Dictynna Revue de poétique latine

9 | 2012 Varia

Édition électronique URL : http://journals.openedition.org/dictynna/793 DOI : 10.4000/dictynna.793 ISSN : 1765-3142

Référence électronique Dictynna, 9 | 2012 [En ligne], mis en ligne le 01 décembre 2012, consulté le 13 septembre 2020. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/dictynna/793 ; DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/dictynna.793

Ce document a été généré automatiquement le 13 septembre 2020.

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SOMMAIRE

De L’Ida à Troie : la ‘vie exemplaire’ de Pâris-Alexandre.L’Orient élégiaque de Gallus à Ovide et ses suites néroniennes Jacqueline Fabre-Serris

Gods, Caesars and Fate in Aeneid 1 and Metamorphoses 15 Bill Gladhill

Horace et la question de l’imitatio Robin Glinatsis

The Pedant’s Curse: Obscurity and Identity in Ovid’s Ibis Darcy Krasne

Sine nos cursu quo sumus ire pares : l’ideale dell’amore corrisposto nell’elegia latina Mario Labate

Rom und der Osten oder Von der Schwierigkeit, sich zu orientieren (von Catulls Odyssee zu Horaz‘ Aeneis) Jürgen Paul Schwindt

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De L’Ida à Troie : la ‘vie exemplaire’ de Pâris-Alexandre. L’Orient élégiaque de Gallus à Ovide et ses suites néroniennes1

Jacqueline Fabre-Serris

1 Les termes du débat engagé à Rome sur les origines de la cité à la fin de la République et au début du Principat sont bien connus. La crise morale que traverse l’Vrbs au 1er siècle av. J.-C. se focalise sur la notion de luxuria, alors l’objet de critiques d’autant plus violentes qu’elles prennent appui sur le sentiment d’avoir affaire à une dérive, de provenance étrangère, plus particulièrement orientale. D’où un retour, à l’issue des guerres civiles, sur les origines de la cité, repensées dans une perspective de refondation identitaire, avec une mise en avant des origines strictement italiques, puisque la métropole de Rome passait pour avoir été la plus puissante et la plus riche cité d’Orient.

2 Cet article sera consacré à la façon dont Ovide est intervenu dans le ‘dialogue’ qu’avaient eu, à propos de l’héritage troyen, Virgile et Horace, en bousculant le consensus qui s’en était dégagé. Pour être idéologiquement efficace, toute mise au point doit être simple : c’est le cas de l’Ode 3, 3 d’Horace et du livre 12 de l’Énéide, dont les auteurs font énoncer à Junon les conditions qui rendent acceptables la revendication d’un héritage que la montée en puissance de la gens Julia plaçait sous les feux de l’actualité politique, mais qui était idéologiquement problématique. Il ressort des textes des deux poètes qu’il y a eu et qu’il y a toujours nécessité à refuser, dans sa plus grande partie, l’héritage troyen. La pierre d’achoppement est la question des mores, essentielle pour un peuple qui s’était longtemps uniquement référé, avec le mos maiorum, à un ensemble de comportements, convictions et pratiques morales, considéré, en tant qu’instrument de la continuité, comme le garant de la survie et de la prospérité de l’État. Virgile met l’accent sur ce qui, dans l’union entre Latins et Troyens, doit être conservé de la tradition indigène : la langue et les usages (sermonem … patrium moresque, 12, 834). Horace énumère ce qui de Troie doit être refusé et qui l’a

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d’ailleurs perdue : la cupidité, la mauvaise foi et l’adultère, trois inversions de valeurs senties comme traditionnellement romaines : la paupertas, la fides et la pietas. Il donne à ces comportements deux visages, celui de Laomédon, qui a fondé Troie, et celui de Pâris2, qui l’a détruite.

3 C’est peu dire que la position d’Ovide est différente, et je n’épiloguerai pas sur le fait qu’il se sent bien dans la riche Roma Aurea et n’est pas gêné par l’évolution des mœurs : … ego me nunc denique natum/ gratulor ; haec aetas moribus apta meis (« Moi, je me félicite d’être né seulement maintenant : cet âge convient à mes mœurs », A.A., 3, 121-122). Il use d’ailleurs d’un terme positif, cultus, pour parler du genre de vie qui découle de l’afflux à Rome « des immenses richesses de l’univers dompté » (domiti magnas … orbis opes, A.A., 3, 114). Il n’est donc pas étonnant qu’il ait voulu intervenir, en donnant son propre point de vue, dans le projet qu’avaient eu Virgile et d’Horace d’élaborer une vision nouvelle des rapports entre l’Vrbs et son passé troyen. Je voudrais montrer que cette prise de position s’est faite en deux temps. Ovide a d’abord exploité une image de l’Ida, probablement originaire des Amores de Gallus, à laquelle était associé Pâris, en tant que personnage mythique exemplaire du genre de vie pastoral, valorisé dans l’élégie parce qu’il est le cadre de ses amours heureuses avec la nymphe Œnone. Il a ensuite poursuivi dans une direction différente mais complémentaire, en s’intéressant à la seconde partie de la vie de Pâris, amorcée par le Jugement des déesses. Il en fait alors une figure de proue de ce qu’en relation avec l’univers et le code élégiaques, il considère et revendique comme le (bon) genre de vie de la Rome de son temps, implicitement célébrée comme une nouvelle Troie. Je terminerai par une brève évocation de la période néronienne. La perspective ovidienne, qui s’accompagne d’une réévaluation positive de la luxuria, a trouvé, me semble-t-il, une postérité inattendue chez Néron, qui l’a reprise dans ses Troica et mise en scène dans la Domus Aurea avec le projet explicite de réconcilier enfin Rome avec la totalité de son passé troyen.

La Bucolique 2

4 Commençons par les textes qui évoquent, de façon plus ou moins rapide, le temps où Pâris était un simple berger de l’Ida. C’est un motif qui, je crois, remonte à Gallus : du moins c’est ce qu’on peut supposer, avec vraisemblance, à partir d’un faisceau d’éléments que je vais énumérer.

5 Le premier est la présence, dans le recueil d’Erotika pathemata dédié par Parthénius de Nicée à Gallus pour qu’il y trouve des exempla, de deux histoires dont Pâris est le protagoniste : la quatrième, qui est le récit de ses amours avec Œnone, et la trente- quatrième, consacrée au destin malheureux de leur fils, Corythus, qui, tombé amoureux d’Hélène, fut tué par son père. On ne sait si Gallus utilisa ou non le texte de Parthénius, mais il est assez probable qu’il s’en soit servi, au moins en partie. Et vraisemblable, si une de ces histoires est exploitée par d’autres poètes augustéens et en particulier élégiaques, que ce soit à la suite et à cause de Gallus, et non du fait d’un emprunt direct à Parthénius de Nicée.

6 C’est, à mon avis, le cas pour la quatrième histoire, centrée sur l’époque où Pâris était un berger de l’Ida, amoureux de la nymphe Œnone. C’est vraisemblablement à cette époque que font allusion les vers 60-61 de la Bucolique 2 : … Habitarunt di quoque siluas, Dardaniusque Paris…

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« … des dieux ont habité aussi des forêts, ainsi que le Dardanien Pâris … » (60-61)

7 Dans la mesure où Corydon couple des divinités et Pâris, et les donne en exemple à Alexis pour l’inciter à le rejoindre, on peut conjecturer que le contexte de cet exemple est amoureux. Si c’est le cas, le seul épisode de la vie de Pâris qui pourrait être à l’arrière-plan de cette phrase allusive est sa liaison avec la nymphe Œnone. Le caractère elliptique des vers de Virgile laisse, par ailleurs, supposer un renvoi à un texte connu, immédiatement identifiable par le lecteur. Or le poète le plus sollicité dans la Bucolique 2 est Gallus. A. Morelli et V. Tandoi3 ont défendu, de façon convaincante, l’hypothèse que le iudice te du vers 27 ait été repris de l’épigramme c du papyrus de Qaṣr Ibrîm. J’ai, de mon côté, essayé de montrer qu’avec la Bucolique 2, la première églogue écrite 4, Virgile amorce une polémique avec l’auteur des Amores, qu’il poursuit dans tout son recueil, sur le ‘bon genre littéraire’ à choisir quand on est amoureux5, en proposant une autre modulation de la poésie pastorale que celle utilisée par Gallus en contrepoint de son propre choix générique6. Ce n’est pas un hasard si certains mots des vers 32-33 : Pan primus calamos cera conungere pluris/ instituit… sont repris sous la forme : Pana qui primus calamos non passus inertis (24) dans la Bucolique 8, où Virgile présente son choix d’adapter Théocrite comme une alternative à l’élégie, anticipant sur le changement de genre : de l’élégie à la bucolique à la manière théocritéenne, qu’il proposera à Gallus dans la Bucolique 107.

8 Pour en revenir aux vers 60-61 de la Bucolique 2, le mot di désigne sans doute des divinités secondaires de la campagne. Je crois qu’on peut plus ou moins les identifier, à partir de deux textes de Properce qui évoquent Pâris dans un contexte pastoral où interviennent aussi des divinités de la campagne : l’élégie 2, 32 et l’élégie 3, 13.

L’élégie 2, 32

9 Les amours d’Œnone et de Pâris sont un des trois exempla choisis par Properce dans l’élégie 2, 32 à l’appui de l’idée que la rançon de la beauté est de faire parler d’elle : Semper formosis fabula poena fuit (« toujours faire parler d’elles a été le châtiment des belles », 26), en mal, et peu importe que ce ne soit pas à tort. Ainsi Cynthie peut « consumer une ou deux de ses nuits à de longs ébats amoureux, ces petites accusations n’émeuvent pas (son amant) » (Sin autem longo nox una aut altera lusu/ consumpta est, non me crimina parua mouent, 29-30). Suivent trois exempla, dont deux impliquent Pâris : Tyndaris externo patriam mutauit amore, et sine decreto uiua reducta domum est. Ipsa Venus quamuis corrupta libidine Martis nec minus in caelo semper honesta fuit. Quamuis Ida Parim pastorem dicat amasse atque inter pecudes accubuisse deam, hoc et Hamadryadum spectauit turba sororum Silenique senes et pater ipse chori, cum quibus Idaeo legisti poma sub antro, supposita excipiens, Nai, caduca manu/supposita excipiens Naica dona manu8 ! « La fille de Tyndare échangea sa patrie contre l’amour pour un étranger et sans avoir été jugée elle fut ramenée vivante dans sa demeure. Vénus elle-même, quoique corrompue par son désir pour Mars, ne fut pas moins toujours tenue en estime dans le ciel. Quoique, l’Ida le dit, une déesse aima le berger Pâris et se coucha à ses côtés au milieu de ses bêtes, cette union eut pour spectateurs la troupe des sœurs Hamadryades, les vieux Silènes et le père du chœur lui-même, avec lesquels

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dans un vallon idéen tu cueillis des fruits, Naïade, en les recevant quand ils tombaient dans ta main tendue/ en recevant les dons que l’on fait aux Naïades dans ta main tendue » (35-40).

10 La particularité de ces exemples est de revisiter, du point de vue de la protagoniste féminine, des épisodes tirés d’Homère ou de la tradition iliadique. Dans le premier, Properce rappelle qu’Hélène, identifiée par le nom de son père, aima impunément un étranger, pour lequel elle quitta sa patrie, et qu’elle n’en pâtit pas à son retour, la guerre et la prise de Troie servant ici d’arrière-plan et de contrepoint implicites à cette destinée protégée. Même situation pour Vénus : la réputation morale de la déesse ne subit aucune altération pour avoir été séduite par Mars. Là aussi le poète joue avec la culture homérique de son lecteur. Signaler que Vénus « ne fut pas moins toujours tenue en estime dans le ciel » renvoie implicitement au fameux passage de l’Iliade où les amours de Mars et de Vénus, enchaînés nus dans les filets de Vulcain, sont soudain révélées à tous les dieux. Cet épisode avait été lu allégoriquement comme une allusion aux deux grands principes empédocléens d’organisation de l’univers : la discorde et l’amour. Vu la diffusion de cette lecture dans la poésie latine, il est plus que probable qu’elle soit à l’arrière-plan du texte de Properce. Le deuxième exemple serait une clef pour l’ensemble de cette petite anthologie mythologique : l’amour est un principe universel ; il dépasse le cas particulier des relations entre amants, et par suite aussi les justifie. Il n’est pas exclu que le choix d’un tel exemple s’explique principalement par l’intention de renvoyer à Gallus. Sans développer ici cette hypothèse9, je rappellerai simplement que les amours de Mars et de Vénus sont le premier objet du chant de Clyméné au livre 4 des Géorgiques. Or ce chant est situé au tout début d’un passage où Virgile va reprendre, à propos d’Orphée, les critiques développées dans les Bucoliques à l’égard du genre élégiaque, qui se réduirait, selon lui, à l’expression de souffrances amoureuses, sans espoir de succès ni de guérison. Un autre argument à l’appui de cette hypothèse est que la suite du chant de Clyméné : chanter les amours des dieux depuis les origines (aque Chao densos diuom numerabat amores) est une variation sur le chant de Silène dans la Bucolique 6, au centre duquel Virgile a placé un hommage à Gallus, ce qui laisse supposer que ce chant n’est pas sans rapport avec des sujets et motifs des Amores10.

11 Dans l’élégie 2, 32, le dernier exemple choisi, qui est le plus développé, met en scène Œnone. Properce évoque, en quelques vers, ses amours avec Pâris, au milieu des troupeaux, qu’auraient regardées, sans les désapprouver, les Hamadryades, Silène et les Silènes, avec lesquels auparavant la nymphe cueillait des fruits dans les vallons de l’Ida, une activité dont le sens érotique est probable. L’obscurité relative du texte et le choix de l’apostrophe orientent vers l’hypothèse d’un exemple allusif. Or le texte est parsemé de mots qui pourraient renvoyer à Gallus : Hamadryadum, turba sororum, Sileni, chori, poma, antro, Nai ou Naica appartiennent en effet au glossaire des Amores établi par les critiques galliens11. Notons, avant de passer à l’élégie 3, 13 que tout ce passage évoque des amours pastorales heureuses que n’a pas perturbées la jalousie de rivaux évincés, devenus des témoins bienveillants, une situation inconcevable dans le monde des amants élégiaques ! Il est tentant de supposer que ces deux comportements d’amants rivaux : bienveillance d’un côté, jalousie de l’autre étaient opposés par Gallus, qui les liait respectivement, l’un à l’univers pastoral, l’autre à l’univers élégiaque. C’est en tout cas ce qu’il fait pour le motif de la ‘durée de l’union amoureuse’ dans le discours que Virgile lui attribue dans la Bucolique 10 : à l’univers pastoral Gallus associe une

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permanence du bonheur en amour ; à l’univers élégiaque la séparation et la souffrance12.

L’élégie 3, 13

12 Le passage que je viens de citer présente un certain nombre de similitudes avec le moment de l’élégie 3, 13 où Properce évoque les amours en pleine nature de la « jeunesse de jadis », amorcées par cette exclamation : Felix agrestum quondam pacata iuuentus/ diuitiae quorum messis et arbor erant (« Qu’elle était heureuse dans les campagnes, jadis, la jeunesse paisible, dont les moissons et les arbres faisaient toute la richesse », 3, 13, 25-26). On retrouve, en effet, dans l’élégie 3, 13 plusieurs motifs de l’élégie 2, 32 : la même époque (les temps pastoraux), les mêmes protagonistes (Paris et une/des déesses nues), les mêmes actes (une union érotique en pleine nature et la vue d’une déesse nue) et la mention d’un même lieu (un antrum ou des antra, un terme qui peut avoir, ce qui est probablement le cas dans les deux textes, le sens de saltus13).

13 L’arrière-plan du texte de Properce est complexe. Le vers qui ouvre le passage renvoie au vers 29 de l’élégie 2, 3 de Tibulle : Felices olim, Veneri cum fertur aperte/ seruire aeternos non puduisse deos (« Heureux les temps d’autrefois quand, dit-on, les dieux immortels ne rougissaient pas de servir ouvertement Vénus », 2, 3, 29-30). À l’élégie 2, 3 il faut ajouter les textes auquel Tibulle répond : le De rerum natura de Lucrèce et la Bucolique 10 de Virgile. Sans entrer dans le détail14, je prendrai les vers 33-37 : His tum blanditiis furtiua per antra puellae oscula siluicolis empta dedere uiris. Hinnulei pellis stratos operibat amantis altaque natiuo creuerat herba toro, pinus et incumbens lentas circumdabat umbras. « À cette époque ces cajoleries achetaient les baisers que les filles en secret donnaient dans les vallons aux hommes des forêts. Une peau de faon couvrait les amants étendus ; l’herbe en poussant leur avait fait un lit naturel et un pin penché au-dessus d’eux les entourait de ses ombres lentes » (3, 13, 33-37).

14 On a ici l’évocation d’une nature accueillante où il suffisait d’un peu d’herbe et d’une peau de bête jeune et inoffensive pour avoir un lit et une couverture sous les ombrages. Tout le passage est une réécriture idéalisée de la vision des temps primitifs proposée par Lucrèce, et en particulier des vers 963-965 du livre 5 : conciliabat enim uel mutua quamque cupido,/ uel uiolenta uiri uis atque inpensa libido,/ uel pretium, glandes atque arbita uel pira lecta (« ce qui, en effet, unissait chacune (à un homme), c’était soit un désir mutuel, soit, chez l’homme, un élan de violence sous la pression d’une pulsion sexuelle, soit le prix que constituaient des glands, des arbouses ou des poires choisis pour elle »).

15 C’est immédiatement après que l’on retrouve, comme autres personnages, ceux qu’évoquait la Bucolique 2 : les di et Pâris : nec fuerat nudas poena uidere deas. Corniger Idaei uacuam pastoris in aulam dux aries saturas ipse reduxit ouis. dique deaeque omnes, quibus est tutela per agros, praebebant uestris uerba benigna focis : « et leporem, quicumque uenis, uenaberis, hospes, et si forte meo tramite quaeris auem : et me Pana tibi comitem de rupe uocato, siue petes calamo praemia, siue cane ».

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« et ce n’était pas une faute de voir des déesses nues. Le bélier cornu du berger de l’Ida ramenait de lui-même en les guidant jusqu’à la cour de la bergerie vide les brebis rassasiées. Tous les dieux et les déesses qui exercent une protection sur les champs avaient pour vos foyers des paroles bienveillantes : « Qui que tu sois toi qui viens, tu chasseras le lièvre, en étant mon hôte, ou tout oiseau que tu chercheras sur mon chemin, et moi, Pan, appelle-moi d’une roche pour que je sois ton compagnon, que tu te serves, pour prendre ta proie, d’un gluau ou d’un chien » (3, 13, 38-46).

16 La mention des déesses nues est, selon toute vraisemblance, une allusion au Jugement des déesses, qui eut lieu pendant la période pastorale de la vie de Pâris. Deux détails placent cette époque sous le signe de l’âge d’or : la mention du troupeau repu, revenant de lui-même au bercail, qui évoque la prodigalité de la nature aux origines (un double renvoi, pour l’idée, à la Bucolique 4 (21-22) et, pour les mots dux et ouis, aux vers 9-10 de l’élégie 1, 10 de Tibulle) et l’évocation d’une coexistence des dieux et des hommes, qui est, en l’occurrence, une amplification d’une épigramme de Léonidas (A.P., 9, 337). Les amours en pleine nature de la jeunesse de jadis sont, en tant qu’image de félicité pastorale, opposées dans le reste de l’élégie 3, 13, sur le modèle gallien15, à une vision sombre des amours citadines, vouées aux souffrances en raison de l’avidité des jeunes filles, que favorise le triomphe de la luxuria.

17 Le texte finit sur une autre allusion à Pâris. Properce, qui annonce à Rome sa perte (frangitur ipsa suis Roma superbis bonis : « l’écueil sur lequel Rome se brise elle-même, ce sont ses possessions superbes », 60) se compare à Cassandre, qui a prédit en vain sola Parim Phrygiae fatum componere, sola/ fallacem patriae serpere dixit equum (« seule que Pâris scellerait le destin de la Phrygie, seule que fallacieux pour sa patrie s’y glisserait un cheval » ; 63-64). Ce ne peut être un hasard si l’élégie 2, 32 et l’élégie 3, 13, si proches dans leur thématique quand elles évoquent la première période de la vie de Pâris, lorsqu’il était berger sur l’Ida, incluent l’une et l’autre, aussi, une allusion à la deuxième période de sa vie, caractérisée, elle, par ses amours avec Hélène et par la guerre de Troie. Avec ces renvois aux deux périodes de la vie de Pâris, dont elle valorise l’une et condamne l’autre, l’élégie 3, 13 concentre ainsi dans deux passages relativement brefs la thématique qu’Ovide développe dans l’Héroïde 5, attribuée à Œnone, qui l’adresse à Pâris. Cette dernière convergence est, je crois, un autre argument en faveur de l’hypothèse d’une source commune à tous ces textes, dont l’auteur serait le dédicataire de l’histoire 4 des Erotika pathemata.

L’Héroïde 5

18 Je commencerai par un bref rappel du récit de Parthénius de Nicée, qui est, directement et/ou indirectement (Gallus étant probablement dans l’entre deux), à l’arrière-plan du texte d’Ovide. Parthénius évoque deux moments de la vie de Pâris : l’époque où il était bouvier sur l’Ida et amant de la nymphe Œnone, et ses derniers instants durant la guerre de Troie quand il est mortellement blessé. Dans un récit où prédomine le sommaire, Parthénius a inséré des séries de scènes qui se font pendant. Alexandre promet à Œnone de ne jamais l’abandonner et de l’honorer d’une façon plus considérable. La nymphe a reçu d’Apollon un double don : elle est prophétesse et guérisseuse. Sa réponse vaut pour une annonce de l’avenir : « Elle disait qu’elle se rendait compte pour le moment qu’il était vraiment très amoureux d’elle. Mais il viendrait un temps où il la quitterait et passerait en Europe, et là, saisi de passion pour

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une femme étrangère, il ramènerait avec lui la guerre aux gens de sa maison » (4, 3). Elle ajoute qu’« il devait, dans la guerre, être blessé et personne ne serait capable de le guérir excepté elle » (4,4). Cette scène se répète parce que, ce qui est à la fois le propre des amants et des promesses, Alexandre persiste à assurer Œnone de son amour, et, chaque fois qu’elle lui reparle du futur, il l’empêche d’en faire mention. À cette scène répond une série de séquences qui s’enchaînent à la fin du récit. Touché par une flèche de Philoctète, Alexandre envoie un messager auprès d’Œnone « la prier de venir en hâte le soigner et d’oublier ce qui s’était passé étant donné que cela était arrivé selon la volonté des dieux » (4,5). Elle refuse avec arrogance, en l’engageant à se faire soigner par Hélène. Mais elle se hâte néanmoins de rejoindre l’endroit indiqué par le messager. Entre temps, Alexandre, qui a reçu sa réponse, désespère et meurt. À la vue de son corps, Œnone se lamente et se tue. Cette histoire est une des plus achevées et des plus tragiques du recueil de Parthénius : prophétesse, la nymphe n’a pas vu la totalité de son destin ; guérisseuse, elle n’a pu sauver celui qu’elle aimait, sous le coup de sa passion où la jalousie l’a emporté.

19 L’Héroïde 5 d’Ovide est une variation sur le canevas du récit de Parthénius dont la particularité est d’être conçue à la manière gallienne. Œnone, qui chez Ovide n’est plus prophétesse, mais reste guérisseuse, écrit sa lettre peu après le retour de Pâris, revenu d'Europe avec Hélène. Elle évoque le début de leur liaison sur l'Ida en une série de petites scènes dont la dernière - et la plus longuement développée – est l’équivalent de celle qu'a racontée Parthénius au début de son texte. Les promesses de Pâris prennent ici la forme de serments d'amour, gravés sur l'écorce des arbres : Incisae seruant a te mea nomina fagi et legor Oenone falce notata tua, et quantum trunci, tantum mea nomina crescunt. Crescite et in titulos surgite recta meos. (Populus est, memini, fluuiali consita riuo, est in qua nostri littera scripta memor.) Popule, uiue, precor, quae consita margine ripae hoc in rugoso cortice carmen habes : "CUM PARIS OENONE POTERIT SPIRARE RELICTA, AD FONTEM XANTHI VERSA RECURRET AQUA." « Les hêtres gardent, gravé par toi, mon nom et on lit, tracé par ta faucille, "Œnone". Et autant que les troncs, croissent mes noms. Croissez et élevez-vous, tout droits, pour me célébrer. (Il y a un peuplier, je m'en souviens, planté sur la rive d'un fleuve, sur lequel ont été écrits des mots qui nous évoquent). Peuplier, vis, je t'en prie, toi qui, planté au bord d'une rive, as ces vers écrits sur sa rugueuse écorce : "Quand Pâris pourra respirer après avoir quitté Œnone, l'eau du Xanthe, coulant en sens inverse, courra en arrière vers sa source » (21-30).

20 On a là un motif gallien, évoqué allusivement dans la Bucolique 10, auquel renvoie d’ailleurs la répétition crescunt... crescite, qui est une variation sur les vers 52-54, présentés par Virgile comme des paroles de Gallus : certum est ... / malle pati tenerisque meos incidere Amores/ arboribus : crescent illae, crescetis Amores (« Cela est certain ... : je préfère souffrir et inscrire mes Amours sur des arbres tendres ; qu’ils (les arbres) croissent, vous croîtrez, mes Amours ». On a reconnu dans ce passage de la Bucolique 10 une allusion à un des exempla rendus célèbres par les Amores : l’histoire d’Acontius, racontée par Callimaque, et plus particulièrement à un de ses détails : le jeune homme, poussé par le désespoir amoureux, inscrit le nom de sa bien-aimée sur l’écorce des hêtres. L’ingéniosité d’Ovide est d’avoir transféré d’un récit mythique à un autre, qui pouvait l’accueillir en raison de son cadre campagnard, une marque de fides amoureuse,

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qui se retourne paradoxalement, à cause des mots choisis, en prédiction d’inéluctable infidélité. La serment d’amour, garanti par un adunaton, est en fait à l’usage, non de sa destinataire, mais du lecteur. Ce dernier, qui a lu l’Iliade, sait bien qu’un jour, le cours du Scamandre, obstrué par les cadavres troyens, refluera vers sa source, ... à l’inverse d’une Œnone sans dons prophétiques, et donc incapable de prévoir, comme celle de Parthénius, la fin de l’amour de Pâris, au moment même où son amant l’assure de son éternelle fidélité.

21 Deux autres motifs de l’Héroïde 5 portent la marque de Gallus. Le premier est celui des chasses où la nymphe accompagnait son amant, s’occupant, comme Milanion – un autre des grands exempla d’amants galliens - des filets et des chiens. Petit avantage parce qu’elle est déesse : Œnone montre à Pâris les bois propices à la chasse et les retraites des animaux. Le second motif est celui de l’absence de remèdes à l’amour. Gallus l’aurait illustré en prenant l’exemple d’Apollon16, incapable, après la mort d’Hyacinthe qu’il a involontairement tué, de se délivrer de sa passion amoureuse. Habile à soigner les blessures du corps, le dieu se révèle sans ressources pour celles causées par l’amour. De Parthénius à Ovide, on observe le même déplacement d’une blessure réelle à une blessure métaphorique. L’Héroïde 5 ne renferme en effet aucune allusion à une future blessure mortelle de Pâris, mais contient en revanche tout un développement sur le fait qu’Œnone se révèle incapable d’appliquer son art de guérisseuse à sa propre maladie amoureuse : Quaecumque herba potens ad opem radixque medendo utilis in toto nascitur orbe, mea est. Me miseram, quod amor non est medicabilis herbis. Deficior prudens artis ab arte mea. « Toutes les herbes puissantes pour l'aide qu'elles apportent et les racines utiles à la guérison, en tout endroit du monde où elles naissent, sont miennes. Malheur à moi, car l'amour ne peut être soigné par les herbes. Je suis abandonnée, moi qui suis savante dans mon art, par mon art lui-même » (147-150).

22 Résultat inattendu : elle finit par demander du secours à Pâris : Quod nec graminibus tellus fecunda creandis/ nec deus, auxilium tu mihi ferre potes./ Et potes et merui. Digna miserere puellae. Non ego cum Danais arma cruenta fero ;/ sed tua sum tecum fui puerilibus annis,/ et tua, quod superest temporis, esse precor (« le secours que ne peuvent m’apporter ni la terre féconde en créant des herbes, ni un dieu, toi tu le peux. Tu le peux et je le mérite. Aie pitié d'une femme digne de toi. Ce n'est pas moi qui apporte avec les Danaens des armes cruelles. Je suis tienne et j'ai été avec toi pendant notre enfance ; être tienne durant le temps qui nous reste, voilà ma prière », 153-158). Tout lecteur de Parthénius appréciera l’ingéniosité du poète : Pâris aurait donc refusé à son amante l’aide qu’elle implorait pour une blessure d’amour. Un préalable qui ‘explique’ pourquoi, au moment où, pendant la guerre de Troie, blessé corporellement, il aura un besoin urgent des soins d’Œnone, cette dernière refusera de le soigner, ce qui signe alors leur perte à tous deux.

23 Dans sa lettre, Œnone oppose à la période de ses amours avec Pâris, présentée comme uniformément heureuse, ce qui va advenir maintenant qu’il a ramené Hélène. Depuis le jour fatal du Jugement des déesses, celui qui n’était qu’un pauvre berger de l’Ida a, sans le savoir, échangé la pauvreté et une amante fidèle contre des richesses et une femme inconstante (tant de fois séduite, elle ne peut en effet être innocente !), qui amène, en outre, avec elle la guerre et la destruction de Troie. Œnone en effet a compris enfin le sens d’une ancienne prophétie de Cassandre, qui lui annonçait la venue d’une rivale

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(115-120). Comme chez Properce, pas un mot chez Ovide sur l’aventure héroïque et la gloire des combats, qui est la matière de l’Iliade. On trouve en revanche, à la fin de l’ Héroïde 5, un passage qui évoque, dans un contexte érotique, le même genre de di de l’Ida que ceux de l’élégie 2, 32 de Properce. Excepté - mais ces différences valent simplement pour variations - d’une part que ce ne sont pas exactement les mêmes : les Silènes et Silène lui-même sont ici remplacés par les satyres et Faunus ; d’autre part que, si, chez Properce les premiers apparemment furent heureux, dans un premier temps, dans leur tentative, chez Ovide, les seconds échouèrent toujours dans leur poursuite d’Œnone : Me Satyri celeres (siluis ego tecta latebam) quaesiuerunt rapido, turba proterua, pede cornigerumque caput pinu praecinctus acuta Faunus in immensis, qua tumet Ida, iugis. « Moi, les Satyres agiles (je me cachais sous le couvert des forêts) me recherchèrent, troupe impudente, d’un pied rapide ainsi que Faunus à la tête cornue ceinte d’un rameau de pin pointu sur les crêtes immenses, où se gonfle l’Ida » (135-138).

24 Je proposerai donc de conclure, à partir des motifs et termes galliens communs aux deux élégies de Properce et à l’Héroïde d’Ovide, à l’existence d’un ou de textes appartenant aux Amores, où l’exemplum de Pâris et de ses amours successives avec Œnone en tant que berger de l’Ida et avec Hélène en tant que de prince troyen servait à opposer l’univers pastoral et l’univers élégiaque selon la même perspective que dans la Bucolique 10, Gallus associant à l’un la félicité, l’union et la paix ; et à l’autre les souffrances et la guerre. La variation introduite dans l’Héroïde 5 corrige ce point de vue : en traitant les amours de Pâris et d’Œnone sur la montagne de l’Ida à la manière élégiaque avec renvois à deux fameux exempla utilisés par Gallus : ceux de Milanion et d’Acontius, Ovide met du même côté l’univers pastoral et l’univers élégiaque, dont il choisit d’évoquer une autre face : le bonheur en amour, et les oppose à l’univers épique, introduit en Troade par la guerre amenée en même temps qu’Hélène.

Les Héroïdes 16 et 17

25 Les Héroïdes doubles, qui sont une espèce de bilan de l’élégie, offrent trois jeux de protagonistes qui pourraient bien être, tous, originaires des Amores. Le cas est entendu pour Acontius et Cydippé et probable pour Léandre et Héro17. Si l’hypothèse que je défends dans cet article est fondée, on peut ajouter au lot le couple Hélène-Pâris.

26 Je m’intéresserai simplement à deux thématiques dans les Héroïde 16 et 17. La première, c’est l’image de Troie, que deux traits désignent comme la Rome de son temps : sa puissance et ses richesses exceptionnelles : Nec me crede fretum merces portante carina findere (quas habeo, di tueantur opes !) … Oppida sunt regni diuitiora mei… Sceptra parens Asiae, qua nulla beatior ora est, finibus immensis uix obeunda tenet. Innumeras urbes atque aurea tecta uidebis quaeque suos dices templa decere deos. Ilion adspicies firmataque turribus altis moenia, Phoebeae structa canore lyrae… Vna domus quaeuis urbis habebit opes.

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« Ne crois pas que je fende les flots avec une carène chargée de marchandises (les richesses que je possède, que les dieux les protègent !) … Les villes de mon royaume sont plus riches (que celles de la Grèce) … Mon père tient le sceptre de l’Asie, à laquelle aucune région ne peut se comparer en richesses et dont on a peine à parcourir les immenses territoires. Tu verras des cités innombrables et des toits couverts d’or et des temples que tu diras dignes de leurs dieux. Tu contempleras Ilion et les remparts rendus plus sûrs par de hautes tours, qui furent construits au son mélodieux de la lyre de Phébus … N’importe quelle demeure renferme les richesses d’une ville… » (31-32, 34, 177-182, 188).

27 Et son haut niveau de cultus, que Pâris vante à Hélène : Hanc faciem largis sine fine paratibus uti deliciisque decet luxuriare nouis Cum uideas cultus nostra de gente uirorum qualem Dardanias credis habere nurus ? « Ce visage, il lui convient d’user sans limite d’apprêts en abondance et de disposer à profusion d’agréments nouveaux. Puisque tu vois l’élégance raffinée des hommes de notre race, quel est à ton avis celui des femmes dardaniennes ? » (193-196).

28 Ce dernier argument trouvera évidemment un écho dans la réponse de la Spartiate : At fruar Iliacis opibus cultuque beato/ donaque promissis uberiora feram,/ purpura nempe mihi pretiosaque texta dabuntur,/ congestoque auri pondere diues ero (« Mais je jouirai des richesses troyennes et de raffinements opulents et je recevrai des dons dépassant en abondance tes promesses. Assurément on me donnera de la pourpre et des tissus précieux et je serai riche du poids de l’or entassé », Hér., 17, 223-226). On se souvient des prescriptions virgilienne et horatienne sur ce qui est à refuser de l’héritage troyen18. À lire Ovide, manifestement c’est trop tard ! Mais s’il décrit ici Troie comme la Rome de son temps, c’est que l’inverse est vrai. Depuis que la puissance et les richesses, en provenance de l’Asie et de l’Orient, ont afflué dans la capitale de l’empire (dans l’Ars Amatoria, 1, 202, Ovide parle d’Eoas opes ajoutées au Latium), qu’est devenu le village fondé par Romulus sinon la Troie moderne ? Autant dire qu’Ovide se situe clairement dans la continuité de ses prédécesseurs élégiaques, qui, à l’inverse de Virgile ou d’Horace, n’ont éprouvé ni difficulté ni réticence à se référer à Pâris et à son choix de vie. Un des textes les plus explicites à cet égard est l’élégie 2, 3 de Properce, qui comparant Cynthie à Hélène, écrit : Olim mirabar, quod tanti ad Pergama belli Europae atque Asiae causa puella fuit : Nunc, Pari, tu sapiens et tu, Menelae, fuisti, tu quia poscebas, tu quia lentus eras. Digna quidem facies, pro qua uel obiret Achilles ; uel Priamo belli causa probanda fuit. Si quis uult fama tabulas anteire uetustas, hinc dominam exemplo ponat in arte meam : siue illam Hesperiis, siue illam ostendet Eois, uret et Eoos, uret et Hesperios. « Jadis je m’étonnais que la cause d’une si grande guerre à Pergame entre l’Europe et l’Asie ait été une femme. En réalité, Pâris, c’est toi qui fus sage et toi, aussi, Ménélas, toi parce que tu la réclamais, toi parce que tu prenais ton temps. Certes son visage était digne que même Achille succombât pour lui ; même Priam dut approuver la cause de la guerre. Si quelqu’un veut dépasser en renommée les tableaux anciens, qu’il prenne dans son art ma maîtresse pour modèle, et qu’il la montre soit à l’Occident, soit à l’Orient, elle enflammera l’Orient, elle enflammera l’Occident » (35-44).

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29 L’expression Europae atque Asiae19 renvoie, me semble-t-il, au vers 89 du carmen 68 de Catulle : Troia (nefas) commune sepulcrum Asiae Europaeque ; les deux derniers vers avec l’opposition Hesperiis/ Eois, Eoos/Hesperios à Gallus et, au-delà de lui, à un motif callimachéen : l’opposition Est/Ouest-étoile du matin/étoile du soir (Hecale, fr. 113 Hollis), via Catulle (62, 34-35) et Cinna (fr. 6. Courtney)20. C’est dire s’il y a, à l’arrière- plan de ce texte, toute la tradition érotique latine. Dans le carmen 68, Catulle condamne le choix de la vie voluptueuse : la jeunesse grecque est accourue à la guerre de Troie nei Paris abducta gauisus libera moecha/ otia pacato degeret in thalamo (« pour que Pâris ne jouisse pas librement de la femme adultère qu’il avait enlevée en passant son temps dans l’oisiveté dans une chambre paisible », 103-104). Dans l’élégie 2, 3, c’est le même choix que Properce attribue à l’actuelle jeunesse romaine, tombée sous le charme de Cynthie : post Helenam haec terris forma secunda redit./ Hac ego nunc mirer si flagret nostra iuuentus ? (« après Hélène, cette beauté21 est revenue une seconde fois sur terre. Et moi maintenant je m’étonnerais si toute notre jeunesse flambe pour elle ? », 32-33), et qu’il valorise dans des termes qui renvoient à Gallus, ce qui revient à faire de Cynthie non seulement une nouvelle Hélène, mais une nouvelle Lycoris, ou plus exactement une nouvelle Lycoris, supérieure à la première puisqu’elle est l’égale d’Hélène.

30 L’enjeu de l’Héroïde 16 est la défense du genre de vie élégiaque : qu’est-ce que Pâris a choisi en effet, lors du Jugement, sinon d’accorder la préférence à l’amour sur des regna et sur la uirtus (81) ? Ce choix, que son auteur revendique comme le meilleur (nec piget aut umquam stulte legisse uidebor (« je ne le regrette pas et je ne croirai jamais que j’ai stupidement choisi », 169) est – c’est un élément essentiel dans l’argumentation ovidienne - indirectement appuyé par un redressement de l’image de l’amant d’Hélène, dont la valeur guerrière était tenue pour douteuse dans la tradition homérique et dans sa réception romaine, y compris chez les poètes érotiques romains. Selon l’auteur de l’ Héroïde 16, l’ancien berger de l’Ida peut réellement être un modèle pour la jeunesse romaine parce que, comme Pâris le souligne à la fin de sa lettre, il a prouvé dès l’enfance qu’il savait se battre : Et mihi sunt uires, et mea tela nocent. Nec minor est Asiae quam uestrae copia terrae ; illa uiris diues, diues abundat equis. Nec plus Atrides animi Menelaus habebit quam Paris, aut armis anteferendus erit. Paene puer caesis abducta armenta recepi hostibus et causam nominis inde tuli ; paene puer iuuenes uario certamine uici, in quibus Ilioneus Deiphobusque fuit. « Moi aussi j’ai de la force et mes traits font du mal. L’Asie n’a pas moins de troupes que vos terres ; elle regorge d’hommes, elle regorge de chevaux. L’Atride Ménélas n’aura pas plus de courage que Pâris, et il ne le surpassera pas au combat. Presque enfant, j’ai, en massacrant des ennemis, repris les troupeaux qu’ils avaient enlevés et c’est de là qu’est venu mon nom. Presque enfant j’ai vaincu dans des luttes variées des jeunes gens parmi lesquels il y avait Ilionée et Déiphobe » (354-362).

31 Les vers introduits par un paene puer font allusion à des épisodes antérieurs à la reconnaissance de Pâris comme prince troyen. On trouve un résumé du second épisode évoqué chez Hygin22 (fable 91) : Postquam Hecuba peperit Alexandrum, datur interficiendus, quem satellites misericordia exposuerunt ; eum pastores pro suo filio repertum expositum educarunt eumque Parim nominaverunt. Is cum ad puberem aetatem pervenisset, habuit taurum in deliciis ; quo cum satellites missi a Priamo, ut taurum aliquis

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adduceret, venissent, qui in athlo funebri, quod ei fiebat, poneretur, coeperunt Paridis taurum abducere. Qui persecutus est eos et inquisivit, quo eum ducerent ; illi indicant se eum ad Priamum adducere ei, qui vicisset ludis funebribus Alexandri. Ille amore incensus tauri sui descendit in certamen et omnia vicit, fratres quoque suos superavit. Indignans Deiphobus gladium ad eum strinxit ; at ille in aram Iovis Hercei insiluit ; quod cum Cassandra vaticinaretur eum fratrem esse, Priamus eum agnovit regiaque recepit. « Une fois qu’Hécube eut enfanté Alexandre, on le confia à des serviteurs pour qu’ils le tuent, mais pris de pitié ils l’exposèrent. Il fut trouvé par des bergers qui l’élevèrent comme leur fils et ils lui donnèrent le nom de Pâris. Quand il fut parvenu à l’adolescence, il eut un taureau dont il faisait ses délices. Des serviteurs arrivèrent là envoyés par Priam pour conduire le taureau afin qu’il serve d’enjeu lors des combats funèbres organisés en l’honneur d’Alexandre. Ils se mirent à emmener le taureau de Pâris ; celui-ci les poursuivit et leur demanda où ils le conduisaient. Les serviteurs indiquent qu’ils l’amènent à Priam pour celui qui serait le vainqueur lors des Jeux funèbres en l’honneur d’Alexandre. Ce dernier, enflammé par l’amour pour son taureau prit part à la compétition et fut vainqueur dans toutes les épreuves ; il l’emporta aussi sur ses frères. Indigné, Déiphobe tira son épée contre lui, mais Pâris bondit près de l’autel de Jupiter Herceus. Comme Cassandra avait vaticiné qu’il était son frère, Priam le reconnut et le reçut dans le palais royal ».

32 L’intervention de Cassandre évite une erreur tragique tout en confirmant l’origine royale, que vient de révéler la victoire de Pâris dans les compétitions où il a démontré une valeur supérieure à celles des princes de la maison de Priam. Selon Ovide, il triomphe de ses frères, du fait de l’ardeur de son âme (uigor animi, 51), et non d’une maîtrise des techniques utilisées dans les combats à l’épée, qu’il n’a jamais pratiquées évidemment et dont il n’a pas eu besoin dans les différentes épreuves de type gymnique organisées lors de ces Jeux funèbres23.

33 Comme c’était le cas pour Gallus, ce qui intéresse Ovide, c’est l’appartenance successive de Pâris au monde des bergers, puis à l’univers des héros. Mais il s’en sert dans l’Héroïde 16 différemment : dans une Troie vue comme une autre Rome, ce fils de Priam fait figure d’idéal masculin parce qu’il a opté, sans avoir de leçons à recevoir de quiconque en matière de vertu guerrière, pour un autre genre de vie que celui valorisé par la tradition épique et le mos maiorum romains. C’est le seul choix qui, selon Ovide, corresponde réellement au cultus et à la luxuria de la ville devenue la capitale d’un imperium égalé aux limites du monde, une situation que Virgile avait soulignée dans l’ Énéide …. mais dans une toute autre perspective24.

34 Dernière observation. La vision de l’Orient, partagé en deux espaces : le rus et l’Vrbs, caractérisés respectivement par la rusticitas et la luxuria, qui ressort des Héroïdes, est à l’arrière-plan de deux épisodes des Métamorphoses, dont les protagonistes sont le dieu Apollon et un satyre, autrement dit, un des dieux de la campagne présentés par Properce et Ovide lui-même comme un des compagnons de Pâris et d’Œnone. Il s’agit de deux compétitions musicales où Apollon l’emporte. Au livre 6, la punition infligée par le dieu à Marsyas suscite la compassion des ruricolae Fauni (392), des Satyri fratres (393), d’Olympus et des nymphes. Rien n’est dit sur la compétition proprement dite. Au livre 11, en revanche, les détails connotant, dans la description d’Apollon et de sa lyre, l’ars et la luxuria25 préfigurent le succès du dieu dans le concours qui l’opposera au rustique flutiste qu’est Pan. Le Tmolus pris pour juge, mais aussi les auditeurs locaux, tous issus de la nature sauvage, sont d’accord sur le vainqueur, excepté le roi Midas dont Ovide souligne l’esprit épais (pingue … ingenium, 148). L’histoire est située dans une ambiance dionysiaque : les vignobles du Tmolus ont été explicitement associés à Bacchus dans le

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premier épisode dont Midas est le malheureux héros ( … sui uineta Timoli/ .. petit, « il gagne les vignobles de son cher Tmolus, 86-87). C’est aussi le cas dans les Fastes pour l’épisode qui raconte la rencontre de Pan et d’Omphale, symboles également, l’un de la rusticitas, l’autre de la luxuria : le cadre de l’histoire est le Tmolus et un bois dédié à Bacchus. Cette conjonction entre Orient et dionysisme n’a rien de surprenant, la même ambivalence les caractérisant, comme on le voit au livre 3 des Métamorphoses. Bacchus y est décrit par un Penthée hostile à cet étranger venu d’Orient comme un « enfant sans armes » (puero … inermi ; 553), « à qui plaisent non les guerres … mais les cheveux imprégnés de myrrhe, les couronnes souples, la pourpre et l’or inséré dans des vêtements brodés » (quem neque bella iuuant … /sed madidi murra crines mollesque coronae/ purpuraque et pictis intextum uestibus aurum, 3, 554-556). Mais quand le roi arrive sur le Cithéron, sûr d’y assister à des orgies, il ne voit en pleine nature sauvage qu’un groupe de femmes occupées à des sacra.

