Griffin by imbuing his version of the Lycaon myth with a philosophical and Gigantomachic flavour, thus reminding us of the origin of the philosophical Gigantomachy in the Sophist.

ii.ii) Eroding the Ontological Boundaries

The Lycaon episode functions as a model for the contests between gods and mortals that will appear in the later books, providing a frame of reference in which to read these. Lycaon’s Gigantomachic attempt effectively to scale heaven prepares us for other myths in which mortals attempt to blur the distinction between humans and gods. It is, however, also the model for the blurring of the distinction between humans and animals. As mentioned above, Pyreneus, Lyncus and the Cerastae follow Lycaon’s pattern of perverted hospitality. The story of the Cerastae, however, has a further resonance with that of Lycaon, in that it, too, obscures the distinction between humans and animals; Orpheus sings that a stranger would have interpreted the blood on the altars as that of mactatos ... lactantes vitulos Amathusiacasque bidentes (10.226-27), while the revelation hospes erat caesus is reserved for the next line (10.228). It is made shockingly evident that humans have taken the place of animals here. Human sacrifice erodes the distinction between humans and animals,282 as indeed it does in Lucretius’ discussion of Iphigeneia (DRN 1.80-102). Iphianassa is called mute (muta, DRN 1.93), a characteristic particularly of animals which lack human speech entirely, and Lucretius writes that her father turned her into a sacrificial beast: hostia, (DRN 1.102) implies an animal victim. Griffin and Feeney both observe that Lycaon’s method of cooking his victim follows Greek sacrificial practice in that some parts of the victim are roasted and others

280 Ahl (1985), pp.83-85. 281 Griffin (1992), p.50. 282 I am grateful to David Konstan for the reminder that vegetarianism also blurs the distinction between humans and animals, but in the opposite direction. This is, of course, something that will be of central importance in our discussion of the “Speech of Pythagoras” in Part 4. 96

boiled.283 Support for the interpretation of Lycaon’s feast as sacrificial can be found in Plato; in the Minos (315c), Socrates’ companion explains that the people in Lycaea make (human) sacrifices (θυσίας θύουσιν) to Jupiter Lycaeus.284 If Lycaon’s meal is indeed ‘a parody of a ritual sacrifice’,285 the link with the Cerastae in the “Song of Orpheus” is even more significant. By killing his guest in such a way, Lycaon is not only perverting the piety of sacrifice; he is also eroding the distinction between human and animal in the most obvious and sensational way.286 Ironically, Lycaon’s attempt to erode the distinction between god and human can be read as having precisely the opposite effect in the poem. Both Forbes Irving and Griffin see in the Lycaon episode an ever increasing separation between human and divine. Forbes Irving identifies Jupiter’s overturning of the shared table as emblematic of the split between humans and gods: ‘The shared table is at least partly a symbol of closeness to the gods, to which Zeus’ action in turning this table over signals an end.’287 When Lycaon’s story is followed by the Flood, ‘this serves to emphasize the break and new beginning in human history’.288 Griffin goes further, observing that the original anthropogony (1.78-83) mixed in something of the divine, so that Lycaon’s breaking of ‘the “communion” between humankind and the gods ... is irreparable and anticipates the re-creation of humankind after the flood. Human beings descended from Deucalion and Pyrrha come from stone and have nothing of the divine in them (Met. 1.400-15).’289 In his twofold assault on the ontological boundaries between human and god and between human and animal, Lycaon confuses the hierarchy of living creatures. He himself attempts to scale divine heights of knowledge, but he also degrades his Molossian guest by treating him as an animal.290 He attempts both to raise humans to the level of gods, and to reduce them to the level of beasts. Ironically, he is successful in the latter in an unintended way: his own transformation into a wolf. But, his

283 Griffin (1992), pp.50-1; Feeney (1991), p.195. 284 Ahl (1985), pp.73-74. 285 Griffin (1992), pp.50-51. 286 Of course, this confusion is, to some extent, built in to the name of the festival and its presiding god. The name of Zeus Lycaeus (the Wolf Zeus) blends the divine and the animal, while in the festival of the Lycaea one participant is turned into a wolf for nine years, if not for the rest of his life. On the festival, see Plato Rep. 8.565D-E. I am grateful to David Konstan for drawing my attention to the play inherent in these names. 287 Forbes Irving (1990), p.92. 288 Forbes Irving (1990), p.91. 289 Griffin (1992), p.47. Of course, there is no mention of a divine component in the sanguine natos. 290 As we will see in Part 3, Orpheus erodes these boundaries in a much more consistent way. The concern with the connections between food and humans is, of course, central to the “Speech of Pythagoras” in Book XV. 97

attempted elevation is spectacularly unsuccessful, undoing the small degree of communion that existed between man and god, since the new human race has no trace of the divine. Ovid may well have been the first to link Deucalion’s Flood with the myth of Lycaon.291 For Colavito, the link implies that ‘the destruction of the first age of man was caused by this act of committing bloodshed, a Pythagorean taboo’.292 Colavito interprets Lycaon’s crime as cannibalism, as does Griffin,293 and certainly the story of Lycaon is linked with cannibalism in Plato’s account. Forbes Irving, however, notes very precisely that ‘Lycaon’s crime is murder and abusing the rules of hospitality, never cannibalism.’294 Strictly speaking, it does appear that Jupiter strikes with his thunderbolt before the cannibalistic meal can be eaten. Still, the murder and cooking of a hostage points unmistakably to cannibalism, and so Colavito’s attributing the Flood to the consumption of human flesh is plausible. Just as the concern with the ontological relationship between god and human continues in the later contest myths, so the relationship between humans and animals will be further tested, especially by Orpheus and Pythagoras.295

iii) The Flood

Ovid’s account of the Flood is often studied as an example of myths of the Universal Flood and compared with accounts such as that in Genesis.296 However, our concern is not with Ovid’s place within a tradition of Flood myths, but with Ovid’s Flood in the context of the Metamorphoses. Within the Metamorphoses, the Flood functions as the cataclysmic end to an old world order, bringing in a new; classical views of cataclysm are more significant here. The Flood itself should be considered in concert with “Phaethon’s Ride”, while Deucalion is to be contrasted with Lycaon.

291 Griffin (1992) p51; Colavito (1989), p.36. Other sources for Lycaon as the cause of the Flood are Bibl. 3.8.2, Myth. Vat. II 73. Forbes Irving observes that only late sources posit Lycaon as the cause of the Flood (Forbes Irving (1990), p.91). 292 Colavito (1989), p.36. 293 Colavito (1989), p.36; Griffin (1992), pp. 50, 51. 294 Forbes Irving (1990), p.56. 295 See Chapters 5 and 8. 296 E.g. E.G. Kraeling (1947) ‘Xisouthros, Deucalion and the Flood Traditions’ in Journal of the American Oriental Society 67.3: 177-183; T.T.B. Ryder (1967) ‘Ovid, the Flood and Ararat’ in G&R 2nd ser. 14.2: 126-129; Griffin (1992). 98

iii.i) Between Fire and Water

Ovid’s Flood forms a thematic pair with “Phaethon’s Ride”,297 as it does in the writings of many philosophers from Plato to Lucretius and Seneca. In Plato’s Timaeus, Critias quotes an Egyptian who tells Solon that Phaethon’s Ride (or the meteorological phenomenon that the myth allegorises) and the Flood(s) are recurring events, thus linking the destructions by fire and water (Tim. 22C). Lucretius follows the same pattern, recounting Phaethon’s near-destruction of the world and then the Flood (DRN 5.394-415). For Lucretius, the myths of Phaethon and the Flood ‘are poetic fantasies based on actual temporary dominance by, respectively, fire and water’.298 The Flood and Phaethon’s Ride are thus presented by philosophers as a matching pair, the victories of fire and water respectively – cataclysm and ekpyrōsis in Stoic philosophy.299 Ovid’s near-contemporary Manilius also uses the pairing of Phaethon and Deucalion in his Stoic Astronomica (4.831-56):

[...] sic quondam merserat urbes, humani generis cum solus consitit heres Deucalion scopuloque orbem possedit in uno. nec non, cum patrias Phaethon temptavit habenas, arserunt gentes timuitque incendia caelum fugeruntque novas ardentia sidera flammas atque uno metuit condi natura sepulcro. in tantum longo mutantur tempore cuncta

This same pairing appears in Book III of Seneca’s Naturales Quaestiones, where Seneca explains that the Flood will occur on the same principle as the conflagratio (Utrumque fit, cum deo visum ordiri meliora, vetera finiri. Aqua et ignis terrenis dominantur, ex his ortus, ex his interitus est. Ergo, quandoque placuere res novae mundo, sic in nos mare emittitur desuper, ut fervor ignisque cum aliud genus exitii placuit, 3.28.7). In the Metamorphoses, however, the two events are not described consecutively – although Griffin has identified a miniature ekpyrōsis in Jupiter’s blitzing of Lycaon’s

297 Martial also pairs Deucalion and Phaethon: materia est, mihi crede, tuis aptissima chartis / Deucalion vel, si non placet hic, Phaethon (5.53). I am grateful to Joseph Farrell for the reference. On the pairing of Deucalion and Phaethon, see B. Otis (1966), p.91; P.R. Hardie (1986) Virgil’s Aeneid: Cosmos and Imperium, Oxford: Clarendon, p.192. 298 Hardie (1986), p.192. 299 The victories of fire and water will be referred to throughout as ‘ekpyrōsis’ and ‘cataclysm,’ for ease of reference. Unless otherwise specified, this should not be taken to imply a straightforwardly Stoic reading, since the periodic victories are accepted by non-Stoic philosophers, such as Plato and Lucretius. 99

house, an event that immediately precedes the Flood.300 Nevertheless, Ovid does refer to ekpyrōsis, consequently alluding to Phaethon, when he has Jupiter refrain from destroying humanity with his thunderbolt because of the fated destruction of the world by fire (esse ... in fatis reminiscitur, adfore tempus / quo mare, quo tellus correptaque regia caeli / ardeat et mundi moles obsessa laboret, Met. 1.256-58).301 Brown sees Jupiter’s avoidance of fire as ‘clearly a forward allusion to the story of Phaethon’.302 Where Plato and Lucretius pair the Flood and Phaethon’s Ride as (near-) destructions of the world, Ovid’s Phaethon episode is very different from his account of the Flood. The Flood successfully destroys all earthly creatures, which are then replaced in a new anthropogony and zoogony.303 In contrast, Phaethon’s Ride does not succeed in destroying the world and it is not followed by new creations, but only by individual metamorphoses – although Brown notes the cosmic implications of the tripartite world depicted on the doors of the Sun’s Palace.304 The causes of the Flood and Phaethon’s Ride are correspondingly different in nature. Jupiter offers the Flood as a theodicy – the Flood is the punishment for human wickedness – while Phaethon’s Ride is due to Sol’s divine folly, ‘no theodicy, but sheer accident and irresponsible folly’.305 The cause of the Flood is not individual irresponsibility; while only Lycaon is adduced as an exemplar of human immorality, we saw in the previous section how his crimes have universal consequences and Jupiter claims that a sizable proportion of the human race is impious (longa mora est, quantum noxae sit ubique repertum, / enumerare: minor fuit ipsa infamia vero, Met. 1.214-15). The cause of the Flood is thus impiety and immorality, with morality, or ethics, thus being set up as an important theme in the Metamorphoses. This is in contrast to the Phaethon episode, which has cosmic effects, but not a similarly cosmic cause.

300 Griffin (1992), p.55. 301 Griffin (1992), p.55. Rather than connecting the Flood directly with Phaethon, Ovid goes by the circuitous route of inventing a friendship between Phaethon and Epaphus, while his allusion to ekpyrōsis ensures that the more traditional connection is not wholly effaced. As there is no other evidence for such a friendship, it is generally believed that this is Ovid’s own innovation (e.g. A. Cameron (2004) Greek Mythography in the Roman World, Oxford: OUP, p.289). Such an innovation implies a desire to end Book I with Phaethon and to link Phaethon to the rest of Book I. 302 Brown (1987), p.216. 303 This discussion of zoogony is unusual, since, as Kitchell observes, ‘Greek and Roman myths, in contrast to their eastern predecessors, almost entirely ignore the animal world in their flood and creation tales’ (K.F. Kitchell Jr. (1993) ‘The View from Deucalion’s Ark: New Windows on Antiquity’ in CJ 88.4: 341-357, p.342). 304 The function of the Palace ekphrasis (and, to a lesser extent, that of the chariot ekphrasis), according to Brown, ‘is to provide an image of the sun’s benign maintenance of universal order whereby the extent of the disorder caused by Phaethon can be gauged.’ Brown (1987), p.215, see also pp.211, 213, 214. 305 Otis (1966), p.116. 100

The threat posed by Phaethon’s ride is averted when Jupiter smites him with a thunderbolt, at the request of Tellus who fears a regression to Chaos. Significantly, Tellus says that if land, sea and sky perish, Chaos will return (si freta, si terra pereunt, si regia caeli, / in chaos antiquum confundimur, 2.298-99). It is the confusion or destruction of the tripartite divisions of the world that marks Chaos. We should compare this with Ovid’s description of the Flood: iamque mare et tellus nullum discrimen habebant: / omnia pontus erat, derant quoque litora ponto (1.291-92). From Tellus’ later definition of Chaos as the failure of the tripartite division, we can see that this lack of division (nullum discrimen) has cosmic significance. This Flood thus threatens a reversion to Chaos, just as Phaethon’s Ride does in the next book. In fact, we might say that since this failure of division actually occurs, rather than merely being threatened, the world does in fact return to (some kind of) Chaos. The episode of the Flood is thus, in part, a reversal of the natural philosophical Cosmogony (Met. 1.5-88), while the account of Deucalion and Pyrrha parallels the creation of humans by Prometheus, Deucalion’s father. It is after Deucalion and the Flood, rather than after the Cosmogony and Prometheus, that Ovid’s history of the current race of humans begins. As we will see, the recreation of the world and of humans after the Flood is a new moral beginning.

iii.ii) The Cosmic Flood

The Flood is described as a reversal of the cosmic creation. Ovid indeed refers to the erosion of boundaries more than once, as when Neptune commands the rivers to flow mole remota and when the rivers exspatiata ruunt (Met. 1.279, 1.285).306 This is a marked change from the earlier establishment of order, which is characterised by verbs and adjectives of separation.307 In particular, the lack of boundaries between earth and sea reverses the description of the cosmogony, in which terris abscidit undas (Met. 1.22). Seneca, too, interprets the Flood as the dissolution of boundaries formed in the cosmogony: confundetur quicquid in suas partes natura digessit (NQ 3.29.8). For

306 The mythological apparatus here has led Due to argue that Ovid frustrates our expectations of a scientific or pseudo-scientific description of Stoic κατακλυσμὸς (Due (1974), p.108). 307 McKim notes six separation verbs in the first five lines of the Cosmogony, and ten words or phrases in the following twenty-five lines which ‘denote either God’s divisive acts or the impassable boundaries which he imposes to keep each element firmly in its Aristotelian place (McKim (1984), p.100). 101

Rhorer, the confusion of boundaries described at Met. 1.291-92 is a clear reversion to Chaos ‘when earth, air and sea were indistinguishable’.308 Ovid’s Flood appears to Seneca to be a (mostly) appropriate (i.e. scientific or philosophical) description of Stoic cataclysm. In the context of his own account of the fatalis dies diluvii (NQ 3.27.1-30.8), Seneca refers to Ovid several times (NQ 3.27.13,309 13, 13, 14, 28.2) and names no other authorities except the prose writers Fabianus and Berosus (NQ 3.27.3, 29.1).310 Such a reception by a notable philosopher is, incidentally, strong evidence that Ovid’s Metamorphoses can be – and was – read philosophically without doing violence to the text. Seneca’s description of the purpose of the Flood exactly matches Jupiter’s claims in the Metamorphoses; he says that the waters will retreat when the human race is destroyed, along with the animals whose savagery humans have adopted (peracto exitio generis humani extinctisque pariter feris, in quarum homines ingenia transierant, NQ 3.30.7). Furthermore, new living beings will be created, including a new, pious human race (omne ex integro animal generabitur dabiturque terris homo inscius scelerum et melioribus auspiciis natus, NQ 3.30.8), which will, however, quickly deteriorate (sed illis quoque innocentia non durabit, nisi dum novi sunt, NQ 3.30.8). This theme of the destruction of vice and its replacement by virtue is flagged earlier in Seneca’s account, when he argues that the Flood is necessary to renew virtue (ergo, quandoque erit terminus rebus humanis, cum partes eius interire debuerint abolerive funditus totae ut de integro totae rudes innoxiaeque generentur nec supersit in deteriora praeceptor, plus umoris quam semper fuit fiet, NQ 3.29.5). Seneca passes judgement in four of his five quotations from Ovid. He praises Ovid three times, for speaking egregie and pro magnitudine rei (NQ 3.27.13) and says that Ovid ‘spoke grandly and caught the image of such vast confusion’ (Dixit ingentia et tantae confusionis imaginem cepit, NQ 3.27.14) when writing that the rivers run unchecked over fields and that the towers sink under the water (Met. 1.285, 290).

308 Rhorer (1980), p.305. Likewise, Little sees the inundation as ‘the complete reversal of the old order of things,’ Little (1970), p.355. 309 This reference is in fact to Phaethon’s Ride in Book II, and not to Ovid’s Flood narrative in Book I. Williams makes the appealing suggestion that this reference to Phaethon is not a lapse of memory, but invokes the Ovidian conflagration-scene partly with irony, partly as a subtle means of signaling that the deluge and conflagration are parallel agents of destruction’ (G.D. Williams (2007) ‘Reading the Waters: Seneca on the Nile in Natural Questions, Book 4a’ in CQ 57: 218-242, p.238). Morgan comes to a similar view, arguing that the line ‘in its original context describes quite the opposite of a flood, but something closely related to flood in Stoic thinking, the destruction of the world by fire’ (L. Morgan (2003) ‘Child’s Play: Ovid and His Critics’ in JRS 93: 66-91, p.72). 310 Williams notes that all Seneca’s verse quotations in this section come from the Metamorphoses (Williams (2007), p.238). 102

However, Seneca criticises Ovid for his verses on wolves, sheep and lions swimming (Met. 1.304; ni tantum impetum ingenii et materiae ad puerile ineptias, NQ 3.27.13). For Seneca, it is inappropriate ‘to make fun of the whole world now swallowed up’ (Non est res satis sobria lascivire devorato orbe terrarum, NQ 3.27.14). Seneca clearly reads Ovid’s Flood narrative as an account of Stoic cataclysm, admiring particularly those lines which indicate the confusio of the world (magnifice, NQ 3.27.14). He even apostrophises Ovid, praising him for capturing the image of ‘the lands overwhelmed and the sky itself rushing into earth’ (concepisti imaginem quantum debebas, obrutis omnibus terris caelo ipso in terram ruente, NQ 3.27.15). On Seneca’s reading, then, Ovid shows a confusion of all three world divisions, so that this is a truly cataclysmic event. When Ovid describes the retreat of the waters, he does so in terms of the reintroduction of the tripartite world (1.324-47); we should note in particular that Jupiter’s actions in calling a halt to the Flood echo the action of the Creator: nubila disiecit ... et caelo terras ostendit et aethera terris (1.328-29). This renewal of the tripartite world is described with a verb of separation, and it should be remembered that verbs of separation are particularly prominent in the lines describing the arrangement of matter in the original creation.311 Moreover, in the original creation, the earth, sea and sky are pre-existing and are simply given a definitive form by the creation. When Neptune recalls the waters, Ovid writes that the sea regains its shores: iam mare litus habet (1.343). This is a very deliberate reintroduction of the discrimen that is lost during the Flood (iamque mare et tellus nullum discrimen habebant: / omnia pontus erat, derant quoque litora ponto, 1.291-92). If Tellus’ complaint about Chaos in Book II leads us to read the nullum discrimen as a mark of Chaos, then the restoration of that discrimen is to be read as a mark of renewed cosmos. The retreat of the Flood waters may thus be viewed as a secondary creation, and this period of creation ends in the aftermath of the Flood, explaining why the following stories are stories of metamorphosis, rather than stories of creation.312 The re-emergence of the land from

311 McKim (1984) p.100. This separation is discussed in detail in Chapter 1. 312 Of course, this is not a perfect distinction; the metamorphosis of Lycaon, whose impiety is responsible for, and so precedes, the Flood, is an example of metamorphosis in the section just described as characterised by creation. However, when discussing the Metamorphoses counter-examples do not necessarily invalidate proposed patterns. While it might, for example, reasonably be claimed that ‘gods exercise some control over metamorphosis and can return to their original or favourite forms; but human beings cannot, and usually remain part of the natural scheme’ (Tissol (1997), p.197.), there are counter- examples which put pressure on such a pattern. Io is returned to human shape, as is, more significantly, 103

the ‘undifferentiated waters of the Flood is also seen as a ‘repetition of the initial creation of cosmos out of chaos’ by Hardie.313 The Flood ends the world created by the nameless Creator (or at least the living creatures of that world) and leads to the creation of a new race by the gods of myth. It is Jupiter who orders the Flood and who is responsible for the new race: in answer to the other gods’ anxieties, Jupiter promises a new race (rex superum ... promittit, Met. 1.251- 52).314 Ovid retains the same geographical features that he spent thirty-six lines detailing before his introduction of humans. This is not a new physical beginning, but a new moral beginning, with a corresponding new creator. Jupiter is responsible for the new race of humans, who are intended to be morally superior to the submerged race. This is comparable to Vergil’s Jupiter, who deliberately ends the Golden Age by making the world a more dangerous and difficult place to live in, in order to stir human ingenuity and forestall lethargy (G. 1.121-46). In the Metamorphoses, as in the Georgics, Jupiter ends one era in order to usher in one that is morally superior. The new race that Jupiter promises is to be priori dissimilem populo (Met. 1.251-52) – although, of course, the current race of humans is not in fact portrayed in the Metamorphoses as being more pious than the prior race – we should compare Seneca’s prediction that the innocence of the post-diluvian race will be short lived (sed illis quoque innocentia non durabit, NQ 3.30.8). Seneca’s choice of the verb duro undoubtedly glances at the durum genus which springs from Deucalion’s and Pyrrha’s stones. About to destroy the world, Jupiter rejects his thunderbolt and decides on the Flood instead, choosing flumina (1.280, 285) instead of fulmina (1.253).315 The nearness of destruction by fire to destruction by water is marked by this wordplay, in the same way that Lucretius shows flamina and flumina to operate on the same principle (DRN 1.271-94).316 Jupiter is given two reasons for the selection of water as the means of destroying the human race. First, Jupiter fears ne forte sacer tot ab ignibus aether /conciperet flammas longusque ardesceret axis (Met. 1.254-55). This is certainly a

Tireisias, who is responsible both for his transformation into a woman and his return to a man (Met. 1.738-46; 3.324-31). 313 Hardie (2002d), p.67. 314 We should note that in Aristophanes’ myth in the Symposium, the gods choose not to destroy the humans who essay to mount heaven, because they worry about the loss of honour from mortals: αἱ τιμαὶ γὰρ αὐτοῖς καὶ ἱερὰ τὰ παρὰ τῶν ἀνθρώπων ἠφανίζετο (Plato, Symp. 190C). This should be compared with Ovid’s gods’ fear of the loss of incense: rogant, quis sit laturus in aras / tura (Met. 1.248-48). 315 Ahl notes the wordplay involved in changing fulmen to flumen (Ahl (1985), p.54). 316 M.R. Gale (2007b) ‘Introduction’ in M.R. Gale (2007a): 1-17, p.8. 104

valid fear, for this is precisely what does happen during Phaethon’s catastrophic ride. There is, of course, the added irony that derives from Jupiter’s concern for the aether: he has justified this destruction by arguing with regard to the lesser divinities quas dedimus, certe terras habitare sinamus (Met. 1.195). Yet, in his desire to destroy humanity, Jupiter does not consider the danger that fire would pose to those very divinities he claims to protect,317 only the danger to his own home. The other concern in Jupiter’s mind is his memory that it is in fatis that the tripartite world will be destroyed by fire (adfore tempus / quo mare, quo tellus correptaque regia caeli / ardeat et mundi moles obsessa laboret, Met. 1.256-58). This is a clear and well-recognised reference to the Stoic doctrine of ekpyrōsis,318 and it is worth noting that this prophesied destruction is a complete destruction of all three of the world divisions that are described in the cosmogony proper. Jupiter wishes to destroy the human race, not the mundi moles – although we have seen how the Flood can be read as a world-ending cataclysm. Mundi moles is a term found only once in Lucretius, who prefers moenia mundi, and that single occurrence is found in a passage thematically related to our passage in the Metamorphoses. In these lines, Lucretius argues for the mortality of the world, emphasising the totality of destruction by focussing on the destruction of all of the three world divisions: maria ac terras caelumque (DRN 5.92). He insistently, even stridently, underlines the totality of this destruction by writing of naturam triplicem, tria corpora, tris species, tria texta (DRN 5.93-94). Lucretius goes on to say una dies dabit exitio, multosque per annos / sustentata ruet moles et machina mundi (DRN 5.95-96).319 While Lucretius does not at this point include descriptions of types of destruction (although he does later claim legends of destructions by fire and water to be proof of the world’s mortality, DRN 5.341-47), Ovid’s brief allusion to ekpyrōsis here is clearly indebted to this passage of Lucretius. Both emphasise the totality of the destruction and the tripartite world division, and both use the phrase mundi moles, found only in this context in Lucretius. Although Jupiter only wishes to eradicate the human race, not to destroy the world, the Flood is described in cosmic terms as a reversion to Chaos. This description,

317 As Anderson observes (Anderson (1989), pp.95-6). 318 Myers (1994), p.43; Due (1974), p.31; Griffin (1992), p.55. We should, however, remember that philosophers such as Plato and Lucretius also allow for periodic conflagrations. 319 Ovid also uses this line from the De rerum natura in his Amores: carmina sublimis tunc sunt peritura Lucreti, / exitio terras cum dabit una dies (Am. 15.23-24). I am grateful to Joseph Farrell for this reference. With the exception of Tristia 2.425, this is the only extant line where Ovid refers to Lucretius by name. 105

along with the reference to a fated destruction by fire, indicates that Ovid’s account of the Flood is markedly influenced by Stoicism and is presented as a cataclysm. However, this is not a straightforward deployment of Stoic doctrine. Jupiter’s knowledge of the fated ekpyrōsis does not include any indication that this is a cyclic destruction. Rather, it is implied that the fated conflagration is a final destruction, without a recreation. Jupiter, then, fears a complete and permanent destruction of the cosmos, while Phaethon threatens a return to Chaos, rather than a new beginning. If the ekpyrōsis of Metamorphoses I is not Stoic, in that it is final, what implications does this have for the cataclysm of the Metamorphoses? Clearly, the Flood does not completely return the Cosmos to Chaos. Such a return requires the dissolution of all three world divisions: earth, sea and sky. The Flood only dissolves the divisions between earth and sea (iamque mare et tellus nullum discrimen habebant, 1.291; iam mare litus habet, 1.343). This, then, is not a full return to Chaos. However, Seneca interprets the torrential rain of the Flood as the confusion of earth and sky (NQ 3.27.15) and even imitates Ovid’s language in his own account of Stoic cataclysm (peribit omne discrimen, NQ 3.29.8, recalls mare et tellus nullum discrimen habebant, Met. 1.291, while removing the qualification that this lack of distinction refers only to earth and sea). We have already seen how Seneca’s conception of the purpose of the Flood precisely matches Jupiter’s, so it seems clear that Ovid’s account of the Flood can indeed be read as a Stoic cataclysm, at least by Seneca. Despite omnia pontus erat (1.292), the land remains; it is only covered by the sea. Rather than being created after the Flood, then, the land is merely returned to its previous position. The borders between land and sea may be obscured, but they are not truly dissolved. This is why there is no geographical creation scene after the Flood; only living creatures are destroyed and only they must be renewed. Ovid is clearly exploiting the philosophical pairing of the Flood and Phaethon’s Ride, of cataclysm and ekpyrōsis, but he is expounding neither Lucretius’ theme of the world’s mortality nor the Stoic theme of cyclical time and periodic destruction, since his final ekpyrōsis complicates the picture. Again, we find that the Ovid of the Metamorphoses is a philosophical poet, but not a poetic philosopher like Lucretius or Empedocles.

iii.iii) Deucalion and Lycaon

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Jupiter and Neptune order the retreat of the waters when the whole race has perished, with the exception of Deucalion and Pyrrha, whose name may ‘preserve the memory of a destruction of the world by fire’,320 thus reminding us at the end of the Flood of the links with Phaethon’s Ride that appear at its beginning. The first action that Deucalion and Pyrrha take when they land on Parnassus is to worship the local deities and the oracular Themis (1.319-21). When Jupiter sees that the only survivors are innocent and pious (innocuos ambo, cultores numinis ambo, 1.327), the wrath aroused by Lycaon subsides and he ends the Flood. Lycaon and Deucalion thus form a pair. As Griffin argues, these contrasting episodes balance each other ‘as the outer panels of a tripartite narrative whose central panel is the flood. The Lycaon is a story of impiety and its punishment: the Deucalion is a story of piety and its rewards.’321 They are thus both theodicies ‘designed to vindicate the power and justice of the gods’.322 However, Griffin does not discuss the fact that this concern with piety is Jupiter’s. Lycaon is not merely a tale of impiety;323 it is also a tale of power’s response to a challenge. The authority figure who is so outraged by Lycaon’s actions and, more particularly, by his intellectual daring, is mollified by the sight of two terrified humans who feel themselves to be utterly dependent on the gods. Their first action is worship and, after lamenting their isolation, their next action is prayer (placuit caeleste precari / numen et auxilium per sacras quaerere sortes, 1.368). Deucalion is the inverse of Lycaon in his piety, in his unwillingness to act without the sanction of the gods. Ovid has Deucalion wish to renew the human race paternis artibus (Met. 1.363- 64), in what may be an answer to the question of who created humanity in the first place. Themis’ oracle commands them to throw the bones of their great parent behind them (magnae parentis, 1.383). This reference to the earth as a parent draws on the model of the earth as mother, a model that is also responsible for the animals which the earth bears (ceu matris in alvo, 1.420). This image of the earth as mother will be treated more fully in Chapter 8, where Lucretius’ use of the idea at DRN 3.998 will also be discussed. In response to Themis’ oracle, Deucalion and Pyrrha repopulate the earth, and as in the description of Prometheus’ creation of humans, the earth itself provides the

320 Paschalis (2001) p.208, citing M. Delcourt (1965) Pyrrhos et Pyrrha: recherché sur les valeurs du feu dans le legends helléniques, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. 321 Griffin (1992), p53. 322 Griffin (1992), p53. 323 In fact, Anderson discusses how the idea of a theodicy is undermined throughout the Lycaon episode, stripping away any pretence to moral authority on the part of the gods (Anderson (1989). 107

raw material. This new creation is also linked to the moulding of the earth: by comparing the transforming stones to sculptures (uti de marmore coepta, Met. 1.405) Ovid continues to characterise creation as artistic.324 This new race, sprung from stones, is described as genus durum (Met. 1.414), in a possible correction of Lucretius’ assertion that it was the early race which was durius than the present one (DRN 5.926).

Conclusion

From the outset, we are primed to read the Metamorphoses as a poem with its roots in philosophy, even as a new kind of philosophical poem that is not aligned with any particular school. The tripartite world that is adopted at 1.5 sets the poem within a tradition of philosophical or cosmological poetry. Ovid’s cosmogony is presented in patently Lucretian terms, from the semina rerum at 1.9 to the spontaneous generation of animals after the Flood. This Lucretian tone, however, is not maintained uniformly over these four hundred-odd lines; the accounts of the Four Ages, Lycaon and the Flood stand between the Lucretian cosmogony and the second, post-diluvian, creation. Nevertheless, the distinction which some scholars325 have observed between the cosmogony proper and the following myths is not a sharp one. Our analysis of the Lycaon myth has shown that this episode draws on Platonic, and even Lucretian, ideas of philosophical Gigantomachy. Furthermore, these two parts, the apparently mythical and the overtly philosophical are harmonised through scenes such as that of Jupiter’s indecision at 1.253-361, where the allusion to Stoic ekpyrōsis recalls the earlier overt philosophical references and prepares us for the philosophical passage of the zoogony. We have here something like a miniature of the whole Metamorphoses, with Lycaon’s metamorphosis emblematic for those to come, and the zoogony anticipating Pythagoras’ speech, forming a frame with the cosmogony. The philosophical traces we have uncovered in the myth of Lycaon should, therefore, alert us to philosophical material in the myths of the following books. In his attempt to erase ontological boundaries, Lycaon prefigures characters from later books of the Metamorphoses, such as the Pierides, the Cerastae, Orpheus and Pythagoras. The attempt by the Pierides to elevate themselves has already been noted, and will be fully explored in Part 2. In Part 3, we will see how Orpheus adopts a

324 Rhorer (1980), p.306. 325 Most memorably, McKim (1984). 108

different approach, cautiously drawing the gods down to the human level, while beginning to emancipate animals. Pythagoras, of course, will improve on Orpheus’ beginnings, emphatically insisting that animals hold equal status with humans, and his concern with vegetarianism mirrors the concern with alimentary norms in the Lycaon episode. Although Ovid’s cosmogony is heavily influenced by Lucretius, in particular by the Lucretian cosmogonical scenes in Book V of the De rerum natura, its meaning is by no means Lucretian. This is most powerfully signalled when Ovid makes it clear that his cosmos has a Creator (1.21), thereby confirming the hints provided by teleological language such as instabilis and innabilis (1.16). As the overtly philosophical tone begins to revive in the ekpyrōsis scene, this dichotomy of Lucretian language and anti- Lucretian content does likewise: Ovid’s reference to what is very clearly Stoic ekpyrōsis is influenced by Lucretius’ exposition of the Epicurean doctrine of the mortality of the world. Lucretius’ exposition, of course, draws on the Stoic doctrine of ekpyrōsis, in an attempt to show that even Stoicism could not avoid the mortality of the mundus, however much Stoics might argue that such cataclysms are really just a part of an immortal but cyclical cosmos. Ovid’s ekpyrōsis passage describes a Stoic doctrine in Epicurean terms – not only does Ovid turn to the Epicurean poet Lucretius for his model, but his own account makes no mention of cyclical time or a repeated cosmogony. More compellingly, his adoption of the Creator in a cosmogonical passage heavily indebted to an Epicurean poem confirms our view that Ovid is being playful with philosophy rather than aligning himself definitively with any particular philosophical school. He intends this playfulness to be evident to his audience. In crossing an Epicurean poem with a teleological, divinely created (Stoic) universe, Ovid is inviting us to read his Metamorphoses with philosophy in mind, but not as a manifesto for any individual school. It is with the myths of the Cosmogony, the Four Ages, Lycaon and the Flood, that Ovid begins to introduce ethics and even epistemology into his poem. This is the significance of the sanctius animal (Met 1.76). The creation of humans at the end of the Creation passage (Met. 1.76-88) allows Ovid to introduce the peculiarly human questions of how we ought to live and how we can know anything. These are questions that will be further explored throughout the myths, and will guide our discussion of the rest of the poem. 109

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Part 2

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Chapter 3: The “Musomachia”

The song contest between the Muses and the Pierides326 in Book V is narrated in its entirety by one of the Muses, who summarises the mortal song in the contest and recites in full the Muses’. Ovid’s focus on the content of the songs contrasts with the account of the Musomachia in Antoninus Liberalis, who concentrates on their aesthetic effects.327 Similarly, in Book X, Ovid departs from his Vergilian model by reciting the song Orpheus sings to the infernal gods, thus inviting consideration of the content of the song. This change in focus invites us to look closely at the content of the songs, in order to discover why the Muses are victorious. The Pierides’ song is an account of the Gigantomachy, and draws on the many of the same philosophical implications of Gigantomachy that inform the Lycaon myth. This contest between gods and mortals returns to many of the themes explored that myth; in particular, the unequal relationship between gods and mortals is put to the test. In challenging the gods, the human contestants make their own claim about the relationship between gods and humans, arguing for at least some degree of equality. As we saw in Chapter 2, the myth of Lycaon is deeply indebted to the philosophical Gigantomachy developed by Plato and Lucretius. In the Lycaon episode, however, it is Plato who is the dominant influence, both in the choice of Lycaon and in the retention of the moral focus. The “Musomachia” is different, since the Pierides claim Gigantomachy as a model for themselves, rather than having it imposed on them by a competitor who is trying to taint them with a moral stigma. In claiming the Gigantomachy, the Pierides reject the traditional moral meaning. They draw, therefore, on the Lucretian variation of the philosophical Gigantomachy, in which Gigantomachy is argued to be pious.

326 Unless otherwise specified, the mortal challengers will be called ‘Pierides’ throughout, for reasons that will be discussed later. 327 P.J. Johnson & M. Malamud (1988) ‘Ovid’s Musomachia’ in Pacific Coast Philology 23.1/2: 30-38, p.31. 113

The Pierides are effectively Lucretians. Their Lucretian allegiance is perhaps signalled by the very fact that the ‘Pierides’ oppose themselves to the Muses. In the De rerum natura, Lucretius differentiates between Pieria and Helicon; ‘The Muses of Pieria and their song are mentioned twice in the De rerum natura (1.926, 946 = 4.1, 21). Their song is Lucretius’ song. But Helicon is a mountain frequented by other poets.’328 Ennius brings his crown down from Helicon (1.118); from Helicon, the philosophers ‘forced harmonia and improperly applied this musical term to the same’329 (3.130-35). Helicon is the source of plaintive song (4.547), a place where poets accompany the indigenous Muses (3.1037) and on whose slopes grows a tree ‘said to be deadly to men when in flower’330 (6.786-87). Lucretius associates Pieria and the avia Pieridum (1.926; 4.1) with himself and his own poetry, while Helicon is associated with other poets. This, of course, is not to say that Helicon is off-limits to an Epicurean poet. Lucretius writes that he expounds Epicurean reason in Pierian song, and covers this with the Muses’ sweet honey, thus harmonising the tension between Muses and Pierides which he creates (volui tibi suaviloquenti / carmine Pierio rationem exponere nostram / et quasi musaeo dulci contingere melle, 1.945-47). Ratio is closely associated with Pieria and the Muses as Pierides, while the Muses themselves are associated with mel and the dulce. The Pierides’ insistence on the Muses’ deception and false sweetness recalls the statement of Hesiod’s Muses that ‘We know how to say many false things similar to genuine ones, but we know, when we wish, how to proclaim true things’ (Th. 27-28).331 Ovid picks up on this distinction in the “Musomachia”. His Pierides are Lucretians and present themselves, implicitly, as singers of ratio. The Muses are explicitly associated with the dulce when the Pierides accuse them of singing vana dulcedo (5.308). Fowler suggests that the Epicureans ‘delighted in turning back on their opponents the accusation that without a controlling god there would be cosmic

328 D. Clay (2007b) ‘The Sources of Lucretius’ Inspiration’ in M.R. Gale (2007a): 18-47. (First published in J. Bollack & A. Lakes (edd.) (1976) Études sur l’Épicurisme antique, Cahiers de Philologie I, Lille: 203-227), p.25. 329 Clay (2007b), p.25. 330 Clay (2007b), p.25. 331 ἴδμεν ψεύδεα πολλὰ λέγειν ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα, / ἴδμεν δ᾽, εὖτ᾽ ἐθέλωμεν, ἀληθέα γηρύσασθαι. The meeting between Hesiod and the Muses is referred to elsewhere in Ovid’s poetry; in Ars amatoria I, Ovid claims to be a vates peritus, denying that the Muses visited him in an Ascraean vale (Ars. 1.27-29). Ziogas argues that ‘any mention of the Heliconian Muses is a virtual reference to Hesiod’ (I. Ziogas (2011) ‘Ovid as a Hesiodic Poet: Atalanta in the Catalogue of Women (fr. 72-6 M-W) and the Metamorphoses (10.560-707)’ in Mnemosyne 64.2: 249-270, p.252). 114

anarchy,’ by arguing that divine power was subject to arbitrary whimsy and was itself anarchic.332 While the Pierides are ostensibly provoked, therefore, by the duplicity of the Muses, there is the possibility that they are also offended by the variable nature of the Muses’ inspiration of poets. This deepens the Epicurean shading of the Pierides: like Epicureans, they reject the arbitrariness which comes with divine power and divine will.333 Ultimately, their assault on divine power fails because that power is real, not merely the product of Religio. The Lucretian tension between the Pierid singers of reason and the Heliconian singers of sweetness is heightened in the “Musomachia”. Ovid increases this tension to the point where the Pierides and the Heliconian Muses become rivals, each attempting to claim dominance over poetry. The Muses are explicitly marked as Heliconian at the very beginning of the episode, when Minerva seeks Helicon (Helicona petit, 5.254), and we are reminded that these are the Heliconian Muses at the end of Calliope’s song, when the nymphs deem the deas Helicona colentes to be the victors (5.663). Before the “Musomachia”, a narrating Muse tells Minerva the story of Pyreneus. This episode is part of the setting in which the Muses tell personal stories to their guest, Minerva. It thus introduces the story of the Pierides’ challenge and the Muses’ response. As we will see, the Pyreneus myth primes the audience of the Metamorphoses to recognise that the philosophical concerns of Lycaon recur in the “Musomachia”.

i) Pyreneus

The myth of the “Musomachia” is introduced and prepared for by Minerva’s journey to visit the Muses and to see the Aganippe, newly created by Pegasus. When Minerva observes that the Muses must be happy, living in a locus amoenus and pursuing their studium (silvarum lucos circumspicit antiquarum / antraque et innumeris distinctas floribus herbas / felicesque vocat pariter studioque locoque, 5.265-67), one of the Muses replies that they would indeed be happy, if only they were safe (vera refers

332 D. Fowler (1989) ‘Lucretius and Politics’ in M. Griffin & J. Barnes (1989): 120-150, p.148. 333 The premise that divine power leads to arbitrariness and anarchy, however, is challenged by the overwriting of the Pierian song, noted above. If the position of the Muses is open to challenge, if their power can pass to the Pierides (as is the stake in their contest), then the position of the Pierides after victory is equally open to challenge. If mortals can assume the status of gods (as Epicurus does in the De rerum natura and as the Pierides attempt to do in the Musomachia), then those mortals can themselves be supplanted. In this way, the arbitrariness of the gods is multiplied several times over, and the anarchy of a world ruled by humans is implicitly compared to a divinely ruled world. The ability to challenge the order of the cosmos thus leads to anarchy. 115

meritoque probas artesque locumque / et gratam sortem, tutae modo simus, habemus, 5.271-72). Yet, the story that the Muse volunteers as evidence of their insecurity is not that of the Pierides, who invade Helicon and attempt to seize both the location and the studium, the divine duty of the Muses, for themselves (cedite victae / fonte Medusaeo et Hyantea Aganippe, 5.311-12). Rather, the Muse relates the story of Pyreneus. The Pyreneus myth does not seem entirely at home here, since it cannot wholly fulfil its function of proving the vulnerability of the Muses. When the Muses are Pyreneus’ guests, he attempts violence against them (vimque parat, 5.288). The Muse does not say that this violence would have been fatal; when vis is applied to women, the usual meaning is rape.334 If, then, the violence that Pyreneus attempts is rape, he does not threaten the Muses’ lives, nor their capacity to pursue their artes. Nor does he threaten them in their own home, their locus, since they are guests in his. Thus, when Minerva’s interlocutor denies that the Muses can be happy in their lot (defined as studium and locus by Minerva and artes and locus by the Muse), we expect a tale in which the studium and locus of the Muses is threatened. Instead, we have the story of Pyreneus. It is only later, when Minerva asks for the story of the magpies, that the Muse relates the tale of the Pierides whom they transformed into the birds, a tale that fits much better with the Muse’s intention here than does the tale of Pyreneus. Hinds observes that the story of Pyreneus seems, at least initially, to be ‘an otiose digression’,335 and it is equally puzzling for Cahoon, who finds the story ‘bizarre, surreal, and paranoid, without apparent rationale or motivation, unless, perhaps, [the Muse] is striving for additional solidarity with Minerva (a virgin goddess) by demonizing the male intruder’.336 Why, then, does the Muse tell Minerva about Pyreneus? Does the Muse perhaps assume that the virgin goddess might be more sympathetic to a story about attempted rape?337 We should, however, examine the function of the Pyreneus myth within the context of the “Musomachia” as a whole. It provides an allusive frame of reference that enables the audience to understand better the following myth of the Pierides.

334 See, e.g. Neptune’s attempted rape of Coronis (2.569-88), where Coronis reports that Neptune vim parat (2.576). 335 S. Hinds (2002) ‘Landscape with Figures: Aesthetics of Place in the Metamorphoses and its Tradition’ in P.R. Hardie (2002a): 122-149, p.130. 336 L. Cahoon (1996) ‘Calliope’s Song: Shifting Narrators in Ovid, Metamorphoses 5’ in Helios, 23.1: 43- 66, p.49. 337 As suggested by A. Barchiesi (2002) ‘Narrative Technique and Narratology in the Metamorphoses’ in P.R. Hardie (2002a): 180-199, p.193. 116

The Pyreneus myth closely parallels the Lycaon myth in Book I, thus preparing the audience for further connections between the Lycaon myth and the Musomachia. The Muses break a journey on earth to accept the hospitality of Pyreneus, just as Jupiter accepts the hospitality of Lycaon during his travels on earth. Both Lycaon and Pyreneus are aware of the divine status of their guests – a variation of the traditional divine test of hospitality as represented by the story of Philemon and Baucis (Met. 8.611-724) – and both offer violence to their divine guests (perdere comparat 1.224-25, vimque parat 5.288). Pyreneus’ violence is frequently interpreted as an attempt on his part to gain poetic skill; Sharrock sees the Muses’ flight in terms of flight as a metaphor for writing poetry,338 while Leach argues that the Muses withdraw to Helicon, seeing Pyreneus as representative of ‘all the crude insensitivity that makes men undeserving of art’.339 Such a response parallels that of Jupiter, who returns to Olympus, finding Lycaon representative of an impiety that makes the human race as a whole undeserving of life. Furthermore, in both cases the story of human unworthiness is placed in the mouth of the injured deity; the human motivation is obscured by divine interpretation. Had we a less prejudiced account, we might be able to interpret Pyreneus’ violence allegorically, as an attempt by a human to lay hands on and obtain the divine knowledge represented by the Muses. Like Jupiter, the Muses do quote Pyreneus directly, relating his invitation. He addresses them as Mnemonides (5.280), perhaps indicating that it is their capacity for memory that is most important to him. In this, Pyreneus would mirror Lycaon even more closely, since Lycaon’s crimes are motivated by a desire for knowledge. As Cahoon observes, Pyreneus’ final words ‘could easily suggest poetic enthusiasm or amorous devotion, rather than determination to rape’: ‘quaque via est vobis, erit et mihi’ dixit ‘eadem’ (5.590).340 As the matter stands, however, it is primarily through the parallel with Lycaon that we have any evidence for Pyreneus’ motivation other than the lustful impiety reported by the Muse. We are led to suspect that, just as Lycaon seeks knowledge about the divine, knowledge to be gained through violence, so Pyreneus seeks knowledge about the divine, which he attempts to gain through violence. In this case, the knowledge sought is poetic knowledge and skill: ‘Pyreneus must stand for the failed poet, who thinks he

338 A. Sharrock (2002c) ‘An A-musing Tale: Gender, Genre, and Ovid’s Battles with Inspiration in the Metamorphoses’ in E. Spentzou & D. Fowler (2002): 209-228, p.224. 339 E.W. Leach (1974) ‘Ekphrasis and the Theme of Artistic Failure in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ in Ramus 3: 102-142, p.113. Note the universal implications of that ‘all’. 340 Cahoon (1996), p.49. David Konstan has kindly reminded me that in Suetonius’ Vita Terenti (5), Caesar praises Menander’s vis: lenibus atque utinam scriptis adiuncta foret vis. 117

can succeed by raping the Muses.’341 This, indeed, is the interpretation favoured by Leach: ‘[i]ndignation and scorn cloud the picture of a mortal man [Pyreneus] seeking poetic inspiration.’342 Clauss goes a little further, claiming that Pyreneus attempts ‘to achieve exclusive control of a vital source of poetic inspiration’,343 in which case he would pose a threat of sorts to the Muses’ studium and locus. Clauss’ position is also held by Sharrock, who argues that Pyreneus ‘is trying to enclose and occlude their poetic activity’,344 However, the Muse gives no indication that they would have been held captive and the parallels with Lycaon suggest that Pyreneus is in search of knowledge but not necessarily of sole control of that knowledge. This interpretation of his violence, along with the parallels with Lycaon, guides us towards a similar interpretation of the contest between the Muses and the Pierides. The myth of Pyreneus, then, serves as an introduction to the myth of the Musomachia, reminding us of the issues that were central to the Lycaon myth and preparing us for further exploration of those issues.

ii) The “Musomachia” and Gigantomachy

In the “Musomachia” (Met. 5.250-678), when the Pierides sing a Gigantomachy as their entry in the contest with the Muses, we are confronted with another instance of the philosophical Gigantomachy which was so central a part of the Lycaon myth. There are, indeed, many similarities between the “Musomachia” and the “Lycaon”, and we are well prepared to identify these similarities after the Lycaonesque story of Pyreneus. In both myths, there is a conflict between the divine and the mortal, one in which Gigantomachic imagery plays an important role. Furthermore, both myths are narrated by the (victorious) divine contestant. In the Lycaon episode, the conflict between Lycaon and Jupiter arises from Jupiter’s desire for knowledge and his arrival at Lycaon’s palace. In the “Musomachia”, however, the contest between mortal and divine is entirely instigated by the mortal contenders. The Pierides challenge the Muses to a singing contest, and put the lands owned by both parties at stake. In the Lycaon myth, Jupiter refers initially to

341 Sharrock (2002c), p.224. 342 Leach (1974), p.113. 343 J.J. Clauss (1989) ‘The Episode of the Lycian Farmers in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ in HSCP 92: 297- 314, p.306 344 Sharrock (2002c), p.224. 118

the sovereignty of the world (mundi regnum, 1.182), but there is no official stake comparable to the Pierides’ demand for Helicon as their prize and offer of their own Emathian fields should they lose (vel cedite victae / fonte Medusaeo et Hyantea Aganippe / vel nos Emathiis ad Paeonas usque nivosos / cedemus campis, 5.311-14). The theme of challenging the gods is at the heart of the “Musomachia”. Not only do the Pierides themselves challenge the Muses, but their song glorifies the attempt of the Giants to overthrow the Olympian gods. In the “Musomachia”, the Gigantomachy is appropriated by the mortal challengers and they thus implicitly claim the status of Giants for themselves. Johnson notes how unusual this is, observing that ‘[w]e would expect Typhoeus’ hopeless revolt to be rather the Muses’ subject, a cautionary tale for their bold mortal challengers, similar to the thinly-veiled mythological threats Minerva weaves into the corners of her tapestry during her contest with Arachne’.345 The Pierides, however, use the victorious Typhoeus to presage their own victory. There is very little precedent for the adoption of Typhoeus as an emblem; Johnson identifies the figure of Typhoeus on Hippomedon’s shield in Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes – but this is interpreted by his opponent Eteocles as presaging his defeat and Eteocles’ own victory.346 Johnson is correct to observe that Hippomedon’s use of Typhoeus is a good parallel for the Pierides since ‘in each text, his presence signals the radical rebellion of the bearer against the status quo, and foreshadows the bearer’s doom’347 – but it is important to emphasise that the Pierides themselves intend Typhoeus to foreshadow their victory;348 Hippomedon presumably did the same, but this is not emphasised in Aeschylus’ text, which focuses rather on the failures of Typhoeus and Hippomedon.349

345 P.J. Johnson (1996b) ‘Falsoque in honore gigantas ponit: Ovid’s Typhoeus from Greece to Rome’ in New England Classical Journal 24: 7-15, p.8. 346 Johnson (1996b), p.10. Hardie discusses the theomachic imagery of Vergil’s Shield of Aeneas, arguing that ‘an alternative model to Homeric theomachy may be sought in Hesiodic Titanomachy or Typhonomachy, where the struggle is between two different types of opponent, and the prize is government of the universe’ (Hardie, P. (1986), p.98). 347 Johnson (1996b), p.10. 348 We may presume that this was also Hippomedon’s intention, but Aeschylus lays the emphasis on Eteocles’ interpretation of the Typhoeus motif as presaging Hippomedon’s defeat, especially when he is challenged by Hyperbius, whose shield is emblazoned with Zeus (Aesch. Seven. 486-525, esp. 515-17: τοιάδε μέντοι προσφίλεια δαιμόνων: / πρὸς τῶν κρατούντων δ᾽ ἐσμέν, οἱ δ᾽ ἡσσωμένων, / εἰ Ζεύς γε Τυφῶ καρτερώτερος μάχῃ). 349 Hardie has observed that in the Aeneid Turnus is associated with Typhoeus, while Aeneas’ Shield associates him with the Olympians, so that ‘the chthonic and Gigantomachic threat posed by Turnus is countered by the Olympian defeat of Gigantic forces on the Shield of Olympus’ (Hardie, P. (1986), p.119). However, Turnus does not associate himself with Typhoeus, and the association is thus different in kind from that found in the Seven Against Thebes and, especially, the Pierides’ Song, where the association is chosen by the Gigantic contestants themselves. 119

The failure of the Pierides’ plan to use Typhoeus to predict their own victory is interesting in its own right, and Calliope cleverly subverts it by narrating Typhoeus’ ultimate punishment, but for now let us concentrate on the extraordinary use that the Pierides make of the Gigantomachy myth, adopting it as emblematic of their own activity and implicitly reversing its moral message. This is an important contrast with the Lycaon myth, in which the Gigantomachy is invoked by Jupiter, the narrator, and Lycaon is implicitly cast – by his opponent – as a Giant to be vanquished. This difference is intimately related to the shift in emphasis from the Platonic to the Lucretian. The “Lycaon” is very much a Platonic story, drawing not only on Plato’s philosophical Gigantomachy but also on his association of wolves and tyrants. In harmony with this Platonic emphasis, the philosophical Gigantomachy of the “Lycaon” still casts the Giant as a villain. The “Musomachia”, however, is a much more Lucretian piece, and this is initially marked by the positive view of the Gigantomachy proposed by the Pierides. The Pierides’ approbation of the Gigantomachy calls to mind the Gigantomachic imagery that Lucretius applies to Epicurus in the first book of the De rerum natura (62-79). Lucretius presents Epicurus as ‘attacking heaven like the giants, with the purpose of overthrowing the gods of mythology’, and ‘reverses the traditional moral drawn from the myth throughout antiquity: rather than representing hybris, disorder and barbarity, the ‘giants’ have become heroic figures, challenging and overthrowing the tyranny of religio’.350 The Muse only summarises the Pierides’ song. However, we have enough material to reconstruct the tenor of that song, if not its details, and its very suppression is proof that the Muses perceived it to be a threat. Ovid himself does not repeat his technique from the Syrinx myth of completing a story half-narrated by a character (1.700-15); by allowing the Muse to obscure the song, he strengthens the parallel with the Lycaon episode, further priming us to read the “Musomachia” in a similar way. The Pierides’ song places all the Olympian gods in the position of Lucretius’ Religio, or Superstition, demanding that the Muses cease to deceive with their sweetness (indoctum vana dulcedine vulgus / fallere, 5.308-09). In the song, the achievements of the gods are belittled, while those of the Giants are magnified: falsoque in honore gigantas / ponit et extenuat magnorum facta deorum (5.319-20), as the Muse says. This denigration of divine deeds recalls Epicurus’ “Gigantomachy”: Epicurus is undeterred by tales of the gods, thunderbolts and threatening skies (DRN 1.68-69) – effectively

350 Gale (2000), p.121. 120

belittling the gods.351 In particular, of course, the Pierides’ denunciation of the Muses’ deception is reminiscent of Lucretius’ Epicurus’ rejection of the false fear fostered by Religio and the vates (tutemet a nobit iam quovis tempore, vatum / terriloquis victus dictis, desciscere quaeres, DRN 1. 102-03). In the “Musomachia”, the Pierides deem the power of the gods to be unjustified, the product of deception. Thus, they assume the position of Epicurus. Lucretius of course makes symbolic use of the Gigantomachy, describing Epicurean reasoning in Gigantomachic language (ne [...] putes ritu par esse Gigantum / pendere eos poenas inmani pro scelere omnis / qui ratione sua disturbent moenia mundi, DRN 5.114-18). This potential crime is precisely what is at issue in the “Musomachia”. The Pierides undertake to challenge divine power, as Lucretius does, but they run up against the fact that such power is real and therefore do commit a scelus like the Giants. Their attempt to take over the Gigantomachic imagery (which Lucretius successfully does in Book I of the De rerum natura) fails. The Gigantomachy they sing, which should be taken as a parallel to, or allegory of, their own challenge, is appropriated by the Muses. The symbolic Gigantomachy of the Pierides becomes a literal Gigantomachy in Calliope’s song, the punishment of Typhoeus a real punishment with real consequences (such as Pluto’s journey and consequent rape of Persephone). This bodes ill for the Pierides and, once Calliope’s song is finished, the Muses punish the Pierides as the Olympians had punished the Giants. The Pierides attempt to demythologise the traditional stories, like Lucretius,352 but they fail in the face of the Muses’ aggressive remythologisation. On this reading, the Musomachia engages closely with some of the most fundamental features of Epicureanism, the Epicurean assault on fear of the gods and the determination to replace (what purports to be divinely granted) belief with true knowledge. The “Musomachia” takes up the Gigantomachic symbolism adopted by Lucretius – although Ovid’s Pierides are in fact challenging the Muses and this evokes the sense that the Giants, in the fictional economy of the poem, really did challenge the Olympians (i.e., that the story of the Gigantomachy is not merely allegorical or symbolic). At the same time, of course, the Gigantomachic song of the Pierides recalls the most recent account of Gigantomachy – that in the first book of the Metamorphoses.

351 As Volk observes, Epicurus’ dismissal of fulmina is also ‘a clear allusion to the weapons with which Jupiter ultimately subdued the giants (Volk (2001), p.107). 352 On Lucretius’ technique of demythologisation, see Gale (1994). 121

The Gigantomachy in Book I is so intimately connected with the myth of Lycaon that to recall one is to recall the other. Indeed, we are already primed to see references to Lycaon’s Gigantomachic crime, since one of the Muses has told Minerva of their escape from Pyreneus (5.273-92). As we have seen, the story of Pyreneus provides a close parallel to the story of Lycaon. Thus, when reading the myth of the Pierides, it is natural to compare the Pierides with Lycaon, and hence to see the Pierides’ challenge in much the same light, that is, as an epistemological quest. The Pierides, however, are more hubristic, explicitly setting themselves up as alternative deities and claiming Helicon as their prize should they win the contest. We have thus moved from the simple desire for knowledge, as represented in the story of Lycaon, to a claim of equality with the divine on the part of the Pierides.

iii) Ontological Status in the “Musomachia”

As Johnson and Malamud remind us, this contest over a seat of power is paralleled by the Gigantomachy of the song: ‘the Emathides [Pierides] stood to inherit Helicon, home of the Olympian Muses, as their prize, while Typhoeus similarly strove with Jupiter for his domain, Olympus itself’.353 In connection with this, we should note that Calliope explicitly states that Typhoeus sought divine lodgings (aetherias ausum sperare Typhoea sedes, 5.348). The Pierides do not merely challenge the right of the Muses to their Heliconian position, they claim Helicon for themselves (vel cedite victae / fonte Medusaeo et Hyantea Aganippe 311-12), effectively seeking to set themselves up as replacement Muses, to become gods in the stead of those they depose. This is reminiscent of Lucretius’ description of Epicurus as a god (deus ille fuit, deus, 5.8) for his discovery of the vitae rationem (5.9) – and, by implication, because of his victory over Religio. The Lucretian passage compares Epicurus’ gift of sapientia (5.10) with the divina reperta (5.13) of others, in a Euhemeristic account of divinity. Lucretius may also be referring to Empedocles here, since in fr. B112.4 Empedocles refers to himself as ‘a divine god, no longer a mortal’.354 Ovid does not use Euhemerism elsewhere in

353 Johnson & Malamud (1988), p.31. 354 Sedley warns us against being ‘too confident that Lucretius is alluding to Empedocles’ own profession of divinity at the beginning of the Καθαρμοί, if [...] his interest is otherwise focused entirely on Empedocles’ On Nature. But the legend of Empedocles’ plunge into Etna in a bid to establish his own divinity was probably well enough known by this date to give the remark extra point’ (D. Sedley (1989b) 122

his poetry, but he does allude to Empedocles.355 Whether or not Ovid is specifically invoking Euhemerism, his Pierides’ attempt to become Muses likely draws on Lucretius’ attribution of divinity to Epicurus. In fact, it is no great distance from the Muses to the Pierides; an alternate name for the Heliconian Muses was “Pierides” – the significance of this nominal identity will be explored more fully below. Calliope’s decision to oppose Ceres to the pseudo-Epicureanism of the Pierides very likely references the traditional poetic agōn of Homer and Hesiod.356 Ziogas has recently expanded on Bilinski’s suggestion that the juxtaposition of Typhonomachy and agriculture in the “Musomachia” recalls the certamen of Homer and Hesiod,357 noting a further connection within Calliope’s Song. Calliope moves from the defeat of Typhoeus to Pluto’s passion for Persephone, ‘reiterating the transition from the Theogony to the Catalogue,’ so that the competition ‘is a reworking of the certamen between Homer and Hesiod’.358 Goslin has identified a contest of sound in Hesiod’s Theogony between Typhoeus and the Muses359 which might also inform Calliope’s dispatching of Typhoeus. For Goslin, the defeat of Typhoeus should be read as showing that ‘the voices of god and beast are incompatible when combined in one and the same being’ and that Zeus’ victory reaffirms the ‘hierarchical relationship between divine and human speech, as it was delineated in the proem’.360 If Goslin’s analysis is correct, we can perhaps also see the Muses’ victory over, and their transformation of, the Pierides as a Hesiodic affirmation of a hierarchy of speech. Goslin supports his argument for an opposition between the Muses and Typhoeus by noting that the birth of the Muses follows closely on the Typhonomachy.361 In the context of an artistic contest, then, the opposition of Typhoeus, Gigantic Pierides and epic on the one hand and the Muses and agriculture on the other is most appropriate; the opposition of barbarism and civilisation in the songs surely mirrors (the Muses’ perception of) the

‘The Proems of Empedocles and Lucretius’ in Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 30.2: 269-296, p.278n31). 355 See, e.g. Hardie (1995). 356 Although the extant Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi is from the second century CE, many scholars argue that the tradition of a contest between Homer and Hesiod is much older. For a discussion of the chronological problems, see Rosen, who argues that such a tradition influences Aristophanes’ Frogs (R.M. Rosen (2004) ‘Aristophanes’ Frogs and the Contest of Homer and Hesiod’ in TAPA 134.2: 295- 322, esp. pp.298-300). 357 B. Bilinski (1959) Elementi Esiodei nelle di Ovidio, in Atti del Convegno Internezionale Ovidiano, II, Rome: 101-23, pp.114-15. 358 Ziogas (2011), pp.252-53. 359 O. Goslin (2010) ‘Hesiod’s Typhonomachy and the Ordering of Sound’ in TAPA 140.2: 351-373, p.354 360 Goslin (2010), p.362. 361 Goslin (2010), p.370. 123

opposition of barbarism and civilisation in the singers. Typhoeus, of course, does not possess language; he opposes a sonic chaos to the communicative order symbolised by the Muses, rather than opposing an alternative order as the Pierides do.362 Goslin notes that Hesiod uses different words for divine and human voice,363 which suggests that human and divine speech are fundamentally different from one another.364 We can also, however, observe a continuation of the Lucretian story. The Pierides take Lucretius’ minimisation of divine beneficence as their model, and in response Calliope reverses that minimisation. In Book V of the De rerum natura, Lucretius argues that Epicurus’ gift of sapientia (5.10) makes him worthy of deification, comparing unfavourably Bacchus’ and Ceres’ gifts of wine and corn (5.13-21). While the Pierides put forward an Epicurean view, it is Ceres’ gift of corn – the final outcome of the Rape of Persephone – that is more important in the eyes of the Muses. The very aspect of Ceres that made her less than Epicurus in the De rerum natura is here given prominence, beginning and ending Calliope’s song. Calliope begins her song with prima Ceres unco glaebam dimovit aratro / prima dedit fruges (5.341-42) and concludes by relating Ceres’ gift of seed to Triptolemus of Athens (dona fero Cereris, 5.655). The importance thus placed on Ceres is in accord with Cicero’s view in the De legibus, where he states that the Eleusinian mysteries are the greatest of Athens’ eximia divinaque (2.36), having brought civilisation – and we should remember here that Calliope also praises Ceres for the gift of law in her hymnic proem (prima dedit leges, 5.343).365 In Book VI, Lucretius refers to Athens’ discovery of agriculture, with which Calliope ends her song, but moves on to discuss its gift of Epicurus, according him higher status (DRN 6.1-8). Calliope embarks on an aggressive remythologising campaign, in contrast to Lucretian demythologising. The choice of Calliope as the Muses’ champion may, therefore, be very pointed, since she makes an appearance in the

362 I am grateful to David Konstan for reminding me that Typhoeus possesses voice, but not language. 363 Goslin (2010), pp.355-56. 364 As David Konstan has reminded me, this distinction also appears in Stoicism. Philo’s theory of language relies on ‘the assumption of a Divine meta-language. This language is natural, without grammar and serves as the archetype for human language which is always to some degree conventional’ (M. Niehoff (2001) Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, p.188). 365 Calliope’s practice is thus an imitatio cum variatione of Callimachus’ in his Hymn to Demeter. Callimachus begins with a brief description of Demeter’s mourning for Persephone (8-16) before rejecting a topic that caused pain to the goddess and considering other subjects, namely Ceres’ gifts of laws and of agriculture and her punishment of Erysichthon (17-23). Like Callimachus, Calliope begins with subjects which she will leave aside in favour of her main narrative subject, although Calliope returns to one of these subjects (agriculture) by making the Rape into an aetion for it. Calliope diverges from Callimachus, however, in making into her main subject the very topic which Callimachus abjures, the Rape of Persephone. I am grateful to David Kosntan for reminding me of Callimachus’ Hymn in this context.. 124

sixth book of the De rerum natura. Lucretius addresses callida Musa Calliope (6.92- 95), asking for her guidance in winning his coronam. He chooses Calliope as the skilful Muse to guide him, and in the Metamorphoses, this cleverest of Muses attacks the Lucretian position of the Pierides. Lucretius is thus thwarted by the very Muse whose assistance he requests. The idea that god and challenger are commensurable is central to the Gigantomachy sung as part of the challenge to the Muses by the daughters of Pierus – and the association of the Pierides’ challenge and the Gigantomachy suggests that we should read the “Musomachia” as another form of Gigantomachy. Ovid does not at any time call these women Pierides, preferring to name them Emathides after the Emathian fields in their possession. However, the challengers are not called Emathides until 5.669, after the song contest and the victory of the Muses. It is only at this point that they are distinguished by name from the Muses – and, significantly, it is the victorious Muses who call the defeated women Emathides. Before 5.669, they are called only the daughters of Pierus and Euippe (Pieros has genuit Pellaeis dives in arvis, / Paeonis Euippe mater fuit, 5.302-03), and the reader or audience is invited to think of them as Pierides. They are thus particularly well matched with the Muses, since both can be called Pierides366 and both are nine in number (numero novem, 5.298), as the Muse narrator emphasises (illa potentem / Lucinam noviens, noviens paritura, vocavit, 5.303- 04). The women are referred to here as Pierides, in order to emphasise the similarity between them and the goddesses, a similarity that is denied by the victorious Muses when they call their opponents Emathides. The coincidence of number, supported by the expected coincidence of name creates an immediate superficial resemblance between the mortal women and the Muses. In its play on the similarities and differences between the Muses and the Pierides, the Musomachia functions in much the same way as Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes. In the Seven Against Thebes, Hippomedon’s is the first and only shield367 to be contrasted with a Theban defender’s shield. Eteocles chooses Hyperbios, who has Zeus on his shield to stand against Hippomedon, thus confronting Typhoeus with the god who defeats him, two ‘permanent symbols of the original battle between order and

366 The Muses are also called Pierides, because of their possession of Mount Pierus, while the daughters of Pieros would take the patronymic Pierides. 367 Zeitlin, F.I. (1982) Under the Sign of the Shield: Semiotics and Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes, Rome: Edizioni dell’ Ateneo, p.83 125

disorder’.368 The importance of the contrast between the Argives and the Thebans is emphasised by the repetitive pairing of both the warriors, Hippomedon and Hyperbios, and their shield emblems, Typhoeus and Zeus.369 Zeitlin proposes that this repetition constructs ‘a four-term figure, a proportional analogy, whereby man:shield :: man:shield’, an analogy where ‘the full significance does not reside in either entity, but in the nature of the relationship between them – their absolute difference – doubly marked by both man and shield’.370 For Zeitlin, ‘identity/meaning is created only through difference, through self and other’ and this prefigures the doubling and difference of the two enemy brothers.371 Similarly, in the Musomachia, a proportional analogy is constructed whereby Pierides:Gigantomachy :: Muses:Rape. The contest between them is undertaken at the level of their identities (each being potentially identified as ‘Pierides’) as well as at the level of their songs (both content and quality). The Muse remarks that the Pierides were emboldened to challenge the Muses by pride of numbers (intumuit numero stolidarum turba sororum, 5.304). Clearly, the Pierides are aware of the similarities between themselves and the Muses, making this the justification for their challenge (nec voce, nec arte / vincemur totidemque sumus, 5.310-11), and they strive for Helicon itself (5.311-14). The Pierides, then, believe that Helicon (and consequently the position of the goddesses as Muses) belongs to those unsurpassed in art, not to those born immortal. They are placing themselves on an equal level, with skill as the only acceptable form of differentiation and, like many artist figures in the Metamorphoses, they dare to measure their own skill against that of the gods.372 The victor in this contest will hold divine status, governing Helicon. Divinity, therefore, is not a birthright; rather, it is granted to those who are the greatest benefactors or the most excellent artists. This view is adapted from the traditional Euhemeristic position that humans are deified for their benefactions, implying that divinity can be lost should a greater benefactor or artist appear. In this, the Pierides go further than Lucretius, who never seeks to remove divine status from the gods, but

368 Zeitlin (1982), p.84. 369 Zeitlin (1982), p.89 370 Zeitlin (1982), pp.89-90. 371 Zeitlin (1982), p.90. 372 Compare especially Arachne (Met. 6.1-145) and Marsyas (Met. 382-400), but even Orpheus who uses his own musical skill to attempt to persuade the infernal gods to return his wife (Met. 10.1-11.66). We will discuss Orpheus in detail in Part 3. 126

rather to set Epicurus up metaphorically as a greater god.373 Should the Pierides win, then, they would be elevated to divine status because of their greater musical skill, just as Epicurus was elevated because of his discovery of the vitae rationem (5.9), achieved through the conquest of Religio. For both Epicurus and the Pierides, then, victory involves elevation to divinity. However, for the Pierides this means taking the place of the conquered gods, while Epicurus merely casts down Religio (victae, Met. 5.311, cf. subiecta, DRN 1.78) without removing divine status from the intermundial gods. There is another significant difference between Epicurus and the Pierides. For Epicurus, Religio is solely the product of the vates (quippe etenim quam multa tibi iam fingere possunt / somnia, DRN 1.104-05), for the gods themselves have no thought, and take no action, for humanity. For the Pierides, on the other hand, as for Lycaon, the gods are present and concerned with humanity, spinning their webs of deception. This immediately places the Pierides at a disadvantage. Through their song, they must modify the Epicurean position, so that the gods are active, but do not hold divine power as of right – such power may be transferred to humans. Epicurus is able to usurp the place of his opponent without casting down a true god – his opponent is not a god, but human fear. Epicurus’ vitae ratio replaces the vates’ Religio. The Pierides are not in a precisely comparable situation. They are in fact striving with gods, attempting to cast down a god rather than an oppressive human concept. The fundamental assumption of Epicureanism, as presented in the gigantomachic imagery in the De rerum natura, is that the mythological divine apparatus does not exist374 – as a consequence, Epicurus’ journey of the mind is not impious, but rather an attempt to open the cosmos to the rational mind. In the “Cosmogony”, particularly in the earlier passages, Ovid accepts Lucretius’ terms of debate, adopting a natural-philosophical attitude; even as he refuses to accept Lucretius’ philosophy, he effectively accepts Lucretius’ method and underlying assumption that there is no divine apparatus (with the important variation that the cosmos is created by an unnamed and undefined divinity). This assumption is rejected for the first time in Jupiter’s accound of the Lycaon myth, and again, more forcefully, in the “Musomachia”, in Calliope’s account of Typhoeus’ defeat and the Muses’ display of their power by turning the Pierides into magpies (5.662-78).