Pâris dans les Troica et la Domus Aurea

35 Je crois que les réflexions ovidiennes ont trouvé un prolongement inattendu au 1er siècle ap. J.-C., dans plusieurs orientations de la révolution culturelle que Néron a tenté de promouvoir. On lit chez Tacite qu’un des premiers actes publics du fils d’Agrippine, après son mariage avec Octavie, fut un discours en faveur des gens d’Ilion destiné à leur obtenir d’être exemptés de toute charge publique. Dans ce discours Néron rappelait « que les Romains provenaient de Troie, qu’Énée était l’ancêtre de la gens Julia et d’autres vieilles traditions proches de la légende » (Romanum Troia demissum et Iuliae stirpis auctorem Aeneam aliaque haud procul fabulis vetera, An., 12, 58). Il s’agissait, semble- t-il, d’une opération de communication, visant à légitimer l’ascension d’un Julio- Claudien qui n’était pas l’héritier en ligne directe de l’empereur au pouvoir.

36 Ce problème de légitimité se posa plus crucialement encore à Néron lors de son accession au Principat26. Aussi, c’est peut-être d’abord parce qu’il voyait en lui un prédécesseur que le Prince s’intéressa tout particulièrement à Pâris. On ne sait pas grand-chose des Troica, excepté que Néron y évoquait l’épisode auquel Ovide fait allusion dans l’Héroïde 16 : Sane hic Paris secundum Troica Neronis fortissimus fuit, adeo ut in Troiae agonali certamine superaret omnes, ipsum etiam Hectorem. Qui cum iratus in eum stringeret gladium dixit se esse germanum : quod adlatis crepundiis probauit qui habitu rustici adhuc latebat. « Ce Pâris, selon les Troica de Néron, était très valeureux si bien qu’au cours des compétitions lors de Jeux célébrés à Troie, il triomphait de tous et même d’Hector. Comme ce dernier, rempli de colère, tirait contre lui son épée, il dit qu’il était son frère et prouva son identité, cachée encore par ses habits de paysan, en apportant les signes de reconnaissance que l’on met au cou des enfants » (Servius, Ad Aen., 5, 37.)

37 Il ressort de ce résumé de Servius que, dans les Troica, la uirtus, dont se targuait le Pâris d’Ovide, servait d’abord à faire reconnaître le berger de l’Ida comme l’alter ego des princes troyens, ce que signale aussi indirectement Hygin27. Sans doute était-elle également, par là, reconnue comme une valeur en soi. De l’intérêt du Prince pour la notion de Virtus, nous avons un témoignage dans le fait qu’en 60 ap. J.-C. réapparut pour la première fois, depuis la République, la légende monétaire : Roma et Virtus. Vu la date du monnayage, cet intérêt est à replacer dans le cadre général de la politique

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conçue et mise en œuvre par le Prince : il n’est donc pas impossible que cette notion traditionnelle ait été proposée par lui dans une version réévaluée, dont Pâris a été le symbole.

38 La décoration intérieure de la Domus Aurea atteste en tout cas l’intérêt de Néron pour un autre aspect du personnage de Pâris, qu’avait bien mis en évidence Ovide. Deux épisodes de sa vie : le Jugement des déesses et la rencontre avec Hélène étaient représentés, ainsi que deux autres moments liés au cycle troyen : les adieux d’Hector et d’Andromaque et le séjour d’Achille à Scyros28. L’amour est le motif commun à toutes ces scènes. C’est une valeur partagée par les deux camps lors de la guerre de Troie, un point de vue que l’on trouve dans un autre texte de la Latinité d’argent (postérieur aux Troica et peut-être influencé par Néron) : l’Ilias latina, dont l’auteur, Baebius, propose, lui aussi, un portrait valorisé d’un Pâris, champion tout à la fois de l’Amour et de la Virtus29.

39 La Domus Aurea construite entre 64 et 68 fut conçue comme la mise en œuvre – au centre de Rome – d’une nouvelle idéologie. Elle s’inscrivait dans un cadre mythique de l’époque augustéenne, que Néron se proposait de réinterpréter : le retour de l’âge d’or. Pas de simplicité des origines italiques à préserver ici comme cela avait été un mot d’ordre pour le Palatin augustéen30. Pas non plus de retour aux mœurs romaines traditionnelles qu’Auguste avait voulu restaurer, quasiment de force, par des lois, alors qu’elles étaient majoritairement perçues comme anachroniques. Néron partage avec Ovide l’idée que, sous l’afflux des richesses en provenance de son empire, les mores romaines ont désormais irrémédiablement changé. Sans entrer dans les détails de la façon dont il a voulu mettre les mœurs nouvelles plus pleinement en accord avec le sens de l’histoire31, je soulignerai seulement que ses projets se situent dans la ligne de la « vie inimitable » menée en Orient par un autre de ses aïeux, Antoine, qui fut perçu et décrit comme un ‘personnage élégiaque’ par les poètes de son temps. Or un des signes de la préférence de l’héritage d’Antoine sur celui d’Auguste, est la forte présence, dans la décoration intérieure de la Domus, de références au dieu dont l’amant de Cléopâtre s’était personnellement réclamé : Dionysos, et dont nous avons vu les accointances avec Pâris dans la poésie élégiaque, en particulier, chez Ovide. Si la luxuria, qui fut le maître- mot des projets architecturaux du Prince, se marqua matériellement dans l’or, les pierres précieuses et l’ivoire répandus à profusion, et dans les réalisations audacieuses, du genre de la Cenatio rotunda, elle trouva aussi une expression symbolique dans les motifs dionysiaques, qui avaient resurgi avec force dans la deuxième moitié du 1ier siècle av. J.-C. : c’est sous le signe de Bacchus, et non d’Apollon, protecteur d’Auguste, que Néron plaça son âge d’or. La découverte d’une peinture figurant Ariane entre l’abandon de Thésée et l’arrivée du dieu laisse supposer que sa venue symbolisait l’accès à un autre type de vie. Une autre aventure : le rapt de Ganymède, qui pouvait être considérée comme symbolique du passage à une vie supérieure, fut représentée dans une des salles les plus extraordinaires de la Domus Aurea : la Volta Dorata. Ce n’est sans doute pas un hasard si cette histoire qui correspondait à un des goûts sexuels du Prince avait pour protagoniste un autre fils de Priam, Ganymède, évoqué dans l’Héroïde 16 (199-200).

40 Notons, sans les développer non plus, que deux autres aspects de la révolution culturelle néronienne : le choix du théâtre comme instrument de réflexions et d’expériences sur la nature humaine et l’organisation de fêtes nocturnes avec oubli de tout ordre social au profit de pratiques sexuellement libératoires32, se situent

Dictynna, 9 | 2012 16

également dans l’orbite du dionysisme ou du moins dans une certaine interprétation du dionysisme. Dernière remarque : au nombre des jeux donnés par Néron figurent des combats de gladiateurs où il ne laissa tuer personne et auxquels prirent part quatre cents sénateurs et six cents chevaliers romains (Suétone, Nér., 12), ainsi que des jeux grecs. Ces derniers furent critiqués par ceux qui y voyaient l’abandon des pratiques ancestrales de préparation à la guerre au profit des combats à mains nues (An., 14, 20, 4), autrement dit, au profit de luttes semblables à celles qu’avait dû pratiquer … le jeune Pâris !

41 Pour conclure : Néron mit en œuvre en les systématisant dans un sens qui lui était propre, les réflexions ovidiennes sur l’héritage troyen. Son entreprise fut un essai d’une portée aussi forte que celle tentée des années auparavant par Auguste. Prenant acte du fait que l’évolution historique de Rome rendait impossible tout retour aux origines italiques, si tant est qu’elles avaient existé comme on se l’imaginait, le Prince choisit pour mot d’ordre la luxuria un terme qui s’appliquait à la fois aux réalisations matérielles, au mode de vie et aux mœurs, en toute conscience, avec le projet de tenter de réconcilier enfin non seulement Rome et Troie, mais l’Occident et l’Orient.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Barchiesi A. (1999) « Vers une histoire à rebours de l’élégie latine : les Héroïdes ‘doubles’ (16-21) », in Élégie et épopée dans la poésie ovidienne (Héroïdes et Amours), en Hommage à Simone Viarre, J. Fabre-Serris et A. Deremetz (éds), Lille, pp. 53-67.

Barchiesi A. (2009) « Phaethon and the Monsters », in Paradox and the Marvellous in Augustan Literature and Culture, P. Hardie (éd), Oxford, pp. 161-188.

Cairns F. (2006) Sextus Propertius. The Augustan Elegist, Cambridge.

Fabre-Serris J. (1998) Mythologie et littérature à Rome. La réécriture des mythes aux 1ers siècles avant et après J.-C., Lausanne.

Fabre-Serris J. (2008) Rome, l’Arcadie et la mer des Argonautes. Essai sur la naissance d’une mythologie des origines en Occident, Lille.

Fabre-Serris J. (2009) « D’Homère à Gallus. Protée, une variation virgilienne sur une figure poétique des Amores, Silène ? », dans Protée en trompe-l’œil. Genèses et survivances d’un mythe d’Homère à Bouchardon, sous la direction d’A. Rolet, Rennes, pp. 189-201.

Hardie P. (1986) Virgil’s Aeneid. Cosmos and Imperium, Oxford.

Knox P. (1986) Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the Traditions of Augustan Poetry, Cambridge.

Morelli A., Tandoi V. (1984) « Un probabile omaggio a Cornelio Gallo nella seconda Ecloga », in Disiecti membra Poetae I, V. Tandoi (éd), Foggia, pp. 101-116.

Perrin Y. (1982) « N. Ponce et la Domus Aurea de Néron. Une documentation inédite », M.E.F.R.A., pp. 843-891.

Schmidt E. (1987) Bukolische Leidenschaft oder über antike Hirtenpoesie, Frankfurt am Main (Lang).

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Tränkle H. (1960) Die Sprachkunst des Properz und die Tradition der lateinischen Dichtersprache, Hermes-Einzelschr. XV, Wiesbaden.

NOTES

1. Une première version de cet article a été présentée lors du colloque sur « l’Orientalisme romain » organisé à l’Université de Roma-La Sapienza en novembre 2009 par Alessandro Schiesaro, que je remercie pour l’organisation de cette belle rencontre qui fut très riche et fructueuse. 2. Ce n’est pas la première fois qu’Horace attaque le personnage de Pâris : dans l’Ode 1, 15, il n’a pas de mots assez durs à l’encontre du genre de vie choisi par l’amant d’Hélène, qui préféra aux combats peigner ses boucles, jouer de la lyre et chanter des chansons qui plaisaient aux femmes à l’abri dans une chambre. L’aventure italienne d’Énée comportait des épisodes tels que son arrivée dans un pays étranger, l’enlèvement d’une fille à l’homme avec qui elle était engagée, une guerre sans merci déclenchée par ce dernier, susceptibles de faire assimiler son comportement à celui de Pâris. Virgile a l’habileté d’attribuer ces rapprochements aux adversaires du héros quand ils veulent le dénigrer, ce qui est une façon indirecte de dévaloriser leurs propos (voir Én., 4, 215-217 ; 7, 319-321 ; 360-364). 3. A. Morelli,V. Tandoi (1984). 4. Sur l’ordre d’écriture des églogues, voir E. Schmidt (1987, pp. 201-204). 5. J. Fabre-Serris (2008, pp. 59-69). 6. J. Fabre-Serris (2008, pp. 72-87). 7. J. Fabre-Serris (2008, pp. 77-83). Il est probable que le dieu ait occupé une place prééminente dans les Amores si Gallus est bien, comme j’ai essayé de le montrer, l’introducteur du ‘mythe arcadien’ à Rome. 8. L’expression Naica dona a pour elle le fait que dona manus se trouve aussi dans l’élégie 3, 3, 34 de Properce ; Nai, caduca est une conjecture de Scalinger, qui a l’avantage d’expliciter le legisti. 9. Je la développe dans un livre que je suis en train d’écrire sur la réception des Amores. 10. Pour tous les liens - textuels et thématiques - que l’on peut relever entre la Bucolique 6 et la fin des Géorgiques 4, voir J. Fabre-Serris (2009). 11. Voir les index de F. Cairns (2006) et J. Fabre-Serris (2008). 12. Si cette hypothèse était fondée, cela donnerait une autre dimension à l’élégie 1, 5 de Properce, où l’amant de Cynthie s’adresse à Gallus en l’appelant inuidus et à l’élégie 1, 10 où il s’imagine lui-même en position de spectateur assistant aux étreintes passionnées du même Gallus. On aurait, dans chacun des deux textes, à la fois une allusion et une variation ingénieuses. 13. F. Cairns (2006, pp. 131-136). 14. J. Fabre-Serris (2008, p. 43). 15. Sur ce modèle gallien, transmis par la Bucolique 10, voir J. Fabre-Serris (2008, pp. 65-69). Comme me l’a suggéré F. Klein, le choix de l’adjectif saturas pour qualifier les ouis est peut-être à considérer comme un autre signe de ce modèle gallien : on le trouve en effet au dernier vers de la Bucolique 10, un texte dédié à l’auteur des Amores : Ite domum saturae, uenit Hesperus, ite, capellae. À noter que dans ce vers le mot Hesperus est probablement aussi à prendre pour un renvoi à Gallus (voir la note 21). 16. Voir P. Knox (1986, pp. 15-16). 17. A. Barchiesi, (1999 p. 64). 18. Il est à noter que ni Tibulle dans l’élégie 2, 5, ni Properce dans l‘élégie 4, 1 n’évoquent la survie ou la renaissance de Troie dans Rome en l’accompagnant de restrictions : Troia quidem tunc se mirabitur et sibi dicet/ uos bene tam longa consuluisse uia (« Certes Troie s’étonnera alors d’elle-

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même et elle dira que vous vous êtes bien occupée d’elle par ce long voyage », 2, 5, 61-62) ; uexit et ipsa sui Caesaris arma Venus/ arma resurgentis portans uictricia Troiae (« Vénus a transporté elle- même les armes de son cher César, emportant les armes victorieuses de Troie ressurgissante », 4, 1, 46-47), … Ilia tellus/ uiuet … (« La terre d’Ilion vivra… », 4, 1, 53-54) ; dicam : « Troia, cades et Troica Roma resurges » (« Je dirai : ‘Troie, tu tomberas, et tu ressurgiras en Rome troyenne », 4, 1, 87). Il en est de même pour Ovide dans les Métamorphoses 15 : et una/ Pergama rapta feres …/ Vrbem etiam cerno Phrygios debere nepotes/ quanta nec est erit nec uisa prioribus annis («et l’arrachant aux flammes tu emporteras avec toi Pergame … Je vois que les descendants des Phrygiens doivent (fonder) une ville telle qu’il n’y en a pas, qu’il n’y en aura pas et qu’on n’en a pas vu dans le passé» ; 441-442 ; 444-445). 19. Les expressions Europae atque Asiae et Asiae Europaeque peuvent sembler assez attendues. En réalité la seule autre occurrence de l’assemblage des deux noms dans la poésie latine contemporaine se trouve, sous la forme : Europae atque Asiae dans un passage de l’ Énéide 7 (223-224) où Virgile évoque la guerre de Troie, en renvoyant probablement au texte de Catulle (… quibus actus uterque/ Europae atque Asiae fatis concurrerit orbis : « … les destins qui ont poussé à s’affronter les deux parties du monde, l’Europe et l’Asie »). C’est cette forme que Properce a reprise. 20. Voir F. Cairns (2006, pp. 97-98). Catulle, 62, 34-35 : nocte latent fures, quos idem saepe reuertens/ Hespere, mutato comprendis nomine eosdem (« la nuit cache les voleurs, que souvent, en revenant, Hespérus, le même (mais) sous un autre nom, tu prends sur le fait ». Cinna , frg. 6 Courtney : te matutinus flentem conspexit Eous/ et flentem paulo post uidit Hesperus idem (« tu pleurais quand Eous (Lucifer) le matin t’a aperçue, tu pleurais quand Hespérus, qui est le même (sous un autre nom), t’a vue peu de temps après. »). 21. Le haec forma, appliquée à Cynthie, renvoie au type de beauté qu’avait Hélène : digne d’être distinguée par un dieu. 22. Sur la victoire de Pâris à des Jeux, voir Euripide, Frag. Alexandri, p. 33 sqq Matth., p. 298 sqq Nauck. 23. Je remercie Mario Labate pour m’avoir fait remarquer que Pâris avait ici combattu à mains nues et non à la manière d’un guerrier homérique. 24. Voir P. Hardie (1986). 25. Verrit humum Tyrio saturata murice palla/ instrictamque fidem gemmis et dentibus Indis/ sustinet a laeua ; tenuit manus altera plectrum ;/ Artificis status ipse fuit (« il balaie la terre de sa robe saturée de pourpre tyrien ; il a posé sur sa main gauche sa lyre incrustée de pierres précieuses et d’ivoire de l’Inde ; il tient de son autre main son plectre ; son attitude même est celle de l’artiste », Mét., 11, 166-169). 26. Voir, par exemple, Suétone, Nér., 39. 27. Comme on le voit au résumé de Servius, la version proposée par Néron différait apparemment un peu de celle rapportée par Hygin. 28. Y. Perrin (1982, p. 868). 29. J. Fabre-Serris (1998, pp. 155-157). 30. Entre les intentions affichées et la réalité du projet urbanistique, il y a évidemment une marge importante. Sur ce que fut réellement la maison d’Auguste, voir A. Barchiesi (2009, p. 178). 31. J. Fabre-Serris (1998, pp. 138-140.) 32. J. Fabre-Serris (1998, pp. 138-139 ; 142-143).

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RÉSUMÉS

Cet article sera consacré à la façon dont Ovide est intervenu dans le ‘dialogue’ qu’avaient eu, à propos de l’héritage troyen, Virgile et Horace, d’accord l’un et l’autre pour en refuser la plus grande partie. Se focalisant sur le personnage de Pâris, Ovide exploite un motif rendu célèbre par Gallus : celui des amours heureuses sur les pentes de l’Ida du fils de Priam, tenu alors pour un simple berger, et de la nymphe Œnone. Il fait de cette période de la vie de Pâris l’emblème du bonheur en amour, qu’il n’associe pas seulement, comme Gallus, au monde pastoral, mais aussi à l’univers élégiaque. S’intéressant ensuite à la seconde partie de la vie de Pâris, amorcée par le Jugement des déesses, Ovide voit de nouveau en lui un exemplum. Il fait de celui qui choisit Vénus un modèle pour l’amant élégiaque, en même temps que le promoteur d’un genre de vie, qu’il assimile à celui de la Rome de son temps, implicitement célébrée comme une nouvelle, riche et puissante Troie. Sa réévaluation positive de la luxuria s’accompagne d’une affirmation de la uirtus de Pâris. Cette double perspective trouvera une postérité inattendue chez Néron, qui la reprend dans ses Troica et la met en scène dans la Domus Aurea avec le projet explicite de réconcilier enfin Rome avec la totalité de son passé troyen.

INDEX

Mots-clés : Dionysos, Domus Aurea, Gallus, genre de vie, Ida, luxuria, mores, Néron, Œnone, Orient, Ovide, Pâris, Parthénius de Nicée, passé troyen, Rome, satyres, silènes, Troica, Troie, uirtus, Virgile

AUTEUR

JACQUELINE FABRE-SERRIS Université de Charles-de-Gaulle-Lille 3 Centre Halma-Ipel – UMR 8164

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Gods, Caesars and Fate in Aeneid 1 and Metamorphoses 15

Bill Gladhill

1 Ovid’s reception of Vergil has enjoyed a fruitful and illuminating period of scholarly activity. This reception can be explored through subtle intertextual gestures between the Metamorphoses and Aeneid. At other times Ovid affects a full translatio of Vergil’s great epic, such as in his playful Perseid and Thebaid, or in his “little Aeneid,” which are so completely in conversation with Vergilian epic that Ovid leaves little doubt in his reader’s mind the precise tradition he follows.1 In Ovid’s formulation of “tradition” Greek epic has been retrospectively Vergilianized. When Ovid is not mining the Aeneid for poetic matters both large and small, he uses its unifying and unbounded vision of Roman power, as for example when he focalizes his poem’s cosmology through Vergil’s Venus and her lineage. The Metamorphoses even concludes with a heavy Vergilian rhythm. Ovid models the revelation of Caesarian Rome at Metamorphoses 15.745-842 on Aeneid 1.227-296, a passage that fuses fata with mythical (Aeneas) and historical (Caesar) deification.2 The dialogue between the two texts at the end of the Metamorphoses is sustained, forceful and particularly curious. Vergil’s great shadow moves over the finale of the Metamorphoses.

2 Scholars have long recognized that Ovid concludes his epic with Vergil’s prophetic program of Aeneid 1. 3 At almost every moment of contact Ovid makes geographic alterations, chronological displacements, emotive and psychological additions, politically charged amplifications and suppressions. He includes what Vergil excludes (Caesar’s assassination and Augustus’ rise to power), and expands on the themes of deification and succession. While the Aeneid’s largely positive prophecy (though some would disagree4) enfolds the tensions and ambivalent readings of the narrative into a synoptic macrocosm that authorizes the Julian teleology of Aeneas’ colonization tale, Ovid’s response extends the Aeneid’s prophetic claims to include Augustus and his death. Ovid responds to imperium sine fine with finis imperii. In the Metamorphoses Ovid’s fata have caught up with his tempora, as a prophetic future slips into an uncertain present, calling into question the entire narrative apparatus of prophetic poetics. I want to stress that Ovid is primarily interested in exploring the implications of Vergil’s

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blending of Epic (arma virumque) with grand prophetic visions of Roman imperium and Caesarian encomiastic apotheosis. On one level, Ovid is standardizing a newly conceived Vergilian topos of prophetic poetics in the epic genre, which should be understood as an act of homage. On another level, Ovid raises serious questions about the utilization of poetic prophecy when any such “prophetics” are subject to reception and future manipulation. At the core of the poetic encounter between Metamorphoses 15 and Aeneid 1 is the suitability of encomiastic prophecy of contemporary figures in an epic tradition.5

3 The purpose of this paper is to provide an analysis of the poetics of Ovid’s reception of Jupiter’s prophecy in Aeneid 1 and to discuss the implications of Ovid’s engagement with Vergil. At the end of the Metamorphoses Ovid explores the role of Vergilian prophetics in epic from a perspective that channels all the ways Vergil utilized fate, prophecy and divination into an ironic authorization of an Augustan present on the verge of ending. Whereas the Aeneid ends with the interpretative crux of the meaning of Turnus’ death, Ovid’s epic concludes with the imminent death of Augustus and the interpretative void his absence creates.

4 The narrative trajectory of the Metamorphoses conforms to a broad, global movement from gods’ descending to the earth in order to cavort with demigods and mortals to the ascension of heroes and historical figures to live among the gods and the stars.6 Io/Isis (1.747), Callisto and Arcas (2.505-7), Ino and Melicertes (4.531-42), Bacchus (4.614), the Dioscuri (8.372), Hercules (9.239-72), Aeneas (14.581-95), Romulus (14.805-28), Hippolytus/Virbius (15.479-551), and Aesclapius (15.622-744) all undergo apotheosis through divine aid. Julius Caesar and Augustus undergo apotheosis, or will experience it, through a system of imperial succession.7 By the end of the epic there is a direct ticket to divinity, if imperial succession follows the model provided in the final book.

5 As the narrative directs itself to Italy and Rome Ovid gradually accelerates the cadence of deification.8 At the end of the Epic three deifications (Caesar, Augustus and Ovid) occur according to two interrelated systems of language : fata (Caesar/Augustus) and fama (Ovid).9 This heightened focus on apotheosis in Book 15 is accompanied by a more sustained concentration on prophecy and power than in any of the other books.10 At the beginning of Book 15 Myscelos is told in a prophetic dream to desert his patriae sedes and establish a new city even though mors posita est patriam mutare volenti (15.29). Pythagoras, in his de rerum natura, based upon a fama that Rome will formam crescendo mutat (15.434), reports that Helenus (though he first gestures to vates who relate what the faticinae sortes say) foretold the founding of Rome and its domination by the Julian gens (15.439-49). Cipus, upon finding horns growing from his head, discovers by means of Etruscan haruspicia that he is fated (sic fata iubent) to be king and will rule safely with a sceptrum perenne (15.565-621), if he enters Rome (although he indicates in his contio to the Roman people that an augur would relay this prophecy if they sought it).11 The Romans consult the Delphic oracle in order to learn how to avert a plague, which results in further prophetic guidance through dreams and finally in the acceptance of the cult of Aesclapius into Rome. This sustained prophetic narrative—curiously merging fama and prophetic access to fata—is followed by Jupiter’s “reading” of the tabularia fatorum to Venus at the moment of Caesar’s assassination and catasterism. As Ovid brings the narrative closer to mea tempora, his narrative strikingly is catalyzed by a prophetic impetus.

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6 This increased use of prophetics climaxes at the end of the poem where Ovid has merged the prophetic program of the Metamorphoses with that of the Aeneid. Ovid draws a contrast between Julius Caesar in the Metamorphoses and the opening scene of the Aeneid in which Venus supplicates Jupiter on behalf of Aeneas. In the Aeneid Jupiter calms her by revealing the fata of Rome from the deification of Aeneas to the deification of Julius Caesar. In the Metamorphoses, on the other hand, at the moment of Caesar’s assassination, Venus anxiously prays to the gods for help. Rather than offering aid they send prodigies to Rome. Here, Ovid directs his reader to another Vergilian episode, the signa scene of Georgics 1.461-514, which describes the response of the natural world to Julius Caesar’s assassination.12 Jupiter then enters the narrative, revealing that Caesar’s assassination is necessary for his consequent apotheosis, Augustus’ pacification of the Roman world and future deification. But the very inscribed fata Jupiter recounts gestures to Georgics 2.490-522, a narrative about lapsarian states and the role of inscribed law in manifesting the Iron Age. If the inscribed fata of the Metamorphoses are physical manifestations of the Iron Age, then a tension is created if one suggests, as Anchises does at Aeneid 6.791-2, that Augustus Caesar, divi genus, aurea condet/ saecula, a phrase Ovid spells out at 15.832-33 : pace data terris animum ad civilia vertet/ iura suum legesque feret iustissimus auctor, lines which also recall Hesiod’s formulation of the return of the Golden Age under the leadership of just kings (WD 225-37). How can there be any regeneration of a Golden Age if the fates themselves are products and embodiments of the Iron Age ?

7 In looking at the general trend of Metamorphoses 15, then, it becomes clear that human prophetics in the form of dreams and oracles have yielded to divine prophecy. But this divine prophecy is constrained by fata, and even more significantly by fata as formulated by Vergil in the Georgics and Aeneid. Significantly, Ovid has channeled divine prophecy and fate back to the prophetic voice of the Vergilian vates. Ovid expands on Vergil’s lines almost in the manner of a scholiast’s marginal notes or commentary. A comparison of the prophetics of Aeneid 1 and Metamorphoses 15 show a great deal of overlap, but Ovid magnifies Vergil’s prophecy, while also offering his own rendering of the lines’ implied meaning. nascetur pulchra Troianus origine Caesar, imperium Oceano, fama qui terminet astris, Iulius, a magno demissum nomen Iulo. hunc tu olim caelo spoliis Orientis onustum accipies secura ; vocabitur hic quoque votis. aspera tum positis mitescunt saecula bellis. (Aen. 1.286-91)

8 The first three lines of the Aeneid passage are a tour de force of Vergilian geo-poetics and -politics. Troianus shifts our perspective east and to aitia (origine). Four syllables later Caesar snaps it back west to Rome.13 This movement from East to West, from past to future in the naming of Troianus Caesar is then modified by the subordinate clause to include Oceanus, which effectively changes the audience’s perspective from Troy and Rome into the conception of a space completely bounded by the frontier limits of Oceanus in the Homeric sense (or Catullan : Oceanusque, mari totum qui amplectitur orbem 64.30), which then extends further to the stars as the line concludes.14 Yet, the far periphery of Oceanus and astra are framed by the hyperbaton Caesar…Iulius, setting the frontiers of the terrae and caelum within the name of a single man. The reorientation continues as Roman Iulius derives from Trojan Iulus. Iulius and Iulo frame the line, again

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shifting the reader’s perspective in simultaneous snaps between East and West with hardly any differentiation between them, while mixing past, present and future, transforming the boundaries and expanses of space and time to mere shifts of perspective and alternative view points that collapse, condense and blur large stretches of physical space, morphing them into terminology, amalgamation and assimilation. But the extent of Caesar’s fame is replaced by the man himself upon his apotheosis as he ascends spoliis Orientis onustus ; the phrase is another way of calling him Troianus. Caesar has reconnected Troia and Roma. The spolia should not be interpreted strictly as booty taken in war and triumph, but the idea of Asia and Egypt more generally, its wealth, lands, peoples, all of those aspects of the landscape that had become part of Rome from the time of Sulla to Octavian.15

9 Vergil focuses on three aspects of Caesar : his Trojan origins (nascetur pulchra Troianus origine Caesar…Iulius, a magno demissum nomen Iulo), the spatial encompass of his power and fame (imperium Oceano, fama qui terminet astris…spoliis Orientis onustum) and his apotheosis and cult (hunc tu olim caelo…accipies secura ; vocabitur hic quoque votis). Metamorphoses 15.746-51 reads like an exegesis of these lines. Caesar in urbe sua deus est. quem Marte togaque praecipuum non bella magis finita triumphis resque domi gestae properataque gloria rerum in sidus vertere novum stellamque comantem, quam sua progenies; neque enim de Caesaris actis ullum maius opus quam quod pater exstitit huius. scilicet aequoreos plus est domuisse Britannos perque papyriferi septemflua flumina Nili victrices egisse rates Numidasque rebelles Cinyphiumque Iubam Mithridateisque tumentem nominibus Pontum populo adiecisse Quirini et multos meruisse, aliquos egisse triumphos, quam tantum genuisse virum, quo praeside rerum humano generi, superi, favistis abunde! (Met. 15.746-59)

10 Ovid’s Caesar is constructed according to Vergil’s tripartite structure : the lines include his birth and origin, the spatial encompass of his power and his apotheosis, which is actually witnessed as the Metamorphoses continues. The prophecy in the Aeneid has become narrative in the Metamorphoses. Yet, each category is intertwined with the other, so while the line begins with the presence of a divus Caesar in urbe sua, Caesar’s sidereal metamorphosis results from his res gestae militiae et domi and the actions of his progenies. Caesar’s magnum opus was not his triumphal conquests or his domination of Rome itself, but that he was a father. The focal point of the passage is the central significance of the name Caesar and paternity in the acta Caesaris.16 While the Vergilian passage looks to the Trojan origins of Caesar, locating the narrative of the Aeneid in a Julian family tree, Ovid closes this vast genealogical gap between Iulus and Iulius with the single nomen Caesar.

11 Outside of Metamorphoses 1.201 (Caesareo…sanguine), line 15.746 is the first naming of Caesar in the poem, a moment of primacy that connects it to Aeneid 1.286, itself the first usage of Caesar in that epic.17 The subtle changes in naming perceived in Troianus… Caesar…Iulius…Iulo have been completely submerged in the nomenclature Caesar… Caesaris. While Vergil gives voice to a mythical fiction in merging Iulus and Iulius, Ovid’s doubled Caesar masks the “imperial fiction” of a perfectly closed loop of

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succession.18 We could understand the granting of the title Caesar as a horizontal transaction from father to son. Jupiter, on the other hand, offers a vertical transaction, one that stresses Julian—and therefore Venereal—lineage at Met 15.841-2 in his pronouncement that there will be an aedes divi Iulii (ut semper Capitolia nostra forumque/ Divus ab excelsa prospectet Iulius aede).19

12 The joint effort of the father-son duo to inscribe Julius’ divinity into the sky is glossed as acta Caesaris, a phrase whose ideology both looks back to Cicero, who seems to have coined the phrase (fully working out its legal implications in the Philippics), and the first author to use the phrase after Cicero, Ovid, who includes it three times in his works, once in reference to Julius (the present case) and twice in reference to Augustus. 20

13 Yet, with the lines, quam sua progenies ; neque enim de Caesaris actis/ ullum maius opus quam quod pater exstitit huius Ovid isolates Augustus within the entire expanse of Vergilian prophetic time, as the line looks to Aeneid 6.790-91 of Anchises’ speech : hic Caesar et omnis Iuli/ progenies magnum caeli venutra sub axem. Omnis progenies has given way to sua progenies.21 The grand prophetic vision of Anchises in Aeneid 6 is contrastive with Vergil’s antiquam exquirite matrem./ hic domus Aeneae cunctis dominabitur oris/ et nati natorum et qui nascentur ab illis at Aen. 3.96-8, itself a reformulation of Iliad 20.307-308 (νῦν δὲ δὴ Αἰνείαο βίη Τρώεσσιν ἀνάξει / καὶ παίδων παῖδες, τοί κεν μετόπισθε γένωνται). Vergil linked the prophetic authority of Neptune in Iliad 20 to Apollo’s oracular pronouncement in Aeneid 3. Aeneas and his descendants are the focal points of each prophecy. At Aeneid 6, however, the prophetics takes a contemporary turn to focus on the offspring of Caesar, in essence channeling the Iliadic claim through Julian Rome. Ovid follows the prophetic trajectory of the Iliad and Aeneid, but he caps Neptune’s paides, Apollo’s nepotes and Anchises’ omnis progenies with the singular Augustus, who became sua progenies through the acta Caesaris.

14 The Ciceronian force of acta Caesaris situates the reader within the political discourse of Republican Rome, post-assassination, and in the present context the adoption of Octavian is central for a clear interpretation of the phrase. It recalls the Republican valence the title Caesar experienced both during the dictatorship and during Octavian’s power struggles. The name both validated the young man’s claim to Caesar’s property, which in Ovid could be construed as Rome itself (sua urbs), but it also became a sleight against Octavian, used by his competitors in their claim that the boy’s position was owed entirely to a name.22 While a reader familiar with Cicero’s Philippics might sense the Republican force of this phrase, Ovid suggests that Octavian had more than a mere “name.” Caesar only became “Caesar” after Actium, after the defeat of the rival Antony. It could very well be the case that Actium is implied in the phrase acta Caesaris, which suggests that this battle was concerned with establishing a legacy of imperial adoption and succession.

15 Let us now turn to Ovid’s commentary of Vergil’s second category, the geopolitical force of Julius Caesar. Ovid filters imperium…onustum ( Aen. 1.287-9) through Met. 15.752-59.23 These lines are a continuation of the interplay between the Caesares discussed above, but here Ovid captures the cosmological consequences of Caesar’s res and the “birth” of his son.24 While Julius’ res are plus in comparison to having given birth (genuisse) to a tantus vir (something he did in name only), it is Augustus himself (quo)—the praeses rerum—through whom the gods grant abundant favor to the human race.

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16 Ovid then unfolds like a map Vergil’s imperium Oceano as he characterizes Caesar’s conquest with clearly defined locations (aequorei Britanni [752] and Pontus [756]). Rather than the succinct and impressive imperi oceano, Ovid spatializes more directly and acutely the implications of Vergil’s phrase, while connecting the semantics of Ocean to the limits of this imperium, construed in the adjective aequoreus and the seascape, Pontus. Of course, Pontus refers to the Black Sea and the Roman province of the same name. Through demarcating imperium with “sea-blue” Britain and Pontus Ovid has scaled back the claim of Oceanic imperium in Vergil and set it within the vocabulary of Roman provincial governance. This delimitation of Vergil’s Oceanus corresponds to the bottlenecking of genealogical time through Augustus by Ovid. But between the imperial peripheries of Britain and Pontus lie Egypt and Numidia, two landscapes whose Pompeian and Catonian undertones are suppressed beneath the word rebelles and the phrase perque papyriferi septemflua flumina Nili/ victrices egisse rates (754-55).25 Caesar’s journey up the Nile is charged with the imagery of triumph in egisse triumphos at line 757, but rather than driving chariots through the seven hills (septem- mons/ septimontium) of Rome, the seven mouths of the Nile (septemfluaflumina emphasized by its seven syllables) find his victrices rates.26 Caesar’s triumph over Pompey can only be celebrated outside of Rome in Egypt while his Roman triumphs must be cloaked in the guise of foreign conquest. Ovid fills the absent spaces of Vergil’s imperium Oceano in a way that defines the spatial, historical and imperial reality contained in Oceanus. The fact that Ovid includes the regions of Pontus and Egypt at one instant reveals another element of spolia Orientis, as Ovid, like Vergil, has suppressed the civil war referents in characterizing Caesar’s victory. Yet, this suppression is accompanied by revelation : Ovid’s portrayal of Egypt as the location of Caesar’s triumph depicts Alexandria not only as the locus of Civil War triumphs, but also as a potential Rome where triumph might be celebrated. Ovid, in effect, charges Vergil’s onustum with an ironic valence ; Caesar became deified, laden with the “baggage” of his own Alexandrian affairs, especially when Caesar’s triumphal pleasure cruise up the Nile was made with Cleopatra at his side.27 Even more, this baggage accompanies him to Rome in 46 where both Cleopatra and Caesarion remained until Caesar’s assassination.

17 Ovid’s expansion of and commentary on his epic predecessor have revealed the implications of “birth,” nomenclature and power in Caesarian Rome. Ovid’s commentary on Vergil’s third theme—that of Caesar’s divinity— raises important questions about his own reading of fata and poetic authority in the Aeneid.28 Caesar in urbe sua deus est is the perfective achievement of Jupiter’s ameliorative utterance to Venus at Aeneid 1.289-90 : hunc tu olim caelo spoliis Orientis onustum/ accipies secura ; vocabitur hic quoque votis.29 Ovid’s deification of Caesar comes in two parts. The first section focuses on Caesar’s metamorphosis and the second part magnifies Jupiter’s reassurance to Venus (accipies secura) in the Aeneid as Ovid includes in his epic Caesar’s assassination.

18 The first representation of Caesar’s apotheosis in the Metamorphoses is as follows, to reiterate : Caesar in urbe sua deus est. quem Marte togaque praecipuum non bella magis finita triumphis resque domi gestae properataque gloria rerum in sidus vertere novum stellamque comantem… (Met. 15.746-49)

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19 Caesar’s deeds in war and peace change him into a novum sidus and a stella comans, or to put it another way, into a celestial caesaries.30Caesar transforms into his name, a metamorphosis that connects him to a whole class of characters in the poem whose names are self-referents to their novae formae, beginning with the poem’s first metamorphosis Lycaon.31 That Ovid inserts Caesar into a broader pattern of transformation within his poem is only part of the story.

20 He also suggests another element to Caesar’s deification that may explain the odd Romanization of the seven mouths of the Nile mentioned above. Ovid’s Caesar is reminiscent of Catullus 66, a translation of Callimachus’ coma Berenices included in Aetia 4, a poem that plays with the notion of deification.32 e Beroniceo vertice caesariem fulgentem clare… (66.6-8) idem me ille Conon caelesti in limine vidi uvidulam a fluctus cedentem ad templa deum me sidus in antiquis diva novum posuit. (66.63-4)

21 In Catullus 66 a caesaries becomes a novum sidus among old stars. In Ovid Caesar becomes a novum sidus. While Vergil burdens the deified Julius with spolia Orientis, itself a euphemism for Alexandrian spoils, Ovid fuses Caesar’s catasterism with that of an Alexandrian queen’s lock of hair.33

22 It has been long recognized that Callimachus’ Lock of Berenice and the translation of it by Catullus stand behind the language of Caesar’s apotheosis here.34 In fact, the final two books of the Aetia are significant models, if we follow Alessandro Barchiesi’s point that Callimachus’ Ektheosis Arsinoes provides the source for Venus’ anxious supplication on behalf of her descendants.35 Barchiesi suggests that this reference (among others) reflects a “feminization of grand politics,” in which Alexandrian images of power and monarchy are adapted to a Roman context where the “Aphrodisian ruler-cult” associated with Egyptian queens is transferred to Caesarian Rome.36 But is this the high water mark of the reference or is the focus on apotheosis and biological (progenies/ pater/ genuisse) offspring indicative of more ?

23 While Vergil privileges the image of Caesar as a proto-Augustan conqueror of Egypt, Ovid encourages a reading that does more justice to Caesar’s ambiguous relationship with Cleopatra and Alexandria. Nearly midway through Book 15 Pythagoras states that fama reports Rome will undergo metamorphosis (mutat) and become immensi caput orbis. The cutting of Caesar and his connection to Berenice’s caesaries extend the imagery of Rome’s metamorphosis into a “head,” as though the assassination of Caesar is akin to sheering Rome’s hair.37 Maria Wyke points to a Sibylline Oracle (3.350-80) which states that a despoina “will exact Asia’s vengeance for Roman aggression by shearing Rome’s hair and, with that victory, usher in a Golden Age of peace for both Asia and Europe.”38 The final metamorphosis of the poem seems to be a realization of this precise oracle. I do not want to push the parallel too far (and some reading will think I have done so already) and offer up a despoina here, but if Ovid is alluding to such an oracle, this would politicize even more paradoxically the feminization of power and apotheosis Barchiesi argues is at the core of Ovid’s reference to the Lock of Berenice. The heavy rhythms of Alexandrian apotheosis suggest that Ovid is alluding to more than Alexandrian religious models of feminized power. The oracle suggests that Caesar’s assassination is a requisite act for the return of a Golden Age, which Roman poetry

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connected to the advent of Augustus, the progenies of Caesar. The problem with this formulation is that Caesar actually produced a son with Cleopatra, Caesarion, whose birth was celebrated on Egyptian monuments where he was presented as her legitimate heir.39 In another sense, there was another “caesaries” which needed to be “cut” for Augustus’ position to be completely solidified. But in performing this act Augustus practically commits an act of fratricide, one of the notable horrors of the Iron Age.

24 More than commenting on Vergil here, Ovid merged prophecy and fata with narrative, which results in actors within the poem responding to Vergil’s prophetic trajectory. In this instance, Venus is made to witness Caesar’s assassination. In anticipation of the event Venus struggles to hide Caesar in a cloud (tum Cytherea manu percussit utraque/ pectus et Aeneaden molitur condere nube, Met. 15.803-4), mimicking her Iliadic subterfuge (qua prius infesto Paris est ereptus Atridae,/ et Diomedeos Aeneas fugerat enses, Met. 15.805-6). More significantly, Ovid characterizes the event in terms of Aeneid 1.33 : tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem. The hiding of the Aeneis in a cloud is an intertextual gesture to the underlying implications behind Vergil’s moles, the establishment of a poetically authorized Augustan Rome (Aeneaden molitur condere).

25 Jupiter stumbles on the scene in order to reveal the fata Caesaris. The most striking facet of the fata is not the historical chain of events linked to Caesar’s assassination, but the fata themselves, who has access to them, where they are located, and what they are made of : talibus hanc genitor : ‘sola insuperabile fatum, nata, movere paras ? inter licet ipsa sororum tecta trium ; cernes illic molimine vasto ex aere neque et solido rerum tabularia ferro, quae neque concussum caeli neque fulminis iram nec metuunt ullas tuta atque aeterna ruinas. invenies illic incisa adamante perenni fata tui generis ; legi ipse animoque notavi et referam, ne sis etiam num ignara futuri (Met. 15.807-15)

26 Jupiter informs Venus that while she cannot movere fatum (as Jupiter actually does in Aeneid 1, then curiously redefines at Aen. 10.112-13, rex Iuppiter omnibus idem./ fata viam invenient), she can enter the tecta trium sororum where she will see (cernes, as at Aeneid 1.257-60) the bronze and iron tabularia rerum, adamantine objects, forever protected from and unafraid of ira fulminis and ruina.40Rather than being assured that she “will see” an urbs, moenia and a deified Caesar, she can actually look upon the fata where she will find (invenies, perhaps a gesture to Aen. 10.113) the fata tui generis.41 The material of the tabularia rerum represent, as far as I know, the first time that fata are inscribed on a metal. Tabulae were, of course, smelted from bronze, and Ovid is clearly Romanizing traditional fata, inserting them into the context of Roman record keeping and administration.42 But this bold reconstitution of the tres sorores’ material is part of a broader transformation in the ontology of fata themselves, their implications and relationship not only to human action, but also to divine knowledge.

27 Vergil seems to suggest that the fata Jupiter unfolds are written on the papyrus of a book roll. Ovid responds with fata inscribed in bronze and iron and stored in an Olympian tabularium.43 This change of medium for transcription has broader implications. Olympus is subject to urbanization. Catullus 64 may also play a role in this shift of materiality of the fata where the Parcae weave images of the fata. From Catullus

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to Ovid there is a progressive process of recording the fata, developing from weaving to writing on paper and from writing to inscribing on metal. Each stage of transcription may represent a greater trend towards Roman bureaucratic record keeping and administration. Paper to metal is accompanied by the tabularium, an urban space that was built at a relatively late date during the Roman Republic, which suggests that in the 1200 years since Aeneas’ arrival to Italy, the gods themselves have been building Olympus on the model of Rome. The phrase tecta trium sororum sets the house of the fates among various other cosmological domiciles in the poem, such as Palatinian Olympus44, the Palace of the Sun, and the domus of Fama.45 In their connection to these houses the tecta-tabularia participate in the spatialization of the literary topography of the Metamorphoses in terms of Roman urban space : Olympus is mapped upon the Palatine, while the Palace of the Sun and the flight of Phaethon represent a cosmological Circus Maximus, and the domus of Fama is modeled on the Forum Romanum.46 At the end of the poem Ovid points to another monument, an Olympian tabularium where the gods are permitted to “read” and “make note” of the fata.47 That Venus is made aware only now that she could have discovered (invenies) the fata sui generis (what seems here to be like genealogical catalogue poetry) is a marker of the wholly novel building Ovid has constructed within his cosmography at the end of his poem.