373 For opposing interpretations of the Epicurean conception of gods see, e.g. D. Konstan (2011) ‘Epicurus on the Gods’ in J. Fish & K.R. Sanders (2011): 53-71 and D. Sedley (2011) ‘Epicurus’ Theological Innatism’ in J. Fish & K.R. Sanders (2011): 29-52. 374 At least, the divine apparatus does not take an active part in the cosmos. 127

iii) Truth and Deception

The mortal Pierides’ challenge to the divine Muses is thus based primarily on their belief that there is no ontological boundary between gods and mortals.375 Rather, ‘divine’ status should be granted to those who excel in an art or who provide great benefactions. The Muses, of course, do not share this belief; it is shameful for them to lower themselves to take part in a contest with humans (turpe quidem contendere erat, sed cedere visum / turpius, 5.315-16). Certainly, in participating in the contest the Muses do implicitly accept the Pierides’ position, putting Helicon and their divine status on the line. However, the narrating Muse indicates that there are only two options available: to risk everything in contest or to refuse the contest and lose everything anyway. In particular, we should note the words of the Pierides’ challenge: siqua est fiducia vobis (5.309). The Muses are thus placed in a difficult position; if they accept the challenge, they imply that they agree with the Pierides’ belief that divinity can be passed to humans. If they refuse the challenge, they are acknowledging that they have no fiducia, that they are unreliable and deceitful. The Muses are well aware of this, as we can see from the Muses’ statement that it would be more shameful to yield than to fight. In this formulation, there does not seem to be any thought of refusing the contest entirely. Two world-views are being opposed. The victorious party, therefore, will not only gain the stated prize of land, but will also have its belief ratified as true (by the nymphs who judge the contest). This is a contest for land and power, but it is truth about the cosmos and the nature of divinity that is being fought over. The issue of truth is thus just as central to the contest between the Muses and the Pierides, as it is to the contests between Epicurus and Religio and between Lycaon and Jupiter. Religio, according to Lucretius, is a false construct. The gods do not interfere in human lives and thus almost all the beliefs bound up in the concept of Religio are false. Epicurus refuses to be cowed by this oppressive deception, seeking the truth about human nature. This truth, the vitae ratio, is his benefaction to humanity and the justification for his divinisation. Likewise, the Pierides accuse their opponents, quite

375 Cf. Pindar on one race of gods and men, although Pindar posits an intractable barrier: ἓν ἀνδρῶν, ἓν θεῶν γένος: ἐκ μιᾶς δὲ πνέομεν / ματρὸς ἀμφότεροι: διείργει δὲ πᾶσα κεκριμένα / δύναμις, ὡς τὸ μὲν οὐδέν, ὁ δὲ χάλκεος ἀσφαλὲς αἰὲν ἕδος / μένει οὐρανός (Nem. 6.1-4). I am grateful to David Konstan for the reference. 128

explicitly, of deception (desinite indoctum vana dulcedine vulgus / fallere, 5.308-09), just as Lucretius’ vates invent dreams in order to control the people through fear (quippe etenim quam multa tibi iam fingere possunt / somnia, quae vitae rationes vertere possint / fortunatasque tuas omnis turbare timore, DRN. 1.104-05). From their positions of authority, the vates and Muses prevent any emancipation of the human race, and lie in order to control them (nam si certam finem esse viderent aerumnarum homines, aliqua ratione valerent / religionibus atque minis obsistere vatum (DRN 1.107-09). The rebellious Pierides thus assume the role of the liberating Epicurus. The deceitfulness of the Muses justifies the Pierides’ challenge and attempted overthrow. By implication, therefore, the Pierides will be truthful replacement Muses, and their truthfulness, along with their skill, justifies their desired ‘divinisation’. They promise to be greater benefactors than the Muses, since they will tell the truth. In sum, the Pierides are opposing Epicurean truth to religious deception. In the context of these ongoing Lucretian allusions, we cannot fail to recall Lucretius’ poetic program when the Muses are accused of deception. Lucretius’ first passage mentioning the Muses (DRN 1.921-50, repeated at 4.1-25) introduces the honeyed-cup simile. As the honeyed-cup simile itself makes clear, the sweetness of the Muses is quite distinct from the beneficial philosophy, as the honey on the cup’s rim is distinct from the medicinal wormwood. All the Muses have to offer is sweetness; serious content and usefulness are not part of the Muses’ honey (Lucretius uses such honey to engage the reader’s mind: si tibi forte animum tali ratione tenere / versibus in nostris possem, dum percipis omnem / naturam rerum ac persentis utilitatem, 4.23-25). In Lucretius’ verses, there is no explicit condemnation of the Muses for not mixing wormwood, or utilitas, into their sweetness, but the Ovidian Pierides are sensitive to the distinction between musaeum dulce mel and utilitas. Their accusation that the Muses deceive with empty sweetness (vana dulcedine, 5.308) now looks like an accusation that the Muses’ song lacks utilitas. In referring to vana dulcedine, the Pierides are alluding to the distinction between the dulce and the utile, implicitly appealing to a standard of utilitas. In this way, they claim that their own song combines utilitas with dulcedo, and that this justifies their claim on Helicon. The lies of the Muses are to be

129

replaced with truth, as the oppression of Religio is replaced with Epicurean knowledge.376 The accusation that the Muses are deceitful (fallere, 5.309) makes the contest much more than a contest of artistic skill. When issuing the challenge, the Pierides demand that the Muses prove their trustworthiness: si qua est fiducia nobis (5.309), so that the Muses are forced either to participate in the challenge or to acknowledge that they are not reliable. This is as much a contest over fiducia as it is over art. In fact, the two are intimately related; art without fiducia, art that is inutile, is insufficient. The Pierides claim that art draws its importance from truthfulness and usefulness. This is made even clearer by the Alexandrian learning evident in the Pierides’ proof of Jupiter’s transformation into a ram. Traditionally, Jupiter does not change his shape during the Gigantomachy,377 perhaps because ‘earlier authors clearly considered the tale of the flight of the gods embarrassing to the Olympians and often suppress or omit Zeus/Jupiter’s humiliating transformation’.378 The Pierides, however, argue that he does, and they support this claim by observing that because of Jupiter’s transformation, Ammon is represented with horns: recurvis / nunc quoque formatus Libys est cum cornibus Ammon (5.328). In providing this learned piece of evidence, the Pierides are opposing the Muses’ ‘sweet, empty deception’ with a ‘full and bitter dose of honesty’.379 The Pierides provide evidence for their argument, elevating it to the status of knowledge and thus implicitly claiming the status of docti poetae for themselves. If we consider that the Muses are responsible for traditional representations of the Gigantomachy, as they surely must be, then they are the ones responsible for Jupiter’s lack of transformation, a detail that the Pierides’ proof now reveals must be false. As far as we can judge, then, it seems that the Pierides may be right, that the Muses are indeed duplicitous (having suppressed at least part of the truth about the Gigantomachy) while they themselves are truthful and provide evidence. Unfortunately, this assumption is complicated by the fact that the Pierides themselves only present part of the Gigantomachy and suppress the Giants’ defeat. If we take the Pierides as truthful and the Muses as duplicitous, we are ultimately disappointed by the

376 On the debate over whether form or content is more important in poetry, and the part played in that debate by Epicureanism, see, e.g. D. Obbink (ed.) (1995a) Philodemus & Poetry: Poetic Theory and Practice in Lucretius, Philodemus, & Horace, Oxford: OUP. 377 P.J. Johnson (2008) Ovid Before Exile: Art and Punishment in the Metamorphoses, Madison, Wisconsin UP, p.61. 378 Johnson & Malamud (1988), p.31. 379 Johnson (2008), p.61. 130

vanquishing of truth by deceit, or of knowledge by Religio. Unlike Epicurus, the Pierides do not succeed in trampling their opponents and do not free humanity from the oppressive weight of fear and Religio. This outcome is perhaps foreshadowed by the fact that the Pierides face real goddesses who are active in the world, while Lucretius’ Religio was merely a construct of the vates, since the Epicurean gods do not participate in the world.380 As Lycaon faced a praesens deus, so do the Pierides face praesentes deae. They may challenge the truthfulness of these goddesses, but cannot compete with their divine power. The Muses, naturally, make their own claims to truth (albeit implicitly) and to the deceitfulness of their opponents. The Muse who narrates the story prepares Minerva for this by calling the Pierides a crowd of stupid and uncultivated sisters (stolidarum turba sororum, 5.305). From sisters who are stolidae, little of truth or importance can be expected. However, the Muse accuses the Pierides of dishonesty much more explicitly in her condemnation of the Pierides’ Gigantomachy: bella canit superum falsoque in honore gigantas / ponit et extenuat magnorum facta deorum (5.319-20). In using a word derived from fallo, the Muse is turning the Pierides’ own accusation back on themselves. It is one thing to belittle the deeds of the gods; belittlement is not necessarily untruthful. However, when the Pierides falsely attribute honour to the Giants, they cross the line. We have already noted that the Pierides’ abridgement of the Gigantomachy implies a Gigantic victory that never eventuated. The Muse is equally alert to such implications, and keen to discredit them. She therefore condemns the Pierides for falsehood. In doing so, of course, she is also implicitly claiming that the Muses’ contribution will be truthful, just as the Pierides’ accusation of the Muses’ deceitfulness implies that they, by contrast, will tell the truth. Indeed, at the end of her recital, the Muse praises Calliope’s song as doctos cantus (5.662).381 It is, therefore, not the human contestant with her Alexandrian learning who is the doctus poeta, but Calliope. The fact that both the Pierides and the Muses accuse each other of deceitfulness suggests that it is not only ars and vox that justify divinity, but learning and truthfulness.

380 In the Ars amatoria, Ovid rejects the secura quies of Epicurean gods, positing more active divinities: nec secura quies illos similisque sopori / detinet; innocue vivite: numen adest (Ars. 1.639-40). 381 The text here is disputed, with dictos a possible substitute for doctos (see F. Bömer (1969-86) P. Ovidius Naso, Metamorphosen Kommentar, (7 volumes), Heidelberg: Winter, ad 5.662). However, doctos forms a nice parallel to the description of the Muses as doctae sorores at 5.255. The term doctae sorores itself forms a nice contrast to the Muse’s description of the Pierides as stolidae sorores at 5.304. Tarrant, in the OCT, adopts doctos cantus. 131

It is as part of this debate over truth that Calliope no doubt begins her song (after the hymnic preface) with an account of Typhoeus’ punishment. The Pierides may have implied that the Giants defeated the gods, but Calliope will put the record straight. She therefore supplies the true ending of the Gigantomachy, which the Pierides have suppressed. Ovid has Calliope sing of Typhoeus in such a way that she remythologises certain geological phenomena that Lucretius attempts to explain in the final book of his DRN. Calliope sings that Typhoeus throws out ash and flame (harenas / eiectat flammamque ferox vomit ore Typhoeus, 5.352-53) and that when he attempts to shake the mountain from his body, he makes the earth quake (inde tremit tellus, 5.354-56). Typhoeus’ imprisonment is thus responsible for the volcanic eruptions of Etna and the earthquakes. Such an explanation is diametrically opposed to that of Lucretius, who devotes an impressive amount of space to various possible philosophical explanations of these phenomena; DRN 6.535-607 provides explanations for earthquakes, while the eruptions of Etna are covered by DRN 6.639-702. In her song, the once Lucretian Calliope rejects Lucretian reasoning in favour of mythological explanations.

iv) The Song Contest

Like Lucretius’ “Gigantomachy”, the song of the Pierides ends on a triumphant note. The Pierides conclude with the humiliating attempts of the Olympian gods to hide in animal forms (Met. 5.325-31), while Lucretius writes that Epicurus tramples Religio and effectively divinises humanity (religio pedibus subiecta vicissim / obteritur, nos exaequat victoria caelo, DRN 1.78-79). The Pierides choose a topic that mirrors their own actions (challenging the gods), and in doing so establish a clear correspondence between themselves and the Giants.382 Consequently, the triumph of the Giants may be taken to indicate the (expected) triumph of the Pierides. If so, then at the end of their song they are equal to Heaven (or rather, in this case, to Helicon), just as enlightened humankind is after the victory of Epicurus. Unfortunately for the Pierides, Ovid appears to have paid particular attention to the darker implications of vicissim, implications that are suppressed in Lucretius’ account. Although the gods may be cast down ‘in turn’, the wheel does not stop turning, and it is soon the turn of the challengers to be cast down. When Calliope enters

382 Johnson & Malamud (1988), p.32. 132

the contest, she follows her hymnic preface with an account of Typhoeus, whom the Pierides have left triumphant at the end of their song. In Calliope’s song, however, Typhoeus appears only as victim, never as victor, crushed beneath the weight of Sicily. Johnson and Malamud argue that this description of Typhoeus is only weakly linked to the main theme of the Rape of Persephone, and that ‘[b]y recalling Typhoeus’ ultimate failure in this opening, Calliope effectively undoes the Emathides’ attempt to glorify the Giants and Typhoeus.’383 The weakness of the link between Typhoeus and the Rape indicates that Calliope has another reason, besides the requirements of her song, for including Typhoeus, and that reason is most likely Calliope’s desire to overwrite the Pierian song. With the opening of Calliope’s song, the triumph set up by the Pierides crumbles. The Giants fail, and, by implication, the Pierides themselves also fail. But, since the Pierides have acted on Lucretian assumptions, are there also implied consequences for Epicurus’ “Gigantomachy”? If Calliope’s emphasis on the failure of Typhoeus overwrites the Pierian song, does it also, in some way, overwrite the De rerum natura? If so, Calliope may be programmatically refuting Epicureanism, or, rather, the assumption that human endeavour can cast (false) gods down from their position of absolute power, and that humans themselves can assume that power. Calliope reverses the demythologisation of the world upon which Lucretius embarks; the metaphorical Gigantomachy, which allegorised the assault on superstition, is replaced by a hymn to Ceres, and the divine Muses punish the upstart Pierides. Typhoeus, crushed under the weight of Sicily, is called subiectum (5.347), the same word Lucretius uses to describe the defeated Religio (subiecta, DRN 1.78). The Pierides, then, seek to cast down the Muses, just as Epicurus casts down Religio. However, Calliope’s song shows that the Pierides’ analogue, Typhoeus, is the one who is cast down, implying that the Pierides will be defeated also.384 Calliope’s decision to begin her song with Typhoeus’ punishment has several important consequences. As we have seen, it is a major part of Calliope’s claim that the

383 Johnson & Malamud (1988), p.32. See also Johnson (2008), p.64. 384 We should note that the Muses introduce the Pierides as a stolidarum turba (Met. 5.305). This may imply that the Pierides’ distortion of the Gigantomachy myth (by implying the Giants’ victory) should be read in the light of Lucretius’ denunciation of fools who are misled by distortions (omnia enim stolidi magis admirantur amantque / inversis quae sub verbis latitantia cernunt, veraque constituunt quae belle tangere possunt / auris et lepido quae sunt fucata sonore (DRN 1.641-44). If Ovid is alluding to these lines, the Muses are turning Lucretius’ polemic against Lucretius (or at least against his ‘representatives’), in the same way that they turn the Pierides’ song against the Pierides. I am grateful to Philip Hardie for this suggestion. 133

Muses possess greater fiducia than the Pierides, since the Pierides deceitfully suppressed the gods’ ultimate victory over the Giants, giving the false impression that the Giants were victorious. It also allows Calliope to engage with the metapoetic implications of the Pierides’ song. If the Pierides are equated with the Giants, then their depiction of the Giants as victorious implies that they themselves will be victorious over the Muses. Thus, in revealing Typhoeus’ defeat, Calliope predicts the defeat of the Pierides as well. But finally, we should note that Calliope does not, in fact, sing of Typhoeus’ defeat. Rather, she relates his punishment. Certainly, Calliope’s punished Typhoeus points to the defeat of the Giants at the hands of the Gods. However, it has a further significance of its own. If the defeat of the Giants points to the defeat of the Pierides, then the punishment of Typhoeus points to the punishment of the Pierides. Challenging the gods results not only in defeat, but also in punishment. When concluding her narrative, the Muse tells Minerva that the Pierides do not accept defeat gracefully (convicia victae [...] iacerent, 5.664-65). The Muse responds to this convicium by saying: quoniam [...] certamine vobis / supplicium meruisse parum est maledictaeque culpae / additis et non est patientia libera nobis / ibimus in poenas et, qua vocat ira, sequemur (5.665-68). These lines make it quite clear that to challenge the gods is to merit punishment. We should distinguish this from Pyreneus’ death in the introductory story. Pyreneus does not challenge the Muses to a contest (certamen) and is not punished. His death is the result of his own madness (seque iacit vecors e summa culmine terris, 5.291). It is the hubris of engaging in a contest with the gods, and thus of believing oneself equal to them, that merits the poenas – and this is also the case in the Lycaon myth. In his fifth book, Lucretius takes care to tell his audience that it is not impious to deny the divinity of the world (expediam [...] ne forte rearis / terras et solem et caelum, mare sidera lunam / corpora divino debere aeterna manere, DRN 5.113-6). While Lucretius thus inverts the traditional meaning of piety and impiety, so that Epicurus’ ‘Gigantomachy’ is pious,385 Calliope emphasises the validity of those traditional meanings, which means that the Pierides’ challenge is impious, as is the content of their song. This is more than a mere contest of power; it is a statement about the real nature of the world and about the ethical behaviour that is thus necessitated. In the De rerum natura, there is no divine power to challenge, and consequently there is no impiety. In

385 Gale observes that ‘[t]he paradox that conventional religion is itself impious, stated explicitly at [DRN] 1.80ff., underlies an image... the portrayal of Epicurus’ assault on religio as a Gigantomachy,’ (Gale (1994), p.192. 134

the “Musomachia”, the divine power is real, so that the Pierides, denying the truth, are consequently impious. It should be noted that the Pierides do not deny divinity, but the natural right of divinity to power. By singing of the Gigantomachy, the Pierides choose a topic that mirrors their own actions in seeking Helicon, as Johnson and Malamud have argued.386 As the Pierides seek sovereignty over Helicon, so do the Giants seek sovereignty over Olympus. The Pierides end their account of the Gigantomachy early, stopping at the point when the gods hide themselves in the shapes of animals before their ultimate victory over the Giants. In this way, the Pierides falsely give honour to the Giants – falso [...] in honore gigantas / ponit et extenuat magnorum facta deorum (5.319-20), as the Muse puts it. Johnson and Malamud are clearly correct in arguing that ‘the reaction of the Muses confirms that it is precisely the content of the tale which is at issue’.387 By ending the Gigantomachy early, the Pierides end on a note of Gigantic triumph intended to foreshadow their own triumph. As the Giants succeed in putting the gods to flight, so, it is implied, will the Pierides succeed in routing the Muses. The progress of their song enacts the expected progress of their challenge. The content of the song, therefore, is particularly important to the Muses. Not only does it challenge the traditional interpretation of the Gigantomachy (thus challenging the divine right of the Olympians to rule the cosmos and also accusing the Muses of promulgating false interpretations of the Gigantomachy), but it predicts their own failure. As representatives of the Olympians (proved by the assimilation of the Muse to Minerva, when her words to Minerva are characterised deae dea, 5.300), the Muses are not only challenged to defend their own rights, but also to rebut the criticism of the gods inherent in the Pierides’ Gigantomachy. The Pierides’ challenge to the Muses operates on two levels. On the surface, there is the straightforward challenge of skill and voice (voce [...] arte, 5.310), but there is a deeper challenge of definition, as the debate over truth indicates. The Pierides are challenging the definition of the gods as powerful governors of the cosmos when they emphasise the gods’ fear (metum, 5.322) and flight, and it is up to the Muses to reaffirm that definition. It should be noted that the Pierides’ reversal of the traditional interpretation of the Gigantomachy is probably also a direct assault on the Muses, since the traditional interpretation is most likely inspired by the Muses and is consequently

386 Johnson & Malamud (1988), p.31. 387 Johnson & Malamud (1988), p.32. 135

(for the Pierides) an example of their empty sweetness (vana dulcedo 5.308). The Pierides’ song, then, is like Lucretius’ De rerum natura: an attempt to infuse truth into sweet song.388 The Pierides further associate dishonesty with the gods when they sing that the Olympians hid in mentitis figuris (5.326) – particularly if we can take this phrase, uttered by the Muse, as a quotation from the Pierides’ song. Even if it is not a direct quotation, however, the phrase is still significant. If the phase is chosen by the Pierides, it proves that the Pierides are associating deception with the gods. If the narrating Muse chooses it, on the other hand, it shows that the Muses believe that the issue of truth is at the core of the Pierides’ challenge, and that the Pierides are accusing the gods of deceitfulness. Despite the rather meagre remains of the Pierides’ song, then, we can see the importance that it held for the contestants. The very fact that the Muse ungenerously summarises it, while repeating Calliope’s contribution verbatim testifies to the extent to which the Gigantomachy disturbs the Muses.389 The Pierides’ song is erased twice by the Muses. The first occasion in the poem is the second chronologically, and that is the drastic abridgement the song receives when it is summarised for Minerva. The other erasure of the song is more important at this point. This occurs at the beginning of Calliope’s reply, which follows its hymnic preface to Ceres with an account of Typhoeus’ punishment. The precondition for this punishment, of course, is the ultimate Olympian victory over the Giants. The Pierides leave the Giants victorious at the end of their song, but Calliope completes the story and thus vanquishes the Giants. She overwrites the Pierides’ song, a tactic which is underscored by the line vasta giganteis ingesta est insula membris (5.346). In fact, just as the vast island of Sicily covers Typhoeus, so does the long song of Calliope (5.341-661) cover the short summary of the Pierides’ song (5.319-31). The Muse’s narration of the contest imitates the function of Calliope’s performance. As the victory of the Giants prefigures the victory of the Pierides, so does the defeat of Typhoeus in Calliope’s song anticipate the defeat of the Pierides themselves. Again the narrative of the contest mirrors the progress of the contest between the Muses and Pierides.

388 A distinction between sweet and truthful poetry is also found in Manilius’ Astronomica: huc ades, o quicumque meis advertere coeptis / aurem oculosque potes, veras et percipe voces. / impendas animum; nec dulcia carmina quaeras: / ornari res ipsa negat contenta doceri (3.36-39). 389 The Muse reports Calliope’s song verbatim at the request of Minerva, but she engineers this request herself: sed forsitan otia non sint / nec nostris praebere vacet tibi cantibus aures. / ‘ne dubita, vestrumque mihi refer ordine carmen’ / Pallas ait (5.333-36). 136

Conclusion

As in the Lycaon myth, knowledge and the nature of divinity are central issues in the “Musomachia”, presented via the motif of philosophical Gigantomachy. These issues are foreshadowed in Pyreneus’ assault on the Muses, which can be interpreted as an attempt to gain union with the divine and access to divine knowledge. The contest itself is a contest of artistic skill (ars and vox, 5.310), and yet both the Muses and the Pierides also see it as a contest of truthfulness. Both parties claim that they themselves are sources of true knowledge while their opponents are propagators of falsehoods. The Pierides condemn the Muses for their ‘empty sweetness’ (vana dulcedine, 5.308), just as Lycaon adopts his experiment in order to discover truth (experientia veri, 1.225). The Muses recognise that the accusation of deceitfulness (desinite [...] fallere, 5.308-09) is a central part of the justification of the Pierides’ challenge. Truthfulness is thus seen as central to the status of Muse – the Pierides attack the Muses for their falsehoods, while the Muses assert the learnedness of their songs (doctos cantus, 5.662). Art and skill alone (what Lucretius calls the honey on the rim and Horace the dulce) are clearly not enough. Rather, the dulce must be combined with Lucretius’ wormwood, with Horace’s utile. It is on the basis of their claimed greater fiducia and unconquerable artes and voces (5.309-10) that the Pierides assert the right to take the Muses’ positions. This justification for their challenge reveals the Pierides’ conception of divinity. For the Pierides, divinity rightfully belongs to those who can best fulfil the divine duties. It is not a matter of unchangeable ontological status. This Euhemeristic position is taken a step further in the Pierides’ further assumption that ‘divinity’ can be transferred from an inadequate god to a new human contender. Divinity is not simply granted to the discoverer of an art (as it is in the standard Euhemerist view). In order to dramatise this conflict between different conceptions of divinity, Ovid draws on the distinction between the Pierian and Heliconian Muses in Lucretius’ De rerum natura. Choosing the ‘daughters of Pierus’ as his human contestants allows him to foreground the similarities between the Pierides and the Muses, and assists in the suspension of the ontological barrier between human and god. Finally, however, let us note an important complicating factor in both the Lycaon and Musomachia myths, one which calls all interpretation into question. These two myths are both inset narratives; the first is narrated by Jupiter and the second by an 137

unnamed Muse. It is clear, then, that these myths are narrated by biased characters, by the victors in the respective contests. The vanquished, Lycaon and the Pierides, are transformed into animals and hence denied any right of reply. We must rely, at least to some degree, on the truthfulness of these divine narrators – and yet that very truthfulness is what the Pierides deny. Johnson is right to characterise the narration of the Musomachia as ‘a sweeping demonstration of the axiom that victors control the history of events’,390 and the same is true of the Lycaon myth. Although we can perceive a significant degree of bias on the part of the Muse who summarises the Pierides’ song, we do not have access to an unbiased, objective account of the Musomachia, and are, as a consequence, ultimately incapable of determining her truthfulness. Nor is there a dissenting voice to provide an alternative account of the Lycaon myth. The “Musomachia” is a dramatisation of the conflict between philosophy, particularly Epicurean philosophy, and traditional religion. The philosophical nature of this contest is flagged by the echoes of Lycaon in the Pyreneus episode and, especially, by the Pierides’ use of the Gigantomachy. As in the Lycaon episode, the mortal contenders draw on the concept of the philosophical Gigantomachy while the divine contenders prefer the more traditional moral and political interpretation. The Nymph judges deem the Muses to be victorious, but the reader is not so easily convinced. We are invited to judge and to answer for ourselves the question of which song is the better. Our answer to that question will depend on whose assumptions we share; whether we agree with the Pierides that the Muses (and perhaps by extentsion Religio) are unreliable and even oppressive or with the Muses that there is an essential and inflexible difference between humans and gods. In the next chapter, we will listen to the Muses’ side of the story.

390 Johnson (2008), p.63. 138

Chapter 4: The “Rape of Persephone”

If the Pierides use philosophy to attack the religious and mythological status quo, we would naturally expect Calliope’s response to reinforce the authority of traditional religion. This is precisely what we find. Calliope’s preface is hymnic, lauding the benefactions granted to humans by the goddess Ceres. This hymnic preface probably implies epic aspirations on Calliope’s part,391 and may well reflect Lucretius’ hymn to Venus at the beginning of the De rerum natura (1.1-49). If Calliope is imitating Lucretius’ proem, she is doing so polemically, since she will keep the divine apparatus that Lucretius later rejects. Lucretius ‘demythologises’ mythological characters and events, by presenting the myth as ‘a mistaken explanation of a phenomenon [...] which actually occurs’ and by providing the correct, Epicurean explanation.392 Hardie identifies Lucretian ‘demythologisation’ as ‘a common procedure, whereby Lucretius presents familiar images, only to show an unexpected point of comparison, and one which robs the conventional view of all its force’ and argues that Vergil reverses this process, engaging in ‘remythologisation’.393 Calliope’s song is intended to protect the Muses (and, by extension, the Olympian gods) from Lucretian assaults such as that made by the Pierides and, as Cahoon observes, her whole song (barring a few subversive voices) ‘relentlessly supports the hegemony of the Olympians, in a kind of hyperepic mode’.394 As we have seen, the Muse begins her song by overwriting the Pierides’ Gigantomachic song, and her own subject matter is the Rape of Persephone, a story reinforcing the power of the gods. It should be noted that humans play only a small role in this story, which is essentially about a divine uncle raping his divine daughter. It could be argued that a

391 Hinds (1987), p.125. 392 Gale (1994), pp.33-34. 393 Hardie (1986), p. 178. 394 Cahoon (1996), p.49. 139

story with such a strong focus on divine interrelations is a weak attack against Lucretian philosophy.395 However, the gods’ interactions with humans (Celeus’ family, the rude boy, Ascalaphus and Triptolemus) do point to a degree of interest in humans on the part of the gods, and to the gods’ power to affect human lives. While Ovid’s account of the Rape does not focus on the establishing of the Eleusinian Mysteries, the introduction of agriculture is an important coda. The Pierides attempt to reverse the traditional idea that challenging the gods is impious, drawing on Epicurus’ Gigantomachy in the De rerum natura to do so. Calliope, of course, rebuts this attempted revision, including two rare variants of the Rape of Persephone to do so. Both the rude boy, whom Ceres turns into a gecko, and Ascalaphus, whom Persephone turns into an owl, are clear warnings to the Pierides, prefiguring the Muses’ transformation of the Pierides into magpies. Even Venus’ punishment of Persephone’s desired virginity – a detail unique to the Metamorphoses version of the Rape – can be read as a warning to the Pierides about the perils of crossing goddesses. Konstan observes that Ovid ‘assimilates Ceres to his prevailing conception of divinity as proud, wilful, aggressive when offended or in any way opposed, and indifferent to the consequences for others, in particular as they affect mere mortals’.396 The Pierides draw on material from Book I for their entry in the contest, focusing exclusively on the Gigantomachy and, by extension, on Lycaon’s Gigantomachic crime. Calliope likewise draws her material from Book I. Her version of the Rape of Persephone effectively rewrites the transition from the Golden Age to the Silver. Persephone’s divided year is presented as an aetion for the seasonal year, which drives humans to develop agriculture in Book I. The correspondence between the invention of agriculture and the seasonal year is maintained in Calliope’s song; Calliope ends her song with Ceres’ gift to Triptolemus of the secrets of agriculture and with Lyncus’ attempted theft of those secrets. With the introduction of Lyncus, Calliope deals more directly with the Lycaon paradigm that influences the Pierides’ challenge, since Lyncus’ attempted murder of his guest Triptolemus is another doublet of Lycaon. When the mourning Ceres inflicts Famine on the whole world, to punish it for the loss of Persephone, Calliope harks back to Book I. Ceres’ Famine recalls Jupiter’s

395 I am grateful to Peter Davis for this point. 396 D. Konstan (1996) ‘De Deméter a Ceres: Construcciones de la diosa en Homero, Calímaco y Ovidio’ (trans. by D. Konstan, unpublished) in Synthesis 3: 67-90, p.1. 140

Flood in its universal destruction and in the renewal that follows it, when Ceres gives the gift of agriculture. Calliope is interested, almost exclusively, in theodicy. Insolent mortals are punished, while the gifts of the gods, specifically Ceres, appear both at the beginning and at the end of her song. A very clear distinction is drawn between humans and gods, contradicting the Pierides’ claim for some sort of equality. In this way, Calliope’s song is calculated to rebut the Pierides’ pretension and reassert the Muses’ own view of an ontological hierarchy.

i) Venus

When reading the “Musomachia” and particularly the “Rape of Persephone”, many correspondences with the first book of the Metamorphoses appear, of which the Gigantomachy is only the first and most obvious. Like the cosmogony, the Rape is clearly of cosmic importance, with Venus stating that a third of the cosmos is at stake: agitur pars tertia mundi (5.372). In attributing the Rape to Venus’ imperial ambitions, Calliope departs from the story as set out in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, in which Zeus is the agent responsible (H.Dem. 30), and also from Ovid’s own alternate account in the Fasti, where Pluto acts spontaneously (Fast. 4.445-46).397 The imperial nature of Venus’ ambition is marked in her first line by her echo of the opening words of the Aeneid (arma manusque, 5.365).398 The Rape is explicitly presented as cosmic in scale; it is ‘the realisation of what is presented as a grand design to alter the balance of power in the whole universe’.399 If Lincoln is correct in arguing that the Rape of Persephone, as it appears in the Homeric Hymn, is a story of girls’ initiation into womanhood,400 we can detect in Ovid a clear move away from essentially social, familial concerns towards a cosmic imperialism, as indicated by Venus’ statement that her control over a third of the world is at stake (agitur pars tertia mundi, Met. 5.372). Indeed, since Ovid has attributed motivation solely to Pluto himself in his Fasti version, thus freeing Jupiter of all responsibility, it is clear that the attribution of responsibility to Venus in Calliope’s

397 Konstan has traced the differing treatments of this myth in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, Callimachus’ Hymn to Demeter and Ovid’s Metamorphoses (D. Konstan (1996). 398 L. Cahoon (1996), p.44. 399 Hinds (1987), p.108. 400 B. Lincoln (1979) ‘The Rape of Persephone: A Greek Scenario of Women’s Initiation’ in The Harvard Theological Review 72.3/4: 223-235. 141

Song is not intended merely to exculpate Jupiter, but has a more specific purpose. There are several possible reasons for this choice of Venus as ultimate cause of the Rape, of which perhaps most obvious is Ovid’s poetic allegiance to Venus throughout his career, although in the goddess’ ambition for cosmic power we can perhaps also see a mythologised version of Empedoclean philosophy. A strife (lis, 1.21) which is possibly indebted to Empedocles appears in the Cosmogony, and here in the “Musomachia” the Rape of Persephone is instigated by a Venus intent on expanding her sphere of influence. Venus says that mecum vires minuuntur Amoris (5.374). Should we perhaps see in this Venus, as we do in the Venus of Lucretius’ first proem, a hint of Empedoclean φιλíα? Do we have here a mythologised version of Empedoclean philosophy? Empedocles was, after all, born in Sicily, the location of Persephone’s disappearance in the Metamorphoses. There are, however, other, perhaps more secure, reasons why Venus might have replaced Jupiter. In Lucretius’ invocation of Venus (DRN 1.1-49), he reworks an image that appears near the beginning of the Homeric Hymn to Demeter. In the description of the narcissus which Earth bears in order to entrap Persephone, it is said that ‘the whole broad sky above and the whole earth smiled, and the salty swell of the sea’ (H. Dem. 13-14). In his proem, Lucretius says of Venus tibi suavis daedala tellus / summittit flores, tibi rident aequora ponti / placatumque nitet diffuso lumine caelum. (DRN 1.7- 9). Rideo is the Latin version of γελάω, used in the Hymn’s lines. Lucretius thus associates an image from the Hymn to Demeter with Venus, and Ovid later replaces the Hymn’s Jupiter with Venus. Ovid’s use of Venus as instigator of the Rape may thus have Lucretian overtones. The primary reason for using Venus is undoubtedly the fact that Venus’ motives for choosing Persephone as rape victim are particularly germane to Calliope’s concern with her Pierid challengers. Venus complains that her power is being ignored, that Diana and Minerva are revolting against her and that Persephone intends to do the same (Pallada nonne vides iaculatricemque Dianam / adscessisse mihi? Cereris quoque filia virgo, / si patiemur, erit; nam spes adfectat easdem, 5.375-77). Venus refuses to allow her power to be ignored, punishing Persephone for an attempted revolt. In this concern with imperium (5.372), Venus should be compared with the Muses. The revolt of the Pierides against the Muses’ authority is similar to Persephone’s attempted revolt against Venus’ authority. We have already seen how Calliope uses Typhoeus to foreshadow the Pierides’ defeat. In her next passage, that of Venus’ decision to force Persephone to 142

submit, we can now see another warning to the Pierides. The Pierides’ assault on the Muses’ authority is doomed, just as Persephone’s assault on Venus’ authority is doomed. Calliope has woven two admonitory passages into her song before she even begins the story of the rape and Ceres’ search. Of course, given that the “Musomachia” is in part a battle over ontology, Calliope’s decision to place a goddess in the position of the hapless challenger is not entirely apt. If Persephone may be compared to the Pierides, Calliope has accepted the basic Pierid idea of the commensurability of gods and mortals. However, some degree of acceptance is already inherent in the Muses’ decision to accept the challenge itself, as we will see. While Venus refers to the tripartite division of the world, this is not the same as the tripartite division of the world in the cosmogony. That division was derived ultimately from the Shield of Achilles in Book XVIII of the Iliad, where the world is divided into earth, sea and sky. Venus, however, is concerned with the realm of Pluto, the underworld, and is therefore referring to the division first reported by Poseidon in Iliad 15.187-93, whereby Poseidon receives the sea, Hades the underworld and Zeus the sky, while the earth is common property. Nevertheless, the reference to a pars tertia mundi reminds us of the division of earth, sea and sky, as well as of the division at hand. Venus’ cosmic ambitions, expressed in terms of a tripartite division, remind us of the tripartite cosmos formed in the “Cosmogony”. Ovid thus begins to forge a link with the “Cosmogony”, a link that will be strengthenes as the myth unfolds.

ii) The Seasons

After this reminder of the tripartite world, the story of Persephone begins to look very much like a mythologised version of the cosmogony from the Four Ages to the final anthropogony. This begins with Ovid’s description of the locus amoenus of perpetual spring (perpetuum ver est, 5.391), although the perpetuum ver may also be read as an allusion to the Golden Age, rather than as identical to it. According to Hinds, ‘[t]he distinctiveness of the Ovidian detail lies [...] in the evocation through perpetuum ver of a literary-mythological tradition of perennially beautiful landscapes situated in wonderful times (like the Golden Age: Met. 1.107 ver erat aeternum) and wonderful

143

places (like Virgil’s idealised Italy: Geo. 2.149 hic ver assiduum)’.401 Both the Golden Age and Persephone’s locus amoenus are characterised by perpetual spring, so that we are primed to read the “Rape of Persephone” in terms of the Golden Age and its end. When Persephone is recovered, her consumption of pomegranate seeds means that Jupiter must divide the year into two parts: Iuppiter ex aequo volventem dividit annum (5.565). Hinds has observed that among 250-odd uses of annus, Ovid uses the phrase volvens annus only at this point.402 While this does translate ἔτος περιτελλόμενον from the Homeric Hymn (H.Dem. 445),403 we should also compare Vergil’s use of volvitur annus in the Georgics: redit agricolis labor actus in orbem / atque in se sua per vestigia volvitur annus (G. 2.401-02). Ovid’s volventem annum thus alludes to Vergil’s lines about seasonal change, indicating that the volventem annum is, precisely, the seasonal year. Volvo, moreover, is also used by Lucretius to describe the seasonal year: et calor extremus primo cum frigore mixtus / volvitur, autumni quod fertur nomine tempus / hic quoque confligunt hiemes aestatibus acres (6.371-73). The perpetuum ver of the beginning of this episode is thus replaced by a seasonal year, just as Jupiter ends the Golden Age by introducing seasons: Iuppiter antiqui contraxit tempora veris / perque hiems aestusque et inaequalis autumnos / et breve ver spatiis exegit quattuor annum (1.116-18). Lincoln provides the main argument against a seasonal interpretation of the story of the Rape (which is that Persephone’s time underground is a mythopoeic description of winter, as Cicero records in De natura deorum 2.26.66) as being that Persephone disappears while picking flowers and consequently in spring or early summer.404 While this does negate Cicero’s seasonal interpretation – particularly for the Metamorphoses, since Ovid states that it is spring – it does not argue against an interpretation of the Rape as an aetion for the seasons.405 The year that was perpetuum ver is changed into a volventem annum. Hinds argues that the expression perpetuum ver is actively drawing on the Golden Age archetype, and is connected with the fact that the most common ancient interpretation of the Rape was as an aetion ‘for the earth’s seasonal cycle of

401 Hinds (1987), pp.27-28. 402 Hinds (1987), p.91. 403 Hinds (1987), p.91. 404 Lincoln (1979), p.227. 405 For the account of the Rape in the Homeric Hymn as an aetion for the seasons, see J. Rudhardt (1978) ‘Concerning the Homeric Hymn to Demeter’ in Museum Helveticum 35.1: 1-17 (reprinted in H.P. Foley (1994a), trans. L. Lorch & H.P. Foley: 198-211), esp. pp. 207-08. 144

vegetative growth, decay and rebirth’.406 In recounting the transition from the Golden Age to (presumably) the Silver in terms of Ceres’ gift of agriculture, Ovid is, therefore, following Vergil. Ovid’s use of perpetuum ver (5.391), while recalling the ver aeternum of his first book (1.107), thus also recalls the ver adsiduum of Georgics 2.149. While the “Rape of Persephone” may be interpreted allegorically, in the case of the Metamorphoses an allegorical interpretation removes the literality that seems to be central to Ovid’s concerns. The reality of divine power is at issue, and so the Rape must be an aetion and not an allegory, if it is to be truly effective as propaganda. The Muses are concerned to demonstrate to the Pierides the power of the gods. Their account of the Rape, therefore, must be read ‘literally’.

iii) Agriculture

In the first book of the Metamorphoses, the ending of the Golden Age is not described solely in terms of the creation of the seasons. An inevitable consequence of the seasonal year is that some seasons (Ovid singles out the parching heat of summer and the bitter cold of winter, 1.119-20) are inhospitable, thus necessitating a greater degree of effort on the part of humans in order to survive. As a result, agriculture is developed (or perhaps redeveloped, if the perpetuum ver (5.391) is alluding to the Golden Age rather than belonging to the same period): semina tum primum longis Cerealia sulcis / obruta sunt, pressique iugo gemuere iuvenci (1.123-24). Agriculture is thus the natural consequence of a year made up of inhospitable seasons. Therefore, if Jupiter creates the seasonal year as part of the Rape myth, we should expect to find the invention of agriculture going hand in hand with the new seasonal year. Accordingly, Calliope’s song concludes with the introduction of agriculture. In the final passage of Calliope’s song, Ceres teaches Triptolemus how to sow seed (Triptolemo partimque rudi data semina iussit / spargere humo, partim post tempora longa recultae, 5.646-47) and he, in turn, spreads this knowledge as far as Scythia (5.648-56). Triptolemus is intimately associated with the development of agriculture: according to Vergil, he is the inventor of the plough (G. 1.19), while in Ovid’s Fasti Ceres predicts that he will be the founder of agriculture (4.559-60). It is, therefore, quite clear that Ceres is teaching agriculture for the first time.

406 Hinds (2002), p.124. 145

The picture is, however, complicated by references to agriculture earlier in Calliope’s account of the Rape of Persephone. Ceres’ wrathful destruction of vegetation posits the pre-existence of agriculture (words such as glaebas, aratra and colonos particularly suggest organised agriculture, 5.477-79). However, even in the Fasti version of the Rape, a text devoted solely to aetiology, Feeney notes evidence for cultivation before Ceres’ gift of agriculture. When Ceres searches for her daughter, someone is cultivating fields and when she is reconciled, the fields give a good harvest following their neglect (Fast. 4.487, 617).407 Feeney claims that in the Metamorphoses ‘there is no suggestion whatever of Ceres’ bereavement being a rupture between life before and after agriculture’,408 but the Triptolemus and Lyncus episode at the end of Calliope’s song clearly proves otherwise, and we should probably take the agricultural terminology as anachronistic – as it is in the Fasti. The introduction of the seasons is followed by the gift of agriculture, just as it is in Book I. Calliope begins her song with a hymnic preface, eulogising Ceres as the creator of agriculture and laws, the one who gives alimenta mitia to the humans race (5.341- 45).409 After such a preface, we expect to find an account of Ceres’ benefactions. It comes as something of a surprise to find that Calliope moves on to Typhoeus (although we have already discussed in Chapter 3 the implications of this beginning, and Johnson rightly observes that, by singing of the end of the Gigantomachy and of Typhoeus’ punishment, Calliope shows that the offensiveness of the Pierides’ song lies in its content, which Calliope overwrites410). It is only at the end of Calliope’s account that Ceres in fact goes on to teach Triptolemus the secrets of agriculture. However, this is no mere coda to the story. Rather, the preface shows us that this benefaction is, in fact, a major concern in Calliope’s narrative, as it is not in the Homeric Hymn. In the Hymn, agriculture is already part of human civilisation, practiced in vain during Demeter’s vengeful sojourn on earth (H. Dem. 305-13). At the end of the Hymn, Demeter teaches Triptolemus (among others) the Eleusinian Mysteries (H. Dem. 473-82). In her rejection of Lucretian demythologisation, Ovid’s Calliope is adopting a more Vergilian style. In both the Fasti and Metamorphoses versions of the Rape, Ovid

407 D. Feeney (2004) ‘Interpreting Sacrificial Ritual in Roman Poetry: Disciplines and their Models’ in A. Barchiesi, J. Rüpke, & S. Stephens (2004): 1-21, p.15. 408 Feeney (2004), p.15. 409 Konstan identifies Calliope’s mention of the gifts of law and agriculture as a reference to Callimachus’ Hymn to Demeter 17-21 (Konstan (1996), p.82). 410 Johnson (1996b), p.8. Hinds also identifies ‘moral reprehensibility’ as the primary fault of the Pierides’ song (Hinds (1987), p.128). 146

picks up a description of Ceres that is found at the beginning of Georgics I. Vergil apostrophises Ceres thus: alma Ceres, vestro si munere tellus / Chaoniam pingui glandem mutavit arista (Geo. 1.7-8). The specific idea of changing acorns for crops is found in the Fasti in the “Rape of Persephone” (mutavit glandes 4.402), while the more general idea of the movement towards agriculture, and hence better food, is also in Calliope’s hymnic preface to her account of the Rape in the Metamorphoses (prima dedit fruges alimentaque mitia terris 5.342). Vergil’s Georgics thus postulates that Ceres and the development of agriculture helped humanity to move away from Golden Age food. This idea is then adopted by Ovid in both accounts of the “Rape of Persephone”. Vergil repeats the idea a few lines later, saying that when the acorns and arbute fruit (traditional Golden Age food) failed, Ceres was the first to teach agriculture (Geo. 1. 147-49). These Vergilian lines begin prima Ceres, the same words which begin the corresponding sections in the Fasti and the Metamorphoses, in which Ceres brings agriculture and better food (Fast. 4.401, Met. 5.341). In the Georgics, however, Vergil also tells us that it was Jupiter who first instigated agriculture (primus [...] per artem / movit agros, 1.121-22). This may appear to weaken the claim for Ceres’ primacy, despite those passages in the Georgics which assert such primacy. Nevertheless, Ovid’s anaphora of prima at the beginning of each of three lines (Met. 5.341, 342, 343) underscores his imitation of Vergil, while also bringing to mind the Fasti lines. This idea of Ceres’ aid makes a stark contrast with Lucretius’ conception of the end of the first human era, since, for Calliope, the agency of the goddess, rather than natural development of civilisation, is of central importance. A Lucretian primitive era appears in the “Cosmogony”, as we saw in Chapter 2, but the account of this era is repeated in the “Rape of Persephone” in Vergilian terms. We should note that, although Vergil appears to credit Ceres with the teaching of agriculture directly at Georgics 1.147-49, he has already acknowledged the part of Triptolemus, invoking uncique puer monstrator aratri (1.19). The phrase uncum aratrum is also used by Ovid’s Calliope: prima Ceres unco glaebam dimovit aratro (Met. 5.341). The rape of Persephone leads Ceres to teach agriculture. The teaching of agriculture is, of course, also the content of the Georgics, and as we will see Calliope is very Vergilian. With perpetuum ver and the descriptions of Ceres’ bounty, Calliope imitates Vergilian language to bring the Golden Age to mind. She also imitates Vergil’s description of the post-Golden Age agricultural era, with volvens annus (Met. 5.565) recalling the volvitur annus of Georgics 2.402. Calliope may also imitate Vergil in her 147

description of agriculture; in describing the farmers’ activities, Vergil states that seed must be thrown: iacto qui semine comminus arva / insequitur (1.104-05). This description of thrown seed is twice recalled in the Metamorphoses, first when Ceres commands Triptolemus to scatter seeds (data semina [...] spargere, 5.645-46), and again ten lines later in Triptolemus’ speech to Lyncus, when Triptolemus says that the dona Cereris, when scattered over the fields (sparsa per agros), will yield crops (5.655- 56). The transition from the Golden Age to agriculture is thus described in Vergilian terms, whereas it was described in Lucretian terms in the “Cosmogony”. In the “Cosmogony”, Ovid carefully provided a reason for the transition to houses and agriculture, which was that the seasonal year made the climate less hospitable than it had been. The implication in the “Cosmogony” is that agriculture was a reasoned response on the part of humans to a change in climate, with no mention made of divine beneficence. Here, however, Calliope focuses on agriculture as a divine gift, implying that humans could not have survived the change to a seasonal year without divine assistance. As the Pierides’ song indicates that Ovid is using Lucretian ideas to characterise them, so the beginning of Calliope’s song indicates he is using Vergil to characterise the Muses. We have already seen how the initial words, prima Ceres, echo lines from the Georgics, and how the theme of Ceres’ aid in ending the pabula dura of the Golden Age is posited in the Georgics and in both Ovidian versions of the Rape of Persephone. Since the teaching of agriculture is the end point of the Rape myth, while also being the content of the first book of the Georgics, we might reasonably expect this thematic link to be signposted early in Calliope’s song. Both the Georgics and Calliope’s song have a hymnic preface, honouring the benefactions of gods. In the Georgics, Vergil first apostrophises Liber et alma Ceres (1.7), two of the three deities mentioned by Lucretius as examples of metonymy at DRN 2.655-60, both of whom appear again as the Euhemeristically deified originators of wine and corn (DRN 5.14-15). It is at this point that Vergil characterises Ceres as the goddess responsible for the improvement in human food – the main benefaction in Calliope’s preface. In focusing on Ceres’ agricultural benefactions (rather than, for example, on the gift of law to which she also refers, 5.343), Calliope engages closely with the Vergilian intertext. The interest in agriculture and, more broadly, with food is one that runs throughout the Metamorphoses. We saw in Chapter 2 how food can be used to blur the boundaries between humans and animals – when humans become food, they are reduced to 148

animals. In Chapter 8, we will follow this theme in the opposite direction, seeing that when vegetarianism is encouraged, animals are raised to the human level. Calliope’s choice to focus on Ceres’ gift of agriculture, rather than on that of law, prepares the way for the vegetarianism of the “Speech of Pythagoras”, since one cannot abstain from meat unless there is an alternative. Once the Golden Age has ended, and the “Rape of Persephone” ends it, the seasonal year makes it impossible to gather food without cultivation in the manner of the Golden Race. Thus, the seasonal year necessitates agriculture, which is itself necessary for the ethical doctrine of vegetarianism.

iv) Renewal

Once she has discovered Persephone’s girdle in Cyane’s pool, Ceres inflicts famine on the world, calling the lands ingratas […] nec frugum munere dignas / Trinacriam ante alias (5.476). Ceres’ Famine can be likened to Jupiter’s Flood in Book I: in each case a major deity conducts a wide-ranging earthbound search, is or feels personally wronged, generalises this wrong to deem the entire world unworthy and enacts catastrophic revenge.411 The phrase longa mora est appears in each case: Jupiter tells the assembled gods longa mora est, quantum noxae sit ubique repertum / enumerare (1.214-15), while Calliope says of Ceres’ search: quas dea per terras et quas erraverit undas / dicere longa mora est (5.462-63). Perhaps the most significant parallel between the Flood and the Famine, however, comes from what is not shared; in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, it is said that Demeter would have destroyed humankind and deprived the gods of sacrifices (H. Dem. 310-13), and this is repeated a few lines later, when Hermes tells Hades that Demeter intends to destroy humanity by keeping crops underground and diminishing the gods’ tribute (351-56). This detail finds no parallel in Ovid’s account of the Rape of Persephone, in which Arethusa pleads for the land and tells Ceres where Persephone is (5.487-508). In the account of the Flood, however, all the gods grieve over the threatened loss of humanity, in particular the loss of anyone to bring incense to the altars: est tamen humani generis iactura dolori / omnibus, et quae sit terrae

411 Note that in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, Demeter punishes the entire human race (H.Dem. 256-58) ‘even though only Metaneira had offended her, and that out of ignorance rather than impiety’ (Konstan (1996), p.71). For Konstan, ‘if human beings are the ones who suffer from the blight [in the Metamorphoses], it is because Ceres holds their land responsible for her loss. [...] But just for being more direct [than the Homeric Hymn], Ceres’ action in Ovid’s version is the more obviously unreasonable’ (Konstan (1996), p.85). 149

mortalibus orbae / forma future rogant, quis sit laturus in aras / tura (1.246-9). A detail from the Homeric Hymn to Demeter has thus been displaced from its context and reassigned to Jupiter’s Flood.412 Given the correspondences between the Homeric Hymn and the Metamorphoses versions of the Rape, identified particularly by Hinds,413 this reassignment of a detail from the Hymn to the Flood implies a correspondence between the Flood and the Famine – a technique we have called connective displacement. The Flood is aimed at the destruction of humanity, and the episode concludes with Jupiter’s promised creation of a new human race. The Famine likewise ends with a new creation (5.642-56), except that in this case it is vegetation that is to be renewed, since that was Ceres’ target. As Themis tells Deucalion and Pyrrha how to renew the human race by throwing stones (ossaque post tergum magnae iactate parentis 1.383), so Ceres tells Triptolemus how to renew the crops by throwing seeds: latos quae sparsa per agros / frugiferas messes alimentaque mitia reddant (5.655-56), as Triptolemus later tells Lyncus. This movement from wild food to domesticated crops mirrors the movement from the Golden Age to the Silver Age, in which seeds are first sown (semina [...] primum longis Cerealia sulcis obruta sunt, 1.123-24). The “Rape of Persephone” thus begins with perpetual spring and ends with a volventem annum and the initiation of agriculture, paralleling the movement from perpetual spring in the Golden Age to a seasonal year and agriculture in the Silver Age. With the inclusion of Lyncus and his punishment, Calliope deftly intertwines the themes of agriculture and divine retribution against upstart humans. The end of the Famine also recalls the beginning of the Flood: Lyncus is a doublet of Lycaon in receiving his guest hospitably while planning to kill him when heavy with sleep (somno gravatum 5.658 recalls gravem somno 1.224).414 Their names are also similar in sound. In punishment, Lyncus is transformed into a lynx, while Lycaon is transformed into a wolf. The “Musomachia” thus includes two stories corresponding to the Lycaon myth; as we have seen, Pyreneus’ attempted rape of the Muses in the frame story is likely modelled on the Lycaon story. Unlike Lycaon and

412 The motif of the loss of incense is also the joke around which Aristophanes’ Birds is built. Cf. Pl. Symp. 190c. Feeney calls this ‘the old topic of the gods’ anxiety over the deprivation of their sacrifice,’ (Feeney (1991), p.200). See also Bömer (1969-86) ad 1.248-9. However, in the Hymn to Demeter, this loss of tribute is connected with the destruction of the whole human race (albeit through famine) and is thus consonant with the reason for the predicted loss of tribute in Metamorphoses I, since Jupiter intends to destroy the entire human race. 413 Hinds (1987), esp. pp. 72-98. 414 Forbes Irving (1990), p.94. 150

Pyreneus, however, Lyncus does not prepare violence against gods. His guest, Triptolemus, is a human. And yet, the mortal Triptolemus is in possession of divine knowledge, and it is this knowledge that Lyncus seeks to take for himself.415 In attempting to kill Triptolemus and steal the knowledge of agriculture, Lyncus is thus offending against Ceres in much the same way that Lycaon offends against Jupiter. Both Lycaon and Lyncus attempt, by means of murder, to lay their hands on knowledge that the god involved does not want them to possess. Calliope, of course, presents the Lyncus episode in wholly negative terms, just as Jupiter does with Lycaon. In fact, Calliope goes further than Jupiter, since she does not permit Lyncus any direct speech; we have only her interpretation of his motives and criminality. However, Cahoon identifies some ‘direct quotations of subversive voices that intrude themselves into her account and reveal her limitations as a narrator’416 – the same function of direct quotation which we observed in the Lycaon myth. This movement from Golden to Silver Age is also found in the Fasti version of the Rape; just as Calliope’s song begins prima Ceres and goes on to describe how Ceres was the first to teach agriculture (Met. 5.341-45), so a significant section of the Ceres myth in the Fasti begins prima Ceres (Fast. 4.401-16). This section of the Fasti describes the end of the Golden Age and the beginning of agriculture: Ovid says that Ceres was the first (prima) to encourage men to exchange acorns (the food of the Golden Age, as we can remember from our discussion of the “Cosmogony”) for utiliore cibo (Fast. 4.401-02).417 The Fasti also speaks of meliora alimenta (4.401), and both terms are reminiscent of the Metamorphoses’ alimenta mitia (5.342). Like the Metamorphoses, the Fasti version of the Rape also ends with renewed fertility (largaque provenit cessatis messis in arvis / et vix congestas area cepit opes 4.618-19). Both accounts of the Rape, then, follow the movement from the Golden Age to the Silver, through the institution of agriculture, reprising the movement of the “Cosmogony”. The very choice of the Persephone myth to illustrate this transition may reference Vergil’s Georgics. The recovery of Persephone is, in a sense, another form of bugonia. Vergil’s directions for the bugonia require a small place (exiguus locus 4.295- 96) and the slow painful death of a sacrifice. Can we not compare Sicily to both the

415 See also Hyg. Fab. 259, Serv. A. 1.323, Myth. Vat. 1.31. 416 Cahoon (1996), pp.50-51. 417 Ovid has already used this phrase in Fasti 1, where he tells how Earth and Ceres in partnership replaced acorns with utilore cibo (Fast. 1.676). 151

exiguus locus (on a divine scale) and the sacrifice, and the famine to the long, drawn-out death? We should remember that Persephone is raped in spring (5.391), and spring is ‘the temporal context for the bugonia’.418 The apparently practical description of bugonia at Georgics 4.295-314 becomes linked to the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, and hence to the return of a living being from Tartarus, and Vergil’s description of Eurydice as rapta bis (G. 4.504) has been seen to signal an affinity with Persephone.419 In the tenth book of the Metamorphoses, Orpheus compares himself and Eurydice to Pluto and Persephone (vos quoque iunxit Amor 10.29), reinforcing a link between the Orpheus and Persephone myths.420 The bugonia, associated by Vergil with Orpheus’ recovery of Eurydice, can, through the connection of the Orpheus and Persephone myths, be further associated with Ceres’ recovery of Persephone. In support of such a proposition, we might observe that the destruction of agriculture is involved in both the Aristaeus and Persephone myths. In his despair at the loss of his bees, Aristaeus asks his goddess mother, Cyrene, to destroy his crops: age et ipsa manu felicis erue silvas / fer stabulis inimicum ignem atque interfice messes / ure sata et validam in vitis molire bipennem (G. 4.329-31). Similarly, in her despair at the loss of her daughter, the mother goddess Ceres destroys the vegetation which is her particular province: saeva vertentia glaebas / fregit aratra manu. Parilique irata colonos / ruricolasque boves leto dedit (Met. 5.477-79). Another similarity between the two myths is the activity of Arethusa. In the Aristaeus epyllion, it is Arethusa who tells Cyrene that Aristaeus is distressed (4.351-56), thus opening the way for Cyrene to come to her son’s aid. Again, in the Metamorphoses, it is Arethusa who tells Ceres what happened to Persephone (5.487-508), thus providing an opening for Ceres to regain her daughter. In both cases, Arethusa acts as a conduit between a goddess and her child, leading to the resolution of difficulties and grief through the restitution of the deceased (in a manner of speaking, in each case). In comparing Ceres with Orpheus, we should note that each effectively loses the beloved twice. When Arethusa tells Ceres that Persephone is now the inferni pollens matrona tyranni (5.508), Ceres is stunned and stonelike (stupuit ceu saxea, 5.509). Later, when Ceres appeals to Jupiter for assistance, she speaks of the discovery of her daughter as a second loss (si reperire vicas amittere certius, 5.519). Ovid describes

418 Morgan (1999), p.137. 419 Morgan (1999), pp.164, 185; P.A. Johnston (1977a) ‘Eurydice and Persephone in the Georgics’ in TAPA 107: 161-172. 420 These connections will be drawn out in Chapter 5. 152

Orpheus in very similar terms; Orpheus is stunned (stupuit, 10.64) by Eurydice’s double death (gemina nece, 10.64) and is compared to Olenus, Lethaea and an anonymous man, all of whom were turned to stone (10.65-71). Such links draw attention to the intratextual play between the “Musomachia” and the “Orpheus”, and encourages us to explore the thematic links as well as the verbal.

v) The Stellio and the Bubo: Two Unheeded Warnings

We have already seen how Calliope’s song begins with two passages that directly menace her challengers; the defeated Typhoeus prefigures the defeat of the Pierides and the slighted Venus mirrors the slighted Muses. Furthermore, the end of Calliope’s song, the invention of agriculture, shows the Pierides how dependent they are, as humans, on the beneficence of the gods. Calliope also includes two other warnings to the Pierides: Ceres’ transformation of a rude boy into a gecko (5.451-61) and Persephone’s transformation of an informant into an owl (5.539-50). The etymological connections between these two metamorphoses, proving the erudition of Calliope, have been well traced by Myers.421 It remains, however to examine the significance of Calliope’s choice of these two recondite metamorphoses, as Cahoon has begun to do in noting that these tales are there to buttress the position of the gods, since they are ‘otherwise irrelevant interpolations of random retaliations against imagined crimes’.422 When Ceres is given a drink as she rests in her search, an unnamed boy mocks her for greediness and is punished by being transformed into a gecko (5.451-61). This episode is found elsewhere only in Antoninus’ Liberalis summary of Nicander, and Ovid himself does not include it in his Fasti version, where he instead relates the more traditional account of Ceres’ attempt to immortalise the son (Triptolemus) of those who assist her (Fast. 4.549-60).423 Calliope, then, replaces a story of Ceres’ kindliness

421 K.S. Myers (1992) “’The Lizard and the Owl: An Etymological Pair in Ovid Metamorphoses Book 5’ in AJP 113.1: 63-68. 422 Cahoon (1996), p.50 423 The episode does, however, broadly recall Demeter’s punishment, in the guise of an old woman, of the insolent young Erysichthon in Callimachus’ Hymn to Demeter (42-67). Callimachus calls this a ‘warning to men to avoid transgression’ (κάλλιον, ὡς, ἵνα καί τις ὑπερβασίας ἀλέηται, / π ... ἰδέσθαι, 23-4). ‘Carl Werner Müller [...] in his detailed study of Callimachus’ treatment of the Erysichthon myth, emphasizes the soberness and restraint of Demeter’s response to Erysichthon’s impiety; she does not destroy him on the spot’ (Konstan (1996), p.79). As Konstan argues, this contrasts with the Ceres of the Metamorphoses, who is much more vengeful: ‘the story also illustrates the sudden anger of the goddess, in striking contrast to Demeter’s measured response to Erysichthon’s naked sacrilege in Callimachus’ Hymn’ (Konstan (1996), p.85). 153

towards a human with a story of her vengeance. Zissos suggests that Calliope omits the immortalisation story in the belief that it would be uninteresting to the nymph judges, who would rather hear about another nymph, like Arethusa.424 However, he rightly argues that the stellio story ‘is unquestionably one of the most significant alterations of the Homeric Hymn narrative’,425 and we should therefore seek a stronger reason for its inclusion. The story of a mortal who mocks a goddess and is punished by transformation into an animal undoubtedly prefigures the very last detail of the “Musomachia” itself, the metamorphosis of the mocking Pierides into magpies (5.669-78). Indeed, it is the presence of the magpies near the beginning of the whole episode that prompts Minerva to ask about their origin and thus sparks the story of the “Musomachia” (5.296-301). We thus know from the outset that the Pierides will be punished by being transformed into birds, and are thus able to recognise a parallel that will not fully be activated until the Muse ends her report of Calliope’s song. After the Muse completes this narration, she tells Minerva that the Pierides did not accept defeat gracefully, instead continuing to mock the Muses, even when threatened with punishment, until their transformation into magpies (rident Emathides spernuntque minacia verba, 5.669). This punishment of metamorphosis is prefigured in Calliope’s song, when Ceres transforms the boy who mocks her (risit, 5.452). Furthermore, this boy is called audax, recalling Typhoeus who, Calliope says at the beginning of her song, dared to challenge the gods (ausum, 5.348). Only Typhoeus and the rude boy are classified as ‘daring’ in the “Musomachia”, so the connection is not accidental. Just as Typhoeus is connected with the Pierides, then, so too is the rude boy. We might borrow from Cyane’s speech within Calliope’s song to argue that this comparison of small things with great is valid (quodsi conponere magnis / parva mihi fas est, 5.416-17).426 Indeed, Hinds observes that that ‘in a manner of speaking any such inset story can be viewed as a “retelling” of its associated main story; that one of the key functions of an inset narrative is to provide a parallel treatment of an element in the outer narrative’.427 The comparison between the Pierides and the rude boy is quite close: both mock goddesses and both are punished for their reviling with transformation into an animal.

424 A. Zissos (1999) ‘The Rape of Persephone in Ovid Met. 5.341-661: Internal Audience and Narrative Distortion’ in Phoenix 53.1/2: 97-113, p.112n47. 425 Zissos (1999), p.112n47. 426 This expression is most likely adapted from Georgics IV, where Vergil qualifies a comparison of bees’ industriousness to Cyclopes (si parva licet componere magnis, G. 4.176). 427 Hinds (1987), p.92, referring to the narrative of Arethusa, embedded within the Rape. 154

What, then, are we to make of Persephone’s punishment of Ascalaphus, whom she transforms into an owl when he reveals that she has eaten while in Hades (5.539-50)?428 As Myers observes, the two episodes of transformation within Calliope’s song ‘are linked by the fact that both characters are metamorphosed in punishment for angering the goddesses by verbal misdemeanours’.429 However, the connection between Ascalaphus’ tale-telling and the Pierides is harder to see, at least at first. The stories of Ascalaphus and the rude boy (called Ἀσκάλαβος in Nicander’s account of the myth430) are clearly connected, both in type and in etymological wordplay.431 Thus, since the story of the rude boy is clearly linked to that of the Pierides in the frame, it is reasonable to argue for a similar connection between the Pierides and Ascalaphus. As we have seen, the story of the stellio functions as a warning for the Pierides. Calliope implicitly warns the Pierides that they might suffer a similar fate if they, too, persist in mocking the goddesses. The type of offence given is the same in both cases. Ascalaphus, however, gives a different type of offence. He does not mock Persephone, but rather poses an obstacle to her in revealing her deceitfulness. As Zissos argues, Persephone is clearly willing to attempt to thwart the Fates by lying about her consumption of the pomegranate seeds.432 If she were not willing to deceive the Fates, she would not be angered by Ascalaphus’ report that she has broken her fast. Calliope says that, by his informing, Ascalaphus prevents Persephone’s unqualified return to her mother (indicio reditum crudelis ademit, 5.542), and this prevention obviously requires that Persephone herself be deceitful. This deceptiveness of Persephone is unique to Calliope’s version. In the Homeric Hymn, Persephone herself acknowledges that she has eaten the pomegranate seeds,433 while in Ovid’s Fasti it is Mercury who reports that Persephone has broken her fast (Fast. 4.607-08). This account of Ascalaphus is found earlier ‘only in a fragment attributed to Euphorion’s Ἀραὶ ἢ Ποτηριοκλέπτης (frag. 9, p.31 Powell; frag. 11 Groningen)’.434 This account makes no mention of a metamorphosis, although ps.-Apollodorus records an account of Ascalaphus in which it is Demeter rather than Persephone who punishes Ascalaphus for the revelation that

428 The myth of Ascalaphus is preserved in Serv. A. 4.462, G. 2.39; Schol. Stat. Theb. 3.511; Myth. Vat. 1.7, 2.100. A variant is found in ps.-Apollodorus Bibl. 1.5.3, 2.5.12. 429 Myers (1992), p.63 430 Preserved in Antoninus Liberalis 24. 431 See Myers (1992). 432 Zissos (1999), p.109. 433 αὐτίκ᾽ ἐγὼν ἀνόρουσ᾽ ὑπὸ χάρματος: αὐτὰρ ὃ λάθρῃ / ἔμβαλέ μοι ῥοιῆς κόκκον, μελιηδέ᾽ ἐδωδήν, / ἄκουσαν δὲ βίῃ με προσηνάγκασσε πάσασθαι, H.Dem. 411-13. 434 Myers (1992), pp.66-67. 155

Persephone has eaten a pomegranate seed (Bibl. 1.5.3). Demeter then punishes Ascalaphus by imprisoning him under a stone, and only turns him into an owl after Heracles has lifted the stone and released him (Bibl. 2.5.12). 435 Calliope no doubt chooses Persephone as vengeful agent here partly in order to provide variation, rather than risk the monotony of a second tale of Ceres’ vengeance. Furthermore, the variation of agent no doubt drives home to the Pierides the point that all goddesses punish mortals for verbal insubordination of one kind or another. It is very likely this repetition of the theme, and not merely the single instance of the Muses themselves, that spurs Minerva to punish Arachne in Book VI (6.1-145). However, why would Calliope include a story that requires Persephone to be deceitful? The detail of Persephone’s deceit certainly sanctions Calliope’s description of the punishment consequently meted out. However, there is, perhaps, also a point to Persephone’s deceitfulness. The main charge that the Pierides bring against the Muses is their deceitfulness (5.308-10). The Muses do not directly rebut this charge, preferring to refract it back onto the Pierides, as we saw in Chapter 3. The closest the Muses come to claiming truthfulness is the description of Calliope’s song as doctos cantus (5.662). Perhaps, then, the Muses are in fact deceitful. This is, of course, not a particularly shocking claim; in Hesiod’s Theogony, the Muses openly acknowledge themselves to be of doubtful reliability (ποιμένες ἄγραυλοι, κάκ᾽ ἐλέγχεα, γαστέρες οἶον, / ἴδμεν ψεύδεα πολλὰ λέγειν ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα, / ἴδμεν δ᾽, εὖτ᾽ ἐθέλωμεν, ἀληθέα γηρύσασθαι, Th. 26-28). We might, then, draw a parallel between Ascalaphus and the Pierides on the basis of their common revelation of goddess’ deceitfulness. Perhaps, then, the Muses punish the Pierides (at least in part) for the revelation of the Muses’ deceitfulness, just as Persephone punishes Ascalaphus for the revelation of her deceitfulness. Even if this interpretation does not convince, however, the basic pattern of a mortal punished for offending a goddess holds true. Both stories, of the rude boy and of Ascalaphus, are obscure myths, not part of the main tradition as recorded in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter and in Ovid’s own Fasti. Myers observes that the use of Ascalaphus’ name is intended to make us realise that the rude boy is Ascalabus, ensuring ‘that we realize that what Ovid, or rather Calliope, has done in the first tale was unique and original’.436 Calliope has departed

435 Myers (1992), 67n15. The metamorphosis is also recorded by Serv. A. 4.462; Lact. Plac. in Stat. Theb. 3.511; Myth. Vat. 2.100. 436 Myers (1992), p.63. 156

from the traditional account of the Rape of Persephone in order to include two myths of mortals punished by goddesses. This is surely calculated not just to display her erudition, but also, and more pointedly, to warn the Pierides of the consequences of angering and mocking goddesses. The story of Ascalaphus has one further function that needs to be noted here. Uniquely among accounts of Ascalaphus, Calliope calls his mother Orphne (in ps.- Apollodorus, his mother is Gorgyra, Bibl. 1.5.3). Myers notes that this name, meaning ‘darkness’, is ‘appropriate to his underworld connections’.437 However, since Ovid appears to signal his originality ‘in a typically humorous manner’ when he calls the otherwise unknown Orphne haud ignotissima of the Avernal nymphs (5.539-40),438 it seems likely that there is another reason for using the name Orphne. This is surely to remind the reader of Calliope’s son, Orpheus, who will have his own extended narrative in Book X. Ovid thus prepares the reader for intratextual connections between Books V and X well in advance. He also reinforces this preparation early in the “Orpheus”, when Orpheus mentions to Pluto and Persephone the fama veteris rapinae (10.28), the Rape of Persephone. Thus, near the end of Book V and near the beginning of Book X, Ovid signals intratextual connections between these two books. The two ‘miniature carmina perpetua,’ (to use Nagle’s happy phrase439) sung by a Muse and her son, are thus linked. Ovid has already used such wordplay to link Book V to Book I, when he has Lyncus recall Lycaon not only in action, but also in name.

vi) Arethusa

Hinds notes that Ovid follows the structure of the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, by having Ceres ask someone for an account of her rape once Persephone has been returned (5.572-73), although where Demeter asks Persephone, Ceres asks Arethusa.440 While Arethusa’s narrative thus helps to link Ovid’s account with the Hymn, it also helps to link the “Rape” with Book I. Arethusa’s narrative is one of the strongest links between Book I and the “Musomachia”, corresponding in many ways to the Daphne episode of Book I. The rape of Daphne follows the account of the Ages of Man, the Flood and the

437 Myers (1992), p.67. 438 Myers (1992), p.67. 439 B.R. Nagle (1988a) ‘Two Miniature Carmina Perpetua in the Metamorphoses: Calliope and Orpheus’ in GB 15: 99-125. 440 Hinds (1987), pp.91-92. See also Zissos (1999), p.103. 157

final anthropogony, just as Arethusa’s account of her rape follows the Rape of Persephone, which corresponds to those stories in Book I. It is also significant that Daphne is the victim of Cupid’s desire to prove himself more powerful than Apollo, while Arethusa’s rape is embedded within a rape set in motion by Venus’ desire for power – in each case the power of Venus/Cupid is at stake. Beyond these correspondences of position and significance, there are many verbal correspondences. Daphne hates the marriage-torch velut crimen (1.483) and blushes (suffuderat ora rubore 1.484), while Arethusa thinks it a crimen to please (5.584) and blushes (erubui 5.584). Apollo likens Daphne to a lamb fleeing wolves (sic agna lupum [...] fugiunt 1.505-06), while Arethusa asks anne quod agnae est / si qua lupos audit circum stabula alta frementes (5.626-27). Apollo also likens Daphne to a dove (sic aquilam penna fugiunt trepidante columbae 1.506), while Arethusa likens her flight to doves (ut fugere accipitrem penna trepidante columbae 5.605), repeating Apollo’s penna [...] trepidante columbae.441 Apollo is close enough to hang over Daphne, breathing on her neck (tergoque fugacis / inminet et crinem sparsum cervicibus adflat 1.541-42), while Arethusa reports ingens / crinales vittas adflabat anhelitus oris (5.616-17). The main difference between these two narratives is that in the Daphne episode, Daphne is described by others, by her pursuer and by the narrator, while Arethusa narrates her own story.

vii) Lucretian Reminiscences

In her song, Calliope includes a passage that may engage directly with Lucretius. The Rape occurs while Persephone is playing in a locus amoenus near Henna, and the language that Ovid uses in this passage may pun on one of the more famous puns in the De rerum natura, in the praise of Ennius (DRN 1.114-26). Ovid begins haud procul Hennaeis; by using the ablative of the adjectival Henna, he thus uses the form which most closely resembles Ennius. This verbal similarity is strengthened by the fact that Henna is also called Enna. Lucretius has Ennius bring down a garland perenni fronde (118), while, in a reference to Ennius’ Dream of Homer, he calls Homer semper florens

441 Doves and lambs are among Ovid’s favourite similes for rape victims, appearing also in Ars amatoria I as a description of the Sabine women: ut fugiunt aquilas, timidissima turba, columbae, / ut fugit invisos agna novella lupos, / sic illae timuere viros sine more ruentes (Ars. 1.117-19). 158

(1.124). Ovid’s perpetuum ver est (5.391) neatly captures the vernal imagery of the De rerum natura passage, while his silva coronat (5.388) recalls fronde coronam. Since such language in the De rerum natura passage has a metapoetic purpose, it is likely that Calliope’s song is drawing on the metapoetic implications of perpetuum ver est, predicting permanent vitality for her song. It is also possible that the allusion to Lucretius at this point is further intended to recall the Dream of Homer, which Lucretius references in his passage - certainly, the swans of Cayster mentioned at 5.386-87 make their first appearance in poetry at Iliad 2.459-69, thus bringing Homer to mind. An allusion to the Dream of Homer, and thus to the concept of Homer as theologian or philosopher,442 in the same lines that allude to Lucretius implies a detailed awareness on the part of the Muses of philosophical thought which makes room for the gods; they are thus not opposed to philosophy as such, but to an Epicurean kind of philosophy. Lucretius places the Dream of Homer on a philosophical footing, by saying that Homer expounds rerum naturam (1.126), just as Lucretius himself does. If Ovid’s use of Hennaeis is intended to pun on Lucretius’ discussion of Ennius, this is further evidence that the Musomachia is staging a conflict between Lucretius’ De rerum natura and traditional religion. If we compare Ovid’s other description of this particular locus amoenus, we can see that Ovid does not recall Lucretius in the Fasti. The references to Lucretius are found only in the account of the “Rape” in the Metamorphoses, since it is only in that version that Ovid is contrasting philosophy and traditional piety. In the Fasti, Ovid says of Henna, valle sub umbrosa locus est aspergine multa / uvidus ex alto desilientis aquae / tot fuerant illic, quot habet natura, colores, / pictaque dissimili flore nitebat humus (4.427-30). The verbal reminiscences of Lucretius which appear in the Metamorphoses are, therefore, completely absent; even the name Henna does not appear. The Lucretian program of demythologisation, essentially adopted for the “Cosmogony”, is rejected in the “Musomachia”. Calliope’s Song recalls Lucretius in many ways, only to present an account of the “Rape of Persephone”, and thus a worldview, which Lucretius could never have accepted. Where the “Cosmogony” gave a philosophically flavoured account of the development of the world as we know it, the “Musomachia” presents an almost aggressively mythological account. The events of the “Cosmogony”, from the Golden Age to the final anthropogony, are repeated in a mythologised form. This is not to deny that there are strong mythological elements

442 On this concept, see esp. Lamberton (1989). 159

within the “Cosmogony” – the story of Deucalion and Pyrrha can hardly be deemed demythologised, for example. Nevertheless, the overriding tendency of the “Cosmogony” is towards Lucretian language and a philosophical or historical approach to the stories.443 In the “Musomachia” Ovid occludes this philosophical and historical focus and the contest between the Muses and the Pierides even dramatises the returns to myth. The gods take centre stage as gods, reinforcing traditional religion, much as Vergil does in the Georgics, when claiming that he who worships the traditional gods is fortunatus (fortunatus et ille deos quo novit agrestis / Panaque Silvanumque senem Nymphasque sorores, G. 2.493-94). However, where Vergil provides space for both philosophy and piety (felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas / atque metus omnis et inexorabile fatum / subiecit pedibus strepitumque Acherontis avari, G. 2.490-92), Ovid presents them as irreconcilable.

Conclusion

At no point should we forget that the “Musomachia” is an artistic contest. We are thus invited to judge which of the songs is the better. Ovid’s decision not to give ‘extravagant descriptions of the response of nature’ turns the spotlight on the content of the songs instead, so that the contest becomes ‘little more than a frame for various other stories’.444 We are thus encouraged to judge the content of the songs, rather than their reported aesthetic effects. Unfortunately, since we do not have unfettered access to the Pierides’ song, we cannot fully judge the accuracy of the nymphs’ decision to award victory to the Muses. The very suppression of the Pierides’ song should itself be considered, however, when we attempt to come to a judgement. The Pierides justify their challenge by accusing the Muses of deception – and the Muses’ suppression of the Pierides’ song may well support the Pierides’ argument, since it does not allow Minerva (or the reader) to make a well-informed decision. Johnson argues that the Muses’ questionable honesty should warn against aligning our (and Ovid’s) loyalties with the Muses, and consequently condemning the Pierides.445 There are, certainly, several points which might lead us to find the Muses unreliable,446 points with which, as Wheeler observes, ‘[the] poet-narrator may push his audience to dissent from the verdict

443 For a reading of the Metamorphoses as universal history, see Wheeler (2002). 444 Forbes Irving (1990), p.238. 445 Johnson (2008), p.54. 446 See, e.g. Cahoon (1996), p.49. 160

of the nymphs and Minerva; however to do so would be to occupy the same position as the gigantic Pierides’.447 This is, of course, the same warning Wheeler issues when considering the myth of Lycaon, although he does not connect the two. As with Lycaon, there is a political dimension to our choice. This political dimension is also recognised by Malamud, who includes the “Musomachia” among the stories that both ‘call into question the relationship between poetry and truth, and indicate the impossibility of separating claims to poetic inspiration from political claims to authority and power’.448 In the “Musomachia”, as in the Lycaon episode, there is also an epistemological dimension, marked by the presentation of the Pierides’ divine aspirations as Lucretian. Our choice is both political, aligning us with either the representative or the challenger of power, and epistemological, based on whose claims to truth we accept, and whose ontology. Indeed, it is difficult to separate these dimensions. Johnson calls the Pierides’ artistic strategy a ‘direct frontal assault: to meet sweet, empty deception with a full and bitter dose of honesty’.449 Like Lucretius, they posit a distinction between truth and poetic sweetness. The Muses, they charge, give only sweetness, while they themselves will unite the two. Their task is thus articulated in Lucretian terms, and their claims to truth are part and parcel of their ontology. It is worth emphasising, with Rosati, that the Pierides are like Arachne (6.103-28) in that they ‘do not intend to undermine the belief in the existence of Olympian gods (they are not atheist), but to subject them to ridicule, i.e. to undermine their authority [and] attack its ideological system, the truth of tradition, and the myths on which power bases its authority’.450 Their decision to sing of a victorious Gigantomachy is thus an attempt to undermine ‘the foundation myth of Olympian power and the source of its legitimacy’.451 The Pierides sing of the weakness of the gods in the face of an attack by Giants. For them, the status of the gods is assailable, and they themselves imitate the Giants in their attempt to gain divinity for themselves. Calliope, as we have seen, begins her account of the Rape of Persephone with a refutation of the Pierides’ main claim, that the gods are weak and, being easily overthrown, ought to yield their position to someone more capable. Where the Pierides represent the gods as weak, fleeing from Typhoeus,

447 Wheeler (1999), p.84. 448 M. Malamud (2003) ‘Pompey’s Head and Cato’s Snakes’ in CP 98.1: 31-44, p.41. 449 Johnson (2008) p.61. 450 G. Rosati (2009) ‘Latrator Anubis: Alien Divinities in Augustan Rome, and how to Tame Monsters through Aetiology’ in P.R. Hardie (2009a): 268-287, p.274. 451 Rosati (2009), p.274. 161

Calliope represents them as victorious, with Typhoeus punished. We saw in the previous chapter how the Pierides relate their song to themselves, and how Calliope turns this back on her challengers. Cahoon is right to see in Calliope’s technique an intention ‘to buttress the positions of the Muses and of the Olympians against any threat, however minor or remote, posed by mortals’.452 Calliope uses the rest of her song, the hymnic preface and her account of the Rape, to present her own vision of the gods’ nature. The preface concentrates on Ceres’ benefactions to the human race, so that we see both the power of the gods and the dependence of humans on such divine munificence. In Calliope’s account, the Rape of Persephone is an aetion for the seasonal year and the agriculture that mitigates the harshness of the seasons. The lesson for the Pierides is unmistakable: human civilisation is utterly dependent on the goodwill of the gods. Calliope shows the Pierides that their comfortable existence (which is what allows them to challenge the Muses) is available only through the beneficence of the gods. While Calliope’s focus on Ceres’ divine beneficence might imply a euhemerist view of divinity, this is quite clearly precluded by the cautionary tales of the stellio and the bubo. The power of the gods to punish mortals (not to mention the odd nymph who gets in their way, like Cyane) obviously cannot be encompassed within a euhemerist vision. Calliope is not, then, merely opposing the greater benefit of agriculture to the Pierides’ proposed benefit of philosophical poetry453 (although she is undoubtedly reversing Lucretius’ preference for Epicurus over Ceres). Rather, the cautionary tales prove that she is proposing an entirely different view of the ontological status of the gods. In their hubristic attempt to claim ontological equality with the gods, the Pierides ignore the subordinate position of humans. Calliope, therefore, scatters warnings throughout her song, admonishing the Pierides to withdraw. Ceres’ transformation of the rude boy and Persephone’s transformation of Ascalaphus are rare variants of the Persephone myth. Calliope’s inclusion of these unusual myths is clearly intended to warn the Pierides. When the Pierides refuse to heed this advice, however, they suffer the same fate as Ascalaphus and the rude boy. Their Lucretian ideals are shown to be powerless in the face of Religio.

452 Cahoon (1996), p.50. 453 The comparison of philosophy and piety that Ovid provides in the “Musomachia” parallels Vergil’s double makarismos at the end of Georgics II (G. 2.490-94). 162

In the “Musomachia”, Ovid builds on the epistemological concerns first articulated in the Lycaon myth. The Lycaon pattern is closely followed, on a scale that allows for a more detailed reading of the positions of both humans and gods. Ovid has also moved away from the Platonic model towards a more Lucretian one, in which even the moral implications of the Gigantomachy myth are overturned. Where Jupiter assigns the descriptor ‘Gigantomachic’ to Lycaon, in an attempt to cast his actions in a more negative light, the Pierides boldly claim that label for themselves, as Lucretius claims it for Epicurus. In the Lycaon episode, the Platonic Gigantomachy, with its morally repugnant Giants, prevails over the Lucretian. In the “Musomachia”, however, it is the Lucretian Gigantomachy that is the more important model for the Pierides. Like Lucretius, they give the Gigantomachy a positive interpretation, using it to symbolise their own challenge to the gods. Calliope picks up on this function of the Pierides’ Gigantomachic song, and turns the myth back on them, singing of Typhoeus’ ultimate failure, defeat and punishment. At the beginning of her song, Calliope precisely refutes the Lucretian inspiration of the Pierides in two ways. She begins, like Lucretius, with a hymn to a goddess; unlike Lucretius’ practice in the De rerum natura, however, this pious tone will be sustained throughout her song, which ends with the benefactions of Ceres. After the hymnic preface, Calliope then shows that the victorious Gigantomachy sung by and predicted for the Pierides is in fact a failure. Calliope uses the “Rape of Persephone” and its inset myths as evidence for the supreme power of gods over humans and for the tendency of gods to punish insubordination. Unfortunately, however, the Pierides pay no heed to the lessons that Calliope gives them, and are as impious and rude after Calliope’s Song as they were before it. The transformation of the Pierides into magpies thus mirrors the transformations of Ascalaphus and the rude boy in the Song. As we will see in the next chapter, however, Calliope’s own son, Orpheus, learns her lessons about the relative status of gods and humans and takes care to claim for himself a position that will not offend the gods whom he supplicates.

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Part 3

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Chapter 5: The Life and Death of Orpheus

Orpheus, musician, mystic and son of a Muse, is a natural choice for an episode interweaving the philosophical topics identified so far. Love and death, which Calliope begins to address in the “Rape of Persephone”, become central themes in the “Orpheus”, providing the context for Orpheus’ own attempt to (temporarily) blur the boundary between gods and humans. As we will see, Orpheus carefully delineates an intermediate position for himself, rather than claiming divine privileges as Lycaon and the Pierides did. Unlike the Pierides, who assert their own equality with the gods, Orpheus piously recognises that death is an insurmountable difference between humans and gods, and he seeks for Eurydice only a temporary release from death. He justifies this release by a tactful assimilation of the gods’ feelings to his own, and by involving Pluto in human laws. Orpheus weakens the boundary between the divine and the mortal primarily by highlighting their shared emotion, drawing on philosophical conceptions of emotion. Love, death, ontology and emotion are, of course, important themes in epic and tragedy, as well as in philosophy, and it is clear that the “Orpheus” draws at least as much on other genres as on philosophical literature. Nevertheless, Ovid is unlikely to have set aside his philosophical concerns, so important in other episodes, in the “Orpheus”. In this chapter, then, our focus will be on the philosophical allusions, but this does not imply that we take philosophical literature to be the only, or even primary, influence. There are many parallels between the Orpheus myth and the “Musomachia”, not least of which is the comparable structure of the two myths. Just as the “Musomachia” contains the “Rape of Persephone” as an extended embedded narrative, so does the “Orpheus” contain the “Song of Orpheus”. Furthermore, as Nagle has observed, ‘structurally, Calliope’s song is roughly the same distance from the beginning of the Metamorphoses as Orpheus’ cycle is from its conclusion’.454 By such careful

454 Nagle (1988a), p.101. 167

positioning, Ovid draws attention to the significance of these myths to the poem as a whole. Since there are many correspondences between the “Musomachia” and the “Orpheus”, particularly structural correspondences, we shall divide the “Orpheus” in the same manner as we did the “Musomachia”. In this chapter, we shall discuss the frame story of the “Orpheus” itself, leaving discussion of the inset “Song of Orpheus” to the next. Nagle further observes that each of the two miniature carmina perpetua is ‘a reprise of the themes of the larger carmen, up to the point at which the miniature occurs’.455 As we have seen, the nature of divinity, explored through the relationship of divine and mortal, is a significant theme in both Book I and Book V. Orpheus’ visit to the underworld and his plea to the infernal gods provide another vision of the relationship between god and human. In the “Rape of Persephone”, the themes of love and death begin to be intertwined. This combination is continued in the “Orpheus”, where love triumphs over death, at least partially. Orpheus’ first song, his plea to Pluto and Persephone, gives us a detailed discussion of Orpheus’ understanding of the nature of life and death. Through death, and then through love, we shall argue, Ovid explores the nature of humanity. The “Orpheus”, clearly, is not concerned with physics, as was the “Cosmogony”. Rather, in broaching the more immediate, human, concerns of the nature of humanity and humanity’s place in the cosmos, Ovid here draws on the philosophical language of ethics. These concerns first begin to be articulated in the “Lycaon”, however, and are elaborated in the “Musomachia”. It is not surprising that Ovid should choose the myth of Orpheus to develop these themes further, since Orpheus is associated not only with art and music, but also with the mysteries. He is thus an ideal vehicle for exploration of the relation of humans to gods and of the nature of mortality

i) The Divine and the Human

In Part 2, we saw how Ovid rewrites many of the themes from the “Cosmogony” in the “Musomachia”. In particular, the nature of the confrontation between the human and divine spheres is made more explicit and the Golden Age is reimagined, with the focus

455 Nagle (1988a), p.121. 168

moved from the Golden Age itself to its end in the creation of the four seasons. We might, therefore, reasonably expect that these themes will be picked up again in the “Orpheus”. At the very beginning of the “Orpheus”, we are presented with a relationship between gods and humans which is less than ideal. Orpheus succeeds in summoning Hymenaeus, but a proleptic note of discord is sounded by nequiquam (Orphea nequiquam voce vocatur, 10.3). Orpheus’ voice may have the power to summon the god of marriage from the joyful marriage of Iphis and Ianthe in Crete to his own ill- fated marriage in the country of the Cicones, but it does not have the power to ensure a propitious wedding. Instead, we are told that Hymenaeus brings neither hallowed words, nor a joyful visage, nor a lucky omen (nec sollemnia verba / nec laetos vultus nec felix attulit omen, 10.4-5). He gives only his presence (adfuit ille quidem, 10.4), as Orpheus has summoned him to do. We should note an echo of, but also the difference from, that other inauspicious wedding in the Metamorphoses, the extreme anti-wedding of Tereus and Procne in Book VI (6.428-32):

[...] non pronuba Juno, non Hymenaeus adest, non illi Gratia lecto: Eumenides tenuere faces de funere raptas, Eumenides stravere torum, tectoque profanus incubuit bubo thalamique in culmine sedit.

By contrast, Orpheus’ wedding is a normal wedding, only ill-fated because of Hymenaeus’ lack of favour. No Eumenides wield funeral torches here; Hymenaeus himself holds a torch, even if it splutters with tear-inducing smoke (lacrimoso stridula fumo, 10.6) rather than catching light (nullosque invenit motibus ignes, 10.7). With this introduction to the myth of Orpheus, we are presented with a man of extraordinary power who can command the gods’ presence, but who is unable to command their favour as well. And yet, Ovid’s readers will have known that Orpheus succeeds in gaining the favour of the underworld gods after Eurydice’s death. How, then, is he able to achieve this much, when he cannot ensure Hymenaeus’ favour? For Orpheus, the underworld gods bend the laws of mortality, but the god of marriage will not so much as smile. We are told nothing about the way in which Orpheus summons Hymenaeus. It is left to the reader to speculate whether Orpheus’ summoning was more hubristic than a traditional kletic prayer should be, rather than pious and humble, and should thus be

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compared with Lycaon and the Pierides. When it comes to the underworld gods, on the other hand, we are in a much stronger position. Ovid famously departs from Vergil’s version of the Orpheus myth in Georgics IV by providing in direct speech the song that Orpheus sang and by omitting the Aristaeus frame.456 Hill notes that these differences are so major as to provoke comparison; ‘[e]verything that Virgil omits, Ovid dwells upon and everything that Virgil concentrates on, Ovid changes or omits.’457 The inclusion of the song, in particular, allows us to examine the production of the effect that it has on its audience. In allowing us to see only the effect, Vergil requires his audience to rely on their imagination. More than this, we are encouraged to assume that the song Orpheus sings in the Georgics is more moving than any audience can imagine. It is undoubtedly sublime, perhaps even ineffable, and certainly beyond even Vergil’s powers to recreate.458 In providing a ‘transcript’ of the song itself, Ovid invites us to examine the connection between cause and effect, precisely the kind of examination that Vergil so carefully disallows and which Ovid introduces in his account of the “Musomachia”. With Vergil’s silence, we can imagine that Orpheus sings the greatest love song possible, that it is perfect and deservingly moves the gods to pity. In the Metamorphoses, Ovid forces us to confront the nature of Orpheus’ song. This demands much more careful attention and thought than does Vergil’s version. It is not enough to say that Ovid simply lacks Vergil’s decorous and prudent taste in concealing the song.459 A second possibility is not wholly satisfactory: the argument that Ovid is deliberately ridiculous here.460 Ovid’s intention is clearly different from Vergil’s – his version is not simply a failed Georgics account – and that intention requires the inclusion of the song. It is clear that, by including the song to Persephone, Ovid is

456 Ovid includes a brief account of Aristaeus’ loss of his bees in the Fasti (Fast. 1.363-80), although he makes no mention there of Eurydice or Orpheus. 457 D.E. Hill. (1992) ‘From Orpheus to Ass’s Ears: Ovid Metamorphoses 10.1-11.193’ in T. Woodman & J. Powell (1992): 124-137, p.125. Hill includes a detailed list of differences, pp.125-6. 458 I am grateful to David Konstan for pointing out that Apollonius Rhodius quotes Orpheus’ song directly at Argonautica 1.496-511. Ovid is thus returning to the Apollonian model, in the face of Vergil’s rejection of that model. 459 E.g. Anderson in his commentary on Metamorphoses 6-10: “Whereas Vergil prudently avoided the challenge of reproducing the ineffable song by which Orpheus conquered death, Ovid deliberately contrives a pompous, unconvincing speech, full of witty sophistication, devoid of true emotion.” (italics mine). W.S. Anderson (1972) Ovid’s Metamorphoses Books 6-10, Oklahoma: Oklahoma UP, p.475. 460 For this view, see e.g. Otis: ‘What he wrote was parody and comedy, not tragedy. Orpheus’ long speech to Pluto and Persephone (x, 17-39) is the kind of amusing suasoria that Ovid thoroughly enjoyed.’ (Otis (1966), p.184. Related to this view is Anderson’s claim that Ovid’s Orpheus is a ‘flawed poet’ (W.S. Anderson (1985) ‘The Orpheus of Virgil and Ovid: flebile nescio quid’ in J. Warden (1985): 25-50, p.47). 170

encouraging us to ask the question ‘how does this song succeed?’. The very question from which Vergil shies away is the one which Ovid imposes for us. On one level, of course, this is an instance of Ovid’s well-known poetic emulation of Vergil; but it also underpins one of Ovid’s key philosophical themes in the Metamorphoses, the relationship between the divine and the human. How can a human persuade the gods of death to unwind the fate of his beloved? While the inclusion of the song forces us to confront this question, it also provides an answer. If read as a love song, it is indeed rather disappointing. Orpheus devotes only a few lines to his love for Eurydice and the power of love (10.25-29, 38- 39):

posse pati volui nec me temptasse negabo: vicit Amor. supera deus hic bene notus in ora est; an sit et hic, dubito: sed et hic tamen auguror esse, famaque si veteris non est mentita rapinae, vos quoque iunxit Amor. [...]

quodsi fata negant veniam pro coniuge, certum est nolle redire mihi: leto gaudete duorum.

It is usually assumed that the song that restores Eurydice must be a love song,461 an assumption that underlies Anderson’s claim that in the Georgics: ‘Hades and the animals and trees do not respond so much to his art as to the vital human warmth of his love.’462 Ovid certainly frustrates this expectation; Anderson calls his Orpheus ‘a performer, egotistic, calculating, self-dramatizing’.463 Orpheus says very little about his own love for Eurydice (and nothing at all about any love she might have for him), devoting most of his verses on love to the gods’ love. Let us leave to one side any discomfort that may be felt when Orpheus refers to Persephone’s rape in terms of love and look briefly at the idea that love has the power to cross the boundary between life and death.464 Orpheus asks himself whether Love is known in the underworld, as it is in the lands of light. He divines (auguror, 10.27) that it must be, if the story of the Rape of Persephone is true. Now, there are many important and interesting ideas bound up in

461 E.g. Tarrant, who argues that ‘Ovid is surely being mischievous in claiming that this glib performance unlocked the hearts of Pluto and his bride and caused the Furies to weep. On its merits Orpheus’ speech ought to fail’ (R. Tarrant (1995) ‘Ovid and the Failure of Rhetoric”’in D. Innes, H. Hine & C. Pelling (1995): 63-74, p.72). 462 Anderson (1985), p.47. 463 Anderson (1985), p.47. 464 The theme of love in the “Orpheus” will be discussed in more detail below. 171

this, but for the moment we are concerned with the relationship between mortal and immortal creatures. First of all, in choosing the word auguror, Orpheus is presenting himself as an augur,465 as one who perceives what is already fated, already the will of the gods. He does not force Pluto and Persephone to recognise Love, but divines that they already do. As augur, Orpheus stands between gods and humans, informing the latter of the will of the former.466 It is a role that puts him in a powerful position, while still clearly subordinating him to the gods; we should compare Horace’s definition of Orpheus as sacer interpresque deorum (AP 391). The role of augur establishes a special relationship between Orpheus and the underworld gods, but it does not elevate Orpheus to their level. This, we may remember, was the hubris that so offended the Muses when displayed by the Pierides, and that offended Jupiter when implied by Lycaon. Orpheus avoids such a misstep; he only reminds Pluto and Persephone that they recognise the power of Love. And yet, through this reminder, he subtly contrives to set the underworld gods in a position favourable to him. Those subject to love are all on the same level (cf. Vergil’s Georgics: omne adeo genus in terris hominumque ferarumque, / et genus aequoreum, pecudes pictaeque volucres, / in furias ignemque ruunt: amor omnibus idem, 3.242-44, although Vergil does not extend this to the gods). This is the second important feature of the love verses. Although Orpheus deliberately assumes a status that is associated with, but subordinate to, the gods, he also claims a certain parity between himself and the gods. When Orpheus sings vos quoque iunxit Amor (10.29), that quoque is particularly eloquent. In their subjugation to Love, Orpheus and the underworld gods are on the same level, or at least in an ontological continuum. The shared experience of love can be expected to create a reciprocal bond, to move the gods to pity a man with whose loss they are able to sympathise. Love creates a sympathy of feeling. Both human and god feel love, and this brings them closer to each other. Although most of Orpheus’ song is not concerned with love, an important part of his appeal to love consists in the common ground that it forms between god and human. The way in which Orpheus gains the pity of the infernal gods is seems to be influenced by ancient philosophical conceptions of pity. In the Rhetoric, Aristotle

465 One is, however, tempted to wonder whether there is also a veiled reference to Augustus? 466 Orpheus also holds this intermediate position as a vates; Ovid refers in the Fasti to the sacred position of the vates: fas mihi praecipue voltus vidisse deorum, / vel quia sum vates, vel quia sacra cano (Fast. 6.7-8). Note that Orpheus is called a vates no fewer than 10 times (10.12, 82, 89, 143, 11.2, 8, 19, 27, 38, 68) and a heros only once (10.50). I am grateful to David Konstan for reminding me of the sacral nature of the vates in connection with Orpheus. 172

defines pity as ‘a kind of pain in the case of an apparent destructive or painful harm in one not deserving to encounter it,’ and qualifies this by adding that this is the kind of painful harm that ‘one might expect oneself, or one of one’s own, to suffer, and this when it seems near’.467 There are two essential components to this conception of pity. First, the pitiable individual must be innocent and undeserving of the particular misfortune. This proviso is also to be found in Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations, where Cicero reports a Stoic definition of pity as aegritudo ex miseria alterius iniuria laborantis (Tusc. 4.8.18).468 Second, the pitying individuals must recognise a similarity between themselves and the pitied. As Konstan puts it, ‘the pain entailed in pity, according to Aristotle, derives from the awareness that we might ourselves suffer a like misfortune’.469 Nussbaum has argued that a similar view of pity informs Sophocles’ Philoctetes.470 Philoctetes is pitiable only while he bears no responsibility for his unhappy situation; the chorus stops pitying Philoctetes once he has refused his chance to leave the island (1095-1101) and Neoptolemus explicitly states that when men willingly persist in pain ‘it is not right for anyone to pardon them or have compassion among them’.471 Now, this understanding of pity may not have been universal, nor are we justified in assuming that Ovid is alluding directly to the Aristotelian view. Nevertheless, Aristotle’s formulation agrees with the view of pity (at least occasionally) expressed in Greek literature and with that found in Cicero (although Cicero makes no mention of the ‘vulnerability principle’472 which ensures that the pitier recognises his or her own susceptibility to misfortune). Indeed, albeit in a different context, Horace draws a distinction between trouble which is self-inflicted and that which is imposed by circumstance (tuo vitio rerumne labores / nil referre putas? Sat. 1.2.76-77). The

467 ἔστω δὴ ἔλεος λύπη τις ἐπὶ φαινομένῳ κακῷ φθαρτικῷ ἢ λυπηρῷ τοῦ ἀναξίου τυγχάνειν, ὃ κἂν αὐτὸς προσδοκήσειεν ἂν παθεῖν ἢ τῶν αὑτοῦ τινα, καὶ τοῦτο ὅταν πλησίον φαίνηται, Rhet. 2.8.1385b13- 16. 468 Graver observes that Cicero’s definition is very close to Aristotle’s and compares in particular Cicero’s lack of pity for the parricide and traitor (nemo enim parricidae aut proditoris supplicio misericordia commovetur, Tusc.4.8.18) to Aristotle’s (οἷον τοὺς πατραλοίας καὶ μιαιφόνους, ὅταν τύχωσι τιμωρίας, οὐδεὶς ἂν λυπηθείη χρηστός, Rhet. 2.9.4). M. Graver (2002) Cicero on the Emotions: Tusculan Disputations 3 and 4, Chicago: Chicago UP, pp.143, 146. 469 D. Konstan (2008a) The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature, Toronto: University of Toronto Press, pp. 211-2. See also D. Konstan (2001) Pity Transformed, London: Duckworth, esp. p.50. 470 M.C. Nussbaum (2001) Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions, Cambridge: CUP, p.315. 471 ἀνθρώποισι τὰς μὲν ἐκ θεῶν / τύχας δοθείσας ἔστ᾽ ἀναγκαῖον φέρειν: / ὅσοι δ᾽ ἑκουσίοισιν ἔγκεινται βλάβαις, / ὥσπερ σύ, τούτοις οὔτε συγγνώμην ἔχειν / δίκαιόν ἐστιν οὔτ᾽ ἐποικτίρειν τινά (Soph. Philoctetes 1316-20). Compare also the position of Κράτος in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound. Κράτος berates Hephaestus for pitying Prometheus, retorting ὁρῶ κυροῦντα τόνδε τῶν ἐπαξίων (70). 472 Konstan (2001), p.50. 173

Aristotelian concept of pity is, therefore, helpful in drawing out some of the implications of Orpheus’ plea. Orpheus does indicate that he and Eurydice do not deserve the misfortune that they suffer, by describing the snake as a thief who stole Eurydice’s growing years (vipera [...] crescentesque abstulit annos, 10.24) and by emphasising the injustice of her premature death (cum iustos matura peregerit annos, iuris erit vestri, 10.36-37). This, of course, casts Orpheus and Eurydice as the victims of a crime.473 We shall discuss the legal nature of Orpheus’ claim later, but for now let us observe that, as a victim, Orpheus is innocent and deserving of pity. When he is no longer innocent, he is no longer pitied. Having failed to observe the legem placed on him (10.50), Orpheus is forbidden a second attempt (10.72-73). After complaining that the Tartarean gods are cruel (esse deos Erebi crudeles questus, 10.76) Orpheus takes himself off to Haemus and Rhodope. Once Orpheus breaks the legem, the fragile bond between human and divine that his song forged is shattered. Where the gods once pitied his grief and attempted to assuage it, they now forbid him even to try and reforge the connection. We can perhaps speculate that, with the source of entrancement removed, the gods become aware of the dangerous boundary-crossing in which Orpheus has made them complicit. Or we might propose that Orpheus is permitted only one chance. After all, if the ancient conception of pity requires the innocence of the pitied, Orpheus is no longer eligible to receive it. He is responsible for his backward glance, and thus for Eurydice’s second death. He is thus not deserving of pity according to the Aristotelian definition and to Sophocles’ depiction of Philoctetes. The complaint that the gods are cruel (crudeles, 10.76), may indicate that the reason for Charon’s refusal is that the gods of Erebus no longer pity Orpheus.474 This suggests that Orpheus himself does not agree with the view that responsibility for one’s misfortunes removes one’s eligibility for pity (at least in his own case). However, the gods themselves appear to be acting in accordance with the understanding of pity formulated in Aristotle’s Rhetoric.

473 See especially R. VerSteeg & N. Barclay (2003) ‘Rhetoric and Law in Ovid’s Orpheus’ in Law & Literature 15.3: 395-420. 474 Note that there is no question of forgiveness. Once Orpheus makes himself ineligible for pity, he can have no recourse to forgiveness. Vergil makes this explicit in the Georgics, saying that Orpheus’ furor would be worthy of forgiveness, if the shades knew how to forgive (ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere manes, G. 4.489). I am grateful to David Konstan for drawing my attention to the lack of forgiveness among Greco-Roman gods. 174

We now come to the second essential component of pity: the recognition by the pitying individuals of a similarity between themselves and the pitied. This aspect of ancient pity is well represented in literature, appearing, among others, in the Iliad, the Philoctetes and the Aeneid.475 As part of his plea that Neoptolemus should pity him and bring him home, Philoctetes declares that misfortune may fall upon any man,476 the implication being that Neoptolemus is equally vulnerable, and should therefore pity Philoctetes. At Iliad 24.485-506, too, Priam ‘points out the vulnerability [Achilles] shares with [mortals] through the old age of a beloved father’.477 Again, the idea that one’s own vulnerability to suffering enables one to have pity for another appears, explicitly, at Aeneid 1.630, when Dido says non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco.478 If the gods are to pity Orpheus, they must consider themselves similar to him, and they must, in particular, be aware that they could suffer the same misfortune. Since they are immortal, would the gods be naturally incapable of sympathising with the death of a loved one? Konstan finds that ‘if invulnerability to misfortune abolishes pity, it should follow that pity must be alien to the gods, who are vastly more powerful than human beings and live forever’.479 However, the gods are vulnerable to grief, since a god might lose a beloved mortal. In Iliad 16, for example, Zeus is moved to pity for his doomed son, Sarpedon, while Hera attributes the same concern to all divine parents (note, in particular, the word ὀλοφύρεται at Il. 16.450).480 Later in Metamorphoses X, we see a god’s grief for a beloved mortal in Apollo’s grief over the death of Cyparissus. For Coleman, ‘the fact that the divine lyrist (106-08) is as powerless as his musician son (cf. 11.8) to save his beloved from death demonstrates that the gods too can be victims of the sorrows of love’.481 Both are made vulnerable to death through love.482 This

475 Nussbaum (2001), p.315. 476 νῦν δ᾽, εἰς σὲ γὰρ πομπόν τε καὐτὸν ἄγγελον / ἥκω, σὺ σῶσον, σύ μ᾽ ἐλέησον, εἰσορῶν / ὡς πάντα δεινὰ κἀπικινδύνως βροτοῖς / κεῖται παθεῖν μὲν εὖ, παθεῖν δὲ θάτερα. / χρὴ δ᾽ ἐκτὸς ὄντα πημάτων τὰ δείν᾽ ὁρᾶν, / χὤταν τις εὖ ζῇ, τηνικαῦτα τὸν βίον / σκοπεῖν μάλιστα, μὴ διαφθαρεὶς λάθῃ (Soph. Philoctetes 500-06). 477 Nussbaum (2001) p.315. Prometheus, in Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound, entreats the Chorus to feel sympathy for him, since misfortune is an affliction common to all (πίθεσθέ μοι πίθεσθε, συμπονήσατε / τῷ νῦν μογοῦντι. ταὐτά τοι πλανωμένη / πρὸς ἄλλοτ᾽ ἄλλον πημονὴ προσιζάνει, 276-78). 478 Nussbaum (2001) p.315. 479 Konstan (2001), p.106. Konstan traces pitiless gods throughout Greek tragedy at pp.107-09. 480 τοὺς δὲ ἰδὼν ἐλέησε Κρόνου πάϊς ἀγκυλομήτεω, / Ἥρην δὲ προσέειπε κασιγνήτην ἄλοχόν τε: / ὤ μοι ἐγών, ὅ τέ μοι Σαρπηδόνα φίλτατον ἀνδρῶν / μοῖρ᾽ ὑπὸ Πατρόκλοιο Μενοιτιάδαο δαμῆναι (Il. 16.431- 34). αἴ κε ζὼν πέμψῃς Σαρπηδόνα ὃν δὲ δόμον δέ, / φράζεο μή τις ἔπειτα θεῶν ἐθέλῃσι καὶ ἄλλος / πέμπειν ὃν φίλον υἱὸν ἀπὸ κρατερῆς ὑσμίνης: / πολλοὶ γὰρ περὶ ἄστυ μέγα Πριάμοιο μάχονται / υἱέες ἀθανάτων, τοῖσιν κότον αἰνὸν ἐνήσεις (Il. 16.445-49). 481 Coleman (1971), p.467. 482 Compare Seneca’s Medea, who, when noticing Jason’s love for his children, states ‘there is a place wide open for a wound’ (sic natos amat?/ bene est, tenetur, vulneri patuit locus, 549-50). Nussbaum 175

theme continues, as the grief of a god for the death of a beloved mortal also appears in Orpheus’ later song, in the stories of Hyacinthus and Adonis. Still, in the case of Orpheus and the infernal gods, the vulnerability under discussion is the vulnerability to losing a spouse. Pluto and Persephone are quite possibly the only gods who might understand Orpheus’ grief. Orpheus emphasises the similarity between himself and his audience when he sings vos quoque iunxit Amor (10.29). Even the language reminds us of the story of Persephone, since the use of iungo ‘echoes Venus’ exhortation to Amor; iunge deam patruo’ (5.379).483 Furthermore, Pluto does (periodically) lose Persephone, when she returns to her mother. Persephone is perhaps the only divinity who ‘dies’. Her seizure by Pluto is in many ways a symbolic death, by which Ceres loses her, while during the time she spends with her mother, she is lost to her spouse. The ancient story of the rape (fama [...] veteris [...] rapinae, 10.28) is an important part of Orpheus’ plea, since it reminds the gods of the shared bond of love, and also of the possibility of losing the beloved. Both in the bond of love and in the potential loss of the beloved, the infernal gods are similar to Orpheus. In Aristotle’s formulation, ‘[s]imilarity between the pitier and the pitied is [...] a condition for the vulnerability principle, and likewise presupposes a difference in current fortunes.’484 The subtlety and skill that Ovid’s Orpheus displays in these few lines needs to be fully appreciated. He does not sing melancholically of his own love for Eurydice – after all, why would that move the gods rather than bore them? To phrase the question in rather Lucretian terms, why would the gods feel the need to help a human in whose misery they have no part? Konstan notes that the philosophical schools, after Aristotle, drove a deep wedge between divinity and human feelings such as pity:

‘[t]he Epicureans argued that any concern for human beings must necessarily disturb the complete tranquillity that they ascribed to the gods; their gods, accordingly, took no notice at all of human affairs. The Stoics, in turn, believed that any kind of emotion or pathos was incompatible with the perfect wisdom of the sage; the ideal state was what they called “apathy”, or freedom from passion.’485

What could stir in the gods the desire to involve themselves in a mortal’s distress? Orpheus successfully stirs such a desire by cunningly invoking a shared feeling, which argues that this statement reveals the vulnerability necessary for emotion (M.C. Nussbaum (1994) The Therapy of Desire: Theory and Practice in Hellenistic Ethics, Princeton: Princeton UP, p.456). 483 G.K. Galinsky (1975) Ovid’s Metamorphoses: An Introduction to the Basic Aspects, Oxford: Basil Blackwell, p.175. 484 Konstan (2001), p.50. 485 Konstan (2001), pp.112-13. 176

instils in the gods some sense of his loss. The danger in attempting this is very great, since Ovid has shown us that the idea of common ground between gods and humans is clearly very disturbing to the gods (witness Jupiter and, especially, the Muses). Orpheus solves the problem with a single word: auguror, a word that shows that Orpheus respects the boundary between gods and humans, but also that he is a special case among mortals, a man who is closer to the gods. This closeness, however, consists in his ability to understand the will of the gods as that will is voluntarily displayed in the auspices. There is no attempt to gain power over the gods, but only to act as a medium by which the gods can proclaim their intentions. Orpheus never confronts the gods in song: ‘the poet does not challenge the authority or power of the gods at any time, even in the midst of his despair over the loss of Eurydice’.486 Orpheus, then, is not hubristic, but rather humbles himself before the gods while at the same time planting a seed of shared feeling that might, when reinforced by the rest of his song, bear fruit. Let us now turn to Orpheus’ proem, in which he sets out his intentions in order to make it clear to Pluto and Persephone that he is not attempting to seize divine prerogatives for himself, or even to avoid the ultimate fate of mortals, death. He is in no way to be perceived by them as a threat. As an initial note, we should be aware that Orpheus proclaims his subordinate status immediately: o positi sub terra numina mundi / in quem reccidimus, quicquid mortale creamus (10.17-18). He is clearly distinguishing between numina and mortals at the outset. After this invocation, however, Orpheus sings: si licet et falsi positis ambagibus oris / vera loqui sinitis, non huc, ut opaca viderem / Tartara, descendi, nec uti villosa colubris / terna Medusaei vincirem guttura monstri (10.19-22). We should note in particular the provisional, and rather subservient, language of si licet et [...] vera loqui sinitis (10.19-20). This is very close to the lines near the opening of Ovid’s Fasti, when the poet invokes Germanicus: si licet et fas est, vates rege catis habenas / auspice te felix totus ut annus eat (1.25- 26).487 Here, however, the supplication is addressed to the gods themselves, and indeed to particular gods, the gods of Tartarus. This context immediately draws to mind Vergil’s own apostrophe to the gods in Aeneid VI, when Vergil prepares to sing of

486 Johnson (2008), p.98. 487 Pagán argues that the ‘use of this phrase in the exact same metrical position here in the Metamorphoses points us to the theme of speech regulation which Denis Feeney conclusively demonstrates is a central preoccupation of the Fasti (V. Pagán (2004) ‘Speaking Before Superiors: Orpheus in Vergil and Ovid’ in R.M. Rosen & I. Sluiter (2004): 369-389, p.375). 177

Aeneas’ catabasis: di, quibus imperium est animarum, umbraeque silentes / et Chaos et Phlegethon, loca nocte tacentia late, / sit mihi fas audita loqui; sit numina vestro / pandere res alta terra et caligine mersas (Aen. 6.264-67).488 Like Vergil, then, Orpheus piously seeks permission to sing. This request does not, perhaps, seem entirely appropriate in the Metamorphoses, since Orpheus is not singing of sacred matters, of res alta terra et caligine mersas. At this stage, Orpheus is singing about Eurydice’s death, about matters which occurred in the upper realms and which are not sacred. Why, then, does he feel the need to ask permission? His request of course is in character with his pious and humble approach, but may, in fact, be intended primarily as an allusion to Vergil, to sensitise the reader to further references to Aeneid VI. It is perhaps in this light that we should read Orpheus’ reassurance to the gods that he has not come to see Tartarus, or to bind Cerberus (10.20-22). He is not, that is to say, another Aeneas or another Hercules. The reference to Hercules in this reassurance is perfectly natural; the gods would hardly be pleased with the prospect of losing Cerberus again – and we know from Aristophanes’ Frogs how well they remember and how little they forgive that transgression.489 The reference to Aeneas, if that it what it is, is, however, initially perplexing. In the first place, why does Orpheus reassure the gods that he is not a tourist? On what grounds does he expect them to welcome such news? There is certainly no indication in the Aeneid that Aeneas is at all unwelcome; rather, Vergil’s introduction of the Golden Bough makes it quite clear that Aeneas has a right to be there. Vergil takes great care to ensure that Aeneas’ piety is unstained by his catabasis and that his descent causes no distress to Persephone. Just as Orpheus reassures the gods that he is neither a Heracles nor an Aeneas, so Aeneas’ guide, the Sibyl, reassures Charon that Aeneas is no Heracles, no Theseus and no Pirithoüs (Aen. 6.399-407):

nullae hic insidiae tales (absiste moveri), nec vim tela ferunt; licet ingens ianitor antro aeternum latrans exsanguis terreat umbras; casta licet patrui servet Persephone limen. Troïus Aeneas, pietate insignis et armis, ad genitorem imas Erebi descendit ad umbras. si te nulla movet tantae pietatis imago, at ramum hunc (aperit ramum, qui veste latebat) agnoscas.

488 Aeneas did not, of course, visit Tartarus proper. However, Orpheus’ opening invites comparison with Aeneas as well as with Hercules, since both of these underwent a catabasis. 489 Aristophanes, Frogs 464-78. Thinking that he is speaking to Heracles, Aeacus calls Dionysus loathsome, shameful and stained (βδελυρός, ἀναίσχυντος, μιαρός, Fr. 465-66) because of the theft of Cerberus. 178

Orpheus imitates Aeneas by denying any wicked intent, but his inclusion of Aeneas’ visit to the underworld in the list cannot easily be explained, unless Orpheus’ desire for Eurydice’s return is to be contrasted favourably with the reception of prophecies.490 Of course, while the Metamorphoses is later than the Aeneid, the Orphic catabasis is earlier than the Aenean, and so perhaps Ovid does not intend Orpheus to be referring to Aeneas. Moreover, Aeneas was not only a tourist, but also received instruction in the underworld. Whether Orpheus is referring to Aeneas or not, the Ovidian passage does seem to recall the Aeneid and it is likely that Ovid is playing with the reader’s knowledge of the future chronology. We should see these lines as a type of recusatio: Orpheus is clearly rejecting Herculean violence, and in his reference to “seeing Tartarus” he is also claiming that his descent has a valid purpose. The trick, of course, is to convince the gods that it is valid to seek the return of a beloved. The recusatio is designed to reassure the gods that Orpheus is seeking nothing impious, that he is respectful and suppliant. They are the numina, and he is a mortal who does not wish to step over the line, but has come in search of their assistance. The relative status of god and human is reinforced. As Pagán observes, his song ‘is inflected by the unequal relation of power that exists between speaker and addressee’.491 The final lines, in which Orpheus at last requests and argues for Eurydice’s return, begin with a second invocation (10.29-31): per ego haec loca plena timoris, / per Chaos hoc ingens vastique silentia regni / Euridices, oro, properata retexite fata (10.29-31). In these lines, Orpheus is again reworking Vergil’s apostrophe: et Chaos et Phlegethon, loca nocte tacentia late (Aen. 6.265). The word ‘Chaos’ appears only four times in the Metamorphoses, at 1.7, 2.299, 10.30 and 14.404. In the former two, it refers to the primordial state of confusion; in Book I, Chaos is defined, in philosophical terms, as ante mare et terras et quod tegit omnia caelum [...] rudis indigestaque moles (1.5, 7) and in Book II the earth, burning during Phaethon’s ride, cries out si freta, si terrae pereunt, si regia caeli / in chaos antiquum confundimur (2.298-99). In each case, Chaos is described as a lack of distinction among earth, sea and sky, the opposite of the tripartite universe. In Book X, however, Chaos is apparently Tartarus, while in Book XIV, Circe summons Noctem Noctisque deos Ereboque Chaoque (14.404). Circe’s Chaos is clearly

490 I am grateful to David Konstan for this point, and also for the reminder that Aeneas leaves Hades by the ivory gate of false dreams (Aen. 6.893-98), which may in some way undermine his experience. 491 Pagán (2004), p.370. 179

not the Chaos of Books I and II, and seems to draw on the genealogical connections in Hesiod’s Theogony (‘from Χάος, Erebos and black Night came to be’, Th. 123), although the associations between Erebus and the Underworld suggest that for Circe, as for Orpheus, Chaos is linked to Tartarus. Thus, while Orpheus reuses a word designed with a philosophical, cosmogonic meaning in Book I, he strips it of this meaning and reassigns it a meaning given by Vergil in a similar context. Now, these lines in the Aeneid have occasionally been taken to indicate that Vergil is alluding to one of the Mystery Religions, probably the Eleusinian Mysteries.492 If this is indeed the case, we can perhaps make a similar claim for Orpheus. There are two particularly notable features of Orpheus’ catabasis which may support such a claim. First, Orpheus is said to approach Persephone, not Pluto, who is only mentioned in periphrasis (Persephonen adiit inamoenaque regna tenentem / umbrarum dominum, 10.15-16); and second, he asks the gods to reweave Eurydice’s fates (properata retexite fata, 10.31). Moreover, let us note that after Orpheus has sung, it is Persephone’s reaction which is described first: nec regia coniunx / sustinet oranti nec, qui regit ima, negare, 10.46-47). Persephone is consistently given pride of place over her husband. In privileging Persephone, Ovid is also following Vergil, who said that Persephone imposed the fateful law preventing a backward glance (hanc dederat Persephone legem, G.4.487). In southern Italy, Persephone’s role as queen of the dead is emphasized over her role as rape victim.493 According to some of the Orphic gold tablets, Persephone has the power to ‘determine the fate of each mortal’s soul’.494 The power to reweave a mortal’s fate would normally be expected to lie with the Parcae, who weave the original fate, but Orpheus attributes it to the underworld gods. In doing so, he must be appealing to the same aspect of Persephone as the Orphic tablets do. We are not, of course, arguing that Ovid is aware of the Orphic tradition(s) transmitted by the tablets,495 but it is suggestive that Orpheus in the underworld privileges Persephone and that he believes

492 See, e.g. G. Luck (1973) ‘Virgil and the Mystery Religions’ in AJP 94.2: 147-166. 493 R.G. Edmonds (2004) Myths of the Underworld Journey: Plato, Aristophanes, and the ‘Orphic’ Gold Tablets, Cambridge: CUP, p.57. 494 Edmonds (2004), p.57. 495 Williams, however, has suggested that some aspects of the ‘Speech of Anchises’ in Aeneid VI (713- 886) spring from ‘popular belief and folk-lore crystallized and organized by Orphic mystery religions and Pythagorean philosophy; many Orphic ideas were developed by Plato, and many were assimilated in Stoicism’ (R.D. Williams (1964) ‘The Sixth Book of the Aeneid’ in G&R 2nd ser. 11.1: 48-63, p.49). Note also the similarity between Ovid’s race of humans sanguine natos (1.162) and the Orphic tradition that humans sprang from the blood of the Titans (see Chapter 2, note 3). Tablet no.9 in Graf & Johnston’s edition comes from Rome in the second century CE. 180

her capable of deciding a soul’s fate.496 In any event, Orpheus is still clearly taking the role of suppliant, as he has consistently done, most succinctly with the word auguror (10.27). However, he is yet to define his position relative to the gods in detail. This is precisely what he begins to do, after he has completed his second Vergilian invocation. It is in these concluding lines that Orpheus lays out his understanding of mortality, and he does so by concentrating on the relationship between the mortal and the underworld gods. This choice is prefigured in Orpheus’ initial invocation of the nether gods: numina [...] in quem reccidimus, quicquid mortale creamus (10.17-18), and then receives its full elaboration in the peroration (10.32-37):

omnia debemur vobis, paulumque morati serius aut citius sedem properamus ad unam. tendimus huc omnes, haec est domus ultima, vosque humani generis longissima regna tenetis. haec quoque, cum iustos matura peregerit annos, iuris erit vestri: pro munere poscimus usum.