28 The phrase solido rerum tabularia ferro has further implications. Towards the end of Georgics 2, Vergil describes the life of a fortunatus who has a pious respect for divinities and resides in a Golden Age. Vergil describes this age through negative examples : …nec ferrea iura insanumque forum aut populi tabularia vidit solicitant alii remis freta caeca, ruuntque in ferrum, penetrant aulas et limina regum. (Georgics 2.501-4)

29 Tabularia is a rare word, used prior to Ovid only here. This point alone would be slight if ferrum were absent. Ovid’s solido rerum tabularia ferro suggests that he has these lines of the Georgics in mind. In the Georgics, tabularia, coupled with ferrea iura48 (which would have been inscribed on bronze tabulae, not iron), and the various manifestations of wealth and luxury that accompany Iron Age society—and in particular civil strife and the type of migration one finds in Eclogue 1 (gaudent perfusi sanguine fratrum,/ exsilioque domos et dulcia limina mutant/ atque alio patriam quaerunt sub sole iacentem, Geo. 2.510-12) —signify the loss of the Golden Age through social discord and urban development. Ovid’s description of the tabularia alludes to Vergil’s Iron Age at the very moment when the Metamorphoses’ narrative describes political competition, civil discord and assassination.49 There is no need for Ovid to belabor the reference given the historical context of the narrative. The fates themselves are not only markers of the Iron Age, they are themselves artifacts of this Iron Age as they inscribe not only Caesar’s assassination, but his apotheosis. Ovid is the first author to mark out deification as a fixture of the Iron Age in his Amores.50 It seems as if the Iron Age is now the defining temporal frame of Olympus, in which the language of Roman urban development and its attendant evils implicate the divine apparatus of the poem.51

30 Ovid’s fata in the mouth of Jupiter mimick the Jupiter of Aeneid 1 as the god further reveals the syntax of Caesar’s deification ; it requires the nominis heres to bear the onus and to become an ultor with the gods as his allies.52 Jupiter then magnifies the onus the ultor will bear. Iterum Philippi suggests that Georgics 1.489-92 is the source of Jupiter’s

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prophecy (ergo inter sese paribus concurrere telis /Romanas acies iterum uidere Philippi ; /nec fuit indignum superis bis sanguine nostro /Emathiam et latos Haemi pinguescere campos). But in Ovid’s expansion of the Georgics, the iterated Philippi becomes flanked by Mutinae on the one side and by Octavian’s war with Sextus Pompeius and Antony-Cleopatra on the other : illius auspiciis obsessae moenia pacem victa petent Mutinae, Pharsalia sentiet illum, Emathiique iterum madefient caede Philippi, et magnum Siculis nomen superabitur undis, Romanique ducis coniunx Aegyptia taedae non bene fisa cadet, frustraque erit illa minata, servitura suo Capitolia nostra Canopo. (15.822-28)

31 Of the series of battles Jupiter recounts, the only one that is connected to the heres nominis in his capacity as ultor is the very one present in the Georgics. It was at Philippi where Octavian (perhaps apocryphally) vowed a temple to Mars Ultor, which was finally dedicated in 2 BCE.53 Mutina immediately undermines Jupiter’s framing of the material as it refers to a battle in which Octavian fought against Antony on behalf of the Republican side, prior to vowing a temple to Mars ultor.54 The war of vengeance is then broadened to incorporate Octavian’s dealings with Sextus Pompey, the Romanus dux and his coniunx Aegyptia, who had threatened that she would enslave Jupiter’s (nostra) Capitoline. Ultor is difficult to reconcile with the broader series of civil conflicts and their historical circumstances inscribed in the fata, especially when Fasti 3.705-10 clearly connects vengeance (ulcisci) to Philippi alone.55

32 But this seemingly inconsistent historical assemblage for ultor needs to be read according to the logic of the final episode of his poem. The Metamorphoses has emphasized that Caesar’s deification is a sine qua non for Octavian’s apotheosis. From this perspective Ovid’s narrative runs parallel to the thematic dialogue between the Temple of Mars Ultor and the aedes Iulii, with each monument participating in Julian divinity.56 The battles that flank Philippi are validated by their ultimate trajectory in bringing to realization the apotheosis of Caesar and ultimately of Augustus.57

33 The transformation of Octavian into Augustus is subtly insinuated into the narrative as the ultor becomes an auctor : pace data terris animum ad civilia vertet/ iura suum legesque feret iustissimus auctor (Met. 15.832-33). And while iura and leges suggest that Augustus is acting as a lawgiver to a new state, the trajectory of this episode has already been conditioned on the sequence of Iron Age referents in tabularia ferro. The verb feret (not to mention the numerous uses of ferunt/feruntur throughout the final lines of Met. 15) is not neutral; it shades the pace data terris…civilia iura with an iron hue. 58 But the lines above stop short of incriminating Augustus. Feret is the governing verb of iustissimus auctor, a relationship that depicts the fine line Augustus draws. The only thing standing between ferrum and the iustissimus auctor is a single -r-.59 Ovid seem to be following the word play between ferr/fer found most famously in Tibullus 1.10.1-2 (quis fuit, horrendos primus qui protulit enses?/ quam ferus et vere ferreus ille fuit!). It is implied in this line that the evils of the Iron Age are mitigated by the quality of the most just ruler, who, as early as Hesiod, could relegate the evils of the Iron Age to a manageable place.60

34 As Jupiter continues to recall his notes, human time seems to be moving at a rapid pace. The auctor is redefined as segnior. This renaming of Augustus recontextualizes the Iron Age backdrop since tacitly in any discussion of the Ages of Mankind is the passage

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from one epoch into another. The problem of an aging Augustus is that the period of peace and civil law will not remain static. exemploque suo mores reget inque futuri temporis aetatem venturorumque nepotum prospiciens prolem sancta de coniuge natam ferre simul nomenque suum curasque iubebit ; nec, nisi cum senior Pylios aequaverit annos, aetherias sedes cognataque sidera tanget. (Met. 15.834-39)

35 Caesar’s apotheosis immediately follows these lines, as he becomes a iubar at the moment his body is cut (hanc animam interea caeso de corpore raptam/ fac iubar, ut semper Capitolia nostra forumque/ divus ab excelsa prospectet Iulius aede!61), but the fata reveal that Augustus will become an old man, and after he has reached the age of Nestor he will become a god. But he will govern the future mores by the force and authority of his exemplum.62

36 The idea of Augustus’ exemplum stresses the need for the past in constructing a sustainable Roman future, precisely because Ovid’s fata have merged with his tempora. Augustus is segnior. His apotheosis is at hand. For four years after the “publication” of the Metamorphoses (however, we want to imagine it), the end of the poem would have slipped seamlessly from the page into the living space of the audience, as Augustus grows older day after day, reading after reading. But just as in Aeneid 1 where Jupiter passes over the death of Julius Caesar, Ovid’s Jupiter moves directly from Augustus’ long life to his apotheosis, omitting that pivotal moment between the two events.

37 While Ovid follows Augustus’ fated apotheosis with the actual deification of Julius Caesar, the transition from Augustus’ future deification to Caesar’s actual apotheosis is inherently problematic. The problem is twofold: the mode of deification established between the Caesares hinges on the name (heres nominis), and furthermore this new Caesar must bear the onus of being a progenies. The deification of the father is conditioned on the actions of the heres nominis.63 While Augustus will see his grandchildren, the phrase venturorumque nepotum/ prospiciens prolem sancta de coniuge natam/ ferre simul nomenque suum curasque iubebit entails all that is at stake in the choice of progenies and the name. Ovid captures the precipitous balance between feret (iustissimus auctor) and ferrum, by moving one step closer to the full realization of the Age of Iron as it hangs upon the ferre, that is the ability of Augustus’ successor to bear the nomen and the curae. An unsuccessful successor will bring the Iron Age world of Roman Civil War. Another Iterum…Philippi is not precluded if Augustus’ example is not followed.

38 Myths and narratives of succession should not end epics, but here at the end of the Metamorphoses Ovid emphatically sets the transition from Julius to Augustus within the myth of succession: sic magnus cedit titulis Agamemnonis Atreus, Aegea sic Theseus, sic Pelea vicit Achilles…sic et Saturnus minor est Iove (Met. 15.855-58).64 Is Augustus like the heroes or Jupiter ? The difference matters. Agamemnon, Theseus and Achilles invoke the Orestes, Hippolyti, and Neoptolemi, the tragic successors of their tragic fathers. Jupiter is unique in that he ends succession myths completely on the divine level. It is precisely this reason why Ovid refers to Georgics 1.497 ( di patrii Indigetes et Romule Vestaque mater65) in which Vergil prays that the gods allow the iuvenis to succor his inverted age on the premise that the perjury of Laomedon has been repaid with Roman blood.66 Ovid’s prayer both includes the Georgics as a subtext, but it focuses on Augustus at the

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threshold of divinity.67 Ovid calls upon the gods to delay Augustus’ death and that, when it does arrive, he might favor those who are praying. (tarda sit illa dies et nostro serior aevo,/ qua caput Augustum, quem temperat, orbe relicto/ accedat caelo faveatque precantibus absens, 15.867-70). The final clause, faveatque precantibus absens, recalls Met. 15.758-9, which connect the favor of the gods to the presence of a praeses rerum (quo praeside rerum/ humano generi, superi, favistis abunde). Just as Caesar’s res hinged upon his successor, so too do Augustus’, but the poem and the fata leave the nomen of the heres nominis absent. Instead, the divine Augustus still inhabits the space of the praeses rerum, although his deification (i.e. death) will leave an absence (absens) in Rome, which will necessitate a new praeses rerum. Ovid has filled this uncertainty with the hard reality that even when an emperor is iustissimus the Iron Age is lurking beneath his leges and iura civilia. The superlative does not lend an optimistic reading to the success of a successor that he become even more just than the prior auctor. Succession is suppressed, but its tensions and fears are fully tangible. Ovid’s gesture to the Georgics emphasizes all the more just how precariously the matter hangs as the iuvenis in the Georgics is now segnior in the Metamorphoses.

39 The final episode of the Metamorphoses ends in a state of uncertainty in the context of succession after a long realignment of Vergil’s fata in Aeneid 1. The poem concludes with the parenthesis si quid habeat veri vatum praesagia (15.879). The conditional captures the central issue at stake in Ovid’s dialogue with Vergil ; do the praesagia vatum have any claim to truth and how do we know ?68 The wit and humor of the epic’s finale with its anxious Venus, clumsy Jupiter, and tabularium fatorum give way to the serious intellectual and poetic engagement between Ovid and Vergil and the question it raises about praesagia vatum. This is serious poetics as the narrative slips from imperial encomia to the unpredictability of succession. The push and pull of destiny as shaped by Vergil become a cosmological crisis in Ovid as fata appear to give way to acta Caesaris and gods become passive observers of a new system of apotheosis based wholly on the title Caesar.

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NOTES

1. The massive amount of scholarship devoted to the relationship between Ovid and Vergil is humbling. In most every book or article written on the Metamorphoses there is some mention of Vergil, so much so that one could almost perform a sortes Vergilianae. What follows is the most relevant and recent. Bömer 1959, Lamacchia 1960, Döpp 1969, Solodow 1988, 110-56, Hardie 1990, 1993, Tissol 1996, Smith 1997, Segal 1999, Papaioannou 2005. See Knox 1986, 6 and Hinds 1987, 14-23 also. 2. See Schmitzer 1990, 284-6 and Thomas 2001, 78-92. On Jupiter’s speech “owing its very existence to another text, the speech of Jupiter in Aeneid 1” see Hardie 1997, 192-3. On Venus’ desire to be head hancho of Olympus see Barchiesi 1999, 112-26. 3. For a recent and lucid discussion of Ovid’s use of the Aeneid in Metamorphoses 15 see Feldherr 2010, 65-83. 4. I will not enter into the morass of the tone of Jupiter’s prophecy in Aeneid 1. See most recently Julia Hejduk’s discussion of Jupiter in the Aeneid (Hejduk 2010). My own reading of this passage will be filtered through Ovid, who, I think, clearly saw problems in including such prophecies on the historical events of Civil War. 5. It is notable, in this respect, that a poet like Horace, whose encomia are wholly at home in his conception of the Lyric tradition, rarely is mentioned in debates of Augustan/anti-Augustan. However, the merging of encomia with epic results in an ambivalence about the authenticity of such encomia because of broader narrative schemes of Epic impact one’s rendering of the praise. 6. For a sophisticated and elaborate analysis of the Metamorphoses’ narrative organization see Adamik 1999. 7. Wheeler 2000, 139. On deification in Ovid see Salzman 1998, 313-46. 8. Wheeler 2000, 139. See Segal 1969 for the theme of apotheosis in the Metamorphoses and its role in diminishing the claims of Caesarean deification. 9. Bettini 2008. 10. On Book 15 see Knox 1986, 65-83 and Wheeler 2000, 114-54. 11. It is notable that Myscelos, Pythagoras and Cipus all have claims to divine status as well, Myscelus in his capacity as oikistes, Pythagoras as a reincarnating entity, and Cipus as a potential emperor of Rome. 12. This connection between the Metamorphoses and Georgics has not received sufficient analysis and is a focus of my current research. 13. On the contested identification of this Caesar see O’Hara 1991, Kragerrud 1992 and their debate in SO 69 in 1994. See Dobbin 1995, 6-8 for a full discussion of the scholarly debate on these

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lines beyond O’Hara and Kragerrud. All arguments are anticipated by Austin 1971, 108-110. It is notable that Servius had no problem with this identification. I tend to follow Servius’ reading. 14. As Dobbin 1995, 18-19 points out, Ocean could be interpreted as Britain, and as I show below, Ovid elaborates on this idea, but given the interplay between ocean and stars I think we are dealing also with imagined and hyperbolic peripheries. 15. For Egypt as part of Asia see Dobbin 1995, 16. 16. See Hardie 1997, 191-4 for succinct discussion of the acta, succession, and the disruptive role of Fama in mediating the transition of power. 17. The identification of this Caesar is contentious. Feeney 1991, 199 follows Due 1974, 71-2 in accepting the identification as Augustus, referring to the attempted “assassination” of the princeps in 23 (or 22) BCE. As such Feeney translates saevit 1.200 as “made their savage attempt,” which seems to lessen the force of the verb. The identification really hangs on 1.204-5: nec tibi grata minus pietas, Auguste, tuorum/ quam fuit illa Iovi. As the lines develop, Julius Caesar is identified first, with Augustus to follow. But it is difficult to know if the pietas…tuorum refers to the senate, as it seems Due implies, or to the Caeserian faction after Caesar’s assassination. Knox 1986, 17, rightly in my opinion, sees totusque perhorruit orbis as a reference to the litany of portents of the First Georgic in response to Caesar’s assassination. For a full discussion of the “conspiracy” and attendant problems see Nisbet and Hubbard 1978, 151-8. 18. Hardie 1997, 193-5 19. Feldherr 2010, 71. 20. Cicero: de domo sua 39.9, 40.14; pro Sestio 135.14; de provinciis consularibus 43.4, 44.11, 45.17; Philippicae 1.16.11, 1.16.7, 1.16.9, 1.17.2, 1.18.11, 1.19.5, 1.19.7, 1.20.4, 1.23.4, 1.25.4, just to cite those uses of it in the first Philippic. The number of citations is large. Ovid: Amores 3.12.15 and Tristia 2.1.321. 21. The lines, quam sua progenies; neque enim de Caesaris actis/ ullum maius opus quam quod pater exstitit huius, while overtly referring to the acta of Julius Caesar, could (quite secondarily) be read as the acta of Augustus, with the implication that there was no other opus of the progenies greater than that his father became preeminent, i.e. deified and awarded the aedes Divi Iulii, a structure built by the progenies himself. The semantic range of exstare in this instance includes the existential meaning (OLD 4) if one interprets Caesaris as Julius or the idea of preeminence (OLD 2), if Augustus is understood. Ovid has translated into the Metamorphoses the ambiguity of Caesar… Iulius that has caused such consternation among scholars of the Aeneid, yet this ambiguity is a function of dynastic politics, not encomiastic poetics. Ovid illuminates the nature of this poetic ambiguity by offering the logic inherent in Vergil’s thought, that Julius Caesar could not become Divus Iulius without his progenies and that his progenies could not have become a Caesar without his father’s acta. See Pasco-Pronger 2007, 204 for a discussion of this adoption in the Fasti. 22. See, of course, Syme 1939, 112-22. Cic. Phil. 13.24, et te, o puer, qui nomini debes. 23. On Met. 15.750-8 see Hinds 1987, 24-6. Kraggerud (1992, 107) argued that the phrases imperium Oceano, fama qui terminet astris…spoliis Orientis onustum must refer to Augustus, “for the status of the world ruler stressed here should be an abiding one, not one soon cut off by violent death.” He claims the spoliis Orientis onustum is temporally unrestricted, essentially referring to Augustus’ future apotheosis, and that both lines read in tandem refer to 29 BCE, the year of Octavian’s triple triumph (109). Following O’Hara, Dobbins (1995, 10-15) acknowledges that Augustus’ victories could very likely be the referents of this phrase, but that Caesar is not precluded from being signified. While Kraggerud, I think, is right to assign 29 BCE to the lines (if we must assign a date), O’Hara and Dobbins are right to suggest that the lines refer to Caesar. I would like to follow Allan Ball’s argument made in 1913 and assert more forcefully that spoliis Orientis onustum refers to Julius Caesar alone. As Ball suggests, while Julius Caesar was deified in 42 BCE, it was not until 29 BCE that the aedes Divi Iulii was officially dedicated in the Roman Forum and decorated with the very beaks collected as spoils from the battle of Actium (see White

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1988, 337-8). Vergil is gesturing to the official consecration of the temple and its Actian associations. This interpretation has the benefit of clarifying the sense of aspera tum positis mitescunt saecula bellis since it refers to the period immediately after the dedication of the aedes Iulii Divi. It also lends further support to the idea that spoliis Orientis onustum describes Caesar in his official status as divinity within the topography of Rome while actually being “burdened” with the oriental spolia from Actium. To add Augustus into the mix needlessly confuses the sense, and Ovid himself in his reception of these lines could not be clearer that he interpreted Vergil’s Caesar as referring to Julius alone. 24. These conquests are implicitly connected to deification. See Bosworth 1999. 25. Schmitzer1990, 281. While Bömer 1985, 457 is clearly right to attribute these lines to Caesar’s touristic leisure trip with Cleopatra, the phrase victrices egisse rates, which he recognizes is without parallel, suggests Roman triumph. 26. It should seriously be considered whether the idea of Rome’s seven hills is a direct response to the seven mouths of the Nile and seven gated Thebes. This could be understood as a type of imperial and national advertising campaign. 27. Schmitzer 1990, 280-1. 28. It is notable that the presentation of Caesar’s assassination at Fasti 3.697-710 calls into question his own poetic authority in the Metamorphoses. See Pasco-Pronger 2007, 205-9 for a discussion of Caesar’s apotheosis, Vesta and the election of Augustus (and future emperors) as pontifex maximus immediately before the ides of March. For fata in the Aeneid see Heinze 1915, 293-304. 29. For a succinct discussion of Met. 15.746-51 and his manipulation of “Vergilian speech” see Feeney 1991, 210-14, 218-19. 30. See Ahl 1985, 90-1 for the various and meaningful formations of Caesar Ovid manipulates in the death and apotheosis of Julius. 31. See Barchiesi 2001, 75 on the seamless insertion of Caesar’s catasterism into the “fabulous fabric of preceding metamorphoses.” Also Bömer 1985, 452. 32. See Barchiesi 1997, 194 33. See Gurval 1997 and Scott 1941. Gurval points out in the numismatic evidence an earlier star phase on the coinage of Octavian and a later comet phase during the principate proper (45). The sidus is found on many coin types from the reign of Caesar, through the triumviral period and into the principate, as Gurval nicely shows. It is claimed that this star is the sidus Iulium (a collocation used only once in Latin at Horace, Carmina 1.12.47). A comet could be called a sidus, but it is often accompanied by a noun, adjective, or relative clause to mark it. Novum sidus, a rare collocation, is used only here of a comet. Vergil’s Caesaris astrum is the first extent reference to Caesar’s star (Eclogue 9.47). novum sidus is found in only two other contexts, Georgics 1.19 where Augustus is free to choose his celestial locus and Curtius Rufus’ Historiae 10.8.23.4 in an unclear context. There are a number of potential interpretations for this doubling; perhaps Ovid is referring to the change of the Iulium sidus over time from star to comet (Gurval’s interpretation, 69); he could be motivated by statues of Caesar with a star affixed to his head, which he might be alluding to with stella comans; he could be depicting a twofold process whereby his ascension is in the form of a comet and his final form is a star. See Gurval 1997, 62-69 for a discussion of Caesar as star including this passage. 34. In particular see Knox 1986, 65-81. 35. On the Lock of Berenice and Caesar’s apotheosis see Knox 1986, 76-9. Knox rightly emphasizes the influence of Callimachus and Ennius on the entire organization of Book 15. Barchiesi 1999, 117. 36. Barchiesi 1999, 117-19. Barchiesi also shows that Bion’s Epitaph to Adonis and Theocritus 15.105-7, which depicts Aphrodite anointing Berenice, further impacts our reading of Venus’ lament of Caesar here.

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37. The metaphor might be extended to Ovid whose apotheosis comes through os populi, as if the head now has a mouth. It is also notable that Caesar himself was bald. Rome, like Caesar, also loses its hair. 38. Wyke 1992, 103. 39. Wyke 1992, 102. 40. Clearly, the tabularia are a response to Jupiter’s unrolling a scroll of fata in the Aeneid (see Wheeler 1999, 56 following Austin). 41. On the connection between these fata, the Aeneid, and Jupiter’s knowledge see Barchiesi 2001, 131. 42. On the materiality of tabulae and much else see Meyer 2004. 43. See Smith 1994, 50. 44. Due 1974, 86 suggests that “the invention of a rerum tabularia is on the same level as the Palatia caeli.” 45. Wheeler 1999, 56-57 comments on the close and antithetical connection between the House of Fame and the fata. He suggests that the “living voice of fama” representing “poetic tradition and authority in terms of the hazards of oral communication” stands in marked contrast to the fixed inscriptions of fata, which are no longer spoken but read, and as a result are immutable. The problem with this analysis is that Ovid’s tabularia are themselves a response to tradition, noted by the mass of forms of ferre that have peppered the lines, and in addition their sudden, unexpected, and wholly untraditional appearance at this moment in the text suggests that the fama and fata are moving towards the same telos. It is notable that the Metamorphoses, like the tabularia, are not vulnerable to the fulmen of Jupiter (Iovis ira 15.871), as mentioned in Galinsky 1975, 254. Hardie’s discussion on fama, fata and nepotes (1986, 369-70) is closer to the type of associations at work in the Metamorphoses. Ovid has collapsed the distinction between fama and fata by the end of the epic. 46. See Barchiesi 2009 and Gladhill 2013. 47. I believe an argument can be made that these topographical markers suggest that the entire Metamorphoses never leaves Rome via the experience of art and landscape within the city. From this point of view the Metamorphoses, like the Aeneid, is a foundation tale of Rome as a center of art. 48. Thomas 1988, 256 comments on the oddity of ferreus modifying iura when bronze was the metal of choice for inscription. Iura imply an Age of Iron. 49. This point is in contrast to Segal 2001, 90 who sees this episode of the Metamorphoses in the following way: “Ovid is comfortably within the limits of familiar praise of Augustus’ moral program, and he is drawing on the Virgilian Jupiter’s famous prophecy of the Augustan Golden Age in Aeneid 1.286-96.” 50. Amores 3.8.45-52. See Holleman 1969, 47-8. 51. I wonder if Ovid is making broader argument about the Ages of Mankind in the Metamorphoses as a whole. It is notable that this focus on narratives of decline looks back to the Ages of Metal at the beginning of the Metamorphoses. It is also significant that Jupiter destroys Iron Age people with a deluge. When Deucalion and Pyrrha create people out of stones, this could be understood as the beginning of the “Stone Age.” The first sign of this Stone Age is the incrimination of the gods in “Iron Age” behavior on the human plane. From this point of view the apotheosis of Caesar is not an ascension of a man, but the degradation of Gods. 52. hic sua conplevit, pro quo, Cytherea, laboras,/ tempora, perfectis, quos terrae debuit, annis./ ut deus accedat caelo templisque colatur,/ tu facies natusque suus, qui nominis heres/ inpositum feret unus onus caesique parentis/ nos in bella suos fortissimus ultor habebit. (Met. 15.816-21). It is suggestive that the language of biological birth in the voice of the poet does not correspond to the language of hereditary titles in the voice of Jupiter in his remembrance of the fata.

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53. Syme 1939, 471. See also Pasco-Pronger 2007, 276-85 on Ovid’s treatment of the ultor-theme in the Fasti and the debate over whether the vow of vengeance happened at Philippi or was part of Augustus’ Parthian strategy. The vow at Philippi could very well date to 2BCE (Pasco-Pronger, 279-80). Ovid is the earliest source of Octavian’s vow at Philippi in 42 BCE as Pasco-Pronger notes (276). 54. Due 1974, 86-7. Due (87) states, “Vergil and Horace pass over Mutina in complete silence. Obviously Augustus did not want it to be remembered too well that one of his first allies was at the same time one of his father’s murderers. It was best to say as little as possible about Mutina. The distortion here is apparently meant to put Augustus in the best light, but it is so evidently a distortion that it becomes its own corrective--and that may be the point. The flattery goes so far that it must have had an embarrassing effect.” See also Maleuvre 96, 1991. 55. at quicumque negas ausi, prohibente deorum/ numine, polluerant pontificale caput,/ morte iacent merita: testes estote, Philippi,/ et quorum sparsis ossibus albet humus./ hoc opus, haec pietas, haec prima elementa fuerunt/ Caesaris, ulcisci iusta per arma patrem. See Pasco-Pronger 2007, 205-5 on Mars Ultor in the Fasti. She discusses both this passage and Fasti 5.573-75, the very moment young Octavian vows the temple. 56. On the dating of the dedication of the temple see Simpson 1977. 57. Met. 15.829-31 (quid tibi barbariam gentesque ab utroque iacentes/ oceano numerem? quodcumque habitabile tellus/ sustinet, huius erit: pontus quoque serviet illi!) rewrites both the imperium Oceano of Jupiter’s prophecy in the Aeneid 1 as well as Ovid’s listing of Caesar’s conquests that span aequorei Britanni and Pontus in Metamorphoses 15. 58. See Due 1974, 70 on Ovid’s contemporary Rome already marked as Iron in the ages of metal. It must be remarked that this claim between ferre and ferrum would be more than inconclusive if the end of the Metamorphoses were not so bound up with the notion of the Iron Age. 59. The mass of material compiled by Ahl 1985 lends support for this assertion. He does not discuss these particular cases. 60. Of course, given that iustissimus derives from ius, perhaps the superlative emphasizes even more an Iron Age under Augustus. Vergil’s ferrea iura may be important here. 61. Iubar is, of course, another etymological marker of Caesar, as noted by Ahl 1985, 90. 62. It is notable that this is the first metamorphosis that characterizes change in terms of the soul rather than the body. In particular, this metamorphosis focuses on the separation of the anima from the corpus, itself the standard definition of death from Plato onwards. This is the one metamorphosis in which the corpus is absent from the transformation, suggesting a break from the theme of nova corpora. This suggests that tales of nova corpora have come to an end as metamorphosis is now a matter of the spirit. 63. See Barchiesi 2001, 76-8. 64. For problematic associations in comparing Caesar-Augustus to these heroes (especially the Atreids) see Holleman 1969, 49-51, Ahl 1985, 89 and Salzman 1998, 333-4. 65. Di, precor, Aeneae comites,…dique Indigetes genitorque Quirine/ Urbis et invicti genitor Gradive Quirini,/ Vestaque Caesareos inter sacrata Penates/ et cum Caesarea tu, Phoebe domestice, Vesta (15.861-65) 66. di patrii Indigetes et Romule Vestaque mater,/quae Tuscum Tiberim et Romana Palatia seruas,/ hunc saltem euerso iuuenem succurrere saeclo/ ne prohibete. satis iam pridem sanguine nostro/ Laomedonteae luimus periuria Troiae;/ iam pridem nobis caeli te regia, Caesar,/ inuidet atque hominum queritur curare triumphos,/ quippe ubi fas uersum atque nefas: tot bella per orbem,/ tam multae scelerum facies, non ullus aratro/ dignus honos, squalent abductis arua colonis,/ et curuae rigidum falces conflantur in ensem./ hinc mouet Euphrates, illinc Germania bellum;/ uicinae ruptis inter se legibus urbes/ arma ferunt; saeuit toto Mars impius orbe,/ ut cum carceribus sese effudere quadrigae,/ addunt in spatia, et frustra retinacula tendens/ fertur equis auriga neque audit currus habenas. 67. On this prayer and its appropriateness see Wheeler 2000, 146-7.

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68. Newman 1967, 112 reads Ovid’s praesagia vatum as a testament to the fact that he does not “really understand the vates-concept at all.” Clearly, he has understood it all too well.

RÉSUMÉS

The purpose of this paper is to provide an analysis of the poetics of Ovid’s reception of Jupiter’s prophecy in Aeneid 1 and to discuss the implications of Ovid’s engagement with Vergil. At the end of the Metamorphoses Ovid is interested in exploring the role of Vergilian prophetics in epic from a perspective that channels all the ways Vergil utilized fate, prophecy and divination into an ironic authorization of an Augustan present on the verge of ending. Whereas the Aeneid ends with the interpretative crux of the meaning of Turnus’ death, Ovid’s epic concludes with the imminent death of Augustus and the interpretative void his absence creates.

INDEX

Mots-clés : Aeneid, Deification and Poetics., Fate, Metamorphoses, Prophecy

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Horace et la question de l’imitatio

Robin Glinatsis

1 La convocation du ou des modèles auctoriaux est l’une des caractéristiques majeures de l’écriture horatienne. Le poète augustéen éprouve continuellement le besoin de se référer à la figure du primus inuentor, grec dans le cas des Épodes et des Odes, latin dans celui des Satires1. Il s’agit, par l’inscription explicite dans une tradition poétique reconnue, de donner une légitimité forte à ses propres compositions. Il s’agit aussi de définir la place que l’on tient à occuper au sein de cette tradition ; faut-il se faire le continuateur fidèle du maître grec (ou latin) ou s’évertuer, quoi qu’il en coûte, à faire preuve d’originalité ? En manifestant un intérêt prononcé pour de telles préoccupations, Horace reprend en fait les termes d’un débat séculaire, dont les premières traces apparaissent dans les poèmes de Pindare, de Simonide et de Bacchylide2. Au cours de la période hellénistique, la reprise des techniques scripturales, des sujets, des genres donne lieu au développement d’une « rivalité imitative et créative », non seulement par rapport aux grands modèles, mais aussi entre les poètes alexandrins eux-mêmes3. À Rome, le concept d’imitatio accompagne les premières entreprises littéraires et devient rapidement un facteur naturel et, pour ainsi dire, intrinsèque de la littérature latine. Sous l’influence des pratiques poétiques et de la pensée critique alexandrines, les auteurs augustéens s’engagent de manière presque systématique dans une relation d’aemulatio avec leurs prédécesseurs grecs 4. Toutefois, l’idée de rivalité induite par la notion d’aemulatio ne coïncide que très rarement avec une volonté affichée de surpasser l’exemple grec. Au mieux, les Augustéens aspirent à égaler les performances de leur(s) devancier(s) ; souvent, ils sont amenés, dans le cadre de recusationes5, à clamer l’impossibilité de concurrencer le primus inuentor, dont les vers sont conçus comme la représentation la plus aboutie de la forme poétique en question.

2 Ces considérations traversent l’ensemble du corpus des œuvres d’Horace, selon des modalités et à des degrés variés. Les Épîtres proposent un traitement frontal des questions de poétique, alors que les Odes, davantage soumises à la lex operis, travestissent le discours critique qu’elles accueillent. Ainsi les principes éclairant la position d’Horace en matière d’imitatio font-ils l’objet d’une double énonciation : ils

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sont exposés en des termes explicites au sein de l’Épître I, 19 et de l’Épître aux Pisons et, à l’aide de procédés spécifiques, prennent une forme actualisée dans certaines odes.

3 Ces remarques liminaires laissent à penser que les réflexions accordées à l’art des Muses, et en particulier à la relation avec les modèles auctoriaux, se répartissent de manière homogène dans l’œuvre d’Horace ; il paraît alors indispensable, afin de saisir la conception horatienne de l’imitatio dans sa globalité, d’adopter un point de vue transversal. Il nous semble, d’abord, que les considérations tenues sur le sujet à l’intérieur des Épîtres ne se limitent pas aux seuls énoncés de l’Épître I, 19 et de l’Épître aux Pisons, qui, nous le verrons, tendent à se rejoindre. L’Épître I, 1, programmatique à plus d’un titre, comporte un passage d’une importance capitale, où le poète exprime avec la plus grande conviction sa volonté d’indépendance. Il s’agit là d’un complément théorique décisif, qui trouve de nombreux points d’ancrage dans la pratique poétique d’Horace.

L’exposé de la conception horatienne dans l’Épître I, 19 et l’Épître aux Pisons

4 L’Épître I, 19, prenant pour champ référentiel les poèmes horatiens eux-mêmes, réserve un traitement particulier au problème de l’imitatio. Archiloque, Alcée et Sappho sont désignés sans détours comme les représentants l’un de la poésie iambique, les autres de la poésie lyrique, et c’est naturellement par rapport à eux que le poète augustéen choisit de se positionner, éclairant par là même la composition de ses Épodes et de ses Odes : Libera per uacuum posui uestigia princeps, non aliena meo pressi pede. Qui sibi fidet, dux reget examen. Parios ego primus iambos ostendi Latio, numerosque animosque secutus Archilochi, non res et agentia uerba Lycamben. Ac ne me foliis ideo breuioribus ornes, quod timui mutare modos et carminis artem : temperat Archilochi Musam pede mascula Sappho, temperat Alcaeus, sed rebus et ordine dispar, nec socerum quaerit, quem uersibus oblinat atris, nec sponsae laqueum famoso carmine nectit. Hunc ego, non alio dictum prius ore, Latinus uolgaui fidicen ; iuuat inmemorata ferentem ingenuis oculisque legi manibusque teneri. « J’ai, le premier, porté de libres pas à travers un domaine inexploré ; je n’ai pas foulé de mon pied les traces laissées par un autre. Qui aura confiance en soi conduira l’essaim en chef. Moi, j’ai été le premier à dévoiler au Latium les iambes de Paros, empruntant les mètres et l’esprit d’Archiloque, et non ses sujets ni ses mots qui s’acharnent contre Lycambès. Et ne me couronne pas d’un laurier plus chétif parce que j’ai craint de changer les rythmes et l’art de sa poésie : par son mètre, la virile Sappho tempère la Muse d’Archiloque, Alcée la tempère, mais s’en distingue par les sujets et la disposition ; il ne cherche pas un beau-père pour le souiller de la noirceur de ses vers, il ne tresse pas, à l’aide de vers diffamatoires, un lacet pour le cou d’une fiancée. Ce poète, qu’aucune bouche n’avait encore récité, moi, citharède latin, je l’ai le premier révélé. Il me plaît, tandis que j’apporte de la nouveauté, d’être lu par de nobles yeux et d’être tenu par de nobles mains. »6

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5 Si l’on examine attentivement ces quelques vers, on remarque que la figure auctoriale qui représente le point d’origine de la démarche imitative d’Horace est celle d’Archiloque. La référence aux Épodes, dont le poète de Paros constitue le modèle par excellence, s’étend du vers 23 au vers 31, et ce bien que les noms de Sappho et d’Alcée soient cités dès les vers 28 et 297. Horace, après une revendication de primauté exprimée en des termes d’inspiration lucrétienne8, apporte une restriction décisive à l’ imitatio Archilochi à laquelle il a procédé : il ne s’est pas efforcé de restituer les res et les uerba du poète grec, mais en a suivi « les mètres et l’esprit ». Une telle distinction lui permet de signifier son attachement à une tradition qu’il est, à ses yeux, impératif de respecter tout en soulignant l’originalité dont il a fait preuve pour la composition de ses poèmes iambiques.

6 Les deux versants de l’imitation, positif et négatif, sont glosés dans la suite du passage, notamment grâce à la convocation de Sappho et d’Alcée. Les termes numeros et animos, d’abord, sont repris par modos et carminis artem au vers 27. Les numeri et les modi désignent de façon univoque la structure métrique inhérente à la poésie iambique. Cette dernière se définit avant tout par l’utilisation d’un pied précis, l’iambe, auquel Horace consacrera quelques vers dans l’Épître aux Pisons9. L’auteur augustéen se défend par conséquent du grief qui semble lui avoir été imputé10 – une observance trop stricte des modèles grecs – en indiquant qu’il a emprunté aux poèmes archilochiens une caractéristique intrinsèque du genre pratiqué. L’autre élément que le poète iambique ne saurait occulter correspond à ce qu’Horace nomme l’ars carminis. Dans l’économie du passage, la formule ne renvoie pas aux particularités thématiques et / ou formelles de la poésie iambique, mais s’éclaire si, comme nous le préconisions à l’instant, on la rapproche du mot animos employé au vers 24. Le vocable présente le sens général d’« esprit », de « disposition »11, mais dénote également cette colère, cette rage qui anime la poésie archilochienne12 et qui s’est rapidement imposée, à son tour, comme une spécificité générique incontournable. Telle est donc la manière dont l’auteur augustéen s’est nourri du matériau textuel offert par le poète de Paros : il s’est appliqué à ne restituer du modèle grec que les éléments indispensables au déploiement du genre. Et de même qu’il s’est appuyé sur le support prosodique transmis par Archiloque, de même Sappho et Alcée, plusieurs fois célébrés dans les Odes en tant que précurseurs du chant lyrique, ont procédé à la reprise du pes Archilochi pour l’élaboration de leurs propres poèmes. L’évocation d’Alcée, en particulier, donne à Horace l’opportunité d’affiner encore la démonstration des principes de l’imitatio. Le syntagme rebus et ordine dispar introduit un nouveau concept, celui d’ordo. E. Pasoli a souligné les divergences interprétatives que suscite l’emploi du mot dans un tel contexte13. Certains y ont vu une allusion au système strophique d’Archiloque, qu’Alcée aurait remanié en regroupant les vers par strophes selon des modalités qui lui sont propres. D’autres ont préféré y lire une référence à la disposition de la matière, conformément à l’acception que le terme revêt au cœur de la théorie rhétorique. Nous penchons pour cette seconde lecture, plus adaptée, nous semble-t-il, à l’usage qu’Horace fait du terme dans la perspective adoptée14. Le poète lesbien n’a sans doute pas redéfini la structure prosodique caractérisant les compositions archilochiennes, mais s’est plutôt singularisé par un agencement inédit de la matière thématique. Les res qu’Alcée, à l’instar d’Horace lui- même, a pris soin de ne pas réitérer font ensuite l’objet d’une glose dans les vers 30 et 31. Il s’agit de ces invectives, évoquées au sein des Épodes15, si âpres et diffamatoires que, dit-on, elles poussèrent leurs destinataires au suicide.

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7 Le lecteur tient donc, dans ces quelques vers, l’essence de la conception horatienne de l’imitatio16. L’imitation d’un modèle doit donner le jour à des similitudes d’ordre métrique et stylistique et éviter à tout prix la reprise des sujets que le devancier a mis à l’honneur : tel est le gage de l’originalité en matière de composition poétique. Grâce à cette méthode, Horace sera parvenu à reproduire en vers latins non seulement les rythmes et la vigueur des poèmes archilochiens, mais aussi, en véritable Latinus fidicen, les cadences et l’esprit de la poésie alcaïque. Pour cette question du rapport au modèle, l’Épître I, 19 apparaît donc comme le pôle théorique de référence et acquiert, au sein de la mosaïque des œuvres d’Horace, une résonance d’autant plus grande qu’elle trouve dans ces dernières des exemples appropriés au sujet traité.

8 L’intérêt pour le thème de l’imitatio est relayé par l’ Épître aux Pisons, qui, dans l’entrelacs des concepts qu’elle appréhende et des principes qu’elle émet, exhorte notamment l’aîné des fils Pisons, son principal destinataire, à ne pas devenir un fidus interpres : Publica materies priuati iuris erit, si non circa uilem patulumque moraberis orbem, nec uerbo uerbum curabis reddere fidus interpres, nec desilies imitator in artum, unde pedem proferre pudor uetet aut operis lex... « La matière publique deviendra ta propriété privée si tu ne t’attardes pas près du cercle de la banalité et du commun, si tu ne prends pas soin, en fidèle interprète, de rendre le mot par le mot et si tu ne t’engages pas, au cours de ton imitation, dans une voie étroite que la pudeur ou l’économie de l’œuvre t’empêcheront de quitter. » 17

9 Le problème de l’originalité est soulevé en des vers ménageant une transition, plutôt soudaine, du champ du drame vers celui de l’épopée. Mobilisant un lexique emprunté à la sphère légale18, le passage constitue un écho manifeste à l’Épître I, 19. En effet, la formule publica materies, privée ici de tout ancrage référentiel, semble particulièrement apte à désigner les cadres métriques et stylistiques offerts par les poésies d’Archiloque et d’Alcée. Les numeri animique du poète de Paros, ses modi et son ars carminis sont des publicae materies qu’Horace, à la suite des chantres lesbiens, a su s’approprier. L’auteur augustéen n’a pas fait œuvre de « traducteur trop fidèle »19, ni de simple imitator, mais s’est posé comme un interprète latin à la fois original et respectueux des grands modèles auctoriaux. Il peut, à ce titre, revendiquer une primauté issue d’une bonne connaissance et d’une juste exploitation des canons de la tradition grecque.

10 Les deux extraits mis en parallèle forment ainsi un socle théorique exposant de manière frontale la façon dont Horace conçoit la relation du poète avec ses modèles, ici à l’aune de la production horatienne elle-même, là dans une perspective plus générale et impersonnelle. Mais cette relation trouve aussi dans certaines odes des espaces textuels propices à sa détermination.

La désignation des modèles dans les Odes : la théorie en acte

11 Certains poèmes lyriques proposent une forme actualisée de ce socle théorique. Horace, au moyen de différents procédés, trouve un heureux compromis entre l’expression d’un respect marqué pour les parangons de la poésie lyrique grecque20 et la volonté forte et revendiquée de faire jaillir la nouveauté de ses vers. D’ailleurs, la

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lecture des Odes dans cette optique permet de compléter et d’affiner les énoncés théoriques lisibles dans l’Épître I, 19 et l’Épître aux Pisons.

12 Le Carmen I, 1 place d’emblée les vers horatiens sous l’autorité des poètes de Lesbos et inaugure l’emploi d’un langage métaphorique pour la caractérisation du rapport aux modèles : Me doctarum hederae praemia frontium dis miscent superis, me gelidum nemus Nympharumque leues cum Satyris chori secernunt populo, si neque tibias Euterpe cohibet, nec Polyhymnia Lesboum refugit tendere barbiton. « Le lierre, qui récompense les doctes fronts, me mêle aux dieux d’en haut, un bois glacé et les chœurs légers des Nymphes accompagnés des Satyres me tiennent éloigné du peuple, si Euterpe ne retient pas sa flûte et si Polhymnie ne se refuse pas à tendre le luth lesbien. »21

13 L’auteur augustéen maniera le « luth lesbien », reprendra l’instrument de ses prédécesseurs et fera résonner, sur les cordes saphiques et alcaïques, son propre chant. Au sein du Carmen I, 32, il apostrophe ce même barbitos, le priant de « dire un chant latin » sous les auspices d’Alcée : Poscimus, si quid uacui sub umbra lusimus tecum, quod et hunc in annum uiuat et pluris, age dic Latinum, barbite, carmen, Lesbio primum modulate ciui, qui ferox bello tamen inter arma, siue iactatam religarat udo litore nauim, Liberum et Musas Veneremque et illi semper haerentem puerum canebat et Lycum nigris oculis nigroque crine decorum. « Nous te le demandons, si jamais, l’esprit libre, nous avons joué avec toi sous l’ombre, allons, ô luth, dis un chant qui puisse vivre et cette année et plusieurs autres, dis un chant latin, toi dont les premiers accents furent modulés par le citoyen de Lesbos, ce farouche soldat qui, même au milieu des armes, ou alors qu’il avait attaché au rivage humide son navire agité par les flots, chantait Liber, les Muses, Vénus et l’enfant que l’on trouve toujours à ses côtés, ainsi que le beau Lycus aux yeux et à la chevelure noirs. »22

14 Il apparaît ainsi que la métaphore musicale signifie en des termes adaptés au contexte lyrique la conception horatienne de la relation qu’il convient d’entretenir avec les grandes figures auctoriales de la tradition grecque. En réalité, elle illustre l’affirmation selon laquelle Horace s’est contenté de reproduire le mètre et le style de ses devanciers ; la lyre des Carmina symbolise alors les numeri et les modi évoqués au sein de l’Épître I, 19.

15 Bien plus, le Carmen I, 32 semble exemplifier l’ensemble de la démonstration dévolue au thème de l’imitatio dans les deux épîtres étudiées. Outre la métaphore de l’instrument, l’ode exhibe une galerie de personnages topiques, strictement attachés, pour certains d’entre eux, au monde romain, alors qu’ils renvoient, dans le cœur de l’énoncé, aux poèmes d’inspiration symposiaque qu’Alcée aimait à composer. En effet, Liber et Vénus, mentionnés au vers 9, sont des désignations latines de divinités associées à l’univers lyrique depuis l’époque archaïque grecque23. Les res lyricae, ces

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sujets et ces motifs récurrents que le dieu du vin et la déesse de l’amour représentent par métonymie, sont donc exposées à l’opération de latinisation de la source alcaïque que le carmen thématise. Dans cette pièce à valeur programmatique, Horace annonce qu’il compte faire des poèmes d’Alcée, dont le corpus peut être considéré comme une « matière publique » que tout poète est libre d’exploiter à sa guise, sa propriété. Il reprendra les grands cadres thématiques de son modèle grec, garants du respect et du maintien de l’ars carminis, mais les confrontera à des éléments proprement latins, en lien avec une conjoncture déterminée, et œuvrera par là même à leur redéfinition. Finalement, les res déployées par l’auteur augustéen différeront de celles d’Alcée : le premier sera, vis-à-vis du second, rebus dispar24. La dernière strophe du Carmen I, 32 donne d’ailleurs à voir, toujours par la référence à des figures mythologiques et l’utilisation d’un langage ajusté à l’environnement générique, le résultat auquel doit aboutir le processus d’imitation : O decus Phoebi et dapibus supremi grata testudo Iouis, o laborum dulce lenimen, mihi †cumque† salue rite uocanti. « Ô honneur de Phébus, lyre chère aux banquets du suprême Jupiter, ô douce consolation de nos tourments, je te salue en t’invoquant selon le rite. »25

16 Le barbitos du début du poème prend la dénomination latine de testudo, comme si Horace avait voulu marquer au niveau lexical l’achèvement de l’entreprise d’imitation, qui, dans son esprit, correspond à une entreprise d’appropriation. De même qu’il affecte les res, le processus touche les uerba26 ; le barbitos grec, celui dont jouait Alcée, est adapté à la spécificité d’une écriture latine et devient, en définitive, une testudo27.