It has been convincingly argued that this part of Orpheus’ song, in particular, is a legal plea.497 As such, it cunningly sets the gods on the same level as Orpheus. That is to say, although Orpheus is pleading from a position of inferiority, he implies that the gods ought to respect mortal law. Orpheus acknowledges that all mortals are subject to natural law, in that they must die and be subject to Pluto and Persephone. At the same time, however, Pluto and Persephone are asked to subject themselves to human law.498 Pluto, as the paterfamilias of a household including snakes, is responsible for the years that the snake stole (abstulit, 10.24) from Eurydice.499 While Orpheus does not state in so many words that the gods are responsible for Eurydice’s death or that he has a right to reparation, this is the implication. Just as he does when discussing love, Orpheus subtly draws the gods into the realm of human affairs. The legalistic language implies common ground, as does the shared experience of love. The boundary between human

496 We might also observe that ‘all of these texts [the Orphic gold tablets] must have belonged to Dionysiac mysteries (Graf & Johnston (2007), p.63) and that Ovid explicitly connects Orpheus with Bacchic rituals (Lyaeus, / amissoque dolens sacrorum vate suorum, 11.67-68). 497 VerSteeg & Barclay (2003). 498 Ovid says that Orpheus receives his wife and at the same time the lex and the consequence of non- observance: that the gift would be inrita (10.50-52). Compare Vergil, who mentions neither the lex nor its consequence until Orpheus breaks it (G. 4.487, 519-20). By relocating these details, Ovid implies that the legal language of lex and inrita dona is Persephone’s own, that she is herself adopting the language of Roman law. On the legal implications of inritus (in the context of the Tiresias myth in Book III), see Balsley (2010) ‘Between Two Lives: Tiresias and the Law in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ in Dictynna 7: 13- 31: http://dictynna.revues.org/189#ftn14. Accessed 28/06/2011, p.17. 499 VerSteeg & Barclay (2003), pp.403, 404. 181

and god is thus confounded, at the same time that Orpheus reinforces it by acknowledging the ineluctable nature of the gods’ sovereignty. This, then, is the song that Orpheus sings in Tartarus. It is not the long song that many commentators would like it to be, nor is it merely evidence that Ovid lacks the delicacy of Vergil, who omits the song. Rather, it is carefully designed to appeal to its internal audience. It artfully involves the gods in the human affairs of love and law, while at the same time explicitly respecting the boundary between divine and human. Orpheus at no point challenges the gods or attempts to force a crossing of that boundary – as the Pierides do in Book V – but rather observes a safe distance. On the surface, Orpheus is an ideal supplicant, conscious of his inferior status and of the enormous, unbridgeable gap between himself and those he supplicates. On a deeper level, however, Ovid’s Orpheus reminds the gods of the points of connection between the divine and the mortal, and he does so by implicating the gods in human emotions. How successful is his song? Obviously Orpheus’ wish is granted and so the song has succeeded in persuading its internal audience. More importantly, however, before Persephone and Pluto yield, we are given a detailed tableau of the underworld after Orpheus has finished his song. Most of this tableau describes the reaction of mythical sinners, but the two lines describing the Eumenides are particularly important for our analysis of the relationship between gods and humans: tunc primum lacrimis victarum carmine fama est / Eumenidum maduisse genas (10.45-46). To understand the significance for Ovid of the Eumenides’ tears, we need to note that elsewhere he follows the tradition of assigning tears uniquely to humans.500 In the Fasti account of the Rape of Persephone, when Ceres interacts with humans, she associates herself with them by comparing Celeus’ happy parenthood with her loss of her daughter (heu, melior quanto sors tua sorte mea est, Fast. 4.520). Of course, since Ceres is disguised as a human woman, Celeus would not be surprised at this. For the audience, however, it is striking that Ceres seems to equate human and divine parenthood. However, the similarity between god and human thus established is immediately undermined by the narrator, who tells us that something ‘like a tear’ falls from Ceres (ut lacrimae (neque

500 Corbeill notes that Seneca also follows this tradition (ap. Augustine De civ. 6.10, cited in A. Corbeill (2009) ‘Weeping Statues, Weeping Gods and Prodigies from Republican to Early Christian Rome’ in T. Fögen (2009a): 297-310, p.300n6). This tradition is by no means universal. In the Iliad, for example, Artemis is described as tearful (δακρυόεσσα, Il. 21.493). The uncertainty over divine tears continues in Christian philosophy; Corbeill notes that early commentators deny that Jesus in his divine aspect shed tears over Lazarus (as stated in John 11.35): ‘Augustine, for example, remarks that Jesus was indeed part human “because as he was about to raise Lazarus he even poured forth tears” [De civ. 14.9]’ (Corbeill (2009), p.306). 182

enim lacrimare deorum est) /decidit in tepidos lucida gutta sinus, Fast. 4.521-22). We are quite explicitly told that gods are incapable of weeping human tears. At this moment, when Ceres’ maternal grief brings her closest to humanity, she is still on the divine side of an impermeable membrane. The gulf between her and Celeus cannot wholly be crossed by grief (or by love, which causes that grief). The idea that gods cannot weep also appears in Book II of the Metamorphoses. When the raven reveals to Apollo that his beloved Coronis is unfaithful, Apollo immediately kills his pregnant lover (2.596-605). Regretting this act, Apollo groans rather than weeps, because divine cheeks cannot be wet with tears (tum vero gemitus (neque enim caelestia tingui / ora licet lacrimis) alto de corde petitos / edidit, 2.621- 23). Elsewhere in his poetry, therefore, Ovid takes care to tell us that tears are only possible by humans, that the gods can never weep true tears.501 Thus, Ceres’ ‘tear’ is designated as ut lacrimae (Fast. 4.521), and Apollo groans instead of weeping (Met. 2.621-23). In the “Orpheus”, however, the Eumenides weep lacrimae, true tears.502 Thus, while Ovid, both in the Fasti and in an earlier book of the Metamorphoses, explicitly denies tears to the gods, in Metamorphoses 10 he equally explicitly tells us that the Eumenides – of all the possible gods! – weep tears, lacrimae. It is not sufficient to ascribe this exception to mere hyperbole. There is, Ovid implies, a real psychophysical change in the Eumenides and, by extension, in the other gods present. We should compare Vergil’s account with Ovid’s, since Vergil also mentions the Eumenides: stupuere [...] caeruleosque implexae crinibus anguis / Eumenides (G. 4.481-83). Vergil’s Eumenides are stupefied (as is Ixion’s wheel in the Metamorphoses, 10.42), but do not weep.503 The tears are Ovid’s own contribution to the story, and I submit that they are intended to show that Orpheus’ song brings the Eumenides (and by extension the other gods) into a closer relationship with the human Orpheus. We have seen how Orpheus’ song, for all its apparent observation of the divide between god and human, in fact begins to cross that divide. Now we see that the

501 Corbeill also notes these two Ovidian passages (Corbeill (2009), p.305). See Bömer (1969-86) ad 2.621. Bömer notes (ad 2.621) occasions on which gods are said to weep, mentioning Inachus (fletibus auget aquas, 1.584), Io (nec retinet lacrimas, 1.647), Juno (nil poterit Iuno nisi inultos flere dolores, 4.426) and the Nymphs (nymphae quoque flere videntur, 13.689). 502 Of the 84 words in the Metamorphoses with the root lacrim-, only two refer to the gods (excluding Io, who is sometimes identified with Isis). One of these is the denial of divine tears in the Apollo and Coronis myth in Book II, so that this reference to the Eumenides’ lacrimae is the only example of divine lacrimae in the poem. 503 Note that in Aeneid 8 Venus, speaking to Vulcan, attributes tears to Thetis and Aurora: te filia Nerei, / te potuit lacrimis Tithonia flectere coniunx (Aen. 8.383-84). 183

goddesses who might be considered the least susceptible to human emotion are conquered, victae, by Orpheus’ carmen. We are invited to infer that the gods’ divine nature has, in fact, been altered. The gods are now more human than they were before, even physiologically. The choice of the Eumenides as exemplars of this new, hybrid, nature allows Ovid to encompass all the divine figures present, since the Eumenides have the least connection with the gentler human emotions. The extraordinary power of Orpheus’ song is most succinctly illustrated by these two lines, whose true significance ought to be appreciated. Ovid is, of course, also emulating Vergil, who focuses on the effect, by having his Orpheus sing with even more astonishing effects, but the particular detail of the tears of the Eumenides, mentioned last, highlights a change in the nature of the gods. Ovid’s interest in the relationship between humans and gods appears in the first anthropogony of Book I, where the possibility that humans were created from divine substance (divino semine, 1.78) is raised. There is clearly a special relationship between gods and humans, one which also distinguishes humans from animals, and this relationship appears in both alternative anthropogonies (either divino semine or from earth retaining the seeds cognati caeli, 10.78-71), if not in the post-diluvian anthropogony. It is the connection between god and human that is one of the central issues in the Lycaon myth, and spurs the song contest of the Musomachia. Clearly, the association between humans and gods also forms a significant theme in the “Orpheus”, where Orpheus uses his artistic talent to manipulate the gods’ understanding of the relationship between themselves and this (part-)human. Unlike Lucretius and the Pierides, Orpheus never seeks to elevate humans to the level of the divine. Rather, his respectful appeal to shared experiences succeeds in bringing the divine down to the human level.

ii) The Nature of Humanity

But what is it to be human? We have seen another theme come into play with the “Musomachia” – the nature and power of love. It is Venus’ desire to expand the dominion of love that leads to Pluto’s rape of Persephone and it is Alpheus’ desire for Arethusa which results in her transformation and translocation. This theme does not appear in the “Cosmogony”, although it is central to the erotic myths of Book I, to

184

which the “Musomachia” also alludes, particularly in the Arethusa myth. Love is, of course, a significant feature in the “Orpheus”, providing the motivation for Orpheus’ catabasis just as it provides the motivation for Pluto’ rape of Persephone in Book V. In the “Musomachia”, Ceres’ love for her daughter competes with Pluto’s claim on Persephone, while in the Orpheus episode Orpheus’ love for his wife competes with Pluto’s claim on Eurydice. In each case, the power of love over death is tested, and a partial success is granted. These partial successes allow Pluto’s claims to be respected, while at the same time respecting the love of the mother and the husband. There are multiple references to the Rape of Persephone in the “Orpheus”, and these alert the reader to the intratextual interplay. As we have seen, the appeal to love is one of the ways in which Orpheus beguiles Pluto and, especially, Persephone into granting his request for Eurydice. Venus’ desire in Book V to extend her empire to the third realm, Tartarus, has clearly succeeded, and it is that success which allows Orpheus to claim common ground with the nether gods. Love transcends all boundaries, both the boundary between mortal and immortal and the boundary between living and deceased (cf. Vergil who discusses human and animal love, concluding amor omnibus idem, G. 3.244). When Orpheus divines that Pluto and Persephone were joined by Love (vos quoque iunxit Amor, 10.29), there is undoubtedly a reference not only to the Rape in general, but to Calliope’s version in Book V in particular, since it is only Calliope’s version in Book V that attributes the ultimate motivation to Venus and Cupid (5.363-84), where Cupid personally shoots Pluto with his arrow (5.384). Furthermore, Orpheus’ use of iungo ‘echoes Venus’ exhortation to Amor; iunge deam patruo’ (5.379).504 Hinds observes that Orpheus can also be expected to have Calliope’s account of Book V in mind, since Calliope is Orpheus’ mother, from whom he probably learnt the story and whom he addresses as parens at 10.148.505 While amor may be appropriate for all variants of the Rape, it is especially apposite if Orpheus means Calliope’s version, since in that version the gods of love are themselves personally responsible. By adducing Persephone’s rape, Orpheus signals an intratextual link between the “Orpheus” and “Musomachia” episodes.506

504 Galinsky (1975), p.175. 505 S. Hinds (1987), p.135. 506 For Hardie, this reference draws attention to ‘the structural parallelism between the Song of Calliope in book 5, on the rape of Persephone, and the Song of Orpheus in book 10,’ (P.R. Hardie (2002d), p.194). Johnson finds that the ‘regular association of Orpheus with the Eleusinian mysteries of Ceres and 185

In her attempt to regain Persephone, Ceres pleads with the divine ruler, Jupiter. The words she uses would be equally applicable to Orpheus’ case; she says that the finding of Persephone only reveals that she is truly lost: si reperire vocas amittere certius, aut si / scire, ubi sit, reperire vocas. quod rapta, feremus, / dummodo reddat eam (5.519-21). The peculiar situation of a mourner, who knows precisely where the deceased is and that the deceased is at the same time utterly irretrievable is poignantly expressed, and Orpheus is as much in this situation as is Ceres. The mixed sense of theft and rape expressed by rapta applies equally to Eurydice; in the Georgics she is described as rapta bis (4.504), while in the Metamorphoses Orpheus refers to her death as a theft: vipera [...] crescentesque abstulit annos (10.24). Ovid’s Orpheus, however, avoids the use of rapta to describe Eurydice, just as he rejects Vergil’s framing rape narrative. Ceres justifies her demand for restitution through frequent references to her position as mother, with a secondary justification being Jupiter’s own fatherhood. VerSteeg and Barclay have analysed the legal claims made by Orpheus, which ultimately also rest on his social position as Eurydice’s husband.507 They hold that Orpheus’ complaint is based on marriage and property law and on a distinction between his ownership and Pluto’s possession.508 Orpheus as husband, probably cum manu,509 thus has the right to plead on Eurydice’s behalf, just as Ceres’ position as mother gives her the right to plead for Persephone. Both Ceres and Orpheus plead for their woman’s rights, and their own, to be acknowledged. Ceres says to Jupiter neque enim praedone marito / filia digna tua est (5.521-22), with digna indicating that Persephone’s rights have been violated, and that through Persephone’s violation Jupiter’s rights have also been ignored. Orpheus assures Pluto that Eurydice will return to the Underworld once she has lived iustos annos (10.36), with iustus indicating that Eurydice’s right to a fair number of years has been violated. Both Ceres and Orpheus assert the power of their rights over death, and their socially recognised love for the lost women gives a position from which to do so.

Persephone [...] provides another link between Orpheus and the book 5 contests,’ (P.J. Johnson (2008), p.99). 507 R. VerSteeg & N. Barclay (2003). 508 R. VerSteeg & N. Barclay (2003), p.403. This idea is also found in Cicero’s Tusculan disputations; compare graviter feras te, quod utendum acceperis, reddidisse (Tusc. 3.17.36) with pro munere poscimus usum (10.37). 509 VerSteeg, R. & Barclay, N. (2003), p.403. 186

Through love, Orpheus comes close to death. For the sake of his beloved, he travels to the abode of the dead and even threatens to stay there. With this, we might also compare the story of Cyparissus in Book X. When Cyparissus is responsible for the death of his beloved stag, he resolves on death (velle mori statuit, 10.132). Like Orpheus, Cyparissus’ love renders him incapable of mourning within appropriate limits (compare posse pati volui .. vicit Amor, 10.25-26, with ut leviter pro materiaque doleret / admonuit, 10.133-34). There is clearly a sense that a death ought to be mourned with moderation, but the excessive love felt by Orpheus and Cyparissus precludes any moderation in grief. The concept of mourning within limits is doubtless drawn from the tradition of the consolatio, which ‘discouraged an enduring fixation on mourning, but did not disapprove of or seek to hinder the anguish that follows immediately upon loss’.510 This, indeed, is precisely the approach that Ovid himself refers to elsewhere in his poetry. In the Remedia amoris, Ovid compares the curing of love to the consolation of grief, saying that it is useless to advise the bereaved not to grieve; rather consolatory counsels should be attempted once the bereaved has passed through the initial, overwhelming, stage of grief (quis matrem, nisi mentis inops, in funere nati / flere vetet? non hoc illa monenda loco est. / cum dederit lacrimas animumque impleverit aegrum, / ille dolor verbis emoderandus erit, Rem. 127-30). Konstan distinguishes the brute sense of loss from pathological mourning, which occurs when beliefs about death cause grief to exceed ‘its natural limits and [become] morbid and permanent’.511 Orpheus’ belief that Eurydice’s death involved the theft of a fair number of years is a belief of such a kind as to transform the natural pang of grief into pathological melancholia. Cyparissus is transformed so that he can mourn forever (10.134-39), but Orpheus in fact fails to carry out his threat; he does not commit suicide once Eurydice is lost to him a second time. Heath argues that Orpheus’s refusal to die proves that his threat is ‘no more than sophistic posturing’.512 He identifies a probable allusion to Plato’s Symposium,513 where Phaedrus criticises Orpheus’ failure to die for love, calling it cowardice:

Even the gods give special honour to zeal and courage in concerns of love. But Orpheus, son of Oeagrus, they sent back with failure from Hades, showing him only a wraith of the woman for whom he came; her real self they would not bestow, for he was accounted to

510 D. Konstan (forthcoming) ‘Lucretius and the Epicurean Attitude towards Grief’ in D. Laroux, A. Morrisson & S. Sharrock (edd.) (forthcoming) Lucretius: Poetry, Philosophy, and Science, Oxford: OUP. 511 Konstan (forthcoming). 512 J. Heath (1996) ‘The Stupor of Orpheus: Ovid’s Metamorphoses 10.64-71’ in CJ 91.4: 353-370, p.366. 513 Heath (1996), pp.366-67. 187

have gone upon a coward's quest, too like the minstrel that he was, and to have lacked the spirit to die as Alcestis did for the sake of love, when he contrived the means of entering Hades alive. Wherefore they laid upon him the penalty he deserved, and caused him to 514 meet his death at the hands of women.

The story of Cyparissus and his immoderate grief may be an attempt to answer Phaedrus’ criticism. The desire to die for love is clearly marked as excessive. Had Orpheus committed suicide, he would not have been exercising his courage; he would have been guilty of submitting to an excessive passion. The idea of moderating, rather than extirpating, grief is Peripatetic in origin, drawing on the Peripatetic doctrine of metriopatheia. It is thus in agreement with Orpheus’ manipulation of pity. Cicero observes that for Peripatetics, pity ensures assistance for those suffering undeservedly (misericordiam ad opem ferendam et hominum indignorum calamitates sublevandas, Tusc. 4.20.46). Both pity and grief in the “Orpheus” thus draw on Peripatetic views of emotion. Manning observes that the Peripatetic theory of emotions is used in Seneca’s consolationes, and only in the consolationes.515 In our discussion of the “Musomachia”, it became apparent that Ovid had reassigned a detail from one of his models, the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, to his account of the “Cosmogony”. In the same way, a detail from the Hymn is displaced to Orpheus’ plea. In the Hymn, Demeter causes famine and then, in conference with Jupiter, ‘she said that she would never set foot on fragrant Olympus, or allow the earth’s fruit to come up, until she set eyes on her fair-faced daughter’ (H.Dem. 331-33). Demeter abandons her duties in causing the Famine and then, as part of her demand for Persephone’s restitution, refuses to renew those duties and threatens to abandon her native sphere, Olympus. In the Metamorphoses, however, Ceres merely causes the Famine, without the accompanying threat in her plea. This threat is instead placed in the mouth of Orpheus: quodsi fata negant veniam pro coniuge, certum est / nolle redire mihi: leto gaudete duorum (10.38-39). As Demeter (and Ceres) first abandons her earthly duties, so too does Orpheus in descending to the Underworld. More importantly, Orpheus also threatens to refuse those duties permanently and to quit (prematurely) his natural sphere,

514 οὕτω καὶ θεοὶ τὴν περὶ τὸν ἔρωτα σπουδήν τε καὶ ἀρετὴν μάλιστα τιμῶσιν. Ὀρφέα δὲ τὸν Οἰάγρου ἀτελῆ ἀπέπεμψαν ἐξ Ἅιδου, φάσμα δείξαντες τῆς γυναικὸς ἐφ᾽ ἣν ἧκεν, αὐτὴν δὲ οὐ δόντες, ὅτι μαλθακίζεσθαι ἐδόκει, ἅτε ὢν κιθαρῳδός, καὶ οὐ τολμᾶν ἕνεκα τοῦ ἔρωτος ἀποθνῄσκειν ὥσπερ Ἄλκηστις, ἀλλὰ διαμηχανᾶσθαι ζῶν εἰσιέναι εἰς Ἅιδου. τοιγάρτοι διὰ ταῦτα δίκην αὐτῷ ἐπέθεσαν, καὶ ἐποίησαν τὸν θάνατον αὐτοῦ ὑπὸ γυναικῶν, (Symp. 179D). 515 C.E. Manning (1974) “The Consolatory Tradition and Seneca’s Attitude to the Emotions” in G&R 21.1: 71-81, esp. p.78. 188

the earth. In formulating this intention, he goes further than Demeter is able to, since the goddess cannot die. She can withdraw, but she cannot force a reunion with Persephone as Orpheus threatens to force a reunion with Eurydice. The reassignment of this detail from the Rape to the Orpheus episode, while maintaining the context of the threat (a plea or demand for the recovery of a beloved woman from Pluto), indicates a deliberate attempt on Ovid’s part to link the “Musomachia” and the Orpheus cycle. Significantly, Ovid is employing the technique we have identified as ‘connective displacement’, the same technique with which he had earlier linked the “Musomachia” to the “Cosmogony”, that is, by creating a connection by omitting a detail from its original myth while using it in another myth in an analogous context. Connective displacement allows Ovid to develop a web of connections among the three myths of the “Cosmogony”, the “Musomachia” and the “Orpheus”. Another instance of such connective displacement may be identified in Orpheus’ seven-day fasting, since Demeter in the Homeric Hymn fasts (for nine days), but Calliope’s Ceres is merely thirsty (H.Dem. 47-50; Met. 10.73-75; Met. 5.446-47).516 It is clear that Orpheus and Ceres are in analogous situations, although the mortality of the former and the divinity of the latter entail significant differences (for all Orpheus’ ability to confound the distinction between human and god); in particular, Ceres may not venture to the Underworld to retrieve her daughter personally. For the same reason, she is not able to threaten to remove to the Underworld as Orpheus does. Each, however, does descend to a lower sphere in quest of the beloved. Both Orpheus and Ceres are faced with the task of rescuing a beloved woman from Tartarus, and each achieves only partial success. Complete success, in each case, depends on the observation of a lex. Jupiter says that Persephone may return lege tamen certa, for this is the decree of the Parcae (5.531-32). Orpheus is granted his wife simul et legem (10.50) and he has also referred to the will of the Fates in his threat (quodsi fata negant, 10.38). In neither case is the lex observed, but for Persephone a compromise is found. No such compromise is available to Orpheus, and joy is transformed to grief – until the reunion scene after Orpheus’ death when he joins Eurydice in the Underworld (11.61- 66). Ovid does not tell us who imposes the lex on Orpheus, although Vergil writes hanc dederat Persephone legem (G. 4.487). Does Ovid’s Persephone impose a condition on Eurydice’s recovery from the Underworld, as a condition was imposed on hers? Or is it

516 Callimachus adds the detail that Demeter does not wash while she fasts and searches for Persephone (Hymn 6.16). Compare Ovid’s description of the fasting Orpheus as squalidus (Met. 10.74). 189

the will of the Fates, as Orpheus’ closing reference to the Fates and the recollection of the decree Parcarum imply, just as is Persephone’s own lex in the “Musomachia”? Intertextuality with Vergil implies Persephone’s agency, while intratextuality implies that it is the decision of the Parcae. While the legalistic language of Orpheus’ peroration does have the effect of binding the gods more closely to human affairs, these lines are also clearly a meditation on the nature of mortality and the status of the gods of Tartarus. Orpheus is attempting to convince the gods that he is not seeking a reversal of natural law, and that he does not want to thwart their divine rights. These two things, natural law and divine rights, are presented as being the same. The natural law of mortality is presented in terms of Pluto’s dominion, so that mortality is humanity’s relationship with the underworld gods. This section of the song should be read as a cosmological discussion parallel to Anchises’ speech at Aeneid 6.713-51 and even to Orpheus’ song in Argonautica 1.317- 518.517 However, Orpheus’ song in the Metamorphoses is closer to Anchises’ discussion of the nature of souls in the Aeneid than it is to Orpheus’ material cosmogony in the Argonautica. The nature of mortality is the subject of both Anchises’ instruction of Aeneas and Orpheus’ plea to the nether gods. Orpheus, however, makes no mention whatsoever of metempsychosis; on the contrary, he tells Pluto that haec est domus ultima (10.34). For Orpheus, invoking a legal discourse, mortals have a right to a fair number of years, after which they must surrender themselves finally and permanently to Pluto. The “Orpheus”, however, has very little to tell us about the existence of the dead. Vergil describes the reaction of both mythical sinners and ordinary souls to Orpheus’ song (G. 4.471-84). Ovid, however, merely observes that Orpheus passes through ‘insubstantial throngs and buried souls’ (leves populos simulacraque functa sepulcro, 10.14) and then elaborates on Vergil’s description of mythical sinners (10.41- 46):

exsangues flebant animae; nec Tantalus undam captavit refugam, stupuitque Ixionis orbis, nec carpsere iecur volucres, urnisque vacarunt Belides, inque tuo sedisti, Sisyphe, saxo. tunc primum lacrimis victarum carmine fama est Eumenidum maduisse genas.

517 For the influence of the De rerum natura on Anchises’ speech in Aeneid VI, see P.R. Hardie (2007) ‘Lucretius and Later Latin Literature in Antiquity’ in S. Gillespie & P.R. Hardie (2007a): 111-130, pp. 113-4. 190

If we compare Vergil’s version, we can better appreciate Ovid’s points of emphasis (G. 4.471-76, 481-84):

at cantu commotae Erebi de sedibus imis umbrae ibant tenues simulacraque luce carentum, quam multa in foliis avium se milia condunt, Vesper ubi aut hibernus agit de montibus imber, matres atque viri defunctque corpoa vita magnanimum heroum, pueri innuptaeque puellae, [...] quin ipsae stupuere domus atque intima Leti Tartara caeruleosque implexae crinibus anguis Eumenides, tenuitque inhians tria Cerberus ora, atque Ixionii vento rota constitit orbis.

Vergil’s account is dominated by categorisation of the dead (4.471-80) with only a few lines devoted to more specific, mythological, inhabitants of Tartarus. Vergil repeats three lines from Book VI of the Aeneid: matres atque viri, defunctaque corpora vita / magnanimum heroum, pueri innuptaeque puellae / impositique rogis iuvenes ante ora parentum (A. 6.306-08 = G. 4.475-77), thereby endowing them with enhanced significance. Ovid compresses Vergil’s six lines into three words, but expands significantly on the single Vergilian line devoted to mythical sinners. For Vergil, Ixion’s wheel comes to a stop (consitit, G. 4.484), but Ovid not only has the wheel stop (stupuit, 10.42), but also mentions Tantalus, Tityos, Sisyphus and the Belides. In the Metamorphoses, the ordinary souls are downplayed, almost erased, while the mythological sinners are elevated. Ovid has excluded only Cerberus from Vergil’s list – and Heath notes that Cerberus is used later to strengthen comparisons with Hercules,518 so that by excluding him here Ovid avoids awkward repetition. We have already discussed the importance of Ovid’s account of the Eumenides, and will concern ourselves here with the mortal experience of death. It is interesting that Orpheus is allowed to describe the ordinary experience of death, as he does in the final lines of his song to Pluto and Persephone. Ovid allows for the existence of leves populos, simulacra functa sepulcro and exsangues animae (10.14, 41), but says nothing at all about them. Each of these three descriptions, moreover, highlights the ethereal nature of the deceased souls. Where Vergil categorises the dead according to their status in life, Ovid dissolves those categories and calls all the dead insubstantial, picking up Vergil’s umbrae tenues (G. 4.472) and Homer’s νεκροὶ / ἀφραδέες [...] βροτῶν εἴδωλα

518 Heath (1996), passim. 191

καμόντων (Od. 11.475-76). At this point in the narrative, there is no trace of humanity or individuality in the souls of the dead, except for the mythical sinners. Ovid has, in fact, carefully grafted references to Vergil onto Lucretian stocks. The very fact that Orpheus undergoes a catabasis indicates a departure from Lucretian doctrine: a less Lucretian setting than a literal catabasis can scarcely be imagined. Lucretius tells us that nec miser inpendens magnum timet aere saxum / Tantalus, ut fama est, cassa formidine torpens [...] nec Tityon volucres ineunt Acherunte iacentem [...] Sisyphus in vita quoque nobis ante oculos est (3.980-81, 984, 995) and also interprets the Belides, Cerberus and the Furies as allegories (3.1003-23). This list appears almost complete in the Metamorphoses, with Cerberus excluded and Ixion (in order to allude also to Vergil) added. Lucretius’ painstaking rationalisation is overwritten, and the reality of these mythical beings asserted. In a single passage, Ovid succeeds in undoing Lucretius’ Tartarean allegories and in reversing Vergil’s emphasis, so that Vergil’s categorisation of ordinary souls is effectively effaced by Ovid’s elaborated description of the mythical sinners. However, we later discover that a high degree of individuality can remain among the dead. When Orpheus himself dies, Ovid says (11.61-66):

umbra subit terras, et quae loca viderat ante, cuncta recognoscit quaerensque per arva piorum invenit Euridicen cupidisque amplectitur ulnis; hic modo coniunctis spatiantur passibus ambo, nunc praecedentem sequitur, nunc praevius anteit Eurydicenque suam iam tuto respicit Orpheus.

Orpheus, clearly, does not become one of the nameless crowd of wraiths that he passes through on his way to Persephone and Pluto.519 There is a dual emphasis in this passage, on Orpheus’ love for Eurydice and on his memory. We are concerned with the latter at present. Orpheus remembers (recognoscit, 10.62) the infernal places that he once visited, and his love for Eurydice remains. Eurydice’s own perspective is not mentioned at this point, but the implication is that she also remembers herself. Orpheus, who understands the nature of mortality and of death, retains his memory after death. The fact that most other denizens of Ovid’s underworld are stripped of all vestiges of individuality suggests that Orpheus’ memory is significant, setting him apart from the

519 Recall that there are individual souls in Vergil’s underworld as well. Besides those dwelling in Elysium (including Orpheus himself: nec non Threicius longa cum veste sacerdos / obliquitur numeris septem discrimina vocum, / iamque fidem digitis, iam pectine pulsat eburno, Aen. 6.645-47), Vergil refers, among others, to the souls of Palinurus, Dido who retain the memory of their former selves (Aen 6.33-83, 450-76). 192

vast majority of mortals; in Part 4 we will find that Ovid places a corresponding emphasis on Pythagoras’ memory.

iii) The Natural World

The unique relationship between Orpheus and the world also manifests itself immediately after his death, when the natural world mourns for him in a moving pathetic fallacy (11.44-49):

te maestae volucres, Orpheu, te turba ferarum, te rigidi silices, te carmina saepe secutae fleverunt silvae, positis te frondibus arbor tonsa comas luxit; lacrimis quoque flumina dicunt increvisse suis, obstrusaque carbasa pullo naides et dryades passosque habuere capillos.

The language of this lamentation clearly refers back to Vergil, although Ovid famously omits from Orpheus’ lament for Eurydice the emotional apostrophe that characterised Vergil’s account. In the Georgics, Proteus tells Aristaeus (G. 4.464-66) te, dulcis coniunx, te solo in litore secum / te veniente die, te decedente canebat. Ovid merely says quam satis ad superas [...] Rhodopeius auras / deflevit vates (10.11-12). When Orpheus himself dies, however, the Vergilian apostrophe makes its appearance.520 Ovid has again used his technique of connective displacement in transposing a detail from his source text to another context and thus forming a connection between Orpheus’ lament for Eurydice and the natural world’s lament for Orpheus. We have already seen how Orpheus positions himself midway between god and mortal, blurring the boundary between the two. The pathetic fallacy vividly shows us that Orpheus occupies a similar position between mortals and the natural world. When Orpheus dies, the natural world reacts as one would expect humans to react. In singing to Pluto and Persephone, Orpheus brought a degree of humanity to the nether gods. Orpheus narrows the gap between divine and human by bringing the divine nearer to the level of the human, rather than by elevating the human to the level of the divine – as Lycaon and the Pierides try to do. In the same way, Orpheus brings the different spheres of the natural and human worlds together by elevating the natural world to the level of humanity. This is, of course, part of the traditional myth of Orpheus, which is

520 As we will see in Chapter 6, however, it also appears in Apollo’s lament for Hyacinthus (10.205). 193

why he is such a natural choice for Ovid, who has been exploring these different spheres throughout the Metamorphoses and using philosophy to do so. As with his humanising of the divine, the best example of his success here is the final one, the pathetic fallacy. The first time we see Orpheus’s humanising of the natural world is after his failure to retrieve Eurydice. When Orpheus prepares to sing his great song, he begins on a hilltop that lacks trees (10.86-90):

collis erat collemque super planissima campi area, quam viridem faciebant graminis herbae: umbra loco deerat; qua postquam parte resedit dis genitus vates et fila sonantia movit, umbra loco venit.

In attracting shade, Orpheus has been said to create a bucolic locus amoenus, presumably in preparation for a bucolic song.521 We might also note the ‘commonplace’ opposition of the shady retreats (umbracula) of philosophical and rhetorical schools to ‘the sun, the contests, and the challenges of the dusty forum’,522 so Orpheus’ power to draw the trees to him might equally well prepare the scene for a philosophical song. Orpheus’s singing is able to give the power of movement to trees. Equally, Orpheus elevates the status of animals when he sings: inque ferarum / concilio, medius turbae, volucrumque sedebat (10.143-44). Ovid’s choice of concilium to describe this group of birds and animals is significant, since it is not normally applicable to animals. Miller notes that the transference of concilium ‘from its usual association with humans to animals suggests the music’s calming effect on wild nature: the beasts assemble around Orpheus like a civilized audience’.523 Concilium occurs only four times in the Metamorphoses; the first occurrence is in Book I, in connection with the Lycaon episode, when Jupiter concilium [...] vocat (1.167) to relate Lycaon’s crime. The second is that in Book X, when it refers to animals, and the third in Book XIV (14.812), when Mars reminds Jupiter that in a concilium, Jupiter had promised that Romulus would be deified. Finally, concilium appears in Book XV (15.645), when the Romans approach the concilium Graiosque patres seeking Aesculapius. Usually applied to sentient creatures, the word concilium is attached in the Metamorphoses appropriately to gods and humans, but also, significantly, to animals. It is only in Book X that concilium is applied to a group of

521 Ziogas (2011), p.267. 522 C.G. Leidl (2003) ‘The Harlot’s Art: Metaphor and Literary Criticism’ in G.R. Boys-Stones (2003a): 31-54, pp.40-41. 523 J.F. Miller (1990a) ‘Orpheus as Owl and Stag: Ovid Met. 11.24-27’ in Phoenix 44.2: 140-147, p.142. 194

animals, and Miller persuasively argues that the word signifies the civilising power of music. We can, however, go further and observe that it is Orpheus’ music that civilises these animals.524 Just as Orpheus’ first song humanises the infernal gods, so his second humanises its animal audience. With a single word, concilium, Ovid shows the transformation that Orpheus is able to effect in his audience. The humanising implied by concilium finds its ultimate expression in the pathetic fallacy of nature lamenting the death of Orpheus. The human emotion of pity manifests itself in the Eumenides as tears, and tears likewise form a very significant part of the pathetic fallacy. Ovid says that birds, wild beasts, stones and woods weep for Orpheus (fleverunt, 11.46) and that rivers are swollen by their own tears (lacrimis, 11.47). Tears are clearly a mark of humanity for Ovid – in the Fasti Ceres’ divinity is illustrated by her inability to weep true tears. In the “Orpheus”, however, the gods and the natural world are able to weep after hearing Orpheus. Orpheus is thus the great equaliser, eroding the boundaries of the ontological hierarchy. Through Orpheus’ art, man becomes the measure of all things. When Orpheus breaks down the boundaries between human and animal through singing, we are reminded of the ‘Orphic life’, in which vegetarianism is required, as recorded by Plato, Aristophanes, Euripides and Horace.525 The “Speech of Pythagoras” is largely devoted to an exhortation to vegetarianism, and Pythagoras grounds this obligation in his theory of metempsychosis.526 Ovid’s Orpheus, however, at no point recommends vegetarianism, and the humanised animals are the sole reminder of Orphic vegetarianism. Still, in the Ars Poetica, Horace tells us that it was Orpheus who taught men to abstain from ‘foul sustenance’ (caedibus et victu foedu deterruit Orpheus, AP 392), giving rise to the belief that he tamed wild animals (dictus ob hoc lenire tigris rabidosque leones, AP 393), and so it is reasonable to see an implicit vegetarianism in the concilium of wild animals.527

524 It is doubtful, for example, that the music of the Pierides would have had such an effect. 525 As Detienne observes ‘Euripides’ Hippolytus, who is presented as a follower of Orpheus, ascribes equal importance to, on the one hand, a vegetarian diet and, on the other, the cult of “the many writings” – in other words, the books of Orpheus’ (M. Detienne (2003) The Writing of Orpheus: Greek Myth in Cultural Context, Baltimore: John Hopkins UP, p.134). For Plato, see Laws 6.782C-D: ἀλλὰ Ὀρφικοί τινες λεγόμενοι βίοι ἐγίγνοντο ἡμῶν τοῖς τότε, ἀψύχων μὲν ἐχόμενοι πάντων, ἐμψύχων δὲ τοὐναντίον πάντων ἀπεχόμενοι. Aristophanes says that Orpheus taught men to abstain from bloodshed (Ὀρφεὺς μὲν γὰρ τελετάς θ᾽ ἡμῖν κατέδειξε φόνων τ᾽ ἀπέχεσθαι, Frogs 1032). Horace says that Orpheus discouraged men from victu foedu (AP 392). 526 The interrelation of metempsychosis and vegetarianism will be discussed in Part 4. 527 Johnson (2008), p.102. 195

The fundamental problem with eating meat, according to Ovid’s Pythagoras, is that animals possess human souls (or, rather, that souls can abide in either human or animal bodies). The interchangeability of animal and human requires vegetarianism; if animals are kin to humans, eating them is akin to Lycaon’s crime of preparing human flesh as food. We have seen that with his song Orpheus breaks down the distinction between human and animal, thus implying a close relationship such as the one Pythagoras espouses. This confusion of categories lends a special appropriateness to the similes in which Orpheus and the maenads are compared to animals. Miller notes that the birds gathering around the noctis avem (11.25) mirrors the action of the maenads gathering around Orpheus, just as the animal concilium has earlier done.528 The maenads are called ferae (11.3, 37), linking them with the crowd of animals (ferarum, 10.143-44, 11.1). For Miller, the shared language brings out ‘a fundamental contrast, between “representatives” of tamed and untamed nature’.529 However, I would like to draw attention first and foremost to the implied similarity. The use of ferus, like the use of concilium, illustrates the permeability of the categories of human and animal. Implicit in Ovid’s language, then, is the Orphic prohibition against eating meat.530 In the concilium of animals, in particular, the “Orpheus” recalls a prelapsarian Golden Age in which animals were not slaughtered and eaten, but viewed as humanity’s companions in life and in labour. Orpheus continues to sing throughout the attack by the Thracian women, and his voice proves to be an effective defence as long as it can be heard (11.7-19):

[...] hastam vatis Apollinei vocalia misit in ora, quae foliis praesuta notam sine vulnere fecit; alterius telum lapis est, qui missus in ipso aere concentu victus vocisque lyraque est ac veluti supplex pro tam furialibus ausis ante pedes iacuit. sed enim temeraria crescent bella modusque abiit insanaque regnat Erinys; cunctaque tela forent cantu mollita, sed ingens clamor et infracto Berecyntia tibia cornu tympanaque et plausus et Bacchei ululatus obstrepuere sono citharae, tum denique saxa

528 Miller (1990a), pp.142-43. This attendance, of course, is hostile. However, there was a tradition of viewing the phenomenon of birds attacking the noctua more positively as ‘a symbol of respect towards, or reverential attendance upon, a distinguished individual,’ (Miller (1990a), 147, p.144). 529 Miller (1990a), p.143. 530 The confusion of Orphic practice with Pythagorean precept that is occurring here is quite natural; to give some idea of ‘the impossibility of disentangling the two systems from external evidence,’ Guthrie notes Ion of Chios’ claim that Pythagoras had composed writings under the name of Orpheus (Kern, test. 222, 248). (W.C.K. Guthrie (1935) Orpheus and Greek Religion: A Study of the Orphic Movement, London: Methuen, p.217). 196

non exauditi rubuerunt sanguine vatis.

Orpheus’ song causes the natural world to thwart the threat posed by the spear (11.7-9), and it has an even greater effect on natural objects such as stones. For Segal, the turning aside of stones places ‘the pathos of Orpheus’ end above the justice of natural laws.’531 We can now see that Orpheus’ music has the power to give human feeling not only to animals, but to inanimate objects as well. Natural laws are overcome by the dissolution of the boundary between human and inanimate object. The phrase veluti supplex (11.12) is a powerful portrayal of the humanising effect that Orpheus has on the lapis. It is implied that the stone acquires human sensibilities. It is, however, quite clear that the dissolution of boundaries is temporary, enduring only as long as Orpheus’ music. Once the women begin to drown out Orpheus’ song with their own clamour, the enchantment of the natural world ends and natural laws prevail once more.

Conclusion

The relationships between god and human and between human and animal (or the natural world in general) are two important themes in the “Orpheus”. A third, related, theme is the nature of humanity in itself, rather than in relation to other ontological levels. The relationship between the divine and the human is explored through love, which connects them, and death, which separates them. It is also through love and death that Ovid explores the nature of humanity. The civilising effects of Orpheus’ music temporarily destabilise the boundaries that separate humans both from gods and from animals. In the final analysis, then, we can say that it is Orpheus’ voice, his music and his art that assimilate both gods and the natural world to humanity. Art becomes transcendent, bending the natural laws and distinctions that separate one category from another. The “Musomachia”, of course, dramatises the conflict between humans and gods for dominion over artistry, and the Muses will not even recite more than a bare outline of the Pierides’ song. If art does have the power to cross these boundaries (even if only temporarily), it is entirely understandable that the gods seek to control it in the “Musomachia”, and to remove such power from the Pierid humans.

531 C.P. Segal (1972) ‘Ovid’s Orpheus and Augustan Ideology’ in TAPA 103: 473-494, p.488. 197

It is worth noting that Orpheus is never punished by the gods. One of the major transgressions of the Pierides is their temerity in claiming an equal status with the Muses, claiming that they could take the position of the Muses. Orpheus implicitly makes a similar claim, but at no point does he suffer for his powerful music. Orpheus is able to make the gods reconsider their relationship with humanity, and to lift nature up to the level of humans, and yet such power is left unchecked by the gods. The responsibility for Orpheus’ death is placed squarely with humans – the Thracian women, the Cicones. Vergil tells us that the Cicones are practicing Bacchic rites (nocturni orgia Bacchi, G. 4.520-21) when they come across Orpheus and tear him apart. In the Metamorphoses, too, they are called Bacchei and maenades (11.17, 22), but they are certainly not acting with the approval of Bacchus, who grieves for the loss of his bard (sacrorum vates suorum, 11.67-68) and punishes the Cicones by turning them into trees (11.69-84). Orpheus occupies a singular position with regard to the gods: Bacchus claims him at 11.67-68, and he is also consistently associated with Apollo. He is called dis genitus vates at 10.89 and calls himself the son of a Muse (Calliope) and of Apollo (10.148, 167). Finally, shortly before his death he is called Apollineus vates (11.8) and it is Apollo who protects Orpheus’ head from a snake (11.58). Since the infernal gods do not resent Orpheus’ artistic achievement, and both Apollo and Bacchus think well of him after death, it is quite clear that Orpheus, unlike the Pierides, is not seen as a threat to their sovereignty. It should be remembered that Orpheus is part-divine. In Ovid’s version, his mother is the Muse Calliope and his father is Apollo, a heritage that lends weight to Orpheus’ claim to a position intermediary between gods and humans.532 Orpheus’ art does not offend the gods, but it is seen as an affront by the Cicones. One calls him nostri contemptor (11.7), and she aims her spear at his vocalia ora (11.8), indicating that it is his mouth, and consequently his song, which are offensive. We should remember that after Orpheus’ failed attempt to retrieve Eurydice, he turns against the love of women and counsels pederasty (Thracum populis fuit auctor amorem / in teneros transferre mares citraque iuventam / aetatis breve ver et primos carpere flores, 10.83-85). Orpheus is thus responsible for a move away from femineam Venerem, and thus from perceived natural relations. While Orpheus’ voice changes the

532 Despite the fact that in Ovid’s version, both of Orpheus’ parents are divine, he himself is only part- divine. This is presumably due to the confusion over Orpheus’ parentage in the variants of his myth. According to Pindar and ps.-Apollodorus, his father was the Thracian king Oeagrus (Pindar fr. 126.9; ps.- Apollodorus Bibliotheca 1.3.2). 198

nature of the gods and of the natural world, by assimilating both to humanity, it also changes the natural laws of humanity. This is what offends the Cicones, and so his death results not from any offence against the gods, but from an offence against humans (specifically women). In the “Orpheus”, the nature of the various levels of life is tested by Orpheus’ voice and music. Through the temporary changes wrought by Orpheus in that nature, the normal state of relations is shown. Music ultimately provides only a temporary dissolution of natural limits, and those limits reassert themselves when the music stops. Orpheus finds in emotion a degree of similarity between gods and humans, which he exploits in order to convince the infernal gods to restore Eurydice. His music heightens the emotional responses of the gods to such an extent that it even results in psychophysical changes such as the Eumenides’ tears. We have seen in this chapter that the mobilisation of emotion in the “Orpheus” is very precise, and Ovid draws on recognisable philosophical theories to impart psychological verisimilitude to Orpheus’ temporary blurring of the ontological boundary.

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Chapter 6: The “Song of Orpheus”

As we have seen, Orpheus uses the memory of the Rape of Persephone to engender a degree of sympathy for his own plight on the part of his divine audience. Calliope’s song continues to be an intratext for Orpheus’ long song; structurally, each song comprises the main part of an episode, with introductory passages to guide the reader in interpreting the song correctly and concluding passages reminding us of the frame story. Each also contains an embedded narrative, that of Arethusa in the “Musomachia” and the Atalanta myth in Orpheus’ “Song”. As Nagle observes, the depth of embedding of the Atalanta episode is second only to that of Arethusa’s narrative in the “Musomachia”.533 In Chapter 5, it became clear that Orpheus uses philosophical conceptions of emotion to implicate the gods in human affairs, thus assimilating gods to humans. In his second song, he returns to the theme of shared emotion, singing of the love between gods and mortal youths. This second song is devoted to the theme of love, which is explored in the light of philosophical denunciations of love, such as that at DRN 4.1058-287. Orpheus’ preparation for his song (ut satis temptavit pollice chordas [...] hoc vocem carmine movit, 145-7) recalls the description of Calliope’s preparation for her song: Calliope querulas praetemptat pollice chordas (5.339), with pollice chordas appearing in the same metrical sedes in each case, and temptavit recalling praetemptat. Orpheus invokes his mother Calliope in words which imitate Ovid’s description of Orpheus’ singing; she is bid Musa parens [...] carmina nostra move (148-49), as Orpheus vocem carmine movit. These parallels prime the reader to notice other correspondences, reinforcing our sense that the poem is cohesive and explores the same themes in different myths. Orpheus opens his second song with a kind of recusatio, in which he announces his intention to sing of boys loved by gods and the unnatural lusts of girls, rather than to

533 Nagle (1988a), p.114. 201

recite a Gigantomachy (10.150-54). This rejection of a Gigantomachy reminds us of the two previous accounts of Gigantomachy in the Metamorphoses: the Gigantomachy in the “Cosmogony” and, especially, that of the Pierides in the “Musomachia”. Orpheus explicitly tells us that gods and humans will form his subject matter. In this way, the “Song of Orpheus” continues themes explored in Chapter 5. In deciding not to sing a Gigantomachy, Orpheus distances himself from Lycaon and from the Pierides. Their imitations of Gigantomachy deeply offend the gods, and so Lycaon and the Pierides are punished. Orpheus, then, refrains from any challenge to the gods, refusing the model of Lycaon and the Pierides and maintaining the respectful position which he has assumed for his Underworld song. The only story that recalls these predecessors is the myth of the Cerastae (10.220-37), and Orpheus narrates this story in the manner of Calliope. With Lycaon and the Pierides, we are able to see their perspective only because Jupiter and the narrating Muse quote the challengers directly. Calliope does not quote Lyncus, giving us only her own interpretation and moral judgment. In the same way, Orpheus is not sympathetic to the Cerastae, not even permitting them a voice. We are given only his own moral judgment, and that is closer to Calliope’s than to that of his fellow humans.534 Orpheus appeals to his divine mother for inspiration to begin his song with Jupiter (ab Iove, Musa parens, (cedunt Iovis omnia regno) / carmina nostra move, 10.148-49). While the appeal to Calliope reminds us to keep the “Musomachia” in mind, beginning with Jupiter is, of course, meant to evoke the beginning of Aratus’ Phaenomena (Ἐκ Διὸς, Phaen. 1). Ovid uses the phrase ab Iove only in the Metamorphoses and Fasti, and only twice is the phrase used in this way, at the beginning of a line and of a sentence and in connection with an artistic work: in Metamorphoses X and Fasti V. In Fasti V, Ovid begins his discussion of Capella with a reference to Jupiter: ab Iove surgat opus (Fast. 5.111). Since the Fasti reference is connected with the rising of a constellation, it is clearly an intertextual reference to Aratus. In opening his song with the phrase ab Iove, Orpheus is undoubtedly imitating Aratus. Yet, the poem that Orpheus sings is hardly didactic. The “Song of Orpheus” is not concerned with natural phenomena or natural philosophy. In alluding to Aratus at the outset, Orpheus is likely indicating that his song is also, in its own way, a didactic

534 Note that the Cerastae reduce humans to the level of animals, as Lycaon did his Molossian guest. These are the only examples in our four myths where the ontological categories of human and animal are collapsed in this way. Orpheus raises animals, as does Pythagoras. 202

and philosophical poem, one that discusses the nature of divinity and the nature of humanity. Orpheus’ “Song” has been seen as a straightforward theodicy; for Otis ‘Iphis and Pygmalion are pious and innocent and get their reward; Atalanta and Midas are ungrateful and impious and get their punishment. In each case the divine action is just and the miracle is clear-cut.’535 Segal complicates this picture in finding that the fabulous nature of metamorphosis ‘greatly weaken[s] the firmness of this moral order,’ even though ‘[t]here are still moral laws, and their violation brings punishment, as in the tales of the Cerastae, the Propoetides, Myrrha, Atalanta.’536 Orpheus’ “Song” is, for Heath, a utopia, telling us ‘what he would like to be, how he would like the world to be’.537 It is, however, difficult to see how the impiety of the Cerastae and Propoetides and the failed loves of Apollo and Venus – not to mention Myrrha – can be regarded as ideal, even if Otis’ and Segal’s idea of a (relatively) firm moral order is accepted.

i) Grief among the Gods

The myths of Hyacinthus and of Adonis are the major myths in the “Song of Orpheus” that follow Orpheus’ plan to sing of boys loved by gods (pueros [...] dilectos superis, 10.152-53) – although the “Song” does open with a brief account of Jupiter’s love for Ganymede. In both myths, however, the boy dies; Apollo’s discus hits Hyacinthus and Adonis is gored by a boar after ignoring Venus’ advice to avoid dangerous animals. Orpheus shows us gods in the grip of love and then in the grip of grief. When Hyacinthus is fatally struck by the discus, the initial emphasis falls entirely on Apollo’s reaction (10.185-89), showing that Orpheus’ interest lies in the god, rather than in the boy (the only discussion of Hyacinthus’ death is the simile of the broken flower, 10.190-95538). How does Apollo react?

[...] expalluit aeque quam puer ipse deus conlapsosque excipit artus, et modo te refovet, modo tristia vulnera siccat, nunc animam admotis fugientem sustinet herbis. nil prosunt artes: erat inmedicabile vulnus.

535 Otis (1966), p.184. 536 Segal (1972), p.476. 537 Heath (1996), pp.367-68. 538 Ovid adopts this simile from Vergil’s account of the death of Euryalus at Aeneid 9.435-37. See J.T. Dyson (1999) ‘Lilies and Violence: Lavinia’s Blush in the Song of Orpheus’ in CP 94.3: 281-288, p.284. 203

Apollo has abandoned his duties as lord of Delphi, as musician and as archer – this neglect of duty will be discussed in Section ii. Now he relies on his medical talents. As Hyacinthus dies, Apollo administers medicinal herbs, trying to save the boy’s life, but his arts are of no avail. We should compare Apollo’s own words from Book I, when he laments that he cannot cure his love for Daphne: ei mihi quod nullis amor est sanabilis herbis / nec prosunt domino, quae prosunt omnibus, artes (1.523-24). In each case, Apollo tries to draw on his medical knowledge in the context of his own love. In the Daphne myth, Apollo’s medical art is unable to help him end his love,539 while in the Hyacinthus myth his art is unable to help him preserve his beloved.540 In each case, the injury is incurable, and Apollo cannot enjoy the benefit of his medical skills and herbas. His love brings him only a pain that medicine cannot cure. Grieving for Hyacinthus brings Apollo closer to the human sphere, even physiologically. In the lines quoted above, Apollo’s pallor is like the dying boy’s, as he desperately tries to save Hyacinthus;541 the affective repetition of modo [...] modo indicates the desperation of Apollo’s attempts. The similarities with Orpheus himself are impossible to ignore – and in calling him meus genitor at 10.167 Orpheus has already primed us to see them.542 We saw in our discussion of the natural world in Chapter 5 how shared language reflects a shared ontological status of some sort. Here, the focus on the familial relationship reinforces the linguistic similarities, so that the parallels between Apollo and Orpheus, between god and mortal, are especially striking. Apollo’s lament may be divided into three sections: Apollo’s responsibility, his desire to commemorate Hyacinthus and his prophecy regarding Ajax. We are concerned here with the first two sections. The first section covers the god’s sense of responsibility (10.195-210):

‘laberis Oebalide, prima fraudate iuventa,’

539 The idea that love cannot be cured by herbis raises the question “What is it that can cure love?” An explicit answer to this question is found in Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations (4.32-35) and, of course, in Ovid’s own Remedia Amoris. Apollo’s exclamation draws on the common metaphor of the philosopher (who often practiced emotional therapy) as doctor. On this metaphor, see, e.g., Cicero Tusc. 4.27.58. 540 Elsewhere in his poetry, Ovid states that magic and medicines neither incite love (Ars. 2.99-106) nor cure it (Rem. 249-90). 541 This pallor is, of course, a sign that he is a lover. In the Ars amatoria, Ovid calls pallor the lover’s hue – although he is referring to the pallor that comes with an indoor life (palleat omnis amans: hic est color aptus amanti, Ars. 1.729) 542 As Janan puts it, ‘Orpheus’ life and the life he creates for his character Apollo – face each other like mirrors, creating an infinite regress of repeated images and gestures.’ M. Janan (1988) ‘The Book of Good Love? Design versus Desire in Metamorphoses 10’ in Ramus 17: 110-137, p.118. 204

Phoebus ait ‘videoque tuum, mea crimina, vulnus. tu dolor es facinusque meum: mea dextera leto inscribenda tuo est. ego sum tibi funeris auctor. quae mea culpa tamen, nisi si lusisse vocari culpa potest, nisi culpa potest et amasse vocari?’

The word fraudatus is unusual in this context, and reminds the audience of Orpheus’ appeal to Pluto, in which Eurydice’s death is also described as a theft: vipera [...] abstulit annos (10.24). This legalistic language describes the deaths of Eurydice and Hyacinthus as the theft of years, specifically, of youthful years (crescentes annos, 10.24; iuventa, 10.195). The strongest parallel between Apollo and Orpheus, as Hill recognises, is ‘the guilt and sorrow Apollo feels for accidentally killing his beloved (185-99), where Eurydice’s rejection of Orpheus’ guilt (quid enim nisi se quereretur amatam?, 61) is echoed in Apollo’s’.543 There is, however, a significant difference between the two myths at this, the closest point of correspondence. Apollo says ego sum tibi funeris auctor / quae mea culpa tamen [...] nisi culpa potest [...] amasse vocari? (10.199-201). In the case of Orpheus, this exculpation is placed in the mouth of the narrator, with the implication that it is Eurydice’s thought, an explanation of why she does not complain (unlike the Vergilian Eurydice, G. 4.494-98). Here, the suggested exculpation is placed in Apollo’s own mouth; he excuses himself. Since Apollo’s self-justification is narrated by Orpheus, the implication is that Orpheus is exorcising his own sense of guilt, internalising the suggested justification.544 In the next section of his lament, Apollo wishes to die with Hyacinthus, but contents himself with turning the boy into a flower (10.202-06):

atque utinam tecumque mori vitamque liceret reddere! quod quoniam fatali lege tenemur, semper eris mecum memorique haerebis in ore. te lyra pulsa manu, te carmina nostra sonabunt, flosque novus scripto gemitus imitabere nostros.

First of all, let us note the anaphora of te at 10.205. This repetition of te, and the association with song, is a clear reference to Vergil’s account of Orpheus, and the strong correspondences between the Hyacinthus myth and Orpheus’ own story emphasise the ‘connective displacement’ of a Vergilian reference from its initial context into another,

543 Hill (1992), p.132. Janan finds that Apollo ‘reiterates the question that earlier seemed to exonerate Orpheus: can it be a crime to have loved?’ Janan (1988), p.120. 544 For Janan, Apollo’s and Orpheus’ poetic expressions are a way of exculpating themselves: ‘He, too, uses the death as an opportunity to create new poetic expressions for himself. And he, too, uses these expressions to deny his guilt indirectly.’ Janan (1988), p.118. 205

albeit related, context. Ovid, we should remember from our discussion in Chapter 5, chose not to recall Vergil’s famous lines in the context of Eurydice: te, dulcis coniunx, te solo in litore secum / te veniente die, te decedent canebat (G. 4.465-66). Ovid’s lines on Eurydice are more restrained than his source, and he draws attention to this later, when Orpheus sings of Apollo and Hyacinthus. The emotional outpouring that Vergil attributes to Orpheus, Ovid’s Orpheus gives to Apollo. The displacement allusion serves to create a parallel between Orpheus and Apollo. In his pathos-laden anaphora of te and in his desire to die in order to be reunited with Hyacinthus, Apollo goes much further than Orpheus. As we saw in Chapter 5, Orpheus’ failure to commit suicide does not bear the stigma of cowardice attached to it by Phaedrus in the Symposium. Rather, it is an indication that he is not completely conquered (vicit, 10.26)545 by excessive grief, as Cyparissus is. Apollo, like Cyparissus, wishes to die, even though, ironically, in the frame story it is Apollo who gives consolatory advice, advising Cyparissus not to grieve excessively (quae non solacia Phoebus / dixit et, ut leviter pro materiaque doleret, / admonuit, 10.132-34). In a similar vein, Orpheus claims in his song to the nether gods that he had attempted to grieve appropriately (posse pati volui nec me temptasse negabo: / vicit Amor, 10.25).546 In the Orpheus episode, there is a consistent sense that grief ought to be borne with moderation, although Orpheus, Cyparissus and Apollo all fail to grieve moderately. However, Apollo is like Orpheus in not actually committing suicide. His failure to die is justified through reference to the Fates, which prevent the divine Apollo from dying. Orpheus has already referred to fate in the opening lines of this myth, explaining that fate prevents Apollo from deifying Hyacinthus: te quoque, Amyclide, posuisset in aethere Phoebus / tristia si spatium ponendi fata dedissent / qua licet, aeternus tamen es (10.162-64). We have already seen how the Fates may be implicitly responsible for Eurydice’s second ‘death’, as they are for the lex governing Persephone’s return from Tartarus. This point is teased out during Apollo’s lament, when the god wishes that he could die, but is prevented by the law of fate. As with Orpheus and Eurydice, there is a lex standing between Apollo and Hyacinthus. Both Hyacinthus and Apollo are held by

545 This rather martial language ties in with the exhortation to fight grief, which Hope identifies in Roman letters of consolation (V.M. Hope (2009) Roman Death: The Dying and the Dead in Ancient Rome: London: Continuum, p.134). 546 According to Hope, ‘[i]n poetry, unlike in philosophical consolations and philosophical letters, the bereaved were not lectured or criticized. Mourners were granted permission to weep and wail, to show emotion and to express their suffering’ (Hope (2009), p.147). Here, however, Orpheus criticises himself for failing to endure his grief, while Apollo criticises Cyparissus for excessive grief. This departure from poetic practice supports the argument that Book X is concerned with philosophical definitions of emotion. 206

the lex;547 this is presumably the lex that humans must die but gods cannot. The ontological difference between god and mortal cannot finally be overcome even by love. Apollo is clearly a figure for Orpheus in this myth, and yet the lex that stands between Orpheus and Eurydice is not the same as that between Apollo and Hyacinthus, for all the similar terminology. Orpheus has the chance to retrieve Eurydice, but fails when he turns to look back. There is no indication that this is outside his control, as the lex governing immortality is outside Apollo’s control. At this point, Orpheus’ identification with Apollo begins to break down. For all Orpheus’ skill in showing how love crosses the divide between god and mortal, there is a limit that cannot be crossed – even if the Eumenides can weep, Apollo cannot die. Apollo is unable to die (as is Ceres, when she wishes for Persephone’s return) and thus his failure to die is not culpable, not a failure of love. Apollo does, however,, by transforming Hyacinthus into a flower, succeed in securing a perennial immortality of sorts – as Persephone perennially returns from Tartarus. It comes as no surprise to find at the end of the “Song” that Orpheus’ Venus is not overcome with guilt when Adonis dies. Far from bearing any responsibility for Adonis’ death, Venus has in fact already advised him to avoid dangerous animals, devoting a long story to the admonition (10.560-707). In having Adonis’ death be a consequence of his disobedience to Venus’ wishes, Orpheus leaves no place for responsibility. What, then, of grief? Venus berates the Fates and then insists on commemorating her love and grief by turning Adonis into a flower (10.724-31):

questaque cum fatis ‘at non tamen omnia vestri iuris erunt’ dixit. ‘luctus monimenta manebunt semper, Adoni, mei, repetitaque mortis imago annua plangoris peraget simulamina nostri; at cruor in florem mutabitur. an tibi quondam femineos artus in olentes vertere mentas, Persephone, licuit: nobis Cinyreius heros invidiae mutatus erit?’

There are verbal reminiscences of Orpheus’ own attempt to save the life of a beloved; in Tartarus, Orpheus sings that, after a fair number of years, Eurydice will be in Pluto’s power (iuris erit vestri, 10.37). Orpheus accepts that mortality is part of the

547 Although Apollo, certainly, is prone to referring to himself in the plural (e.g.1.520: certa quidem nostra est [...] sagitta), the fact that he is addressing Hyacinthus at this point indicates that this is a true plural. 207

nature of humanity. Venus, however, pits herself against the laws of death in demanding some continuation of Adonis’ life (non [...] omnia vestri iuris erunt, 10.724- 25).548 As a goddess, she is not bound by death herself and, unlike Apollo, she refuses to allow her beloved to be separated from her by death. Apollo transforms Hyacinthus into a flower, but he does not present this as an attack on the power of the Fates, as Venus does. Apollo does not lament the cruelty of fate; he simply accepts that the law of fate is ineluctable. When Venus’ beloved dies, she reacts in the same way that Orpheus does after the second loss of Eurydice: she complains (questaque cum fatis, 10.724 echoes esse deos Erebi crudeles questus, 10.76). The ‘competing claims of love and death’ are an explicit theme in the myth of Adonis, as they are for Ceres in Book V and for Orpheus in the frame story.549 When Apollo transforms Hyacinthus, he says that the flower will imitate his groans (flosque novus scripto gemitus imitabere nostros, 10.206).550 It is clear that the transformation is, in fact, intended neither to prolong Hyacinthus’ life nor to commemorate it, but rather to commemorate Apollo’s love and grief. Venus speaks in the same way, proclaiming that Adonis will be a monument to her grief (luctus monimenta manebunt semper, Adoni, mei, 10.725-26) and that the annual renewal of his flower will provide an imitation of her mourning (plangoris peraget simulamina nostri, 10.727). Adonis’ new existence as a flower is designed to commemorate Venus’ grief, just as Hyacinthus’ flower is inscribed in order to commemorate Apollo’s grief.551 This self-concern is foreshadowed when Venus advises Adonis not to be brave meo periclo (10.545). Unlike Apollo, Venus appeals to precedent in order to justify her desire to thwart fate. At this point, at the end of the “Song”, we might expect that precedent to be Apollo’s transformation of Hyacinthus, forming a ring-composition. Frustrating this expectation, Venus recalls Persephone’s transformation of a nymph into mint (10.728-

548 On the way in which this self-allusion ‘echoes Orpheus’ own attempt to persuade the infernal gods to defer their claim to his young wife,’ see B. Pavlock (2009) The Image of the Poet in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Madison: Wisconsin UP, p.103. Nagle finds that Venus is ‘explicitly concerned with getting her divine due’ in both her own Atalanta story and in the story of Adonis’ death. Nagle (1988a), p.115. 549 Nagle (1988a), p.124. 550 Note that it is Apollo’s groans that are to be commemorated; as in Book II, he does not weep for a beloved’s death (2.621-23). 551 Dyson notes that Venus is ‘mainly concerned (like Apollo) with memorializing her own grief.’ Dyson (1999), p.284. 208

30), a myth that does not appear elsewhere in the Metamorphoses.552 The recollection of Persephone reveals a link between the “Musomachia” and the “Orpheus”. The “Rape of Persephone” is recalled in a variety of ways, through Venus’ envy of Persephone’s transformation of Minthe, the hymeneal motif of flowers and defloration and the pomegranate colour of the anemone’s petals.553 Hardie well describes this recollection as ‘a hint here, at the end of the second pentad of the poem, of the eternal rhythm of alternating life and death, presence and absence, inflicted on Proserpina at the end of the first pentad’.554 As Hardie argues, ‘[t]he prominence given to flower transformations at the beginning (Hyacinthus) and end (Adonis) of the Song of Orpheus, and to the annual vegetable cycle as a way of commemorating the dead also betrays the pressure of the Proserpina model on the Song of Orpheus.’555 The invention of new flowers and their accompanying ceremonies (10.217-219; 726-727) parallels the invention, in the “Rape of Persephone”, of agriculture.

ii) A Prophylactic Love Song?

Orpheus’ programme of divinely loved boys and illicit female desire (10.152-54) does not encompass all of the myths in his song, with the Cerastae and Pygmalion the most notable exceptions. However, with the exception of the Cerastae – who are nevertheless punished by the goddess of love and whose name Cerastae hints at love556 – all Orpheus’ myths do concern love, but the programme gives us little clue as to how we should interpret these love stories. Clearly, lustful women are marked as disgraceful and criminal – although, as we will see, the Myrrha myth is rather more complicated – but what are we to make of the pueri dilecti? The first story of divine love is that of Jupiter for Ganymede. This story, however, is brief (seven lines, 10.155-61), and cannot fully be appreciated until compared and contrasted with the fuller love stories of Apollo for Hyacinthus and Venus for Adonis. In this pair of love stories, Orpheus describes in detail how each divinity behaves when in love.