17 Les vues horatiennes en matière d’imitatio trouvent par conséquent des points de résonance explicites au sein du recueil des Carmina, mais s’y expriment aussi de façon plus détournée. Le poète augustéen se plaît, au seuil de certains poèmes lyriques, à insérer ce que Giorgio Pasquali nomme un « motto »28 : il s’agit d’un procédé, typiquement horatien, consistant dans la reprise liminaire d’un ou de plusieurs vers grecs issus d’un poème célèbre29. L’exemple le plus éloquent se trouve sans doute au premier vers du Carmen I, 37, qui se déploie ensuite selon une dynamique propre : Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero pulsanda tellus, nunc Saliaribus ornare puluinar deorum tempus erat dapibus, sodales. « À présent il faut boire, à présent il faut frapper le sol d’un pied libéré, c’est à présent le moment, camarades, d’apprêter la couche des dieux pour un festin digne des Saliens. »30

18 La formule initiale nunc est bibendum se pose comme la traduction libre d’un vers d’Alcée invitant à célébrer la mort du tyran Myrsilos par l’enivrement : Νῦν χρῆ μεθύσθην καί τινα πὲρ βίαν πώνην, ἐπεὶ δὴ κάτθανε Μύρσιλος. « Maintenant il nous faut l’ivresse ; il faut que chacun boive malgré lui, puisque Myrsilos est bien mort ! »31

19 Par ce jeu de reprise, la composition se place ainsi sous l’égide d’un modèle grec reconnaissable, dont la convocation, cependant, n’est plus assurée par une mention directe, mais par une sorte d’exercice littéraire. Le carmen procédera bien d’une imitatio Alcaei – d’autant qu’il s’appuie sur l’emploi du mètre alcaïque –, mais cette imitatio sera conforme aux exigences formulées par Horace lui-même en ce domaine. L’adaptation

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au contexte latin du substrat métrique et stylistique laissé par le devancier s’opère avec netteté dès le vers 2, où allusion est faite aux Saliens, cette confrérie particulièrement active au mois de mars, à l’occasion du Quinquatrus, festival qui, à Rome, marquait l’ouverture de la saison des campagnes militaires32. L’insertion du substantif puluinar au vers 3 soutient l’effort d’adaptation amorcé, le terme ayant une résonance proprement latine33. S’ensuit un récit aux accents épiques ancré dans l’hic et nunc de la Rome du Ier siècle av. J.-C. ; il s’agit en effet de célébrer la victoire d’Actium, symbole du triomphe d’Auguste sur l’Orient, incarné ici par Cléopâtre. Horace a donc bien restitué les numeros animosque des poèmes d’Alcée, mais a veillé à ce que la substance thématique du carmen corresponde à des res spécifiquement latines.

20 L’expression du rapport au modèle dans les Odes n’emprunte donc pas uniquement la voie de la convocation directe ; elle se fonde aussi sur des allusions voilées, des jeux de translittération qui font appel à la compétence du lecteur, à sa connaissance de la littérature grecque34. Finalement, le Carmen I, 37 fournit lui-même un modèle de poème actualisant les principes de l’imitatio édictés par Horace dans l’Épître I, 19. Le recours au « motto » signale l’instauration d’une tension entre le texte sur le point de se déployer et le précédent grec dont il s’inspire. Cette tension, naissant de l’occupation d’un cadre prosodique et stylistique grec par une matière thématique romaine, traduit une forme de déférence envers l’exemplar Graecum en même temps qu’elle assure l’originalité de l’ode latine.

21 Si l’on considère l’ensemble des Épîtres, on s’aperçoit que la question de la relation aux sources n’est pas soulevée qu’au sein de l’Épître I, 19 et de l’Épître aux Pisons ; l’Épître I, 1 s’y intéresse aussi, dans une perspective définie.

Complément théorique sur la relation aux modèles dans l’Épître I, 1

22 L’épître liminaire du livre I sonne comme un adieu clair et définitif à la poésie, ainsi qu’en témoigne l’assertion suivante : Nunc itaque et uersus et cetera ludicra pono : quid uerum atque decens, curo et rogo et omnis in hoc sum. « C’est pourquoi je délaisse aujourd’hui les vers et toutes les autres bagatelles : je me préoccupe de ce qui est vrai et approprié, je m’interroge sur ce sujet, je suis tout entier absorbé par cette réflexion. »35

23 Dans ces quelques mots paraissent s’articuler deux moments bien distincts de la carrière littéraire d’Horace. Une tension s’instaure en effet entre deux ensembles syntagmatiques, uersus et cetera ludicra d’un côté, quid uerum atque decens de l’autre, qui apparaissent comme des pôles résolument antithétiques. Le premier a partie liée avec un passé, semble-t-il, révolu, le second avec un avenir amené à se construire sur de nouvelles bases. L’auteur augustéen paraît ainsi renier – ou juger désormais futile et vaine – sa production antérieure36, plaçant son écriture sous d’autres enseignes, celles de la philosophie. De fait, les termes uerum et decens ont une résonance philosophique incontestable et caractérisent à eux seuls la nouvelle orientation prise par la pensée horatienne. Le second, en particulier, coïncide de toute évidence avec la notion de πρέπον37, élément prégnant de la doctrine stoïcienne soutenue par Panétius38 ; Cicéron en avait proposé une transcription latine, decorum39, c’est-à-dire, au sens littéral, « ce qui est approprié », « ce qui convient ».

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24 Cependant, il ne semble pas que l’attachement à ces concepts, marqués au coin de la réflexion éthique, doive avoir pour corollaire un détachement radical du champ de la poétique, pour lequel Horace avait jusqu’à présent, selon des modalités variées, manifesté un intérêt constant40. L’usage cicéronien du terme mentionné, appliqué en priorité au domaine de la rhétorique, ainsi que sa mobilisation récurrente dans l’Épître aux Pisons, où la préoccupation pour l’art des Muses prédomine, mènent à la conviction que la notion de decens dispose d’une plasticité apte à favoriser son introduction dans les branches de la pensée humaine les plus diverses41. « Je me préoccupe de ce qui est vrai et approprié, je m’interroge sur ce sujet, je suis tout entier absorbé par cette réflexion », dit Horace, sans déterminer pour autant l’ancrage précis de sa quête, sans lever l’ambiguïté inhérente à la largeur référentielle des termes uerum et decens. On peut alors considérer que l’auteur augustéen, malgré la répudiation de ses œuvres passées, projette ici d’examiner et de définir le « vrai » et l’« approprié » en matière de poésie, en même temps qu’il doit sonder, dans une démarche dominée par l’introspection, la sphère de la morale. Considérant l’ensemble du livre I, John Moles souligne en ces termes toute l’ambiguïté du statut et de la portée des Épîtres, au confluent de la poésie et de la philosophie: « The Epistles both are poetry and are not poetry, but philosophy; they both are and are not a radical departure, whether in relation to Horace’s earlier poetry in general or in relation to his earlier philosophical poetry; and philosophy itself is something that both can and cannot be dissociated from both texts and life42. »

25 Dans ces conditions, la prétention à l’indépendance, que le poète clame au sein des hexamètres suivants, possède une double applicabilité : Ac ne forte roges, quo me duce, quo lare tuter : nullius addictus iurare in uerba magistri, quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes. Nunc agilis fio et mersor ciuilibus undis, uirtutis uerae custos rigidusque satelles ; nunc in Aristippi furtim praecepta relabor et mihi res, non me rebus subiungere conor. « Et ne va pas me demander sous quel chef, auprès de quel lare je trouve refuge : je ne me suis pas engagé à jurer sur les paroles d’un maître, mais suis emporté, hôte de passage, partout où m’entraîne la tempête. Tantôt je me fais homme d’action et me plonge dans les ondes publiques, gardien et défenseur inflexible de la vraie vertu ; tantôt j’en reviens insensiblement aux préceptes d’Aristippe et m’efforce de dominer les choses sans être dominé par elles. »43

26 Horace n’est pas membre d’une domus philosophique identifiable, il n’est rivé de façon entière et définitive à aucun dogme qu’il suivrait scrupuleusement, à l’exclusion de tout autre ; c’est un « hôte » prompt à assimiler toute substance spirituelle adaptée à sa propre conception du monde et de la vie44. Il a tout loisir de puiser, dans chacun des grands systèmes doctrinaux que sa formation athénienne lui a rendus familiers45, les elementa46 qui l’aideront à élaborer son propre mode de pensée. Transposé sur le plan de l’écriture poétique, le principe signifie la prise de liberté du poète vis-à-vis des grandes figures auctoriales de la tradition poétique grecque. Suivre la doctrine d’un maître unique reviendrait, dans le domaine de la création littéraire, à traduire avec la plus grande fidélité les œuvres d’un illustre devancier47. Horace préfère alimenter sa pensée par des préceptes isolés plutôt que de la circonscrire dans les limites étroites d’un système établi ; de la même manière, il préfère nourrir sa pratique poétique par des

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jeux de référence, par la mise en place d’un art allusif plutôt que de l’enfermer dans une rigoureuse entreprise d’imitation servile.

27 Ce passage de l’Épître I, 1 s’érige donc en pôle théorique fort et permet au poète augustéen d’affiner sa conception de l’imitatio. Tâchons à présent d’éprouver le rayonnement de ces quelques vers à l’intérieur du corpus des œuvres d’Horace en nous penchant sur quelques poèmes où se manifeste de façon plus ou moins évidente la volonté de l’auteur de s’affranchir d’un ou de plusieurs modèles donnés.

Lisibilité du précepte dans la pratique poétique d’Horace : une constante volonté d’affranchissement

28 Le poème qui, au sein du recueil des Odes, propose l’image la plus nette du souci horatien d’indépendance tel qu’il s’exprime dans l’Épître I, 1 est le Carmen IV, 2. Face au spectre majestueux et inégalable de Pindare, Horace s’y compare à une abeille besogneuse48 : Multa Dircaeum leuat aura cycnum, tendit, Antoni, quotiens in altos nubium tractus : ego apis Matinae more modoque, grata carpentis thyma per laborem plurimum, circa nemus uuidique Tiburis ripas operosa paruus carmina fingo. « Un souffle puissant élève le cygne dircéen, Antonius, chaque fois qu’il est attiré vers les hautes nuées ; moi, à la manière de l’abeille du Matinus, qui butine l’agréable thym en un effort soutenu, je façonne humblement, dans les bois et sur les rives de l’humide Tibur, des vers issus de mon labeur. »49

29 À la différence du cygne dircéen, dont le vol élevé ne connaît pas d’interruptions, l’abeille du Matinus butine le « thym parfumé », elle se pose de fleurs en fleurs, sans s’attarder particulièrement sur l’une d’entre elles. On peut considérer que ces fleurs sont celles que les poètes grecs ont léguées aux Latins sous la forme de poèmes que leur exemplarité a rendus canoniques50. Dans ces conditions, l’abeille et son vol peuvent être assimilés à l’écriture horatienne elle-même, qui se nourrit des fleurs poétiques laissées par les Grecs, mais sans accorder une prédilection exclusive à l’une ou à l’autre ; à peine s’est-elle placée sous l’égide d’un modèle qu’elle ressent le besoin de s’en éloigner, soit par l’attachement à un autre modèle, soit par un traitement personnel du motif ou du sujet repris51.

30 Prenons, pour étayer la démonstration, un exemple précis. Dans l’Épître II, 2, Horace dédie une vingtaine d’hexamètres à la présentation du legitimum poema, du « poème conforme aux règles ». L’exposé se fonde en particulier sur une description des différentes opérations liées à la phase de l’electio uerborum : audebit, quaecumque parum splendoris habebunt et sine pondere erunt et honore indigna ferentur, uerba mouere loco (...) ; obscurata diu populo bonus eruet atque proferet in lucem speciosa uocabula rerum (...); adsciscet noua, quae genitor produxerit usus. Vehemens et liquidus puroque simillimus amni fundet opes Latiumque beabit diuite lingua.

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« [Celui qui désirera composer un poème conforme aux règles] osera exclure tous les mots qui auront trop peu d’éclat, manqueront de force et seront jugés indignes de tout honneur (...) ; il aura le bon goût d’exhumer et de porter à la lumière des termes expressifs, longtemps ignorés du public (...) ; il en adoptera de nouveaux, que l’usage aura engendrés et produits. Véhément, limpide, semblable à un fleuve pur, il répandra ses richesses et gratifiera le Latium de sa langue opulente. »52

31 Avant de déplacer le point focal du discours de l’electio uerborum à la compositio uerborum53, l’auteur augustéen introduit une image de facture callimachéenne, celle du fleuve puissant. Sous la plume du poète de Cyrène, cette image exprime un jugement négatif sur les compositions de longue haleine, qui, tel le cours d’eau torrentueux, charrient dans leurs eaux des impuretés54. Dans les Satires, Horace l’avait convoquée en maintenant la connotation dépréciative que Callimaque lui avait prêtée. Il s’agissait de stigmatiser le style pléthorique et laborieux de Lucilius55, bien éloigné de l’idéal callimachéen incarné par les quelques gouttes de la source sacrée56. À la fin du passage mis en exergue, la métaphore est sujette à une inversion connotative, puisque le fleuve, qualifié de « pur »57, est pris en bonne part pour désigner symboliquement la langue riche et expressive que le poète aura à sa disposition après avoir éliminé certains mots, en avoir remis d’autres, tombés en désuétude, au goût du jour et en avoir admis d’autres encore, jusque-là confinés à un usage courant, dans le champ de la création littéraire. L’image callimachéenne n’est donc pas reprise de manière univoque58, et les modalités de cette reprise trahissent l’inclination horatienne à s’affranchir du joug des modèles en exploitant de nouvelles perspectives, en redéfinissant certains lieux communs.

32 Un autre exemple de traitement libre et original d’un motif topique se lit dans l’ Épode X. La pièce aborde d’un point de vue tout à fait singulier le thème du προπεμπτικόν, cher aux νεώτεροι grecs et à leurs continuateurs latins59 : Mala soluta nauis exit alite ferens olentem Meuium. Vt horridis utrumque uerberes latus, Auster, memento fluctibus ; niger rudentis Eurus inuerso mari fractosque remos differat ; insurgat Aquilo, quantus altis montibus frangit trementis ilices ; nec sidus atra nocte amicum appareat, qua tristis Orion cadit (...). O, quantus instat nauitis sudor tuis tibique pallor luteus, et illa non uirilis heiulatio preces et auersum ad Iouem, Ionius udo cum remugiens sinus Noto carinam ruperit. « Le navire portant le nauséabond Mévius a levé l’ancre et part sous de funestes auspices. Pense bien, Auster, à en battre les deux flancs en soulevant les flots ; que le sombre Eurus tourmente la mer et disperse les câbles et les rames brisées ; qu’Aquilon se lève, aussi puissant que sur les cimes des monts, où il brise les chênes tremblants ; qu’aucun astre favorable n’apparaisse dans la nuit noire, là où tombe le sinistre Orion (...). Oh ! quelle sueur inondera tes matelots, quelle jaune pâleur s’emparera de ton visage, et ces lamentations dignes d’une femme et ces prières à Jupiter qui te sera hostile, lorsque les flots ioniens, rugissant, auront fracassé la carène avec l’aide de l’humide Notus. »60

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33 Le προπεμπτικόν subit un renversement comparable, mutatis mutandis, à celui que connaît l’image callimachéenne du fleuve dans l’exemple précédemment développé. Traditionnellement, il correspond à un poème d’adieu prenant volontiers les accents d’une prière adressée aux divinités marines et / ou aux vents censés favoriser la navigation61. Détourné de cette vocation initiale, il sert ici une sorte de deuotio prononcée contre ce Mévius qui ne nous est pas autrement connu, si ce n’est qu’il est mentionné par Virgile dans un vers des Bucoliques62. Les éléments topiques de la scène, telles les références aux vents ou aux étoiles, sont bien présents, mais, loin d’être priés de faciliter la course du navire à travers les mers, ils sont appelés les uns à se déchaîner, les autres à rester dissimulées ; le poète leur demande d’œuvrer de conserve à la perte du vaisseau, au lieu de les inviter à en préserver l’intégrité au cours du voyage. On peut légitimement parler, avec Francis Cairns63, de προπεμπτικόν inversé. En adaptant ce motif à l’environnement générique de la poésie iambique, Horace manifeste donc, d’une certaine manière, un attachement à l’écriture néotérique en même temps qu’il ménage, par rapport à elle, une forme d’écart.

34 À l’intérieur du corpus horatien, les exemples de cette sorte sont légion, et la conception horatienne de l’imitatio telle qu’elle se trouve énoncée dans l’Épître I, 1 ne cesse ainsi de s’actualiser. Le poète augustéen est un « hôte » de passage qui, à l’instar de l’abeille butinant les fleurs, veille à ne pas séjourner trop longtemps dans la même domus poetica. Cette démarche se traduit volontiers par une utilisation originale de motifs relevant d’une tradition identifiable, mais peut aussi se faire jour dans des effets de croisement engageant le procédé de la contaminatio.

35 La contaminatio, rappelle P. Galand-Hallyn, consiste dans « l’utilisation simultanée de plusieurs modèles64 ». De fait, un grand nombre de compositions horatiennes se caractérise par des allusions conjointes à des sources distinctes. Les grandes figures auctoriales grecques, convoquées de manière plus ou moins explicite, sont ainsi amenées à cohabiter à l’intérieur des mêmes poèmes. Il suffit, pour le vérifier, de reprendre le Carmen I, 37, que nous évoquions plus haut pour démontrer l’application au corpus lyrique des principes de l’imitatio formulés dans l’Épître I, 19 et l’Épître aux Pisons. Les considérations émises au sein de l’Épître I, 1 y trouvent à leur tour un solide point d’ancrage. L’ode, nous l’avons observé, s’ouvre sur un « motto » qui augure son positionnement sous l’égide d’Alcée. Pourtant, des références à d’autres modèles ne tardent pas à s’insérer dans le cours du poème, en particulier au moment où est décrit l’assaut de la flotte d’Octave contre les navires égyptiens en déroute : uix una sospes nauis ab ignibus, mentemque lymphatam Mareotico redegit in ueros timores Caesar, ab Italia uolantem

remis adurgens, accipiter uelut mollis columbas aut leporem citus uenator in campis niualis Haemoniae... « Mais voir un seul navire à peine échapper aux flammes refroidit sa fureur, et César ramena à de vraies craintes son esprit égaré par le vin maréotique ; alors qu’elle volait loin de l’Italie, il la poursuivit de ses avirons, comme l’épervier poursuit les délicates colombes ou le chasseur rapide le lièvre dans les plaines de la neigeuse Hémonie. »65

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36 Le futur Princeps est d’abord comparé à un « épervier » lancé à la poursuite de Cléopâtre, elle-même assimilée à une « timide colombe ». La double comparaison a une origine homérique, puisqu’elle est employée dans l’Iliade pour désigner Achille et Hector lors du combat qui les oppose. Le fils de Pélée, de ses pieds agiles, fond sur son adversaire apeuré, à l’instar du milan poursuivant la craintive palombe66. La seconde comparaison fait d’Octave un chasseur traquant la reine d’Égypte, qui, de son côté, prend les traits du lièvre. Le passage ne ménage plus, alors, un écho à l’épopée homérique, mais apparaît comme un souvenir de l’Épigramme XXXI de Callimaque, où, dans un contexte érotique, le poète s’identifie à un chasseur qui « suit les lièvres à la trace » ; de même que le second trouve son plaisir dans la traque et ne prend pas la peine de ramasser le gibier tué, de même le premier poursuit de son amour les cœurs qui s’y dérobent et ignore ceux qui sont prêts à lui répondre. Sensible à ce passage inattendu d’une image homérique à une image callimachéenne, Michèle Lowrie y voit la marque d’un raffinement stylistique certain, l’ode s’appliquant ici à « épiciser » le cadre lyrique investi67. L’autorité d’Alcée, que le distique liminaire semblait vouloir imposer, se trouve donc subvertie par cette double allusion à Homère et à Callimaque et illustre parfaitement la propension horatienne à la diversification des sources.

37 En définitive, la poétique d’Horace, qu’elle s’exprime de manière frontale ou qu’elle se reflète dans la pratique littéraire du poète, s’appuie sur une relation au modèle sous- tendue par l’idée de pluralité. Si quelques-uns, tels Alcée et Pindare dans les Carmina, jouissent d’une relative préséance, personne ne détient le monopole de l’exemplarité. Il apparaît donc que l’Épître I, 1, dans laquelle est énoncé le principe du « butinage » philosophique, apporte un complément théorique de prime importance à la conception horatienne de l’imitatio telle qu’elle se trouve exposée au sein de l’Épître aux Pisons et surtout de l’Épître I, 19. L’originalité en matière de création poétique doit naître de la capacité à adapter un cadre métrique et stylistique traditionnel à un contexte linguistique et culturel particulier, mais aussi de l’aptitude à mobiliser conjointement les sources, à les faire coopérer, voire à les fusionner.

38 Il est édifiant de constater, par l’intermédiaire d’une lecture de type herméneutique, à quel point les pôles théoriques dévolus à la question de l’imitatio se démultiplient à l’intérieur du corpus des œuvres d’Horace. Loin d’opérer un traitement exhaustif du sujet, l’Épître aux Pisons, que la tradition a assimilée à un pur et simple art poétique, est suppléée par d’autres pièces à forte résonance poétologique. Et chaque principe formulé trouve confirmations et illustrations dans l’écriture horatienne elle-même, qui s’applique à actualiser les fragments de théorie insérés ici et là ; de ce point de vue, il semble finalement possible d’avancer que chaque poème, qu’il soit de facture iambique, satirique, lyrique ou qu’il prenne les traits de l’épître, se pose comme un exemplum éclairant avec plus ou moins de transparence la manière dont Horace conçoit le rapport du poète avec ses modèles.

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NOTES

1. Cf. l’Épode VI, où allusion est faite à Hipponax d’Éphèse et surtout à Archiloque de Paros, et, entre autres, les Carmina I, 32 et IV, 2, au sein desquels affleurent respectivement les figures d’Alcée et de Pindare. 2. Voir J. WASZINK, Fonction et formes principales de l’imitation dans la poésie préovidienne in Compte- rendus des séances de l’Académie des inscriptions et belles lettres 116, 1972, p. 240-253. 3. Voir J. GAILLARD, Imitatio, aemulatio : Horace et l’« imitation » in ACD 29, 1993, p. 33-38, à qui est empruntée la formule « rivalité imitative et créative » ; c’est en ces termes qu’il définit la notion d’aemulatio. A. THILL (Alter ab illo. Recherches sur l’imitation dans la poésie personnelle à l’époque augustéenne, Paris, 1979, p. 11) commente le phénomène de la façon suivante : « L’imitation littéraire à Rome est inséparable de l’hellénisation. Elle constitue, du point de vue de l’histoire des idées et de l’art, la forme d’appropriation la plus importante par les Romains des biens culturels grecs ; elle est d’abord une condition d’existence qui devient ensuite une tradition. » On se référera également au volume collectif édité par D. WEST et T. WOODMAN, Creative imitation and Latin literature (Cambridge, University Press, 1979). 4. Voir A. LA PENNA, Orazio e l’ideologia del principato, Turin, 1963, p. 180, qui indique que les termes imitatio et aemulatio ne sont soumis à aucune fixation théorique véritable et que, faute de délimitation conceptuelle, ils font souvent l’objet de confusions. « Mais, de fait, précise-t-il, les deux positions, à partir de l’époque augustéenne, existent ». 5. F. KLEIN (La leuitas dans l’œuvre ovidienne. Étude d’une catégorie poétique dans le système littéraire de la Rome augustéenne, Thèse de doctorat soutenue à l’Université de Lille III, 2008, p. 84 sqq.) décrit avec précision l’évolution du motif de la recusatio de Callimaque aux Augustéens. Elle s’attache notamment à montrer que le rejet exprimé dans la recusatio callimachéenne est plutôt d’ordre stylistique, alors que les Romains ont attiré le procédé vers une opposition de type générique. 6. Epist. I, 19, 21-34 (nous proposons nos propres traductions des textes d’Horace que nous citons). Le vers 28, particulièrement difficile du point de vue de l’analyse grammaticale et, partant, du sens, a fait l’objet d’interprétations diverses ; à ce sujet, voir C. W. MCLEOD, The poet, the critic and the moralist: Horace, Epistles 1.19 in CQ 27, 1977, p. 368 ou encore l’article d’A. CUCCHIARELLI, Hor. epist. 1, 19, 28: pede mascula Sappho in Hermes 127, 1999, p. 328–344. 7. Au sujet de la préséance d’Archiloque dans ces vers, voir A. J. WOODMAN, Horace, Epistle I, 19, 23-40 in MH 40, 1983, p. 76-77. 8. Cf. LUCR. I, 921-927. 9. Cf. Ars, 251 sqq. 10. À propos du soubassement polémique de l’Épître I, 19, voir E. COURBAUD, Horace, sa vie et sa pensée à l’époque des Épîtres, Paris, 1914, p. 318. 11. Voir R. MAYER, Horace. Epistles, Book I, Cambridge, 1994, p. 263. 12. Cf. Ars, 79. 13. E. PASOLI, Le epistole letterarie di Orazio, Bologne, 1964, p. 56-57. 14. L’Épître aux Pisons ménage d’ailleurs une proximité textuelle entre les termes res et ordo, tous deux engagés dans un développement dominé par les concepts rhétoriques d’inuentio et de dispositio (cf. Ars, 40-44). 15. Cf. Epod. VI, 11-16. 16. Nous adhérons pleinement au jugement de C. W. MCLEOD (The poet [n. 6], p. 375-376) selon lequel l’expérience littéraire d’Horace a, dans cet extrait, valeur d’exemple. 17. Ars, 131-135. 18. Voir C. O. BRINK, Horace on Poetry, 2, The « Ars poetica », Cambridge, 1971, p. 209-210.

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19. La formule fidus interpres fait sans doute allusion à la technique littéraire de l’interpretatio, qui, à Rome, consistait dans la traduction d’une source grecque définie (voir, à ce propos, A. REIFF, Interpretatio, Imitatio, Aemulatio. Begriff und Vorstellung literarischer Abhängigkeit bei den Römern, Bonn, 1959, p. 111 sqq.). 20. D. C. FEENEY (Horace and the Greek lyric poets in N. RUDD (ed.), Horace 2000: A Celebration. Essays for the Bimillennium, Londres, 1993, p. 55) rend compte en ces termes de la volonté horatienne de retrouver dans ses vers l’esprit des poésies saphique et alcaïque : « Sappho and Alcaeus in Horace’s underworld are not an evocation of a past from which Horace is irredeemably cut off, but an image of a past-in-present which he may join. » 21. Carm. I, 1, 29-34. 22. Carm. I, 32, 1-12. Le poscimus initial est source de désaccord chez les éditeurs modernes. Les commentateurs antiques lui préfèrent le passif poscimur, attesté dans un certain nombre de manuscrits. Les défenseurs de cette lecture justifient leur choix par des références à Pindare (Isthm. VIII, 5 sqq.) et à Ovide (Met. II, 143 sqq., IV, 274 et V, 333), où les verbes αἰτεῖν et poscere sont employés dans la même perspective. Les partisans de poscimus, quant à eux, reprochent à la leçon poscimur son caractère abrupt et se disent convaincus de la volonté horatienne d’employer ici une formulation caractéristique de la prière ; ils renvoient à Aristophane (Thesm., 1156) et surtout à Pindare (Ol. XII, 1), qui utilise la forme λίσσομαι (« je prie », « j’adresse une prière ») au seuil de son hymne (voir A. KIESSLING et R. HEINZE, Q. Horatius Flaccus. Oden und Epoden, Zürich / Berlin, 11e éd., 1964, p. 136, ainsi que R. G. M. NISBET et M. HUBBARD, A commentary on Horace Odes, book 1, Oxford, 1970, p. 360). La seconde position nous paraît plus recevable et pertinente. 23. Au sujet du caractère proprement latin du nom de Liber, voir en particulier A. BRUHL, Liber pater. Origine et expansion du culte dionysiaque à Rome et dans le monde romain, Paris, 1953, p. 13 sqq. 24. Cf. Epist. I, 19, 29. 25. Carm. I, 32, 13-16. 26. Cf. Epist. I, 19, 25. 27. A. ERNOUT et A. MEILLET (Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue latine, 4e éd., Paris, 1959, p. 689) précisent que le mot provient du terme latin testa. 28. A. THILL (Alter ab illo [n. 3], p. 155) indique que le terme apparaît dans cette acception au début du XXème siècle et que G. PASQUALI le vulgarise dans l’ouvrage qu’il consacre à la poésie lyrique d’Horace (voir note suivante). 29. Voir G. PASQUALI, Orazio lirico, Florence, 1920, p. 44 sqq. Sur ce point, on consultera aussi et surtout l’ouvrage d’A. CAVARZERE, Sul limitare : Il ‘motto’ e la poesia di Orazio, Bologne, 1996. 30. Carm. I, 37, 1-4. 31. Fragment 55 dans l’édition de T. R EINACH et A. P UECH parue aux Belles Lettres en 1937 ; traduction de T. REINACH. Tout en relevant la proximité des premiers mots de l’ode horatienne avec ceux du poème d’Alcée, A. FELDHERR (“Dionysiac Poetics” and the memory of civil war in Horace’s Cleopatra Ode in B. BREED, C. DAMON, A. ROSSI (éd.), Citizens of discord: Rome and its civil wars,Oxford, 2010, p. 224) note que l’auteur latin s’écarte de son modèle grec dans l’évocation de la mort du tyran. Chez Alcée, la disparition de Myrsilos est clamée dès le deuxième vers et doit, selon le vœu du poète, faire l’objet d’une célébration festive ; chez Horace, Cléopâtre reste en vie jusqu’à la fin du poème, même si son suicide est envisagé dans les trois dernières strophes. 32. Voir l’article que l’ Oxford Classical Dictionary (Oxford / New York, 3 e éd., 1996, p. 1348) consacre à ce sujet. Il y est notamment précisé que les Saliens sont de naissance patricienne, qu’ils sont liés à Mars et que le faste de leurs repas est proverbial. 33. Voir R. G. M. NISBET et M. HUBBARD, A commentary on Horace Odes, book 1, Oxford, 1970, p. 411. Le puluinar renvoie à un oreiller, un coussin ou plutôt, dans le cadre des lectisternes, au « lit d’apparat » sur lequel on étendait la représentation de la ou des divinités mises à l’honneur (voir aussi A. ERNOUT et A. M EILLET, Dictionnaire [n. 26], p. 545, qui affirment que malgré

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l’indétermination de son étymologie, le mot est associé à des substantifs (puluillus, puluinulus) et des adjectifs (puluinatus, puluinensis) datant de l’époque impériale). 34. On songe ainsi au concept de « lecteur modèle » tel que le développe U. ECO (Lector in fabula. Le rôle du lecteur ou la coopération interprétative dans les textes narratifs. Traduit de l’italien par M. BOUZAHER, Paris, 1979, p. 61 sqq.). 35. Epist. I, 1, 10-11. 36. Certains commentateurs ont estimé que la formule uersus et cetera ludicra renvoie à l’œuvre lyrique d’Horace stricto sensu (voir E. COURBAUD, Horace, sa vie et sa pensée à l’époque des Épîtres, Paris, 1914, p. 67). Le ton solennel et péremptoire adopté ici par le poète invite plutôt à considérer qu’elle a une portée plus large et qu’elle désigne en réalité toute activité poétique assimilable à un ludus (voir S. J. HARRISON, Horatian self-representation in id. (ed.), The Cambridge companion to Horace,Cambridge / New York, 2007, p. 33). 37. Voir A. D. MORRISON, Didacticism and epistolarity in Horace’s Epistles 1 in R. M ORELLO et A. D. MORRISON (ed.), Ancient letters. Classical and late antique epistolography, Oxford / New York, 2007, p. 112. 38. Voir M. A. VAN STRAATEN, Panétius : sa vie, ses écrits et sa doctrine avec une édition des fragments, Amsterdam, 1946, p. 160-163. 39. CIC., Orat. 70. 40. Le corpus horatien est émaillé de poèmes poétologiques, c’est-à-dire de pièces qui, en vertu du principe de la réflexivité, émettent des considérations sur leurs propres caractéristiques, thématiques et / ou stylistiques, et, le plus souvent, tiennent un discours de nature théorique sur l’art de la poésie. On pourra ainsi se reporter à l’Épode VI et aux Carmina I, 32 et IV, 2, déjà mentionnés dans la note 1, mais aussi, entre autres compositions, aux Satires I, 4, I, 10 et II, 1 ou encore aux Carmina I, 6, II, 12 et III, 30. 41. Il suffit de consulter l’article que le TLL consacre au mot (V, 1934, col. 135-137) pour réaliser que cette plasticité tient non seulement à l’adaptabilité de son sens premier (« approprié », « convenable ») aux contextes les plus variés, mais aussi à l’existence d’un sens second, qui tend à en faire un terme directement lié au domaine esthétique. 42. J. MOLES, Philosophy and ethics in S. J. HARRISON (ed.), The Cambridge companion to Horace, Cambridge / New York, 2007, p. 176. 43. Epist. I, 1, 13-19. 44. Si l’on y regarde bien, le passage procède d’un enchevêtrement d’allusions à d’illustres principes philosophiques empruntés aux grandes écoles de l’Antiquité. Le vers 14 fait écho à un extrait des Tusculanes dans lequel Cicéron affirme, en des termes proches de ceux qu’emploie Horace, sa propre volonté d’indépendance à l’égard des grands systèmes doctrinaux (cf. Tusc. IV, 7). Le vers 15 rappelle un autre développement cicéronien, cette fois issu des Académiques (cf. Acad. II, 8), où domine aussi l’idée d’une autonomie de la pensée ; le lien intertextuel se tisse grâce à la métaphore de la tempête. Le mot hospes lui-même, mobilisé dans un tel contexte, apparaît comme la transcription latine du terme grec ξένος, au moyen duquel Aristippe, si l’on en croit Xénophon, qualifiait sa propre posture philosophique (cf. XEN., Mem. II, 1, 13). Quant au vers 19, il évoque la conviction d’Aristippe, telle que la reproduit Diogène Laërce, selon laquelle il est permis, voire recommandé de jouir des plaisirs de la vie, à condition de ne pas se laisser asservir par eux (cf. DIOG. LAERT. II, 74-75). Au sujet de l’utilisation horatienne de la pensée d’Aristippe, voir A. TRAINA, Orazio e Aristippo. Le Epistole e l’arte di convivere in RFIC 119, 1991, p. 285-305. 45. Voir K. RECKFORD, Pueri ludentes: Some aspects of play and seriousness in Horace’s Epistles in TAPhA 132, 2002, p. 5, qui affirme que les Épîtres marquent le retour d’Horace aux préoccupations philosophiques qu’il avait affichées à Athènes, de nombreuses années auparavant. 46. Cf. Epist. I, 1, 27.

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47. Bien plus qu’un poeta, dont A. THILL (Alter ab illo [n. 3], p. 12) rappelle le sens ancien de « traducteur » aux côtés de celui de « poète », Horace est un uates, titre pouvant illustrer à lui seul l’aspiration des Augustéens à adapter les données de la tradition grecque à un contexte spécifiquement latin. 48. Horace mobilise aussi l’image de l’abeille au sein de l’Épître I, 19 ; voir J. K ATZ, Dux reget examen (Epistle 1.19.23): Horace’s Archilochean signature in Materiali e Discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici 59, 2007, p. 207-213. 49. Carm. IV, 2, 25-32. 50. Au sujet du lien métaphorique entre la fleur et le poème, cf. Carm. I, 26. 51. À propos de l’image de l’abeille dans ce carmen, voir notamment S. J. HARRISON, Horace, Daedalus, Pindar, and Augustus: Odes 4.2 in id. (éd.), Homage to Horace : A bimillenary celebration, Oxford, 1995, p. 114. Cette image est déjà présente chez Lucrèce, qui s’imagine butinant les fleurs de la pensée épicurienne (cf. LUCR. III, 11-13). 52. Epist. II, 2, 111-121. 53. Pour ce qui concerne la compositio uerborum, cf. Epist. II, 2, 122-125. Il s’agit là de formules conceptuelles empruntées à la théorie rhétorique (voir C. O. BRINK, Horace on Poetry. Epistles Book II: The Letters to Augustus and Florus, Cambridge, 1982, p. 343). 54. Cf. Hymn. Ap., 108-109. 55. Cf. Sat. I, 4, 9-13. La double métaphore callimachéenne du fleuve et de la source est déjà convoquée dans la Satire I, 1 (v. 54-60). 56. Cf. Hymn. Ap., 110-112. 57. Dans l’ Hymne à Apollon, le qualificatif est réservé à la source sacrée (ἄκρον ἄωτον), précisément opposée au fleuve limoneux. 58. À propos du phénomène de « politisation » de l’idée callimachéenne à l’œuvre dans ce passage, voir K. FREUDENBURG, Writing to / through Florus: criticism and the addressee in Horace Epistles 2.2 in id. (éd.), Horace: Satires and Epistles, Oxford, 2009, p. 420-421. 59. Voir L. ALFONSI, Poetae novi: storia di un movimento poetico, Côme, 1945, p. 112. 60. Epod. X, 1-20. 61. L’une des premières convocations du motif se trouve chez Théocrite (cf. Id. VII, 52-62). Il est notamment repris par Callimaque et par Horace lui-même, qui, dans le cadre du Carmen I, 3, en fait un usage conforme à la tradition. 62. Cf. Ecl. III, 90. 63. Voir F. CAIRNS, Generic composition in Greek and Roman poetry, Edinburgh, 1972, p. 130. L’épode prend en fait le contre-pied du Propemptikon Pollionis que Cinna avait écrit pour son ami Pollion. Le poème horatien établit aussi un lien énonciatif entre deux poètes, mais le place sous le signe de l’antagonisme (au sujet des προπεμπτικά antérieurs à Horace, voir L. C. WATSON, A commentary on Horace’s Epodes, Oxford, 2003, p. 342). 64. P. GALAND-HALLYN, Le reflet des fleurs : description et métalangage poétique d’Homère à la Renaissance, Genève, 1994, p. 101 65. Carm. I, 37, 12-20. 66. Cf. Il. XXII, 136-144. 67. Voir M. LOWRIE, Horace’s narrative Odes, Oxford, 1997, p. 157. Dans les pages suivantes, M. LOWRIE tire grand parti du réseau de comparaisons que ces vers instaurent.

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RÉSUMÉS

La conception horatienne de l’imitatio se lit dans deux passages respectivement issus de l’Épître I, 19 et de l’Épître aux Pisons. Horace y soutient que l’originalité en matière de création poétique doit naître de la capacité à adapter un cadre métrique et stylistique traditionnel à un contexte linguistique et culturel particulier. En outre, au seuil de l’Épître I, 1, il souligne son penchant pour le « butinage » philosophique : il ne se rangera jamais sous la bannière d’un seul maître, mais prélèvera au sein de chaque doctrine les éléments aptes à nourrir sa propre réflexion. Une telle assertion semble également pouvoir trouver un terrain d’application dans le rapport que le poète souhaite entretenir avec les grands modèles auctoriaux de la tradition grecque. Il ne s’agit pas de s’inscrire dans le sillage étroit d’un même devancier, mais de mobiliser les sources conjointement, de les faire coopérer, voire de les fusionner. Quelques exemples puisés au cœur du corpus horatien ont tôt fait de le démontrer.

INDEX

Mots-clés : contaminatio., Horace, imitatio, originalité, théorie en acte, tradition grecque

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The Pedant’s Curse: Obscurity and Identity in Ovid’s Ibis

Darcy Krasne

POOH-BAH: No, of course we couldn’t tell who the gentleman really was. PITTI-SING: It wasn’t written on his forehead, you know. - W. S. Gilbert, The Mikado, or The Town of Titipu, Act II FOURTH PLEBEIAN: It is no matter, his name’s Cinna. Pluck but his name out of his heart and turn him going. - W. Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene 3 Hypocrite lecteur,—mon semblable,—mon frère ! - C. Baudelaire, “Au Lecteur,” Les Fleurs du Mal

1 The Ibis, composed during Ovid’s exile, is the red-haired stepchild of Ovidian scholarship.1 Its neglect derives primarily from the highly periphrastic and allusive mode in which it is written, for even a casual attempt at reading the poem turns, of necessity, into a prolonged exercise of scholarly research and investigative cross- referencing. Moreover, we know nothing of the poem’s true context. If we are to take Ovid’s assertions within the Ibis at face value, the poem was written as an attack against an ex-friend at Rome who had been blackening Ovid’s name in his absence and making hay with his misfortunes.2 Ovid conceals the name of this enemy under the pseudonym “Ibis,” following in the footsteps of Callimachus, who had also written a curse poem entitled Ibis against an anonymous enemy.3

2 Ovid’s Ibis consists of two main parts. There are two hundred and fifty lines of introductory ritual cursing of Ibis, including an extensive description of his ill-omened birth, followed by a further nearly four hundred lines of catalogue in which Ovid wishes on Ibis the fates suffered by mythological and historical figures, citing one or more per couplet. The majority of these figures are named only through extreme periphrasis. Reactions to this catalogue of exempla have been generally unfavorable, and

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consideration of Ovid’s program in the Ibis has frequently been sidelined by scholars in their eagerness to ask, repetitively, a limited series of questions, summarized by Gareth Williams as: “Who is Ibis? What had he done to provoke Ovid’s curse? What can be inferred from the Ovidian poem about the length, metre, and (extra‑)literary purpose of Callimachus’s Ἶβις? Who was Ἶβις?”4 Another favorite scholarly pursuit is the clarification of exactly which myth each couplet obliquely refers to, to the exclusion of all other concerns. Lindsay Watson observes that “this tendency has been reinforced by the wanton obscurity of Ovid’s Ibis, which has meant that the thrust of scholarly research upon the poem has of necessity been directed towards elucidating the frequently abstruse details of Ovid’s mythology.”5 In all this, few have stopped to consider the Ovidian, exilic, and poetic contexts of the poem.6

3 In recent years, Williams in particular has endeavored to fill this gap,7 arguing that the Ibis “plays an integral role in creating the ‘wholeness’ of the poetic persona featured so centrally in the exilic corpus; for in the broader context of an all-pervading melancholy, the curse takes on a special significance as the expression of a manic, desperate and inevitably futile frustration.”8 He adds that “any understanding of Ovid’s exile poetry is incomplete without recognition of what the Ibis contributes to the overall collection.”9 I agree that the Ibis is an integral piece of Ovid’s exilic corpus, and I find Williams’ idea of the Ibis as a study in deranged poetic mania convincing. However, I feel that the Ibis’ extended catalogue of curses, in particular, merits further attention. 10

4 As Williams himself briefly suggests, the catalogue forms a sort of carmen perpetuum,11 driven on by links of grammar, mythology, genealogy, vocabulary, nominal coincidence, and more. Unlike Ovid’s Metamorphoses, however, this carmen perpetuum is not propelled by the pressures of narrative, of which there is none; instead, it is the precise arrangement of Ovid’s exempla and the reader’s own active supplementation of the catalogue which allows the poem to move unceasingly forward.12 I have discussed elsewhere how recognizing Ovid’s cataloging process as akin to mythographic techniques can benefit our understanding of his organizational principles and the interconnectedness between exempla and mini-catalogues. 13 In this paper, I further investigate the reasons and methods behind Ovid’s organization and choice of themes in the catalogue,14 the catalogue’s literary significance, and its relationship to the poem’s 250-line prologue.15 In addition, I attempt to provide a more detailed reading of certain parallels between the Ibis and the rest of Ovid’s exilic corpus.

A Method in the Madness

5 The first lines of the catalogue are couched in an epic context, which Williams sees as a tactic meant to scare Ibis: “As the catalogue begins, Ovid sets out to intimidate the enemy by ostentatiously displaying its epic credentials. . . . The stage is set for an epic performance in the catalogue, and Ovid duly obliges by taking his starting-point from Troy.”16 Williams takes a dimmer view of the subsequent exempla, however, asserting that they “follow no particular order or pattern” and include “discordant . . . elements” with “only loose coherence.”17 Based primarily on an assumption that the tragic genre is the driving force behind the passage, Williams’s claim underestimates Ovid. In fact, these exempla have a good deal of coherence within their distichic ranks.

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6 Philoctetes, Telephus, and Bellerophon, the first exempla of the catalogue after the Trojans, comprise a mini-catalogue of those who were crippled, and they are followed by a mini-catalogue of those who were blinded:

neve sine exemplis aevi cruciere prioris, sint tua Troianis non leviora malis, quantaque clavigeri Poeantius Herculis heres, tanta venenato vulnera crure geras. nec levius doleas, quam qui bibit ubera cervae, 255

armatique tulit vulnus, inermis opem; quique ab equo praeceps in Aleïa decidit arva, exitio facies cui sua paene fuit. id quod Amyntorides videas, trepidumque ministro praetemptes baculo luminis orbus iter, 260

nec plus aspicias quam quem sua filia rexit, expertus scelus est cuius uterque parens. qualis erat, postquam est iudex de lite iocosa sumptus, Apollinea clarus in arte senex, qualis et ille fuit, quo praecipiente columba 265

est data Palladiae praevia duxque rati, quique oculis caruit, per quos male viderat aurum, inferias nato quos dedit orba parens; pastor ut Aetnaeus, cui casus ante futures Telemus Eurymides vaticinatus erat; 270

ut duo Phinidae, quibus idem lumen ademit, qui dedit; ut Thamyrae Demodocique caput.