552 On Minthe, see Oppian H 3.486ff.; schol. Nic. Alex. 375; Photius s.v. Μινθα, and Strabo 8.3.14. 553 Dyson (1999), p.284-85. Nagle also observes that for both Apollo and Venus ‘the memorial is a plant [...] which reappears annually (like Proserpina) and which leads to annual commemorative ceremonies (10.217-219; 726-727).’ Nagle (1988a), p.124. 554 Hardie (2002d), p.68. 555 Hardie (2002d), p.195. For Nagle, also, Orpheus’ decision to frame his “Song” with Hyacinthus and Adonis ‘gives added emphasis to these themes and motifs.’ Nagle (1988a), p.124. 556 Ahl (1985), p.251. 209

ii.i) Gods in Love

Both gods abandon their traditional activities in order to become the beloved’s hunting companion. In the Apollo myth, this dereliction of duty is presented with particular emphasis. Delphi lacks its guardian (caruerunt praeside Delphi, 10.168), while neither the lyre nor the bow receives its due honour (nec citharae nec sunt in honore sagittae, 10.170). More strikingly still, Orpheus goes on to say that Apollo is unmindful of himself (immemor ipse sui)557 and does not refuse (non [...] recusat, 10.171) tasks that are below his station, such as carrying nets, holding the dogs and travelling over mountains with Hyacinthus (10.171-73). Orpheus’ description makes it quite clear that Apollo is acting without proper regard for himself. He is degrading himself for the sake of his beloved. Such degradation is, of course, a traditional part of love in Latin elegy, the servitium amoris. Ovid himself has explored what Copley calls ‘the god-slave exemplum’558 in earlier works and may well draw on those models of gods in the grip of servitium amoris. However, the figure of servitium amoris should not be viewed only in the light of elegiac convention. Caston has recently argued that the elegiac portrayal of love as illness is unlikely to have developed independently of philosophical denunciations by Cicero and Lucretius.559 Caston posits a debate between the philosophers and elegists, in which both parties agree on the symptoms of love, but disagree on the desirability of those symptoms. Such a debate is relevant to the motif of the lover as slave and to the portrayal of the lover as heedless of the humiliations that he undergoes. In his famous diatribe against love (DRN 4.1058-287), Lucretius deplores the effects of love, saying that lovers live at the beck and call of the beloved and, of particular relevance here, that duties are neglected while the lover’s reputation falters

557 Cf. the use of immemor in Vergil’s Georgics and Catullus 64. In Georgics 4, Vergil calls Orpheus immemor in the moment when he forgets Persephone’s lex and looks back at Eurydice (immemor heu! victusque animi respexit, G. 4.491). Love, or perhaps excessive love, causes one to forget the things that should be kept in mind most firmly. In Catullus’ Carm. 64, Theseus is immemor when he abandons Ariadne (immemor at iuvenis fugiens pellit vada remis, / irrita ventosae linquens promissa procellae. Note the use of both irrita and immemor, which Vergil and Ovid both adopt for their Orpheus episodes. 558 F.O. Copley (1947) ‘Servitium Amoris in the Roman Elegists’ in TAPA 78: 285-300, esp. p.294. On Apollo’s servitude to Admetus see Met. 2.677-83; Ars. 2.239-41. 559 R.R. Caston (2006) ‘Love as Illness: Poets and Philosophers on Romantic Love’ in CJ 101.3: 271-298, p.272. 210

(adde quod alterius sub nutu degitur aetas / languent officia atque aegrotat fama vacillans, 4.1122-24).560 Ovid provides a similar formulation in the Fasti when narrating the story of Jupiter’s rape of Europa: non bene conveniunt nec in una sede morantur / maiestas et amor (Fast. 2.846-47). This neglect of dignity and duty is precisely the kind of pathological situation in which we find Apollo. The fact that it is a god who suffers from love in such way develops further the similarities between gods and humans that Orpheus developed in his first song. Copley argues that in the elegiac motif of servitium amoris such degradation is not only freely accepted, but even gloried in.561 Is Apollo’s servitude to Hyacinthus fully part of the elegiac celebration of servitium, or do we find traces of Lucretian disapproval, particularly in the expression immemor ipse sui? When Orpheus sings of Apollo’s abandonment of his duties, such as the guardianship of Delphi and the use of lyre and bow, the subjects of these clauses are Delphi and the equipment, not Apollo’s all-consuming love for Hyacinthus. The focus in these lines, therefore, is the fact that duties are not being performed. Apollo’s duties are neglected, just as Lucretius warns that officia languent (DRN 4.1124). Furthermore, the categorisation of Apollo as immemor sui (10.171) indicates that it is inappropriate for Apollo to degrade himself. Were Apollo memor, he would not act in this way. There may even be a hint of the ailing fama that Lucretius identifies – being immemor, Apollo is not taking any thought for his fama. The non recusat of 10.171 may also indicate the subjection to another (sub nutu, DRN 4.1122) that Lucretius marks as undesirable. Rather than celebrating Apollo’s servitium amoris as evidence of his surpassing love, then, Orpheus focuses on the same negative aspects of servitium that Lucretius deplores.562 Apollo’s love is not emphasised, save insofar as it affects his status. Lucretius’ diatribe against love is indebted to a form of emotional therapy that relies on convincing the patient that the emotion is ugly, either physically or morally,

560 Hardie notes that this diatribe against love ‘exploits the topics and clichés of erotic poetry in order to bring out an Epicurean ratio,’ (Hardie (1988), p.71). Seneca cites Panaetius’ description (fr. 56 Fowler) of a fool’s love, which is disturbed, powerless and enslaved to another (rem commotam, inpotentem, alteri emancupatam, vilem sibi (Ep. 116.5). 561 Copley (1947), p.294. In the Ars amatoria, Ovid argues that lovers should not be overly concerned with their dignity (nec tibi turpe puta (quamvis sit turpe, placebit), and, more explicitly, paruit imperio dominae Tirynthius heros: / i nunc et dubita ferre, quod ille tulit, Ars. 2.215, 221-22). 562 Lyne has argued that the motif of servitium amoris did not develop until Propertius, although it may have been an image easily available to the Roman mind (R.O.A.M. Lyne (1979) ‘Servitium Amoris’ in CQ n.s. 29.1: 117-130). Lucretius identifies symptoms of love that later coalesce into the motif of servitium. 211

and which seems to work by ‘inducing the creation of pictures or images in the patient’s mind and engages some form of imagination which has mental pictures and related items as its proper medium’.563 Both Philodemus and Seneca make use of this technique in their respective writings On Anger.564 Procopé argues that in Philodemus’ conception of therapy, ‘[what] the therapist needs to do is not so much to vituperate, to stress the intrinsic loathsomeness of the passion, as simply to point out its unpleasant consequences’.565 Tsouna calls the technique of pointing out moral ugliness ‘moral portraiture,’ and defines it as ‘consist[ing] in drawing vivid if elliptical portraits which bring out characteristic features of certain types of persons, good or bad’.566 This technique of moral portraiture is very likely the same technique that Seneca describes in Ep. 95.65-66.567 Seneca advocates looking in a mirror (De ira 2.36.1), to see how ugly one is while angry.568 Seneca also discusses the ugliness and bestiality of anger at De ira 1.1, 2.35 and 3.4. Ovid has already shown himself to be aware of this form of emotional therapy, drawing on it in the third book of the Ars amatoria. When advising women to be skilled at games, he also warns that control of one’s own behaviour is part of that skill (Ars. 3.370-80):

maius opus mores composuisse suos. tum sumus incauti, studioque aperimur in ipso,

563 V. Tsouna (2007b) The Ethics of Philodemus, Oxford: OUP, p.205. 564 In his On Anger, Philodemus also lists erotic love as a psychic malady (De ira 7.18-20), one which should be treated like anger; Tsouna describes his position thus: ‘When people do get enraged, we should depict to them all the unreasonable things about anger (VII.13-16) “and appraise in this way the purity of this evil, just as we are used to doing also in the case of erotic desire” (VII.16-20)’ (Tsouna (2007b), p.208). Tsouna goes on to observe that ‘[i]n the case of anger, as in the case of love, the Epicurean doctor depicts to his patients the nature of their passion and shows to them what is evil and irrational about it’ (Tsouna (2007b), pp.208-09). 565 J. Procopé (1993) ‘Epicureans on Anger’ in G.W. Most, H Petersmann & A.M. Ritter (edd.) Philanthropia kai Eusebia. Festschrift für Albert Dihle zum 70. Geburtstag, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht: 363-386 (reprinted in J. Sihvola & T. Engberg, Pedersen (1998): 171-96), p.186. 566 Tsouna (2007b), p.86. Tsouna notes that the success of this therapeutic technique depends on ‘the literary qualities of the presentation,’ since the patient must believe in the plausibility of the portrayed character. ‘If the technique works, we feel aversion not only towards isolated elements, such as arrogance or rage, but towards the entire personality of someone arrogant or irascible. We simply do not want to be that sort of person, but just the opposite’(Tsouna (2007b), p.87). 567 Hanc Posidonius ethologian vocat, quidam characterismon appellant, signa cuiusque virtutis ac vitii et notas reddentem, quibus inter se similia discriminentur. Haec res eandem vim habet quam praecipere. [...] Quaeris, quid intersit? Alter praecepta virtutis dat, alter exemplar. 568 R. Sorabji (1997) “Is Stoic Philosophy Helpful as Psychotherapy?” in Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 41: 197-209, p.203. Tsouna notes that Philodemus makes use of the mirror: ‘On Anger holds a mirror in front of the enraged man and invites him to look at himself. If he does not like the picture, he will endeavour “to become himself” again: get cured of the passion and retrieve his rationality and self-control’ (Tsouna (2007b), p.86). We should note that this is a practice that he takes from Sextius and is, therefore, likely to be of Pythagorean origin. 212

nudaque per lusus pectora nostra patent: ira subit, deforme malum, lucrique cupido, iurgiaque et rixae sollicitusque dolor

In describing anger as a deforme malum and advising women to control it lest they appear unattractive, Ovid exhibits his awareness of the therapeutic technique discussed above. There is an even more explicit use of this technique later in the same book of the Ars (3.500-4, 507-08):

pertinent ad faciem rabidos compescere mores: candida pax hominess, trux decet ira feras. ora tument ira: nigrescunt sanguine venae: lumina Gorgoneo saevius igne micant. [...] vos quoque si media speculum spectetis in ira, cognoscat faciem vix satis ulla suam.

Ovid develops this idea further, relating the story of how Minerva rejects the flute after seeing the ugliness of her face while playing it (Ars. 3.505-06), and then explaining that pride is also unattractive (nec minus in vultu damnosa superbia vestro, Ars. 3.509). The entire passage on the unattractiveness of (some) emotion is introduced by a curious couplet: si licet a parvis animum ad maiora referre / plenaque curvato pandere vela sinu, Ars. 3.498-9). The ugliness of the passions is thus described as maiora, probably because it draws on the greater discourse of philosophical emotional therapy. In this passage, the philosophical therapy which makes use of the ugliness of passion is put to the service of erotic pursuit. Ovid uses the technique not to improve the mind, but to improve one’s chances of attracting a lover. He is, therefore, familiar enough with the therapeutic technique to play games with it in his Ars amatoria. It seems, then, that Ovid’s description of Apollo’s love and, especially, of his lack of self-awareness and self-respect, points at least as much to philosophical therapeutic techniques that cure the patient by showing how ugly the emotion is as to wilful elegiac indulgence in such emotion. We must now ask whether Venus’ love might be categorised in the same way. Smitten by love for Adonis, Venus ignores her traditional lands, Cythera, Paphos, Cnidos and Amathus (10.529-31), just as Apollo abandons Delphi. However, the description of Venus is markedly different from that of Apollo. In the earlier myth, Delphi is the subject, while here Venus is the subject (non curat, 10.529, non repetit, 10.530). Moreover, Orpheus explicitly states that Venus ignores her territories because she is captivated by Adonis’ beauty (capta viri forma, 10.529). The emphasis is quite clearly on Venus’ overwhelming love for Adonis. In 213

the Apollo episode, the focus is on the neglect of duties. In the Venus episode, by contrast, the focus is on the insuperable power of love. Like Apollo, Venus becomes her beloved’s hunting companion (comes, 10.533; cf.10.173). Where Apollo does not refuse to hold the dogs, Venus encourages them (10.172, 537). Undoubtedly, Venus is aware of the importance of adopting the beloved’s interests – something prescribed in Ovid’s Ars amatoria.569 Both Apollo and Venus travel widely as the comes (per iuga, 10.172, 536). In order to participate in the hunt with the beloved, both divinities must abandon their usual pursuits, along with their accustomed territories. Apollo neglects his lyre and bow (10.170) and Venus no longer tends her beauty in the shade (10.533-35). Orpheus draws a sharp contrast between Venus’ usual luxurious behaviour and the harsh terrain that she braves by Adonis’ side (per silvas dumosaque saxa, 10.535). Venus thus follows Apollo in her behaviour, even though with Venus Ovid focuses on her love for Adonis more than on her neglect of her duties – no doubt in order to play on the irony that the goddess of love cannot act as the goddess of love because she is herself in love. When in love, the goddess of love behaves like an elegiac lover and is thus unable to fulfil her duties.570 Indeed, the irony is all the greater, since in the Remedia Amoris Ovid advises that devotion to Diana can drive out love (vel tu venandi studium cole: saepe recessit / turpiter a Phoebi victa sorore Venus, Rem. 199-200), while here Venus imitates Diana in order to pursue her beloved (fine genus vestem ritu succincta Dianae, Met. 10.536). Orpheus does, however, employ such irony later in the Hyacinthus myth. When Hyacinthus is dying, Apollo’s healing skills are unable to cure Apollo’s beloved: nil prosunt artes: erat inmedicabile vulnus (10.189). Hyacinthus’ wound cannot be cured by Apollo’s medicine, just as Apollo’s medicine cannot cure his own wound of love in the Daphne myth of Book I (1.523-24). It is philosophical therapy, not medicine, that can cure or prevent love. The story of Apollo’s love for Hyacinthus is being used to illustrate the ugliness and undesirability of love, in order to prevent others from falling in love. Unfortunately, Apollo does not have access to the therapeutic technique which Orpheus is making him illustrate.

569 Ovid advises prospective lovers to mirror their beloved’s behaviour in, for example, favouring a racing team (nec mora, quisquis erit, cui favet illa, fave, 1.146). This topic is covered in greater detail in the second book: arguet, arguito; quicquid probat illa, probato; / quod dicet, dicas; quod negat illa, neges./ riserit, adride; si flebit, flere memento; / imponat leges vultibus illa tuis, Ars. 2.199-202). 570 This type of irony is distinctively Ovidian, appearing also in the Ars amatoria, where Ovid says that love turns a lawyer into a client (Ars. 1.83-88; note especially quique aliis cavit, non cavet ipse sibi, 1.84). 214

Besotted with Hyacinthus, Apollo has neglected his lyre and has been, very pointedly, called immemor sui (10.171). Now, when Hyacinthus dies, Apollo becomes memor again. Apollo promises to remember Hyacinthus in song: semper eris mecum memorique haerebis in ore (10.204). Apollo’s lips in song are memor. In his bereavement, Apollo returns to his proper pursuit, music. He is thus doubly memor; he is mindful now of himself and his musical duties and he is also mindful of his lost love. As if to emphasise this point still further, Orpheus uses the verb memoro when singing of Apollo’s prophecy about the flower and Ajax (talia dum vero memorantur Apollinis ore, 10.209). Prophecy is, of course, another of Apollo’s proper provinces, the one relating to the abandoned Delphi. Just as the god of medicine cannot cure Hyacinthus’ wound, so the god of prophecy cannot predict it. It is only when Hyacinthus dies that Apollo regains his knowledge of himself and returns to his duties – some of which are now inspired by love for the dead Hyacinthus. Orpheus has thus introduced each of these two stories of boys beloved by the gods with a focus on the neglect of duties and the personal humiliation (in being a hunting comes) that attend on love. This neglect and humiliation are important features in elegiac poetry but also in philosophical diatribes against love and its excesses. Ovid is thus playing with philosophical apotropaic against love and with conventional elegiac behaviour. His awareness of the two discourses of philosophy and elegy allows him both to complicate his elegiac love scenes with philosophical understanding and to mollify the philosophical discourse by puncturing its self-importance with elegiac notes. We can now return to the Ganymede myth. Orpheus says that Jupiter considers it appropriate to transform himself only into the eagle, the bird capable of carrying his thunderbolts (nulla tamen alite verti / dignatur, nisi quae posset sua fulmina ferre, 10.157-58). The key word here is dignatur. This shows that Jupiter is well aware of the potential humiliation in wishing to be something other than himself (inventum est aliquid, quod Iuppiter esse / quam quod erat, mallet, 10.156-57). Unlike Venus, and in especial contrast to Apollo who is explicitly called immemor sui, 10.171), Jupiter remains mindful of his dignity. There is a similar comparison between Jupiter and Apollo in Book I, where the more powerful Jupiter does not need to chase Io as Apollo chases Daphne (1.502-42; 597-600). Jupiter, however, does not appear quite so dignified when in his role as hen-pecked husband, submitting to pudor and surrendering Io in the form of a cow (1.615-21). Not being committed to any given doctrine, Ovid is free to describe Jupiter differently, depending on his intentions at the time. Moreover, 215

Orpheus is by no means required to provide an account of Jupiter that is consonant with accounts elsewhere in the Metamorphoses. In Orpheus’ “Song”, Jupiter exercises moderation in his desire for Ganymede, limiting himself to a method consonant with his exalted position. Even though (tamen, 10.157) he is in love, Jupiter remains aware of his nature and officia, transforming into a bird connected with one of his duties – the thunderbolt. Interestingly, only the god who remains aware of his divine position enjoys a lasting love. Rather than descending to the levels of mortals, and abiding on Earth, to join his beloved, Jupiter lifts Ganymede into the divine realm.

ii.ii) Human Love

The gods are thus subject to the same passions that afflict human lovers. Only Jupiter is able to maintain his dignity in the face of overwhelming love.571 What hope, then, is there for a human lover, if even the gods can scarcely remain mindful of their positions? The story of Pygmalion’s love for his statue is often read positively, particularly in contrast with the preceding account of the Propoetides,572 although there are also darker interpretations.573 Taking our departure from Sharrock’s discussion of the elegiac motifs in the Pygmalion myth,574 we can see that Pygmalion provides an excellent

571 Does the fact that he remains mindful of his dignity (nulla tamen alite verti / dignatur, nisi quae posset sua fulmina ferre, Met. 10.157-58) suggest that his love is not overwhelming? This love is powerful enough to make Jupiter wish to be something other than what he is (inventum est aliquid, quod Iuppiter esse, / quam quod erat, mallet, Met. 10.156-57), and so his achievement in maintaining dignity is still estimable. 572 Coleman and Otis, for example, find that the Propoetides and Pygmalion myths contrast punished shamelessness and rewarded virtue. Coleman (1971), p.468; Otis (1966), pp.191-92. This moral contrast is problematic, since the ‘shamelessness’ of the Propoetides is in fact inflicted upon them by an irate Venus and not inherent. Pygmalion’s refusal of marriage is parallel to the Propoetides’ actual impiety – rejection of Venus. The differing treatment of Pygmalion and the Propoetides cannot be read as a straightforward theodicy. The story of Pygmalion is also often read as celebrating the power of the artist; Segal, for example, suggests that ‘[t]he softening of the ivory [...] for Pygmalion is the same process as the softening of Deucalion and Pyrrha’s stones to flesh so that they resemble half-finished marble statues [...] Ovid thus draws together remote anthropogonic creativity and a mythical equivalent to contemporary artistic creativity’ (C.P. Segal (1998) ‘Ovid’s Metamorphic Bodies: Art, Gender, and Violence in the Metamorphoses’ in Arion 3rd ser. 5.3: 9-41, p.17). Despite finding the story ‘disconcertingly cheery’, Heath combines the ideas of triumphant art and miraculous love and piety: ‘It is not only Pygmalion’s technical skills which are rewarded, but also his piety to Venus’ (Heath (1996), p.378). 573 Hardie, for example, traces the incestuous nature of Pygmalion’s desire for his own creation (Hardie (2004) ‘Approximative Similes in Ovid: Incest and Doubling’ in Dictynna 1): ‘Pygmalion’s love is both narcissistic and incestuous’ since the statue is ‘his “daughter”, in the sense that an artist is the “father” of his creations.’ 574 A. Sharrock (1991) ‘Womanufacture’ in JRS 81:36-49. 216

example of a lover undergoing the extreme humiliations of love, rather than of ‘idealised human love’ as Coleman claims.575 Unlike the elegiac lover, whose dura puella may eventually take pity on him, Pygmalion’s statue is quite literally dura, a beloved who can never be prevailed upon (except, of course, with the assistance of the goddess of love). Pygmalion acts very much like an elegiac lover, and Alison Sharrock has traced the strong connections between the elegiac poet and the artist-lover that is Pygmalion. However, Sharrock finds some aspects of Pygmalion’s behaviour problematic for her thesis. Pygmalion brings many gifts to the statue; the first of these gifts (shells, pebbles, birds, flowers and balls, 10.260-62) may be appreciated as the inexpensive gifts given by a poet-lover to an appreciative girlfriend.576 The rest of the gifts, however, are much more expensive: amber, clothes, jewellery and dyed coverlets (10.263-69). Sharrock says that these gifts ‘do not fit so well into the elegiac convention, and indeed are the sort of gifts provided by the rich rival’.577 Ovid may, in part, be thinking of a variant where Pygmalion is a king and such luxuries would not place stress on his financial means.578 However, in conjunction with Pygmalion’s bizarre behaviour, it seems likely that there is another purpose in Pygmalion’s excessive expenditure. The very costliness of the gifts that pose a difficulty for Sharrock accords with the philosophical condemnation of wasted wealth that we find in the De rerum natura. In his diatribe, Lucretius inveighs not only against the neglect of duties, but also against the expensive gifts demanded by a mistress (DRN 4.123-30):

labitur interea res et Babylonia fiunt unguenta, et pulchra in pedibus Sicyonia rident; scilicet et grandes viridi cum luce zmaragdi auro includuntur, teriturque thalassina vestis adsidue et Veneris sudorem exercita potat; et bene parta partum fiunt anademata, mitrae, interdum in pallam atque Alidensia Ciaque vertunt.

Pygmalion’s expenditure of wealth is rendered ridiculous and futile by two facts. The first is Orpheus’ own statement, regarding clothes and jewellery, that the statue is no less beautiful nude (cuncta decent; nec nuda minus formosa videtur, 10.266).

575 Coleman (1971), p.486. 576 These small gifts are prescribed by Ovid in the Ars amatoria: nec dominam iubeo pretioso munere dones: / parva, sed e parvis callidus apta dato (Ars. 2.261-2). 577 Sharrock (1991), p.45. 578 I am grateful to Philip Hardie for this observation. 217

Pygmalion’s efforts and expenditure have done nothing to improve the statue’s beauty and are thus futile. The second fact is simply that the puella in this case is a statue, and thus incapable of appreciating – or of demanding – these gifts. Pygmalion is made an especially ridiculous figure: not only does he treat an inert statue like a living woman, but he wastes vast sums of money to do so.579 Because the puella is a statue, these gifts are entirely unsought.580 Of his own free will – a will obviously perverted by desire – Pygmalion chooses to waste his money and his time on something that cannot reciprocate, appreciate or demand. He is under no pressure of any kind from his puella. Lucretius condemns the waste of money even on women who appreciate the gifts; how much more ridiculous must Pygmalion be, who gives these gifts to a statue, tamquam sensura (10.269)!581 Love has thus driven Pygmalion to self-humiliation and made him an object of ridicule, his wits addled to the extent that he cannot even acknowledge that his puella is a statue (nec adhuc ebur esse fatetur, 10.255) and therefore treats the statue like a mistress, kissing and fondling it (10.254-59). We might compare the picture Horace paints in order to show by contrast that Agamemnon was insane to sacrifice his daughter like a sacrificial animal (Sat. 2.3.214-18):

si quis lectita nitidam gestare amet agnam, huic vestem, ut gnatae, paret ancillas, paret aurum, Rufam aut Posillam apellet fortique marito destinet uxorem, interdicto huic omne adimat ius praetor et ad sanos abeat tutela propinquos.

Here, Damasippus reports the teachings of the Stoic Stertinius, who argues that treating a daughter like an animal is as insane as treating an animal like a daughter. We can immediately see the similarity with Pygmalion, who treats a statue like a beloved. In the same letter, Stertinius rails against the irrationality of love (Sat. 2.3.250-80) and the way in which love reduces the lover to a childish loss of control over himself. For Pygmalion, there is no possibility that his desire can be sated; he is thus like Lucretius’ lover (in amore Venus simulacris ludit amantis / nec satiare queunt

579 One might also compare Horace’s satirical attacks on the futility of luxury in e.g. Sat. 2.2. 580 This is in sharp contrast to the elegiac puella, especially as represented in the Ars amatoria, who demands presents at every opportunity (Ars. 1.405-71; note especially femina, qua cupidi carpat amantis opes, 1.420). 581 In contrast to the Propertian lover who fails to realise that the door he is addressing has feeling and sympathy (1.16.25), Pygmalion fails to realise that the object he is addressing does not have feeling and sympathy. Thorsten Fögen finds the Propertian failure to be ‘an additional element of humour’ (T. Fögen (2009c) “Tears in Propertius, Ovid, and Greek Epistolographers” in Fögen, T. (2009a): 179-208, p.184). 218

spectando corpora coram, DRN 4.1101-02), whose desire is eternally frustrated and thus insatiable. The fact that his beloved is an unfeeling, unresponsive statue throws into sharp relief Lucretius’ warnings about the futility of love and the ridiculousness of the lover. The profligate expenditure on gifts is particularly wasteful when the gifts cannot be recognised by the beloved. The more unresponsive the statue, the more Pygmalion seeks to elicit a response through caresses and kisses, flatteries and gifts. Pygmalion’s caresses can never be returned, and he can never sate his desire, because his beloved is unresponsive. The simulated body (simulatum corpus, 10.253, simulacra [...] puellae, 10.280) recalls the simulacra with which Venus mocks lovers in the De rerum natura (DRN 4.1101), so that we can more easily see the futility of Pygmalion’s love, for all that it is miraculously given a happy ending by Venus. What implication, then, does this ‘happy resolve,’ unique in Book X,582 have for the portrayal of Lucretian love in the Pygmalion myth? In order to elucidate this, let us consider the ultimate (and impossible) goal of love according to Lucretius, the union with the beloved (nec manibus quicquam teneris abradere membris / possunt errantes incerti corpora toto and nequiquam, quoniam nil inde abradere possunt / nec penetrare et abire in corpus corpora toto / nam facere interdum velle et certare videntur, DRN 4.1103-04, 1110-02). Lucretius argues that a lover wishes (impossibly) to submerge his own body in that of his beloved, to make one where there were once two. Aristophanes’ myth in the Symposium (189C-193E) proposes the same goal, suggesting that were Hephaestus to offer to join the lovers in the closest possible union, making one from two, they would accept.583 This Aristophanic union, however, does not appear to be Pygmalion’s goal. In fact, since he himself creates his beloved’s body, he appears to be reversing the pattern identified in Lucretius. Pygmalion begins as a complete being in himself and then creates the body of a beloved. Ultimately, he appeals to Venus to transform this body into a real woman. Each step takes us further away from

582 D.F. Bauer (1962) ‘The Function of Pygmalion in the Metamorphoses of Ovid’ in TAPA 93:1-21, p.11. 583 καὶ εἰ αὐτοῖς ἐν τῷ αὐτῷ κατακειμένοις ἐπιστὰς ὁ Ἥφαιστος, ἔχων τὰ ὄργανα, ἔροιτο: “τί ἔσθ᾽ ὃ βούλεσθε, ὦ ἄνθρωποι, ὑμῖν παρ᾽ ἀλλήλων γενέσθαι;” καὶ εἰ ἀποροῦντας αὐτοὺς πάλιν ἔροιτο: “ἆρά γε τοῦδε ἐπιθυμεῖτε, ἐν τῷ αὐτῷ γενέσθαι ὅτι μάλιστα ἀλλήλοις, ὥστε καὶ νύκτα καὶ ἡμέραν μὴ ἀπολείπεσθαι ἀλλήλων; εἰ γὰρ τούτου ἐπιθυμεῖτε, θέλω ὑμᾶς συντῆξαι καὶ συμφυσῆσαι εἰς τὸ αὐτό, ὥστε δύ᾽ ὄντας ἕνα γεγονέναι καὶ ἕως τ᾽ ἂν ζῆτε, ὡς ἕνα ὄντα, κοινῇ ἀμφοτέρους ζῆν, καὶ ἐπειδὰν ἀποθάνητε, ἐκεῖ αὖ ἐν Ἅιδου ἀντὶ δυοῖν ἕνα εἶναι κοινῇ τεθνεῶτε: ἀλλ᾽ ὁρᾶτε εἰ τούτου ἐρᾶτε καὶ ἐξαρκεῖ ὑμῖν ἂν τούτου τύχητε:” ταῦτ᾽ ἀκούσας ἴσμεν ὅτι οὐδ᾽ ἂν εἷς ἐξαρνηθείη οὐδ᾽ ἄλλο τι ἂν φανείη βουλόμενος, ἀλλ᾽ ἀτεχνῶς οἴοιτ᾽ ἂν ἀκηκοέναι τοῦτο ὃ πάλαι ἄρα ἐπεθύμει, συνελθὼν καὶ συντακεὶς τῷ ἐρωμένῳ ἐκ δυοῖν εἷς γενέσθαι, (Plato, Symp.192D-E). 219

Lucretian union, until at last we have two individuals. It is only then that Pygmalion can satisfy his desire. Pygmalion is unsatisfied at first with being a single man, and so attempts to create a beloved. He is, of course, unable himself to give life to the statue, and in his interactions with the statue we can see Lucretius’ unhappy lover, eternally frustrated in his desire for the beloved and eternally ridiculous in his self-imposed humiliation. Pygmalion does not, however, accept the frustration of his love, appealing to Venus for assistance. At this point, he is unwilling to be either the single, whole individual or to be the frustrated lover. We might, in fact, fruitfully apply his great-granddaughter Myrrha’s complaint to Pygmalion: quia iam meus est, non est meus, ipsaque damno / est mihi proximitas (10.339-40). Pygmalion is unable to possess his beloved because she is already his, because she is no more than a projection of his own imagination. Far from desiring Aristophanic unity, Pygmalion longs for his statue to be a distinct person in her own right, recognising a degree of distance from himself as necessary for a fulfilling love. Pygmalion thus appears to conceive of love in much the same way as that proposed in the Ars amatoria, where Ovid proposes as the ideal form of love the equal sharing of passion (Ars. 2.681-732). We might at this point compare two other lovers in the Metamorphoses who possess or achieve union with the beloved, albeit unhappily: Narcissus (3.339-510)584 and Salmacis (4.274-388). One of the youths spurned by Narcissus prays that Narcissus also be unable to possess his beloved: sic amet ipse licet, sic non potiatur amato (3.405). The initial description of Narcissus’ self-love draws on a Lucretian image: Ovid says that as Narcissus slakes his thirst another thirst springs up (dumque sitim sedare cupit, sitis altera crevit, 3.415), drawing on Lucretius’ depiction of love as unsatisfiable like thirst in a dream (DRN 4.1097-110, esp. in medioque sitit torrenti flumine potans, 4.1100).585 This Lucretian image prepares us for the Lucretian love evident in the myth. Like Pygmalion, Narcissus is already at the outset united with the beloved, as an aspect of himself;586 in the moment of self-knowledge, Narcissus recognises that he already possesses the beloved (quod cupio mecum est: inopem me

584 For an excellent discussion of Lucretian reminiscences in the Narcissus myth, see P.R. Hardie (1988). Hardie pays particular attention to Ovid’s redirection of Lucretian physical material to his psychological portrayal of Narcissus. 585 Hardie (1988), p.81-83. 586 Hardie observes that Narcissus has ‘already achieved the impossible wish of the Lucretian lover,’ and that Narcissus is in fact more wretched that the Lucretian lover, since ‘he cannot even touch the outside of the beloved body,’ (Hardie (1988), p.84. Italics in original). 220

copia fecit, 3.466), in a cry not dissimilar to Myrrha’s. Narcissus goes on to wish for separation from himself (o utinam a nostro secedere corpora possem / votum in amante novum, vellem, quod amamus abest, 3.467-68).587 Narcissus acknowledges that this desire to be separate from the beloved is strange, novum, surely in reference to Lucretius’ claim that the norm is to desire union with the beloved. Narcissus is thus like Pygmalion, in that both are already united with the beloved and seek a greater degree of separation. As Narcissus and Myrrha lament, too great a proximity to the beloved is an obstacle to satisfaction. It is only when the beloved is a separate individual that love can be satisfied. Narcissus fails to separate himself from himself, while Pygmalion partially succeeds by sculpting the statue and Venus later completes this separation by giving the statue its own life. While Pygmalion’s actions follow Lucretius’ observations closely, his desire is wholly opposed to that found in the De rerum natura. For Lucretius, the goal, forever frustrated, of love is union with the beloved; for Pygmalion and Narcissus union is an obstacle to love and love can only be satisfied if the beloved is an individual in his or her own right. As a contrast to these lovers, however, we should consider Salmacis in Book IV. At the moment when Salmacis possesses Hermaphroditus, she prays that the two should never be separated (ita, di, iuebeatis, et istum / nulla dies a me nec me deducat ab isto, 4.370-71). Salmacis thus desires union with her beloved, just as Lucretius argues that lovers do, accepting Hephaestus’ theoretical offer from Symposium 189C-193E.588 Salmacis’ desire is granted (4.373-79):

[...] nam mixta duorum corpora iunguntur, faciesque inducitur illis una. velut, si quis conducat cortice ramos, crescendo iungi pariterque adolescere cernit, sic ubi complex coierunt membra tenaci, nec duo sunt et forma duplex, nec femina dici nec puer ut possit, neutrumque et utrumque videntur.

587 Leah Tomkins takes a similar point of view, arguing that ‘[a]uthentic relations between people are [...] not about dealing with oneself and the other person, or Other, as exactly the same [...] Seen in this light, Ovid’s Narcissus suggests that the semblance of similarity should encourage us to seek out separateness’ (L. Tomkins (2011) ‘The Myth of Narcissus: Ovid and the Problem of Subjectivity in Psychology’ in G&R 58.2: 224-239, p.232). 588 Robinson observes that ‘the offer made by Hephaestus to the two lovers is identical to the request made by Salmacis to the gods. The idea of some divine force actually physically merging two bodies into one is far from common, and this passage of the Met. cannot but recall the Symposium’ (M. Robinson (1999) ‘Salmacis and Hermaphroditus: When Two Become One: (Ovid, Met. 4.285-388)’ in CQ n.s. 49.1: 212-223, p.222). 221

This union of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus, then, achieves ‘that total fusion that has always been the goal of lovers and which had been so determinedly attacked in book 4 of Lucretius’ De rerum natura’.589 In providing us with a successful union, Ovid invites us to analyse its desirability. We should note a famous problem with the transformation of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus: the result of the transformation is presented ‘not as a seamless combination of Hermaphroditus and Salmacis [...] but rather just as Hermaphroditus alone, angry at the loss of his masculinity: Salmacis has been removed from the narrative’.590 After the metamorphosis, Hermaphroditus becomes aware of his new status (semimas, 4.381). Whatever the change to the body may be, the identity of this biformis (4.387) person appears to be Hermaphroditus’ alone. There does not appear to be anything left of Salmacis’ identity, except for the pool itself. Singer argues that the merged condition ‘is clearly a degradation’ and that, therefore, ‘the myth of Aristophanes has been used against itself’.591 Ovid, therefore, problematises the ideal of Aristophanic union, even as he challenges the Lucretian challenge of it. The union of the bodies does not result in the union of the lovers’ identities. One lover is totally subsumed in the other. This is, of course, precisely what Aristotle argues must happen, in his discussion in the Politics of Aristophanes’ Symposium myth.592 Here, Aristotle argues that either one or both of the lovers would be destroyed if they were to be united.593 The only Ovidian lover who desires and achieves Aristophanic union loses herself in doing so. Those lovers who begin from a position of Aristophanic union are frustrated by that very union, and constantly seek separation as a prelude to satisfaction. We should compare Salmacis’ prayer that she never be separated from Hermaphroditus (4.371-72) with Narcissus’ wish for separation from himself (3.467-68).594 The closer a lover is to union with the beloved, the further he (or she) is from consummation of his (or her) desire. This paradoxical feature of love is elegantly expressed by both Narcissus and Myrrha (3.466;

589 D.P. Fowler (2000) Roman Constructions: Readings in Postmodern Latin, Oxford: OUP, p.158. For Fowler, all three of the Minyeides’ stories (Clytie, Salmacis and Thisbe) ‘problematise the notion of union with the beloved’ (p.158). ‘In the world of the Metamorphoses the lover’s fantastic wish for the commingling of individuals is realized in the story of Hermaphroditus and Salmacis,’ (Hardie (1988), p.84). 590 Robinson (1999), p.220. 591 I. Singer (1965-6) ‘Love in Ovid and Lucretius’ in The Hudson Review 18.4: 537-559, p.540-41. 592 Robinson (1999), p.221n62. 593 καθάπερ ἐν τοῖς ἐρωτικοῖς λόγοις ἴσμεν λέγοντα τὸν Ἀριστοφάνην ὡς τῶν ἐρώντων διὰ τὸ σφόδρα φιλεῖν ἐπιθυμούντων συμφῦναι καὶ γενέσθαι ἐκ δύο ὄντων ἀμφοτέρους ἕνα: ἐνταῦθα μὲν οὖν ἀνάγκη ἀμφοτέρους ἐφθάρθαι ἢ τὸν ἕνα, (Pol. 1262B11-15). 594 Robinson (1999), p219n56. 222

10.339). Like Narcissus, Pygmalion seeks ever greater degrees of separation from his beloved, and it is only when there are two distinct individuals that he is able to satisfy his desire. In Pygmalion’s behaviour, we can see a close correlation with Lucretius’ observations on the lovers’ predicament. In his desires, however, he is very far from Lucretius. He is not a Lucretian or Aristophanic lover seeking unity with the beloved; rather, he believes that his beloved must be distinct from him if he is to possess her. Possession can, paradoxically, come about only through separation. These three love stories in Orpheus’ song appear to have a prophylactic function. Like Lucretius’ diatribe, like Philodemus’ and Seneca’s arguments in their respective works On Anger, Orpheus shows the ugliness of passion. This is a therapeutic technique, designed to elicit disgust at the physiological and psychological symptoms of love. Once the ‘patient’ has been convinced that love (or anger) is so disastrously unbecoming, he (or she) will willingly attempt to eradicate the passion. There is, however, no need to argue that Orpheus’ thoughts on love are consistent; Venus and Apollo adopt their beloveds’ interests, but Pygmalion does not.595 We are, rather, treated to a rehearsal of the various unattractive aspects of love, undoubtedly in the hope that one of them will be effective in preventing or curing love, even if the others are not.

iii) Perverted Love

In the Rape of Persephone and in her granting of Pygmalion’s prayer, Venus shows that she is nearly always ready and willing to help the cause of love. However, even Venus has her limits; Orpheus tells us explicitly that Cupid denies responsibility for Myrrha’s incestuous love (ipse negat nocuisse tibi sua tela Cupido / Myrrha, facesque suas a crimine vindicate isto, 10.311-12), placing the responsibility squarely with the Furies (stipite te Stygio tumidisque adflavit echidnis / e tribus una soror, 10.313-14). Myrrha herself, however, never seeks to blame anyone else for her desire, locating that desire only in her own mind (quo mente feror, 10.320).596 She attempts to divert herself from

595 Of course, Pygmalion’s beloved is largely a figment of his imagination and has no interests which he might adopt. 596 In the Metamorphoses, there are many examples of soliloquies in which the speaker debates whether to follow the demands of duty or her desire, with those of Byblis and Medea from earlier books being particularly relevant to analysis of Myrrha’s. The ultimate model for these set pieces is of course the 223

her desire by means of a soliloquy (10.320-55). Her arguments, aimed at quelling her desire for her father, lend themselves to philosophical analysis, drawing as they do on ancient emotional therapy, particularly Stoic therapy. One of the distinguishing features of the Stoic soul is that it is unitary and thus wholly rational. There is no place in the Stoic soul for a conflict between rational and irrational desires.597 There can only be a single desire, and emotional conflict comes from the oscillation of two separate desires within a unitary soul, rather from their co- presence within a divided soul. Plutarch records this Stoic view ‘that there is no dissension and conflict between the two, but a turning of the single reason in both directions, which we do not notice owing to the sharpness and speed of the change’.598 Our first question, then, is to determine whether Myrrha’s mental state is rational, with her emotional conflict a result of Stoic oscillation. The first indication that this is so comes at the very beginning of Myrrha’s speech: she asks quo mente feror (Met. 10.320).599 While mens need not always denote a rational mind, it is so defined in a comparable episode in Metamorphoses 7, in Medea’s soliloquy. Medea explicitly opposes cupido and mens, saying to herself ‘Desire persuades me one way, reason another’ (aliudque cupido, / mens aliud suadet, Met. 7.19-20). Medea draws a sharp distinction between desire (cupido) and reason (mens), unlike Myrrha. It seems that, for Myrrha, her incestuous desire is located in her rational mind. So, despite the passive verb, Myrrha is not being afflicted by an irrational impulse. Myrrha’s desire, therefore, seems to be a rational judgement of the Stoic kind.

soliloquy in tragedy, such as Medea’s in Euripides’ Medea, and Euripides’ Phaedra is also a clear model for Ovid’s Myrrha. 597 καὶ νομίζουσιν οὐκ εἶναι τὸ παθητικὸν καὶ ἄλογον διαφορᾷ τινι καὶ φύσει ψυχῆς τοῦ λογικοῦ διακεκριμένον, ἀλλὰ ταὐτὸ τῆς ψυχῆς μέρος, ὃ δὴ καλοῦσι διάνοιαν καὶ ἡγεμονικόν, δι᾽ ὅλου τρεπόμενον καὶ μεταβάλλον ἔν τε τοῖς πάθεσι καὶ ταῖς καθ᾽ ἕξιν ἢ διάθεσιν μεταβολαῖς κακίαν τε γίνεσθαι καὶ ἀρετήν, καὶ μηδὲν ἔχειν ἄλογον ἐν ἑαυτῷ: λέγεσθαι δ᾽ ἄλογον, ὅταν τῷ πλεονάζοντι τῆς ὁρμῆς ἰσχυρῷ γενομένῳ καὶ κρατήσαντι πρός τι τῶν ἀτόπων παρὰ τὸν αἱροῦντα λόγον ἐκφέρηται: καὶ γὰρ τὸ πάθος εἶναι λόγον πονηρὸν καὶ ἀκόλαστον ἐκ φαύλης καὶ διημαρτημένης κρίσεως σφοδρότητα καὶ ῥώμην προσλαβούσης. Plutarch On moral virtue 441C-441D (LS 61B) 598 ἔνιοι δέ φασιν οὐχ ἕτερον εἶναι τοῦ λόγου τὸ πάθος οὐδὲ δυεῖν διαφορὰν καὶ στάσιν, ἀλλ᾽ ἑνὸς λόγου τροπὴν ἐπ᾽ ἀμφότερα, λανθάνουσαν ἡμᾶς ὀξύτητι καὶ τάχει μεταβολῆς. Plutarch On moral virtue 446F (SVF 3.459, part = LS 65G) 599 It is true that Myrrha uses a passive verb to describe her emotional affliction, although we could perhaps interpret feror as having the force of a middle verb. In any case, feror need not be taken to imply that Myrrha believes herself to be suffering a passion. Quo feror is an expression that Ovid has already used in a sister-piece to the Myrrha myth, the myth of Byblis’ incestuous desire for her brother (Met. 9.509). Myrrha tellingly builds on Byblis’ question by asking quo feror mente rather than simply quo feror. 224

In locating her desire in the rational mind, Myrrha also accepts full responsibility for it. Orpheus tells his audience that the Furies inflicted desire on Myrrha (10.313-14), but this is in the context of his opening lines, where he playfully adopts, cum variatione, the pose of a priest warning off the uninitiated600 and he later implies that Venus is responsible.601 Myrrha herself never seeks to blame anyone else for her love.602 Despite Myrrha’s acceptance of full responsibility, the incestuous love that afflicts her is something of a family trait. It is prefigured in the story of her ancestor, Pygmalion, a story which has been plausibly interpreted as incestuous, with the statue as his daughter ‘in the sense that an artist is the “father” of his creations’.603 Pygmalion falls in love with his creation, and when the statue becomes flesh, Orpheus says that she sees her lover at the same time as the sky (timidumque ad lumina lumen / attolens pariter cum caelo vidit amantem, 10.293-94). The first sight that the woman has, at what is effectively her birth, is of her creator/lover. There is surely at least a hint here of incest. The perverse love that forms the heart of Myrrha’s story is thus a family trait. Not only are there hints of Pygmalion’s incestuous desire for his ‘child,’ but the child of Myrrha and Cinyras also takes part in a relationship that ‘verges on the incestuous’.604 When Adonis is born, Orpheus comments that he looks like a Cupid without a quiver: qualia namque / corpora nudorum tabula pinguntur Amorum, / talis erat, sed, ne faciat discrimina cultus, / aut huic adde leves, aut illic deme pharetras (10.515-18). Adonis looks like Venus’ son. Venus herself alludes to this ‘family’ resemblance when she

600 Orpheus, however, warns off pious parents and daughters, since his tale is fit only for those who are already depraved. Compare the Sibyl at Aeneid 6.258: procul, o procul este profani with Orpheus’ procul hinc natae, procul este parentes at Met. 10.300). Barchiesi observes that ‘it is indeed a traditional feature of Orphism to begin singing with a solemn expulsion of the uninitiated’ (A. Barchiesi (2001) Speaking Volumes: Narrative and Intertext in Ovid and Other Latin Poets, London: Duckworth, p.59). 601 At 10.311-4, he states that the Furies are responsible, while at 10.524, he implies that Venus is responsible, saying that Adonis avenges Myrrha’s love (matris [...] ulciscitur ignes). Hardie reads this unreliability as indicating Cupid’s mendacity, arguing that Adonis’ avenging of Myrrha’s love ‘implicitly challenges Cupid’s protestation that he had no part in that business,’ (P.R. Hardie (2004)). Myrrha herself never considers any origin of her love external to herself. It is possible that the Furies symbolise the emotions in a veiled reference to Cicero. In the Tusculan disputations, Cicero says that folly stirs up the emotions and sets them upon us like Furies (His autem perturbationibus, quas in vitam hominum stultitia quasi quasdam furias inmittit atque incitat, Tusc. 3.11.25). 602 This should be compared with Byblis, who writes to her brother ‘I fought long against the violent weapons of Cupid (pugnavique diu violent Cupidinis arma, Met. 9.543).’ Although Byblis also speaks about her mind as the location of her love (quem mens mea concipit ignem, Met. 9.520), she later explicitly claims to have been overthrown by Cupid: ‘He certainly will not believe that I have been overcome by that god who more than all others rules and inflames our hearts’ (vel certe non hoc, qui plurimus urget et urit / pectora nostra, deo, sed victa libidine credar, Met. 9.624-25). There is nothing to compare with this in the Myrrha story. 603 Hardie (2004), p.24. 604 M.D. Thomas (1998) ‘Ovid’s Orpheus: Immoral Lovers, Immortal Poets’ in MD 40: 99-109, p.102. 225

describes Atalanta as looking like herself, or like a female Adonis (corpus [...] quale meum, vel quale tuum, si femina fias, 10.578-79). As an infant, Adonis looks like Cupid; as a young man he looks like Venus. Incestuous desire characterises Myrrha’s family from Pygmalion to Adonis, and even Venus herself is swept up in this perverse form of love. Cupid may deny responsibility for Myrrha’s love, responsibility that Orpheus gives to the Furies. However, Venus is involved in the love affairs of this family from the start. It is she who grants Pygmalion’s prayer to marry his creation, she who attends their wedding (adest dea, 10.295) and she who (narcissistically, since Adonis looks like her) loves the child of an incestuous union, a child who also resembles her own son. As we have observed, however, Myrrha accepts sole responsibility for her vicious desire, locating its origin in her own mind. We should note that Myrrha considers herself to be morally responsible not only for her actions in response to desire, but also for the desire itself (at tu, dum corpora non es / passa nefas, animo ne concipe neve potentis / concubitu vetito naturae pollue foedus, Met. 10.351-53). Here, Myrrha clearly distinguishes between a criminal desire and its satisfaction.605 Thought and desire themselves can be scelera, and in this Myrrha is in line with Stoic theory as recorded by Cicero in the De finibus (Nam ut peccatum est patriam prodere, parentes violare, fana depeculari, quae sunt in effectu, sic timere, sic maerere, sic in libidine esse peccatum est etiam sine effectu. Verum ut haec non in posteris et in consequentibus, sed in primis continuo peccata sunt. De fin. 3.32). As Nussbaum interprets Cicero’s words, a virtuous or vicious act is, for the Stoics, ‘complete at any moment, complete at its inception in the heart’.606 Myrrha, therefore, is in harmony with the Stoics in believing that ‘[a] single failure in thought and passion [can] have, directly, the direst possible consequences for the agent’s whole moral condition.’607 The next question is whether Myrrha’s emotional conflict may be seen as a Stoic oscillation of subsequent beliefs, rather than as co-present, conflicting beliefs. The answer to this is not placed in Myrrha’s own mouth; it is the narrator’s assessment of her emotional state. Although Myrrha begins and ends her speech with a recognition of the wickedness of her desire for her father, most of the speech wavers between condemnation and justification of incest. After the soliloquy, Orpheus tells us that in

605 I am grateful to Rita Copeland for the observation of the distinction between thought and action in these lines. 606 Nussbaum (1994), 365. 607 Nussbaum (1994), p.366. 226

her indecision, like ‘a great tree, smitten by the axe, when all but the last blow has been struck, wavers which way to fall and threatens every side, so her mind, weakened by many blows, leans unsteadily now this way and now that, and falteringly turns in both directions’ 10.370-76.)608

[...] furiosaque vota retractat et modo desperat, modo vult temptare, pudetque et cupit, et, quid agat, non invenit, utque securi saucia trabs ingens, ubi plaga novissima restat, quo cadat, in dubio est omnique a parte timetur, sic animus vario labefactus vulnere nutat huc levis atque illuc momentaque sumit utroque,

It is made quite explicit in these lines that Myrrha’s desires are alternating. The simile clearly recalls Vergil’s, describing Aeneas, in book 4. In Aeneid 4, in response to Anna’s pleas that he should remain in Carthage, Aeneas remains steadfast like a oak buffeted by winds (Aen. 4.441-46). Where Aeneas’ oak is buffeted by winds from hither and from thither (hinc and illinc, Aen. 4.442) and still stands strong, Myrrha’s mind itself sways this way and that (huc and illuc).609 The alternation of conflicting desires is a unique feature of Stoic psychology. When Myrrha leans in different directions like a tree, then, she is experiencing a peculiarly Stoic form of emotion. In this simile, Myrrha’s mind is weakened by many wounds, vario vulnere. We should compare Seneca’s description of Medea’s oscillating mind as his Medea asks: ‘Why does anger now draw my changeful self (variam) hither and now love thither?’ (variamque nunc huc ira, nunc illuc amor / diducit, Seneca, Medea 938-39). In both cases, the adjective varius is used to describe the emotional conflict undergone by the heroine, and Martha Nussbaum has argued in the Therapy of Desire and in ‘Serpents in

608 At first glance, this simile causes problems for our Stoic interpretation, since the blows which cause the tree to sway come from an external source, the axe. However, we should compare Chrysippus’ famous (and controversial) example of the cylinder (Cicero, De fato 42-43; Aulus Gellius, Attic Nights 7.2.11 = LS 62 D4). A cylinder may roll because it has been pushed by an external force, but it is still the cause of its movement insofar as its rounded shape causes it to respond to that force by rolling. In the same way, the tree responds to the axe blows in the way that it does because that is its nature. Likewise, Myrrha’s oscillating emotions are a response to the impression that she should fall in love with her father (this is to anticipate my argument that Myrrha’s emotions are judgments). The tree is also particularly appropriate, of course, because it prefigures Myrrha’s metamorphosis into a tree. 609 The association of love and trees is also made by Sappho (Ἔρος δ’ ἐτίωαξέ μοι / φρένας, ὡς ἄνεμος κὰτ ὄρος δρύσιν ἐμπέτων, fr. 47) and Apollonius Rhodius (τὼ δ᾽ ἄνεῳ καὶ ἄναυδοι ἐφέστασαν ἀλλήλοισιν, / ἢ δρυσίν, ἢ μακρῇσιν ἐειδόμενοι ἐλάτῃσιν, / αἵ τε παρᾶσσον ἕκηλοι ἐν οὔρεσιν ἐρρίζωνται, / νηνεμίῃ: μετὰ δ᾽ αὖτις ὑπὸ ῥιπῆς ἀνέμοιο / κινύμεναι ὁμάδησαν ἀπείριτον: ὧς ἄρα τώγε / μέλλον ἅλις φθέγξασθαι ὑπὸ πνοιῇσιν Ἔρωτος, Arg. 3.967-72) 227

the Soul’ that Seneca’s variam means, precisely, ‘my oscillating self’.610 Moreover, when the nurse tells Myrrha that she can sleep with her father, Orpheus says that Myrrha feels both joy and pain (infelix non toto pectore sentit / laetitiam virgo, praesagaque pectore maerent / sed tamen et gaudet: tanta est discordia mentis, Met. 10.443-45). Thus, in her acceptance of responsibility, her belief that thoughts themselves are vicious and her fickle oscillation, Ovid’s Myrrha evokes Stoic emotional theory.611 However, Plutarch (for example) tells us that for the Stoics, emotions themselves are judgements, and Cicero also reports in the Tusculan disputations that the Stoics call them opiniones.612 Our next question, then, is whether Ovid means us to entertain the possibility that Myrrha’s emotions are judgements. The Stoic doctrine that an emotion consists of two judgements is recorded by Cicero in the Tusculan disputations.613 The first is that an evil (or a good) is present (or impending) and the second that it is appropriate to react in a certain way (Sed quidem recens opinio talis mali ut in eo rectum videatur esse angi, id autem est, ut is qui doleat oportere opinetur se dolere, Cicero, Tusc. 3.11.25).614 This doctrine is also found in Seneca’s discussion of the three parts of ethics: ‘The first deals with your assessment of the value of each thing, the second with your adopting a controlled and balanced impulse towards them’ (Primum enim est, ut quanti quidque sit iudices, secundum, ut impetum ad illa capias ordinatum temperatumque, tertium, ut inter impetum tuum actionemque conveniat, ut in omnibus istis tibi ipse consentias, Seneca Letters 89.14). So, is there evidence in Myrrha’s speech that her emotion arises from two conflicting judgements? The best evidence is found precisely at the mid-point of the speech. Myrrha says to herself: ‘he is worthy to be loved, but as a father’ (dignus amari / ille,

610 Nussbaum (1994), p.450; M.C. Nussbaum, (1997) ‘Serpents in the Soul: A Reading of Seneca’s Medea’ in J.J. Clauss & S.I. Johnston (1997): 219-249, p.227. 611 I am grateful to Joseph Farrell for the observation that the word discordia has Empedoclean connotations. However, it seems to me that the primary philosophical influence in this myth is Stoic. On the Empedoclean connotations of discordia, see, e.g. Nelis, D. (2004a) ‘Georgics 2.458-542: Vergil, Aratus and Empedocles’ in Dictynna 1:1-21: http://dictynna.revue.univ- lille3.fr/1Articles/1Articlespdf/nelis.pdf. Accessed 12/12/2008, pp.3-4; 7. 612 καὶ γὰρ ἐπιθυμίαν καὶ ὀργὴν καὶ φόβον καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα πάντα δόξας εἶναι καὶ κρίσεις πονηράς, οὐ περὶ ἓν τι γιγνομένας τῆς ψυχῆς μέρος, ἀλλ᾽ ὅλου τοῦ ἡγεμονικοῦ ῥοπὰς καὶ εἴξεις καὶ συγκαταθέσεις καὶ ὁρμάς, καὶ ὅλως ἐνεργείας τινὰς οὔσας ἐν ὀλίγῳ μεταπτωτάς, ὥσπερ αἱ τῶν παίδων ἐπιδρομαὶ τὸ ῥαγδαῖον καὶ τὸ σφοδρὸν ἐπισφαλὲς ὑπ᾽ ἀσθενείας καὶ ἀβέβαιον ἔχουσι. Plutarch On moral virtue 447a; Sed omnes perturbationes iudicio censent fieri et opinione, Cicero, Tusc. 4.7.14. See also Cicero, Tusc. 3.11.24. 613 Et quidem recens opinio talis mali ut in eo rectum videatur esse angi, id autem est, ut is qui doleat oportere opinetur se dolere, Cicero, Tusc. 3.11.25. See also Cicero, Tusc. 3.31.74. 614 This doctrine is also recorded by the Peripatetic philosopher Andronicus (c. 70 BCE): λύπη μὲν οὖν ἐστιν ἄλογος συστολή. ἢ δόξα πρόσφατος κακοῦ παρουσίας, ἐφ᾽ ὧ οἴονται δεῖν συστέλλεσθαι. Andronicus On passions 1 (SVF 3.391, part = LS 65B). 228

sed ut pater, est, Met. 10.336-37). Cinyras is worthy to be loved – that is Myrrha’s first judgement, that it is a good to love Cinyras. Her second belief, then, concerns the appropriate reaction to the first belief. Cinyras should be loved – but how? Should he be loved as a lover, or as a father? For the most part, she inclines to the belief that she should love him as a lover. This, however, alternates with her belief that incest is wrong. Myrrha never deviates from her belief that Cinyras should be loved. She devotes herself wholly to the question of how to love him. This allows us to see that her second judgement, of the appropriate reaction, is itself dependent on two other judgements. Should Cinyras be loved as lover or as father? The answer depends on whether or not incest is acceptable. If incest is acceptable, then it may be appropriate to love Cinyras as a lover. If not, then he must be loved as a father. In focusing on her second judgement, that of the appropriate reaction, Myrrha is fully in line with Stoic therapeutic techniques. Sorabji notes how important it is for therapy to attach this judgement of the appropriate reaction.615 Myrrha clearly believes that it is only by removing the judgement ‘incest is acceptable’ that she can remove her desire to sleep with her father. Myrrha begins with an assumption that incest is wrong, invoking the gods, piety and the sacred rights of parents to prevent her crime. However, as her value-judgements oscillate, she quickly changes focus and denies that incest is a crime, adducing two arguments in its favour. The first is that incest is perfectly acceptable among animals. The second is that incest is not even against human nature: other races happily practice incest and it is only human anxiety that has made spiteful laws against it.616 Now, in referring to animals, which Stoicism classes as irrational, does Myrrha move away from Stoicism? The most explicit evidence we have regarding Stoic views on incest comes from Plutarch’s On Stoic self-contradictions. According to Plutarch, Chrysippus says that incest has been discredited without reason and that ‘we should look to the beasts

615 R. Sorabji (2002) Emotion and Peace of Mind: From Stoic Agitation to Christian Temptation, Oxford: OUP, p.178. Cicero attributes to Chrysippus the advice to concentrate on the second judgement: Chrysippus autem caput esse censet in consolando detrahere illam opinionem maerenti, si se officio fungi putet iusto atque debito, Cicero, Tusc. 3.31.76, in part because the therapy of this judgement does not depend on acceptance of Stoic theory (Et talis quidem, quae possit esse omnium … philosophorum, Cicero, Tusc. 4.28.61). 616 It should be noted that shortly after Ovid’s death, Dio Chrysostom would adduce both arguments in his criticism of Oedipus’ distress over his incest: ‘But domestic fowls do not object to such relationships, nor dogs, nor any ass, nor do the Persians, although they pass for the aristocracy of Asia’ (οἱ δὲ ἀλεκτρυόνες οὐκ ἀγανακτοῦσιν ἐπὶ τούτοις οὐδὲ οἱ κύνες οὐδὲ τῶν ὄνων οὐδείς, οὐδὲ οἱ Πέρσαι: καίτοι δοκοῦσι τῶν κατὰ τὴν Ἀσίαν ἄριστοι, 10.30). 229

and infer from their behaviour that nothing of this kind is out of place or unnatural’.617 Myrrha’s reference to animals as a model for human behaviour thus has the strongest and most appropriate Stoic support. While there is a great difference between irrational animals and rational humans, it is difficult to say precisely which animal behaviours are irrational and thus inappropriate for humans and which are simply natural and thus appropriate for humans. Chrysippus appears to argue that incest is a natural behaviour and need not be legislated against.618 In referring to animals Myrrha is explicitly locating her love in the context of a contrast between the natural and the civilised. Although she initially condemns her love as a nefas and a scelus (10.322), on closer reflection she compares animal behaviour and human conventions.619 The acceptance of animal incest leads her to the thought that human taboos must be artificially imposed laws. In fact, this new perspective ties in well with her opening prayer to the gods and to the sacred laws of parents (sacrataque iura parentum, 10.321). The legal language that Myrrha first uses unthinkingly is later used very precisely to differentiate (artificial) law from natural permissiveness. She has now seen the implications of iura, that iura are applicable only to the human realm and invented by human anxiety (humana cura, 10.329-30620). Myrrha thus concludes that the taboo against incest is conventional, rather than natural. In fact, among the tribes that practice incest, incest actually increases the pious love between family members. Myrrha’s argument rests on a distinction between natural and conventional laws.621 Laelius, Cicero’s Stoic spokesman in the De republica, provides a famous definition of natural law that is worth taking into account (Rep. 3.33). We should note in particular the universality of natural law: ‘one law, everlasting and immutable, will

617 καὶ μὴν ἐν τῷ τῶν Προτρεπτικῶν εἰπὼν ὅτι ‘καὶ τὸ μητράσιν ἢ ἀδελφαῖς ἢ θυγατράσιν συγγενέσθαι καὶ τὸ φαγεῖν τι καὶ προελθεῖν ἀπὸ λεχοῦς ἢ θανάτου πρὸς ἱερὸν ἀλόγως διαβέβληται: καὶ πρὸς τὰ θηρία’ φησὶ ‘δεῖν ἀποβλέπειν καὶ τοῖς ὑπ᾽ ἐκείνων γιγνομένοις τεκμαίρεσθαι τὸ μηδὲν ἄτοπον μηδὲ παρὰ φύσιν εἶναι τῶν τοιούτων. Plutarch On Stoic self-contradictions 1044F-1045A (SVF 3.753, part = LS 67F). 618 Such a position would probably not have been supported by Roman Stoics, and Ovid may well be playing with some aspects of Stoicism that had been swept under the carpet. 619 In her attempt to justify incest, she makes no mention of the gods, not even to refer to their own incestuous activities, as Byblis does in Book 9 (9.498-501).619 Myrrha directs her gaze downward, to animals, rather than upward to the gods. She draws the models for her own (desired) behaviour from the animal sphere rather than from the divine. 620 This is perhaps a nod to Lucretius, who often associates the term cura with metus in the DRN (Konstan (2008b), p.21). See, e.g., DRN 2.48. 621 While the doctrine of natural law is by no means unique to Stoicism, Kainz has gone so far as to argue that ‘the Stoics were the first to formulate an explicit theory of natural law: ‘[n]atural law in the strict sense and as an explicit theory emerged [...] with the Stoics’ (H.P. Kainz (2004) Natural Law: An Introduction and Re-Examination, Chicago: Open Court, p.1). 230

hold good for all peoples and at all times’ (sed et omnes gentes et omni tempore una lex et sempiterna et immutabilis continebit, Cicero, Rep. 3.33). Myrrha uses the fact that incest is permitted in some regions but not in others to argue that taboos against incest do not apply universally and thus are not part of natural law. She explicitly states that the law against incest is conventional (humana malignas / cura dedit leges, et quod natura remittit / invida iura negant, Met. 10.329-31). In Cicero’s formulation, natural law cannot be contradicted (nec vero aut per senatum aut per populum solvi hac lege possumus, Cicero, Rep. 3.33) and must, therefore, ‘invalidate positive laws, making them null and void’.622 Because the incest taboo is conventional, not natural, it can be harmful rather than rational and good. Myrrha thus calls the laws malignas and invida. The horror that the idea of incest initially causes is analysed and gradually unravelled until it is seen to be caused merely by the conventions of a particular society. We might compare Ovid’s claim in the Remedia amoris that Myrrha did not know what a crime she was committing (si cito sensisses, quantum peccare parares, / non tegeres vultus cortice, Myrrha, tuos, Rem. 99-100). This claim implies that Myrrha there did not consider incest a crime, or at least not a particularly egregious one. After Myrrha (in the Metamorphoses) has established that the taboo against incest is artificial and conventional, she abruptly changes tack, positing that Cinyras is worthy to be loved as a father. This is the point at which she begins to argue against incest, once again calling it a scelus and saying that her ardor is malus (Met. 10.342). Once again, the value judgement ‘incest is wrong’ has gained the upper hand. Myrrha is horrified at the prospect of being called her mother’s rival, her father’s mistress, her son’s sister and her brother’s mother (Met. 10.346-48). Against incest is brought the charge that it confounds social ties, resulting in a chaotic confusion.623 She does not try to argue that these social names and ties are merely conventional – rather it is implied that they are natural and that their confusion would be unnatural. We should, I think,

622 Kainz (2004), p.11. 623 Cicero makes the same accusation when, speaking about an incestuous mother, he says ‘she has changed even the names of relationships, and not only the name and laws of nature: the wife of her son- in-law, the mother-in-law of her son, the invader of her daughter's bed!’ (atque etiam nomina necessitudinum, non solum naturae nomen et iura mutavit, uxor generi, noverca fili, filiae paelex, Pro Cluentio 199). As Hopkins observes, ‘the iniquity of incest was felt to reside not least in the confusion of relationships and the consequent destruction of the bonds of pietas which result from an incestuous act’ (D. Hopkins (1985) ‘Nature’s Laws and Man’s: The Story of Cinyras and Myrrha in Ovid and Dryden’ in The Modern Language Review 80.4: 786-801, p.789-90). 231

consider Epictetus here: ‘For each of these titles, when rationally considered, always suggests the actions appropriate to it’.624 Myrrha’s final argument against incest is that it would pollute the foedus naturae, thus contradicting her earlier argument that nature permits incest (natura remittit). We have here another reference to natural law. At the end of Laelius’ description of natural law in the Republic, he says ‘Whoever does not obey it is fleeing from himself and treating his human nature with contempt; by this very fact he will pay the heaviest penalties, even if he escapes all conventional punishments’ (Cui non parebit, ipse se fugiet ac naturam hominis aspernatus hoc ipso luet maximas poenas, etiamsi cetera supplicia, quae putantur, effugerit, Rep. 3.33). It is tempting to see Myrrha’s flight from her homeland and ultimate transformation into a tree as an illustration of this flight from the self. Myrrha has thus been rehearsing competing arguments of the thesis that incest is acceptable. This is clearly a Stoic technique – she has been trying to drive out her emotional desire for her father through argument. At no point does she attempt the Epicurean technique of distraction.625 I would like to emphasize the significance of the fact that Myrrha does not attempt Epicurean distraction. We are given very little context for Myrrha’s love; Orpheus effectively launches us in medias res, setting the scene only by referring to Myrrha’s many suitors. There is no scene corresponding to Byblis’ dawning realisation that she is in love with her brother at 9.454-73; Myrrha understands her position from the start (illa quidem sentit foedoque repugnat amori, Met. 10.319). The only context for Myrrha’s love is the presence of the suitors, who thus immediately offer a possible solution to her dilemma, as Orpheus recognises when he advises her to choose. (ex omnibus unum / elige, Myrrha, virum: dum ne sit in

624 ἀεὶ γὰρ ἕκαστον τῶν τοιούτων ὀνομάτων εἰς ἐπιλογισμὸν ἐρχόμενον ὑπογράφει τὰ οἰκεῖα ἔργα. Epictetus Discourses 2.10.1-12 (LS 59Q). 625 As evidenced in, e.g. Epicurus’ deathbed letter to Idomeneus, D.L. Lives 10.22: Ἤδη δὲ τελευτῶν γράφει πρὸς Ἰδομενέα τήνδε ἐπιστολήν: "Τὴν μακαρίαν ἄγοντες καὶ ἅμα τελευταίαν ἡμέραν τοῦ βίου ἐγράφομεν ὑμῖν ταυτί. στραγγουρία τε παρηκολουθήκει καὶ δυσεντερικὰ πάθη ὑπερβολὴν οὐκ ἀπολείποντα τοῦ ἐν ἑαυτοῖς μεγέθους. ἀντιπαρετάττετο δὲ πᾶσι τούτοις τὸ κατὰ ψυχὴν χαῖρον ἐπὶ τῇ τῶν γεγονότων ἡμῖν διαλογισμῶν μνήμῃ. σὺ δ᾽ ἀξίως τῆς ἐκ μειρακίου παραστάσεως πρὸς ἐμὲ καὶ φιλοσοφίαν ἐπιμελοῦ τῶν παίδων Μητροδώρου." Philodemus also notes the efficacy of distraction: ‘Philodemus also discusses examples in which he stresses the shift of attention, not of belief. Melody, which is irrational, cannot directly affect emotions and judgements, which are rational: “it only distracts people into switching their attention, just like sex and drunkenness”’ (De mus. Book IV, col. XV. 1-7, Neubecker)’ (Tsouna (2007b), p.86). Cicero calls distraction an Epicurean technique: Levationem autem aegritudinis in duabus rebus ponit, avocatione a cogitanda molestis et revocatione ad contemplandas voluptates, Cicero, Tusc. 3.15.33. Graver notes that ‘Epicurus is especially interested in the manipulation of attention’(Graver (2002), p.96). 232

omnibus unum, Met. 10.317-18). Marriage would remove Myrrha from temptation, by removing her from her father’s house. In Lucretius’ diatribe against love at the end of De rerum natura 4, he advises a lover to ‘flee from images, to scare away what feeds love, to turn the mind in other directions, to cast the collected liquid into any body, and not to retain it, being wrapped up once and for all in the love of one, nor to cherish care and certain pain for yourself’.626 It is not clear whether Lucretius’ advice should be applied equally to women, although his insistence that women feel sexual pleasure implies that women too might be in need of sex therapy to remove desire.627 By choosing a husband, Myrrha would be ‘turning her mind in other directions’ and choosing ‘any body’ rather than ‘being wrapped up once and for all in the love of one’. Yet, Myrrha never once attempts to distract herself from her incestuous desire by thinking about other suitors. Does she succeed in rooting out, via Stoic rational therapy, the belief that incest is acceptable? The final two lines in her speech prove that she doesn’t reach any conclusions at all. It is only at the end of her speech that she resorts to relying on Cinyras’ piety to bolster her own resolve. Even here, though, she exclaims ‘Oh, how I wish a like passion were in him!’(et o vellem similis furor esset in illo, Met. 10.355). At the end of her speech, she still leans both ways. Myrrha approaches her emotion like a good Stoic therapist, focusing entirely on her own judgements and attempting to control her emotion by controlling her beliefs. Her analysis of the nature of the taboo against incest is philosophical and therapeutic. It does not cure her of love, but it does begin to reconcile her to that love, to erase the horror that is initially aroused by showing that it is without foundation. Myrrha’s horror results from her judgement that incest is unlawful, to say the least. Her speech is designed to change that judgement, to show that the taboo against incest is contingent on a particular society and not a necessary feature of human existence. Once her judgement has been changed, her emotional reaction is expected to change as well. In the end, however, she does not succeed. Of course, this does not necessarily mean that Ovid is representing the Stoic technique as useless. The basic structure of the Myrrha myth was already established, and even if Ovid had changed it, the story would

626 sed fugitare decet simulacra et pabula amoris / absterrere sibi atque alio convertere mentem / et iacere umorem conlectum in corpora quaeque, / nec retinere, semel conversum unius amore, / et servare sibi curam certumque dolorem, DRN 4.1063-67. 627 nec mulier semper ficto suspirat amore / quae conplexa viri corpus cum corpora iungit / et tenet adsuctis umectans oscula labris, DRN 4.1192-95. 233

then not fulfil its purpose within the song of Orpheus. There would, in fact, be no story at all. But we can at least suggest that Ovid’s psychological portrayal of Myrrha is intimately informed by his knowledge of Stoicism. Stoic theory formed a significant part of the intellectual background against which Ovid worked, and it is not surprising to find that it permeates his work. Intertextual references to Lucretius have often been identified in the Metamorphoses, and it is perhaps now time to look for evidence of other philosophical systems. But even if we accept that philosophical theories of the emotions are influential here, why attribute the philosophical elements to Stoicism in particular? A rational therapy of the emotions was also practiced by Epicureans, and in fact the best example we have of such therapy is Lucretius arguing against the fear of death (hunc igitur terrorem animi tenebrasque necessest / non radii solis neque lucida tela diei / discutiant, sed naturae species ratioque, DRN 3.91-93). There are, I think, two reasons to claim Stoicism as the primary philosophical point of reference here. First, Myrrha’s emotional state is clearly presented as an oscillation, and oscillation depends on the peculiarly Stoic concept of the unitary rational soul. Second, at this time in the Roman Empire, Stoicism was a very respectable philosophy, and respectable especially for its ethical guidelines. Epicureanism was not so ethically respectable. By using a respected system of ethics to argue in favour of incest, Ovid gives the Myrrha myth an arresting pointedness that it could not have if he drew on Epicureanism, which was so easily derided, even if unfairly, as mere hedonism.628

Conclusion

The “Song of Orpheus” is, in large part, a philosophical exploration of the emotion of love. In the Hyacinthus and Adonis myths, Orpheus portrays the lover’s neglect of duties. He does not, however, celebrate elegiac amor. Rather, he chooses to invoke the more condemnatory model found in De rerum natura 4. In the Hyacinthus myth, he focuses on the neglected duties, while in the Adonis myth the emphasis is on the

628 Moreover, the Metamorphoses was written around the time when Augustus’ own daughter and granddaughter were exiled, under Augustus’ moral laws, for sexual misbehaviour. The topic of sexual morality was a live topic at the time, and we should perhaps ask whether Ovid is referencing this political interest. Using an honoured ethical system to argue for incest is playful and witty in a way that reference to Epicureanism could not be, and if Ovid is glancing at the political climate, the mischievous wit is even greater. Such questions, however, are beyond the scope of this thesis. 234

foolishly adored beloved. This Lucretian approach is further developed in the Pygmalion episode, where the ridiculous behaviour of the lover, as described in the De rerum natura, is emphasised almost to the point of being a reductio ad absurdum (one of Lucretius’ favourite techniques) by Pygmalion’s attempts to woo a statue. A particularly Lucretian note is sounded by Pygmalion’s squandering of wealth, which will have been particularly abhorrent to a Roman audience. Orpheus thus uses his love myths to illustrate the arguments against love made by Lucretius. Arguments against love are also central to the Myrrha episode which follows Pygmalion’s story. In Myrrha’s long soliloquy, she attempts to root out her desire for Cinyras through therapeutic argument. This is a technique used by Lucretius in the De rerum natura to root out the fear of death, but we have argued that Myrrha relies more on Stoic emotional theory than on Epicurean. In this way, the “Song of Orpheus” explores aspects of love from both Epicurean and Stoic perspectives. Orpheus also uses his “Song” as a kind of therapy for himself, exculpating his sense of guilt over Eurydice’s second death. The Apollo of the Hyacinthus myth mirrors Orpheus himself in the loss of the beloved and, especially, in his responsibility for that loss. Orpheus, however, quickly absolves Apollo of any real responsibility for Hyacinthus’ death, when Apollo claims that there is no guilt in love and play (10.209- 10). In absolving Apollo, Orpheus exorcises his own sense of guilt over Eurydice’s second death. Orpheus also uses Apollo’s immortality to justify his own failure to die in order to be reunited with Eurydice: Hyacinthus’ death places an impassable barrier between Hyacinthus and Apollo. Apollo wishes to die with Hyacinthus, but is unable to do so (fatali lege tenemur, 10.202-03). By association, this absolves Orpheus of the charge of cowardice laid by Phaedrus in Plato’s Symposium. Throughout the “Song of Orpheus”, then, Orpheus engages with philosophical theories of love and with the permissible extent of grief. He is thus following his mother’s example. Calliope responds to the Pierides’ epistemological and ontological challenge with a song focusing on love, grief and even (a kind of) death. Orpheus, the poet closest to the gods, picks up these themes and explores them in a variety of situations. In singing of Venus and Apollo as well as of Pygmalion and Myrrha, Orpheus continues to imply an ontological continuity between divine and mortal. In their shared susceptibility to emotion, the differences between humans and the gods seemingly fade to almost nothing.