(Ovid, Ibis 251–72)

Or, so that you may not be tortured without the examples of an earlier age, may your misfortunes be no lighter than the Trojans’, and may you endure just as many wounds in your envenomed leg as Poeas’s son [=Philoctetes], the heir of club bearing Hercules, endured. Nor may you be more lightly pained than he who drank at the hind’s udder [=Telephus] and endured the armed man’s wound, the unarmed man’s aid; and he who fell headlong from his horse into the Aleïan fields [=Bellerophon], whose face was nearly the cause of his destruction. May you see just what Amyntor’s son [=Phoenix] saw, and may you fumble at your trembling journey with a staff to guide you, deprived of sight; and may you see no more than he who was guided by his daughter [=Oedipus], each of whose parents experienced his iniquity. May you be such as he was, after he was appointed judge over the playful debate, the old man famed for his Apolline art [=Tiresias]; and such as he was, at whose instruction a dove was used as forerunner and leader for Pallas’s ship [=Phineus]; and he who lacked the eyes through which he had evilly seen the gold [=Polymestor] and which the bereft parent gave as a funeral sacrifice to her son; like the shepherd of Aetna [=Polyphemus], to whom Telemus the son of Eurymus had previously prophesied his future misfortunes; like the two sons of Phineus, from whom the same man took away the light as gave it; like the head of Thamyras and Demodocus.

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7 Williams, who is well aware of the overarching theme of blindness, does not think it a suitably unifying feature.18 What draws his attention instead is Ovid’s “discordant tone” and “undiscriminating reference,” along with other “incongruities.”19 How indiscriminate and incongruous are the exempla really, though? The first level of comprehension breaks the passage into two catalogues: “those crippled” and “those blinded.” But Bellerophon, in fact, fits into both catalogues—in some versions of his story he is lamed by his fall into the Aleïan fields,20 while in others he is blinded.21 So Bellerophon, who appears at the end of the first mini-catalogue, or the beginning of the second, may serve as a lynchpin between the two. In addition, Bellerophon has more than just blindness in common with the two figures who immediately follow his exemplum. Bellerophon, Phoenix, and Oedipus are each accused of committing adultery with their father’s or host’s wife or mistress—in the case of Bellerophon, the accusation is false; in the case of Phoenix, the truth or falsity varies with the version of the story;22 and in the case of Oedipus, the accusation is well known to be true.

8 At this point, another sub-catalogue begins, as all but one of the remaining exempla in the blindness catalogue either are vates or are connected with a vates (in its poetic or prophetic sense). Tiresias heads the list, presumably through associative logic: he delivered the prophetic accusation of Oedipus’s incest, and he follows Oedipus as the next exemplum in the catalogue. In addition, he is “the most famous prophet of ancient literature,”23 and he is followed by Phineus, a seer who holds nearly equal fame.

9 Gordon has observed several structural features of the catalogue which are centered on Phineus:24 Phineus, who occupies the central position in this mini-catalogue of victims of blindness, has connecting links with both the exemplum which opens the series (257-258, Phoenix) and with the concluding couplet of the series (269-270, the Phinidae); for although Phineus was usually said to be the son of Agenor (A.R. 2.237; Apollodorus Bib. 1.9.21; Hyginus 19), there was a tradition (scholia ad A.R. 2.178) that Phineus was the son of Phoenix, and we thus have an interwoven structure of Phoenix being blinded by his father, for allegedly seducing his father’s concubine, Phineus, the son of Phoenix, and Phineus’ sons, blinded by their father on a charge remarkably similar to that brought against Phoenix. The exemplum of Phineus also has connecting links with the couplet which precedes it, since like Tiresias he had prophetic skills and lived to a very old age, and with the couplet which follows it, since he, like Polymestor, was a Thracian monarch.

10 The Phoenix who is sometimes named as the father of Phineus is not, in fact, usually understood to be the same as Amyntor’s son Phoenix, who served as Achilles’ nurse and guardian and accompanied him to Troy (he is instead from a much earlier generation, Sidonian, and the son of Belos). That said, not only may they have originated as a single figure which later evolved into two unique characters,25 but in addition we will eventually see that, in the Ibis, shared names allow for some level of shared identity.26

11 Gordon’s suggestion that the point of connection between Phineus and Polymestor is that both are Thracian monarchs may well be correct,27 and it seems to me that Polymestor is followed by Polyphemus in order to highlight their shared role as violators of xenia (one by murdering his guest and the other by eating several of his).28 While Polymestor is neither a poet nor a prophet, he sits at the center of the vatic catalogue, balancing the two couplets on either side.29 Polyphemus also lacks vatic skill, but Ovid specifically identifies him through the prophecy of his blinding, delivered by Telemus son of Eurymus: cui casus ante futuros / Telemus Eurymides vaticinatus erat (269–

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70).30 Then, as Gordon has noted, the catalogue shifts its weight and returns to the family of Phineus, belatedly positioning him as a second, genealogical fulcrum.31

Table 1. Catalogue opening by theme.

12 Table 1 provides a schema of the connections between exempla, including Gordon’s suggestions of the recurrent Phineus-centric genealogy and the link of shared Thracian monarchy between Phineus and Polymestor. The shape of the catalogue, as can be seen, is not entirely balanced, but the progression of exempla has a demonstrable logic even if on the surface it seems haphazard and chaotic. It does not matter if the vates are “bards of very different distinction”;32 what seems to matter for the purpose of the catalogue’s arrangement is their basic classification as vates, while the non-vatic aspects of their characters play an additional role in determining their precise ordering within the mini-catalogue.

13 The scholiasts on this passage prove their understanding, on some level, of the closely intertwined nature of the exempla, but they confusedly attempt to further the connections, providing more correspondences than actually exist. They claim that Phoenix blinded his sons Thirtilas33 and Dorilas (who appear to be invented out of whole-cloth, presumably by analogy with Phineus’s sons) for a false accusation of adultery by their stepmother Licostrata, daughter of the Gothic king Regulus; and the names Polymestor and Polydorus are given to Phineus’s sons by one set of scholia,34 clearly brought to mind by the earlier exemplum of Polymestor. They treat the exempla of the final line similarly: while traditionally Thamyras is blinded for a hubristic offence against the Muses35 and Demodocus is said to be beloved by the Muses, 36 the scholia claim that both engaged in contests of song and were similarly punished accordingly.37

14 It is also worth noting that the exempla of Phineus’s sons, Thamyras, and Demodocus all occupy a single couplet; such a clustering towards the end of a mini-catalogue is not unique to this passage,38 and these three exempla manage, cumulatively, to tie their couplet back into much of the preceding blindness catalogue. The genealogical

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relevance of Phineus’s sons to their father has already been noted; Phineus’s sons are punished (by blinding) for the same purported crime that caused the blindness of Bellerophon and Phoenix; and Thamyras and Demodocus round off the vatic theme.

15 So much for how these final exempla point backwards; how do they serve to propel the catalogue forward? The following couplet (Ib. 273–4) invokes Uranus’s castration by Saturn. Many have scratched their heads over the relevance of this exemplum, which seems not to fit into either the preceding or following mini-catalogues:

sic aliquis tua membra secet, Saturnus ut illas subsecuit partes, unde creatus erat. nec tibi sit melior tumidis Neptunus in undis, 275 quam cui sunt subitae frater et uxor aves ; sollertique viro, lacerae quem fracta tenentem membra ratis Semeles est miserata soror. (Ovid, Ibis 273–8)

Thus may someone slice off your “piece” (membra), as Saturn cut off those parts whence he had been created. And may there be no kindlier Neptune for you in the swollen waves than there was for him whose brother and wife were suddenly birds [=Ceyx], and also for the crafty man [=Ulysses], on whom Semele’s sister took pity as he held onto the shattered pieces (membra) of his raft.

16 Bernhardt lists the couplet as the first of her Einzelexempla.39 But there are in fact links, both backwards and forwards, both verbal and thematic; the Uranus/Saturn couplet is closely attached to its surroundings in a number of ways.

17 Where the sons of Phineus suffered removal of a body-part by the one who created it (quibus idem lumen ademit, / qui dedit [Ib. 271–2], with apt word-choice in lumen, playing on its literal and figurative meanings), Uranus suffers the same dismemberment at the hands of the one whom that body-part created (subsecuit partes, unde creatus erat [Ib. 274]).40 Such verbal or notional echoes often serve to link couplets within the Ibis catalogue.41

18 On a thematic level, the couplet’s apparently unique theme of castration (preceded by those who were blinded and followed by those who drowned or nearly drowned) does not actually cause it to stand on its own in extra-catalogic fashion as Bernhardt suggests. Castration can, in fact, be seen as isomorphic to blinding. Devereux has demonstrated that in mythology one finds “the frequent substitution of blinding for castration, and vice versa, as if the two were somehow analogous.”42 So Ovid makes a logical leap here, within the context of mythic thought.43 Moreover, in Greek, the ideas are further analogized through their collocation under the term πηρόω, which can be used for maiming or crippling, but also specifically for castrating or blinding; Thamyras is an excellent case in point. The essentials of his story are narrated briefly in the Iliad:

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Δώριον, ἔνθά τε Μοῦσαι 595 ἀντόμεναι Θάμυριν τὸν Θρήϊκα παῦσαν ἀοιδῆς Οἰχαλίηθεν ἰόντα παρ’ Εὐρύτου Οἰχαλιῆος· στεῦτο γὰρ εὐχόμενος νικησέμεν εἴ περ ἂν αὐταὶ Μοῦσαι ἀείδοιεν κοῦραι Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο· αἳ δὲ χολωσάμεναι πηρὸν θέσαν, αὐτὰρ ἀοιδὴν 600 θεσπεσίην ἀφέλοντο καὶ ἐκλέλαθον κιθαριστύν (Homer, Il. 2.594–600)

Dorium, where the Muses, encountering Thamyris the Thracian by the Oechalian Eurytus as he came from Oechalia, stopped him from singing; for he declared, boasting, that he would be victorious even if the Muses themselves, daughters of aegis bearing Zeus, should sing; and they, having grown angry, made him pērós, and in addition they took away his divine singing and made him forget the art of playing the cithara.

19 The result of Homer’s use of this potentially ambiguous word πηρός (2.599)—that is, crippled in some fashion—has caused some to suggest, now as in antiquity, that Homer’s account of Thamyras’s punishment does not in fact imply his blinding at all, but rather the laming of his limbs.44 However, Parthenius uses the word of Daphnis’ punishment for infidelity to a nymph and specifically compares Daphnis’ fate of blinding with Thamyras’s fate,45 while the historiographer Charon of Lampsacus uses the word in recounting the similar story of Rhoecus.46 In both contexts, the unfaithful lover is apparently blinded (definitely in the case of Daphnis), but one might imagine castration to be a punishment better fitting the crime.47

20 Although Uranus is the only mythic figure in this part of the Ibis catalogue who is actually castrated, the contiguity between his fate and the blindness catalogue is clear. The Uranus couplet also connects with the subsequent chain of couplets, which concerns the separation and dispersal of body parts (or, more accurately, of membra), in clear association with sic aliquis tua membra secet (Ib. 273). This chain, too, contains several mini-catalogues that aggregate according to different rules, just as “those made πηρός” could be said to cover all of the smaller groupings of exempla from 253–74.48

21 The overarching theme of dismemberment only becomes available through wordplay and intertextuality.49 In the context of the myth, Uranus loses his genitals while he is engaged in sex with Gaia, and the genitals fall into the sea and create Venus. In the poem, however, they “fall” into the next couplet, where we find tumidis Neptunus in undis (“Neptune amidst swollen waves,” Ib. 275) as the agent of destruction.50 The poem moves downward along the same vertical axis as Uranus’s detached membra.

22 In Uranus’s couplet, membra is used in a strictly anatomical sense (although it is a slightly transferred usage, from limbs to the membrum virile). Two couplets later, the word resurfaces with a more metaphorical flavor, as Ulysses clings to the broken membra of his ship. This usage is implicit in the intervening couplet, featuring Ceyx, whose story as told in the Metamorphoses is rife with the rent membra of his shipwreck (and other words of breaking):51

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frangitur incursu nimbosi turbinis arbor, 560 frangitur et regimen ...... alii partes et membra carinae trunca tenent ; tenet ipse manu, qua sceptra solebat, fragmina navigii Ceyx (Ovid, Met. 11.552–3, 559–61)

The tree is broken by the cloudy turbine’s onslaught, and the steerage is broken. . . . Some hold onto pieces and chopped off bits of the craft; Ceyx himself holds the fragments of his vessel with the hand that was accustomed to a scepter.

23 The broken membra of ships are also found at both Tristia 1.2.1–4 and Ibis 17–18, the former describing Ovid’s stormy journey to Tomis and “allud[ing] to his own account of the storm which kills Ceyx in Metamorphoses 11”52 and the latter a passage from the very beginning of the Ibis: di maris et caeli—quid enim nisi vota supersunt ?— solvere quassatae parcite membra ratis. (Ovid, Tristia 1.2.1–2) Gods of sea and sky—for what do I have left except for prayers?—refrain from breaking apart the pieces of my shaken raft. cumque ego quassa meae complectar membra carinae, naufragii tabulas pugnat habere mei (Ovid, Ibis 17–18) And while I clasp the shaken pieces of my craft, he fights to possess the planks of my shipwreck.

24 The specific connections between the prologue and the catalogue of the Ibis will concern us shortly, but for now I wish to stress the similarity of language between these three passages and the excerpt from Metamorphoses 11 quoted above: the death of Ceyx and the membra of shipwrecks are well associated in Ovid, and thus the exemplum of 276 is imbued with intertextual imagery of shattered and scattered membra.

25 Following the exempla of Ceyx and Ulysses come three further exempla (279–84) which apparently cap the dismemberment catalogue. Of these, the first two (Mettius Fufetius and M. Regulus) are drawn from Roman history and the third (Priam) from mythology. 53 The next twenty-four couplets form a mini-catalogue that holds together as a list of historic and mythic kings and tyrants, the majority of whom ruled over Thessaly and Epirus, with some Macedonian, Pontic, Persian, and Asian rulers thrown in for good measure.54 At the same time, however, the division is not so clean-cut. Recurrences of the dismemberment theme are (appropriately) scattered throughout at least the first ten couplets of the catalogue of kings. Regulus (“Little King”)55 and Priam himself, the ruler of all Asia, whose death (as famously recounted in Vergil) involved the separation of his head from his corpse (Aen. 2.557–8), serve as the hinge between these two mini- catalogues.56

26 At this point, we have a general understanding of the exempla and their interconnections. I have demonstrated how the structure of the catalogue is baroque but comprehensible; how many exempla face backwards and forwards in Janus-like fashion but with entirely different aspects of their story (or wording) active in either case;57 and how sometimes the aspect of an exemplum which is the most relevant for its

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connection to surrounding exempla turns out to be completely absent from the text. 58 With these things in mind, let us return to the beginning of the catalogue.

The Curse of Pedantry: The program of the Ibis

27 The ten lines preceding the catalogue serve as a bridge between prologue and catalogue, in many ways allowing the opening of the catalogue to function as a complete restarting of the poem:

flebat, ut est fumis infans contactus amaris, de tribus est cum sic una locuta soror : 240 “tempus in inmensum lacrimas tibi movimus istas, quae semper causa sufficiente cadent.” dixerat ; at Clotho iussit promissa valere, nevit et infesta stamina pulla manu, et, ne longa suo praesagia diceret ore, 245 “fata canet vates qui tua,” dixit, “erit.” ille ego sum vates : ex me tua vulnera disces. dent modo di vires in mea verba suas, carminibusque meis accedent pondera rerum, quae rata per luctus experiere tuos. 250 (Ovid, Ibis 239–50)

The infant was weeping, as he was touched by the bitter smoke, when one sister of the three spoke thus: “For time without end have we provoked those tears for you, which will always fall with sufficient cause.” She had spoken but Clotho commanded her promises to flourish and spun the dark threads with a hostile hand and, that she not speak the long prophecies with her own mouth, she said, “There will be a bard who will sing your fates.” I am that bard: from me you will learn your wounds. May the gods only grant their own strength to my words, and the weight of realities will be added to my songs, which, granted fulfillment, you will experience through your own sorrows.

28 Ovid here repeats the first word of the Ibis, tempus, as the first word of the speech delivered by a Fury who has been tending to the baby Ibis. As Stephen Hinds has observed, “the metapoetic force [of the repetition] . . . is at once inescapable. Lines 241– 2 mark an incipit for ‘Ibis’ the life, just as lines 1–2 marked the incipit of Ibis the poem.”59 With the repetition of tempus, Ovid creates a temporal hall of mirrors: the tempus of the Fury’s speech, promising a future eternity of tears for the infant Ibis, doubles reflexively back to tempus as the opening word (and therefore the alternate title) of the much later (temporally speaking) poem-Ibis.

29 The repetition of the Ibis’ incipit at the beginning of the Fury’s speech marks the restarting of the poem on a purely verbal level. The subsequent lines further this idea of a new beginning but simultaneously mark a mid-point transition.60 Many works of poetry feature a medial re-invocation of the Muses, modeled on Homer’s re-invocation of the Muses prior to the catalogue of ships at Iliad 2.484–93. In the Ibis, however, where the Muses were not invoked in the first place and are conspicuously absent from the

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rest of the poem,61 the medial invocation does not (and cannot) adhere to convention: what has not happened once cannot happen a second time.

30 Rather than solemnly requesting that the goddesses of poetry aid him because his mortal mouth is not up to the task of singing so great a catalogue, Ovid replaces the Muses with a mixed-up pair of triplicate sisters, ambiguously analogized Fury-Fates. And where normally the poet invokes the goddess’s aid, here the usually-longwinded Clotho casually passes off to her newly-minted vates the boring task of singing the catalogue ne longa suo praesagia diceret ore (“so that she doesn’t have to deliver the extensive prophecy with her own mouth,” Ib. 245).62 Hinds calls Ovid’s assumption of the vatic role here “Roman poetry’s most overt (or perverted) enactment of the uates- concept.”63 By repeating the poem’s incipit, by parodying the traditional invocation (and re-invocation) of a goddess’s aid, and by self-consciously assuming, after a full 245 lines, the vatic role that a poet usually adopts at the outset of his work,64 Ovid leaves the reader with no doubt that his poem is, in many ways, beginning anew.65

31 The prefatory nature of this ten-line bridge, together with the well-recognized presence of programmatic material at the beginning of a poem,66 justifies a search for statements of programmatic intent in the lines that follow. The catalogue begins in an overtly epic fashion with the catalogue’s first curse, sint tua Troianis non leviora malis (“may your misfortunes be no lighter than the Trojans’,” Ib. 252), which effectively alludes to the events of both the Iliad and Aeneid.67 Given the storied history of Ovid and epic, however, this very epic flavor of the Ibis catalogue’s opening, along with the restriction of Trojan woes to a non-epic pentameter, should put the Ovidian reader on alert.68 Ovid’s refusal to maintain any genre, let alone the epic genre, is practically proverbial,69 and here his generic foibles again come into play.

32 Like the Amores, the second part of the Ibis opens with an emphasis on crippled feet. 70 Following the Trojans’ epic afflictions come Philoctetes and Telephus, who occur elsewhere in Ovid’s work, sometimes as a pair, usually as exempla of incurable wounds.71 Here they are generally understood as exempla associated with the epic Trojan War context that Ovid has just set up.72 But taken together with the pseudo-epic context of the first exemplum, their respective wounds can also serve another, very different, purpose. Philoctetes was wounded in his foot, and Telephus was wounded in his leg (ultimately as the result of catching his foot in a vine-shoot). Both of them, therefore, limp, and their injured feet cripple the epic nature of Ovid’s first exemplum far more definitively than its simple confinement to an elegiac pentameter.

33 This is, I submit, another pes-pun, like the many which riddle Ovid’s earlier and contemporary work. In the Ibis catalogue, the precise location of Philoctetes’ wound is not mentioned; rather, in keeping with the Ibis’ general obscurity, Ovid simply notes that his crus was afflicted. But his foot was famous as the location of his wound, and Ovid, who loves to mention the “foot” of his meter, can scarcely have ignored this. Philoctetes’ wounded foot therefore echoes the stolen foot of Amores 1.1 and the shortened foot of Amores 3.1, as well as the limping foot of Tristia 3.1. Telephus’s wounded leg, in association with Philoctetes’ foot, functions similarly.

34 Ovid’s playing in the Amores with the foot-discrepancy between hexameter and pentameter (1.1, 3.1) is flamboyant and self-conscious and hence widely remarked, and the frequency with which he comments on the near-epic weight his slender elegiac verses must bear in the Fasti has also garnered scholarly attention. 73 Although the apparent gravitas of the Metamorphoses’ fully epic meter did not allow for such obvious

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metrical puns,74 with Ovid’s exilic return to elegiacs came a concomitant return to metrical games. Betty Nagle observes that Ovid’s predilection for punning remarks about the elegiac meter, in the exile poetry as well as the Amores (e.g., Tr. 1.1.16, 3.1.11– 12), ensures that “the reader realizes its role as a constant” in poetry of love and poetry of pain. She notes that “all Ovid’s pes-puns contain a statement of poetics”;75 it is up to Ovid’s reader to determine where the less obvious puns are lurking.

35 Within the Ibis, Ovid has already placed a great deal of stress on his meter, including the potential unsuitability of its pes. A major concern of the prologue is the discrepancy between meter and content: prima quidem coepto committam proelia versu, / non soleant quamvis hoc pede bella geri (“Indeed I shall join the first battles with my verse begun, although wars are not standardly waged in this meter,” Ib. 45–6).76 His elegiacs are not the proven bloodletting iambics of Archilochus; that would take, he claims, another poem:77 postmodo, si perges, in te mihi liber iambus, / tincta Lycambeo sanguine tela dabit (“Afterwards, if you continue, my iambic book shall send against you missiles dyed with Lycambean blood.” Ib. 53–4). Emphasis on the Ibis’ inappropriate pes recurs in the poem’s coda, echoing the sentiments and language of the prologue: postmodo plura leges et nomen habentia verum, / et pede quo debent acria bella geri (“afterwards, you will read more things, things that have your true name and are in the meter in which bitter wars ought to be waged,” Ib. 643–4).

36 However, Ovid’s harping on the unsuitability of elegy to warfare is disingenuous on several levels. First, Catullus used elegiacs as well as hendecasyllables in an iambic mode,78 so even Ovid’s application of them to verbal warfare is not so unprecedented as he claims. Moreover, Ovid’s own elegiac lover is a soldier, albeit in the camp of Cupid: militat omnis amans, et habet sua castra Cupido (“every lover is a soldier, and Cupid has his own encampment,” Am. 1.9.1). For all that the elegiacs of the Ibis are not amatory, the “bellicose” element established by militat omnis amans adheres to the meter at large. And although Ovid claims that his hands are unaccustomed to weapon-like poetry (cogit inassuetas sumere tela manus, Ib. 10), in the Amores he had referred to his own elegies as tela: blanditias elegosque levis, mea tela, resumpsi (“I have once more taken up my weapons, flatteries and light elegies,” Am. 2.1.21).79 Finally, Ovid’s favorite metrical pun associates elegiacs and iambics. Elegiacs “limp” in a similar way to a famous iambic cursing meter, Hipponactean choliambics (“limping” iambs), which Ovid himself calls parum stabili . . . carmine (“a very unstable song,” Ib. 523). The limping pes, then, which is such a crucial part of Ovidian elegiac poetics, can be perceived as interchangeable with the iambic pes.80

37 Philoctetes and Telephus are not alone in their limping gait, however, as their mini- catalogue is rounded off by another cripple, Bellerophon. This may, in fact, be an Ibis- specific variation on the elegiac pes-pun. Since Philoctetes’ wounded foot alone would suffice to elegize the epic theme of the preceding exemplum, by grouping all three exempla together Ovid is clearly stressing their lamed and limping gait, not just the wounded foot. In addition, these three appear together outside of Ovid’s poetry: they form a Euripidean trio which the scholia to Aristophanes’ Frogs claimed were the reason that Aristophanes called Euripides χωλοποιός (“cripple-maker”).81 Thus, I suggest, the traditional foot pun has evolved, in an echo of the prologue’s metrical dilemmas. Through their collective limping nature, the three lame men together move Ovid’s elegiac invective into a quasi-choliambic mode, appropriate for cursing.82

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38 We may derive two lessons from the opening of the Ibis catalogue. First, there are thematic (and suppressed verbal) connections between the prologue and the catalogue, and we shall see more evidence of this shortly. Second, the Ibis is a fully functional part of Ovid’s poetic corpus and the exilic corpus specifically, not only drawing on themes that occur throughout Ovid’s work, but modifying them in ways that find resonance in the other exile poetry. This is particularly true of Philoctetes and Telephus, whom Ovid can use to make a self-reflexively programmatic statement about the genre in which he is writing because he has used them before. Their presence also recalls his exilic use of elegy in a non-amatory vein.

39 Wounds, no matter their source (love or grief), cause elegy. Ovid’s conversation with Venus at the opening of Fasti 4 posits her (and by extension her son or sons, the gemini Amores) as the source of all wounds, and therefore all elegy.83 In the previous book of the Fasti, Ovid had handily disarmed bellicus Mars to make him exclusively an inermis lover (Fasti 3.1–10), adding to the conceit of love as the only source of wounds. 84 That, however, was likely written before Ovid had to face the alternate wound of exile. Here in the Ibis, where the wounds at issue are not amatory (Philoctetes was wounded by a snake bite, and Telephus was wounded by Achilles’ spear),85 I also see a further statement of poetics.

40 All of Ovid’s previous poems, he claimed in the Ibis’ opening couplet, whether amatory, aetiological, epic, or tragic, were completely harmless.86 However, one of those harmless poems paradoxically wounded Ovid by causing his exile,87 inextricably intertwining his poetry with the incurable exilic wound and leading to an extensive program of correlation between the two. In fact, for the exiled Ovid, his previous poetry has become the very cause of his wound, and he repeatedly uses both Philoctetes and Telephus as exempla to discuss this fact, where previously he had invoked the pair as exempla for the incurable wounds of love.88 In accordance with this transference of exemplary signification, Ovid continues to insist in the Tristia and Ex Ponto that the wounded, limping elegiac meter is the appropriate meter for his exilic verses;89 and in the Ibis’ resurgence of the elegiac foot pun, Philoctetes and Telephus (cripples) replace Cupid (crippler).90 As their wounds had previously been likened to the equally incurable wounds of love, so their new programmatic function echoes the replacement of love’s pain with exile’s pain that allows Ovid an explicit justification for maintaining the elegiac meter in his exilic lamentations.91 Ovid’s short-footed Elegy in Amores 3.1 was beautiful because of her “foot problem,”92 but the respective crippling wounds of Telephus and Philoctetes cause them nothing but pain.93

41 The Ibis catalogue continues, as we have seen, with exempla of blind men, and here again we find a connection with the Ibis prologue. Early on in the prologue, Ovid threatened to wrap his poem in historiis caecis (Ib. 57) as Callimachus had.94 While most scholars apply the label to all of Ovid’s riddling exempla,95 Williams points out that the nine blind men who appear at the start of the catalogue literally exemplify those promised historiae caecae,96 thus creating another link between the two halves of the poem. The emphasis on blindness also activates a “vocabulary of sight”97 which Jennifer Ingleheart argues is present throughout the exilic corpus, with the result that traces of Ovid’s greater exilic and poetic program can again be seen.

42 The first eleven couplets of the catalogue, then, the cripples and the blind men, connect with the clearly programmatic language and sentiments of the prologue and with the broader scheme of imagery which marks Ovid’s exilic poetic corpus. What about the

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couplets that follow? We have already touched on this issue. The mangled and broken membra of the next six couplets, especially given Ovid’s early emphasis on their connection with shipwrecks (Ib. 275–8), also pick up a couplet from the prologue (Ib. 17–18), yet again linking prologue with catalogue. In addition, since the fragments of Ovid’s own poetic shipwrecks appear elsewhere in the exile poetry (Tr. 1.2.2), here too we glimpse Ovid’s pan-exilic program within the Ibis.98

43 The trope of Ovid’s poetic corpus as his physical corpus surfaces time and again in his poetry, particularly following his exile, and numerous times in the Tristia Ovid is concerned with the idea or language of dismemberment.99 Ovid’s “heavy and overt use of mythic victimology . . . give[s] some circumstantial encouragement to the idea that all stories told in the exile poetry, including stories of bodily mutilation, are really about Ovid’s own relegation,”100 so it is no surprise to find the topos repeated several times in the Tristia. Forms of the word membrum appear fourteen times in the Tristia and Ex Ponto together, only four in the context of dismemberment;101 there are thirteen uses in the Ibis, and only three do not occur in the context of dismemberment or mutilation of limbs.102 The Ibis, then, although less obviously “about” Ovid’s exile than his other exile poetry, is even more overwhelmingly obsessed with the idea of dismemberment.103

Onymous, Anonymous, Pseudonymous: The Ibis’ “rhetoric of nomina”

44 We have not yet considered one very important aspect of the prologue, and that is Ovid’s emphasis on Ibis’ name and its pseudonymity. In the rest of the exile poetry, Ovid is “programmatically obsessed”104 with names, and we have now witnessed several times both how the program of the Ibis matches Ovid’s larger exilic program and how reflections of the prologue pervade the catalogue. Thus it is reasonable to assume that the function of names in the catalogue of the Ibis might also be important. In the prologue, Ovid’s stress is on his silence regarding Ibis’ real name,105 the pseudonymous nature of the name “Ibis,” and its ability to function in lieu of Ibis’ real name for the purposes of targeting his curses:

et, quoniam, qui sis, nondum quaerentibus edo, Ibidis interea tu quoque nomen habe. (Ovid, Ibis 61–2)

And since I am not yet professing who you may be to those who ask, in the meantime you, too, have the name of Ibis.

neve minus noceant fictum execrantia nomen vota, minus magnos commoveantve deos : illum ego devoveo, quem mens intellegit, Ibin, 95 qui se scit factis has meruisse preces. (Ovid, Ibis 93–6)

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Nor may my execrating prayers harm his name less because it is fictitious, nor may they stir the great gods any less: him I curse as “Ibis” whom my mind understands to be him, he who knows that he has deserved these prayers by his deeds.

45 The correspondence between this need for a name and the standard practice of defixionum tabellae to precisely express their target’s identity has often been highlighted,106 but Ovid’s continued focus on the importance of nominality in the catalogue of the Ibis has been less remarked.107

46 Like the other aspects of Ovid’s program which we have identified within the Ibis, a focus on naming and not naming also corresponds with Ovid’s pan-exilic program—the importance of names (or their absence) in the exile poetry has been frequently discussed.108 The shift from anonymous to named addressees between the Tristia and Ex Ponto is certainly an explicit part of Ovid’s program in the Ex Ponto; he expresses the sole difference of these later poems from the Tristia as follows: non minus hoc illo triste quod ante dedi. rebus idem titulo differt ; et epistula cui sit non occultato nomine missa docet (Ovid, ExP. 1.1.16–18) This [work] is no less sad than that which I delivered previously. The same in subject, it differs in title, and the letter professes to whom it has been sent since the addressee’s name is not hidden.

47 While the poet of the Tristia is “programmatically obsessed . . . with the dangers that come from naming people’s names,”109 the poet of the Ex Ponto is obsessed with the flexibility of shared nomina. As Hinds has argued, the first two poems of the Ex Ponto (along with several others) make explicit or implicit comparisons between their addressees and (in)famous homonymous historical individuals, often with little apparent regard for the effect this will have on public (or Augustan) perception of the addressee.110

48 It seems to me, however, that even prior to the Ex Ponto, the same duality of shared names is already functioning within the catalogue of the Ibis.111 By contrast, Ovid’s pseudonymous appellation of “Ibis” to his enemy appears to fall more under the aegis of the Tristia’s anonymous form of address (and indeed, many have seen in Ibis the anonymous enemies of Tristia 1.6, 3.11, and 4.9, among others).112 Both the prologue and the catalogue emphasize the suppression of names, the catalogue doing so most obviously through the poet’s tendency not to name the subjects of his exempla. The generally accepted theory is that the Ibis was likely published in between the Tristia and the Ex Ponto,113 and its “rhetoric of nomina”114 would seem to confirm this relative date, as its mode of flexible nominality places it between the Tristia’s anonymity and the Ex Ponto’s onomastic freedom.

49 Ovid’s name-games within the catalogue manifest in a wide variety of forms, in particular: 1.encoding into the text puns, etymological and otherwise, on the names of mythical figures (a very Alexandrian and Augustan gesture); 2.employing a shared (but usually unstated) name as the method of connecting two exempla, more or less explicitly; 3.using an exemplum to evoke a homonymous mythic figure who fits the context of the catalogue better or who can create associations with surrounding exempla (in this case the name of the figure tends to be stated explicitly);

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4.choosing exempla which themselves actually focus on the idea of names, lack of names, and transference of names.

50 In all of these cases, what ultimately concerns Ovid seems to be the dynamics of anonymity and “onymity.” In particular, he strives, with nearly paradoxical effort, to make fully comprehensible to his reader a purportedly anonymous reference, while simultaneously exploiting homonymy (explicit or implicit) to blur the precisely delineated edges of figures’ individual integrity.

51 Puns are the easiest feature to spot and the most in accord with the mode of Alexandrian poetics to which all of Ovid’s poetry more or less adheres.115 The most frequently remarked of these appears in a couplet on the death of Ulysses, who was killed with a spear made from a stingray’s barb. Ovid refers to the agent of Ulysses’ death as teli genus: ossibus inque tuis teli genus haereat illud, traditur Icarii quo cecidisse gener. (Ovid, Ibis 567–8) And may that kind of poker fix in your bones, from which Icarius’s son-in-law is said to have fallen.

52 It has been pointed out by most commentators that teli genus is sounded out, approximately, as “Telegonus,” thus also indicating the human agent of Ulysses’ death to the ear of the Roman reader.116

53 Another pun appears in one of Ovid’s first exempla. His reference to Telephus as qui bibit ubera cervae (“he who drank at the hind’s udder,” Ib. 255) precisely translates the ancient etymology for Telephus’s name, given by the Etymologicum Magnum as ἐκλήθη δὲ διὰ τὸ θηλάσαι αὐτὸν ἔλαφον (“and he was called that on account of a deer nursing him,” 756K.54–5). This is a pun that only functions if the reader is already aware of Telephus’s identity,117 but the potentially appreciative audience is larger than one might initially imagine. We must remember that Roman readers would have had recourse to mythographic texts for clarification, and as it happens, a catalogue recorded in Hyginus gives the names of Qui lacte ferino nutriti sunt (“Those who were nourished by the milk of a wild animal,” Fab. 252), the first line of which reads: Telephus, Herculis et Auges filius, ab cerva (“Telephus, son of Hercules and Auge, by a hind”). Thus, were a reader to be consulting mythographic handbooks for aid, as seems eminently plausible given their apparent popularity, he would have a high chance of appreciating the pun.118

54 A third pun119 is even more in line with standard Augustan poetic practice, which has a tendency to place bilingual puns and etymologies at the ends of lines, framing a passage.120 At Ib. 419–20, Ovid prays that Ibis’ fortunes will never increase but always diminish:

filius et Cereris frustra tibi semper ametur, destituatque tuas usque petitus opes. 420 (Ovid, Ibis 419–20)

And may Ceres’ son always be loved by you in vain, and may he, sought continually, forsake your wealth.

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55 Ceres’ son is the blind god Ploutos, or wealth; the last word of the couplet is opes, namely the Latin equivalent of πλοῦτος. Again, the reader needs to understand the exemplum to appreciate the pun, but Ovid has put the answer to his “riddle” in plain sight. Puns such as these are the most comprehensible and “normal” aspects of Ovid’s onomastic play. His other three types of name-game require a fuller understanding of the exempla—and of mythology in general—in order for appropriate connections to be drawn.

56 The case of names shared by contiguous exempla is another reasonably obvious game of Ovid’s.121 As our understanding of the catalogue’s exempla currently stands, this is a device which Ovid employs four times, twice in order to join separate mini-catalogues and twice in the form of mini-catalogues whose central theme is the shared name. He juxtaposes Ajax the Lesser and Ajax the Greater at Ib. 341–4, joining the homeward- bound Greeks to a list of insane men, and two figures named Hippomenes at Ib. 457–60, joining Cybelean associates to those who were shut away.122 In all four of these exempla, none of the relevant figures is named outright:

utque ferox periit et fulmine et aequore raptor, sic te mersuras adiuvet ignis aquas. mens quoque sic furiis vecors agitetur, ut illi, unum qui toto corpore vulnus habet. (Ovid, Ibis 341–4)

And as the fierce rapist [=Oïlean Ajax] perished by both lightning and water, thus may fire assist the waters that are about to drown you. Also, may your mind thus be driven insane by furies, as for that one who has a single wound in his entire body [=Telamonian Ajax].

inque pecus subito Magnae vertare Parentis, victor ut est celeri victaque versa pede. solaque Limone poenam ne senserit illam, et tua dente fero viscera carpat equus. 460 (Ovid, Ibis 457–60)

And may you suddenly be turned into a beast of the Great Parent, as was the winner [=Hippomenes] and the loser [=Atalanta], diverted on her swift foot. And lest Limone [=Hippomenes’ daughter] alone experience that punishment, may a horse pluck at your entrails with fierce tooth.

57 In the former case, the anonymity has led to a great deal of scholarly debate as to whether or not Telamonian Ajax is even the subject of the second exemplum, although I think the identification is indisputable.123 In the latter case, the first Hippomenes cannot actually be given a name until the following exemplum is understood, as Atalanta’s husband has two names (Hippomenes and Milanion), even within Ovid’s poetry.124

58 In the other two passages, a catalogue of Pyrrhi at Ib. 301–8 and of Glauci at Ib. 555–8, we should again observe Ovid’s pattern of naming, misnaming, and not naming, together with his use of nomen in each instance.

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aut ut Achilliden, cognato nomine clarum, opprimat hostili tegula iacta manu, nec tua quam Pyrrhi felicius ossa quiescant, sparsa per Ambracias quae iacuere vias. nataque ut Aeacidae iaculis moriaris adactis; 305 non licet hoc Cereri dissimulare sacrum. utque nepos dicti nostro modo carmine regis, Cantharidum sucos dante parente bibas. (Ovid, Ibis 301–8)

Or like “the son of Achilles” [=Pyrrhus I the Great], famous from a related name, may a tile thrown by enemy hand fall on you, and may your bones rest no more fruitfully than Pyrrhus’s, which lay scattered through the Ambracian streets. And may you die like the daughter of Aeacides [=Deidamia?], with javelins thrust at you Ceres is not permitted to conceal this sacrifice. And like the grandson of the king just now spoken of in our song [=Pyrrhus II?], may you drink the Spanish flies’ juices with a parent providing them.

59 We have, here, four couplets which concern the genealogical nightmare that is the kings of Epirus and their extensive network of name-sharing relatives. The first two couplets are much more intelligible to a modern reader than the second two, and this is only partially due to Ovid’s periphrastic mode; far more problematic for our comprehension is the utter confusion and patchy nature of our sources.125 Since we can definitively establish the identity of the exempla in the first two couplets, let us begin there. Achillides (301) is not in fact the son of Achilles, but his very distant descendant, 126 Pyrrhus I the Great, and the first joke is that he shares a name with Achilles’ actual son, who is himself named outright in the next couplet. Achilles’ son Pyrrhus, in turn, had two names, Pyrrhus and Neoptolemus; Ovid seems to be making a point by explicitly stating one.127 Does cognato nomine (301), then, refer to Pyrrhus I’s ancestor Achilles, or to Pyrrhus I’s ancestor and namesake, Pyrrhus-Neoptolemus, himself the subject of the next couplet? Ovid evidently leaves the question as an exercise for his reader; nonetheless, we can definitively say that this run of exempla begins with a historical Pyrrhus and a mythical Pyrrhus. The figures who follow are far less certain.

60 Our confusion centers not only around the identity of the woman periphrastically identified as nata . . . Aeacidae (305), but around the identity of her father. “Aeacides” could be a patronymic or a proper name,128 and there was, in fact, a member of the Aeacid dynasty who was actually named Aeacides: he was the father of Pyrrhus I and also of a woman named Deidamia.129 This Deidamia cannot be the subject of 305–6, but just as we first passed from one Pyrrhus to another Pyrrhus, so the hint given by nata Aeacidae, literally understood as “Deidamia,” may imply a different Aeacid Deidamia, who is in fact the daughter of yet a third Pyrrhus (Pyrrhus II). Most scholars do understand the couplet as an allusion to this younger Deidamia.130 This interpretation is not impossible, but it leaves us with a number of unanswered questions. First of all, according to our sources, this Deidamia was killed in a temple of Artemis Hegemone by an assassin named Milo, not by a barrage of spears, and not in any sort of connection with Demeter.131 Scholars usually gloss over this problem by suggesting that Ovid may be our only surviving source for Deidamia’s death in a temple of Demeter,132 or by positing “a desire on Ovid’s part to draw a connexion between Ceres’ role in Pyrrhus I’s

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death, and Deidamia’s death in her temple.”133 Williams lets everyone off the hook by allowing that “the pentameter need not . . . mean that the death occurred in the temple of Ceres,”134 simply that the goddess’s finger was in the Aeacid pie; but the fact remains that Deidamia only really works as the subject of this couplet because scholars want her to, not because her story is a good match.135 As an alternative, Ellis posits that nata Aeacidae is in fact Alexander the Great’s mother, Olympias, who according to Pausanias was stoned to death.136 This would solve the phrase iaculis adactis (Ib. 305),137 but it does not (to my mind) clarify the mention of Ceres.138 However, it fits beautifully in another way: Olympias was the daughter of a Neoptolemus. This again continues the run of Pyrrhus-figures—we moved from Pyrrhus I to Pyrrhus-Neoptolemus, and now we would move from Pyrrhus-Neoptolemus to Neoptolemus. Regardless of which interpretation we follow, then, we can see Ovid moving between homonyms.139 Both interpretations leave us with a similar sense of Ovid’s onomastic play.

61 The fourth couplet is just as inscrutable as the third, and our sources are just as ill- matched. Dicti nostro modo carmine regis (“the king just now mentioned in our song,” Ib. 307), purportedly the grandfather of the subject of 307–8, must be one of the three kings mentioned previously, either Pyrrhus I the Great (subject of 301–2), Pyrrhus- Neoptolemus (subject of 303–4), or the periphrastically-identified “Aeacides” of 305–6 (presumably either Pyrrhus II or Neoptolemus). Because Deidamia is usually understood as the subject of the third couplet, and because the only conceivable grandson of her putative father, Pyrrhus II, is Hieronymus, the son of Nereis and Gelo (who is well-attested to have died in extremely different circumstances),140 the unnamed rex is usually taken to be Pyrrhus I. Pyrrhus I’s only known grandsons are Pyrrhus II and Ptolemy, both generally thought to be the sons of Alexander II of Epirus. 141 As with the previous couplet, we have stories that are close enough for scholars to latch onto them, but nothing definite. Most scholars identify Pyrrhus II as the subject of 307–8 because our sources preserve stories connecting him with poison: Athenaeus tells us that Pyrrhus’s mother, Olympias, poisoned Pyrrhus’s mistress, a Leucadian woman named Tigris,142 while Photius records that Helladius mentioned Pyrrhus poisoning his mother, Olympias.143 Justin, however, says that Olympias herself died of grief after both her sons had died and makes no mention of poison.144 Justin’s account is irreconcilable with that of Photius and Helladius (at least as we have it), while Athenaeus’s account could be thought to work with either one of the other two sources. Although the versions given by Athenaeus and Justin can work with Ovid’s version, Ovid’s account is, again, so unique that we must wonder if it really refers to this parent and son.

62 However, nepos can also simply mean “descendant,” which allows us to include in our consideration any descendant of Pyrrhus-Neoptolemus—that is a broad range of figures to deal with, and we have very little information about most of them. Even narrowing the scope to just a few generations, this broader application of the term allows us to include all descendants of Pyrrhus I (which still makes Pyrrhus II a plausible candidate even if Deidamia is not the subject of 305–6)—or, if we follow Ellis in treating Olympias as the subject of 305–6, a broad view of nepos allows us to include not only all of Pyrrhus I’s descendants, but all the descendants of Neoptolemus, the grandfather of Alexander the Great.145 Of course, just as nepos can mean “descendant,” parens can be used for most earlier generations, so that we begin to wonder just how many generations removed this internecine poisoning may in fact be.

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63 In short, we have two unsolvable couplets, which scholars like to tie off neatly by calling them solved, but which in fact resist modern attempts at a solution. Nonetheless, even unsolved, they allow us to say a great deal about Ovid’s modus operandi. The precise genealogy of the Epeirot kings, with their profusion of recurring mythological names, was likely already a hopeless tangle in Ovid’s day,146 and it is precisely the dynasty’s penchant for onomastic repetition that I believe Ovid was exploiting.147

64 By contrast with the barely-named mess of the Aeacid dynasty, the names of the three Glauci at 555–8 are made very explicit:

Potniadum morsus subeas, ut Glaucus, equarum, 555 inque maris salias, Glaucus ut alter, aquas, utque duobus idem dictis modo nomen habenti, praefocent animae Cnosia mella viam. (Ovid, Ibis 555–8)

May you undergo the bites of Potnian horses, like Glaucus, and may you leap into the waters of the sea, like another Glaucus and like the one who has the same name as the two just mentioned, may Cnossian honey choke up your breath’s passage.

65 These three Glauci, despite sharing a name and being named in conjunction, each suffer a distinctly different fate and are never confused with each other in poetry or myth. I propose, however, that Ovid does his best to conflate the first two by the similarities of his hexameter and pentameter: potNIadum MORsUS SUbEAS, UT GLAUCUS, EQUARum, INque MARIS SAlIAS, GLAUCUS UT altER, AQUas.

66 The lines share a high density of phonemes, arranged in the same order, with occasional anagrammatic transpositions. For Roman poets’ linguistic play, consonants mattered more than vowels,148 and thus MORsus and MARis begin with essentially the same syllable. Glaucus ut is a reflection of ut Glaucus, while the very letters of EQUARum become rearranged as altERAQUas.149 The alliterative, assonant, and anagrammatic nature of the lines may reflect the similar titles of two tragedies by Aeschylus on these characters, Γλαῦκος Ποτνιεύς and Γλαῦκος Πόντιος; or it may be an effort on Ovid’s part to demonstrate how similar and yet different those who share a name can be; or Ovid may just be having some fun. Regardless, in all these cases of juxtaposed homonymous individuals, the characters manage (more or less) to retain their integrity, despite sharing their names.

67 The third method of playing with names hinges on Ovid’s actually naming a character in the text.150 Frequently, such an explicitly-named figure will happen to share a name with another, unrelated, individual from myth or history who would actually fit the context well. Shared names have resonance in Ovid’s earlier poetry; for example, in the Metamorphoses, shared names seem to retain “an association from the first bearer of the name that exerts a pressure on the kind of fate experienced by the second bearer,”151 while in the Fasti shared names can act in the service of sympathetic magic. 152 In the Ibis, nominal transference allows the fleeting doubling of Ibis’ prophesied fate, a bifurcated future of which the road not taken remains in the traveler’s (or reader’s)

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memory.153 I will touch on two instances of what I see as doubly-functioning names, their “correct” reading in stark contrast to a context that is detectable below (or perhaps just above) the surface.

68 Within a section on the deaths of poets, Ovid briefly steps out of the context of the mini-catalogue and wishes on Ibis the death of Orestes, who died from a snake bite; his next exemplum is Eupolis, who died on his wedding-night:

utque Agamemnonio vulnus dedit anguis Oresti, tu quoque de morsu virus habente cadas. sit tibi coniugii nox prima novissima vitae : Eupolis hoc periit et nova nupta modo. 530 (Ovid, Ibis 527–30)

And as a snake gave a wound to Agamemnonian Orestes, may you too fall from a bite possessing poison. May your first night of married life be your very last: Eupolis and his new bride perished in this way.

69 This transition is surprising, to say the least.154 The combination of poetic deaths and snake-bites in the hexameter instantly draws the reader’s imagination to Eurydice,155 who died of a snake-bite earlier in the Ibis. The illusion is left intact until the second syllable of the pentameter, where it turns out, to the reader’s presumably immense surprise, that the figure actually being alluded to is Eupolis. There is a famous Eupolis who fits the thematic poetic context—the comic playwright Eupolis—and for a brief moment the reader’s world makes some sense, until he realizes that this is not, in fact, the comic poet Eupolis, who probably died at sea (and may in fact be the subject of Ib. 591–2).156 Instead, it is Nicias’s son Eupolis, whose death is lamented in an anonymous epigram from the Palatine Anthology:

αἰαῖ, τοῦτο κάκιστον, ὅταν κλαίωσι θανόντα νυμφίον ἢ νύμφην· ἡνίκα δ’ ἀμφοτέρους, Εὔπολιν ὡς ἀγαθήν τε Λυκαίνιον, ὧν ὑμέναιον ἔσβεσεν ἐν πρώτῃ νυκτὶ πεσὼν θάλαμος, οὐκ ἄλλῳ τόδε κῆδος ἰσόρροπον, ᾧ σὺ μὲν υἱόν, 5 Νῖκι, σὺ δ’ ἔκλαυσας, Θεύδικε, θυγατέρα. (AP 7.298)

Alas, this is the most evil thing, whenever they lament the death of a bridegroom or a bride; but when it is both, like Eupolis and noble Lycaenion, whose wedding song their bedchamber, having fallen, extinguished on the first night, this is a grief matched by no other, with which you, Nicias, bewail your son, and you, Theudicus, your daughter.

70 The reader’s most logical explanation at this point might be to imagine that Ovid has quit his catalogue of poets in order to turn to another catalogue of those who died from collapse in one way or another, as he has done elsewhere;157 but the following exemplum

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features the tragic poet Lycophron, who was killed by arrows, and the catalogue of vatic deaths resumes just a few couplets further on.

71 In making sense of the Eupolis exemplum, the reader likely passed through two identifications—identifications which could almost seem to be intentionally provoked by Ovid—before arriving at the “correct” readings of the passage and the name.158 Does this correct reading invalidate the earlier interpretations? If Linus can die as a baby and be killed as an adult by Hercules,159 it seems reasonable to imagine that the poetry- associated figure who dies (possibly of a snake-bite) on his or her wedding-night can also be Eurydice, and that the Eupolis who dies in a vatic context can also be the comic poet, even if the couplet taken as a whole implies a different figure entirely.160

72 My other example is more readily “accurately” identifiable within its context, but the name is equally transferable. The catalogue of vatic deaths fades away at approximately Ib. 552 but returns for a final hurrah somewhere around Ib. 591, before reaching its logical endpoint at Ib. 599–600 with the death of Orpheus. The reason for my vagueness in the start and end points of the break is that the catalogue of vates (which includes musicians and philosophers in its ranks) never disappears completely—between Ib. 553 and 590 come the proto-seer Glaucus (Ib. 557–8),161 the philosopher Socrates (Ib. 559– 60), the philosopher Anaxarchus (Ib. 571–2), two exempla (Crotopus and the Argives) associated with the inherently musical Linus (Ib. 573–6), and the lyre-playing Amphion (Ib. 583–4). Amphion’s death comes within the context of several exempla relating the death of his family (Ib. 581–5), and Niobe’s death by petrifaction (Ib. 585) is followed by the similar fate of the tattling Battus (Ib. 586), whose story Ovid had recounted at fuller length in the Metamorphoses (2.676ff).

73 Because Battus shares a couplet and a fate with Niobe, it is obvious that he is the loose- tongued old man who attempted to snitch on Mercury’s cattle-rustling. However, an equally famous Battus, especially in Neoteric and Augustan poetry, is the founder of Cyrene, whose name is preserved in Callimachus’s frequently-used patronymic Battiades and therefore is suited to the quasi-vatic context of the passage.162 The descriptive phrase laesus lingua, which precedes Battus’s name, not only holds a faint echo of the Cyrenean Battus’s famous speech defect but also, according to Hesychius’s gloss on Βάττος (i.e., τραυλόφωνος, ἰσχνόφωνος), is nearly a calque on the name. If the text almost reads laesus linguam, if the nasal is almost aurally implicit before the B- of Battus, Ibis narrowly avoids being cursed with, perhaps, the same fate that the stammering Battus narrowly avoided by overcoming his βαττολογία163—he will not, for now, nearly be eaten by a lion.

74 My last category of Ovidian name-play involves exempla which are themselves concerned with names, and my first example is one in which the name itself was the cause of death. At the funeral of Julius Caesar, the poet and tribune C. Helvius Cinna was mistaken for the conspirator L. Cornelius Cinna and, on no more grounds than this nominal coincidence, was torn apart by an angry mob:164 conditor ut tardae, laesus cognomine, Myrrhae, urbis in innumeris inveniare locis. (Ovid, Ibis 539–40) Like the creator of slow Myrrha, harmed by his surname [=Cinna], may you be found in countless areas of the city.

75 The resonances of this couplet are multifold. Hinds observes that “it is Cinna’s name which puts him in harm’s way, as a kind of rogue signifier.”165 The exemplum shows that

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names can be dangerous, a sentiment which serves as the refrain of the Tristia. In the Ibis, however, unlike in the thoroughly anonymized Tristia, Ovid makes clear the control he can retain over names if he so desires.166 Who is the conditor . . . tardae, laesus cognomine, Myrrhae (539)? It is Cinna-the-poet, but not Cinna-the-conspirator. Ovid both identifies and specifies without saying the name at all, perhaps because history had already proven the danger of naming that particular name. Possession of a name is potentially problematic, but it can also serve to aid in a form of immortality, which is how a poet’s name should function;167 Cinna is an example of the malfunctioning of that norm. Once his name is said aloud, the name that should win him fame instead wins him death. Suppression of the name would have saved Cinna’s life—but also would have deprived him of poetic immortality.

76 Immortality through the name can also function in a non-poetic context. A number of Ovid’s exempla transfer their names to geographic features that survive their namesakes’ deaths and will potentially last in perpetuum. These include the rivers Evenus, Tiberinus (Ib. 513–14), and Marsyas (Ib. 551–2), and a Roman landmark, the Lacus Curtius (Ib. 443–4).168 In each of these cases the word nomen is highlighted by placement either at the beginning of a pentameter or following the pentameter’s caesura, but in each case it functions differently. In the case of Curtius, his fate of publicly drowning (or wallowing, cf. Livy 1.12.10) in muck is wished on Ibis, but Ovid explicitly deprives his enemy of the resultant fame: dummodo sint fati nomina nulla tui (“provided that no name is derived from your fate,” Ib. 444).169 In the case of Evenus and Tiberinus, it is not so much their deaths by drowning that Ovid curses Ibis with, but rather the transference of their names to the rivers in which they drowned (nomina des rapidae . . . aquae, “may you give your name to the rushing water,” 514); while for Marsyas, the transference of his name to the river appears to be only incidental and not clearly intended to be part of Ibis’ fate at all. However, in all three of these cases, Ovid can in fact be understood as, yet again, wishing for the evanescence of Ibis’ name—as Catullus famously opined (70.4), what is written on the rapida aqua is only temporary.

77 The death of Curtius, reinforced by the exempla of the rivers, speaks the most loudly to Ovid’s wishes for Ibis.170 Although he is to be famous (after all, he is the subject of this poem), he is not to have any fame from his fame. No one (except Ovid and Ibis himself) is to know his identity, but his fate will be remembered. As the impossibility of identifying even some of Ovid’s named exempla shows, an individual’s name is not always his most important feature, but as the ease of identifying anonymous others proves, names are not always a necessary factor for identification. Two other exempla further aid Ovid in his paradoxical endeavors both to blacken Ibis’ name (a fair exchange for the candor of which Ibis has been depriving Ovid’s own name, cf. Ib. 7–8) and to deprive him of one altogether.171

78 At Ib. 417, Ovid curses Ibis with the fate of binominis Iri. The very obvious result of using the epithet binominis combined with one name is to make the reader dredge up from his memory (or look up in Homer) Irus’s other name, which turns out to be Arnaios. Irus is the nickname (due to the beggar’s habit of carrying messages) and Arnaios the given name (Hom. Od. 18.1–7). One school of etymological thought in the ancient world held that the name Arnaios came from ἀραῖος, with a pleonised n.172 Although this was understood by the ancients (or at least the scholiasts) as a favorable name,173 the adjective was derived from the primarily unfavorable ἡ ἀρά. Ovid may well be

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schooling his readers to think of this association, just as in the prologue funeris ara (Ib. 104) is possibly a play on ἀρά.174 Names invariably have more than a single facet.

79 My final example of Ovidian name-play is the death of Priam (Ib. 283–4). It occurs early in the catalogue as the first exemplum in a list of historic and quasi-historic kings, 175 in addition to being located in an overlapping mini-catalogue of those who were dismembered. Priam’s dismemberment is perhaps not the most overridingly obvious aspect of his death, and Ovid makes no mention of it in the Ibis, but Priam is easily identifiable as the one whose altar of Zeus Herkeios did him no good: nec tibi subsidio praesens sit numen, ut illi, cui nihil Hercei profuit ara Iovis. (Ovid, Ibis 283–4) And may a divinity, though present, afford you no protection, as for that one whose altar of Jupiter Herceus profited him nothing.

80 For the Ovidian/Augustan reader, of course, the automatic literary reference for this death would have to be Aeneid 2.547–58—a celebrated passage which, according to tradition, is meant to echo the death of Pompey:176

haec finis Priami fatorum, hic exitus illum sorte tulit Troiam incensam et prolapsa videntem 555 Pergama, tot quondam populis terrisque superbum regnatorem Asiae. iacet ingens litore truncus, avulsumque umeris caput et sine nomine corpus. (Vergil, Aeneid 2.554–8)

This was the end of Priam’s destiny this allotted destruction carried him away, seeing Troy burned and Pergama collapsed, once the proud ruler, over so many peoples and lands, of Asia. His huge trunk lies on the shore, and his head is torn from his shoulders and his body without a name.

81 The last three lines are relevant to the broader themes of the Ibis catalogue at this point, dismemberment and kings, making it clear how the exemplum fits into the Ovidian context. More importantly for our current discussion, however, the body’s lack of name (sine nomine corpus, Aen. 2.558) recalls the active namelessness of the Tristia and the ambiguous anonymity of the Ibis itself. 177 Priam’s death is the Cheshire Cat of Ovidian metamorphoses, which usually result in a name without a body, not a body without a name. But the nomen, like any other member of the body, is detachable; this is seen over and over in the Metamorphoses.178

82 Let us return to the exemplum of Cinna, which has a clear resonance with Ovid’s programmatic interest in names. Hinds, while interested in the exemplum’s nominal relevance, also calls it a “post-Orphic story of the author-as-victim,”179 rightly seeing the intersecting themes of poetry and dismemberment which coalesce at this point in the catalogue. However, poetry and dismemberment fuse into poetic dismemberment through Ovid’s verbal play: Cinna’s dismembered limbs are found in innumeris . . . locis (Ib. 540), a word-choice which suggests the death of poetry as well as poet.180 One can even possibly spot the poet’s limbs in the surrounding verses (Ib. 537–52), as every couplet of the dismemberment mini-catalogue—apart from Cinna’s own—includes a body part. Immediately before Cinna’s death, Philomela’s lingua falls before her pedes

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(Ib. 538), which could additionally be construed as a clue to the metrical pun (innumeris) in the following couplet.181 Subsequently, the Achaean poet’s lumina are blinded (Ib. 541–2); Prometheus’s viscera are put on display (Ib. 543–4) and the viscera of Harpagus’s and Thyestes’ children are consumed (Ib. 545–6); the membra of Mamertas (or Mamercus or possibly Mimnermus) are mutilated by a sword (Ib. 547–8); the faux of the Syracusan poet (Theocritus?) is constricted with a noose (Ib. 549–50); and Marsyas’s viscera are also put on public display (Ib. 551), in addition to his nomen being detached and given to a river (Ib. 552).

83 Ultimately, all the surrounding verses’ membra, which suggest the strewn limbs of Cinna’s dismembered body, belong to Cinna’s poetic corpus as well as to his physical one through the metaphorical transference of rhetorical limbs.182 The transference of various body parts to rhetorical terminology is a widespread occurrence that provides what Keith terms “a conventional literary vocabulary that metaphorically figures texts and parts of texts as their authors’ bodies and limbs.”183 In this instance, Cinna’s dismemberment is akin to his poetry’s destruction, resulting in his and its membra being scattered through Ovid’s numeri just as the locations in which Cinna’s own limbs were found were innumeris, a reversal of Horace’s claim that Lucilius’s dismembered hexameters would not even produce disiecti membra poetae (Sat. 1.4.63). As with Ovid’s conceit of his own poetry as his viscera (Tr. 1.7.20), there is an identification between the two corpora.184

Cursing the Hand That Feeds You

84 Who is Ibis? That is a question which nearly every reader of the poem has asked and many have answered, with a dizzying array of results. I shall refrain from recounting most of the frequently colorful suggestions that have been made in an effort to reach an answer, but there are two, one old and one recent, which are worth mention.185 The former is the frequently cherished suggestion of Housman that Ibis, who was too perfect an enemy to exist, was, in fact, “Nobody.”186 Like Ibis himself, this suggestion is too good to be true, too facile a solution to accept as the final answer to Ovid’s riddles; but it has a grain of what I perceive as truth, as I shall shortly discuss. The latter, a suggestion made by Sergio Casali and Alessandro Schiesaro, is that Ibis represents Augustus.187 This is an excellent assessment of much of the evidence provided in the Ibis itself and in Ovid’s other exile poetry.188 However, I think that Ovid’s employment of his exilic program in the Ibis, as I have laid it out in this paper, suggests a slightly different (and very interesting) conclusion which fits the evidence even better. Let me recapitulate some of my main points.

85 On the surface, the catalogue of the Ibis can be understood as a collection of short mythographic catalogues, but the text ultimately defies that basic understanding of its arrangement.189 Contradicting its deceptively mythographic appearance, the poem asks its readers to be armed with real mythographic treatises (or to possess an encyclopedic knowledge of mythology) before they approach its labyrinthine structure, and what it gives with one hand as the reader solves its riddles (comprehension), it takes away with the other as the catalogue changes course in midstream (uncertainty). Mythography’s reductive prose stands alone and serves to make sense of other works, while the Ibis, with its lines of poetry that are reduced far beyond any prose text and far beyond simple comprehension, relies on other works to make sense of it. Without active

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reference to other works, in fact, whether Ovid’s own or the works of others, understanding of it would be limited.190

86 The double functioning of names is another basic characteristic of the Ibis, a gesture repeated frequently in the Ex Ponto,191 whereas Ovid’s concurrent emphasis on the suppression of names underscores the poetics of his anonymous mode of address as featured in the Tristia. However, with all this consideration of anonymity, pseudonymity, and nominal doublets, there is one name in the poem, invisible for its omnipresence, that I have so far ignored: Ibis, or Ibis. The name is scattered throughout the text, six times as the pseudonym or title itself (55, 59, 62, 95, 100, 220), another four times suppressed into the anonymizing “nomen” (9, 51, 93, 643),192 and once as the riddling answer to an exemplum (449–50). “Ibis” is a pseudonym and Ibis a literary title, but the poem and its addressee are therefore homonymous nomina, just as the poem and its author are traditionally interchangeable corpora.

87 I would not go so far as to say that “Ibis” actually designates the Ibis itself, in a recursive snarl of ultimately pointless metapoetic self-reference. That said, there are hints—pure coincidence?—that might make us think twice: read backwards, Ibis becomes sibi, and a possible accusative of Ibis is Ibidem.193 At any rate, Ovid’s plays on shared names within the Ibis cannot be ignored in the case of the name, intrinsically doubled, and it is worth investigating the results of this subsidiary echo. Ibis and Ibis must inevitably become identified with each other through Ovid’s program of homonymy that is active in the Ibis, especially given the shared incipit of tempus that begins both Ibis the poem and Ibis the person.194 It must be stressed, however, that none of this deprives Ovid’s poem of a potentially flesh-and-blood target—even if Ibis is to be read under “Ibis,” “Ibis” is still ultimately a pseudonym, not simply a self-reflexive title. But what is Ibis other than a poem of Ovid’s, and therefore one membrum of his poetic corpus?

88 It has frequently been noted that much of what Ovid wishes on Ibis is identifiable with his own fate, in a form of lex talionis.195 “Ovid treats the pseudonymous Ibis as a kind of evil twin, cursing him with a catalogue of mythological fates which often invite identification with the terms in which the poet describes his own fate in the Tristia.”196 This makes sense, in terms of ancient curse-practice’s eye-for-an-eye theory,197 because Ibis, as the one who has harmed him, is far more deserving of Ovid’s fate than is Ovid himself: heu! quanto est nostris dignior ipse malis! (“Alas! How much worthier is he himself of my own sufferings!” Ib. 22). But, we must ask, who exactly has harmed Ovid, and how has he done it? Despite occasional poems addressed to anonymous enemies who have inflicted some outrage on the absent Ovid, the primary answer from nearly every other poem, and from the Ibis itself, is that the persistent cause of Ovid’s suffering is his own poetry, his own Muse:198

nec quemquam nostri nisi me laesere libelli, 5 artificis periit cum caput arte sua. (Ovid, Ibis 5–6)

nor have my books harmed anyone except myself, since the head of the artist has perished by his own art.

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89 Twice, speaking of his own exilic wound, he uses the exemplum of Telephus as one who may be cured only by his wound’s inflictor, and in each case his poetry or his Muse is designated as the offending party.199 Elsewhere, he admits to cursing his Muses and verses at the same time as he, an addict, cannot abandon them:200

non tamen ingratum est, quodcumque oblivia nostri impedit et profugi nomen in ora refert.30 30 quamvis interdum, quae me laesisse recordor, carmina devoveo Pieridasque meas, cum bene devovi, nequeo tamen esse sine illis, vulneribusque meis tela cruenta sequor. (Ovid, Tristia 5.7.29–34)

Still, it is not displeasing, whatever prevents my being forgotten and puts the exile’s name back into mouths. Although in the meantime, I curse my songs and my Pierides, which I recall have harmed me when I have cursed them soundly, still I am unable to exist without them, and I chase after weapons that are bloody from my own wounds.

90 Ibis may have many possible faces, but one is most certainly the nine-fold face of the Pierian sisters, or even perhaps specifically Ovid’s own Ars Amatoria. Ibis’ alleged crimes do not stand in the way of this alternate reading—several of them, in fact, correspond well with the effects which Ovid attributes (rather gratefully) to his other poetry in the above passage. Of course Ovid’s poetry must make his name heard in the Forum (Ib. 14), 201 and the continued existence of the Ars deprives Ovid of an untainted claim to candor (Ib. 7–8),202 thanks to Augustus’s condemnation of it, even if the accusation is unjust (Tr. 2.239–40).203

91 The exemplum of Cinna, with its composite dismemberment of the poet’s corpus and his poetic corpus, aids in this overtly poetic reading of the Ibis. The proliferation of exempla of dismemberment and vatic deaths,204 not infrequently overlapping, becomes a further prayer for the destruction of Ovid’s poetry; he has already tried, he claims, a more traditional method of destroying his poetry, namely burning it, but to no effect (cf. Tr. 1.7.23–4). So now, much like Hercules’ skinning of the Nemean lion with its own claws, Ovid attempts to turn his poetic tela, already bloodied from Ovid’s own vulnera (Tr. 5.7.34), back against themselves. If Ovid’s verses can harm the poet’s corpus, surely they can harm themselves, the poetic corpus, or the goddesses who inspire them.

92 Indeed, the Muses’ complete absence from the poem (excepting their historical mention in the context of Ovid’s other poetry at line 2) is suspicious. 205 If I were to go out on a very precarious limb, I might point out the preponderance of exempla connected with Thrace, Ambracia, and Pieria (near Larissa in Thessaly or Macedonia), all of which hosted major cults of the Muses. Many who wish to pin an identity on Ibis have made much of Ib. 501–2 (feta tibi occurrat patrio popularis in arvo / sitque Phalaeceae causa leaena necis, “may a broody lioness encounter you, a fellow-countryman, in your native soil, and may she be the cause of a Phalaecus-style death”), noting that the lion’s native soil is Africa and connecting this with Cinyphiam . . . humum (“Cinyphian soil,” 222) in the prologue,206 supposedly the site of Ibis’ ill-omened birth. Phalaecus’s native soil, however, was Ambracia, where he was tyrant; can we perhaps think particularly of

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the cult of the Muses which Fulvius Nobilior brought to Rome from their “native soil” of Ambracia (along with statues of the Muses, which were installed in the temple of Hercules Musarum)?207

93 Through Ovid’s curses, Ibis is treated ipso facto in the same fashion as Ovid claims to treat his verse in exile.208 His foot is to be lamed (cf. Tr. 3.1.11ff), his limbs are to be dismembered and burned (cf. Tr. 4.1.95–102), his name is to be removed and his identity thereby lost (cf. ExP. 1.1.30)—and yet still he will survive unscathed to launch further attacks on Ovid, an aspect of the Ibis that has troubled some:209 If Ovid sets any store by his curses, ‘Ibis’ ought by rights to have been dead a hundred times over by the end of the poem. The effect of the couplet [643–4] – threatening ‘Ibis’ with further literary invective – is to debunk all that has gone before, or at least to reduce it to the status of a mere literary exercise.

94 Again, this freakish, cockroach-like survival ability beckons the reader irresistibly to look towards Ovid’s resilient Muse, who continually prompts Ovid to write verses even as he destroys earlier incarnations of that corpus, and whom Ovid repeatedly blames even as he again seeks her out.210 At the same time, the surface chaos of the Ibis- catalogue may reflect the chaos of “a world without Muses,” similar to that which Boyd sees in the “studied chaos” of Fasti 5, “even as it makes meaning emerge from the Muses’ dissent.”211

95 At this point, it would be prudent to stress again the probable secondary nature of all this identification, whether or not one chooses to assign a specific flesh-and-blood identity to Ibis.212 It is the echo, the almost-but-not-quite, the Eurydice and comic Eupolis who can be read peering through the lines of the epigrammatic Eupolis (529– 30). The Ibis is, in many ways, about interchangeable doublets—Ibis and Ibis, Ibis and Ovid, the Fates and Furies.213 The death of Remus is appropriate as the penultimate exemplum, a twin killed by his twin, the biggest difference between them being the propagation of one name and the suppression of the other (here inverted)214—capped only by the exemplum of Ovid himself. Finally, we must acknowledge that the ill-starred dies Alliensis (219–20) is, surely, a birthday eminently suited to a figure that is, ultimately and inherently, both alias and Other.215

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Figure 1a. Aeacid rulers of Epirus, descendants of Pyrrhus-Neoptolemus, according to Pausanias (1.11.1–4, 4.35.3–4, 6.12.3, 9.7.2).

Figure 1b. Aeacid rulers of Epirus, descendants of Pyrrhus-Neoptolemus, according to Plutarch, Pyrrhus.

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Figure 1c. Aeacid rulers of Epirus, descendants of Pyrrhus-Neoptolemus, according to Justin, Epitome of Pompeius Trogus (7.6, 17.3, 18.1, 28.1, 28.3).

Figure 1d. Aeacid rulers of Epirus, descendants of Pyrrhus-Neoptolemus : Cross’s (1962) reconstruction of a possible family tree.

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Figure 1e. Aeacid rulers of Epirus, descendants of Pyrrhus-Neoptolemus, as agreed on by more than one ancient author and not contradicted by any.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Sources : Justin, Epitome of Pompeius Trogus (J) Plutarch, Pyrrhus (P) Diodorus Siculus 19.35.5, 22.8.2 (D) Pausanias (Pa) Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae 13.56 (A) Bömer=Bömer, F. P. Ovidius Naso : Metamorphosen. 7 vols. Heidelberg, 1969–86.

FGrH=Jacoby, F. (ed.) Die Fragmente der Griechischen Historiker. Multiple vols. Berlin, 1923–99.

J–P=Jebb, R. C., Headlam, W. G., and Pearson, A. C. (eds.) The Fragments of Sophocles. 3 vols. Cambridge, 1917.

LIMC=Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae. Multiple vols. Zurich, 1981–97.

Pf.=Pfeiffer, R. (ed.) Callimachus. 2 vols. Oxford, 1949–53.

Radt=Radt, S. (ed.) Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (TrGF), vol. 3 : Aeschylus. Göttingen, 1985.

RE=von Pauly, A. F. and Wissowa, G (eds.) Paulys Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft. Neue Bearbeitung. Munich, 1893–1978.

Scheer=Scheer, E. (ed.) Lycophronis Alexandra. 2 vols. Berlin, 1881–1908.

TLL=Thesaurus Linguae Latinae. Leipzig and Munich, 1900–.

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NOTES

1. Thanks are due to Isabel Köster, Lauren Donovan Ginsberg, Liz Gloyn, Caroline Bishop, Alessandro Barchiesi, Andrew Zissos, and Nelly Oliensis, as well as to the two anonymous reviewers for Dictynna. 2. Ib. 7–22. Scholars may be broken into two camps: the “identity-theorists” (Williams 1996, 20), who postulate a real Roman behind Ibis’ inscrutable mask, and the so-called “Housmanians,” including Williams himself, who subscribe to Housman’s ([1920] 316) declaration that Ibis is, in fact, “Nobody.” I shall return to this issue in the final section of this paper, at paragraph 49ff; in the meantime, I want to present my analysis of the poem without the muddying bias of an “answer” to this question. 3. Ib. 55–62. Nothing of Callimachus’s Ibis survives. The tradition holds that it was composed against Apollonius Rhodius, although there is little ancient evidence to support this. For an in- depth and balanced discussion of the possibility, with bibliography, see Watson (1991) 121–30. Although the links between Ovid’s Ibis and the broader category of curse-poems, particularly Hellenistic Arae, are undeniable, the tightly compact and interwoven structure of the Ibis does not seem to adhere to what we know of these curse-poems’ physical arrangement. For a thorough discussion of these Hellenistic Arae and their connection with Ovid’s Ibis, again see Watson (1991). It is, of course, impossible to know where Callimachus’s Ibis stood in relation to its fellow Hellenistic texts on the one hand and to Ovid’s Ibis on the other. 4. Williams (1996) 3. Another, similar, list of favorites, this time compiled by Watson (1991) 79– 80, includes “the relationship of Ovid’s Ibis to its Callimachean prototype; the sources of the two Ibides, particularly Ovid’s; . . . the worth of the various scholia to the Latin Ibis; the significance of the sobriquet ‘Ibis’ which the two poets attached to their respective enemies; the identity of the persons so named; . . . the admixture of Greek and Roman elements in Ovid’s Ibis.” 5. Watson (1991) 80. 6. In fact, the decoding of exempla is an integral part of reading the poem, as I hope to show; however, it is not and should not be the poem’s telos. 7. See particularly Williams (1992) and (1996). 8. Williams (1996) 5. 9. Williams (1996) 5. 10. Williams devotes a whole chapter of his 1996 monograph to the catalogue, but I see this as only the tip of the iceberg. Some scholars have taken Williams’s work too far in one direction; cf. Claassen (1999) 288n40: “An understanding of why the poem was produced [is] more important than the deciphering of puzzles deliberately created by our poet to baffle his readership.” I hope that the following study will show the misguidance of such assertions. Recent in-depth work on the intertextuality of the introductory section has been done by Chiara Battistella (2010), and Samuel Huskey is preparing a critical edition and commentary of the entire poem. A valuable reading of the poem is Schiesaro (2011), which appeared only after I had initially written this piece; I have made reference to it where possible. 11. Williams (1996) 90: “Ovid is experimenting with a new kind of carmen perpetuum – a spell whose composite elements are interwoven in unbroken, unexhausted sequence, but one in which we find a drastic pruning of the familiar narratival devices employed in that earlier carmen perpetuum, the Metamorphoses.” Hutchinson (2006) 74 elucidates two “types” of catalogue in both poetry and prose, “either a) formally continuous or b) formally discontinuous.” Ovid’s catalogue of curses in the Ibis, despite their brevity and apparent disorder, definitely fall under type a), as do the stories of the Metamorphoses. Compressed catalogues occur in the Metamorphoses—the most extensive is at Met. 7.351–90—but there is no evidence that these do not, for instance, directly summarize a section of Nicander, such that the stories would have been readily accessible in a

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single—and obvious—source. In this case, Ovid’s summaries may amount to a mythographic praeteritio—he will, explicitly, not write these stories that others have told. 12. Requiring a reader to supply extra information that is necessary for understanding the narrative is a technique familiar from Hellenistic epigram; cf. Bing (1995), who labels the practice “Ergänzungsspiel,” essentially “a game of supplementation.” Also see Cameron (1995a) 80–1 on the genre of riddling epigrams. 13. See Krasne (forthcoming). The Ibis is highly reminiscent of mythographic catalogues as found in Hyginus and a number of mythographic papyri (collected in van Rossum-Steenbeek [1998]). These sub-literary texts appear to have been popular in the ancient world, and Cameron (2004) 269ff argues that Ovid used them and other types of mythographic treatises as research material for his poetry, particularly the Metamorphoses and Ibis. I suggest that research is not Ovid’s only engagement with this genre, however. 14. Some work has been done in this direction by La Penna (1957) xlvi–xlix, Bernhardt (1986), García Fuentes (1992a) and (1992b), and Gordon (1992). All these were anticipated, to some extent, by Ellis (1881) xliv–xlviii, who observes a number of mini-catalogues and a number of recurring themes, as well as perceiving some of the methods of connection between mini- catalogues. 15. Gordon’s unpublished 1992 dissertation remains the only modern commentary in English on the Ibis (although one is in preparation by Samuel Huskey). In it, she occasionally notes aspects of structural correspondence within the catalogue (see, e.g., her comments on lines 263–4 and 345– 6) and also marks some of Ovid’s methods of transition from one mini-catalogue to another (e.g., on 271–2). 16. Williams (1996) 91. 17. Williams (1996) 91–2. See below for my discussion of the particular exempla to which Williams is referring. 18. Williams (1996) 92: “The theme of blindness gives only loose coherence to . . . lines 259–72.” 19. Williams (1996) 92. 20. e.g., Hyg. Fab. 57.4; cf. Hom. Il. 6.200–2. 21. e.g., scholia ad Lycophron, Alexandra 17. 22. True in Homer Il. 9.453 (τῇ πιθόμην καὶ ἔρεξα, “I obeyed her and did it”); false in ps-Apollod. Bibl. 3.13.8§175 (οὗτος ὑπὸ τοῦ πατρὸς ἐτυφλώθη καταψευσαμένης φθορὰν Φθίας τῆς τοῦ πατρὸς παλλακῆς, “he was blinded by his father, since his father’s mistress Phthia lied because of a grudge”). Whether or not Phoenix was blinded also depends on the version; in Homer, for instance, his father only curses him with infertility (also relevant, see paragraph 18ff). 23. Gordon (1992) 105. 24. Gordon (1992) 106. 25. “Die Vermutung, daß P[hoinix] aus der Kadmossage stamme . . . , gewinnt noch an Wahrscheinlichkeit, wenn man sieht, wie er mit Kadmos einen ganz wesentlichen Zug gemein hat, nämlich daß er ebenfalls nach dem Osten versetzt zum großen Kolonisator wird. . . . Denn P., der Vater der Europa, ist wohl kein anderer als der homerische P.” (RE 20:1, 411–2). Ovid also mentions Amyntor’s son Phoenix and Phineus with his sons in successive couplets at Ars Am. 1.337–40, separated only by Hippolytus. There the connection is explicitly stated to be crimes caused by a woman’s lust (omnia feminea sunt ista libidine mota, Ars Am. 1.341), a variant of the stepmother-connection in these verses. 26. See paragraph 44ff and Krasne (forthcoming). I would suggest that part of the trick of reading Ovid (and other Roman poets) is allowing variant myths to exist simultaneously; for a brief illustration of this, see Edmunds (2001) 147–8. 27. Ovid has an apparent predilection for exempla situated in or deriving from Thrace, Epirus (particularly Ambracia), and Thessaly or Macedonia. Of course, it could be argued that a preponderance of Greek myth simply takes place in those hinterlands, and that other regions

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such as Thebes, Athens, Sicily, and Troy are, proportionally, equally well represented within the Ibis. For another explanation of the northern region’s popularity, see paragraph 92. 28. The repetition of Poly- in their names may also have something to do with their juxtaposition—of course, neither is actually named in the text, so the jingle is only apparent after the reader has “solved” the riddling exempla. The impact of the silent repetition is enhanced by “solving” Polymestor’s victim, another Poly- (Polydorus), named only as nato in the text (Ib. 268). 29. A flight of fancy, but in both the Aeneid (3.13ff) and Metamorphoses (13.628ff), the death of Polydorus at the hands of Polymestor is followed immediately by the arrival of the Trojans to Delos and the vates Anius, which would (very remotely) create a vatic link for this exemplum. 30. The prophecy is narrated in detail at Od. 9.507–12, as well as at Met. 13.771, where Ovid has already used the half-line Telemus Eurymides. 31. Although Phineus is placed earlier in the text than Polymestor, who is at the center of the vatic couplets, Ovid constantly urges the reader to revisit and reconsider earlier exempla after encountering later ones. 32. Williams (1996) 92. In some ways, of course, their vatic differences matter very much, and the exempla seem to be grouped accordingly (see Table 1). 33. Or Tesatas, Thetillas, Thirilas, or Terilas. 34. The P-scholia (= Phillippicus 1796 / Berolinensis Latinus 210) at 271. Other scholia supply the names Polydector and Polydorus. Within the broader tradition of scholia and mythographers, many other names are given. See the editors’ note on Sophocles fr. 704 J–P and Levin (1971) 152– 5. 35. Devereux (1973) 41 suggests that Thamyras’s crime was originally an incestuous one, much like Oedipus’s; he calls it a “very cleverly expurgated” story and comments that “in versions in which Thamyris is the son of a Muse, the prize he competes for is not a sexual one; where it is sexual, his mother is not a Muse.” 36. κῆρυξ δ’ ἐγγύθεν ἦλθεν ἄγων ἐρίηρον ἀοιδόν, / τὸν περὶ Μοῦσ’ ἐφίλησε, δίδου δ’ ἀγαθόν τε κακόν τε· / ὀφθαλμῶν μὲν ἄμερσε, δίδου δ’ ἡδεῖαν ἀοιδήν (“And a herald approached, leading the outstanding singer, whom the Muse loved exceedingly, but she gave him both good and evil; she robbed him of his eyes, but she gave him sweet song,” Hom. Od. 8.62–4). 37. In dealing with the scholia, it is difficult to know where to draw the line—do they preserve vestiges of lost evidence or are they total fabrications? It is best to take them all with a tablespoon of salt and to judge each one individually, as we have evidence of both possibilities being the case. 38. Cf., e.g., Ib. 347–8 and Ib. 407–8. 39. Bernhardt (1986) 339. Other scholars similarly have trouble discerning Ovid’s thought process on one or both transitions. On the transition from blind men to Saturn, cf. Williams (1996) 92: “initial expectations are confounded when Ovid suddenly departs [at line 273] from the theme of blindness to a very different form of punishment. . . . Through this early example of abrupt transition, the pattern is set for the rest of the catalogue.” On the transition from Saturn to Ceyx, cf. Gordon (1992) 111 ad loc: “Ovid here makes a rather forced association, as he turns from Saturn, to the myth of Ceyx, in which Saturn’s son, Neptune, plays a role.” La Penna (1957) justifies including Saturn with the preceding group of “accecati” (xlvi) by calling him “gravemente mutilato” (xlvii). 40. Emphasis may be placed on the precise nature of that membrum by Ovid’s explicit use of the name Saturnus; Macrobius (Sat. 1.8.9) preserves a supposed etymological connection with Greek σάθη (penis). (Thanks to Dictynna’s anonymous reviewer for this reference.) 41. E.g., Ovid moves from periphrasis involving a brother (cui frater, “the one whose brother,” Ib. 276) to periphrasis involving a sister (Semeles soror, “Semele’s sister,” Ib. 278); from Achillea humo (“Achillean soil,” Ib. 330) to Larisaeis (“of Larissa [Achilles’ homeland],” Ib. 332); and he ends lines

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with ipsa parens at Ib. 616 and 624. Rhyming and alliterative jingles on the level of syllabification, within and across couplets, are also common. 42. Lightfoot (1999) 234–5, referring to Devereux (1973). 43. Gordon has noted both the inverse parallel between 271f and 273f and the connection between castration and blinding as per Devereux (1973). 44. RE 5A:1, 1241.28–1242.23. 45. μὴ πειθομένου γὰρ αὐτοῦ συμβήσεσθαι τὰς ὄψεις ἀποβαλεῖν. . . . καὶ οὗτος ἐκ τοῦδε ὁμοίως Θαμύρᾳ τῷ Θρᾶκὶ δι’ ἀφροσύνην ἐπεπήρωτο (“For [she said that] if he did not obey, it would come about that he lose his eyesight. . . . And because of this, he was crippled similarly to Thamyras the Thracian on account of his folly,” Parth. Erot. Path. 29). 46. Rhoecus’s crime, however, may have been something other than or in addition to infidelity (as seems to be the case in this version): καί ποτε πεττεύοντος αὐτοῦ περιίπταται ἡ μέλισσα· πικρότερον δέ τι ἀποφθεγξάμενος, εἰς ὀργὴν ἔτρεψε τὴν νύμφην, ὥστε πηρωθῆναι (“And once the bee flew around him while he was playing at draughts; and having addressed it a bit sharply, he made the nymph angry, so that he was crippled,” Charon Lampsacenus FGrH 262 F 12). 47. Cf. Cybele’s consort Attis, whom the goddess forced to castrate himself following his infidelity. 48. The confusion as to Bellerophon’s fate may well come from use of the word πηρόω, which certainly appears in the Iliad D-scholia (citing Asclepiades’ Tragoidoumena): ὥστε ἐκπεσεῖν μὲν τὸν Βελλεροφόντην καὶ κατενεχθῆναι εἰς τὸ τῆς Λυκίας πεδίον τὸ ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ καλούμενον Ἀλήιον πεδίον, ἀλᾶσθαι δὲ κατὰ τοῦτο πηρωθέντα (“with the result that Bellerophon fell off and tumbled down onto a plain of Lycia, which was called the Aleïan plain from him; and he wandered around after this, having become pērós,” ad Il. 6.155). 49. I include in the term “intertextuality” other versions of myth, which can be considered as “texts.” 50. Might these waves be tumescent in the fashion of Uranus’s severed membra, which they received? Ovid certainly uses tumidus in a sexual sense elsewhere—his description of Faunus’s attempt to rape Omphale/Hercules at Fasti 2.345–6 (ascendit spondaque sibi propiore recumbit, / et tumidum cornu durius inguen erat, “he climbed up and lay down on the bed that was nearer to him, and his swollen groin was harder than horn”) leaves no room for doubt as to the sexual relevance of the word. This playful connection obviates a need for Gordon’s ([1992] 111) complaint of “a rather forced association, as he turns from Saturn, to the myth of Ceyx, in which Saturn’s son, Neptune, plays a role.” Between the several connections of membra and oceans, no forcing is needed. 51. The phrase partes et membra, which occurs in the description of Ceyx’s shipwreck (and is recalled by membra . . . partis at Ib. 273–4), is repeated at Met. 14.541, again with respect to ships, but specifically ships created from Cybele’s groves (nemorum partes et membra meorum). The origins of Cybele’s groves are the metamorphosed, castrated Attis (Ov. Met. 10.103–5). 52. Hinds (1985) 26. 53. Mettius Fufetius and M. Regulus are a contrasting pair drawn from Roman history, the former one who betrayed his Roman allies (cf. Livy 1.28) and the latter one who upheld Roman ideals (cf. Cic. In Pis. 19.43). Mettius Fufetius was torn apart by horses (Livy 1.28.10–11), while Regulus’s dismemberment was restricted to the removal of his eyelids. 54. A number of these also suffer death specifically as a result of betrayal, although the groupings of the catalogue are more along genealogical and onomastic lines. 55. On conscious poetic associations with the meaning of Regulus’s name, cf. Hardie (1993) 9 on Regulus in the Punica: “His name itself is perhaps significant, ‘little king’, the greatest Roman hero of his day but who presents the least risk of aiming at sole rule.” Also cf. a pun on Regulus’s name at Punica 6.257: ablato ni Regulus arte regendi (“had Regulus, not deprived of his art of rei(g)ning, . . .”).