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Part 4

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Chapter 7: Pythagoras’ Physics

In the first chapter we saw how the “Speech of Pythagoras” is paired with the “Cosmogony”.629 The nature of the resulting frame, however, is unclear. Does it impart a philosophical colouring to the poem as a whole, as Hardie and Myers maintain, or is there little connection between the explicitly philosophical material of the frame and the myths in the inner books, as Coleman and Volk claim?630 It is by now clear that the inner myths are thoroughly imbued with philosophical thought, such as the conflict between religion and philosophy, degrees of the ontological hierarchy, and theories of the emotions, and so we are able to agree with Hardie and Myers that there is a strong connection between the frame stories and the inner myths. However, Feeney is right to urge caution before accepting the “Speech” as a ‘unifying key’; regardless of the audience’s desire for ‘a synthesis’, Pythagoras is ‘only another voice’.631 In arguing that the philosophical themes from previous books are discussed in the Pythagoras episode, we should not assume that any conclusions are presented, nor that a philosophical explanation for those myths is given.632 Otis goes so far as to suggest that

629 Otis traces parallelisms and verbal similarities between Pythagoras’ “Speech” and the “Cosmogony”, concluding that Ovid ‘at least considered the possibility of a philosophical explanation for his myths’ (Otis (1966), pp.301-2). Solodow, Swanson, Wickkiser and Galinsky make similar observations, with Galinsky interpreting Pythagoras’ repetition of the “Cosmogony” as calling attention to the ‘predictable and methodical lines’ of Pythagoras’ narrative (JSolodow (1988), p.248n7; R.A. Swanson (1958) ‘Ovid’s Pythagorean Essay’ in CJ 54.1: 21-24, p.21; B.L. Wickkiser (1999) ‘Famous Last Words: Putting Ovid’s Sphragis Back into the Metamorphoses’ in MD 42: 113-142, p.117; Galinsky (1975), p.106). 630 Hardie (1995), pp. 210-211; Myers (1994), pp. ix, 6, 27, 134; Coleman (1971), p.462; Volk (2002), p.66. 631 Feeney (1991), p.205. Hardie also argues that the subject matter of transformation does not provide a key, that the ‘unifying ground is rather to be located at the level of poetics, in the construction of a literary history within the text’ (Hardie (1995), p.212). For Myers, too, the philosophical frame is ‘an important literary statement of the poem’s epic affiliations’ (Myers (1994), p.6). Segal traces this shift in interest ‘from the question of its seriousness as a statement of the philosophical underpinnings of metamorphosis and its Augustan, or anti-Augustan tone to issues of genre and intertextuality, that is, how Ovid assimilates, comments on, and rewrites the preceding literary tradition’ (Segal (2001), p.63). 632 As Myers puts it, the ‘eclectic natural-philosophical framework of the poem does not encode a philosophical justification for or explanation of the metamorphosis theme’ (Myers (1994), p.6). For Myers, ‘the metamorphic fictional world of the bulk of the poem does not allow for or require such a philosophical underpinning’ (Myers (1994), p.134). Steiner makes the cautious and undeniable 239

it would be a ‘cardinal sin’ to ‘force a coherent symbolism on the whole poem solely on the basis of these two philosophical digressions’, since ‘Ovid’s attitude toward myth is to be discovered in his treatment of myth, not elsewhere.’633 As we have seen, the inner myths are philosophical, but no one philosophical system has emerged victorious. Rather, certain key themes have been discussed in a variety of ways throughout our four myths. These myths all are intratextually related, suggesting that the Metamorphoses is, in fact, a thoroughly unified poem in which the apparently disparate myths provide a kaleidoscopic or multifaceted view of those themes. The key themes identified in the preceding chapters reappear in our final myth of Pythagoras.634 They are so intertwined that it is impossible to separate them entirely and to provide a fully linear exposition. We shall, however, devote this chapter largely to the physical material in the “Speech of Pythagoras” and discuss the ethics of the sermo in the next chapter. The “Speech of Pythagoras” engages closely with the De rerum natura and with earlier myths in the Metamorphoses.635 This relationship with Lucretius’ poem is indicated very early in the episode, when the poem’s narrator tells us that Numa wished to learn quae sit rerum natura (15.6, cf. DRN 1.25: ego de rerum natura pangere conor). The “Speech” is presented as the lecture that Numa seeks. This meeting between Pythagoras and Numa is, of course, a famous anachronism that had been thoroughly discredited by Ovid’s time (as witnessed by Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations 4.1.3 and Republic 2.15.28-29).636 Segal claims that the ‘bold anachronism’ of the meeting ‘gives a self-conscious fictionality to the whole episode, and further undercuts

suggestion that ‘the inclusion of a philosophical justification of the concept of metamorphoses underscores the obligation he felt toward his stated theme. This is true whether that passage be regarded as a logical outgrowth of the structure of the entire poem, or as part of a more or less essential frame, or as a preface to the apotheosis of Caesar, or merely as a rather ill-conceived and loosely appended apology’ (G. Steiner (1958) ‘Ovid’s Carmen Perpetuum’ in TAPA 89: 218-236, p.221). It is suggested here that the “Speech” is both a ‘logical outgrowth’ and part of a ‘more or less essential’ frame. 633 Otis (1966) p.302. Little also argues that the “Speech” ‘does not confer the retrospective unity on the Metamorphoses that the critics have claimed to see’ (Little (1970), p.347). 634 Fantham observes that ‘themes from throughout’ are recapitulated in Pythagoras’ Speech (Fantham (2004), p.114). Volk notes that Pythagoras’ topic (omnia [...] / in species translata novas, 15.419-20) ‘is highly reminiscent / of in nova [...] mutatas formas / corpora (1.1-2), the narrator’s topic.’ Volk further observes that ‘Pythagoras’ repeated use of the word corpora at the beginning of a verse [76, 156, 215, 363, 459], a mannerism that harks back to 1.2’ (Volk (2002), pp.66-7n78). 635 Many of Pythagoras’ examples from the natural world ‘are included as metamorphoses earlier in the poem’ (Myers (1994), p.133). Segal argues that ‘[j]ust as Pythagoras veers both so close to and so far from his philosophical model, Lucretius, so he both overlaps with and diverges from his poetic model within the poem, the author/narrator’ (Segal (2001), p.84). 636 Myers observes that there is a second anachronism in this frame; Dionysus of Halicarnassus points out (Ant. Rom. 2.59) that Croton did not yet exist at the time of Numa’s reign (Myers (1994), p.137). 240

its seriousness as a philosophical basis for the poem,’ while for Graf it is evidence of the narrator’s unreliability.637 For Hardie, however, it is more purposeful, being ‘emblematic of the encounter between Rome and Greece which forms one of the major themes of the last book of the Metamorphoses’.638 The fictional status that the anachronism gives to the “Speech of Pythagoras” also places the event on much the same level as the myths in the rest of the poem. But there is no good reason to believe that a fictional account cannot be philosophical – indeed, the fictional accounts of Lycaon, the Musomachia and Orpheus have been shown to draw on philosophical themes such as epistemology and ethics. If the anachronism of the meeting serves to obscure the differences between the mythical and historical sections of the poem,639 it has no effect on the philosophical tone of the “Speech”. Numa seeks, and finds, a lecture explicitly de rerum natura, the same kind of instruction which Lucretius gives Memmius in the De rerum natura. At the outset, therefore, we are given a strong indication that the “Speech of Pythagoras” is to be read with Lucretius in mind.640 At the beginning of the Pythagoras641 episode we find Numa, dissatisfied with Sabine rites and desirous of understanding the nature of the cosmos (non satis cognosse Sabinae / gentis habet ritus [...] et, quae sit rerum natura, requirit, 15.4-5). It is tempting to read this as a dismissal of Vergil in favour of Lucretius, in a reworking of the double makarismos of Book II of the Georgics (2.475-512). There, Vergil proposes the mysteries and rural life as an alternative to philosophy. He speaks of Taygeta virginibus bacchata Lacaenis and says fortunatus et ille, deos qui novit agrestis (G. 2.487-88, 493). In the double makarismos, Vergil places religious knowledge on the same level as philosophical knowledge, and says that the former is sufficient by itself for a happy life. In using the religious word ritus, Ovid indicates that his Numa does not agree with Vergil, and insists on acquiring philosophical knowledge of rerum natura (15.5) in addition to his religious knowledge. Vergil attributes this religious knowledge to the veteres Sabini (G. 2.532), and it is the Sabine ritus that Numa wishes to transcend. Cognosse picks up Vergil’s cognoscere in G.490. Vergil uses cognoscere

637 Segal (2001), p.95; F. Graf (2002) ‘Myth in Ovid’ in P.R. Hardie (2002a): 108-121, p.121. 638 Hardie (1995), p.206. 639 But see Wheeler (2002) and Hardie (2002e) on the Metamorphoses as universal history. 640 There are also, of course, strong references to the “Speech on Anchises” in Aeneid VI. On parallels with Anchises, see, e.g. Hardie (1993a), p.106; Wheeler (1999), pp. 190-91. 641 I shall use “Pythagoras” as shorthand for “Ovid’s Pythagoras” throughout Chapters 7 and 8, unless otherwise specified. 241

to describe the ‘the claim of both the mysteries and of philosophy to beatify through knowledge’,642 which is precisely what Numa intends to acquire. From religious knowledge, then, Numa passes to philosophical, contrary to Vergil’s move from a desire for philosophical knowledge to an acceptance of religious. In the opening lines, the reader is thus prepared for an episode privileging philosophy over myth and religion, Lucretius over Vergil. Of course, that is not to say that Pythagoras’ sermo follows Lucretian doctrine. We will note many verbal similarities but, despite these, ‘Pythagoras’ philosophical approach to his material is very different from, and ultimately opposed to, that of Lucretius’.643 Volk notes that not only does Pythagoras use Lucretian diction, he also includes Lucretian ideas, ‘while at the same time blatantly contradicting its philosophical view, most notably on the question of the soul’s immortality’.644 Pythagoras is, in fact, using Lucretius to argue against Lucretian doctrines, just as Ovid himself does in the “Cosmogony”.

i) Pythagoras’ Introduction

The introduction of Pythagoras sets up the De rerum natura as a major intertext. Ovid says of Pythagoras (15.60-65)

vir fuit hic ortu Samius, sed fugerat una et Samon et dominos odioque tyrannidis exul sponte erat isque licet caeli regione remotos mente deos adiit et, quae natura negabat visibus humanis, oculis ea pectoris hausit, cumque animo et vigili perspexerat omnia cura,

The first five verses of this passage should be compared with DRN 1.72-77, where Lucretius tells us that a Graius homo (1.66) was the first to lift his eyes against Religio:

ergo vivida vis animi pervicit, et extra processit longe flammantia moenia mundi atque omne immensum peragravit mente animoque, unde refert nobis victor quid possit oriri, quid nequeat, finita potestas denique cuique quanam sit ratione atque alte terminus haerens.

642 Hardie (1986), p.40. 643 Myers (1994), p.142. 644 Volk (2002), p.67. Segal considers the possibility that Ovid’s use of Pythagoras for his Lucretian section is because ‘the contradiction between style and content in Pythagoras’ speech mirrors Ovid’s admiring but contradictory and possibly ambivalent attitudes toward his great predecessor in Latin didactic epic’ (Segal (2001), pp.66-67). 242

In describing Pythagoras as vir ortu Samius, Ovid is, of course, alluding to Lucretius’ use of Graius homo to introduce Epicurus. The allusion is doubly resonant, since Epicurus was also a native of Samos; the phrase vir ortu Samius is, in fact, equally applicable to Pythagoras and to Epicurus.645 Lucretius’ own use of Graius homo is an allusion to Empedocles (B 129),646 so that Ovid’s language ‘echoes the praise of Epicurus at Lucretius 1.62-79, but the object of praise, Pythagoras, is the same as that in Lucretius’ own model in Empedocles’.647 Sedley observes that in the Empedoclean and Lucretian verses, Pythagoras and Epicurus are praised ‘for their intellectual achievement in breaking through the boundaries of ordinary human experience – Pythagoras for his recollection of his former incarnations, Epicurus for his grasp of the nature of the infinite universe beyond our own world’.648 Ovid combines these two achievements, since his Pythagoras both recalls past incarnations (memini, 15.160) and imitates Lucretius’ mental journey across the cosmos. With line 65 (cumque animo et vigili perspexerat omnia cura), Ovid alludes to a passage in which Lucretius describes his own activity in writing the De rerum natura (DRN 1.136-45). In particular, Lucretius tells Memmius that the hope of friendship inspires wakeful nights of writing poetry (inducit noctes vigilare serenas, 1.142). In the Pythagoras episode, Lucretian lines describing Epicurus and his poet converge on a single man, Pythagoras. Ovid provides a long list (15.67-73) of matters that Pythagoras discusses, thus elaborating on Lucretius’ short list (DRN 1.75-77). In the sermo provided, Pythagoras does not, in fact, discuss all of the points in Ovid’s list; he does not mention, for example, the phenomena of clouds, thunder and earthquakes (15.69- 71). The extensive list marks Pythagoras as a didactic poet along Lucretian lines, setting up a context in which the sermo demands to be read. With the exception of vegetarianism, each of the subjects that Ovid names is discussed in the De rerum natura. First, appropriately, are the magni primordia mundi (15.67). The phrase magnus mundus appears five times in the De rerum natura (5.433, 545, 1204, 6.493 and 565), each time in the genitive. In each of the occurrences in

645 Trépanier observes, in connection with Empedocles B129, that the omission of Pythagoras’ name ‘was itself a reference to him, in keeping with Pythagorean reluctance to name the master by name’ (S. Trépanier (2007) ‘The Didactic Plot of Lucretius, De rerum natura and its Empedoclean Model’ in R. Sorabji & R.W. Sharples (2007):243-282, pp.271-72. 646 Sedley (1998), p.29. 647 Hardie (1995), p.208. 648 Sedley (1998), p.30. 243

Book V of the De rerum natura, Lucretius uses the same pattern that Ovid uses here, separating magni and mundi with a single word (respectively, sidera, moenia and caelestia) and placing the three-word phrase at the end of a line. One of the phrases that Lucretius uses to designate atoms is rerum primordia (1.55), so we cannot be certain whether Pythagoras’ magni primordia mundi refers to the origin of the cosmos or to the first-beginnings (i.e. elements or atoms) of the world.649 In the following line, rerum causas et, quid natura (15.68) is naturally a play on Lucretius’ rerum natura. Ovid also says that Pythagoras teaches quid deus (15.69), a subject of great importance in the De rerum natura; at 1.54-55, Lucretius lays out his intentions (nam tibi de summa caeli ratione deumque / disserere incipiam, et rerum primordia pandam). Lucretius provides three primary topics for discussion, one of which is the nature of divinity. We should also remember that the nature of divinity has been a central topic in the “Cosmogony”, the “Musomachia” and the “Orpheus”. Next, Ovid attributes to Pythagoras meteorological phenomena such as snow, lightning and whether thunder is divinely or mechanistically caused (15.69-70).650 Lucretius mentions snow at DRN 6.527-34, but does not provide an explanation, saying merely that explanations are easy to find once the elemental qualities are understood. Lucretius’ discussion of lightning is found at 6.160-218. He has multiple passages on various aspects of thunder, at 5.1218-25, 6.96-159 and 6.387-422. Of these, the first and last are passages on theology, with that at 6.96ff describing the natural processes by which thunder may occur. In Book V, Lucretius describes thunder as causing fear of the gods, while 6.387ff. discusses whether thunderbolts are hurled by Jupiter. If we compare the two passages in Book VI, we see a natural explanation contrasted with a divine explanation (with the divine explanation devoted to revealing the absurdities of

649 Segal notes ‘the abrupt shift of the meaning of primordia from its geographical meaning as the “foundation” of Croton (15.58) to its “scientific”, Lucretian usage as the “beginnings of the great world”’ (Segal (2001), p.72). 650 Little argues that ‘[t]he question quae fulminis esset origo [15.79-80] has already been answered. Ovid gives two causes and, in a work of mythology, they are incompatible. For Ovid the mythographer, it is Jupiter, using the weapons forged by the Cyclops; for Ovid the philosopher, it is the result of natural forces. The philosophical explanation at 1.56 does not underpin, it undermines the myth’ (Little (1970), p.351). Ahl also finds a connection between the thunder of Book I and Pythagoras’ “Speech”, claiming that the wordplay on fulmen and flumen is ‘an illustration of the argument his Pythagoras makes in 15.237’ (Ahl (1985) Metaformations, p.54). Little further claims that the juxtaposition of mythological and philosophical explanations is ‘a needless discordance if the Pythagoras digression is meant to provide a philosophic basis for myth’ (p.352), that there must be no mixing of philosophical and mythological modes of thought: ‘There was a gap between philosophy and mythology, between truth and fiction, and Ovid’s intelligence, eminently sane and not prone to illusions, was well aware of it’ (p.347). This ignores the possibility that Ovid might play in that gap, testing its limits – any boundary is also a point of connection, after all. 244

superstition and Religio). In the first passage, the movement of winds and the tearing of clouds are of paramount importance, while the second begins quod si Iuppiter atque alii [...] quatiunt (6.387). Ovid reduces these long (and separated) passages to a single line, compressing the references to Jupiter, winds and torn clouds. The last two topics in Ovid’s list are earthquakes and sidereal motions. Ovid references Lucretius by using the same word, quatio (quid quateret terras, 15.71), that Lucretius uses in relation to Jupiter and thunderbolts, the subject of the preceding Ovidian line. Lucretius covers earthquakes at 6.535-607. The stars are brought in with qua sidera lege mearent, language echoing Lucretius’ use. At 5.76-77, Lucretius discusses the law of celestial motion, proposing praeterea solis cursus lunaeque meatus / expediam qua vi flectat natura gubernans. These verses, of course, properly refer to the sun and moon, and do not mention stars. Nevertheless, Ovid’s qua lege picks up Lucretius’ qua vi, while mearent obviously picks up meatus. Ovid thus provides a list of topics, most of which are not elaborated in the “Speech” proper, but do have extended explanations in the De rerum natura, mostly in the sixth Book. We therefore expect a more thoroughly Lucretian speech than is ultimately given – although this subversion of expectations is thoroughly Ovidian and is prefigured in the opening lines of the book when we are invited to a lecture de rerum natura and are initially given a mythical account of the founding of Croton.651 Despite the learnedness of Pythagoras’ “Speech”, he is not believed (ora / docta [...] sed not et credita 15.74). Let us compare DRN 1.50-55, Lucretius is clearly worried that his learned words will not be believed and, significantly, he also sets out as his topic the gods and celestial phenomena that are included in Pythagoras’ introduction:

[...] vacuas auris animumque sagacem semotum a curis adhibe veram ad rationem, ne mea dona tibi studio disposta fideli, intellecta prius quam sint, contempta relinquas

651 This account depends on a dream visitation, a phenomenon which Lucretius specifically refutes at DRN 4.757-67 and 5.62-63. Hardie argues that this dream visitation is a reworking of Ennius’ Dream of Homer, so that Pythagoras’ “Speech” is introduced by a myth reworking Ennius’ Pythagorean Dream (Hardie (1995), pp.210-11). Furthermore, Pythagoras’ own “Speech” can be interpreted as a reworking of the Dream of Homer (Hardie (1988), p.72). Verstraete observes that the Epicureans ‘denied any oracular or mystical import to dream-experience,’ unlike the Stoics (B.C. Verstraete (1980) ‘The Implication of the Epicurean and Lucretian Theory of Dreams for Falsa Insomnia in Aeneid 6.897’ in CW 74.1: 7-10, p.9). Pythagoreans, too, ‘attached considerable significance to divination through dreams,’ (P. Kingsley (1995) Ancient Philosophy, Mystery and Magic: Empedocles and Pythagorean Tradition, Oxford: Clarendon, p.286), so that this introduction to the Pythagoras episode is particularly appropriate. Cicero records this Pythagorean doctrine (Div. 1.30.62). 245

nam tibi de summa caeli ratione deumque disserere incipiam.

Pythagoras, then, falls victim to the very danger against which Lucretius takes care to guard himself early in the De rerum natura. As we will see in the following chapter, Pythagoras takes great care to prove his own credibility, referring to his memory and experience as well as to his divine inspiration (for example, memini, 15.160; vidi ego, 15.262 and et quoniam deus ora movet, sequar ora moventem / rite deum, 15.143-44). Despite this attempt, we know before his sermo even begins that it will fail to convince its audience. The following table outlines Pythagoras’ sermo:

Passage Line Numbers Topic

1 15.75-95 Denunciation of meat-eating

2 15.96-110 A vegetarian Golden Age

3 15.111-42 Meat-eating perverts relationships with animals and with gods

4 15.143-52 Proem in the middle

5 15.153-75 Metempsychosis

6 15.176-85 Ceaseless flux of the universe

7 15.186-98 Diurnal cycle

8 15.199-213 Seasonal cycle

9 15.214-36 Human life cycle

10 15.237-51 Condensation and rarefaction of elements

11 15.252-58 Death is only change

12 15.259-86 Changes in geology and rivers

13 15.287-306 Changes in cities and the hill at Troezen

14 15.307-355 Marvellous rivers and Etna

15 15.356-60 Feathered humans

16 15.361-74 Bugonia and similar marvels

17 15.375-90 Animal marvels

246

18 15.391-407 Phoenix

19 15.408-417 Hyenas, chameleons, lynxes and coral

20 15.418-435 Cities rise and fall

21 15.435-52 Helenus’ prophecy

22 15.453-78 Defence of vegetarianism

ii) The Elements

Pythagoras devotes a significant proportion of his “Speech” to natural philosophy, most explicitly in Passage 9, where the “Cosmogony” is a strong intratext. In this passage, Pythagoras gives us a second version of the arrangement of the four elements, a counterpart to Met. 1.21-31. In the first book, Ovid tells us that the four elements are pre-existing but confused (1.15-17): utque erat et tellus illic et pontus et aer / sic erat instabilis tellus, innabilis unda / lucis egens aer. This, then, is the state of things, and the deus et melior [...] natura (1.21) only gives order and arrangement to the pre- existing elements. Once he has imposed limits, the elements find their own positions according to their weight. Pythagoras follows the earlier version thus far (although he makes no mention of a demiurgic figure), having the elements arrange themselves according to weight. At this point, however, Pythagoras adds further information which is not found in Book I. He tells us, in a Lucretian sounding phrase, that omnia fiunt / ex ipsis et in ipsa cadunt (15.244-45), and elaborates by describing how rarefaction converts earth into water, thence to air and thence to fire, and that this process is reversible, so that fire can be condensed until it becomes earth (15.245-51).652 There is no indication in the earlier version that condensation and rarefaction can occur. Pythagoras has thus taken our understanding of the structure of the cosmos a step further, building on the prior account.

652 Hendry identifies a confusion over whether omnia here refers to the elements or to the world. He concludes that the former appears ‘more natural in this context,’ although there is no verse parallel for taking ex ipsis and in ipsa as reciprocals (M. Hendry (1992) ‘Two Conjectures in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ in CQ n.s. 42.2: 552-555, p.554). If we take omnia to refer to the world, the sentence is compatible with Lucretian atomism; if omnia refers to the elements, the sentence is anti-Lucretian. It is entirely possible that this sentence is deliberately ambiguous. The interchange of elements was, according to Kingsley, ‘a philosophical commonplace since the days of Heraclitus.’ (Kingsley (1995), pp.29-30). 247

In fact, Pythagoras’ addition to the account in the “Cosmogony” significantly qualifies the cosmological system as presented in Book I. The “Cosmogony” implies that the elements are stable, that is, that they cannot transform into one another. In the “Cosmogony”, the vertical arrangement separates elements that are distinct from one another, with verbs of separation predominating. The divisions of earth, sea, air and aether are thus firmly distinguished – a distinction that is later partially overwhelmed during the Flood (nullum discrimen, 1.291). This fusion of different cosmic parts during the Flood (each of which is closely associated with an element) undoes the distinctions created by the opifex rerum (1.79). In Pythagoras’ cosmological system, however, the elements are capable of transforming into each other. If this is so, then it naturally follows that the parts of the world composed of these elements (earth, sea, air and aether) are equally fluid. The terrifying fusion of the Flood, then, ought to make an appearance in the “Speech of Pythagoras” in a more domestic form. In an attempt to prove nil equidem durare diu sub imagine eadem (15.259), Pythagoras affirms vidi ego, quod fuerat quondam solidissima tellus / esse fretum, vidi factas ex aequore terras (15.262-63). Liveley argues that these verses are ‘a direct and explicit undoing of the order into which the primordial chaos was previously configured’.653 However, while the cataclysmic Flood does undo that order, Pythagoras’ more mundane transformation suggests that such order as might govern the universe involves the crossing of boundaries, that the fluid nature of the fundamental elements necessitates that the cosmos constructed from them should have a fluid nature. Pythagoras then explains this initially startling claim by observing (15.266) that quodque fuit campus, vallem decursus aquarum / fecit, et eluvie mons est deductus in aequor. As on the microcosmic level, so it is on the cosmic level: terrestrial phenomena may transform (or, rather, appear to transform) into one another just as the elements do. The phenomenon is familiar and ordinary, and its very ordinariness is what familiarises the concept that the elements may transform into each other. The devastating and cosmos-unravelling Flood of Book I could, then, be

653 G. Liveley (2002) ‘Cleopatra’s Nose, Naso and the Science of Chaos’ in G&R 2nd ser. 49.1: 27-43, p.35. For Liveley, ‘Pythagoras’ philosophical re-vision of the Metamorphoses in the final book sees a return to the cosmic disorder and primordial chaos of the beginning. Once more, the fundamental elements of earth, air, fire and water – separated at the start of the cosmos and at the start of the poem – appear to be indistinct, in a constant state of flux (Met 15.244-53)’ (p.34). 248

reinterpreted as merely an extreme instance of a natural change.654 In support of this possible reinterpretation of the Flood, it should be noted that Lucretius includes the Deluge as a natural phenomenon, occurring whenever water temporarily gains victory over the other elements (DRN 5.411-15). Pythagoras’ proposed system, if a little different from that presented in the “Cosmogony”, is fully consistent with itself, with fluidity a feature of both the microcosmic and cosmic levels. There is, however, no reason to suppose that his fluid elements are entirely incompatible with the elements of the first Book. In the “Cosmogony”, Ovid does not specify that the elements are fluid, but neither does he specify that they are stable. Certainly, the implication is that the elements cannot transform into one another, and the Flood is thus the action of a wrathful deity, rather than a natural (if extreme) phenomenon. With Pythagoras’ revision of the earlier cosmological system, the Flood gains an alternative explanation, but this need not invalidate the earlier version. The practice of providing alternative explanations is very Lucretian, and has been used by Ovid earlier in the Metamorphoses, in Book I, for example, when Ovid discusses two different means by which humans might originally have been created (1.80-83). Furthermore, although the careful vertical separation of the elements in Book I implies a degree of stability, it should be remembered that Pythagoras does include this stratification, suggesting that it is fully compatible with fluid elements. He does not overwrite the cosmology of the “Cosmogony”; rather, he elaborates on it. Pythagoras claims that the rarefaction and condensation of elements into each other is another example of ceaseless change (15.237-51). As we saw in Chapter 1, it is a standard Ovidian technique to assign new meanings to Lucretian terminology, and Pythagoras does precisely that in this passage. He tells us that quattuor aeternus genitalia corpora mundus / continet (15.239-40). This sentence plays Lucretius off against himself, and not only by calling the world aeternus.655 Pythagoras adheres to the Empedoclean theory of the four elements (which Lucretius dismisses at DRN 1.705- 41) while calling those elements genitalia corpora, a term which Lucretius explicitly

654 Volk notes that ‘according to Pythagoras, metamorphosis is a wholly natural process, whereas in Ovid’s poem as a whole, it typically appears as an (often catastrophic) disruption of nature’ (Volk (2002), p.66n77. Our comparison of the Flood with Pythagoras’ account of flooding illustrates this general point. 655 Lucretius also calls the mundus aeternus (DRN 5.514). McKim claims Ovid has Pythagoras ‘deny that the world was created at all by proclaiming that it is eternal’ (McKim (1984), p.101). However, given that Lucretius permits himself to use the word aeternus, we should not perhaps place too much weight on it here. 249

attaches to atoms at DRN 1.58-61. A Lucretian term is thus reassigned to a theory rejected by Lucretius as invalid. Pythagoras emphasises his rejection of Lucretian doctrine in the following lines by focusing exclusively on the condensation and rarefaction of the elements. We have already seen that this concept is new in the Metamorphoses, supplementing the description of the nature of the four elements which is found in Book I. In the passage on the elements, Pythagoras comes closest to expounding a coherent and detailed physical theory. The account in the “Cosmogony” closely follows passages from De rerum natura V (as is discussed in Chapter 1, section v), so the addition of rarefaction and condensation in the “Speech of Pythagoras” not only takes our understanding further than the “Cosmogony” does, but also breaks with Lucretius. Lucretius argues against condensation and rarefaction at DRN 1.782-802; his argument relies on the impossibility of continuity through change – in fact this passage contains the second instance of Lucretius’ explicit rejection of continuity through change: nam quodcumque suis mutatum finibus exit / continuo hoc mors est illius quod fuit ante (1.792-93). For Lucretius, if the four elements cannot change their natures in either becoming compounds or transforming into other elements, they are not primordia; if they can transform into one another, they are mutable and can conceivably disappear into nothing (DRN 1.764-94) It is, therefore, clear that Ovid is deliberately emphasising Pythagoras’ divergence from Lucretius; he speaks of four genitalia corpora (a term which Lucretius provides as a synonym for primordia rerum, DRN 1.58-61) which can transform into one another. Clearly, these genitalia corpora are the four elements, which are capable of condensation and rarefaction while still being primordia. Lucretius’ objections to Empedocles’ four elements are elided by the simple application of his own term to Empedocles’ elements.656

iii) Continuity Through Change

Passages 6 to 20 of the “Speech of Pythagoras” are devoted to the concept first stated at 15.165 (omnia mutantur, nihil interit) and restated at 15.177-78 (nihil est toto, quod

656 As Sedley has argued, Lucretius’ own proem is profoundly Empedoclean, and ‘an imitation of the proem to Empedocles’ Περι φύσεως’ (D. Sedley (1989b) ‘The Proems of Empedocles and Lucretius’ in Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 30.2: 269-296, p.287). It is thus likely that Ovid is restoring the Empedoclean philosophy which Lucretius twisted in adopting an Empedoclean style of writing. 250

perstet, in orbe / cuncta fluunt, omnisque vagans formatur imago). This totalising statement takes us much further than the Pythagorean doctrine of the transmigration of souls.657 DeLacy suggests that this extension of the idea of change provides ‘an even more universal expression of the theme of the Metamorphoses’.658 There is a serious problem with his claim, since the “Speech” ‘describes a world of perpetual change, a philosophical view of mutability that is quite different from the poetic fantasy of metamorphosis into a fixed form’.659 Still, DeLacy is correct to note that Pythagoras extends his discussion of metempsychosis to include physical changes. From Pythagorean metempsychosis, we move to Heraclitean flux.660 Transmigration of souls is proved by physical transformations, so that ethics (since metempsychosis is important because of the behaviour it requires) and physics are closely related. The same idea of cuncta fluunt appears in the De rerum natura as adsidue quoniam fluere omnia constat (5.280). For Lucretius, however, this flux ultimately reveals an underlying order, as many of the changes he relates are cyclical. One of the more memorable of Lucretius’ examples is his account of the procession of the seasons, at DRN 5.737-46. In this tableau, each of the seasons is

657 This totalisation is comparable to Heraclitus’ probable extension of the historical Pythagoras’ doctrine of the transmigration of souls. Heraclitus ‘maintains that the process of dying is reversible, and extends it to every fundamental change of state, thereby generalizing the doctrine of reincarnation’ (C. Riedweg (2002) Pythagoras: Leben, Lehre, Nachwirkung, München: C.H. Beck (translated as Pythagoras: His Life, Teaching and Influence by S. Rendall, 2005, Ithaca: Cornell UP), pp.114-15). 658 DeLacy (1947), p.156. This position is also held by Otis, who posits that Ovid ‘conceived of metamorphosis in a much more philosophical way and explicitly stated his view in the long Pythagoras soliloquy’ (Otis (1966), p.81). McKim has also suggested that, within the context of the Metamorphoses, Pythagoras’ physics is ‘more or less right’ since he ‘believes in metempsychosis and sees that fluid change, not rigid order, is the constant fact in our world’ and even ‘demonstrates the kinship between his world and that of the Met. by including some phenomena which have featured in the poem’s myths’ (McKim (1984), p.107). While Pythagoras might propose an all-embracing philosophical theory of everything, this ‘retrospective philosophical theory of change’ is ‘to [be] test[ed] against the preceding fourteen books’ (P.R. Hardie (1993a) The Epic Successors of Virgil: A Study in the Dynamics of a Tradition, Cambridge: CUP, p.106). 659 Hardie (1993a), p.94. Throughout the myths, metamorphosis is (with a few exceptions) a permanent change of state, while Pythagoras’ flux is ceaseless change. It is also problematic to compare Pythagoras’ main point (metempsychosis) and metamorphosis, as Graf notes (Graf (2002), p.120). The problematic relationship between metempsychosis and metamorphosis will be discussed further in Chapter 8. 660 In note 22 above, we saw that one doctrine espoused by Ovid’s Pythagoras (the interchange of elements) can be seen as Heraclitean. Kingsley also states that this doctrine is not part of Empedoclean philosophy (Kingsley (1995), pp.29-30). Hardie argues that Empedocles’ poem may have been an acceptable substitute for Pythagorean doctrine, due to ‘the belief, widespread in antiquity, that Empedocles was a Pythagorean’ (Hardie (1995), p.206). If so, the non-Empedoclean, Heraclitean doctrine of the interchange of elements suggests that Pythagoras’ “Speech” cannot be read as a straightforward exposition of a single doctrine. Ahl provides a possible solution, suggesting that ‘[i]f Ovid’s Pythagoras stands for anything, it is for the whole process of human philosophical thought whirling through its Protean changes like a stream’ (Ahl (1985) p.288). For Ahl, Pythagoras is a symbol: he ‘is philosophy, and Ovid can therefore have him preaching what ancient scholars took to be the rival Heraclitean doctrine of flux’ (p.288, italics in original).

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personified, and each proceeds in order with their associated deities. Lucretius explicitly states that these changes are examples of order (ordine cum videas tam certo multa creari, 5.736). Pythagoras picks up Lucretius’ use of the personified seasons as an example of ceaseless change in Passage 8, with a significant alteration. The Lucretian source lines present the seasons as discrete personifications, while Pythagoras has the year’s seasons progress in imitation aetatis nostrae (15.200). This change is heralded by Pythagoras’ change in focus from the seasons proper to the year as a whole, which assumes four faces: non in species succedere quattuor annum / adspicis (15.199- 200). Lucretius makes no mention of the year itself in his tableau. What, however, does Pythagoras achieve in altering the focus? In the De rerum natura, the seasons succeed one another. In the “Speech of Pythagoras”, the year changes its appearance. This difference between the Lucretian and ‘Pythagorean’ lines reflects the difference in their philosophies. For Lucretius, one distinct state succeeds another in fixed order (ordine certo, 5.736), while for Pythagoras a single entity (the year) undergoes multiple transformations (one might say, metamorphoses). Pythagoras shows us how a single entity may change its form and yet remain the same. This is opposed to Epicurean doctrine; Lucretius states repeatedly that to cease to be the same is to die (nam quodcumque suis mutatum finibus exit / continuo hoc mors est illius quod fuit ante, 1.670-71 = 1.792-93 = 2.753-54 = 3.519-20). The concept of continuity through change is implied by Pythagoras’ opening focus on the year rather than the seasons themselves, but he has already dealt with the potential challenge which Lucretius’ doctrine might pose. During his proof of metempsychosis, Pythagoras says: utque novis facilis signatur cera figuris / nec manet et fuerat nec formam servat eandem, / sed tamen ipsa eadem est, animam sic semper eandem / esse, sed in varias doceo migrare figuras (15.169-72). With this wax simile, Pythagoras provides a concrete example – a favourite technique of Lucretius’ – of his theory that something may persist through a change, and the simile serves not only in its immediate context of metempsychosis, but also thirty lines later, for the passage on the year (and the following passage on the human life cycle). As the wax remains wax, so the year is still the year, whether it takes on the forms of spring, summer, autumn or winter. Pythagoras widens Lucretius’ view to include the year, and thus successfully

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portrays the seasons as changes within a single entity, rather than as successive, distinct states.661 Pythagoras describes this changing but stable entity (the year) in terms of the human life cycle in Passage 9 (aetatis nostrae, 15.200). For this to be a valid interpretative tool for the understanding of the year, the year must be personified as a makranthropos. Pythagoras sketches the annual cycle in terms of the life cycle of the human, while at DRN 2.1105-74 Lucretius sketches the life cycle of the world in human terms. For Lucretius, this provides proof of its mortality; as humans die, so too will the world (sic igitur magni quoque circum moenia mundi / expugnata dabunt labem putrisque ruinas, 2.1144-45). According to Lucretius’ use of the makranthropos model, then, the increasing age and ultimate death of humans implies the increasing age and ultimate death of the world. This means that if we were to take a Lucretian view of Pythagoras’ makranthropos, we should conclude that the increasing age of the year (culminating in winter) should be followed by death. Pythagoras does not say what he thinks follows winter but extrapolation from Lucretius’ use of the makranthropos model allows us to posit the ultimate death of the year (to be followed by the birth of the next). The year, then, is a single entity which passes through successive changes but remains the same, and the model of the human life cycle points to this continuity. Pythagoras reinforces this idea by proceeding immediately to relate the human life cycle itself (15.214-36). Segal finds that Pythagoras is here adapting Lucretius’ anti- teleological argument (DRN 5.218-27) ‘to the much more familiar, if not actually banal, theme of mutability in mortal life’.662 That banality, however, is essential to the argument. In opposition to the Lucretian argument that to change is to die, Pythagoras places the common-sense view that a human being remains the same entity despite undergoing changes.663 Galinsky interprets Pythagoras’ ‘strict, formal organization’ as not only following the rules of rhetorical composition, but as ‘a regression to the inartistic arrangement of the catalog poem’.664 However, in a didactic speech, the need to reinforce teachings should not be dismissed so easily as inartistic. Nor need the

661 The simile comparing the soul’s perception to wax’s reception of a seal impression is perhaps a source here. This simile appears from Plato and Aristotle to the early Stoics (Plato, Theaetetus 191C-195B; Aristotle, De anima 2.12.424A17-24; SVF 1.141 = Eusebius, Praep. evang. 15.20.2 662 Segal (2001), p.89. 663 This, of course, is not an entirely fair opposition. Lucretius does not claim that change is death, but rather that change entails mortality. A human being will remain the same organism throughout the changes of life – but not after death. Pythagoras’ devious false opposition allows him to imply that if an entity persists throughout the changes of life, it might also persist after death. 664 Galinsky (1975), p.107. 253

clever appeal to the familiar be reduced to the banal; here it serves to familiarise the unfamiliar.665 Beagon argues that ‘it was precisely because they were common knowledge, or at least a matter of common repute, that Ovid chose the examples of natural change in Metamorphoses 15.176-415’.666 In a second passage on the mutability of all things (Passage 11), Pythagoras tells us that to die is to cease to be the same thing (desinere illud idem, 15.256-57). Lucretius tells us several times that to pass outside one’s boundaries (to change) is to die (to be mortal), and now Pythagoras reverses that formulation to tell us that to die is merely to change. He is now qualifying the concept of continuity through change, since in claiming that death is change, he must also hold that change is (or, rather, can be) death. His position begins to approximate that of Lucretius, although he comes from a different perspective. For Pythagoras, death is change, but it does not necessarily follow that all change is death. Lucretius, however, holds that change is a marker of death, that anything capable of changing is mortal. With the final verse of this passage, Pythagoras slyly co-opts Lucretius to his own system: summa tamen omnia constant (15.259) picks up Lucretius’ cum tamen incolumis videatur summa manere (DRN 2.71). Lucretius holds that the combination and recombination of immortal atoms means that the summa neither increases nor decreases. Pythagoras agrees, although from his disquisition on the elements, it is clear that he would merely substitute ‘elements’ for ‘atoms’. Lucretian doctrine is thus mischievously adopted and subverted in the “Speech of Pythagoras”. Passage 12 opens with nil equidem durare diu sub imagine eadem / crediderim (15.259). The uncompromising nil appears to bring Pythagoras further into agreement with Lucretius, since it must logically include even conventionally eternal phenomena such as the cosmos itself.667 And yet, Pythagoras goes further than Lucretius, whose underlying atoms never change, despite their reconfigurations. Pythagoras, on the other hand, has already explained how his underlying elements do change (15.237-51): they

665 This is the same technique that Lucretius uses. If it does not undermine Lucretius’ argument to compare the great cosmic dance of atoms in the void to dust motes in a shaft of light (DRN 2.114-24), why should it undermine Pythagoras’ to use familiar phenomena as examples? 666 M. Beagon (2009) ‘Ordering Wonderland: Ovid’s Pythagoras and the Augustan Vision’ in P.R. Hardie (2009a): 288-309, p.291. In the same volume, however, Fucecchi suggests that the abundance of paradoxa might ‘defeat Pythagoras’ intentions and end up limiting the suggestive potential of the single miracle or, at least, it risks relativising its effect’ (M. Fucecchi (2009) ‘Encountering the Fantastic: Expectations, Forms of Communication, Reactions’ in P.R. Hardie (2009a): 213-230, p.216). 667 The description of the world as aeternus (15.239) need not imply that Pythagoras exempts the mundus from mortality. Recall that Lucretius also calls the mundus aeternus (DRN 5.514). 254

condense and rarefy into each other. His cosmos is thus less stable than Lucretius’. This implies that the fixed order (certus ordo, DRN 2.252, 5.679, 5.732, 5.736, 5.1183, 5.1439) that governs the ceaseless change of the De rerum natura cannot be relied upon. To Pythagoras, then, change does not appear to be governed by a strict order arising from the nature of the fundamental elements, as Lucretius’ certus ordo arises from the nature of the atoms; since Pythagoras’ elements have no fixed nature (as evidenced by the fact that they can transform into one another), they cannot be a foundation for cosmic order.668 In fact, it would be better to say that Lucretius discusses a cosmos, while Pythagoras discusses a universe; the order that gives the cosmos its name is significantly absent from the Pythagoras’ “Speech”. Lucretius posits that without a certus ordo all kinds of adynata would be possible (nam si de nilo fierent, ex omnibu’ rebus / omne genus nasci posset, nil semine egeret, DRN 1.159-60), such as humans born from the sea and trees bearing multiple different fruits (DRN 161, 165-66). Pythagoras’ universe, however, does not include such adynata; he provides instead a list of mirabilia which have the support of various authorities. This opening verse is followed by proofs that even the most apparently stable entities are subject to change. Pythagoras observes that ad ferrum venistis ab auro, saecula (15.260-61). This, the first of Pythagoras’ examples of change in the list at hand, is a powerful beginning in the larger context of the Metamorphoses. At the beginning of the poem, Ovid had presented this movement from the Golden to the Iron Age (1.89-150). We will see in the next chapter how Pythagoras has underlined this progression at the beginning of his own Speech, in the context of a discussion of vegetarianism. The audience has, therefore, already been primed to expect and accept Pythagoras’ first example. During the course of the poem, we have seen the ages progress (1.89-150), and so Pythagoras’ inclusion of the ages strengthens his argument. Furthermore, we have already seen that Lucretius does not subscribe to the myth of the Four Ages; consequently, Pythagoras’ second mention of the Ages also serves to distance him from Lucretius. Indeed, in the final two hundred-odd lines of his sermo Pythagoras provides an exhaustive collection of mirabilia, which undermines the Lucretian echoes so carefully established in the first half. In the De rerum natura, Lucretius is concerned to explain the apparently inexplicable, to reveal that the

668 This is ironic if the idea that Pythagoras was the first to call the universe a κόσμος because of its order (Aetius 2.1.1) was current. At no point, however, does Ovid discuss Pythagoras’ interest in mathematics. 255

marvellous is entirely natural. Pythagoras, however, makes little attempt to explain his examples and place them within a comprehensible natural order. To illustrate this difference, let us examine Pythagoras’ examples in Passage 12, the terrestrial changes that are recorded in 15.262-72:

vidi ego, quod fuerat quondam solidissima tellus, esse fretum, vidi factas ex aequore terras; et procul a pelago conchae iacuere marinae, et vetus inventa est in montibus ancora summis; quodque fuit campus, vallem decursus aquarum fecit, et eluvie mons est deductus in aequor, eque paludosa siccis humus aret harenis, quaeque sitim tulerant, stagnata paludibus ument. hic fontes natura novos emisit, at illic clausit, et aut imis commota tremoribus orbis flumina prosiliunt, aut exsiccata residunt.

These verses should be compared with De rerum natura 5.247-72. We shall quote only a representative section of these Lucretian lines (5.251-60):

principio pars terrai nonnulla, perusta solibus adsiduis, multa pulsata pedum vi, pulveris exhalat nebulam nubesque volantis quas validi toto dispergunt aere venti. pars etiam glebarum ad diluviem revocatur imbribus, et ripas radentia flumina rodunt. praeterea pro parte sua, quodcumque alid auget, redditur; et quoniam dubio procul esse videtur omniparens eadem rerum commune sepulcrum, ergo terra tibi libatur et aucta recrescit.

From the juxtaposition of these passages it can clearly be seen that Pythagoras simply reports terrestrial changes. He does not provide any explanation for them, implying that they occur merely because the universe is of a fluid nature. Lucretius, however, does not describe the changes themselves, focussing exclusively on the mechanism by which they take place. Between the two passages, we have a complete description: Pythagoras tells us what happens and Lucretius tells us how. The mechanism, however, is of no interest to Pythagoras, since he appears to be concerned exclusively with providing evidence of ceaseless change at all levels. Lucretius attempts to eradicate ignorance by explaining the profound changes which can be observed in the world around us. Pythagoras has no such desire. Rather, he focuses attention on the (personal) observation of change (vidi ego, vidi, inventa est, 15.262, 263, 265). The phrase vidi ego is, of course, a didactic formula, and we shall discuss it further in Chapter 8.

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iv) Animals

Pythagoras’s wide-ranging “Speech” includes a discussion of changes in animals in Passages 16 to 19. In Passage 16, he discusses spontaneous generation, the bugonia and other changes on the model of the bugonia.669 This passage includes two references to the importance of empirical observation (siqua fides rebus tamen est addenda probatis and cognita res usu, 15.361, 365) which immediately support the accounts of spontaneous generation and of the bugonia. As Segal observes, Ovid is recasting as probatae res ‘the mythical content, recounted earlier in his own and Orpheus’ voices in a Vergilian (or pseudo-Vergilian) mode’ reminding us of ‘how differently the same material can be handled in different literary models, Lucretian and Vergilian’.670 Pythagoras departs from the account of spontaneous generation found in the “Cosmogony” (Met. 1.416-37) by asking nonne vides, quaecumque mora fluidove calore / corpora tabuerint, in parva animalia verti (15.362-63). In the “Cosmogony”, it is from tellus (1.416, 434) that new creatures are formed, and it is also from tellus that most spontaneously generated creatures in the De rerum natura are formed. However, for Pythagoras, it is from corpora that these parva animalia are created (1.363). Of all the references to abiogenesis in the De rerum natura, there is only one that has an analogue to corpora (3.717-21):

sin ita sinceris membris ablata profugit ut nullas partis in corpora liquerit ex se, unde cadavera rancenti iam viscera vermes expirant, atque unde animantum copia tanta exos et exanguis tumidos perfluctuat artus?

In this context, Lucretius takes care to deny metempsychosis. According to Lucretius, remnants of spirit remain in the corpse (thus proving the mortality of the

669 The idea that scorpions can be generated from crabs (concava litoreo si demas bracchia cancro, / cetera supponas terrae, de parte sepulta / scorpius exibit caudaque minabitur unca, 15.369-71) is also found in Pliny (sole cancri signum transeunte et ipsorum, cum exanimanti sint, corpus transfigurari in scorpiones narratur in sicco, (9.51.99), while the idea that hornets are generated from horses is similar to a report in Aelian (‘A horse’s carcase is the breeding-place of wasps. For as the carcase rots, these creatures fly out of the marrow: the swiftest of animals begets winged offspring: the horse, wasps,’ 1.28). Note that Aelian makes a connection between the speed of the horse and the winged wasp, while Pythagoras tells us that bees act more parentum (15.366). 670 Segal (2001), p.70. Vergil’s bugonia is ‘elaborately framed as the ultimate thauma [...] explicitly called a monstrum (“prodigy,” 554) and explained only in mythological terms, with no hint of a scientific explanation, but the phenomenon is located in Egypt, the archetypal setting for wonders and romance’ (Gale (2000), p.229). 257

divisible spirit), and from these remnants the living vermes can be formed. The quoted passage is followed by a denial that the spirit can enter bodies from without (3.722-40). In this way, metempsychosis is twice denied; first, a mortal and divisible spirit cannot (unchanged, and consequently the same as itself) take a new body, nor can spirit enter body from without. It is notable that this is the passage which has most inspired Pythagoras, who argues for metempsychosis in his “Speech”. We should also compare the Lucretian versions at DRN 2.927-30:

quatenus in pullos animalis vertier ova cernimus alituum vermisque effervere terra, intempestivos quam putor cepit ob imbris, scire licet gigni posse ex non sensibu’ sensus, and at DRN 5.797-8: multaque nunc etiam existent animalia terris, / imbribus et calido solis concreta vapore. It is clear that all the major components of the Pythagorean lines can be found in these three Lucretian references. From the first reference (DRN 3.717- 21), we see the putrefaction of corpses which is the locus for Pythagorean spontaneous generation. The reference from Book II is part of Lucretius’ proof that atoms do not possess sensation. This proof is decidedly empirical; the word cernimus (DRN 2.938) ensures that the spontaneous generation of worms is placed squarely within the category of observable facts. We have already seen that Pythagoras prefaces his account of spontaneous generation with a nod to the importance of observation, and this is reinforced by nonne vides (15.362). Lucretius’ empiricism is thus picked up by Pythagoras. The specifics of abiogenesis in the two poets are also comparable. Pythagoras tells us that when liquid heat causes bodies to decay, parva animalia (15.363) are formed. The concept of decay draws on Lucretius’ putor and cadavera from the first two references, while heat (associated with moisture) is drawn from the third. We are also reminded of Ovid’s earlier account of spontaneous generation in the “Cosmogony” (ubi temperiem sumpsere umorque calorque, / concipiunt, 1.430-31). Pythagoras also allows for spontaneous generation from tellus in the next section, where semina limus habet virides generantia ranas (15.375). The word semina in this context immediately brings Lucretius to mind, as does the wordplay in generantia ranas, which reminds us of Lucretius’ famous analogy of atoms and letters in Book I of the De rerum natura (1.907-14). In this line, then Pythagoras uses semina with its Lucretian connotations and indulges in the same type of wordplay which Lucretius uses to exemplify the nature of those semina.

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This is the last major reference to the De rerum natura in the “Speech of Pythagoras”, and the combination of semina, spontaneous generation and philosophical wordplay makes for a triumphant finale of Lucretian fireworks. From this point on, the mirabilia are reported largely without the legitimising effects of the references to Lucretian philosophy. Ovid has succeeded in weaving together Lucretian materialistic philosophy and Pythagorean mysticism so skilfully that they cannot be separated without doing violence to the text.

v) The Mirabilia

Pythagoras’ use of Lucretius in his digression on mirabilia (Passages 14 to 19) is sporadic, with most of his examples non-Lucretian. Myers argues that Pythagoras’ Speech is designed to ‘inspire a feeling of wonder at the miracles of nature’, in contrast to Lucretius’ intention to ‘explain away the miraculous in the world (non est mirandum 4.595) in order to prove that the world is governed by its own constant and fixed natural laws’.671 If, as we have suggested, the major feature of Pythagoras’ universe is that it has no fixed underlying order, then wonder is an appropriate reaction to marvels, which may be inexplicable. Pythagoras’ technique, however much it might diverge from Lucretius’ technique, is consistent with the practice of paradoxographers, and even with the practice of more technical writers such as Strabo, Vitruvius, Pausanias, and Pliny the Elder.672 Paradoxographers and technical writers alike ‘tend to describe the phenomena only briefly and tend not to speculate on the reasons for the water’s unusual abilities’.673 Jones argues that Pythagoras ‘follows a widely used style in his reporting of strange waters [which] aligns him with scientific writers and places him as much in the context of contemporary investigation of phenomena as of presocratic philosophy’.674 Pythagoras adopts two techniques from paradoxographical literature, the use of general comments to ‘enhance authenticity’ and the accumulation of

671 Myers (1994), p.146. Gale observes the same purpose in Vergil’s Georgics: ‘Many [...] passages are designed (more or less explicitly) to arouse the sense of wonder which Lucretius’ poem sets out to suppress’ (Gale (2000) p.198). 672 Jones notes that four springs are found in both the “Speech” and the Paradoxographorum Graecorum Reliquiae, and both sources mention the same properties (P.J. Jones (2005) Reading Rivers in Roman Literature and Culture, Lanham: Lexington Books, p.15). 673 Jones (2005), p.15. 674 Jones (2005), pp.15-6. 259

examples to ‘emphasize the remarkable nature of the phenomenon’.675 This emphasis on wonder as a goal is not wholly compatible with philosophical exploration of underlying principles.676

v.i) Sunken Cities and Swollen Hills

However, some of Pythagoras’ mirabilia do bring Lucretius to mind. When, in Passage 13, Pythagoras tells us that Helice and Buris are sub aquis (15.292-95) and refers to the hill at Troezen made by imprisoned winds (15.296-306), we are reminded not only of Ovid’s Flood in the “Cosmogony”, but also (and perhaps more forcefully) of Book VI of the De rerum natura. Lucretius reports (6.588-90) many cities per mare pessum / subsedere, and embeds this observation within a discussion of the causation of earthquakes by winds (6.557-600). At the beginning of this section, Lucretius explains that when subterranean winds blast in a particular direction, the earth incumbit [...] quo venti prona premit vis (6.557-60). This looks very much like a general account of the phenomenon exemplified by Pythagoras’ Troezen. It therefore appears that, with Helice, Buris and Troezen, Pythagoras is giving specific examples of phenomena explained by Lucretius. The fact that the two phenomena appear in close proximity in both the De rerum natura and the “Speech” supports the idea that Pythagoras is drawing on Lucretius. We should note, also, Pythagoras’ differing emphasis; Lucretius explains phenomena without providing examples, while Pythagoras gives examples and provides an explanation only for the hill at Troezen – an explanation that agrees with Lucretius’ explanation at DRN 6.557-60. Moreover, Pythagoras bolsters his claims regarding Helice and Buris by telling his audience si quaeras [...] invenies [...] et adhuc ostendere nautae (15.293-4), appealing to personal experience and observation rather than to rational explanation. The emphasis on personal experience as a source on knowledge will be discussed in Chapter 8.