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56. The Vergilian description of Priam’s death, with its recollection of Pompey, may also provide a transition from the Roman to the non-Roman; see Bowie (1990) 475 on the hints of Pompey generated by the phrase regnatorem Asiae (Aen. 2.557). On Priam’s dismemberment, see paragraph 79ff. 57. It appears that Callimachus employed a similar organizational principle in the Aetia. Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 45: “At one point . . . the poet asks the Muses a double question: ‘He enquires why people accompany sacrifice to Apollo in Anaphe with mutual mockery and sacrifice to Heracles at Lindos with curses.’ . . . The cataloguing instincts of the young pedant’s mind have already grouped similar cult practices together . . . , but the answers to the related questions would seem to have had nothing to do with each other. . . . Be that as it may, the Lindian story looks both forwards and backwards, for it is followed by a similar story of how Heracles killed an ox.” 58. E.g., Telephus’s wounded leg, and therefore his crippling, is not mentioned at all, just his vulnus in general, nor is Bellerophon’s crippling or blinding mentioned, just his fall. 59. Hinds (1999) 64. 60. Hinds (1999) 63 takes the transitional passage as “a kind of second proem for the Ibis: not so much a proemio al mezzo . . . but rather a kind of anterior or pre-textual preface.” See Conte (1992) for the proemio al mezzo. 61. The Muses only appear in the very first couplet, and then only with reference to Ovid’s previous poetry. He does not invoke them even where he easily could, with justifiable poetic precedent (e.g., at Ib. 203–4, where he employs what Hinds [1998] 45 terms the “‘many mouths’ topos”). Their absence is reminiscent of their absence in the Metamorphoses, where they appear in propria persona in Book 5 but are only invoked by the poet when the epic has nearly run its course, at 15.622–3. On Ovid’s sidelining of the Muses in both the Metamorphoses and the Fasti, see Barchiesi (1991). 62. This, of course, is theoretically the same Fate (or one of the three) who sang the extensive fifty-nine-line prophecy of Achilles’ future supremacy at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis (Cat. 64.323–81). These are also the same Fates who uttered dark intimations of Meleager’s death in Metamorphoses 8—a death that was, in Homer, ultimately fulfilled by the Erinyes. Cf. Hinds (1999) 63n31: “It seems not unlikely that the vexed reference to ‘one sister of the three’ in the transitional passage is precisely intended to highlight the mythological doubling between Fury and Fate. . . . The abiding impression will be of the ominous overlap between the two sets of sisters.” Hinds (1999) also remarks on “the affinity in the Latin literary imagination between Parcae and poets as spinners of extended tales” (64), citing Rosati (1999) for further discussion, but the complete absence of the Muses, especially together with their replacement by these syncretized Fury-Fates, seems sinister to me. 63. Hinds (1999) 64. 64. See Newman (1967) for the concept of the vates, essentially the poet’s self-projection into his poetry as a poet-prophet figure, in Augustan poetry. The phrase ille ego (sum) in Ovid also has recurrent associations with his literary production and poetic career; see Farrell (2004). 65. The anonymous reviewer also points out to me that the collocation dent ... di (248), based on a putative etymology that derives deus from do, is a topos indicative of invocation (cf. Michalopoulos [2001] 66–7). There is perhaps also, therefore, a suggestion at the end of the poem, where di dent is revived (Ib. 641), that the catalogue could in fact go on ad infinitum if necessary. 66. See, e.g., Keith (1992). Hinds (1992a) 90 also advances the idea that “Augustan poetry contains more or less continuous strata of programmatic discussion.” 67. Williams (1996) 91 sees “the tragedy of the Iliad” as the epic subject of the line, but while this is certainly a logical reading of Troianis . . . malis (252), in Ovid’s Augustan and post-Vergilian world another logical reading—perhaps the more logical and immediate reading—would be the

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woes endured by the Trojans after the fall of Troy. This seems especially borne out by the parallel imprecation of Ib. 339–40, which deals with the post-Iliadic fate of the Greek fleet. 68. Ovid has had epic openings to his various works before now. In the Amores, he began with the epic arma (weapons) and meter of Vergil’s Aeneid, only to find that Cupid was crippling his poetry by stealing a foot and thus turning epic meter into elegiac (Am. 1.1.1–4). A short-footed and limping elegiac Muse subsequently reared her head in Book 3 of the Amores (Am. 3.1.7–8), and similar metrical jests appear elsewhere in the Ovidian corpus, playing on the shared dactylic line of the epic and elegiac meters. 69. See, e.g., Harrison (2002). 70. On Ovid’s previous markers of generic affiliation and proemial metrical jests, from the Amores through the Metamorphoses, see Gildenhard and Zissos (2000). Hinds (1985) discusses several programmatic foot-puns in Book 1 of the Tristia, not least one that is very pertinent to my discussion here—Hinds points out that Oedipus (“Swollen Foot”) is a perfect parricidal analogy for Ovid’s Ars Amatoria because he has misshapen feet, just like the elegiac Ars. 71. As exempla of incurable wounds: Tr. 5.2.9–20 (Telephus & Philoctetes); ExP. 1.3.3–10 (Philoctetes). Telephus as an exemplum of a wound which could only be cured by its cause: Tr. 1.1.97–100; Tr. 2.19–22. Previously, both their wounds had been likened to the wounds of love: Rem. 111–16 (Philoctetes), Am. 2.9.7–8 (Telephus), Rem. 47–8 (Telephus). 72. Cf. Gordon (1992) 98: “[Ovid] moves by association to the man whose weapons were destined to end the Trojan war.” 73. E.g., Hinds (1992a), (1992b). Ovid is, of course, by no means the only Augustan poet to play with the double meaning of pes (see especially Keith [1999]), and the tradition of such punning in Latin stretches back at least as far as Catullus, with (for example) his allusion in C.63 to the swiftness of the galliambic meter (citato . . . pede, 63.2). For Greek punning on ποῦς, see Bassi (1989) 229–31 and Barchiesi (1994). 74. The saeva Cupidinis ira (Met. 1.453) and its subsequent amatory perversion of the work were presumably enough generic confusion, although the ictus of Pegasus’s equine pes as the source of the Muses’ poetry in Book 5 has been well noted by Hinds (1987). 75. Nagle (1980) 22. 76. Williams (1992) 172: “Ovid’s military strategy begins on the wrong metrical footing. . . . According to the Roman generic code the obvious metre for war is of course the hexameter. . . . The iambus is also implied in line 46 as the more usual medium for poetic battle. Whichever metre is eschewed in lines 45–6 – the hexameter, the iambus, or both – the main point is that in the Ibis Ovid creates a correspondence between his own alleged unfamiliarity with abuse and the unfamiliar medium in which he presents that abuse.” 77. Debate rages over whether hoc . . . modo ( Ib. 56) can be taken to mean that Ovid’s Callimachean model was written in elegiacs, or whether modus merely refers to style. If the latter, Ovid may be suffering from “anxiety of influence” with regard to his revolutionary choice of meter. Heyworth’s (1993) idea of Horace’s book of Iambi/ Epodes as his own Ibis is as good a reason as any for suggesting that Callimachus’s invective poem really was written in iambics; he also argues that Callimachus’s meter was “presumably not elegiac: given the proximity of Ov. Ibis 43f. . . . , modo in Ibis 53f. . . . means ‘manner’, not ‘metre’” (94n10). The English derivative “mode” serves to ambiguously translate Ovid’s modo such that manner or meter could be understood. Regardless of the potential Callimachean precedent, however, the choice of versatile elegiacs for the Ibis’ meter fits well with Ovid’s use of the meter elsewhere. 78. Nagle (1980) 41: “A considerable part of the Catullan corpus consists of invective, much of it in elegiac epigrams, rather than in iambs”; also see Heyworth (2001). On the generic implications of iambic in Latin poetry, see, conveniently, Harrison (2005). 79. The difference in tela is irrelevant to my point—whether Ovid’s elegiac weapons are dainty triolets or bloodletting darts, they are tela all the same, as we can observe from Tr. 5.7.34

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(vulneribusque meis tela cruenta sequor, “I pursue tela bloody from my own wounds”). (For the mixture of metaphorical weapons and love-songs, cf. the song of Hilarion, Cyril, and Florian in Act 1 of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Princess Ida, where they vow to woo and win the princess and her maidens “with verbal fences, / with ballads amatory,” and so forth.) 80. See Barchiesi (1994), Heyworth (2001), Schiesaro (2001) and (2011), degl’Innocenti Pierini (2003). 81. τὸν χωλοποιὸν: διὰ τοὺς τρεῖς, Βελλεροφόντην, Φιλοκτήτην, Τήλεφον (“‘cripple-maker’: on account of these three, Bellerophon, Philoctetes, Telephus,” Schol. vet. ad Aristoph. Frogs 846). 82. Can we further imagine the trio to provoke a jesting play on tragedy’s iambic trimeters? On the importance of Ovid’s denial of the poem’s affiliation with iambic, see Schiesaro (2001), (2011). An additional possible reading of the Bellerophon exemplum involves the implicit presence of the winged horse Pegasus, whose equine pes Ovid had presented in the Metamorphoses (5.256–68) as the ultimate source of the Muses’ poetry. Bellerophon’s crippling was due to being bucked from Pegasus’s back while aloft, which has rather Icarian overtones for a fallen poet like Ovid. 83. See Hinds (1992a). 84. Addressed by Hinds (1992a), (1992b). Heyworth (1993) 86 makes the point that the first word of Fasti 4 is alma, rather than arma, effectively disarming the martial Aeneid, which concerns Venus’s other son, Aeneas. 85. Aid, not wounding, came from the inermis party, signifying either the healer Machaon or Achilles, now without his wounding spear (which instead functions as Telephus’s cure). 86. omne fuit Musae carmen inerme meae (“every poem of my Muse was unarmed,” Ib. 2). I have mentioned Ovid’s disingenuity in making this declaration (see paragraph 36). Williams (1992) 171 has pointed out the metrical and verbal coincidence between carmen inerme here and in Propertius 4.6, his Actium poem, marking Ovid’s “move into bellicose poetics.” Propertius’s line, aut testudineae carmen inerme lyrae (4.6.32), had depicted Apollo’s substitution of harmless lyre for devastating bow in order to bring Octavian victory. Keith (1992) has discussed the resonances between Amores 1.1 and Propertius’s elegy. 87. nullaque, quae possit, scriptis tot milibus, extat / littera Nasonis sanguinolenta legi: / nec quemquam nostri nisi me laesere libelli, / artificis periit cum caput arte sua (“And there exists not a single letter of Naso’s, out of the thousands that have been written, which could possibly be read as bloodstained: nor have my books harmed anyone except me, since the artist’s head has perished by his own art,” Ib. 3–6). 88. See note71. 89. Cf. Nagle (1980) 42–3: “He shows that even in its highly specialized subjective-erotic Augustan form, elegy is an appropriate medium for his response to his situation in exile. He does this by analogizing the dolores exilii to the dolores amoris to suggest that an analogous situation warrants an analogous response.” 90. Given Ovid’s extensive program of correlation between his poetry and his exilic wound, it seems possible that he intends the vulnus inermis of Ib. 256, occurring in the same metrical position as carmen inerme (although not a grammatically intact unit), to pick up an echo of carmen inerme and to substitute the poem with a wound. The Ibis, then, would actively maintain the same rhetoric of analogized exilium and amor that is visible elsewhere in the exile poetry, with vulnus replacing carmen. 91. It is possible that the exemplum of Telephus at Tr. 2.19–22 follows another unnoticed pes pun at 2.15–16. 92. pedibus vitium causa decoris erat (“the defect in her feet was the cause of her beauty,” Am. 3.1.10). 93. In addition to shifting the elegiac pair of Philoctetes and Telephus into a choliambic context, Bellerophon may serve a similar pan-exilic programmatic function to the other two: his lameness was caused by falling from the back of Pegasus, the original source of poetry (see note 82).

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94. nunc quo Battiades inimicum devovet Ibin, / hoc ego devoveo teque tuosque modo, / utque ille, historiis involvam carmina caecis, / non soleam quamvis hoc genus ipse sequi (“now, in the same mode as Battiades cursed his enemy Ibis, I curse you and yours, and as he did, I shall wrap my songs in obscure stories, although I myself am not used to writing in this genre,” Ib. 55–8). 95. E.g., Bernhardt (1986) 335: “der Reihe der caecae historiae”; Guarino Ortega (2000) 93: “la larga serie de caecae historiae o dirae.” While Ovid does of course intend historiis . . . caecis to refer to the entirety of the catalogue, it has particular relevance to this opening mini-catalogue. 96. Williams (1992) 181. 97. Ingleheart (2006) 67. And again: “The reader perhaps thinks of the role which sight has already played in Ovid’s exile when reading Ibis 259-272, a passage in which Ovid imagines blindness as a possible punishment for ‘Ibis’ for his involvement in Ovid’s exile; the punishment seems particularly fitting, although Ovid fails to make the connection with what he himself saw explicit” (68n6). 98. This imagery is not limited to the exile poetry (cf. Ars Am. 1.412: vix tenuit lacerae naufraga membra ratis), but elsewhere it does not have so potentially literary an application. See paragraph 22ff for discussion of Ovid’s shipwrecks. 99. On the exilic trope, see Farrell (1999). To name but a few important instances: Tr. 1.2.1–4 (discussed above, paragraph 23ff); Tr. 1.3.73–6, where he envisages himself as Mettius Fufetius; and Tr. 3.9, where he etymologizes the name of Tomis from Medea’s tmesis of her brother Absyrtus. See particularly Oliensis (1997) and Hinds (2007). 100. Hinds (2007) 198. 101. Tr. 1.2.2, 1.3.64, 1.3.73, 1.3.94, 3.8.31, 3.9.27, 3.9.34, 4.10.48, 5.6.20; ExP. 1.10.28, 2.2.74, 2.7.13, 3.3.8, 3.3.11. Those in the context of dismemberment are: Tr. 1.2.2, 1.3.73, 3.9.27, 3.9.34. Hinds (2007) 199–200 connects the corporal dissolution of Tr. 3.8.23–36 with the dismemberment of Tr. 3.9, in which case the poet’s membra there, too, are in danger of a similar fate to Absyrtus’s, as “Ovid’s body (corpora) is . . . weakened by exile” (200). I use membrum as a sample because of its relevance to the programmatic language of the Ibis and because it is likely the most relevant term. Viscera and artus (used eleven and six times in the Ibis, respectively) are other terms which would be worth investigating. 102. Ib. 17, 149, 192, 233, 273, 278, 364, 366, 435, 454, 518, 548, 634. Not in the context of dismemberment are: Ib. 192, 233, 518. Arguably only the first two, both in the prologue, are external to this context, as the myth alluded to at Ib. 517–8 (Brotean) is to a large extent unknown. The best suggestion may be to combine the accounts of ps-Apollodorus E.2.2 and Pausanias 3.22.4 and conclude that this Broteas was a son of Tantalus and a sculptor, who offended Artemis and as a result was driven mad, immolating himself. (However, I do not in fact believe that we should read Brotean here at all, as I hope to discuss elsewhere.) Burning one’s living limbs on a funeral pyre seems somewhat akin to mutilation, as well as akin to Ovid’s burning of his poetic viscera on a pyre (Tr. 1.7.19–20). 103. This projection of a fragmented poetic corpus through fragmented physical corpora may find resonance in later authors such as Lucan; see Bartsch (1997) 10–29 on the fragmentation of bodies as a marker of dissolved boundaries that equate to civil war. For other resonances of dismembered membra, see p.37, n.182. 104. Hinds (2007) 207. 105. nam nomen adhuc utcumque tacebo (“for as yet I shall remain silent as to his name,” Ib. 9). 106. See, e.g., Watson (1991) 204–6, Garriga (1989). On the possible associations between the Ibis and defixionum tabellae at large, see especially Watson (1991) 194–216 and Zipfel (1910). 107. Hinds (2007) mentions the importance of Cinna (Ib. 539–40), whose ambiguous cognomen led directly to his death, with regards to Ovid’s obsession with names in the exile poetry at large; but this is only one of many such instances in the Ibis. 108. See especially Oliensis (1997), Hardie (2002), and Hinds (2007).

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109. Hinds (2007) 207. 110. Hinds (1986) 321. Similar blurring of identity has been discussed by Ahl (1976) 140–5 and Feeney (1986) in the context of the parade of heroes in Aeneid 6; I thank John McDonald for suggesting to me this parallel. 111. See below; also cf. Krasne (forthcoming), where I discuss the polyvalent name of Linus (Ib. 480ff). 112. Cf., e.g., André (1963) vi: “Les concordances formelles de Trist., 1, 6, 13, et Ibis, 9, suggèrent l’identité du personnage”; more recently, scholars such as Helzle (2009) have taken up the mantle of this argument. Casali (1997) 103 rightly notes that “it is impossible to establish who out of the other enemies assailed by Ovid in the Tristia and Epistulae ex Ponto could be identified with ‘Ibis’. . . . A complex pattern of echoes and correspondences can always be discerned between one ‘enemy poem’ and another, but no coherent system can be constructed out of this network of cross-references.” On the poetics of the pseudonym “Ibis,” see pp. 36ff. 113. Williams (1996) 132n52 collects bibliography proposing “a date of composition for the Ibis no later than A.D. 12, when Ovid was well into Tristia 5 if not already embarking on the Epistulae ex Ponto.” Herrmann (1945) labored under the theory that the Ibis and Tristia 2 were published in the same book roll, although later (Herrmann [1965]) he rejected that idea in favor of proposing that the Ibis was not in fact an Ovidian text at all but was rather the work of one C. Caesius Bassus in the early Flavian period. Schiesaro (2011) sees Tristia 2 and the Ibis as a matched pair, but he does not argue for their simultaneous composition. 114. The phrase is borrowed from the title of Oliensis (1997). 115. For the functional rules of puns and other etymological play in Latin poetry, see in particular Ahl (1985), O’Hara (1996), Michalopoulos (2001), and Hinds (2006). 116. See, e.g., La Penna (1957) 152–3 ad loc., André (1963) 54, Gordon (1992) 233 ad 565–566. Telegonus was Odysseus’s son by Circe. He arrived on Ithaca and unknowingly killed his father with a stingray-tipped spear; subsequently, he married Penelope and Telemachus married Circe. For versions and sources of the Telegonus story, see Gantz (1996) 710–12. 117. O’Hara (1996) 79–80: “Vergil and other Augustan poets often suppress or omit a name or word that must be supplied by the reader, so that the etymological wordplay only really ‘takes place’ when the missing word is supplied.” 118. See Cameron (2004). On the specific usefulness of mythographic texts for the Ibis, see Krasne (forthcoming). 119. As best I can tell, this pun remains unremarked by commentators. 120. O’Hara (1996) 82–8. 121. Ellis (1881) xlvi and Guarino Ortega (1999) 276 point out Ovid’s use of shared names as a connective device. 122. Both of these juxtapositions are debatable, once due to scholarly disagreement over identification and once due to Housman’s ([1918] 228) declaration that Ib. 459–60 should be transposed, having been moved to its current location by “a reader who knows too much and yet too little.” 123. In the context of those driven mad (stated explicitly at Ib. 343), unum qui toto corpore vulnus habet (Ib. 344) can, in my opinion, only refer to Ajax, whose single vulnerable spot in his armpit (or shoulder or side) was once a well-known part of his story (Pind. Isth. 6.35–54, Lyc. Alex. 454– 61). However, many modern scholars, along with most of the scholia, wish to see an allusion to Marsyas (other scholia say Pentheus) due to marginal linguistic overlap with Met. 6.387–8 (Marsyas) and 15.528–9 (Hippolytus); see André (1960) for an argument in favor of Ajax and Guarino Ortega (1999) 274–6 for a fairly full accounting of the evidence in either direction. We may also consider one artistic representation: LIMC vol. 1, Aias I 135 (=Boston 99.494) is an Etruscan mirror that shows Ajax with a bent sword, clearly the result of numerous unsuccessful attempts to stab himself. LIMC 1:1.331: “L’arme est manifestement tordue: l’artiste connaissait

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donc le détail de l’invulnérabilité partielle du héros.” This corresponds with a surviving quotation from Aeschylus’s Threissai, which may well have been Ovid’s inspiration for the particular detail of this exemplum (if one insists on a specific intertext rather than the mythic narrative in general): τὸ ξίφος ἐκάμπτετο οὐδαμῇ ἐνδιδόντος τοῦ χρωτὸς τῇ σφαγῇ, × - u τόξον ὥς τις ἐντείνων u -, πρὶν δή τις παροῦσα δαίμων ἔδειξεν αὐτῷ κατὰ ποῖον μέρος δεῖ χρήσασθαι τῇ σφαγῇ (fr. 83 Radt). Stégen (1967) argues that having one wound in the body is not the same as being able to have only one wound in the body (“Ovide écrit habet, et non habere potest”); this is an obtuse denial of the evidence to hand. If only the last of numerous suicide attempts is successful, as narrated in the Aeschylus fragment, then there is plenty of reason for Ovid to say, very literally, unum qui toto corpore vulnus habet (Ib. 344) without alluding to merely the general tradition of his invulnerability. This also obviates the need for Gordon’s ([1992] 138) forced interpretation of vulnus “in the sense of ‘vulnerable’ or ‘vulnerable place.’” It seems to me that the nominal transference from Oïlean Ajax to Telamonian Ajax is the clear transition between mini-catalogues here, while a reference to Marsyas would make no sense in context. The anonymous reviewer for Dictynna also suggests that ferox and vecors, placed into juxtaposition, can almost serve as distinguishing and identifying epithets for the two Ajaxes. 124. Milanion at Am. 3.2.29; Ars Am. 2.188, 3.775; Hippomenes at Her. 16.265, 21.124; Met. 10 (passim). I take this inherent need for nominal clarification as grounds for rejecting Housman’s proposed transposition of Ib. 459–60 (see n. 122). Furthermore, when dealing with dionymous characters, Ovid is in the habit elsewhere of providing one of the two names (e.g., Ib. 303, 417), so the absence here of either name seems significant. 125. Readers who do not wish to immerse themselves in the tangled and irreconcilable genealogy of the Epeirot kings may skip this, but we can learn a great deal from how Ovid engages with issues of homonymy and narrative variants in this passage. 126. Pausanias (1.11.1) says that there are fifteen generations between Achilles’ son Pyrrhus and Pyrrhus the Great’s great-great-grandfather, Tharypas (see Fig. 1a). 127. What exactly Ovid’s point is is uncertain; see below. Sources disagree as to whether Pyrrhus or Neoptolemus was the given name and which was a byname (cf. Paus. 10.26.4, ps-Apollod. Bibl. 3.13.8§174, Plutarch Pyrrhus 1.2). 128. As a patronymic, Aeacides is really a general allusion to the dynasty of Aeacidae, the kings of Epirus who were descended from Aeacides, the father of Pyrrhus the Great. They all were distantly descended from Achilles’ grandfather Aeacus, which ultimately accounts for the name. Pausanias calls them Aeacidae at 1.13.9 and records an inscription calling them Aeacidae at 1.13.3, while Plutarch (Pyrrh. 1.2) calls the dynasty Pyrrhidae, from Pyrrhus-Neoptolemus. 129. According to Plutarch, this Deidamia was originally engaged to Alexander the Great’s son Alexander, but she ultimately married Demetrius Poliorcetes (Dem. 25.2, Pyrrh. 4.2). 130. Williams (1996) 108n64 and Gordon (1992) 125, probably mistakenly, call Deidamia the daughter of Pyrrhus I; this may result from a misinterpretation of Polyaenus, who simply calls Deidamia Πύρρου θυγάτηρ (“Pyrrhus’s daughter,” 8.52) without specifying which Pyrrhus. Polyaenus does say, however, that Deidamia captured Ambracia to avenge the treacherous murder of Ptolemy; as Pyrrhus the Great’s son Ptolemy died in battle at Sparta, it seems far more likely that the Ptolemy whom Polyaenus mentions was the brother (or father, cf. Pausanias 4.35.3) of Pyrrhus II, and thus the uncle (or grandfather) of Deidamia (see Figs. 1a and 1c). (Cross [1962] reconstructs a possible family tree that makes Ptolemy the son of Pyrrhus II; see Fig. 1d.) According to Justin 28.3.1, this Ptolemy died of sickness shortly after succeeding to the throne of Epirus; it is possible to imagine some sort of treachery that would demand vengeance. On the other hand, Lévêque (1957) 681 finds more merit in arguments which make Deidamia the sister of Nereis and both of them the daughters of Pyrrhus I, although there is no clear evidence that

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Pyrrhus I had a daughter named Deidamia. If Lévêque (along with Williams and Gordon) is correct, Ptolemy would be the nephew of Deidamia. 131. Polyaenus 8.52, Justin 28.3.5–8. Justin, who calls the woman Laodamia, recounts how the Epeirots suffered various disasters as divine retribution for the sacrilege and Milo himself was driven insane. By contrast, Pausanias 4.35.3 says that Deidamia, who was childless, entrusted Epirus to the people when she was about to die, which sounds like a somewhat different story from Justin’s, although Pausanias does mention that the result was anarchy. 132. Gordon (1992) 125. 133. Gordon (1992) 125; also cf. La Penna (1957) 69 ad loc.: “Ma l’avvenimento poté essere considerato, religiosamente o poeticamente, come una conseguenza della persecuzione di Cerere contro Pirro e la sua stirpe in seguito alla violazione, da parte di Pirro, di un suo tempio.” 134. Williams (1996) 108n64. La Penna (1957) 69 also rejects the need for a temple-location, instead seeing a reference to the Eleusinian mysteries; he paraphrases Ib. 306 as “come nasconde i sacri riti dei misteri eleusini.” 135. I do not mean to imply that she is not the subject of the couplet, simply that a lot of stretching of our surviving sources is necessary to fit her in. The closest we come to any relevance of Demeter is Justin’s comment that crop failure and famine followed the assassination of Laodamia (nam et sterilitatem famemque passi et intestina discordia vexati externis ad postremum bellis paene consumpti sunt, “for having suffered crop failure and famine, and having been harassed by internal strife, at last they were nearly consumed by foreign wars,” 28.3.7). Tangentially, do we catch famine-related puns in Justin’s intestina discordia and paene consumpti? 136. Paus. 9.7.2. Diodorus Siculus 19.51.5 similarly records that she was murdered by a group of Macedonians, but he does not mention the precise mode of death. Justin 14.6.11 says that she was stabbed by a crowd of soldiers. 137. Williams (1996) 108n64 thinks that this phrase “hardly suggests stoning,” but according to the TLL (I.B.2.a), iaculum can be fere i. q. res quae iacitur (“essentially equivalent to ‘a thing that is hurled,’” 7:1, 77). La Penna (1957) 69, speaking of Deidamia’s death, imagines “un nugolo di dardi scagliati dal popolo in rivolta.” 138. Ellis (1881) 173–4 gives a convoluted explanation involving the worship of Demeter and Kore at Samothrace, the initiation of Olympias into a variety of mysteries at Samothrace, and Demeter’s association with a snake at Eleusis (which he connects with the serpent that lay near Olympias). 139. Should we subscribe entirely to the communis opinio on 305–8, we may understand 307–8 as “Pyrrhus grandson of Pyrrhus,” such that Williams (1996) 94 rightly calls this a “sequence of tangentially related Pyrrhi.” 140. He was slain in the streets of Leontini by a band of Sicilian conspirators (Livy 24.7.1–7, 26.30.1–3, Diod. Sic. 26.15.1, Sil. Ital. Pun. 14.101–9). If Nereis really was the daughter of Pyrrhus I, as several ancient sources make her (Paus. 6.12.3, Livy 24.6.8, Polyb. 7.4.5; possibly also Sil. Ital. Pun. 14.94–5), then Pyrrhus II had no grandchildren at all. 141. See Fig. 1d for a different suggestion of their genealogy. 142. Πύρρου δὲ τοῦ Ἠπειρωτῶν βασιλέως, ὃς ἦν τρίτος ἀπὸ Πύρρου τοῦ ἐπ’ Ἰταλίαν στρατεύσαντος, ἐρωμένη ἦν Τίγρις ἡ Λευκαδία· ἣν Ὀλυμπιὰς ἡ τοῦ νεανίσκου μήτηρ φαρμάκοις ἀπέκτεινεν (“And Tigris the Leucadian was the lover of Pyrrhus king of the Epirotes, who was the grandson of the Pyrrhus who campaigned in Italy; Olympias, the boy’s mother, killed her with drugs,” Athen. Deipn. 13.56). 143. ὅτι ὄνομα θεραπαίνης Πηλούσιον ἦν, δι’ ἧς ὁ Μολοσσὸς Πύρρος ἀνεῖλε φαρμάκῳ τὴν μητέρα (“[Helladius tells] how the name of the slave-girl through whom Molossian Pyrrhus poisoned his mother was Pelousion,” Photius, Bibl. 279.530a). It seems plausible to me that ὄνομα θεραπαίνης is meant to be a periphrasis for θεραπαινά , and that in fact Helladius said that the slave-girl was Pelusian (i.e., from Pelousion in Egypt), not that her name was Pelousion.

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144. Justin, Epit. 28.3. 145. Ellis concludes that the subject of 307–8 could be Heracles, the son of Alexander the Great by the Persian princess Barsina, who was poisoned by Polysperchon at the behest of Cassander. He gets around parente (308) by suggesting that maybe the poison was unknowingly administered by Barsina. Ellis (1881) 173: Sic a Neoptolemi filia Olympiade transitur ad huius ex Alexandro nepotem Heraclem, cui Barsine, mater sua, uenenum, fortasse inscia, tradidisse fingitur (“Thus we pass from Neoptolemus’s daughter Olympias to Heracles, her grandson from Alexander, to whom his mother Barsine is imagined to have delivered poison, perhaps unwittingly.”) Barsina feels to me to be very much shoe-horned in; a more plausible candidate in this branch of the family would be Philip III Arrhidaeus, the stepson of Olympias and half-brother of Alexander the Great, whom Plutarch records to have been mentally deficient as a result of his poisoning by Olympias. Although parens cannot be used to actually mean noverca, the two can be used as diametric opposites (cf. Plin. NH 7.1, Quint. 12.1.2), which would give parens here an appropriately tongue- in-cheek meaning. 146. See Dakarēs (1964) on the mythological origins of the various names used by the members of this dynasty. 147. Another instance of Ovid purposely invoking a case of confused and irreconcilable identity and genealogy may be seen at Ib. 407–10, a passage which has continuously vexed commentators with its apparent triplicate reference to Sinis, the pine-bender. Just as Ovid may be exploiting the tangled profusion of homonymous Epeirot rulers at Ib. 301–8, perhaps his intention here is a similarly mischievous exploitation of bynames and alternate genealogies, in this case invoking the exact same character three times in a row under three different appellations and thereby putting the mythic variation on display for his reader through a magnificent sleight-of-hand. 148. See Ahl (1985) 57–9. 149. This is a normal feature of ancient linguistic play and etymologizing. Ahl (1985) 44–54 shows a number of clear anagrams in Vergil, such as the half-line pulsa palus (Aen. 7.702), as well as pointing out that as serious a philosopher as Plato includes theories of anagrams in the Cratylus. At Cratylus 395D–E, for instance, Socrates proposes that ταλάντατον is behind Tantalus’s name. (See Sedley [1998] on the etymologies of the Cratylus, whether anagrammatic or otherwise.) Tzetzes (Schol. Lyc. p. 5.6–8 Scheer) records, perhaps spuriously (Cameron [1995b] 481–2, but cf. West [1984] 129n11), that Lycophron invented anagrams, including two on the names of Ptolemy Philadelphus and Arsinoe (ἀπὸ μέλιτος and Ηρας̔́ ἴον, respectively). Cameron (1995b) disputes the existence of non-etymological anagrams in antiquity, but the example he chooses from Ahl (1985) to prove that “almost all the cases that carry any conviction at all are etymological associations of one sort or another” (479) first of all ignores the presence of a secondary and non-etymological anagram in the same line and, secondly, does not take into account the existence of such half-line anagrams as pulsa palus: “Verg. Aen. 8.322–3, LATIUmque vocari / maluit, his quoniam LATUIsset [tutus] in oris. The reader is clearly encouraged to look for the meaning of the name here, scarcely an anagram as we understand the term, since it is the very similarity of the words that is held to justify connecting them” (479). The presence of maluit at the beginning of 8.323 defies Cameron’s dismissal of non-etymological anagrammatic play in these lines; contra Harrison (1986), who believes that intentional anagrammatic play in such cases “seems fundamentally unlikely. The error here is not to find anagrams but to ascribe them to the poet” (237). 150. For the four main types of name-game that Ovid employs in the Ibis, see p.21. 151. Hardie (2002) 249. 152. Hardie (2002) 250–1 cites Fasti 4.941–2: pro cane sidero canis hic imponitur arae, / et quare pereat, nil nisi nomen habet (“The dog is placed on the altar instead of the sidereal dog, and he perishes for no reason except the name he has”).

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153. I have demonstrated elsewhere (Krasne [forthcoming]) the ability of a polyvalent name to create associations with the surrounding exempla, specifically in the case of Linus (Ib. 480). The potential for alternative identifications of a named figure—in general, a secondary identification alluded to but ultimately rejected by context—usually has less impact on the structure of the text than do the possible variants of Linus’s myth, which I argue prompt the themes of the next twenty lines. 154. Cf. Watson (1991) 178–9: “Ovid . . . will sometimes deliberately insert an alien myth into a homogeneous sequence.” His examples, however, such as “mention of Hannibal at Ib. 389–90 in the midst of tales from the Odyssey, or 527–8, the death of Orestes by snakebite [which] interrupts [a] sequence on deaths of literary men” (179n62), are not so far afield from the broader context as they seem; I discuss the snake-bite below, while Hannibal’s murder of the senators of Acerrae is only out of place if we treat the chain of Odyssey tales as exclusively Odyssean. In the equally suitable context of “those who died en masse,” there is no disruption (the principle of overlapping mini-catalogues being the same as those in Table 1 and those that I have elaborated on in Krasne [forthcoming]). 155. The G-scholia also wish to interpret the incomprehensible Ib. 525–6 as a reference to Orpheus. 156. For lengthy discussion of the comic poet Eupolis’ death and other possibilities for Ib. 591–2, see Gordon (1992) 242–3 ad 589–590. La Penna (1957) 159 suspects that Ovid was actually confused as to the identity of the epigrammatic Eupolis (although he admits that his suspicions may be unjustified). 157. cadas at 528 followed by the collapse of a chamber is reminiscent of a linguistic play on cadas that occurs slightly earlier in the catalogue (485–500), where a mini-catalogue of those killed by Hercules interrupts an apparent mini-catalogue of those who fell to their deaths, finally coming full circle with the closing exemplum, Lichas, whom Hercules killed by throwing him off a cliff into the ocean. Moreover, that mini-catalogue is followed at a short distance by a mini- catalogue of those who died as a result of things falling on them (505–12). 158. Two critical concepts can be applied to this process of reading. One is Peter Bing’s term “Ergänzungsspiel” (see p.3, n. 12), and the other is Ellen Oliensis’s “textual unconscious” (see Oliensis [2009]). The former is an “authorized” process of reading, imposed upon the reader by the author, while the latter is a private process which may or may not be shared by the author. Oliensis defines “textual unconscious” as “an unconscious that tends to wander at will, taking up residence now with a character, now with the narrator, now with the impersonal narration, and sometimes flirting with an authorial or cultural address. . . . It is in the very texture of the text, its slips, tics, strange emphases, and stray details, that one discovers it at work. . . . The textual unconscious is an enabling postulate, nothing more” (6–7). 159. See Krasne (forthcoming) on the shifting identity of Linus amidst the themes of Ib. 477–500. 160. Gordon (1992) 219: “Ovid may have been thinking of a link with the playwright Eupolis.” La Penna suspects real confusion (see p. 31, n. 156). It is worth noting here a suggestion made by Ellis (1885) 95ff on a couplet occurring just a few lines earlier (Ib. 525–6). He wishes “to explain this distich by supposing two persons of the same name to be confused. The name is Philokles.” (One Philokles was an Athenian general who cut off the right hand or thumb of his prisoners, the other was a tragic poet known for his harsh style.) No plausible explanation has been posited for this couplet, and in our world of nominal conflation, Ellis’s hypothesis suddenly seems feasible. Another scholarly explanation similarly based on this sort of “confusion” would allow the preservation of Ib. 291–2 (usually bracketed by editors). Von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1924) 101n1 suggests that Ovid’s intention may be to allude to a Thessalian Prometheus by naming the mythic Prometheus. Lenz (1944) 34, paraphrasing Wilamowitz, says: “poetam ludibundum ex more Lycophrontis non solum de heroe cogitare, sed etiam de Prometheo Thessalo.” Also in

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favor of retaining Ib. 291–2 is the aural echo of Prometheus in PaRUM-MITIS, as well as Propertius’s use of parum cauti for Prometheus (Prop. 3.5.21–2). 161. After Polyidus revived Minos’s son, the Cretan king forced him to teach his prophetic skill to the boy. Polyidus complied but, on leaving Crete, ordered Glaucus to spit into his mouth, at which point Glaucus forgot what he had learned (ps-Apollod. Bibl. 3.3.1–2§17–20). 162. Cameron (1995a) 8, together with White (1999), argues that Battiades in Call. Epigr. 35 = AP 7.415 is only “a claim to descent from the ancient royal house,” not an indication that Callimachus’s own father was named Battus. For our purposes, the distinction is immaterial: there is, regardless, an association between the stuttering Battus and the poet Callimachus. 163. Bömer ad Met. 2.688 associates βαττολογία with the tattling, not the stuttering, Battus, evidently taking ἀκαιρολογία as speaking out of turn, not as taking too long to speak. On a possible direct and self-inflicted iambic association of both Battuses with Callimachus, see Konstan and Landrey (2008). 164. Once thought to be the possible invention of Plutarch (Brutus 20.8–11, famously adopted in turn by Shakespeare), the shared identity of the tribune C. Helvius Cinna—torn to pieces in place of the conspirator Cornelius Cinna following Caesar’s death—and the poet Cinna is now generally accepted as reality (see, e.g., Wiseman [1974], Morgan [1990], Hollis [2007] 18–20), not least thanks to this very couplet. 165. Hinds (2007) 207. 166. A control not possessed by Ovid’s Muse in the Tristia, who se, quamvis est iussa quiescere, quin te / nominet invitum, vix . . . tenet (Tr. 5.9.25–6). 167. Oliensis (1997) 186: “To be an author is to be able . . . to speak of oneself by name and in the third person, as one’s public does. Like Ovid’s poetry books, the name ‘Naso’ circulates independently of Ovid and is still to be found at Rome long after his departure for Tomis, and among the living long after his departure from life.” 168. To some extent, the Vicus Sceleratus (Ib. 363–4) also fits into this category, although there it receives its name from the crime, not the person. 169. There may also be a hint of the ultimate anonymity of the Lacus Curtius’s namesake—Varro provides us with three possible versions and three possible Curtii (De Ling. Lat. 5.148–50). 170. Pleasingly, the exemplum falls at the exact center of the catalogue, barring deletions and transpositions, and it becomes clear a few couplets later that the caenum in which Ibis is to drown can be fruitfully compared with the proiecta . . . aqua (450) which the Egyptian ibis uses to clean itself. Ovid curses Ibis with drowning in medii . . . voragine caeni (443), such that medium could refer to the middle of the Ibis’ morass of curses in addition to the public location of the Lacus Curtius. The Lacus Curtius also has a certain centrality in Rome itself, positioned at the center of the Forum and between the two seats of Augustan power, the Capitoline and Palatine, in addition to having connections with the Underworld. (See Ogilvie [1965] 75–6 on the Lacus Curtius generally and Spencer [2007] on the dynamics and tensions of the Lacus Curtius in Livy.) Even if textual emendation forces the couplet from the exact center, it is still located within a group of several couplets (Ib. 443–50) which all could serve equally well as a centerpiece to the catalogue; it is perhaps best to take the entire set of couplets as the center. 171. Schiesaro (2001) 125, Schiesaro (2011) 84–6, and Williams (1992) 181–4 see the dark (caecus) obscurity of Ovid’s riddles as the inverse of Ovid’s normal “clarity” (candor) of his writing. What Ibis sows, so shall he reap. 172. παρὰ τὴν ἀρὰν, ἀραῖος· καὶ πλεονασμῷ τοῦν Ν (“derived from ará (prayer, curse), meaning araîos (prayed to, accursed); and with pleonasm of N,” Etym. Magn. 146K.12). 173. ηὔχον το γὰρ αὐτοῦ οἱ γονεῖς γεννηθῆναι (“for his parents prayed that he be born,” B- scholia at Od. 18.5). 174. Williams (1996) 53n61, citing Barchiesi (1993) 79.

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175. Alternatively, the preceding exemplum, Regulus, can be seen as the first in the list of kings— another name game (see p. 12, n. 55). 176. On this point, see Hinds (1998) 8–10, Narducci (1979) 44–7, Bowie (1990). Pompey’s beheading is a persistent theme of Roman literature—it may well have even appeared in Asinius Pollio’s Histories (see Moles [1983])—and Pompey’s fate is juxtaposed with Priam’s as early as Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations (1.35.85–6). 177. Ovid was no doubt pleased to discover that the first line of Pyrrhus’s address to Priam contained Ibis’ name, with the name of Ovid’s first exilic work (Tristia) in the subsequent line: cui Pyrrhus: “referes ergo haec et nuntius ibis / Pelidae genitori. illi mea tristia facta / degeneremque Neoptolemum narrare memento (“Pyrrhus said to him: ‘So go as a messenger to my father, the son of Peleus, and report these things. Remember to tell him of my sad deeds, and that Neoptolemus is a disgrace to his father’s name,’” Aen. 2.547–9). For allusion to a larger context than is recalled through the precise allusion, see Thomas (1986) 178–9. 178. See, e.g., Hardie (2002). 179. Hinds (2007) 206. 180. Hinds (2007) 206 also points out that in innumeris inveniare locis “remakes—or premakes—the pentameter of Tristia 3.9.28,” in multis invenienda locis. The layering of Cinna on top of (or beneath?) Absyrtus puts him forth as a doublet for Ovid as well as a model for Ibis (on whom Absyrtus’s fate is also wished, at 435–6, in another echo of Tristia 3.9.28). See Oliensis (1997) for Ovid’s self-reflexive use of Absyrtus’s story. 181. The set-up for the joke is only viable if one follows the majority of MSS in reading pedes; G

(Codex Galeanus 213) and P1 (Parisinus latinus 7994) read oculos. See La Penna (1957) ad loc. for a defense of retaining pedes. 182. A further poetic association of limbs is the Greek μέλη, meaning “limbs” or “songs,” putting an additional self-referential twist on Horace’s disiecti membra poetae. I owe this idea to Peirano (2009) 195, who makes the connection with regards to Vergil’s Philomela and the mutatos artus of Tereus (Ecl. 6.78–81). This would, moreover, put even more poetic emphasis on the tongue and feet of the dismembered Philomela of Ib. 538. Even Cinna’s (or rather, Myrrha’s) tardiness may hold some poetic significance—Catullus calls Vulcan tardipedi deo in close association with his own iambics, surely not an innocent choice of words (see Heyworth [2001] 125–6, with bibliography). 183. Keith (1999) 41. This paper contains a particularly in-depth discussion of the trope with regards to the Neoteric and Augustan poets, accompanied by relevant bibliography. 184. See Farrell (1999) on this Ovidian conceit as applied to the Metamorphoses. 185. Williams (1996) 27n51: “For lists of candidates see Ellis xix–xxvii, La Penna xvi–xix and André xxiv–vi with Watson 130 n. 344 for updated bibliography.” Since then, Casali (1997) and Schiesaro (2001), (2011) have made an additional suggestion, which I discuss below. Guarino Ortega (2000) 12–20 also summarizes a number of theories, and Williams (2008) XXV collects a brief bibliography on the issue. 186. Housman (1920) 316. 187. I called this a recent suggestion, but it in fact dates back as far as the early 13 th century humanist Brunetto Latini, in his Li Tresors (1.160.7); see Hexter (1986) 99n63. As both Casali (1997) and Schiesaro (2001) point out, the apparent impossibility of Augustus as Ibis (given an explicit negation at Ib. 23–8) could easily be a case of the poet protesting too much. Schiesaro (2011), which reworks and greatly expands Schiesaro (2001), is an in-depth and very persuasive argument for understanding Ibis as Augustus, but many (though not all) of his arguments could be redeployed to support my own reading. 188. As with Williams’s ([1996] 23) suggestion that the entire poem is a “contrived display of an irrational psychology erupting in violence,” this suggestion is not incompatible with my own. There are certainly conceptual affinities; Schiesaro (2001) emphasizes the significance of Ovid’s

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iambic denials to a reading of the poem, seeing poetry’s double-headed offering of praise and blame as a central theme. 189. See above (pp. 3 and 23) and Krasne (forthcoming). 190. We may recall the exempla of Ceyx and Priam in their contexts of dismemberment, as well as Priam’s loss of his name along with his head. 191. Hinds (1986) 321, Oliensis (1997), Gowing (2002). 192. Forms of nomen occur fourteen times in the Ibis. 193. These two intriguing points were made to me by Robin McGill and Gareth Williams, respectively. 194. See above (p. 13) and Hinds (1999). 195. E.g., Hinds (2007) 206ff, Casali (1997) 105ff. 196. Hinds (2007) 206. 197. See Watson (1991) 42–6. 198. Pace Schiesaro (2011). Among his many other points, Schiesaro observes that the Ibis functions as a sequel to Tristia 2; this is undeniable, but Augustus and the Muses also can be perceived as a matched “pair” in the same way as the two poems. In fact, I find it fascinating that so many nearly identical arguments can be adduced for either Augustus or the Muses as the identity behind Ibis’ mask. Naturally, this is at least in part due to Ovid’s own tendency to associate them so closely elsewhere, and one wonders if he did not in fact intend for his readers to see Augustus and the Muses as somehow identifiable, much as the Furies and Fates merge uneasily within the context of the Ibis. 199. Tr. 1.1.97–100, Tr. 2.19–22. 200. Williams (1996) 124: “In cursing the exilic Muses (Tr. 5.7.31–3) and burning his poetry (Tr. 4.1.101–2), Ovid unleashes his own form of manic violence in word and deed, the Muses being the intimates . . . who suffer on these occasions – if, that is, the Muses can be distinguished from the poet, who indirectly attacks himself.” Similar professions of an unhealthy addiction are to be found at Tr. 2.1–4,13–14; 5.12.45–8; and elsewhere. 201. See p. 34, n. 167. 202. This accusation comes immediately after Ovid’s announcement that he alone has been harmed by his ars or Ars (5–6); and the unus (7) who deprives him of his candoris titulum (8) could just as easily be understood as unus libellus (the always unspecified carmen crimenosum), which would in fact be the obvious reading to carry over from the previous couplet, a misdirection continued by use of titulum. 203. Another aspect of Ibis which could potentially be seen as poetic is his doglike nature. Ahl (1985) 31ff points out the grammatically inherent wordplay between canis (you sing) and canis (dog) that occurs in Vergil. If Ibis is Ovid’s Muses or his poetry in general, then the pun may be active within the lacte CANino (Ib. 229) he drinks as a baby and the verba CANina (Ib. 232) he produces as a result. Williams (1992) 182–3 relates Ibis’ dog-like nature to his barking attacks and to a spiteful and cowardly invidia. 204. The primary mini-catalogues of those who suffered dismemberment as (part of) their fate are found at Ib. 273–304, 435–56, and 533–55, with individual exempla elsewhere. The primary mini-catalogues of vatic deaths are Ib. 263–72, 521–52, and 583–600. The two types of catalogue connect at 272–3 and overlap at 533–52. A comment by Ingleheart (2006) 75 is relevant: “It is perhaps tempting to see in Ovid’s use [in Tristia 2] of Actaeon’s myth as a parallel for his own fate an allusion to the death of Euripides (and perhaps also other poetic deaths: for dogs killing Linus, see Call. Aet. fr. 26 Pf. and Conon 19), another poet noted for the erotic aspect to his oeuvre.” 205. Casali (1997) 107 similarly notes the absence of the words Caesar and Augustus in the Ibis. 206. The Cinyps is a river in Libya. 207. The Ambracian Muses have featured in Ovid’s poetry before: they and Hercules close the final (medial?) book of the Fasti (doctae adsensere sorores; / adnuit Alcides increpuitque lyram, “her

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learned sisters agreed; Alcides nodded and rattled his lyre,” Fast. 6.811–12). The connections between this lyre-playing Hercules Musagetes and Hercules as the lyre-student of Linus are somewhat murky, but I wonder if we might not interpret Hercules’ rattling of his lyre here, usually read as an encomium of Germanicus or signifying the approval of the Muses (Hardie [2007], Barchiesi [1997] 268–9), as a subtle threat to the artist. Certainly, Linus is “the personification of lament” (Pache [2004] 7), and for Horace (Odes 4.15.2), Apollo’s rattling of the lyre was indeed a warning. 208. The assimilation of Ibis’ birth to Meleager’s that we saw above (p. 14, n. 62) aids in this analogy. Cf. Farrell (1999) 140–1: “In Tristia 1.7, . . . Ovid gives a detailed account of his attempt to burn the Metamorphoses . . . , an account that involves reading himself into the story of Meleager. First, Ovid informs us, he played the role of Althaea by trying to bring about the death of his own ‘child’ by fire; then he suggests that the true correspondence is between himself and his poetry, resembling the magical relationship between Meleager and the log, since he speaks of his manuscript of the Metamorphoses as ‘my book-rolls, my own flesh and blood, destined to perish along with me.’” 209. Watson (1991) 138. 210. Williams (1996) 132n44: “Since Ovid goes on in Tr. 5.12 to wish that the Ars amatoria had been destroyed . . . , he seems still to reproach the Muse who contributed to his downfall; which suggests that he burns his poetry . . . out of continued frustration at the studium which has destroyed him.” 211. Boyd (2000) 65; also cf. Barchiesi (1991). In Fasti 5, the Muses disagree with each other, leaving Ovid adrift as a result, without his poetic guide and possibly without “authorization as poet” (64). In the Ibis, Ovid finds a new goddess to grant him poetic authority (Ib. 246, cf. pp. 13ff), but as in Fasti 5, which is full of alternative “authorities,” the absence of the Muses forces the poet to create an “intricate narrative patterning” which “keeps sending us back, inviting us to make new connections between previously unconnected phenomena” (95). Schiesaro (2011) 134 observes the Ibis’ similarity to the rudis indigestaque moles (Met. 1.7) of the world’s initial Chaos, hurled back into this unsettled state thanks to Ibis’ breaking of friendship’s (and, apparently, the universe’s) foedera. 212. Williams (1996) 121–5 connects Ovid’s cursing of the Muses at Tr. 5.7.31–3 with the general cursing atmosphere of the Ibis but does not go further than this. He ultimately takes the Ibis as Ovid tilting at windmills in the depths of his melancholy, straddling the divide between most scholars’ attempts to assign an identity to Ibis and Housman’s desire to see “Nobody” behind the pseudonym. 213. See p. 14, n. 62. I should also note that if we peel back another layer of Ibis’ onomastic onion we uncover his inherent literariness, since ibises were associated with the god Thoth, the inventor of writing (and hence with the intrinsically hermeneutic Hermes/Mercury, cf. Met. 5.331). This connection may be behind the close placement of the exempla of Callimachus’s Ibis (449–50) and Cadmus’s Sidonia . . . manu (446), another inventor of writing, in the central section of the curse catalogue, following the exemplum of the muck-wallowing Curtius. Schiesaro (2011) 104–14, by contrast, sees links between Augustus and Mercury, Augustus and Thoth, and even Augustus and ibises. 214. Cf. Feeney (1986) 9: “It was possible simply to suppress mention of Remus.” See also Oliensis (2004). In related geminate/fraternal strife, Ovid tells Ibis (35–6, 39–40) that the unmingled smoke of Eteocles and Polynices will merge before the two of them can again be friends: et nova fraterno veniet concordia fumo, / quem vetus accensa separat ira pyra, / . . . / quam mihi sit tecum positis, quae sumpsimus, armis / gratia, commissis, improbe, rupta tuis. 215. Catullus had paved the way for plays on Allia and alia: ne vestrum scabra tangat robigine nomen [sc. Allius] / haec atque illa dies atque alia atque alia (“may this day and that day and another and another day never touch your name with scaly rust,” Cat. 68.151–2). See also Bright (1982).