675 Beagon (2009), p.293. 676 Beagon traces briefly a history of wonder and philosophy, noting that Aristotle considered wonder to provide an impetus to philosophical reflection. He finds that Lucretius’ discussion of natural marvels (DRN 6.608-1137 ‘systematically dismantled wonder in favour of rational explanation,’ while ‘Pythagoras’ message is that reality is wondrous rather than rational’ (Beagon (2009), p.289). However, Lucretius does on occasion marvel at the world, which provokes divina voluptas and horror (DRN 3.28- 29) 260

v.ii) The Spring at Ammon

In Passage 14, Pythagoras discusses unusual water bodies comparable to those found at DRN 6.840-905. The first of Pythagoras’ examples is also the first in the De rerum natura: the spring by the shrine of Ammon (DRN 6.848-78, Met. 15.309-12). Lucretius briefly reports that the spring is cold during the day and warm at night (6.848-9): esse apud Hammonis fanum fons luce diurna / frigidus, et calidus nocturno tempore, fertur. He then provides a traditional explanation for this strange behaviour (6.850-53), debunks this (6.854-60) and then devotes the rest of his passage to his own explanation (6.861-78). In contrast, Pythagoras has only four lines in total, which merely report the unusual characteristics of the spring of Ammon (15.309-12): medio tua, corniger Ammon, / unda die gelida est, ortuque obituque calescit, / admotis Athamanas aquis accendere lignum / narratur, minimos cum luna recessit in orbes, but it is immediately apparent that Pythagoras has added information about the stream, namely, the anecdote about the Athamanian use of the spring. What is more interesting, however, is the avoidance of any Lucretian echoes. The description of the spring requires five descriptors: for the spring itself, daylight, night, cold and heat. Pythagoras does not reuse a single Lucretian word: fons becomes unda, luce diurna is limited to medio die, frigidus is replaced by gelida, calidus by calescit and nocturno tempore by obituque – nocturno tempore is also altered by the addition of ortuque. Pythagoras even transforms the Alexandrian footnote fertur into narratur. The total absence Lucretian echoes, combined with the extensive Lucretian allusions throughout the “Speech of Pythagoras”, suggests that Pythagoras is deliberately, perhaps even ostentatiously, avoiding the Lucretian intertext. From the catalogue of waters in DRN 6.840-905, the spring of Ammon is the only example which reappears in the “Speech of Pythagoras”.

v.iii) The Anigrus

The underlying assumptions of the De rerum natura are that the cosmos is governed by a fixed order, and that that order can be comprehended by human reason. Pythagoras rejects these interrelated assumptions, substituting the claims that the universe is in flux and can only be experienced. Thus, he gives no explanation for the tendency of rivers to flow beneath the earth and reappear elsewhere under another name (such rivers

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include the Lycus, Erasinus and Mysus, 15.273-78),677 nor for the changes in the Amenanus and Hypanis (the former sometimes runs dry while the latter has changed from fresh to brackish, 15.279-80, 285-86). In this passage, the only river for whose strange properties Pythagoras gives a possible explanation is the Anigrus (15.281-85). Pythagoras says that the unwholesomeness of the river water dates from the time when centaurs (bimembres, 15.283) bathed wounds which were received from Hercules’ arrows. Thus, when Pythagoras finally gives an explanation for a marvel, it is one wholly incompatible with Lucretian doctrine. We are given an aetiological rationale that relies on a single mythical event, rather than on an explicable mechanism. Furthermore, that mythical event involves centaurs, provocatively called bimembres. Lucretius takes pains to argue against the possibility of centaurs (DRN 4.739-48, 5.878- 900). In the first passage, Lucretius argues that images of centaurs occur when simulacra of horses and men combine, and that cetera de genera hoc eadem ratione creantur (4.744). In the second, he argues that horses and men reach maturity at different speeds, so that a combined creature is not viable. He begins (5.878-81): sed neque Centauri fuerunt, nec tempore in ullo / esse queunt duplici natura et corpora bino / ex alienigenis membris compacta, potestas / hinc illinc parvis ut non sit pars esse potissit. Although the text of DRN 5.881 is uncertain,678 this passage clearly shows how provocative Pythagoras is being when he calls centaurs bimembres. He is forcefully rejecting Lucretius’ criticism of the mythical creatures, and revelling in the twofold body which, for Lucretius, proves their impossibility.679 We are given an explanation for the unusual character of the Anigrus, it is true, but this is by no means a Lucretian one. Rather, it is aggressively anti-Lucretian. Furthermore, the only evidence given for it is the clause nisi vatibus omnis / eripienda fides (15.282-83). Ultimately, then, Pythagoras’ explanation is an argument from authority. It relies precisely on the authority of vates, whom Lucretius rejects at DRN 1.102-06 as inventors of dreams (quippe etenim quam multa tibi iam fingere possunt / somnia). In this passage,

677 Note that in Georgics IV, Vergil refers to an underground cavern in which Aristaeus sees rivers such as the Phasis, Lycus, Enipeus, Tiber, Anio, Htpanis, Caicus and Eridanis flowing as distinct rivers underground (G. 4.365-73). Vergil, however, does not mention any change of name. 678 The text of this line is corrupt in manuscripts O and Q: hinc illinc parvis ut non sit [sat Q] pars esse potissit OQ. For a list of some of the many emendations, see Campbell, G. (2007) ‘Bicycles, Centaurs, and Man-faced Ox-creatures: Ontological Instability in Lucretius’ in S.J. Heyworth, P.G. Fowler & S.J. Harrison (edd.) (2007) Classical Constructions: Papers in Memory of Don Fowler, Classicist and Epicurean, Oxford: OUP: 39-62, p.49n19. 679 This is also observed by Segal (2001), p.81. 262

Pythagoras takes extreme liberties with Lucretius, providing an explanation that is wholly and studiedly anti-Lucretian.680

v.iv) Etna

After the catalogue of water-based curiosities, Pythagoras moves to a very Lucretian discussion of Etna (15.340-55). In this example of change, Pythagoras tells us that nec [...] Aetne [...] ignea semper erit, neque enim fuit ignea semper (15.340-41). Although this implicitly raises the question of how Etna came to be fiery now, Pythagoras does not explain this. Rather, he provides three explanations as to why it is not eternally and unchangingly fiery. Pythagoras is Lucretian in his interest in the mortality of a phenomenon, but he interprets it differently. For Pythagoras, the mortality of Etna’s fiery nature is an indication of change, whereas for Lucretius it would prove universal mortality. Pythagoras’ account of Etna’s mortality may, therefore, be inspired by Lucretius’ account of the mortality of the earth (DRN 5.235-60, 6.601-07). The use of multiple explanations is, itself, a nod to Epicureanism; Lucretius himself provides justification for the inclusion of several possible explanations rather than a single, approved explanation (5.526-33):

nam quid in hoc mundo sit eorum ponere certum difficile est; sed quid possit fiatque per omne in variis mundis varia ratione creatis, id doceo, plurisque sequor disponere causas. [...] sed quae sit earum praecipere haudquauamst pedetemptim progredientis

The first explanation relies on the makranthropos model (which Pythagoras has already adapted from Lucretius, as we have seen). If the earth has the nature of an animal and exhales flames (sive est animal tellus et vivit habetque / spiramenta locis flammam exhalantia multis, 15.342-43) she can change her breathing-places. It is worth noting at this point, that in this context the flamma locis multis seems to correspond to fragment B52 of Empedocles: ‘There are many fires burning beneath the surface of the earth.’681 For this explanation, then, Ovid’s Pythagoras may be drawing on an

680 Farrell identifies the same practice in Vergil’s Georgics, observing that many parallels between the Georgics and the De rerum natura ‘use Lucretius’ words and images to make a point quite the opposite of anything one might find in De Rerum Natura’ (Farrell (1991), p.169). We saw the same technique used by Ovid himself in the “Cosmogony” in Chapter 1. 681 Πολλὰ δ’ ἔνερθ’οὔδεος πυρὰ καίεται (fr. B52DK = fr. 32 Wright). 263

Empedoclean and Pythagorean concept of subterranean fires.682 The connection of these subterranean fires with exhalation may be inspired by Plato’s Phaedo (112A- C),683 where the movement of subterranean water is compared to breath, although Pythagoras here has taken a metaphor for reality. The second explanation, however, is markedly Lucretian. Pythagoras says: sive leves imis venti cohibentur in antris / saxaque cum saxis et habentem semina flammae / materiam iactant, ea concipit ictibus ignem, / antra relinquentur sedatis frigida ventis (15.356-49). We have already seen that Pythagoras adopts a Lucretian doctrine of subterranean winds in the case of the hill at Troezen. Lucretius refers again to subterranean winds specifically to explain the volcanic eruptions of Etna (6.639-702), of which it is worth quoting 682-89:

[...] primum totius subcava montis est natura, fere silicum suffulta cavernis. omnibus est porro in speluncis ventus et aer; ventus enim fit, ubi est agitando percitus aer. hic ubi percaluit calefecitque omnia circum saxa furens, qua contingit, terramque, et ab ollis excussit calidum flammis velocibus ignem, tollit se ac rectis ita faucibus eicit alte.

If Lucretius’ explanation of the eruptions is correct, Pythagoras’ argument runs, then the heat produced will eventually fade, since winds do not possess undying force. Pythagoras follows precisely Lucretius’ explanation that winds under the earth heat stones and some other substance (ventus et aer, DRN 6.685 cf. venti; Met.15.345; cavernis, speluncis, DRN 6.683, 684 cf, imis antris, antra, Met. 15.346, 349; calefecit, DRN 6.686 cf. concipit ignem, Met. 15.348; saxa, DRN 6.687 cf. saxa, Met. 15.347; terram, DRN 6.687 cf, habentem semina flammae materiam, Met. 15.347-8). This final substance is defined as earth in the De rerum natura, but left nameless and specified only by its quality in the Metamorphoses. However, if we draw on the preceding explanation, in which earth exhales fire, we can plausibly identify Lucretius’ earth with Pythagoras’ matter containing the seeds of fire. The semina flammae themselves are, of course, a thoroughly Lucretian touch (semina flammae, DRN 6.182), as is the idea that they can be squeezed out of substances by friction or blows (ictibus, Met. 15.348). Let

682 For the Empedoclean and Pythagorean concept of subterranean fire, and the identification of subterranean fire with Tartarus, see Kingsley (1995), pp.36-48 and 71-95. 683 Note in particular οὕτω καὶ ἐκεῖ συναιωρούμενον τῷ ὑγρῷ τὸ πνεῦμα δεινούς τινας ἀνέμους καὶ ἀμηχάνους παρέχεται καὶ εἰσιὸν καὶ ἐξιόν (‘so the wind there oscillates with the liquid and causes terrible and irresistible blasts as it rushes in and out,’ Phaedo 112B, Loeb trans.). 264

us compare DRN 1.902-03: verum semina sunt ardoris multa, terendo / quae cum confluxere, creant incendia silvis. More immediately, ab ollis excussit in the Lucretian lines quoted above shares the same sense as ictibus. In the few places where Pythagoras has diverged a little from his Lucretian model, then, his additions are of good Lucretian standing. His substitution of materiem habentem semina flammae for Lucretius’ terra both accords nicely with his own previous explanation and explains why the terra can catch fire, while semina flammae is both a Lucretian term in itself and a nod to semina ardoris in DRN I, where Lucretius explains that friction squeezes the seeds of fire out of other substances, causing a fire to start. Two passages from the De rerum natura are thus spliced together to form the Pythagorean passage. Suggestively, Lucretius ends his account of the volcanic eruptions of Etna with another statement of the multiplicity of possible explanations (6.703-04): sunt aliquot quoque res quarum unam dicere causam / non satis est, verum pluris, unde una tamen sit. This, perhaps, is the inspiration behind Pythagoras’ three explanations for the mortality of Etna’s volcanic nature. Intriguingly, Pythagoras does not begin with the most Lucretian explanation (that involving the concept of subterranean winds), which is deferred – although perhaps the interrelation between the tellus of the first explanation and the materiam habentem semina flammae and Lucretian terra of the second explains this. Without the foregoing tellus exhalantia flammam, we would have less justification for identifying the nameless materiam with Lucretius’ terra. The first explanation thus provides information required to appreciate fully the Lucretian allusions of the second. While Lucretius does explicitly say that the earth (tellus, 2.589, the same word Pythagoras uses in his first explanation) habet ignes unde oriantur (2.591), this in itself does not prove that Pythagoras has the earth in mind as his materiam. In combination with the fire-exhaling tellus of Met 15.343, however, the identification seems secure. Lucretius is referenced again in the third explanation, in which the exhausted earth can no longer provide sustenance for the fire (15.350-55):

sive bitumineae rapiunt incendia vires, luteave exiguis ardescunt sulphura fumis, nempe, ubi tellus cibos alimentaque pinguia flammae non dabit absumptis per longum viribus aevum, naturaeque suum nutrimen deerit edaci, non feret illa damem desertaque deseret ignis.

Clearly, this draws on the Lucretian idea of the gradual exhaustion of the earth at DRN 2.1146-52:

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omnia debet enim cibus integrare novando et fulcire cibus, cibus omnia sustentare – nequiquam, quoniam nec venae perpetiuntur quod satis est neque quantum opus est natura ministrat. iamque adeo fracta est aetas, effetaque tellus vix animalia parva creat, quae cuncta creavit saecla deditque ferarum ingentia corpora partu.

In each case, both Nature and Tellus are seen as providing necessary sustenance. Pythagoras imitates Lucretius in his emphasis on nourishment (cibos alimentaque pinguia, 15.352, where Lucretius repeats cibus twice). Both poets also refer to the exhaustion of the earth; Lucretius later provides the foundation for Pythagoras’ per longum aevum (15.353): spatio aetatis defessa vetusto (DRN 2.1174). Lucretius does not associate the production of fire in Etna with nourishment, but Pythagoras has drawn on an earlier passage of Lucretius, including the famous image of the exhausted earth, to create a third possible explanation for the mortality of Etna’s fires. This explanation is, therefore, as Lucretian as the preceding one, which draws directly on Lucretius’ explanation of Etna’s fires. Ironically, this final explanation is Lucretian almost to the point of being anti- ‘Pythagorean’. At the beginning of his sermo, in the endorsement of vegetarianism, Pythagoras tells us that the abundant, luxuriant vegetation provided by the earth (tellus, 15.81) means that the consumption of meat is not necessary. According to this view, the Golden Age ended, not because the earth was too exhausted to provide sufficient food, but because of gratuitous bloodshed and meat-eating. The Golden Age, therefore, can be renewed by returning to the piety of vegetarianism, made possible by the abundance of vegetation. Now, however, Pythagoras is giving us a (Lucretian) argument that relies on the premise of the exhaustible earth. It is true that neither Lucretius nor Pythagoras ever makes explicit a link between the exhaustible earth and the necessity of eating meat. Nevertheless, Lucretius does explicitly say that the exhaustion of the earth means that she cannot provide as much food as she once did (2.1157-74):

praeterea nitidas fruges vinetaque laeta sponte sua primum mortalibus ipsa creavit, ipsa dedit dulcis fetus et pabula laeta; quae nunc vix nostro grandescunt aucta labore, conterimusque boves et viris agricolarum, conficimus ferrum vix arvis suppeditati: usque adeo parcunt fetus augentque laborem. iamque caput quassans grandis suspirat arator

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crebrius, incassum magnum cecidisse laborem, et cum tempora temporibus praesentia confert praeteritis laudat fortunas saepe parentis. tristis item vetulae vitis sator atque vietae temporis incusat momen saeclumque fatigat, et crepat antiquum genus ut pietate repletum perfacile angustis tolerarit finibus aevom, cum minor esset agri multo modus ante viritim; nec tenet omnia paulatim tabescere et ire ad scopulum, spatio aetatis defessa vetusto.

The opening lines of this passage clearly draw on the idea of the Golden Age; the earth provides an abundance of food sponte sua during the Golden Age. Since Lucretius’ account of the gradual exhaustion of the earth draws on Golden Age fruitfulness, we can see how closely the decline of the Golden Age is connected with the scarcity of food. Such scarcity might well induce men to eat animals as well as the crops that they can scarcely (vix) cultivate. For Lucretius, then, the gradual exhaustion of the earth entails the diminution of her productivity. If Pythagoras adopts this concept in his third explanation of Etna’s mortality, he contradicts, or at least weakens, his earlier assertions of the great productivity of the earth. Interestingly, the concept of ancient piety, central to Pythagoras’ argument about the end of the Golden Age, also appears in this extract from the De rerum natura. We may take Lucretius’ reference to piety in either of two ways. First, we may read the reference as the narrator’s description of the antiquum genus (2.1170). Second, and perhaps more fruitfully, we can take pietate repletum (2.1170) as part of the farmer’s lament, so that he complains that the old, pious, world easily supported life while the modern (and by implication impious) world has such difficulty. Since Lucretius’ is a non-teleological philosophy, we should take the final two lines in a strictly mechanistic sense, and not read them as also a moral comment – indeed, this appears to be Vergil’s reading as well, as we can see from his imitation of this concept at Georgics 1.199-200: sic omnia fatis / in peius ruere ac retro sublapsa referri. Consequently, the decrease in piety which apparently coincides with the decrease in fertility cannot plausibly be considered Lucretius’ own position. Rather, we should adopt the second position, and see the link between the moral and productive failures as the farmer’s perception. Pythagoras appears to adopt a position similar to that of the farmer. We know that he attributes the decline of the Golden Age to the decline of piety, primarily in the form of meat-eating. If we attempt to integrate this with his third explanation of Etna’s

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mortality, we find ourselves in the same position as Lucretius’ farmer. If the Golden Age ended because of impiety, and the earth is becoming exhausted, then impiety and a decrease in productivity may be linked in some way – possibly causally, so that impiety causes unproductivity. Alternatively, of course, we can argue that the exhaustible tellus is incompatible with the currently abundant tellus described by Pythagoras at the very beginning of his Speech (15.76-82), and that one is undermined by the other. Since this is only one of several possible answers, the fact that Pythagoras depends in this case on the exhaustible earth need not undermine his earlier claims of the abundant earth. Both answers may be correct. Pythagoras, unlike Lucretius, does not claim that the earth is currently near the point of exhaustion. It is only after long ages (per longum aevum, 15.353) that the earth will be too exhausted to provide fuel for Etna’s fires. Pythagoras’ decision to provide multiple possible explanations is markedly Lucretian, almost to the point of being anti-Pythagorean. Pythagoras has claimed vatic authority, implying that he is a source of truth. Why, then, should he be ignorant of the explanation for Etna? In having Pythagoras provide multiple explanations, Ovid is surely emphasising the Lucretian nature of the sermo.

Conclusion

In the “Speech of Pythagoras”, as in the “Cosmogony”, the discourse of natural philosophy is dominant. Unlike the “Cosmogony”, however, the “Speech” does not permit neat divisions into physical and anthropogonic sections. It has been necessary at several points to refer to the ethical and epistemological themes of the “Speech”, even though these will not fully be analysed until Chapter 8. The passages of natural philosophy have been extracted and discussed together, although in the “Speech” itself these passages are embedded in contexts that have been left largely undiscussed at this point. Many of the mirabilia, in particular, do not lend themselves to natural- philosophical analysis. It has, however, been suggested here that Ovid’s Pythagoras’ focus on the effect rather than on the cause – on the miraculous manifestation rather than on the mechanism by which it manifests – is in fact an integral part of his philosophy, and contains an implicit critique of Lucretius’ claim that the universe is ultimately explicable. In an unstable universe, one not directed by a fixed order, such mirabilia may be beyond an explanation. The riotous anarchy of Pythagoras’ universe

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cannot be reduced to any underlying order beyond the basic doctrine of constant and universal flux. It has been asserted that Ovid’s Pythagoras does not present a coherent philosophical doctrine, an eclecticism that has been interpreted by Myers as due in part to ‘Ovid’s lack of concern for providing a coherent philosophical system’ and in part to ‘the general eclecticism of the neo-Pythagoreanism of his time’.684 The very incoherence of Ovid’s Pythagoras, however, points to the fundamental impossibility of explaining a cosmos without a stable underlying order. Segal argues that the transformation of the Lucretian natura creatrix (DRN 1.629) into natura novatrix (15.252) ‘superimposes [Ovid’s] own dynamics of endless flux on Lucretius’ ultimately stable and permanent physical substrate of atoms and void’.685 Thus, the physics of Pythagoras’ sermo is predicated on an unimpeachable epistemology. If the physical world does not have a stable set of governing laws, if there is no underlying order, then any attempt to understand it will ultimately fail. The only proper response to the world, then, is to experience it in wonder.686 This idea that the “Speech of Pythagoras” highlights the limits of knowledge is well represented in scholarly literature. Feeney thinks that science and philosophy, as alternate modes of explanation to myth, ‘meet with a dusty reception in this poem’.687 Myers, however, argues for a more complex relationship throughout the Metamorphoses, with Ovid situating himself ‘within the tradition of poets and philosophers who have claimed the power of explaining nature through an understanding of causae’.688 She finds that this conjunction of poetry and philosophy is particularly important in the “Speech”, with Pythagoras ‘juxtaposing mythological and philosophical modes of narrative, and thereby ultimately equating the two and denying to both the power to validate or explain fully rerum causas’.689 If this is the case, any ‘humorous irrelevancies, shortcomings, or even failures in Pythagoras as a persuasive didactic voice are reminders of the limitations of any one single rhetorical mode (in this case the philosophical diatribe and

684 Myers (1994), p.141. 685 Segal (2001), p.81. 686 Gale argues that this is Vergil’s response in the Georgics to the Lucretian postulation of a comprehensible world: ‘Virgil questions the Epicurean view of nature as regular, predictable and easily explicable, and presents us instead with a world which is full of strange, arbitrary or awe-inspiring sights and experiences’ (Gale (2000), p.198). 687 Feeney (1991), p.205. 688 Myers (1994), p.25. 689 Myers (1994), p.132. Myers also argues that ‘[]i]nstead of setting up a dichotomy between the mythical metamorphoses of the poem and natural philosophy, [Pythagoras’] speech emphasizes their similarity’ (p.135). 269

its offshoot in didactic poetry)’.690 For Coleman, too, the combination of res prudentes and fabulae implies that ‘philosophy for all its claims to rational argument and de- mythologized conceptual thinking [is] after all no less fanciful than the fables of the poets’.691 Pythagoras plays with both myth and philosophy, with miratio and with ratio. Gale’s description of Vergil’s technique might equally fruitfully be applied to Pythagoras: ‘he reworks the Lucretian tension between ratio and miratio, playing off evocations of the marvellous against passages which suggest a view of nature as regular, reliable and orderly’.692 For Pythagoras, the universe is not an ordered cosmos; the law of mutability entails that phenomena cannot be explained but only experienced. However, the lack of a Lucretian certus ordo (DRN 2.252, 5.679, 5.732, 5.736, 5.1183, 5.1439) does not result in the adynata that Lucretius posits, but in mirabilia which are vouched for by various authorities. In the “Cosmogony,” the natural philosophical passages establish the cosmos in which the myths of the Metamorphoses will be played out. It is only with the introduction of humans that we are given those myths.693 The introduction of humans introduces quintessentially human concerns, such as epistemology and ethics. Without someone to act, there can be no impiety and no piety. Without someone to think, there can be no concern with the sources of truth or with the nature of knowledge. After the Creation scenes discussed in Chapter 1, ethical and epistemological worries burst onto the scene, never to depart. Thus, Pythagoras cannot be concerned only with physics, but must also apply himself to the specifically human concerns of ethics and epistemology. As is demonstrated definitively in his sermo, however, ethics and epistemology do not belong to a category wholly unrelated to physics. Therefore, the Pythagoras’ “Speech” is not divided into physical and ethical sections. The two are closely interwoven; just as Lucretius makes Epicurean ethics grow out of physical realities, so Pythagoras has his ethical doctrines grow out of physical realities. Pythagoras’ ethics and epistemology will be our focus in Chapter 8.

690 Segal (2001), p.65. 691 Coleman (1971), p.473. 692 Gale (2000), p.201. 693 This is not a decision dictated by the nature of the material. Several of the myths of Book I, such as the Daphne and Syrinx myths, do not involve humans, and their events could, therefore, have predated the introduction of humans. It is a deliberate decision on Ovid’s part to withhold these myths until he has narrated the creation of humanity. 270

Chapter 8: Pythagoras’ Ethics and Epistemology

In the “Cosmogony”, Ovid begins with an account of physics, and it is only after the creation of humans that he enters the territory of ethics and epistemology. The four declining Ages are marked by the gradual introduction of impiety and lawlessness. This growth of impiety culminates in the Gigantomachy and in Lycaon’s test of Jupiter. In Chapter 2, we saw how Jupiter concentrates on Lycaon’s moral character, attempting to obscure Lycaon’s epistemological concerns. The Lycaon episode thus introduces a de facto epistemological element to the moral concerns of the Four Ages. These ethical and epistemological interests are reprised throughout the Metamorphoses. That Pythagoras is thus the heir both to the physics of the Cosmogony and to the ethics and epistemology that are thematised from the cosmogonic myths onwards has received comparatively little attention from scholars. Pythagoras begins and ends his long “Speech” with an exhortation to vegetarianism, thereby marking ethics as his most central concern. The natural philosophy that appears in the “Speech” is, therefore, closely tied to his ethical doctrines, with the value of the natural philosophy deriving from the encouragement it provides for ethical behaviour.694 The myth of the Golden Age (1.89-150) and its decline sets the ethical tone of the Metamorphoses, and is reworked in Calliope’s Song. Pythagoras, too, provides his own, highly coloured, version of the Golden Age. He is also greatly concerned with the theme of death, first broached in Calliope’s song of

694 Compare Seneca’s division of Virtue into two components, contemplation of truth and ethical action: In duas partes virtus dividitur, in contemplationem veri et actionem (Ep. 94.45). White argues that, for the Stoics, ‘knowledge of the natural world is not sought as an end in itself, but rather as enabling us to live in conformity with nature’ (M.J. White, (2003) ‘Stoic Natural Philosophy (Physics and Cosmology)’ in B. Inwood (2003a): 124-152, p.128), while Sharples identifies a similar impression, with regard to Epicureans, ‘that Epicureanism is interested in inquiries concerning nature as a means to an end rather than as an end in themselves’ (R.W. Sharples (1996) Stoics, Epicureans and Skeptics: An Introduction to Hellenistic Philosophy, London: Routledge, p.15). Gill observes that ‘the Epicurean account of nature (physics) validates our standard ethical notions of responsibility, expressed in praise and blame’ (C. Gill (2006) The Structured Self in Hellenistic and Roman Thought, Oxford: OUP, p. 191). Lucretius’ strong focus on physics is rather unusual among Epicureans.

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Persephone’s disappearance into Tartarus, and then picked up in more detail by Orpheus. Pythagoras attempts to cure the fear of death by explaining the doctrine of metempsychosis. This therapeutic approach is similar in intention, if not in method, to that in Lucretius’ De rerum natura (et metus ille foras praeceps Acheruntis agendus, / funditus humanum qui vitam turbat ab imo, DRN 3.37-38). There are also indications that Ovid’s Pythagoras continues to explore the territory of epistemology, a topic initiated by Lycaon and then of central importance to the Muses. As we saw in Chapter 7, it is all but impossible to discuss Pythagoras’ physics without taking epistemology into account. Here, however, we will discuss the matter of epistemology in greater detail.

i) The Sources of Knowledge

As though overcome by the urgency of his ethical mission and by the horror of meat- eating, Pythagoras effectively launches us in medias res, without a proem,695 giving us the impression that his horror and urgency prevent him from setting out a neat programme like a good philosophical poet.696 It is only after the exhortation to vegetarianism (15.75-142) that Pythagoras provides a ‘proem in the middle,’ the programmatic Passage 4 of Met. 15.143-52.697 Pythagoras begins this ‘proem’ by claiming divine inspiration, and goes on to describe his mental flight through the heavens.698 This flight of the mind provides him with personal knowledge; he is not merely reporting the god’s words (augustae reserabo oracula mentis, 15.145). Not only is Pythagoras divinely inspired, then, he is also what Ovid calls a vates peritus in the Ars amatoria (Ars. 1.29). The phrase vates peritus implies both an appeal to authority

695 He begins in an exhortatory and rather exclamatory way with parcite, mortales, dapibus temerare nefandis / corpora (15.75-76). The anaphora of the following lines drive home the sense of urgency (sunt fruges, sunt deducentia ramos [...] sunt herbae dulces, sunt quae mitescere flamma / mollirique queant, 15.76, 8). This injunction is similar to Empedocles’ Οὐ παύσεσθε φόνοιο δυσηχέος; οὐκ ἐσορᾶτε / ἀλλήλους δάπτοντες ἀκηδείῃσι νόοιο; (‘Will you not cease from the din of slaughter? Do you not see that you are devouring one another because of your careless way of thinking?’ fr.B136DK = fr. 122 Wright). 696 Note, however, that corpora begins the second verse in Pythagoras’ “Speech,” just as it begins the second verse of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. 697 Segal observes that the structure of Pythagoras’ claim to the vatic voice recalls Lucretius, since ‘he reserves this claim (especially 15.143-52) to a second rather than a first proem’ (Segal (2001), p.76). 698 This flight of the mind is, of course, indebted to Epicurus’ at DRN 1.72-74 (Hardie (2002d), pp. 9-10). Pythagoras’ divine inspiration will be discussed in the next subsection. 272

(the vates) and an appeal to empiricism (peritus), so that authority is underwritten by experience.

i.i) The Argument from Experience

After his programmatic passage, Pythagoras embarks on a discussion of death in Passage 5, condemning the materiem vatum (15.155), stories of Tartarus, and opposing such fables with an account of metempsychosis. In attempting to provide a cure for the fear of death, Pythagoras is Lucretian. He is, however, determinedly anti-Lucretian in his method, since Lucretius rejects the concept of metempsychosis (DRN 3.670-78). Pythagoras’ account is supported by his claim to remember a previous incarnation, that of Euphorbus (ipse ego nam memini, 15.160; cognovi, 15.163). Pythagoras claims to teach (doceo, 15.172; vaticinor, 15.174) the doctrine of metempsychosis, and draws on his own memories of Euphorbus, proved by his recognition of Euphorbus’ shield at Argos (15.163-64), to support this doctrine.699 Passage 5 is full of first person verbs, emphasising Pythagoras’ personal knowledge and experience of the transmigration of souls. The opening words ipse ego (nam memini) ‘can be compared with the memini of Ariadne in Catullus 64, and with the memoro of Mars who recalls Ennius’ Annales: these are, in the true sense of the word, textual memories’.700 The proliferation of such references to himself, however, also indicates Pythagoras’ own attempt to strengthen his argument by appealing to his own experience and authority. The emphasis on Pythagoras’ past life memories contradicts two passages in the De rerum natura in which Lucretius discusses the importance of memory. At 3.670-78, he argues against metempsychosis on the basis that no memory of past lives is retained: cur super anteactam aetatem meminisse nequimus (DRN 3.672). For him, the absence of memory proves that the soul is new – even if the soul were recycled, the loss of memory creates such a deep chasm between the previous and current incarnations that the previous is effectively dead: non, ut opinor, id ab leto iam longiter errat (DRN 3.676). Lucretius returns to this idea at 3.843-60, iterating that whatever may happen to

699 The addition of Euphorbus recalls Lucretius’ description of Ennius’ Dream of Homer, in which Homer informs Ennius that his own soul has passed into the Roman poet (DRN 1.112-27). 700 Barchiesi (2001), p.70. Miller observes that Pythagoras is part of a group of Ovidian speakers ‘whose specific references to their personal memories dovetail with literary reminiscence in the text. The vocabulary of recollection signals, or glosses, imitatio’ (J.F. Miller (1994) ‘The Memories of Ovid’s Pythagoras’ in Mnemosyne 4th ser. 47.4: 473-487, p.475). 273

either body or soul after death, it does not matter once our recollection of ourselves has been broken (interrupta semel cum sit repetentia nostri, 3.851). The continuation of memory is thus an essential criterion for the continuation of the soul. In syllogistic form, Lucretius’ argument runs like this (DRN 3.670-78):

Major premise: If metempsychosis were true, we would remember past lives. Minor premise1: We do not remember past lives. Proposition1: Therefore metempsychosis is not true.

Pythagoras does not challenge Lucretius’ belief that absence of memory means absence of continuance; rather he asserts the continuation of memory and adduces this as proof of the continuance of the soul.701 His argument runs like this (15.160-64):

Major premise (implied): If we remembered past lives, then metempsychosis would be true. Minor premise2: I do remember past lives. Proposition2: Therefore metempsychosis is true.

When the arguments are seen in this form, the connection between Lucretius’ and Pythagoras’ arguments becomes immediately apparent. Pythagoras adopts Lucretius’ major premise and rejects his minor premise1, giving his own personal experience as 702 evidence for minor premise2. We will return to this argument in section (iii). Pythagoras does not use a first-person verb again until he comes to another abstruse bit of learning, his passage on the elements (Passage 10, 15.237-51). He offers to teach his audience about the elements (docebo, 15.238), no doubt because their own experience would be insufficient for understanding the elements, which are not immediately apparent. In Passages 5 though 10, when discussing such familiar phenomena as the diurnal cycle, the seasonal cycle and the human life cycle, Pythagoras has often used second-person verbs, and we will discuss this appeal to his audience’s

701 We might also compare the Orphic gold tablets, at least some of which emphasise the importance of memory in an eschatological context. Tablet no. 1 in Graf & Johnston’s edition exhorts the initiate to request water from the Lake of Memory in the underworld (Graf & Johnston (2007), pp. 4-5, see also pp.98-99 and, esp., pp.117-20, which discuss the importance of memory in connection with reincarnation. 702 Of course, if Pythagoras’ memory is not accurate, his argument may crumble. Miller argues that Pythagoras’ memory of Euphorbus’ death does not agree with Homer’s account in Iliad 17.43ff: ‘After the proud parenthetical nam memini and the boastfully grandiloquent Panthoides Euphorbus eram, the marked discrepancy with Homer seems quite ironic’ (Miller (1994), p.476). Pythagoras’ faulty memory potentially has more significant consequences than Miller’s ‘subtle humour’ (p.477), since his memory plays such an important part in his argument. According to Barchiesi, however, Pythagoras’ recollection of the Trojan War ‘coincides very literally with a scene in the Iliad (the death of Euphorbus, Il. 17.43ff.)’ (Barchiesi (2001), p.70). 274

experience shortly. Now, however, when he comes to discuss something more difficult and esoteric, he reverts to the first person, promising to share his own knowledge. The law of universal flux is supported with another first-person verb (crediderim, 15.260), and Pythagoras proceeds to offer specific examples of this change. Notably, he says that he has seen land turn into sea and sea into land (vidi ego, 15.262; vidi, 15.263).703 Vidi and vidi ego are in part, of course, in part a didactic formula comparable to Vergil’s use of vidi in the Georgics (vidi equidem, 1.193; ego [...] vidi, 1.316-8.704 Pythagoras’ use of the motif thus serves two purposes, identifying his sermo as belonging to the didactic genre and emphasising Pythagoras’ own reliability as an authority. Most of the rest of his examples are supported only by reference to other authorities, and it is only in Passage 20, which forms part of his peroration, that Pythagoras again uses a first-person verb. In Passage 20, however, he uses a plural, meaning here to include his audience in the knowledge gained through experience (cernimus, 15.421). We should compare Lucretius’ appeals to common experience (quid nobis certius ipsis / sensibus esse potest, qui vera ac falsa notemus, DRN 1.699-700; videbis, DRN 2.372). Pythagoras does, however, support the sortes and vates predicting Rome’s growth by recalling that in an earlier incarnation he had heard Helenus’ prophecy (recordor, 15.436). Later he repeats this claim of personal memory with memor refero (15.451). Each time Pythagoras uses a first-person singular verb, he does so to strengthen claims which his audience cannot verify for themselves: metempsychosis, the hidden transformations of the four elements and events concerning the Trojan War at which he was present. We should contrast Pythagoras’ experience of the Trojan War with Lucretius’ denial that events in the distant past are of any concern to us (DRN 3.832- 42). Lucretius, too, refers to a famous and emotionally-charged (for his Roman audience) war, the Punic War: anteacto nil tempore sensimus aegri, / ad confligendum venientibus undique Poenis (DRN 3.832-33). In contrast to Lucretius’ avowal that we did not feel anything in events which preceded our birth, Pythagoras argues that he, at least, was indeed present and intimately concerned with a matter before his birth, since his soul then occupied a different body. Pythagoras consistently appeals to his own

703 Bömer observes that expressions such as vidi do not only provide immediacy and vividness, but also grant credibility: ‘[d]ie Szene [...] gewinnt an Glaubwürdigkeit’ (F. Bömer (1974) ‘Der Kampf der Stiere’ in Gymnasium, 81: 503-513, p.505). 704 On Ovid’s use of this didactic formula elsewhere in his poetry, see B.W. Boyd (1997) Ovid’s Literary Loves: Influence and Innovation in the Amores, Ann Arbor: Michigan UP, pp. 98-99. 275

personal experience as a source of knowledge, attempting to give his arguments an empirical grounding. In Passages 1-5, the doctrinal passages attempting to justify vegetarianism and prove metempsychosis, Pythagoras provides only himself as an authority. After these passages, however, Pythagoras extends his discussion of change to include all fundamental changes in the universe (Passages 6-20, the section on mirabilia), and he does so mainly by providing examples rather than explanations. In the doctrinal passages, Pythagoras underpins his doctrines with personal testimony. Once he has explained these doctrines, he provides examples drawn from the sensible world. This second part of the “Speech” begins with a statement of the general law, while the exempla proper begin at 15.186. The first word of this verse is cernis, and this is the first time that Pythagoras has appealed to his audience’s perceptions and experiences: cernis in fact heralds a generic and strategic change in the “Speech”. The second- person verb also marks this as a didactic speech with an addressee, in a nod to Lucretius. In the next passage, too, Pythagoras appeals to his audience’s experience, with adspicis beginning a line (although not the passage itself) at 15.200. This is Passage 8, where the progression of the seasons is compared to human development, an analogy that inspires Pythagoras’ next example in Passage 9, which is human growth itself – something that any and every member of his audience must experience. The universality of this particular experience is indicated in the first word of the passage, nostra (15.214). Pythagoras, then, appeals to those experiences which his audience has the potential to have experienced.705 An instructive example is 15.293-95: si quaeras Helicen et Burin, Achaidas urbes, / invenies sub aquis, et adhuc ostendere nautae / inclinata solent cum moenibus oppida mersis. Similarly, at 15.315 the Crathis and Sybaris rivers are described as nostris [...] oris, with the clear implication that their peculiarities are easily tested and proven, since their nearness means that they can be visited at any time – thus the peculiarities of these rivers is not merely a matter of report, but open to testing by any individual. This sentence should, perhaps, make us more wary of the next exemplum, that of Salmacis and the Aethiopian lakes, since Pythagoras prefaces these with cui non audita est (15.319). With this phrase,

705 Kingsley notes that ‘supposedly esoteric ideas about the universe and man are an open secret because true esoteric teaching aims not at filling the disciple or pupil with mere fascinating theories but with providing opportunities for making these ideas and theories real in his own experience’ (Kingsley (1995), p.369). 276

Pythagoras is appealing to reports with which his audience should be familiar, but the reference is only to reports and there is no potential experiential knowledge. Pythagoras is equally hesitant to lend support to reports of Hyperboreans and Scythians who put on plumage (fama est, haud equidem credo, 15.356, 359).706 Hyperboreans and Scythians are far distant from Pythagoras’ (and Ovid’s) audience. Frequently, however, the mirabilia or paradoxa, which are adduced as examples of the universal flux, are examples from experience. Pythagoras is no longer defending his universal flux through reason and argument, but through concrete examples in the world around us. Pythagoras appeals explicitly to experience as a foundation for valid belief: siqua fides rebus tamen est addenda probatis / nonne vides (15.361-62; nonne vides also appears in the next passage at 15.382707). Passage 16 (15.361-74) is rich in references to experience. The second person imperatives (i,708 obrue, 364) and indicatives (vides 362, demas 369) involve the audience in the activities described, thus appealing to them as (potential) witnesses.709 More than this, however, Pythagoras includes three more direct references to the importance of empirical observation. The first of these is the opening line of the passage (res probatae, 15.361). Next, Pythagoras describes the bougonia as cognita res usu (15.365) and, finally, the metamorphosis of caterpillars into butterflies is res observata colonis (15.373). Observation and experience are clearly marked out as sufficient for knowledge, and the three quotations reveal that Pythagoras is in some sense an ‘empiricist’. The last time Pythagoras appeals to experience that is not specifically his own is at 15.422, when ‘we’ perceive (cernimus) that times and nations rise and fall. Perception is the basis of knowledge. For the esoteric doctrines, the audience is dependent on Pythagoras and his divine (but also personally experienced) knowledge, while for the exoteric examples of those doctrines our own observation and experience is sufficient. Although Pythagoras

706 For Jones, Pythagoras distances himself from these reports with fama est: ‘It seems that this mythological material lies outside Pythagoras’ expertise. Thus, he can offer the tale only on the authority of another’ (Jones (2005), p.12). 707 The phrase nonne vides is a ‘peculiarly didactic formula,’ and Ovid uses it only three times in his entire oeuvre (Barchiesi (2001), p.176n37). The phrase appears twice in Pythagoras’ “Speech” and once in Calliope’s Song, when Venus is pointing out to Cupid the goddesses who have forsworn love (5.365; 15.362, 382). It is a particularly Lucretian formula, appearing 15 times in the De rerum natura, each time at the beginning of a line (2.196, 207, 263; 4.122, 807, 1201, 1284; 5.383, 556, 602, 646; 6.806, 813, 900, 1103). 708 The first half of 15.364 is uncertain. Tarrant, in the OCT, adopts i quoque delectos; in the Loeb edition, the verse runs in scrobe deiecto mactatos obrue tauros. 709 Barchiesi calls the density of appeals to the reader ‘unprecedented,’ and notes ‘a varied series of five imperatives and five hortatory subjunctives that emphatically close the entire sequence (473-8).’ Barchiesi observes that these appeals to the reader are designed to heighten the didacticism of the passage (Barchiesi (2001), p.67). 277

appears inconsistent in his change from his own to his audience’s experience, this movement in fact reflects the difference in the subjects under discussion. Pythagoras is thus more experiential – and perhaps more Epicurean – than Lucretius; while Lucretius advocates reason as well as sense-perception, Pythagoras relies almost wholly on empiricism. The implication is perhaps that for Lucretius the cosmos is to be understood, whereas for Pythagoras the universe is to be experienced. We might remember that Pythagoras’ proof of metempsychosis is drawn from personal memory and experience rather than from deductive reasoning (memini, 15.160). Indeed, if Pythagoras’ universe has no underlying order besides change, there is little scope for reason. The insistence on personal experience is therefore entirely consistent with the lack of a fixed order, as we began to suggest in Chapter 7. In a nod to Lucretius, however, Pythagoras attributes the changes in water bodies to Nature (natura, 15.270) rather than to the Creator who is responsible for the creation of water bodies in Book I (quisquis fuit ille deorum, 1.32). In this, he is consistent with his earlier assertion that rerum [...] novatrix / ex aliis alias reparat natura figuras (15.252- 53); this variation of natura creatrix (DRN 1.629, 2.1117, 5.1362) confirms that Pythagoras’ natura is derived from that of Lucretius.710

i.ii) The Argument from Authority

Of four references to vates in the “Speech”, three appeal to the authority of the vates as truth-teller.711 Pythagoras implies that he himself is a vates, pleading parcite, vaticinor, cognatas caede nefanda / exturbare animas, nec sanguine sanguis alatur (15.174-75). Later, Pythagoras explains that the Anigrus river’s water is unwholesome ever since the centaurs bathed their wounds there nisi vatibus omnis / eripienda fides (15.282-83). On the third occasion, Pythagoras notes that Rome is in the ascendant, or at least that sic dicere vates / faticinasque ferunt sortes (15.435-36). However, not all of Pythagoras’ references to vates indicate that vates are reliable. Ironically, Pythagoras uses the phrase materiem vatum to discredit Tartarus; this is in the same passage in which he says vaticinor and implies himself to be a vates – potentially marking his entire sermo

710 For Segal, ‘[c]lothed in the language of the DRN, this natura is superficially Lucretian, but it is no more Lucretian than it is Pythagorean; actually, it is Ovidian’ (Segal (2001), p.81). 711 Newman has shown that the association of the vates with truth-telling goes back to Hesiod (J.K. Newman (1986) The Classical Epic Tradition, Madison: Wisconsin UP, p.286). 278

as unreliable. The four references to vates in the “Speech of Pythagoras” do not present a consistent position on their reliability, and we cannot be certain whether or not his denunciation of materiem vatum at 15.155 illustrates that Pythagoras believes vates to be unreliable.712 Nor is it clear whether or not we are intended to believe the vates on the Anigrus. The authority of the vates is clearly a live issue, one on which Pythagoras has no fixed opinion.713 As Myers observes, Pythagoras plays with the ‘dual, and to Lucretius antithetical associations’ of the vates as a figure of ‘supernatural, even sacerdotal, authority’ and ‘a scientific investigator of and knowledgeable authority on philosophical truths’.714 Pythagoras does, however, call himself a vates (15.174). Indeed, he is a divinely inspired vates: et quoniam deus ora movet, sequar ora moventem / rite deum Delphosque meos ipsumque recludam / aethera et augustae reserabo oracula mentis (15.143-45).715 Thus, Pythagoras’ sermo is divinely sanctioned – we should note the similarity to Orpheus’ permitted songs.716 This is Pythagoras’ first programmatic passage, and he draws extensively on Lucretius. He begins et quoniam, a phrase which appears at the beginning of a line only three times in the Metamorphoses, twice in the “Speech of Pythagoras” (the other is at 15.175).717 Et quoniam initiates a line seven times in the De rerum natura (2.810, 3.31, 3.510, 3.548, 3.634, 4.950 & 6.42), so Pythagoras twice employs a recognisably Lucretian phrase which is (almost) unique to his “Speech” in the Metamorphoses.

712 Volk notes that this idea of poetic lies appears elsewhere in Ovid’s work: Am. 3.6.17, 3.12.41; Fast. 6.253 (Volk (2010), p.51). 713 Three references to vates in the Metamorphoses explicitly ask whether a vates is to be believed. At 13.733-4, Ovid says that Scylla was once a woman si non omnia vates / ficta reliquerunt; at 15. 282-3, Pythagoras relates the story about bathing centaurs, and in the very last line of the poem (15.874), Ovid predicts his immortality siquid habent veri vatum praesagia. Centaurs and Scyllas are grouped together by Lucretius as compound creatures. He explains how the concept of them forms from simulacra which have collides (DRN 4.732-48) and why they are impossible, since the different creatures grow at different rates (DRN 5.878-900). 714 Myers (1994), pp.144-45. Note that Ovid has played such games in earlier poetry, with the vates peritus of Ars. 29. 715 Volk observes that Pythagoras is a vates not only as a prophet, but also as a poet, concluding that ‘Ovid is playing with the similarity of prophetic enthusiasm and poetic inspiration’ (Volk (2002), p.65). In a similar vein, Segal argues that Pythagoras harmonises two aspects of the Augustan poet: ‘, the prophetic-vatic voice and a voice that enunciates Roman patriotic concerns’ (Segal (2001), p.64). We should also compare Ovid’s description of himself in the Fasti as peculiarly entitled to see divinity because of his sacral position (fas mihi praecipue voltus vidisse deorum, / vel quia sum vates, vel quia sacra cano, Fast. 6.7-8). 716 There are 36 words with the root vat- in the Metamorphoses. Only three characters receive multiple descriptions as vates: Tiresias is called a vates 3 times (3.348, 511, 527), Orpheus is called a vates 10 times (10.12, 82, 89, 143; 11.2, 8, 19, 27, 38, 68) and Pythagoras is the third character to be so closely associated with the word vates. 717 The other example is when Iole reports Dryope’s metamorphosis at 8.385. 279

However, Pythagoras uses this Lucretian beginning to aver a divine inspiration: deus ora movet (14.143). At first sight, this divine inspiration appears completely antithetical to the spirit of the De rerum natura, which insists that the gods take no interest in, or action upon, the mortal plane. Indeed, Myers takes this verse to subvert ‘the Lucretian claims for the primacy of reason in philosophical investigation’.718 However, we should also compare DRN 1.922-950; in particular 1.922-23: sed acri / percussit thyrso laudis spes magna meum cor. Here, Lucretius uses the language of divine inspiration, if in a metaphorical sense. Gale argues that, in the passage on the Magna Mater (DRN 2.600-60) Lucretius resolves the conflict between mythos and logos, allowing the poet to ‘use mythological images provided he avoids the stain of religio turpis by juxtaposing them with a literal account of the vera res, the true nature of the phenomenon which they represent’.719 Thus, Lucretius gradually demystifies the mythological and fabulous, passing from it to true reason. We may take his use of the language of divine inspiration in this sense. Lucretius only alludes to divine inspiration obliquely, referring to the thyrsus. This equivocation is removed in Pythagoras’ proem, and he bluntly declares deus ora movet. Together, et quoniam and deus ora movet strip back and deliberately misrepresent Lucretius’ verses, sharply juxtaposing a phrase used in the philosophical sections with the divine inspiration hinted at in Lucretius’ second proem. Pythagoras intends to sing magna nec ingeniis investigata priorum / quaeque diu latuere (15.146-47). Let us compare DRN 1.922 and 926-27: nec me animi fallit quam sint obscura and avia Pieridum peragro loca nullius ante / trita solo. Pythagoras has adopted Lucretius’ claims of priority and of the difficulty of the subject. In the next section of his proem in the middle, Pythagoras’ thematic echoes of the second proem of the De rerum natura grow more pronounced. Pythagoras says (15.147-52)

[...] iuvat ire per alta astra, iuvat terris et inerti sede relicta nube vehi validique umeris insistere Atlantis palantesque homines passim et rationis egentes despectare procul trepidosque obitumque timentes sic exhortari seriemque evolvere fati.

There are two corresponding passages of the De rerum natura (1.927-30 and 2.7-10):

[...] iuvat integros accedere fontis

718 Myers (1994), p.142. 719 Gale (1994), p.31. 280

atque haurire, iuvatque novos decerpere flores insignemque meo capiti petere inde coronam unde prius nulli velarint tempora Musae.

sed nil dulcius est bene quam munita tenere edita doctrina sapientum templa serena, despicere unde queas alios passimque videre errare atque viam palantis quaerere vitae,

Segal has recognised that Pythagoras’ proem draws directly on Lucretius’ second proem, but does not point out the specific verbal reminiscences.720 The Lucretian lines from Book II about observing the ignorance of others, when one is oneself free of such ignorance, are preceded by two other examples of the idea that it is sweet to perceive the evils from which one is free (DRN 2.1-6):

suave, mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis, e terra magnum alterius spectare laborem; non quia vexari quemquamst iucunda voluptas, sed quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suave est. suave et belli certamina magna tueri per campos instructa tua sine parte pericli.

Lucretius’ examples are watching a storm and watching a battle as metaphors for observing others’ ignorance. Pythagoras elaborates on Lucretius’ third, and best, description of this ataraxic bliss, by turning Lucretius’ rather vague edita templa serena into validi umeris Atlantis. Both Lucretius and Pythagoras have earlier used height as a metaphor for enlightenment, e.g. DRN 1.72-74; Met. 15.62-64. Now, a more attainable or precise degree of height is offered, since the characters no longer journey through metaphorical heavens but merely reside (physically) higher than other, ignorant, mortals. Pythagoras has literalised Lucretius in giving a definite description of that altitude, and the inclusion of Atlas intensifies the mythological note at which Lucretius’ Muses (1.925, 930, 934, 946 & 947) hint. He ties this idea (of observing troubles) into his own proem by borrowing the structure of his verses from Lucretius’ second proem – the anaphora of iuvat [...] iuvat – while the subject matter comes from the proem to Lucretius’ second book. As Lucretius does with his second proem, Pythagoras here declares his intent to free men from their ignorance. In his programmatic passage, Pythagoras is here correcting Lucretius, who declares that Epicurus’ and his own words are sanctius and multo certa ratione magis than the Pythia’s (DRN 1.738-39, 5.112-13). Lucretius thus sets up Epicurus and

720 Segal (2001), p.74. 281

himself as alternatives to the divine information granted by Apollo through the Pythia. Pythagoras, on the other hand, stands proxy for the Pythia – note the similarity of their names.721 In fact, not long after the publication of the Metamorphoses, Nicomachus would write that Pythagoras ‘was called Pythagoras because he spoke the truth no less than the Pythian oracle’ (FGrHist 1063 F1). Pythagoras’ knowledge is divinely sanctioned, unravelling Lucretius’ replacement of divinely granted knowledge with reasoned understanding. Pythagoras as vates is, therefore, fully engaging with the religious, as well as the poetic, aspects of that role. Pythagoras the vates claims that the divine source of his knowledge (which is, of course, supported by his experience as well) gives him credibility. He also maintains his piety, in contrast to characters like Lycaon, Pyreneus and the Pierides who seek to wrest knowledge from unwilling gods. However, the intertextuality with Lucretius compels us to ask whether the alleged divine source of Pythagoras’ knowledge in fact reveals such knowledge to be false. Certainly, for Lucretius knowledge from a putatively divine source is suspect (since the gods do not in fact give knowledge to mortals). Still, although Pythagoras references Lucretius throughout his “Speech”, he does not adopt Lucretius’ doctrines. There is no reason to conclude that his appeal to divine sources of knowledge is tainted by Lucretian suspicions, except, of course, insofar as the reader is made to recall those suspicions by the language of the “Speech”. That said, the vates is an ambiguous figure in the “Speech of Pythagoras”. Pythagoras bolsters his own claims to truthfulness by invoking divine inspiration, by his engagement with the religious aspect of the vates. Perhaps, however, the vates who peddle false stories about Tartarus are not divinely inspired, participating only in the poetic aspects of that role. If other vates are of questionable reliability, what of those authorities whom Pythagoras does not designate as vates? There are very few instances where Pythagoras relies on the accounts of others, and all of these (with a single exception) occur in the list of mirabilia (15.176-417), although none occurs before Passage 12 (15.259-360). First, Pythagoras relates the claim that the Mysus flows in another region under the name Caïcus (ferunt, 15.278) and then that Leucas and Zancle have been separated from the mainland (veteres habuere coloni, 15.289, dicitur, 15.291). The following examples all are categorised as second-hand information: Pythagoras says plurima cum

721 ‘These lines [15.143-45] contain a subtle reference to the etymology of the name Pythagoras, from “puthios” (the Sibyl at the Delphic oracle), and “agoreuein” (“to proclaim”; cf. recludam, reserabo) attested by Aristippus in Diog. Laert. 8.21’ (Barchiesi (2001), p.67). 282

subeant audita et cognita nobis / pauca super referam (15.307-08). The word audita immediately distances the following examples of change from those fully endorsed by Pythagoras. A cluster of general references to other authorities follow at 15.312 (narratur), 15.319 (cui non audita est), 15.325 (quod indigenae memorant), 15.356 (fama est). In the next instance, we see Pythagoras provide another weakening device; haud equidem credo [...] memorantur (15.359-60). This example confirms our contention that the audita are to be given less credence than those exempla which are supported by (e.g.) vidi. Likewise, the phrase sunt qui [...] credant (15.389-90) reveals the weakness of those reports not based on Pythagoras’ own authority. There appears to be a progression from more reliable examples to less, as Pythagoras seeks to overwhelm his audience with quantity over quality. The last weakened exemplum in the mirabilia occurs during the description of the phoenix, which ‘is said’ to spring from its father’s body (ferunt, 15.401). We should note the elegant variatio in Pythgoras’ use of distancing formulae: only one is repeated, ferunt, and that both opens and closes the selection in a neat ring-composition. We now come to the sole example of a distancing formula which stands outside the mirabilia, in the catalogue of rising and falling cities. Pythagoras relates fama est that Rome is rising, and goes on to add sic dicere vates / faticinasque ferunt sortes (15.431, 435-36). However, it is not only its position which sets this announcement apart from the list of mirabilia. Although ferunt and fama est are used as distancing formulae in the mirabilia, they do not have that function here, since they are supported by quantumque recordor (15.436). Pythagoras lends his own authority to the rise of Rome. This information is also marked as pious, that is, divinely sanctioned, knowledge by the faticinas sortes. Furthermore, in lending his own authority to the rise of Rome, Pythagoras reinforces an earlier point: for Pythagoras personally to remember Helenus’ prophecy, made cum res Troiana labaret (15.437), he must have been present in an earlier incarnation, that of Euphorbus, to which Pythagoras refers at 15.160-64.722

722 It has been observed that Pythagoras’ memories here do not coincide with the tradition surrounding Euphorbus. Miller suggests that Ovid moves Helenus’ prophecy to the time of Troy’s fall: ‘In doing so, he also follows an Homeric precedent, the prediction of future supremacy for Aeneas and his descendants which Poseidon addressed to Aeneas during the battle for Troy (Iliad 20.307-08). [...] Ovid’s aemulatio of Aeneid 3 is an artful contaminatio of Virgil with Homer’ (Miller (1994), p.483). Segal and Wheeler note that Euphorbus died before Helenus’ prophecy, with Wheeler suggesting that ‘Pythagoras has invented his memory of Helenus’ prophecy’ (Segal (2001), p.82; Wheeler (1999), p.191). On Pythagoras’ faulty memory, recall Miller’s argument that Pythagoras remembers Euphorbus’ death inaccurately (p.476). 283

From his use of vaticinor (15.174), we know that Pythagoras is a vates. He thus shares in the authority of the vates. Indeed, we may be justified in going further, and arguing that in the “Speech of Pythagoras” the argument from authority is specifically the argument from Pythagoras’ authority. Pythagoras has already appealed to his own authority five times: oro [...] et monitis animos advertite nostris (15.139-40), mihi credite (15.254), doceo [...] vaticinor (15.172, 174); quasque vices peragant, animos adhibete: docebo (15.238); crediderim (15.260). This personal authority is derived from divinity: quoniam deus ora movet (15.143).723 For Pythagoras, then, knowledge of the sensible world may be gained from empirical observation. For more esoteric knowledge, however, he offers only himself as an authority. This claim to authority rests on the twin supports of Pythagoras’ own unique experiences and the divine sanction laid out in his programmatic passage. Able to teach this esoteric, divinely granted knowledge to humanity, Pythagoras stands midway between the gods and humans, occupying much the same position as that assumed by Orpheus in Book X. Remember that he also stands on Atlas’ shoulders, unrolling the book of fate in order to explain the nature of things to ignorant men (15.147-52). In his proem in the middle, Pythagoras adopts the position of a vates who is inspired by the gods and passes divinely-granted wisdom to the rest of humanity.

ii) A Vegetarian Golden Age

In Book I, Ovid describes the Golden Age, which ends with Jupiter’s creation of the seasons. (1.113-18). Crucially, Ovid writes that semina tum primum longis Cerealia sulcis / obruta sunt, pressique iugo gemuere iuvenci (1.123-24). The end of the Golden Age brings in the seasons, which necessitate agricultural labour. These themes are picked up again in Met. 5, where Ovid interprets the Rape of Persephone as an aetion for the seasons and agriculture, but in neither Book I nor Book V has Ovid emphasised the vegetarianism of the Golden Age. When Pythagoras refers in Passage 2 to the

723 We should perhaps compares the proem to the Metamorphoses, where Ovid says that his animusinspires him to sing of metamorphosis, but credits the gods with an important role (nam mutastis et illa, 1.2). O’Hara argues that the dual motivation in the proem ‘looks both back towards a long tradition of epic and other musings on whether the gods or a person’s own nous or animus controls his actions, and forwards to the complexly problematic notions of divinity and its relation to humanity that Ovid’s own new poem, the Metamorphoses, will explore’(J.J. O’Hara (2004) ‘Some God… or His Own Heart: Two Kinds of Epic Motivation in the Proem to Ovid’s Metamorphoses’ in CJ 100.2: 149-161, pp.150-51). For a brief survey of the literature on whether to read illa or illas at Met. 1.2, see O’Hara (2004), p149n1. 284

Golden Age (vetus illa aetas, cui fecimus aurea nomen, 15.96), it is not the absence of agriculture which is noteworthy – Pythagoras even refers to tilled fields, saying that in the Golden Age lepus inpavidus mediis erravit in arvis (15.100).724 It is not, however, the field that is significant for Pythagoras, but the lepus inpavidus. Despite Pythagoras’ devotion of several lines to the prodiga tellus and her gifts, his Golden Age is not characterised by a lack of agriculture, or even by miraculous fruitfulness, but by a lack of meat-eating and the consequent safety of animals.725 Pythagoras is moving from a non-agricultural Golden Age to a vegetarian Golden Age, an important variation on the myth as related in Books I and V. Passages 1 and 2 together reveal that this is a deliberate movement (15.75-95; 96-110). Pythagoras does not mention the Golden Age until 15.96, but his account there does not conform to that provided elsewhere in the Metamorphoses. It is Passage 1, in which Pythagoras describes the current bounty of the earth, which recalls the Golden Age as related in Book I.726 Passage 1, 15.75-95, denounces meat-eating as unnecessary, detailing the abundance of food that the earth provides. Several phrases are particularly striking: lacteus umor (79), mella (80), prodiga tellus and alimenta mitia (81). The Golden Age, we remember from Chapter 2, is associated with milk and honey and a beneficent earth, especially in Latin poetry.727 More particularly, the phrase alimenta mitia is redeployed from the fifth book, when Triptolemus recites Ceres’ agricultural instructions which will produce alimenta mitia (5.655-56). While this phrase does not occur in a description of the Golden Age, the associations of agriculture, the Golden Age, the Rape of Persephone and food are suggestive. Pythagoras’ speech, then, opens with a passage reminiscent of the earlier Golden Age, but referring to the present, and he proceeds to transform the non-agricultural age into a vegetarian one. This vegetarianism appears to be a new feature in the Golden Age of the Metamorphoses, although it is surely prefigured in Book I, when Ovid relates the tale of

724 Of course, we saw in Chapter 4 that descriptions of the pre-agricultural Golden Age in both the Fasti and the Metamorphoses include agricultural details. 725 Compare Empedocles’ description of the rule of Kypris: ‘the altar did not reek of the unmixed blood of bulls, but this was the greatest abomination among men, to snatch out the life and eat the goodly limbs (Ταύρων δ’ ἀκρήτοισι φόνοις οὐ δεύετο βωμος, / ἀλλὰ μύσος τοῦτ’ ἔσκεν ἐν ἀνθρώποισι μεγιστον, / θυμὸν ἀπορραίσαντας ἐνέδμεναι ἠέα γυῖα, fr. 128). 726 We might compare Vergil’s “Praise of Italy” at Georgics 2.136-75, which ‘has the obvious purpose of establishing Italy as an ideal land, comparable to Saturn’s Golden Age or the Isles of the Blessed’ (Ross Jr. (1987), p.118). See also A. Deremetz (2009) ‘The Question of the Marvellous in the Georgics of Virgil’ in P.R. Hardie (2009a): 113-125, p.120). 727 See, e.g. Hesiod Op. 116-18; Vergil Ecl. 4.21-22, 30; Tib. 1.3.45-46; Horace Ep. 16.47-50; Ovid Met. 1.111-12. 285

Lycaon’s cannibalism (1.226-31), which results in the replacement of his race (as the Golden Race is replaced by the Silver). Colavito suggests that the progression of the four Ages described at Met. 1.89-150 is in fact a synopsis of the contents of the entire poem, with the Golden Age ending with the Deluge following Lycaon’s crime.728 According to this view, the fact that Ovid invents the connection between Lycaon and the Flood implies ‘that the destruction of the first age of man was caused by this act of committing bloodshed, a Pythagorean taboo’.729 Colavito thus sees a causal connection between meat-eating and the end of the Golden Age in the “Cosmogony”, a link that is repeated in the “Speech of Pythagoras”. The claim that Lycaon’s race is that of the Golden Age, and consequently that the crime of cannibalism ended the Golden Age, is tempting, but there is in fact little evidence for it in the text. We need not, therefore, accept Colavito’s thesis wholesale; rather we should recognise that a link between cannibalism and the end of the Golden Age is prefigured in the “Cosmogony” but not yet made explicit.730 It is Pythagoras’ speech that invites us to look again at the events of the “Cosmogony” and to tease out a stronger, though only implicit, connection between Lycaon and the Golden Age than is at first evident.731 It is sometimes argued that any philosophical doctrine in “Speech of Pythagoras” is undermined by the opening and closing emphasis on vegetarianism in Passages 1 and 22 (15.72-142, 453-78). For Otis, the vegetarianism passages ‘are no part of the message with which Ovid is really concerned’, but are merely ‘typical transition passages, designed to characterize the historical Pythagoras and thus to ‘frame’ his central philosophy’.732 The speech, however, is introduced as an exhortation to vegetarianism (15.72-74), and the two framing passages total 97 lines, with a three-verse reminder at 15.173-75, which has the effect of turning the passage on metempsychosis (15.153-75) into another defence of vegetarianism. This total of 125 lines is a significant proportion of the whole 403-verse speech, a fact which does not permit us to dismiss vegetarianism as incidental. Another interpretation rests on the assumption that in Ovid’s time vegetarianism was insignificant philosophically; Segal refers to ‘something as closely bordering on the

728 Colavito (1989), p.36. 729 Colavito (1989), p.36. 730 For Pythagoras, of course, all meat-eating is cannibalistic, a ‘Thyestean banquet’ (15.62). Pythagoras’ language also makes a connection between the first book and the first meat-eater, saying that the latter is an ill-exemplar quisquis fuit ille (15.104), a phrase recalling quisquis fuit ille deorum (1.32), when Ovid disavows any knowledge of the identity of the Creator. 731 On second readings, see Winkler (1979), esp. pp.85-88. 732 Otis (1966), p.298. 286

trivial as vegetarianism’.733 Segal, Solodow and Miller all claim that the prominence given by Ovid to vegetarianism is designed to undermine the philosophical and Pythagorean tone of the “Speech of Pythagoras”. Segal argues that the primacy of vegetarianism ‘subordinates the wide-ranging, lofty concepts of metempsychosis and the immortality of the soul to something potentially ridiculous and trivial’.734 For Segal, this is a damning point; he reiterates that ‘a speech centred on vegetarian diet is hardly the way to suggest that the speaker’s words conceal a profound meaning, a meaning which suddenly reinterprets everything in the preceding fourteen books’.735 He concludes that the (purported) insignificance of vegetarianism undermines any claim of the “Speech of Pythagoras” to provide a frame of reference for the rest of the Metamorphoses. Miller concurs that ‘when Ovid has Pythagoras subordinate the lofty concept of metempsychosis to vegetarianism, rather than vice versa, he seems to invert, if not trivialize, the logic of Pythagorean doctrine’.736 Finally, there is Solodow’s suggestion that ‘proposed redefinitions of piety and of the Golden Age, two notions especially important in Roman literature, are instances of how, by reducing Pythagoreanism to vegetarianism, Ovid has trivialised it’.737 It is not, in fact, clear that vegetarianism was considered philosophically unimportant at this time. Segal provides some evidence for Roman scorn,738 but Porphyry credits the Peripatetics, Stoics and Epicureans with having made the greatest effort to argue against vegetarianism (De Abst. 1.3.3), and such effort would have been wasted had there been no need to argue against something generally derided.739 Furthermore Riedweg argues that in the first century BCE ‘persons once again come into view who describe themselves as Pythagoreans or at least consciously follow Pythagoras on particular points, such as vegetarianism: The latter is attested for a Roman philosopher of the Augustan period, Q. Sextius, and for his pupil Sotion, Seneca’s teacher.’740 Sorabji identifies the two most common philosophical discussions of animals: eating and sacrifice, which were so closely connected that ‘you could not

733 Segal (1969a), p.289. For Segal, we are ‘reduced at the end from the high style of Lucretian didacticism and philosophical religiosity to banquets and alimenta’ (p.283, italics added). 734 Segal (1969a), p.282. 735 Segal (1969a, p.283. 736 Miller (1994), p.477. 737 Solodow (1988), p.166. 738 Segal (1969a), p.289. 739 While Porphyry has his own reasons for implying the philosophical importance of vegetarianism, his insistence on the importance of vegetarianism as a philosophical topic is supported by Sorabji (R. Sorabji (1993) Animal Minds and Human Morals: The Origins of the Western Debate, New York: Cornell UP. 740 Riedweg (2002), p.124. 287

say that you shared in traditional religion, but did not eat meat, or that you ate unsacrificed meat. And conversely, you could not say as an early Christian that you repudiated the city’s religion, but liked a nice piece of beef’.741 The focus on vegetarianism, I suggest, simply signals a focus on ethics. The physical nature of the world is, for Pythagoras, of no importance in its own right.742 Rather, it is significant only insofar as it encourages correct, ethical behaviour, just as Empedocles’ use of mythology and reincarnation in the Katharmoi is a ‘secondary device designed to bolster and justify his instructions for ritual purification [through abstention from animal sacrifice] by frightening his audience into doing what he asked of them’.743 Swanson is thus correct to argue that vegetarianism ‘is a moral recognition of universal variation, a form of moral tithe’.744 Vegetarianism resolves the themes of morality and change: the ethical response of vegetarianism is mandated by metempsychosis, one example of the constant and ceaseless change that constitutes Pythagoras’ universe. Swanson goes on to argue that change is the dominant theme in the sermo ‘remaining paramount and absorbing the minor theme, morality’.745 In a similar vein, Little claims that morality is of less importance than change, that the connection between the “Speech” and the rest of the poem, formed by Pythagoras’ citation of the Golden Age, ‘is adventitious rather than inherent’.746 Little sees ‘no essential connection’ between Pythagoras’ vegetarianism and the Metamorphoses as a whole, claiming that it ‘serves the purposes of this episode of Bk. 15, not the structural purposes of the whole work’.747 However, we have already seen in previous chapters how Ovid engages pervasively with themes of morality and piety in a philosophically sophisticated, and also playful, way. In our survey, we have seen that all of the myths discussed, after the anthropogony, have thematised ethics in one way or another. Vegetarianism as espoused by Pythagoras involves two ethical components, alimentary

741 Sorabji (1993), p.171. 742 Barchiesi notes how vegetarianism ‘a subordinate element of the Pythagorean tradition deriving from the desire for radical reform of life, sees its rank and function changed; it becomes the source, end, and didactic goal of physiologia’ (Barchiesi (2001), p.63). 743 Kingsley (1995), p.368. In connection with this, we might adduce Segal’s observation that ‘[f]rom Homer and Hesiod on, a bounteous and harmonious order of nature is a symbol and a proof of a larger moral order’ (C.P. Segal (1969b) ‘Vergil’s Sixth Eclogue and the Problem of Evil’ in TAPA 100: 407- 435, p.428). 743 Swanson (1958), p.22. 744 Swanson (1958), p.22. 745 Swanson (1958), p.22. 746 Little (1970), p.342. 747 Little (1970), p.343. 288

norms and a concept of the ontological hierarchy. Both of these are introduced in the paradigmatic myth of Lycaon, with the concept of the ontological hierarchy being central to the interpretation of all the myths under discussion in this thesis.748 Pythagoras’ understanding of ontology is certainly not endorsed throughout the poem – although it is prefigured by Orpheus’ concilium of animals in Book V749 – but ontological questions are given prominence.750 Whether vegetarianism was philosophically trivial in Ovid’s time is, perhaps, beside the point. Pythagoras reprises themes from earlier books, beginning with the Golden Age. Vegetarianism, or at least partial abstention from meat, is a significant feature of accounts of the Golden Age.751 Vergil tells us that the time of the Golden (or Saturnian) Age was ante / impia quam caesis gens est epulata iuvencis (G. 2.536-37), a detail he derives from Aratus, who has Justice leave the earth in disgust when the Bronze Race takes up the sword and eats oxen (Phaen. 131-32).752 These draw on the implications of Hesiod’s account of the Bronze Race who ‘did not eat bread’ (Works 146-47), as Nelis has seen.753 Nelis observes that ‘the eating of bulls, war and the end of the Golden Age are inextricably linked’.754 Pythagoras elides war, thus elevating meat-eating (to generalise from the consumption of oxen) to the position of sole ‘original sin’. Vegetarianism is clearly presented as a moral choice, and the literary association of meat-eating and the end of the Golden Age supports this ethical doctrine. In

748 Myers notes that vegetarianism ‘is not without importance to the earlier part of the Metamorphoses, where, as critics have observed, many of Ovid’s stories frequently involve the exploitation of the transgressions of forbidden boundaries and sometimes involve alimentary norms’ (Myers (1994), p.139). 749 Vegetarianism was also a feature of the Orphic life, as recorded by Plato, Aristophanes and Euripides and Horace (see Chapter 5, n.71). 750 In fact, Little observes that ‘Pythagoras could have expounded the same case using a different illustration, and the connection would have disappeared, although the substance of his argument would have remained unaffected.’ This observation shows that Ovid has taken care to integrate the “Speech” into the Metamorphoses, and that it is not simply the ‘digression’ that Little thinks it to be (Little (1970), pp.342-43). 751 Lovejoy and Boas observe that ‘the Empedoclean picture of man’s former amicable relations with the animals became a part of the literary convention of chronological primitivism’ (Lovejoy & Boas (1935), p.34. 752 Thomas notes that Cicero also adduces the eating of oxen as ‘a paradigm for the post-Saturnian Fall,’ insisting that in Aratus, Cicero and Vergil the emphasis is on the eating of oxen outside the context of sacrifice ‘which would mitigate that act’ (R.F. Thomas (1991) ‘The “Sacrifice” at the End of the Georgics, Aristaeus and Vergilian Closure’ in CP 86.3: 211-218, p.215). As we will see, Pythagoras refuses to allow the concept of sacrifice to mitigate the horror of meat-eating. Regarding the end of the Golden Age in the Georgics, Dyson makes the important observation that ‘[a]ll treatments besides Virgil’s make clear that the crime consisted in killing for meat animals that were man’s best friend, so to speak. But Virgil does not specify that these were ploughing animals, or useful, or companionable – he does not elaborate beyond the simple adjective caesi [G. 2.536-38]’ (J.T. Dyson (1996) ‘Caesi Iuvenci and Pietas Impia in Virgil’ in CJ 91.3: 277-286, p.278). Pythagoras, too, emphasises the immorality of eating animals, without distinguishing among animals. 753 D.P. Nelis (2004a), p.11. 754 Nelis (2004a), p.10. 289

subordinating metempsychosis to vegetarianism, Pythagoras focuses on ethical praxis rather than on what we might call the natural philosophical concern with the nature of life. In this, Pythagoras is in fact in line with the focus of Roman religion on orthopraxy rather than orthodoxy. Despite diverging from the earlier version of the Golden Age (in which the absence of agriculture and the seasons is the primary concern), Pythagoras’ version of the Golden Age dovetails with that described in the “Cosmogony” and the “Musomachia”, drawing out the theme of morality which is latent in the earlier accounts. In Book I, the Golden Age is characterised by the absence of immoral behaviour, and in Book V Lyncus’ violation of hospitality follows the discovery of agriculture, which goes hand in hand with the end of the Golden Age. For Pythagoras, the Golden Age ends with immorality in the form of meat-eating.755 In fact, the nexus of impiety, meat-eating and the transition to the Silver Age may be less contentious than the alternate nexus of the end of the Golden Age and the introduction of agriculture, since some other accounts include agriculture while others exclude it.756 Feeney argues for a strong connection in Pythagoras’ “Speech” between the two different accounts of the end of the Golden Age: Ovid ‘represents sacrifice as a token of the loss of the Golden Age, as the life of agriculture involves humans in endlessly dominating the land and the animals that share it with us, and endlessly placating uncertain deities by giving them many varieties of that animal life.’757 Besides the traditional association of impiety, the end of the Golden Age and eating oxen, Pythagoras provides two proofs (Passages 3 and 5) of the immorality of eating meat, one of which ties in with the theme of agricultural labour elaborated in Books I and V. In Passage 3 (15.111-42), he argues that while humans might kill pigs and goats that damage agricultural produce (and thus pose some threat to human survival), it is particularly immoral to kill sheep, which do no harm and, more

755 This is comparable to Lycaon’s and Lyncus’ attempted slaughter of their guests. 756 Feeney notes that ‘the killing of the ploughing ox, regularly, but not invariably, associated with its sacrifice, is the definite mark of the end of the Golden Age and of man’s estrangement from nature in Aratus, the end of Georgics 2, and in Pythagoras’ speech in Metamorphoses 15’ (Feeney (2004), p.12). This association of vegetarianism and the Golden Age is not limited to literature; Vidal-Naquet attributes it also to Theoprastus’ On piety: ‘Theophrastus [...] places the first human eras in a period of vegetable consumption and non-vegetable sacrifice’ (P. Vidal-Naquet (1978) ‘Plato’s Myth of the Statesman, the Ambiguities of the Golden Age and of History’ in JHS 98: 132-141, p.133). 757 Feeney (2004), p.16. In the Fasti, too, Ovid posits an earlier age in which the gods were propitiated with spelt and salt (ante, deos homini quod conciliare valeret, / far erat et puri lucida mica salis (Fast. 1.337-8). Ovid elaborates on this theme, including a description of how the gods’ grudges against certain animals led to animal sacrifice (Fast. 1.339-456). 290

particularly, oxen.758 Pythagoras devotes twenty-three verses to the immorality of killing and eating oxen, basing his case primarily on the fact that oxen are humanity’s fellow-labourers in the field (15.120-42). It is agricultural labour that links oxen and humans, creating an obligation on the part of humans towards their fellow-labourers (vestros colonos, 15.142). The agricultural labour that marks the end of the Golden Age in the earlier books is now used to prove the immorality of eating meat, which marks the end of the Golden Age in the “Speech of Pythagoras”. Furthermore, of course, the focus on eating oxen ties in with Aratus’ and Vergil’s accounts of the end of the Golden Age (Phaenomena 132; G. 2.536-37). It was suggested above that the myth of Lycaon prepares the audience for the rewriting of the myth of the Golden Age in Book XV. Since Lycaon is not closely connected with the Golden Age in Book I (pace Colavito), this suggestion requires justification. Pythagoras’ second proof, in Passage 5, of the immorality of meat-eating appears to confirm it. In his second proof, Pythagoras uses the concept of metempsychosis to argue for the immorality of eating meat (15.153-75). On this view of metempsychosis, to eat an animal is to eat a body housing a soul that might once have been human.759 Meat-eating thus becomes cannibalism – the same crime of which Lycaon is guilty – as Pythagoras explicitly calls it a ‘Thyestean banquet’ (15.462). This proof ties in well with the first (15.111-42); in that passage Pythagoras calls oxen vestros colonos (15.142); colonus is, of course, more appropriate to a human than to a beast.760 This surprising choice is in fact the last word in the exhortation to vegetarianism. Such a prominent position drives home Pythagoras’ view of the kinship of humans and animals. This position is prefigured in Book X, when Ovid use the word concilium to describe the assembly of animals gathered around Orpheus (10.144). We saw that Orpheus’ music raises animals to a human level; Pythagoras’ sermon denies that there is an essential difference between animal and human souls. The humanisation of animals begun by Orpheus is philosophically formalised by Pythagoras.

758 Regarding the historical Pythagoras, Aristoxenus insists (frs. 28 & 29a Wehrli) that he ‘did not abstain from eating ensouled creatures; he is said to have forbidden killing only two animals: the ox for plowing and the ram’ (Riedweg (2002), p.37). Cf. Iambl. V. Pyth. 150. Ovid’s Pythagoras does counsel abstention from all ensouled creatures, but also singles out the ox and the sheep for special attention. This singling out of the ox and the sheep also occurs in Fasti 1, when Ovid relates the origin of animal sacrifice (quid tuti superest, animam cum ponat in aris / lanigerumque pecus ruricolaeque boves, Fast. 1.383-84) 759 There is some confusion over the relationship between the metamorphoses of the poem and the metempsychosis of Pythagoras’ “Speech.” As far as ethical behaviour is concerned, however, there is very little difference between the two. To eat an animal is potentially to eat a body housing a human soul. 760 In the Georgics, for example, the word colonus is only ever used for humans (1.125, 299, 507, 2.385, 3.288). 291

iii) Death

Once Pythagoras raises metempsychosis, of course, we are encouraged to (re)consider death. Death is largely glossed over in Book I; the demise of the early races is not commented on, nor does Ovid dwell on the mass slaughter of the Flood. In Book I, it is the new beginnings, rather than the endings, that receive emphasis. In Book V, however, death begins to play a more significant role. The “Rape of Persephone” involves the collision of the lower and middle worlds, the realms of death and of mortals. Death, of course, moves to a position of central importance in the “Orpheus”, where the removal of a beloved woman from the mortal to the infernal realm sparks the quest for her ‘rebirth’, as it does in the “Rape” as well. The conflict between life and death, begun in the “Musomachia”, is elaborated in the “Orpheus”, and Orpheus relays his understanding of the nature of death in his song to Pluto. We have seen how Pythagoras rewrites the Golden Age myth to shift the emphasis from agriculture to meat-eating. In the case of death, likewise, Pythagoras takes a different position from that found earlier in the Metamorphoses. In Books V and X, death is intimately connected with the Tartarean realm, and Orpheus specifically tells Pluto (10.32-35):

omnia debemur vobis, paulumque morati serius aut citius sedem properamus ad unam tendimus huc omnes, haec est domus ultima vosque humani generis longissima regna tenetis.

This conception of death is incompatible with that of Pythagoras. Metempsychosis can be reconciled with the traditional Tartarus, as Anchises reconciles the two in Book VI of the Aeneid (6.713-51). Pythagoras, however, makes no attempt to relate his view of death to the traditional Tartarean view. In fact, he explicitly calls Tartarus false (15.153-55), vehemently exhorting his audience: o genus attonitum gelidae formidine mortis / quid Styga, quid tenebras et nomina vana timetis / materiem vatum, falsi terricula mundi. Of course, these lines recall Lucretius, and that aspect will be discussed later. What is of interest at this point is Pythagoras’ denial of Tartarus despite the inclusion of myths about Tartarus earlier in the book (e.g. Orpheus’ catabasis at 10.11-59). Clearly Pythagoras is aware of how radically his own doctrines differ from the traditional view, the materiem vatum. 292

And yet, the traditional Tartarean view of death itself has already been modified by the accounts in Books V and X, with Jupiter’s and Orpheus’ actions showing that the final death of which Orpheus sings (the domus ultima) can be subverted, and life restored. Eurydice (albeit unsuccessfully) and Persephone are both reborn, and in the case of metempsychosis, too, death is not final. The rebirth exemplified by Persephone and Eurydice is completely unlike Pythagoras’ metempsychosis, in that Persephone and Eurydice are to be restored to their former lives while metempsychosis demands that the souls be given new bodies. As in the case of the Golden Age, therefore, Pythagoras adopts a doctrine (metempsychosis) that is not exemplified in the rest of the poem. However, although Pythagoras diverges from traditional accounts, his own beliefs are still related to those accounts. In the case of death, the two possibilities (rebirth and metempsychosis) are related in that both deny the absolute death that is a feature of Epicureanism. In the denial of Tartarus, then, Pythagoras’ doctrine is shown to differ from that found earlier in the Metamorphoses. Later in the “Speech of Pythagoras”, Passage 16 (15.361-74) encourages the comparison between Pythagoras’ view of death and that found in the “Musomachia” and the “Orpheus”. At 15.361-71, Pythagoras proves his theory of constant change by appeal to the bugonia, in the only reference to that practice in the poem. We have seen in Chapter 4 (Section iv) how the bugonia connects both the “Musomachia” and the “Orpheus”, without Ovid ever mentioning it explicitly. Now, in the fifteenth book, we have an explicit reference to bugonia; Pythagoras even extends the phenomenon to other species, telling us that bees arise from dead bulls (mactatos, 15.364, is unaccompanied by any denunciation of sacrifice such as appears at 15.127- 35), hornets from horses and scorpions from crabs. The connection between Orpheus and the bugonia is of central importance to the other major Latin literary account of the Orpheus myth, in Georgics 4; although Ovid has elided the reference to bugonia in his account of Orpheus, his audience retains the memory. Again, Ovid has again employed his technique of connective displacement. The bugonia, which connects the “Musomachia” and the “Orpheus”, is not found in either of those myths, but in the “Speech of Pythagoras”. Pythagoras’ discussion of the nature of death and his passage on bugonia both link the “Speech of Pythagoras” with the “Musomachia” and the “Orpheus”. In Passage 5, Pythagoras observes a fear of death in the unenlightened, exclaiming o genus attonitum gelidae formidine mortis (15.153). With this line and the 293

preceding reference to obitum timentes, Pythagoras compresses a concatenation of references to the fear of death in Lucretius (DRN 1.102-26, 2.45, 3.37-93, 3.830-1094, 6.1182-83, 6.1208-12). Of particular interest is Pythagoras’ dismissal of the Tartarean underworld as materiem vatum, the falsi pericula mundi (15.155). In doing this, he is also dismissing the vates as a purveyor of falsities; we saw in Section i.ii how the vates is complicated in the “Speech”. With his denunciation of the poetic underworld as a source of unsubstantiated terror, Pythagoras is very close to Lucretius, who uses the word vates only twice, to portray the danger which poets pose to philosophy: tutemet a nobis iam quovis tempore, vatum / terriloquis victus dictis, desciscere quaeres; and, shortly afterwards, religionibus atque minis [...] vatum (1.102-03, 109). The denial of Tartarus appears several times in the De rerum natura, famously in the proem to the third book, dedicated to the extirpation of our fear of death: nusquam apparent Acherusia templa (DRN 3.25) However, the differences between Lucretius and Pythagoras are also most strongly drawn in this passage. For both, the denial of Tartarus is a necessary precursor to dispelling the fear of death, which is to be dispelled through an explanation of the nature of the soul.761 Here, however, they diverge sharply. Lucretius argues that death is complete annihilation, and consequently cannot be feared, since there is no soul left to experience any after-life (DRN 3.830-69). Against this, Pythagoras explicitly claims that morte carent animae (Met. 15.158), and goes on to argue for metempsychosis (15.158-175). As proof that metempsychosis occurs, Pythagoras tells of his own past life as Euphorbus in the Trojan War: ipse ego (nam memini) Troiani tempore belli / Panthoides Euphorbus eram (15.160-61). Once Pythagoras has proved metempsychosis by appealing to one of Lucretius’ own criteria, that we would remember past lives if we were reborn into new bodies, he goes on to give a rather vague account of the movement of souls from one body to another (15.165-68): omnia mutantur, nihil interit: errat et illinc / huc venit, hinc illuc, et quoslibet occupat artus / spiritus eque feris humana in corpora transit / inque feras noster, nec tempore deperit ullo. Lucretius mocks the historical Pythagoras’ doctrine of

761 See, however, M.C. Nussbaum (1989) ‘Mortal Immortals: Lucretius on Death and the Voice of Nature’ in Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 50.2: 303-351, esp. p.328 for a reading of Lucretius’ Tartarus passage (DRN 3.978-1023) that emphasises the existence of ‘Acheron’ and its punishments in our lives: ‘Lucretius identifies several further forms of corrupt evaluation and activity, associating each one with one of the proverbial torments of the underworld and claiming that they distort life on earth, making earthly life a hell’. 294

metempsychosis during his discussion of the mortality of the soul. He appeals to the appearance of worms on a corpse and says (DRN 3.724-29):

[...] nec reputas cur milia multa animarum conveniant unde una recesserit, hoc tamen est ut quaerendum videatur et in discrimen agendum, utrum tandem animae venentur semina quaeque vermiculorum ipsaeque sibi fabricentur ubi sint, an quasi corporibus perfectis insinuentur.

We have here an example of Lucretius’ penchant for the reductio ad absurdum. Pythagoras does not attempt to provide a detailed natural-philosophical answer to Lucretius’ attack on the mechanism of metempsychosis. We might well ask why he omits to do this, when he has so recently proved the existence of metempsychosis by means of the experiential criterion which Lucretius would be bound to accept – providing, of course, that Lucretius accepts that Pythagoras remembers his past lives. Having used Lucretius’ method of argument to prove metempsychosis, why does Pythagoras provide such a weak explanation of the movement of souls? This question cannot be answered definitively, but it might be observed that Pythagoras’ weak explanation does not contradict Lucretius’ description of the movement of souls. He thus succeeds in contradicting Lucretius without diverging substantially from Lucretius’ mocking description. For Lucretius, as we saw, the continuation of memory is essential if metempsychosis is to be true, and Pythagoras duly avers the continuation of memory. Yet, part of Pythagoras’ sermo provide an alternative view. Lucretius argues that a break in memory is a form of death, even if the same particles of soul penetrate another body: non, ut opinor, id ab leto iam longiter errat (3.676). Pythagoras, however, shows how the soul continues to be the same even in these conditions; he uses analogical reasoning to compare the soul to wax which may be reshaped many times while remaining the same wax (15.169-72).762 Analogical reasoning is, of course, a major feature of the De rerum natura. Pythagoras has, then, used one of Lucretius’ favourite methods of reasoning to argue against Lucretian doctrine. It is clear that throughout this passage Pythagoras uses Lucretius to argue against the De rerum natura; he accepts Lucretius’ major premise, reverses the tone of a reductio ad absurdum and conspicuously adopts analogical reasoning.

762 The ability of wax to receive multiple impressions led the Stoics to compare the soul’s perception to impressions made on wax. See DL 7.45; Eusebius Evangelical Preparation 15.20.2 = SVF 1.141, Plato Theaetetus 191C=-195B, Aristotle De Anima 2.12.424A17-24. 295

iv) A Pythagorean Utopia

Passage 1 of the “Speech” attempts to convince listeners that the earth is productive enough to make meat-eating unnecessary. While strongly reminiscent of accounts of the Golden Age, this passage purports to describe Pythagoras’ present. Since, for Pythagoras, the Golden Age was lost because of the introduction of meat-eating, it can be regained through the re-introduction of vegetarianism. The ideal society is not irretrievably lost, but can be regained if moral behaviour is adopted once more.763 The earth is quite capable of supporting human life without the need to supplement one’s diet with meat. As we saw in Chapter 7, this is opposed in spirit to Lucretius’ contention that the earth is being exhausted over time (DRN 2.1159-62). And yet, Pythagoras’ description of herbae which can be cooked (mitescere flamma / mollirique queant, 15.78-79) draws on Lucretius’ account of the primitive era, when the sun teaches people to cook (cibum coquere ac flammae mollire vapore / sol docuit, quoniam mitescere multa videbant / verberibus radiorum atque aestu victa per agros, 5.1102-04).764 In this passage, Pythagoras almost succeeds in turning Lucretius into a poet of vegetarianism. Lucretius in fact makes no mention of vegetarianism, nor is meat-eating significant in the De rerum natura.765 Yet Pythagoras draws on Lucretian verses to convey the criminality of meat-eating. He says (15.88-95):

heu quantum scelus est in viscera viscera condi ingestoque avidum pinguescere corpore corpus alteriusque animans animantis vivere leto! scilicet in tantis opibus, quas, optima matrum, terra parit, nil te nisi tristia mandere saevo vulnera dente iuvat ritusque referre Cyclopum, nec, nisi perdideris alium, placare voracis et male morati poteris ieiunia ventris!

763 Schiesaro credits Aratus with the innovation of reshaping the myth of the ages ‘as an atemporal paradigm which entails ethical choices still largely available to modern men’ (A. Schiesaro (1996) ‘Aratus’ Myth of Dike’ in MD 37: 9-26, p.24. 764 Bömer notes the ironic allusion to Lycaon’s cooking of his hostage (atque ita semineces partim ferventibus artus / mollit aquis, 1.228-29) (Bömer (1969-86) ad 1.229). 765 However, Campbell argues that Lucretius’s discussion of the evolution and domestication of animals (DRN 5.837-77) ‘presents domestication as semi-contractual and providing mutual benefits for humans and animals’ and that he sees this ‘in terms of Empedoclean ideas of the original friendship between humans and animals’ (G. Campbell (2008) ‘“And Bright was the Flame of their Friendship” (Empedocles B130): Humans, Animals, Justice, and Friendship, in Lucretius and Empedocles’ in LICS 7.4: 1-23, p.9). Furthermore, Lucretius does not mention any animals which are protected because they provide meat (Campbell (2008), pp.12-15). 296

Compare these Lucretian passages: a) unus enim tum quisque magis deprensus eorum pabula viva feris praebebat, dentibus haustus, et nemora ac montis gemitu silvasque replebat viva videns vivo sepeliri viscera busto. (5.990-93) b) [...] alit ex alio reficit natura, nec ullam rem gigni patitur nisi morte adiuta aliena. (1.263-64) c) vertunt se fluvii, fronds et pabula laeta in pecudes, vertunt pecudes in corpora nostra naturam, et nostro de corpore saepe ferarum augescunt vires et corpora pennipotentum. ergo omnes natura cibus in corpora viva vertit et hinc sensus animantum procreat omnes (2.875-80)

Most simply, Ovid calls the earth optima matrum, while at DRN 3.998 Lucretius says she deserves the maternum nomen (the image of the earth as mother also appears in Book I, as discussed in Chapter 2). Ovid reverses the first-cited passage of the De rerum natura, so that the pathos of a human being eaten by a beast becomes the crime of a human eating a beast. In each case, the savagery is emphasised by the ablative of dens. Ovid also adopts the Lucretian wordplay, turning viva viscera vivo busto into in viscera viscera – a pattern which he reuses twice, at corpora corpus and animans animantis. We have already seen how Pythagoras uses wordplay to help convey his philosophical message, as when the use of colonos (15.142) illustrates the kinship of humans and animals. He does the same here, with the three pairs of words emphasising kinship. The next Lucretian passage is used twice in the “Speech”: first with vivere leto and next with the final two lines. With vivere leto, Pythagoras heightens the antithesis more gently stated by Lucretius with gigno and mors (Met. 15.90; DRN 1.264). Lucretius plays down the antithesis, while Pythagoras uses the much stronger stronger antithesis of vivo and letum to suggest that the one should not depend on the other, that they should not come into such close contact – much as Ceres and Hunger cannot approach one another (neque enim Ceremque Famenque fata coire sinunt, 8.785).766 In the last two lines of this passage, Pythagoras reverses the meaning of the Lucretian lines. For Lucretius, it is a matter of natural law that one life requires another’s death. Pythagoras’ verses say the same thing, that one cannot eat without killing another, but his tone reveals that this is a scelus; he is exclaiming in dismay,

766 Compare Ovid’s description of the bugonia in the Fasti, where the death of one is the birth of a thousand (mille animas una necata dedit, Fast. 1.380). 297

rather than calmly stating a principle.767 Our final Lucretian passage again states as a natural law that one body is increased by consuming another. From this, Pythagoras rails against the tendency for ingestoque avidum pinguescere corpore corpus alterius; it is also from this passage that Pythagoras takes the words corpus and animans. Interestingly, it is Lucretius, not Pythagoras, who explicitly asserts a degree of kinship for all life;768 his cycle at 2.875-80 includes vegetative life, while Pythagoras’ denunciation of meat requires that vegetation be seen as unlike (if there is to be anything that can freely be eaten). Pythagoras thus recalls verses from the De rerum natura, which explain the necessity for life to be fed on life, to convey the horror of meat-eating. Pythagoras allows that dangerous animals may be killed pietate (15.109) in a possible acknowledgement of Lucretius’ description of the danger that ferae pose to humans: illud erat curae, quod saecla ferarum / infestam miseris faciebant saepe quietem (DRN 5.982-83). Likewise, Pythagoras’ proof that sheep and oxen should not be killed may allude to the De rerum natura. In discussing zoogony, Lucretius says that well-adapted animals survived, while the weak managed to survive only if they were useful to humans and gained human protection (5.855-77); of specific interest are the lines lanigaerae [...] pecudes et bucera saecla / omnia sunt hominum tutelage tradita (5.866-67). Lucretius specifies only dogs, beasts of burden, sheep and oxen; two of these find their way into the “Speech of Pythagoras”. Pythagoras not only argues against killing oxen, who are our agricultural allies, but also, particularly, against sacrificing them (nec satis est, quod tale nefas committitur: ipsos / inscripsere deos sceleri numenque supernum / caede laboriferi credunt gaudere iuvenci, 15.127-29).769 He devotes several lines to the ox’s experience

767 Interestingly, the syntax of Pythagoras’ lines implies a statement, as is found in Lucretius’ verses, and it is only the tone that reveals that Pythagoras does not believe that life must be fed on life. 768 Gale argues that Lucretius develops analogies between humans and animals because of a fundamental similarity in the atomic make-up of souls (M.R. Gale (1991) ‘Man and Beast in Lucretius and the Georgics’ in CQ n.s. 41.2: 414-426, pp.414-16). Contrast Horace’s description of beans as the ‘brethren of Pythagoras’: faba Pythagorae cognate (Sat. 2.6.63). 769 Even in the Fasti, where the gods do demand animal sacrifice, Ovid remarks that oxen should not be sacrificed (bos aret; ignavam sacrificante suem. / apta iugo cervix non est ferienda securi: / vivat et in dura saepe laboret humo, Fast. 4.414-16). On the relationship between Pythagoras’ condemnation of sacrifice and sacrifice in the Fasti, see S.J. Green (2008) ‘Save Our Cows? Augustan Discourse and Animal Sacrifice in Ovid’s Fasti’ in G&R 55.1: 39-54, esp. pp.46-9 and Feeney (2004), p.12. Gale argues that, in Vergil’s Georgics, the issue of animal sacrifice is complicated by ‘the tension [...] between kinship and harsh treatment, and by the existence of a long tradition in ancient thought of rejecting both ritual slaughter and meat-eating’ (Gale (2000), p.103). Pythagoras eliminates that tension by focussing solely on the issue of kinship and dismissing any ritual justification by denying that the gods are willing partners in the crime of animal slaughter. 298

of the moments before sacrifice, in a passage strongly reminiscent of the famous description of Iphianassa at DRN 1.80-101; each passage has a strong pathetic colouring.770 There is, however, a significant difference not only in the sacrificial victim, but in the interpretation placed on the sacrifice. For Lucretius, religio peperit scelerosa atque impia facta (1.83), and he later comments on the sacrifice of Iphianassa: tantum religio potuit suadere malorum (1.101).771 For Pythagoras, however, religion does not persuade people to commit the nefas of killing oxen; rather, the desire to kill oxen (and to justify that desire) leads people to implicate the gods in their own crimes. The burden of responsibility is reversed.772 The impiety (in Pythagoras’ eyes) of meat- eating is thus linked to the impiety (in Lucretius’ eyes) of a religion that requires human sacrifice, as Hardie has observed.773 Pythagoras’ rehabilitation of the gods in this context is linked to his claim to occupy an intermediate position, the same claim that Orpheus makes in Book X and which we discussed above. We have already seen that Pythagoras reworks the Golden Age by associating it with vegetarianism. In this, Pythagoras alters, or ‘corrects’, the version of the Golden Age myth found in Books I and V. This new version agrees with that found in the double makarismos of Georgics II. When Vergil is extolling the virtues of the rural (and religious) life, he claims not only that the Sabines, Romulus and Remus lived such a life (G. 2.532-35), but that ante etiam sceptrum Dictaei regis et ante / impia quam caesis gens est epulata iuvencis, / aureus hanc vitam in terris Saturnus agebat (G. 2.536-38). Vergil thus associates the (ideal) rural life with religious piety and

770 Not to mention the well-recorded association of slaughtering oxen and the end of the Golden Age. Pythagoras is very Empedoclean here; compare Μορφὴν δ’ἀλλάξαντα πατὴρ φίλον υἱὸν ἀείρας / σφάξει ἐπευχόμενος μέγα νήπιος †οἱ δὲ πορεῦνται† / λισσόμενον θύοντες. †ὁ δ’ ἀνήξουστος† ὁ μοκλέων / σφάξας ἑν μεγάροισι κακὴν ἀλεγύνατο δαῖτα (The father will lift up his dear son in a changed form, and, blind fool, as he prays he will slay him, and those who take part in the sacrifice ?bring (the victim) as he pleads. But the father, deaf to his cries, slays him in his house and prepares an evil feast,’ fr. B137DK = fr. 124 Wright, trans. Wright). Empedocles’ image of the father slaying his son (albeit unwittingly) surely alludes to the myth of Iphigeneia. 771 Galinsky observes that Lucretius makes a rare use of myth in this case, while Ovid replaces the mythical exemplum with an example drawn from life’ in order to appeal as directly and as movingly as possible to their sympathy’ (Galinsky (1975), p.141). 772 Compare also Lucretius (DRN 2.357-59), which Gale finds ‘amounts to an implicit condemnation of the practice of animal sacrifice: Lucretius invites our sympathy for the suffering of the animal, which is portrayed as an innocent victim of the misguided human desire to propitiate indifferent gods’ (Gale (2000), p.137). Matters are very different in Ovid’s Fasti 1.320-455, where ‘[t]he cruel impiety of life in the post-golden age appears to be radical, with greedy, ruthless and competitive gods enforcing upon humans the requirement of treating animals, even their workmates, as helpless and terrified agents in the game of communication played out before the altars’ (Feeney (2004), p.12). In the Fasti, Ovid is quite explicit about the gods’ desire for vengeance on animals, saying, for example, that they ‘gloated’ over dead birds (iuveruntque deos indicis exta sui, Fast. 1.450). 773 Hardie (1995), pp.208-09. 299

vegetarianism (to generalise from the specific instance of not eating bullocks). This rural life is the same as that of the Golden Age, but since it is not temporally specific, it is universally possible. Vergil describes this life in terms appropriate to descriptions of the Golden Age (G. 2.516-25):

[...] aut pomis exuberet annus aut fetu pecorum aut Cerealis mergite culmi, proventuque oneret sulcos atque horrea vincat. venit hiems: teritur Sicyonia baca trapetis, glande sues laeti redeunt, dant arbuta silvae; et varios ponit fetus autumnus, et alte mitis in apricis coquitur vindemia saxis. [...] ubera vaccae lactea demittunt

These images of abundance, and particularly the inclusion of acorns, wild strawberries and milk, evoke the Golden Age. However, Vergil is not yet speaking of the Golden Age, but rather of the life led by farmers. With this, we should compare Pythagoras’ account of the earth’s abundance, which opens his “Speech”, and which is not an account of the Golden Age (Met. 15.75-80):

[...] sunt fruges, sunt deducentia ramos pondere poma suo tumidaeque in vitibus uvae, sunt herbae dulces, sunt quae mitescere flamma mollirique queant; nec vobis lacteus umor eripitur, nec mella thymi redolentia florem.

We have already examined the Golden Age imagery in this passage. For now, let us note the specific similarities with the Vergilian passage. First, both are accounts of present-day vegetation which evoke the Golden Age. More specifically, Pythagoras omits very few of the fruits mentioned by Vergil: only the olive, arbutus and acorn, of which the last two are particularly closely associated with the Golden Age. Pythagoras also follows Vergil in associating this idealised vision with a Golden Age characterised by a lack of meat-eating, although Pythagoras goes further than Vergil in explicitly eliminating all meat-eating from the Golden Age. In insisting that the earth is abundantly fruitful, and thus capable of supporting humans without the necessity of meat-eating, Pythagoras is rejecting Lucretius’ idea of an exhausted earth. His model here is Vergil’s account of the life of the farmers in the double makarismos – the same makarismos, we should remember, that is overturned in favour of Lucretius by Numa’s desire for knowledge of the rerum natura. Pythagoras calls for a return to Golden Age conditions, thus arguing that only human immorality

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and impiety have ended the Golden Age. This is not necessarily inconsistent with the account of the Silver Age in Books I and V; agriculture may be necessary for human life, but meat-eating is not. For Pythagoras, the human race is capable of regaining (much of) the blessed condition of the Golden Age. The ideal society is possible and only requires moral behaviour, possibly underpinned by an understanding of the metempsychosis that makes eating animals immoral.

Conclusion

In the “Speech”, Pythagoras subordinates transformation to metempsychosis.774 Metempsychosis, in turn, is significant for the ethical behaviour it requires, so that Pythagoras has bound physics inextricably to ethics.775 Pythagoras thus tightens the loose connections between physics and ethics hinted at in the “Cosmogony”.776 The language of natural philosophy forms a well-recognised link between the “Speech” and the “Cosmogony”, but we can now see that this ‘frame’ entails the combination of physics and ethics. Pythagoras accomplishes this combination largely through the identification of metamorphosis with metempsychosis, even if this identification cannot be assumed to hold for the whole poem.777 Any attempt to argue that Pythagoras’ philosophy is also Ovid’s falls into serious difficulties; metempsychosis does not sit well with the metamorphoses of earlier books,778 and we saw in Chapter 7 how the physics of the “Speech” differs from that of

774 In this, the “Speech of Pythagoras” is similar to Ennius’ Dream of Homer and Vergil’s “Speech of Anchises,” both of which ‘provide an account of the workings of the universe as an explanation of particular instances of the transmigration of souls’ (Hardie (1986), p.77). 775 This is also a feature of the historical Pythagoras’ thought, for whom ‘the study of “physics” has a moral end in view, since the contemplation of the harmony and order of the universe leads to the implanting of a similar harmony and order in the individual soul’ (Guthrie (1935), p.219). 776 Swanson observes that the common physical subject matter of the “Cosmogony” and the “Speech” occurs in moral contexts: ‘the creation sequence leads up to the deterioration of human morals outlined by the four ages; the Pythagorean essay includes an exhortation to abide by a moral code’ (Swanson (1958), p.21). 777 As DeLacy, Otis and McKim suggest (see Chapter 7, note 30). 778 There is no place in Pythagoras’ metempsychosis for transformations into non-sentient forms: ‘although vegetative life at least was, notoriously, included in the cycle of rebirth by some philosophers of the school, Ovid’s Pythagoras explicitly restricts metempsychosis to human and animal species (167- 8)’ (Coleman (1971), p.462). A more general objection is Graf’s, that ‘reincarnation makes metamorphosis an ongoing event as our divine souls migrate from our human bodies into birds and wild or tame animals (15.455-9) [...] negat[ing] the firm boundaries between gods, humans and animals that the narrator had erected in his account of creation in the first book, and jeopardis[ing] all metamorphoses, whose entire point had been the definite and irrevocable change from one form into another’ (Graf (2002), p.120). Barchiesi notes that ‘final triumph of metempsychosis is a hint that metamorphosis could stand accused of being useless knowledge’ (Barchiesi (2002), p.184). Interestingly, Campbell observes 301

the “Cosmogony”, the only one of our four without a character as narrator. While it is possible to posit that Pythagoras is a figure for Ovid,779 his doctrines are too different from the presentation of metamorphosis in the rest of the poem for us to assume that he speaks for Ovid philosophically. Indeed, we are perhaps warned against too facile an identification by the failure of Pythagoras’ “Speech”; at the outset, we are told that, although learned, it is not believed (15.74), while Segal suggests that Numa goes on to instruct his people ‘in the rites of sacrifice that Pythagoras abhorred’.780 Barchiesi notes that metempsychosis ‘seems to have a definite connection with the main theme of the poem, transformation,’ but that ‘[t]he precise modalities of this connection are heavily debated, and rightly so, since the Metamorphoses do not seem [...] to display a clear integration between mythical and scientific levels, between the realm of transformation tales and that of Pythagorean doctrine.’781 The “Cosmogony” and the “Speech of Pythagoras” form a frame, not in order to provide a natural-philosophical doctrine with which to interpret the intervening myths, but to invite consideration of the importance throughout the poem of ethics, and of philosophy in general.

that the relationship between metempsychosis and metamorphosis ‘is left ambiguous by both Plato and Ovid’ (Campbell (2000), p.165). 779 Such an identification ‘may be seen in the light of the close relationship that exists between the poets Ennius and Lucretius and their philosophical mentors, Homer and Epicurus’ (Hardie (1995), p.212). 780 Segal (2001), p.94. Feeney acknowledges the possibility that these ritus are bloodless, but prefers the ironic reading according to which Pythagoras’ “Speech” fails (Feeney (2004), p.17). 781 Barchiesi (2001), p.62. 302

Conclusion

It has often been assumed that a poem cannot be philosophical unless it expounds a coherent philosophical view. Volk, for example, argues that Ovid is ‘anything but a philosophical poet’ because ‘his fundamental irony prevents him from holding a single position for too long – and there is no point in trying to isolate in his work something like a larger message’.782 As our discussion of Ovid’s use of philosophy has shown, however, the assumption that a philosophical poet must hold a single position is unwarranted. It is clearly necessary to draw a distinction between philosophical poets who write poetry that is infused with philosophy, and poetic philosophers, who expound philosophy in the medium of poetry. Once this distinction has been drawn, we can freely concede that Ovid is not a poetic philosopher. Unlike poet-philosophers such as Empedocles, Parmenides and Lucretius, Ovid does not explicate a single view. Rather, he is a philosophical poet, drawing on a variety of philosophical ideas from multiple schools to produce a poem that is intellectually scintillating but not dogmatic. Philosophical references enrich the Metamorphoses, references which would have stood out clearly for its contemporary audience. It has long been recognised that Ovid makes use of natural philosophy in the Metamorphoses, most particularly in the “Cosmogony” and in the “Speech of Pythagoras”, myths which are often considered to form a ‘philosophical frame’. Fowler, however, points to the inadequacy of the concept of a frame: ‘It is an easy matter to deconstruct the relationship between frame and insert, and the individual viewer always constructs her own frame.’783 Nevertheless, the shared emphasis on natural philosophy, which is unique to these two myths, combined with their prominent

782 Volk (2010), p.65. 783 Fowler (2000), p.39. 303

locations at the beginning and end784 of the poem, cannot be ignored. These two myths, with their close intratextual references, and their allusions to other myths placed at structurally significant points, clearly invite us to see them as forming a frame of reference. Fowler’s identification of the part of the critic in the construction of the frame does, however, allow us to see that the traditional limit of the “Cosmogony”, placed at 1.88, may be an arbitrary one. We have, therefore, negotiated a new limit, which finds strong support in the text itself, extending the “Cosmogony” to include all those myths which occur prior to Ovid’s use of first-person verbs to describe the race of humans (sumus and damus Met. 1.414-15). This limit is marked in the text by the final word, creavit (1.437). The creation of the physical cosmos, which ends at 1.88, is not the end- point of the cosmogony, and the description in cosmic terms of the Flood and its retreat indicate that the episode of the Flood should itself be read as reworking the creation from chaos. Most of the scholarly work on Ovid’s use of philosophy has focused on the natural philosophy in the “Cosmogony” and in the “Speech of Pythagoras”. There has as yet been very little work on philosophical ideas in the inner myths of the Metamorphoses or those that are not natural-philosophical. It has consequently been the aim of our analysis to consider topics such as epistemology, ethics and the emotions and to extend the discussion to include the inner myths. These topics are introduced into the poem only after the creation of humans, since they are peculiarly human concerns. In order to illuminate the development of topics, we have therefore followed Ovid’s own structure, examining the myths in the order in which they appear in the text. In a discussion of Ovid’s use of philosophy, the frame of the “Cosmogony” and the “Speech of Pythagoras” must be considered, but if the discussion is to prove relevant to the whole poem, the inner myths must also be considered. As the longest episode in the entire poem, the myth of Orpheus cannot be neglected, and the placement of the three myths of the “Cosmogony”, “Orpheus” and the “Speech of Pythagoras” in Books I, X and XV suggests that significant myths are located in structurally significant positions, marking out pentads. The longest episode in Book V is that of the “Musomachia”, which was therefore chosen as our fourth myth. Thus, the four myths

784 Of course, the “Speech of Pythagoras” is not placed precisely at the end of the poem. The ‘picture’ of the Metamorphoses overspills its frame, with the most Roman myths occurring after Numa’s instruction by Pythagoras. And yet, this is perhaps to be expected in a poem like the Metamorphoses, where episodes regularly overspill the boundaries formed by books. 304

were chosen because their length and position imply that they are relevant to the whole poem. Each is the longest episode in its book, which defines a pentad. The connections which we have found between them strengthen the argument that these myths together illustrate especially some of the major themes of the Metamorphoses. The decision to adopt Ovid’s own organisation allows us to highlight how Ovid begins by describing the cosmos in natural-philosophical terms and, once humans are created, segues smoothly into a description of the character of humans, discussing both their behaviour and their thought. In accordance with the proposition that, at least from a human perspective, the creation of the cosmos can only truly be complete once the current race of humans has emerged, the limits of the “Cosmogony” have been extended from Met. 1.88 to 1.437, to include the myth of the Four Ages, Lycaon and Deucalion’s Flood. The cosmos is not complete if there is no ethical framework within which to situate action. With the inclusion of the myths of the “Cosmogony”, the frame thus becomes more than a frame of natural philosophy, in which Pythagoras’ vegetarianism can only be an embarrassment. Ethical and epistemological concerns are introduced with the creation of humans, and Pythagoras’ ethical doctrine of vegetarianism is thus at home in the frame. The myth of the Four Ages naturally follows the creation of humans, describing the nature of these new beings, and thus preparing us for the more detailed exploration of the nature of humanity that begins in the myth of Lycaon, which shows that Ovid is interested in the human desire for knowledge and in ethical behaviour.

i) The Struggle for Truth and Knowledge

At the very centre of the poem there is a debate about the truth of myths,785 and this concern with truth is adumbrated in the first story of metamorphosis, that of Lycaon. Jupiter’s ethical judgement of Lycaon directs us to explore ethical questions throughout the four myths under discussion, but it is Lycaon’s intellectual curiosity that underpins the epistemology thematic we have traced through the rest of the poem. Lycaon performs his crimes for the sake of knowledge: they are an experientia veri (1.225). We can distinguish two points of view in the Lycaon myth, and each introduces a philosophical theme that will be explored in later books. Jupiter views Lycaon’s

785 P.R. Hardie (2002b) ‘Introduction’ in P.R. Hardie (2002a): 1-10, p.4. 305

crime as a matter of ethics and piety, priming us to be alert to the moral and ethical dimensions of later stories. Lycaon, on the other hand, regards his actions as an attempt to gain knowledge, inviting us to recognise the struggle for knowledge (most particularly, knowledge of the divine) as an essential aspect of the later myths. The Lycaon episode is a myth of philosophical Gigantomachy, in which a mortal challenges a god for the sake of knowledge. As we saw in Chapter 2, the final myth in the “Cosmogony”, Deucalion’s Flood, is a new creation scene, revisiting the Cosmogony passage of Met. 1.5-88, and it is only with the end of the Flood, the renewal of the world and the recreation of humans that the “Cosmogony” is complete. The ‘second creation’, as it were, of Deucalion’s Flood creates a new cosmos, one which involves the human concerns from the beginning, as is indicated by the fact that the myths of Daphne, Io and Syrinx – which involve no human characters and might therefore have been located before the anthropogony – are included only after the second creation. This new creation is sparked by the conflict of Lycaon’s search for knowledge with Jupiter’s insistence on human piety, and thus interweaves physics, ethics and epistemology. From Lycaon’s point of view, his Gigantomachic deed is a philosophical Gigantomachy, drawing on a variant use of the Gigantomachy developed by Plato and adapted by Lucretius. The Lycaon episode, then, is not the ‘deceptive paradigm’ it appears to Anderson.786 Rather, it sets up topics that will recur throughout the Metamorphoses, such as the sources of truth and knowledge, piety and the relationships between gods and humans and between humans and animals. These have been traced in the myths under discussion here, most particularly the ethics that concerns Jupiter and the epistemology and even ontology that are Lycaon’s focus. Once the philosophical nature of Lycaon’s testing of Jupiter has been acknowledged, it is possible to see how this myth acts as a model for the “Musomachia”. In the “Musomachia”, Ovid expands upon the philosophical Gigantomachy, effectively dramatising a conflict between an Epicurean kind of philosophy and traditional religion. As with the Lycaon myth, the myth of the “Musomachia” is narrated by the victorious party. It is, however, possible to see through the biased narration in both cases and to understand the intentions of the defeated mortal(s), because the narrators occasionally quote them. Lycaon and the Pierides are in search of truth, and both, in their different ways, reject the gods as sources of truth. Lycaon refuses to accept Jupiter’s claim of his own divinity, preferring

786 Anderson (1989). 306

to test the matter for himself, while the Pierides accuse the Muses of deceitfulness outright, in a reference both to Hesiod’s Muses and to Lucretius’ false superstitions about the gods. In the Lycaon episode, Jupiter considers true knowledge, based on personal experience, to be the preserve of the gods alone. The Pierides accuse the Muses of withholding their knowledge, singing (and, presumably, inspiring) falsehoods. The dubious reliability of the Muses goes back to Hesiod, whose Muses are just as likely to inspire poets with falsehoods as with truth (Th. 27-28), but the Pierides refuse to accept this. They set themselves up as alternate Muses, implicitly promising to sing only truths. But note that they are not seeking true knowledge, as Lycaon is, but rather undertaking to become sources of knowledge. The Pierides go further than Lycaon, who has the Gigantomachic label imposed on him by Jupiter, since they claim the symbol of the Gigantomachy for themselves and even claim sovereignty over the Muses’ lands in the event of victory. Similarly, where Jupiter merely expects that his claim to divinity ought to be sufficient, the Muses go further in defending traditional religion; in the “Rape of Persephone” Calliope includes the episodes of Ascalaphus and the rude boy, extolling divine power over insolent mortals, and sings of the benefits the goddess Ceres gives to humans. In upholding traditional religion in the face of an attack by philosophy, Calliope largely eschews philosophy herself, preferring to focus on the innate authority and power of the gods in a way comparable to Jupiter’s expectation that his claim be accepted on his authority rather than being made subject to testing. The “Musomachia” thus not only reworks but also expands on topics from the Lycaon myth. Both Lycaon and the Pierides evince reservations about the gods’ reliability as sources of knowledge, and both are punished. In Book X, however, Orpheus does not follow the pattern of mortal challenger. Rather, he takes great care to distance himself from any appearance of hubris or impiety, explicitly reassuring the infernal gods that he is not a threat and that he will speak only what is permitted (10.19-22). Orpheus does not suggest that the gods are unreliable purveyors of truth, nor does he set himself up as a superior source of knowledge. When Orpheus speaks, it is only with the understanding that his speech is permitted by the gods (si licet et falsi positis ambagibus oris / vera loqui sinitis, 10.18-19). We can safely presume that Orpheus, as the son of Calliope, has received his knowledge from the Muse. Indeed, unlike the Pierides who do not, as far as we can tell 307

from the Muse’s brief summary, begin their song with an invocation, Orpheus begins his second song by appealing to Calliope for assistance (Musa parens [...] carmina nostra move, 10.148-49). Orpheus is so far from claiming that he is a source of knowledge himself that he explicitly avows uncertainty over whether Amor is known in the underworld or not (an sit et hic, dubito, 10.27), only divining that it must be by recalling the story of the Rape of Persephone (sed et hic tamen auguror esse, / famaque si veteris non est mentita rapinae, 10.27-28). Divination, of course, involves understanding the gods’ will by correctly interpreting signs, so that the gods are the ultimate source of knowledge gained through divination. In this case, it is presumably Calliope’s own account of the Rape that is Orpheus’ source. Orpheus has learned the lesson of Lycaon and the Pierides, and does not challenge the gods. He accepts them as sources of knowledge. Pythagoras, too, in his own way accepts the gods as sources of knowledge. In the “Speech of Pythagoras”, he sets himself up as an authority, relying on his own observations and memories (for example, memini, 15.160 and vidi ego, 15.262). At the same time, however, Pythagoras asserts that his sermo is divinely inspired (et quoniam deus ora movet, sequar ora moventem / rite deum, 15.143-44). For Lycaon, personal experience is a source of knowledge. The Pierides do not provide so clear an indication of their thoughts on this matter, but their rebuke of deceitful Muses implies that their own poetry is, for them, a source of knowledge. Orpheus relies on the Muses’ inspiration, and it is Pythagoras who harmonises these different paths to knowledge. The credibility of his sermo rests on the twin pillars of personal experience and divine inspiration.

ii) On the Nature of Gods, Humans and Animals

The problematic nature of the difference between humans and other living beings is flagged in the first anthropogony. Humans are introduced as explicitly occupying the midpoint of an ontological hierarchy. They fill the position of an animal that is sanctius and mentis [...] capacius altae which can exercise dominion over the rest (1.76-77) and there is an element of the divine in their essence, whichever of the two proposed origins we accept (1.78-86). Humans thus stand between animals and the gods, in a clearly graded scale of being. For McKim, this definition of humanity ‘does not answer but

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raises the question whether man filled the bill or not’.787 Nor are humans clearly distinguished from the gods. The confusion over humanity’s origin involves, precisely, the degree of proximity to the divine; humans are either made with divine seed (divino semine, 1.78) or in the image of the gods (effigiem [...] deorum, 1.84). Ovid himself further complicates the distinction between human and divine when he describes Olympia as a celestial Rome (1.68-76, 200-05), thereby implying that gods and men share the same standards of socio-political life. Lycaon’s epistemological quest violates the ontological hierarchy by arrogating to himself (what Jupiter considers to be) essentially divine privileges while at the same time setting his Molossian guest at the animal level. In the act of cooking and serving up his Molossian guest, Lycaon confounds the three ontological levels of god, human and animal. This act has clear overtones of sacrifice, and Lycaon is thus treating a human as an animal, since the normal ontological hierarchy requires that only animals be sacrificed and only animals be eaten. The blurring of the distinction is aggravated by the fact that the Molossian is not only served as a meal, but apparently sacrificed. This doubling appears otiose, but it serves further to confuse the distinction between god and human. Jupiter, whom Lycaon suspects may be human, is offered food which is part meal and part sacrifice and which is made from a human. Lycaon’s transformation into an animal is ironically appropriate, given his attempted transcendence of the human. In the Metamorphoses, human attempts to divinise themselves, or to humanise the gods, are mirrored throughout by the gods’ rejection of those attempts and their focus on their own status. Jupiter links ethical behaviour with the piety demanded by traditional religion, and he is followed in this by other divine characters in the poem. This link is problematised in the poem by human characters who draw on philosophy, of whom Lycaon is only the first. The myth of Lycaon provides a model for the Pierides, who have a very clear concept of the nature of gods and humans. They hold a slightly adapted Euhemerist belief that divinity is not innate, but gained through great deeds – and they adapt Euhemerism by implying that divine status must be sustained by continued observance of the duties inherent in divine status; the Muses, who are purveyors of knowledge, are thus expected to purvey true knowledge, rather than falsehoods. If the Muses fail to teach true things, they are derelict in their duty and should be replaced by those able to fulfil the necessary duties. The fact that the Pierides envision themselves as alternative

787 McKim (1984), p.101. Italics in original. 309

Muses shows that they do not envision a radical discontinuity between god and human. They categorise each living being, not according to its essence, but according to its function. The Muses, of course, reject this conception of the ontological hierarchy, reasserting that human civilisation is possible only through the divine gift of agriculture. They have a hierarchical conception of nature; ‘the desire to establish rank’ emerges early as their central concern.788 Cahoon sees the Muses ‘resort to toadying deference towards those more powerful than themselves, to scornful contempt towards those less powerful, and to violent vengeance against any who would offend their prudish sensibilities or their brittle snobberies’.789 This concern with hierarchy recurs within Calliope’s song. It is Venus’ preoccupation with her own rank that leads her to subjugate Persephone and Pluto, while Ceres and Persephone assert their own superiority over humans by transforming the rude boy and Ascalaphus. A hierarchy of gods is revealed by Ceres, who consciously subordinates herself to Jupiter, and the Muse, who ‘obsequiously’ addresses Minerva. The Muses, then, evince a strict understanding of the distinctions not only between humans and gods, but even within the category of the divine. In a similar manner, the “Orpheus” elaborates topics which are adumbrated in the “Musomachia”. Calliope’s song introduces the theme of death and the loss of a beloved woman, and her son expands on this. Orpheus has also learned from the examples of Lycaon and the Pierides not to set himself up in opposition to the gods. In fact, he probably learned the lesson of the Pierides from Calliope herself. He respectfully acknowledges an ontological gulf between humans and mortals but then, having thus protected himself from the accusation of impiety or hubris, skilfully weaves the gods into a network of human concerns, of love, represented by Pluto and Persephone, and empathy, represented by the weeping Eumenides. To summarise, Lycaon and the Pierides both act hubristically in trying to raise themselves to the level of the divine. Orpheus avoids their mistake, emphasising the distance between gods and humans. Casting himself as augur, however, Orpheus claims an intermediate position. Ironically, though, Orpheus is successful in bringing the gods down to a human level, in two ways. First, by subtly reminding Pluto and Persephone of the similarities between themselves and Orpheus, he stimulates human

788 Cahoon (1996), p.50. 789 Cahoon (1996), p.50 310

emotions even in the Furies. He then tactfully applies human laws to the gods, emphasising the rights of the infernal gods over the souls of the dead, but claiming a special dispensation on the basis that Eurydice has been defrauded of her rightful number of years (10.23-24; 32-37). Secondly, in his long song, he shows the gods in an all-too-human light, portraying Apollo and Venus as lovers. Orpheus’ second song revolves, obsessively, around the failure of love. With the exception of the few lines devoted to Ganymede (10.155-61) and the Cerastae (10.220-37), he devotes his song wholly to frustrated or perverted love affairs, and the deficiencies of love are displayed by reference to philosophical ideas. Apollo, Venus and Pygmalion exemplify different aspects of love’s effect on behaviour, drawing on love symptoms identified by both love elegy and philosophy. Apollo and Venus show how love drives the lovers to ignore their station and neglect their duties, while Pygmalion illustrates the ridiculousness and wastefulness of the lover, particularly as identified and chastised by Lucretius in De rerum natura 4.1058-287. Pygmalion is also a comment on the Aristophanic idealisation of perfect union. The apparent perversion of love involved in Pygmalion’s desire for his own creation is amplified in the story of his granddaughter Myrrha, the episode in which the inward-looking focus of Book X is most fully realised.790 Myrrha is a case-study in the ‘therapy of desire’, and her internal dialogue reveals Ovid’s familiarity with, if not unqualified endorsement of Stoic emotional theory. This second song of Orpheus elevates its animal audience to an almost human level, as is indicated by the use of the word concilium (10.144). The boundary between human and animal is first breached by Lycaon, when he slaughters and cooks a human and, of course, in his own transformation into a wolf. Orpheus includes in his second song another account of the degrading of humans when he sings of the Cerastae who sacrifice their guests (10.220-37). With the word concilium, however, the distinction between human and animal is eroded in a different direction, raising animals to the human level. This perspective is elaborated in the “Speech of Pythagoras”, where Pythagoras argues that animals are, in fact, on the same level as humans because souls can pass from human bodies into animal ones and vice versa. To indicate this relationship, Pythagoras uses a word for animals that normally designates humans, calling oxen colonos (15.142).

790 Gale has argued that Vergil’s Aristaeus epyllion opposes Orpheus, representing individualism, poetry, pathos and creativity, to Aristaeus, who represents social responsibility, public life and the violence of the practical man (Gale (2000), p.56). 311

In the “Orpheus”, it is feeling that erodes the distinctions between gods, humans and animals. Orpheus encourages Pluto and Persephone to sympathise with his loss by reminding them that they too have been bound by love. According to the Aristotelian definition of pity, which is similar to the Stoic view recorded in Cicero’s Tusculan disputations (4.8.18) and is reflected in Greek literature such as Sophocles’ Philoctetes,791 the pitying individual must be aware of his or her own vulnerability to a like misfortune and the pitied must be undeserving of that misfortune.792 Orpheus plays on these two pillars by referring to the common emotion of love and emphasising Eurydice’s innocence by calling her death a ‘theft’ (abstulit, 10.24, see also 36-37). The gods’ pity for the unjustly suffering Orpheus leads them to return Eurydice, but when Orpheus’ backward glance makes him responsible for his suffering, they no longer pity him. Notably, Ovid does not call this backward glance deserving of forgiveness, as Vergil does (ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere Manes, G. 4.489). Being responsible for his grief, Orpheus is no longer eligible for pity according to the Aristotelian definition of piety (Rhet. 2.8, 1385B13-16), and the gods therefore refuse to listen to him. The play on the twin pillars of Aristotelian pity is so precise, that it seems certain that Ovid is deliberately invoking the philosophical concept of pity, and indeed with emotions in general in Book X. At first, Orpheus is so successful that even the Eumenides weep tears (tunc primum lacrimis victarum carmine fama est / Eumenidum maduisse genas, 10.45-46), which are explicitly denied to gods elsewhere in Ovid’s poetry (Met. 2. 596-605, Fast. 4.521-22). Thus, Orpheus’ manipulation of the gods’ emotions has resulted in blurring the distinction between gods and humans even on the physiological level. Orpheus’ success in eroding the ontological hierarchy lasts only as long as his songs. When the music stops, everything returns to normal. The suspension of ontological levels is only a temporary measure and is, in fact, marvellous precisely because it is temporary, because the boundaries are there to be crossed. Fowler rightly identifies this as one of the central themes of the Metamorphoses: ‘[t]he whole Metamorphoses is built around precisely the crossing of boundaries like this, between god and demi-god, divine and human: but it presupposes that those boundaries are there to be crossed.’793 The power of Orpheus’ boundary-crossing is drawn in large part from

791 Nussbaum (2001), p.315. 792 On pity in ancient thought, see especially D. Konstan (2001) 793 D.P. Fowler (1995) ‘From Epos to Cosmos: Lucretius, Ovid, and the Poetics of Segmentation’ in D. Innes, H. Hine & C. Pelling (1995): 3-18, p.14. 312

the fact that the boundaries are recognised. Pythagoras, however, denies any fundamental distinction between humans and animals. It is in the “Speech of Pythagoras” that Ovid harmonises the natural-philosophy of the “Cosmogony” and the ethical and epistemological interests that develop throughout the poem. Pythagoras underpins his ethical doctrine of vegetarianism with physics; metempsychosis is an especially important example of the ceaseless flux that pervades the universe, an example with profound ethical consequences. In the “Speech of Pythagoras”, Pythagoras’ discussion of physics is intended to provide the rationale for vegetarianism. The psycho-physical fact of metempsychosis, for Pythagoras, enjoins the ethical response of abstaining from meat. Knowledge of physics is valuable because an understanding of flux allows us to comprehend metempsychosis, which in turn enables us to formulate an appropriate set of precepts for ethical behaviour. The “Speech of Pythagoras” cannot fully be understood if the ethical material is separated from the physical. The exposition of physics is valuable only because it leads to ethical behaviour, while vegetarianism is ethically appropriate because of the nature of the natural world. This is, of course, also the function of physics in the De rerum natura, which is an especially important intertext for Ovid; Lucretius uses physics to provide grounds for belief and behaviour.

iii) Ovid’s Use of Philosophy

Despite tying together multiple themes, even Pythagoras cannot be taken for a mouthpiece for Ovid, somehow revealing the poet’s true philosophical views. Pythagoras’ doctrines differ so greatly from the metamorphoses of the poem that he cannot be argued to speak for Ovid philosophically. Nor is Pythagoras given the last word in the Metamorphoses; the “Speech of Pythagoras” is followed by several myths, including the apotheoses of Romulus and Julius Caesar. This fact detracts from the importance that his sermo might have been assumed to hold. It is telling that these four major myths, which occur at nodal points within the poem, are largely related in voices other than Ovid’s own. In each of the myths, the (un-)reliability of narrators is a clear concern. The paradigmatic myth of Lycaon is narrated by Jupiter, and we are presented with both Jupiter’s perspective and the partially occluded perspective of Lycaon. These are not, however, synthesised to yield

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a coherent, unified perspective that will definitively ground our interpretation of the myths to come. Opposing voices, in Lycaon and the Pierides, are built into the accounts of Jupiter and the Muses, and it is consequently easy to see that none of these speaks with the poet’s voice, or at least that the poet is not dogmatic. For Orpheus and Pythagoras, on the other hand, it is more difficult to identify an opposing voice. If pressed, we could propose the Maenads, who are clearly unimpressed by Orpheus, and the unnamed crowd who do not believe Pythagoras. Yet Pythagoras and Orpheus, two of the most tempting candidates for identification with the poet, contradict one another on the important subject of the nature of mortality. As this is Pythagoras’ central subject, through which he justifies his vegetarianism, the lack of agreement argues strongly against identifying either with Ovid. Tempting as it might be to try to identify the poet’s own voice and views, the unreliability of narrators is too firmly established. None of the characters in the Metamorphoses, or at least in the myths studied here, speaks for Ovid philosophically. Rather than attempting to identify any character with Ovid, we should propose that Ovid does not intend to present his own philosophical beliefs, but rather to infuse philosophy into the myths he has chosen. He is teasing us with philosophy, rather than philosophising; his myths are richer and more intellectually stimulating because of the philosophical material. Sometimes they become even more mischievous and playful, as when Myrrha’s aberrant sexual desire is not only attacked but also defended by the use of a socially respectable philosophy. Ovid’s characters struggle to gain true knowledge, but by denying any one of them unqualified endorsement and by providing so many contradictory positions, he does not allow us to brand him philosophically. There are no conclusions in the Metamorphoses, only a kaleidoscopic array of different arguments. If Ovid were a philosopher, he would naturally need to speak from a clearly defined point of view in order to ensure that his doctrines could be understood by his audience and not confused with any decorative, contradictory material. The fact that he does not adopt a clear perspective further proves that he is not a philosopher writing in poetry, unless we wish to argue that such confusion and variety is itself a philosophical position. However, we have shown that Ovid does integrate philosophy into the Metamorphoses. We should, therefore, identify him as a philosophical poet as distinct from a poetic philosopher like Xenophanes or Lucretius.

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The idea that there is something serious in the Metamorphoses is not new; Dryden’s famous attack on Ovid’s poetry presupposes an assumption that his poems are serious:

[T]he Things they admire [Conceits and Jingles] are only glittering Trifles, and so far from being Witty, that in a serious Poem they are nauseous, because they are unnatural. Wou’d any Man who is ready to die for Love, describe his Passion like Narcissus? Wou’d he think of inopem me copia fecit, and a Dozen more of such Expressions, pour’d on the Neck of one another, and signifying all the same Thing? If this 794 were Wit, was this a Time to be witty, when the poor Wretch was in the Agony of Death?

For Dryden, then, the Metamorphoses is fundamentally a serious poem, in which the pathos is undermined by Ovid’s wit. It is, however, not my intention to argue that in the Metamorphoses seriousness is subverted by Ovid’s playfulness, nor indeed that an essentially playful poem is occasionally given gravitas by a few serious moments. It is not possible to disentangle the serious moments from the playful. For example, Narcissus’ exclamation, cited by Dryden as indicative of Ovid’s excessive wit, can be read as a comment on the Aristophanic ideal of union with the beloved, as we discussed in Chapter 6. At the same time, however, it is a playful witticism, glittering in the poem. It seems, therefore, that for Ovid playfulness and seriousness are in fact the same thing.

794 Dryden (1700), cited in Tissol (1997), p.11. 315

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