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RÉSUMÉS

This paper investigates the extended catalogue of curses in Ovid’s Ibis, in particular the catalogue's literary significance and the reasons and methods behind Ovid's organizing principles and choice of themes. I demonstrate how the Ibis plays with presenting itself in the manner of mythographic texts while exploiting the polyvalency of the mythic tradition’s inherent mutability and syncretism. I also discuss how major themes of the poem, such as a prevalent emphasis on names and their suppression, and an identification of the poetic corpus with the poet’s own body, echo the thematic concerns of Ovid’s other exile poetry. Finally, I argue for identifying Ovid’s pseudonymous enemy “Ibis” with the Muses, whose “love/hate” relationship with Ovid is clearly expressed in the exile poetry.

INDEX

Mots-clés : catalogue poetry, curse poetry, elegy, exile, Ibis, identity, intertextuality, intratextuality, mythography, mythology, onomastics, Ovid, pseudonymity

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Sine nos cursu quo sumus ire pares : l’ideale dell’amore corrisposto nell’elegia latina

Mario Labate

1 Una parte non irrilevante della riflessione poetologica degli elegiaci latini (in particolare dell’ultimo degli elegiaci, Ovidio) si appunta sul carattere “ineguale” del metro che costituisce l’elemento formale eponimo di questo genere letterario.1 Elegi sono una poesia in cui all’esametro non tiene dietro un verso di eguale misura, ma un verso più corto, che insieme all’esametro viene a costituire una unità costituzionalmente sbilanciata. Nella bizzarra immaginazione del proemio degli Amores è Cupido in persona, con il furto giocoso di un piede, a impedire che il ritmo proceda sempre uguale a se stesso, un verso dopo l’altro (am. 1, 1, 3-4) : par erat inferior versus ; risisse Cupido dicitur atque unum surripuisse pedem.

2 Al poeta che si rassegna alla nuova forma di poesia che lo scherzo del dio gli ha imposto non resta che procedere secondo una regolare alternanza tra l’alzarsi di un verso di sei piedi e l’abbassarsi di un verso di cinque piedi (am. 1, 1, 27) : sex mihi surgat opus numeris, in quinque residat

3 Ne risulta una unità dispari di undici piedi che continuamente ritorna su se stessa (am. 1, 1, 30) : Musa per undenos emodulanda pedes.

4 Come una donna leggermente claudicante o come un carro sbilanciato da ruote diseguali, elegia è dunque poesia debole, inadatta a sostenere il peso della gravitas nell’espressione e nella materia, ma al tempo stesso capace di costruire, sul suo difetto e sulla sua costituzionale debolezza, il pregio dell’eleganza sottile, della grazia raffinata, spiritosa, ammiccante (am. 3, 1, 7-10) : venit odoratos Elegia nexa capillos, et, puto, pes illi longior alter erat. forma decens, vestis tenuissima, vultus amantis, et pedibus vitium causa decoris erat.

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5 Se questa immaginazione metapoetica la dovessimo a un poeta diverso dall’ironico decostruttore del codice elegiaco, ci troveremmo probabilmente di fronte un’interpretazione molto diversa, dolente e appassionata, della inaequalitas della poesia in distici. Il flebile carmen costruisce infatti la sua logica e il suo discorso proprio sull’assunto di una costituzionale diseguaglianza tra i partners della relazione, sullo squilibrio dell’investimento emozionale ed esistenziale che ciascuno di essi, da parte sua, vuole e sa mettere in gioco, sulla impossibilità che due soggetti, che si muovono in direzione opposta su piani contigui ma paralleli, finiscano mai per incontrarsi davvero. La sofferenza dell’elegiaco nasce inevitabilmente dalla contraddizione incomponibile tra questa realtà e il mondo delle aspirazioni, delle speranze, delle momentanee illusioni di cui il poeta-amante è prigioniero, senza poter mai nemmeno acquisire quella consapevolezza piena della sua condizione che gli permetterebbe di non assolutizzarla, di relativizzarla in un’ottica superiore.2

6 E’ probabilmente per questo motivo che, se cerchiamo una riflessione su questo tratto fondamentale della poetica elegiaca, dobbiamo rivolgersi fuori dall’ elegia stessa. Il poeta delle Metamorfosi costruisce la sua narrazione non soltanto come una enciclopedia dell’universo narrativo, come una summa delle storie e dei miti, ma è consapevole anche di fornire al lettore una specie di enciclopedia delle forme letterarie. La prima storia d’amore delle Metamorfosi, quella tra Apollo e Dafne, si propone evidentemente come una specie di ‘archeologia’ della poesia elegiaca.3

7 Un conflitto di competenze oppone Apollo, il dio arciere, vincitore dell’epica battaglia contro Pitone, al dio fanciullo Cupido, che pretende anch’egli di disporre dell’arco come proprio attributo, e che, di fronte alle rampogne del dio maggiore, reagisce sfacciatamente trafiggendolo con una altrettanto infallibile freccia e lo fa immediatamente passare dal mondo delle armi al mondo della passione amorosa. Questa sceneggiatura, come molti hanno notato, allude vistosamente allo scherzoso aition dell’elegia erotica ovidiana, a quel proemio degli Amores che segnava la non troppo volontaria assunzione della voce elegiaca da parte di un poeta capace anche di interpretare la materia e lo stile dell’epos. Con una differenza. Vista dall’interno dell’elegia, la freccia di Cupido, che fa entrare nell’elegia stessa, produce soprattutto l’innamoramento, la passione che regna, d’ora in poi, in un petto fino a quel momento libero :4 Ov. am. 1, 1, 26 uror et in vacuo pectore regnat amor

cfr. Prop. 1, 1, 2 contactum nullis ante cupidinibus

8 Un punto di vista e s t e r n o rispetto a quello del poeta che si chiude nel mondo elegiaco, come può essere, ad esempio, l’ottica che appartiene al poeta-narratore delle Metamorfosi, permette invece di vedere con chiarezza che la natura stessa dell’elegia non presuppone semplicemente un innamoramento, ma specificamente un innamoramento sbilanciato e contraddittorio, cui è statutariamente negata la possibilità dell’equilibrio, della paritas, della corrispondenza reciproca. Cupido, nelle Metamorfosi, non si limita, come nella scena corrispondente degli Amores che costituisce il suo evidente intertesto, a estrarre una freccia dalla sua faretra per trafiggere il suo bersaglio con l’arma della passione, ma dalla sua faretra attinge due frecce di diversa natura e di diverso effetto, puntigliosamente descritte con immaginazione di poeta ellenistico, una delle quali produce l’amore, l’altra invece lo allontana.5 Le due frecce

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colpiscono i due possibili partners della relazione amorosa, ma creano inevitabilmente una situazione di incompatibilità, di impossibile corrispondenza, che trova la sua traduzione narrativa nella fuga e nell’inseguimento e che alla fine può essere risolta soltanto dal deus ex machina della metamorfosi : Ov. met. 1, 468-474 eque sagittifera prompsit duo tela pharetra diversorum operum : fugat hoc, facit illud amorem ; quod facit, auratum est et cuspide fulget acuta, quod fugat, obtusum est et habet sub harundine plumbum. hoc deus in nympha Peneide fixit, at illo laesit Apollineas traiecta per ossa medullas ; protinus alter amat, fugit altera nomen amantis,

9 Il significato metapoetico di questa narrazione ovidiana è confermato da un altro sguardo esterno sull’elegia, che si propone anche come una riflessione su due diverse forme del discorso amoroso, sulle differenze tra la smodatezza e l’assolutismo della retorica elegiaca da una parte e il disincantato relativismo della persona lirica oraziana dall’altro. Intendo riferirmi all’ode di Orazio a Tibullo, in cui la radice dell’elegia come flebile carmen viene appunto riconosciuta nel mancato riconoscimento, da parte del poeta che canta in distici, della non-corrispondenza come legge costitutiva del gioco crudele di Venere. Tibullo è innamorato di Glicera, che gli preferisce un altro : in quanto poeta elegiaco, Tibullo non conosce misura al dolore che nasce da questa mancata corrispondenza, perché l’elegia è appunto la forma letteraria di questa smoderatezza. Anche Licoride è innamorata di Ciro, mentre Ciro desidererebbe Foloe, e Foloe a sua volta mai e poi mai accetterebbe Ciro. Questa è la legge crudele di Venere. Orazio stesso si presenta, nell’ultima strofe, in una situazione identica : una migliore di Mirtale lo voleva, ma lui voleva Mirtale, Mirtale (ohimé) più aspra del mare Adriatico. A differenza però di Tibullo (poeta elegiaco), Orazio (poeta lirico) è consapevole delle regole e del ritmo di Venere e sa dunque accettare, con tristezza disincantata, il crudele gioco dell’inaequalitas in amore. E’ per questo che la lirica oraziana d’amore si riconosce diversa dalla monotonia dolorosa e infinita del lamento elegiaco :6 Hor. carm. 1, 33, 9-12 sic visum Veneri, cui placet inparis formas atque animos sub iuga aenea saevo mittere cum ioco.

10 Chiuso nell’orizzonte della passione e perciò non adeguatamente consapevole delle regole del gioco, il poeta-amante dell’elegia, condannato com’è a un rapporto impari, aspira invece continuamente all’amore perfettamente corrisposto ed equilibrato. Properzio aveva sfidato le maghe, che pretendevano fiducia per le loro straordinarie promesse, a dimostrare la loro presunta potenza con una impresa impossibile :7 ispirare a Cinzia un sentimento almeno pari, o addirittura superiore, a quello che tormenta il poeta, dipingendo sul volto della domina il pallore degli amanti : Prop. 1, 1, 19-22 at vos, deductae quibus est fallacia lunae et labor in magicis sacra piare focis, en agedum dominae mentem convertite nostrae, et facite illa meo palleat ore magis !

11 Tibullo affida il successo dei suoi furta amoris a una maga che prometteva di utilizzare a vantaggio del poeta i poteri dimostrati in tante straordinarie performances, ma la fiducia dell’amante è incrinata da una promessa non mantenuta, in relazione appunto

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all’amore corrisposto. Il poeta non chiedeva alla maga, come pure ella si vantava di poter fare, di solvere amores, ma mirava a un risultato apparentemente minore, ma in realtà ben più difficile, quello di realizzare l’aspirazione dell’elegiaco alla reciprocità : Tib. 1, 2, 63-64 non ego, totus abesset amor, sed mutuus esset, orabam, nec te posse carere velim.

12 Questo ideale trova la sua rappresentazione icastica nell’immagine della coppia che procede di pari passo, senza che uno dei due lasci l’altro indietro : Prop. 1, 5, 1-2 invide, tu tandem voces compesce molestas et sine nos cursu quo sumus ire pares

13 Secondo un’interpretazione diffusa (che tuttavia è stata messa in discussione) Properzio suggerirebbe anche qui l’idea degli animali aggiogati, il cui perfetto affiatamento permette che il peso del giogo risulti equamente distribuito.8 L’immagine del giogo equilibrato, specificazione della metafora del giogo, comune soprattutto in connessione al matrimonio, anche altrove, nella tradizione dell’erotica ellenistica,9 esprime l’aspirazione all’amore corrisposto.10

14 L’immagine del giogo che ben si adatta a chi lo deve portare, in quanto equamente sostenuto e perciò meno pesante e doloroso, interpreta senza possibili dubbi esegetici l’ideale tradito della felicità amorosa nell’elegia che, significativamente, chiude la raccolta properziana in tre libri : Prop. 3, 25, 7-8 flebo ego discedens, sed fletum iniuria vincit : tu bene conveniens non sinis ire iugum.

15 Il lettore che guardasse all’indietro, al proemio della raccolta, potrebbe verificare che, per il poeta elegiaco, questa presa d’atto dell’impossibilità di un rapporto equilibrato era iscritta fin dall’inizio nella sua poesia e nella relazione amorosa che essa rappresenta. L’elegiaco esordisce come un innamorato sofferente, pronto alle terapie più crudeli pur di sottrarsi al servitium e disposto ad affrontare, come remedium amoris, il viaggio più duro, gli spazi più remoti, ove sia impossibile il contatto non soltanto con quella donna, ma con qualsiasi donna. La paritas non è, per il poeta dell’elegia, una aspirazione plausibile, ma piuttosto l’invidiabile condizione che può toccare solo agli altri, a quelli favoriti dalla condiscendenza del dio : Prop. 1, 1, 29-32 ferte per extremas gentes et ferte per undas, qua non ulla meum femina norit iter. vos remanete, quibus facili deus annuit aure, sitis et in tuto semper amore pares.

16 Corrispondentemente, solo quando il poeta elegiaco presta la sua voce alla celebrazione dell’ amore altrui che l’aspirazione al mutuus amor può diventare prospettiva credibile. Il “poeta di Sulpicia”, nelle elegie del compleanno (3, 11-12 =4, 5-6) interpreta la speranza da parte della donna di trovare in Cerinto un partner che corrisponda perfettamente al suo slancio e alla sua ardente passione : [Tib.] 3, 11, 5-8 uror ego ante alias : iuvat hoc, Cerinthe, quod uror, si tibi de nobis mutuus ignis adest. mutuus adsit amor, per te dulcissima furta perque tuos oculos per Geniumque rogo.

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[Tib.] 3, 11, 13-16 nec tu sis iniusta, Venus : vel serviat aeque vinctus uterque tibi, vel mea vincla leva. sed potius valida teneamur uterque catena, nulla queat posthac quam soluisse dies.

17 Questa possibilità era del resto iscritta nella tradizione dell’erotica latina almeno a partire da Catullo, il cui carme 45 celebra la gara d’amore in cui Acme e Settimio manifestano le benedizioni di Venere e di Cupido per un rapporto in cui nessuno dei due partners accetterebbe di essere da meno dell’altro, in uno slancio reciproco di passione, cui il poeta presta l’ammirata retorica che sviluppa il concetto di mutuus animus nell’accostamento di diatesi attiva e passiva (amant amantur) :11 Catull. 45, 19-20 nunc ab auspicio bono profecti mutuis animis amant amantur.

18 E anche Orazio lirico si fa cantore, per l’amico Mecenate, dei sentimenti della sua Licimnia, la cui fides poggia sul solido fondamento dell’amore perfettamente ricambiato :12 Hor. carm. 2, 12,15 me dulcis dominae Musa Licymniae cantus, me voluit dicere lucidum fulgentis oculos et bene mutuis fidum pectus amoribus.

19 Per la saggezza del poeta giambico, la passione totalizzante che cerca di impegnare la donna ai valori della fides, verso un ideale di eternità e reciprocità, appartiene alla persona di amante non ancora disincantato che non gli appartiene più. L’esperienza ha dimostrato che non c’è giuramento di amor mutuus, per quanto solenne e garantito dalla retorica degli adynata, che non sia destinato, nel momento stesso in cui viene formulato, a rivelarsi il più empio degli spergiuri : Hor. epod. 15, 3-10 cum tu, magnorum numen laesura deorum, in verba iurabas mea, … fore hunc amorem mutuum.

20 Alla vicenda dell’amore giurato come eterno e poi puntualmente tradito, corrisponde immediatamente, da parte del poeta, un altro avvicendamento : Hor. epod. 15, 11-14 o dolitura mea multum virtute Neaera : nam siquid in Flacco viri est, non feret adsiduas potiori te dare noctes et quaeret iratus parem,

21 Il poeta giambico, ferito dallo spergiuro, sa ricambiare a sua volta, è capace di quaerere parem.13 La paritas oraziana è dunque molto diversa dall’ideale ‘impossibile’ per cui il poeta elegiaco pretende che la donna si adegui alle dimensione eroica del suo amore : paritas è amore corrisposto, ma solo finché ci si corrisponde, senza alcuna aspirazione di durata, per non dire di eternità.

22 Parimenti, per il poeta lirico, la reciprocità amorosa è qualcosa che non lo riguarda : la donna può prospettarla come in atto con un altro amante, nella logica di una schermaglia fatta di discidi, ritorsioni, possibili nuovi inizi :

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Hor. carm. 3, 9, 12-13 me torret face mutua Thurini Calais filius Ornyti.

23 Questo genere di aspettative e di speranze sono coerenti con la persona di un giovane che si accosta ancora ignaro all’amore. Il poeta lirico, invece, che si presenta come uno la cui stagione è ormai passata, non può offrirsi volentieri alle illusioni : Hor. carm. 4, 1, 29-32 me nec femina nec puer iam nec spes animi credula mutui nec certare iuvat mero nec vincire novis tempora floribus.

24 La caratteristica del discorso amoroso dell’elegia può dunque essere identificata nella contraddizione insanabile tra una relazione strutturalmente diseguale e l’aspirazione impossibile a una perfetta eguaglianza e corrispondenza : è evidente che l’assunzione nell’ottica del poeta elegiaco stesso di quella consapevolezza della regola della inaequalitas, che abbiamo visto appartenere piuttosto a chi guarda dall’esterno all’elegia, è il più convincente segnale di quello svuotamento e sostanziale rovesciamento della retorica elegiaca stessa. Il servitium amoris, che è l’immagine più efficace attraverso cui si rappresenta la disuguaglianza e lo squilibrio della relazione elegiaca, diventa, nell’ultimo degli elegiaci, un elemento lucidamente accettato del gioco delle parti, cioè della parte che il poeta-amante ha accettato di recitare. Un’importante elegia degli Amores di Ovidio (2, 17) ci propone questa interpretazione ‘pacificata’ della disuguaglianza come una regola che, proprio perché consapevolmente accettata, può essere liberata dall’elemento doloroso cui la retorica elegiaca sembrava indissolubilmente legarla :14 Ov. am. 2, 17, 1-4 siquis erit, qui turpe putet servire puellae, illo convincar iudice turpis ego ! sim licet infamis, dum me moderatius urat, quae Paphon et fluctu pulsa Cythera tenet.

25 Come è possibile soffrire meno, o addirittura non soffrire affatto, in una relazione disuguale ? Proprio accettandola come tale e non cercando in alcun modo di modificarla : non mancano gli exempla mitologici (le coppie variamente disuguali del mito greco e romano : Calipso-Ulisse, Teti-Peleo, Egeria-Numa, perfino Venere- Vulcano15) che possono essere invocati per convalidare autorevolmente una scelta che il poeta riconosce iscritta nella forma stessa della poesia in distici elegiaci : Ov. am. 2, 17, 15-22 traditur et nymphe mortalis amore Calypso capta recusantem detinuisse virum. creditur aequoream Pthio Nereida regi, Egeriam iusto concubuisse Numae, Vulcano Venerem, quamvis incude relicta turpiter obliquo claudicet ille pede. carminis hoc ipsum genus inpar ; sed tamen apte iungitur herous cum breviore modo.

26 Paradossalmente, il flebile carmen sembra capace di trovare in se stesso il proprio remedium, nel momento in cui segnala nell’accettazione spassionata della regola della disuguaglianza il modo in cui ciascuno dei partners può aspirare a una vera reciprocità

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nel rapporto, quella in cui ciascuno sa essere come ‘deve essere’, cioè come vogliono le regole del gioco.

27 L’aspirazione di Properzio e Tibullo (come già di Catullo ‘elegiaco’) all’amore corrisposto era soltanto una fattispecie della strutturale contraddittorietà dell’ideologia elegiaca, di quella transcodificazione assiologica che pretendeva di ritrovare all’interno della relazione libertina, (furtum amoris), valori tradizionali propri della relazione matrimoniale. Nell’amore per una donna che si presenta come alternativa a una moglie, il poeta pretende di trasferire motivi che sono caratteristici dell’amore matrimoniale e che non a caso appartengono a una tradizione di poesia epitalamica o comunque connessa con il matrimonio. Lo si vede bene nella breve elegia properziana (una specie di manifesto elegiaco) che celebra, con il ritiro di un progettato provvedimento del principe di incentivazione al matrimonio, lo scampato pericolo che minacciava la relazione tra Cinzia e il poeta : Prop. 2, 7, 7-10 nam citius paterer caput hoc discedere collo quam possem nuptae perdere more faces,16 aut ego transirem tua limina clausa maritus, respiciens udis prodita luminibus.

28 Eppure questa medesima elegia che proclama l’incompatibilità dell’amore elegiaco con il matrimonio si chiude con un distico che rappresenta icasticamente l’aspirazione alla reciprocità con l’accostamento, nell’esametro, di due emistichi perfettamente speculari : Prop. 2, 7, 19 tu mihi sola places : placeam tibi, Cynthia, solus

29 Si può efficacemente confrontare un episodio delle Metamorfosi di Ovidio che, come ho cercato di dimostrare molti anni fa è costruito proprio sulla opposizione tra l’amore ‘matrimoniale’ di Cefalo e Procri e il (presunto) amore elegiaco tra Cefalo e Aura.17 Nel racconto di Cefalo, la perfetta felicità che è il prodromo della tragedia è chiaramente connotata nel senso della istituzione matrimoniale, dei suoi riti e dei suoi valori. All’interno di questi, un ruolo di primo piano spetta a quella reciprocità e a quella aequalitas tra i coniugi che si esprime appunto nella formulazione perfettamente bilanciata e speculare : Ov. met. 7, 796-803 'gaudia principium nostri sunt, Phoce, doloris : illa prius referam. iuvat o meminisse beati temporis, Aeacide, quo primos rite per annos coniuge eram felix, felix erat illa marito. mutua cura duos et amor socialis habebat, nec Iovis illa meo thalamos praeferret amori, nec me quae caperet, non si Venus ipsa veniret, ulla erat ; aequales urebant pectora flammae.

30 La mutua cura tra i coniugi viene identificata come il principale officium del torus socialis : Ov. fast. 2, 729-30 ecquid in officio torus est socialis ? et ecquid coniugibus nostris mutua cura sumus ?

31 Del resto, questo valore di reciprocità fa parte (insieme a fides, foedus, officium etc.) di quella rete ideologica che collega l’istituto matrimoniale ai valori delle relazioni umane socialmente garantite, come in primo luogo l’amicitia, al cui linguaggio appartengono

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comunemente espressioni come mutuus animus, mutuus amor, mutua caritas, mutuum officium, mutua benevolentia, largamente ricorrenti negli epistolari di Cicerone e di Plinio il Giovane.18

32 Ma proprio in quanto Ovidio ‘restituisce’ alla sfera coniugale l’ideale della reciprocità di sentimenti e dell’equilibrio tra i partners dal punto di vista dell’investimento emotivo e dell’impegno nella relazione, forse proprio per questo, come poeta dell’amore compiutamente libertino, egli rivendica il diritto di proporre l’elegia e la didascalica amorosa come lo spazio per esplorare un modello di aequalitas e di paritas diverso, non connotato dalla severità del mos maiorum.

33 Lucrezio, poeta della scienza, demistificatore delle sovrastrutture psicologiche e sentimentali che guastano la voluptas e tormentano la vita dell’uomo, aveva denunciato i pericoli e le insensatezze dell’amore-passione.19 Ridotto alla concretezza delle esigenze fisiologiche, l’incontro tra uomo e donna era determinato, come si vedeva bene nell’essenzialità della antropologia primitiva del genere umano, da tre possibili fattori : la reciproca pulsione sessuale, la violenza al servizio del desiderio maschile, la disponibilità di beni e il potere che ne deriva : Lucr. 5, 963-965 conciliabat enim vel mutua quamque cupido vel violenta viri vis atque inpensa libido vel pretium, glandes atque arbita vel pira lecta.

34 L’osservazione del comportamento sessuale dell’animale-uomo, al pari di quello degli altri animali, dimostra inequivocabilmente che sul piano della venus, a differenza che sul piano dell’amor, questa reciprocità non è un’utopia, ma piuttosto una realtà iscritta nella natura e nelle sue esigenze di riproduzione delle specie : Lucr. 4, 1192-1207 nec mulier semper ficto suspirat amore, quae conplexa viri corpus cum corpore iungit et tenet adsuctis umectans oscula labris ; nam facit ex animo saepe et communia quaerens gaudia sollicitat spatium decurrere amoris. nec ratione alia volucres armenta feraeque et pecudes et equae maribus subsidere possent, si non, ipsa quod illarum subat, ardet abundans natura et Venerem salientum laeta retractat. nonne vides etiam quos mutua saepe voluptas vinxit, ut in vinclis communibus excrucientur, in triviis cum saepe canes discedere aventis divorsi cupide summis ex viribus tendunt, quom interea validis Veneris compagibus haerent ? quod facerent numquam, nisi mutua gaudia nossent quae iacere in fraudem possent vinctosque tenere. quare etiam atque etiam, ut dico, est communis voluptas.20

35 Un rapido sguardo all’erotica ovidiana permette di rendersi conto che, se Ovidio ha negato all’elegia l’ideale della reciprocità dal punto di vista dei valori, dei sentimenti, delle scelte esistenziali, ha colto qui, ad di là della cruda analisi di Lucrezio nemico della passione amorosa, una possibilità inesplorata. La relazione elegiaca, come è rappresentata da Ovidio, è una lotta ad armi pari, una schermaglia amorosa in cui ciascuno dei partners di volta in volta prevale o soccombe e in cui la reciprocità assume soprattutto la forma di una alternanza di ruoli di potere all’interno della coppia. Ma è

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sul piano del sesso che la conflittualità della militia amoris può acquietarsi nella reciproca soddisfazione :21 Ov. am. 1,5, 21-22 cetera quis nescit ? lassi requievimus ambo. proveniant medii sic mihi saepe dies.

36 Come poi per un’ampia tradizione di letteratura attenta al fenomeno sessuale, anche per Ovidio questa sfera della ricerca del piacere fisico diventa il luogo di elezione di una pratica della reciprocità amorosa che non è soltanto una forma di altruismo e di abnegazione, ma una strategia di piacere più raffinato e condiviso, adeguato agli standards culturali dell’urbanitas, di un mondo in cui ciascuno deve perseguire il proprio vantaggio e la propria felicità senza escludere l’altro, anzi trovando nel vantaggio dell’altro il proprio vantaggio, nel piacere dell’altro il proprio piacere : Ov. am. 2, 3, 1-2 ei mihi, quod dominam nec vir nec femina servas mutua nec Veneris gaudia nosse potes !

Ov. am. 2, 10, 29-30 felix, quem Veneris certamina mutua perdunt ! di faciant, leti causa sit ista mei !

Ov. am. 3, 6, 87-88 quid mecum, furiose, tibi ? quid mutua differs gaudia ?22

37 La mutua voluptas, i mutua gaudia erano per il poeta epicureo riconoscimento delle ragioni della physis, leggi ed esigenze dettate dalla natura, assecondando le quali l’uomo può sottrarsi alle disastrose conseguenze di inutili sovrastrutture culturali. Per Ovidio magister amoris si tratta invece di conquistare, con l’artificio e con le risorse della techne, ciò che la natura non necessariamente dispensa o dispensa in maniera casuale, irregolare, inaffidabile. La sagace gestione tecnica del rapporto con l’altro sesso è lo scopo di un insegnamento che vuole costruire un mondo equilibrato, in cui tutti, ciascuno dal suo punto di vista, partecipano ad armi pari, con le stesse possibilità, le stesse aspettative di successo, lo stesso diritto alla soddisfazione. Per l’antropologo della vita primitiva la mutua cupido era uno dei modi, di fatto intercambiabile con la vis e il pretium, in cui il maschio può ottenere la disponibilità femminile alle esigenze fisiologiche dell’individuo e alle esigenze riproduttive della specie. Per il poeta della civiltà e dell’urbanitas, violenza e denaro non possono avere cittadinanza nel mondo governato dall’ars, e in camera da letto si consuma il più raffinato dei progetti culturali, quello che, attraverso la disponibilità verso l’altro, l’autocontrollo, le esperte manovre e gli accorgimenti più sofisticati, permette agli uomini, così come alle donne, di celebrare insieme il trionfo della paritas : Ov. ars 2, 679-682 utque velis, venerem iungunt per mille figuras : invenit plures nulla tabella modos. illis sentitur non inritata voluptas : quod iuvet, ex aequo femina virque ferant. odi concubitus, qui non utrumque resolvunt ; hoc est, cur pueri tangar amore minus.

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BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Brown 1987 : R. D. Brown, Lucretius on Love and Sex. A Commentary on De Rerum Natura IV, 1030-1287, Leiden-New York- Kopenhagen, Köln 1987.

Cavarzere 1992 : Orazio : Il libro degli epodi, a cura di A. Cavarzere, Venezia 1992.

Conte 1991 : G.-B. Conte, Generi e lettori. Lucrezio, l’elegia d’amore, l’enciclopedia di Plinio, Milano 1991.

Fedeli 1980 : Sesto Properzio : Il primo libro delle elegie, introduzione testo critico e commento a cura di P. Fedeli, Firenze 1980.

Fedeli 2005 : Properzio : Elegie Libro II, introduzione testo e commento a cura di P. Fedeli, Cambridge 2005.

Harrison 2007 : S. J. Harrisom, Generic Enrichment in Vergil and Horace, Oxford 2007.

Heyworth 2007 : S. J. Heyworth, Cynthia. A Companion to the Text of Propertius, Oxford 2007.

Knox 1986 : P. E. Knox, Ovid’s “Metamorphoses” and the Traditions of Augustan Poetry, Cambridge 1986.

La Penna 1951 : A. La Penna, Note sul linguaggio erotico dell’elegia latina, “Maia” 4, 1951, pp. 187-209.

Labate 1975 : M. Labate, Amore coniugale e amore 'elegiaco' nell'episodio di Cefalo e Procri, "ASNSP" s. IIIa, 5,1975, 103-128.

Labate 1994 : M. Labate, La forma dell'amore : appunti sulla poesia erotica oraziana, in "Bimillenario della morte di Q. Orazio Flacco. Atti dei convegni di Venosa Napoli Roma", Venosa 1994, pp. 69-87.

McKeown 1989 : Ovid : Amores. Text, Prolegomena and Commentary by J. C. McKeown, vol. II, A Commentary on Book One, Leeds 1989.

Myers 1994 : K. Sara Myers, Ovid’s causes. Cosmogony and Aetiology in the Metamorphoses, Ann Arbor (MI) 1994.

Nicoll 1980 : W. S. M. Nicoll, Cupid, Apollo and Daphne (Ovid., Met. I, 452ff.). “CQ” 30, 1980, pp. 174-82.

Nisbet-Hubbard 1970 : R. G. M. Nisbet, M. Hubbard, A Commentary on Horace Odes Book I, Oxford 1970.

Nussbaum 1998 : M. Nussbaum, Terapia del desiderio, Milano 1998 (trad. it. di The therapy of Desire, Princeton 1996).

Shackleton Bailey 1956 : D. R. Shackleton Bailey, Propertiana, Cambridge 1956.

Wiseman 1985 : T. P. Wiseman, Catullus and His World : A Reappraisal, Cambridge 1985.

NOTES

1. Ov. am. 2, 17, 21-2 carminis hoc ipsum genus inpar; sed tamen apte/ iungitur herous cum breviore modo; cfr. McKeown 1989, p. 13. 2. Cfr. Conte 1991, pp. 53 ss. 3. Cfr. Nicoll 1980. 4. Cfr, Labate 1984, p. 18.

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5. Osserva giustamente Barchiesi 2005, p. 207 che “mentre l’idea della freccia di Cupido che fa innamorare è del tutto consueta, quella della freccia “antierotica” è nuova e sorprendente”. 6. Labate 1994, p. 83, con indicazioni bibliografiche. Buone osservazioni e ulteriori indicazioni in Harrison 2007, pp. 174 ss. 7. Sull’interpretazione del passo seguo Fedeli 1980, pp. 79 s. 8. Fedeli 1980, pp. 154 ss. 9. Cfr. La Penna 1951, p. 206. Vedi anche Nisbet-Hubbard 1970, pp. 373 s. 10. Così l’innamorato dell’idillio 12 di Teocrito, nel suo canto di gioia dell’amore felice, celebra un ideale di eros paidikos fondato appunto sulla perfetta reciprocità della coppia (Theocr. 12, 10-16). 11. Wiseman 1985, pp. 116 s. 12. Nonostante i dubbi e le obiezioni degli studiosi che ritengono più probabile intendere Licymnia come una amica del poeta (vedi, per un quadro articolato degli argomenti, Nisbet- Hubbard 1978, pp. 180 ss.), non mi sembra ci siano ragioni sufficienti per negare fede alle indicazioni della scoliastica antica che suggerisce piuttosto una identificazione con Terenzia, moglie di Mecenate. 13. Intendo parem nel senso di in amore parem, piuttosto che secondo un’intenzione ironica “una fanciulla simile a Neera”: sull’esegesi vedi Cavarzere 1992, p. 216. 14. Del resto, come fa notare un anonimo referee della rivista, nella raccolta ovidiana l’aspirazione elegiaca alla reciprocità amorosa è ampiamente controbilanciata dalla fisionomia libertina del poeta-amante (cfr. ad es. Ov. Am. 2, 4 o 2, 8). 15. L’ultimo esempio, come giustamente sottolinea l’anonimo referee della rivista, ha evidenti implicazioni ironiche: nel caso di Venere e Vulcano l’accettata disparità tra gli amanti finisce per contenere una implicita autorizzazione all’adulterio. 16. Il verso è tormentato dal punto di vista del testo e dell’esegesi: la crux dell’edizione teubneriana di Fedeli rappresentava la disperazione di poter proporre un’esegesi convincente del testo tradito o attendibili emendamenti. Tutto sommato, ritengo ancora abbastanza plausibile la difesa della lezione dei codici più autorevoli, cui torna Fedeli 2005, tentata soprattutto da Housman sulla base del confronto con espressioni del linguaggio comico, in cui mos equivale a vitae ratio “modello, sistema di vita” (Ter. Andr. 152 s. prope adest quom alieno more vivendum est mihi: / sine nunc meo me vivere interea modo; cfr. Plaut. Bacch. 459, Ter. heaut. 203). Nonostante le obiezioni di Shackleton Bailey 1956, p. 74, e di Heyworth 2007, p. 140, penserei a un’espressione di singolare densità, non estranea allo stile di Properzio, per cui nuptae more, piuttosto che “per i capricci di una moglie” possa valere qualcosa come “per compiacere una sposa (adeguandomi ai principi del matrimonio)”. Interessante anche la proposta di Allen iure, preferita da Heyworth l. c. Un altro problema è l’esegesi di perdere faces: secondo molti (non soltanto quelli, come Enk, che al v. 8 accettano la banalizzazione amore di alcuni codici umanistici), fax è la fiamma della passione, secondo una metafora comunissima in poesia erotica: ma non si può escludere che si alluda piuttosto alle fiaccole della cerimonia nuziale (cui chiaramente rimanda tibia dei vv. 11-12): il poeta potrebbe contrapporre questo cattivo uso ‘matrimoniale’ delle fiaccole al buon uso che se ne può fare all’interno della relazione furtiva codificata dall’elegia, in cui esse servono per le visite notturne alla puella o per rischiarare le notti sfortunate trascorse davanti alla sua soglia. Sui difficili problemi di questi versi vedi almeno Fedeli 2005, pp. 229-31 e Heyworth 2007, pp. 140-41. 17. Labate 1975. 18. Cfr. e. g. Cic. fam. 5, 2, 3 Quod autem ita scribis, 'pro mutuo inter nos animo', quid tu existimes esse in amicitia mutuum, nescio; equidem hoc arbitror, cum par voluntas accipitur et redditur; Cic. Lael. 32 quam qui adpetiverunt, adplicant se et propius admovent, ut et usu eius, quem diligere coeperunt, fruantur et moribus sintque pares in amore et aequales propensioresque ad bene merendum quam ad reposcendum; Plin. epist. 3, 9, 7-8 Aderam Baeticis mecumque Lucceius Albinus, uir in dicendo copiosus ornatus; quem

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ego cum olim mutuo diligerem, ex hac officii societate amare ardentius coepi… nobis tamen nullum certamen nulla contentio, cum uterque pari iugo non pro se sed pro causa niteretur. 19. La trattazione fondamentale resta quella di Brown 1987, soprattutto pp. 60 ss.; importanti osservazioni anche in Nussbaum 1998, pp. 151 ss. 20. Lucr. 5, 849-855 multa videmus enim rebus concurrere debere, / ut propagando possint procudere saecla; / pabula primum ut sint, genitalia deinde per artus / semina qua possint membris manare remissis, / feminaque ut maribus coniungi possit, habere, / mutua qui mutent inter se gaudia uterque; 4, 1212-1217 sed quos utriusque figurae / esse vides, iuxtim miscentes vulta parentum, / corpore de patrio et materno sanguine crescunt, / semina cum Veneris stimulis excita per artus / obvia conflixit conspirans mutuus ardor, / et neque utrum superavit eorum nec superatumst. 21. Sono grato a un anonimo referee della rivista per aver richiamato la mia attenzione sulla rilevanza in questo contesto dell’elegia 1, 5 degli Amores, anche in relazione al plesso tematico della militia amoris. 22. Tib. 1, 6, 13-14 tum sucos herbasque dedi, quis livor abiret, / quem facit inpresso mutua dente venus; Petr. 81, 6 iacent nunc amatores adligati noctibus totis, et forsitan mutuis libidinibus attriti derident solitudinem meam; 132, 1 iam pluribus osculis collisa labra crepitabant, iam implicitae manus omne genus amoris invenerant, iam alligata mutuo ambitu corpora animarum quoque mixturam fecerant; Apul. met. 2, 10 et cum dicto artius eam complexus coepi sauiari. iamque aemula libidine in amoris parilitatem congermanescenti mecum… 'bono animo esto,' inquit 'nam ego tibi mutua uoluntate mancipata sum; 2, 17 …usque dum lassis animis et marcidis artibus defetigati simul ambo corruimus inter mutuos amplexus animas anhelantes; 3, 20 sic nobis garrientibus libido mutua et animos simul et membra suscitat.

RÉSUMÉS

Questo articolo studia il tema dell’amor mutuus nella poesia erotica latina e in particolare nell’elegia, secondo un approccio attento a questioni metapoetiche. Una prospettiva ‘esterna’ all’elegia individua l’ineguaglianza come un tratto costituivo del discorso amoroso elegiaco, mentre l’amante elegiaco, prigioniero della prospettiva ‘interna’ al genere, aspira inutilmente a quella eguaglianza simboleggiata dall’immagine del giogo equilibrato. Si mette in rilievo invece come l’ideale della reciprocità sia invece identificato come elemento caratteristico dell’amore coniugale da una parte e dello scambio di piacere sessuale dall’altra.

INDEX

Mots-clés : Amor mutuus, Elegia, Epitalamio, Lucrezio, Orazio, Ovidio, Sesso

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Rom und der Osten oder Von der Schwierigkeit, sich zu orientieren (von Catulls Odyssee zu Horaz‘ Aeneis)1

Jürgen Paul Schwindt

1 Was ist nicht alles über Rom und den Osten gesagt und geschrieben worden!2Und doch hat man den Eindruck, daß die verbreitete Wahrnehmung dieses Verhältnisses merkwürdig unscharf ist. Unwillkürlich sucht man nach zuverlässigen Parametern, die eine wissenschaftlichen Ansprüchen genügende Verhältnisbeschreibung ermöglichen möchten. Im Rahmen eines Verbundes, der sich der Erforschung der Dichtung der augusteischen Epoche, also jener Epoche, die nach einem in heutigen Begriffen klassischen Herrscher des Westens benannt ist, verschrieben hat, mag sich die Fragestellung wie folgt verengen lassen : Welches sind die Bilder, die die augusteische Dichtung von den Zonen, Ländern, Städten, Stämmen und Völkern des Ostens gemalt, geprägt, transportiert hat ? Und sind diese Bilder Neuschöpfungen oder Reskripte und, gegebenenfalls, Umschriften älterer römischer oder griechisch-hellenistischer Bilder ? Und vielleicht wichtiger noch : Entspricht diesen Bildern des Ostens eine Vorstellung vom Westen ? Wenn sich denn das Klassische Rom als Zentrum der Oikumene verstehen wollte, in deren Westen die Iberer, die Mehrzahl der Kelten und vor allem die Britanner situiert waren, verliert die Vorstellung vom Osten den für die moderne Auseinandersetzung charakteristischen Bezug auf einen Begriff von okzidentaler Kultur. Es wäre zunächst plausibel zu machen, daß der Osten unabhängig von seiner dyadischen Beziehung auf die Opposition des Westens ein valides Untersuchungsfeld eröffnen könnte. Aber ist die Vorstellung einer Eigenwertigkeit des Ostens eine, die sich aus den Texten der hier interessierenden Epoche belegen läßt ? Um dies zu erkunden, müßten wir die Ostreferenzen eines gewiß überschaubaren, aber doch recht umfangreichen Schriftencorpus, das sich von den frühen Dichtungen des Vergil und Horaz bis in die Zeit des späten Ovid, also über gut sechzig Jahre erstreckt, systematisch auf seine Osteinstellungen hin untersuchen. Vielleicht, daß sich aus den

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versammelten Referenzen so etwas wie eine Typologie der Rom-Osten-Beziehung gewinnen ließe, die sich präzise von immerhin vorstellbaren Typologien des Westens, Nordens und Südens unterschiede. Und welche Regionen und Völkerschaften wollten wir überhaupt als östliche gelten lassen ? Beginnt der Osten schon mit den Kalkhochflächen der istrisch-dalmatischen Küste, im antibrundisischen Durazzo, auf dem Epirus und den Inseln des Odysseus, auf den Schlachtfeldern Nordgriechenlands ? Rechnen wir die Mutterstädte des nordafrikanischen Südens an der syrisch- phönizischen Küste, die arabische Halbinsel und das Rote Meer schon zu den Landschaften des Ostens ? Es scheint geraten, den Osten schon dort beginnen zu lassen, wo auch das Nachdenken über den Orient, wenigstens für den alteuropäischen Kulturraum, zuerst eingesetzt hat : in Griechenland. Doch nun wird es kompliziert : Das Denken des Ostens ist eine Erscheinung, die vom Ereignis der Kolonisation des kleinasiatischen Ostens wie des italischen Westens durch griechische Poleis nicht zu trennen ist. Schon den ältesten Bildern des Orients liegen ausgedehnte Reisen und Expeditionen, Gesandtschaften und Feldzüge zugrunde. Von den homerischen Rhapsoden über die Auftragsdichter der Fürsten- und Tyrannenhöfe bis in das Zeitalter der Logographen und der wunderreisenversessenen Herodot und Platon bildet sich eine Tradition der historíe, die die Dichtung und Prosa ihrer Epoche mit Begriffen und Bildern speist, die eine strukturierte Wahrnehmung des Fremden und insonderheit des Ostens allererst möglich machten.3 Vollends die Feldzüge des Alexander schufen eine gewaltige Spur,4 eine Trasse, die nicht nur die hellenistisch-römischen, sondern auch noch die früh- und hochmittelalterlichen Bildwelten des „Abendlandes“ bestimmen sollte. Es steht also die Frage im Raum, ob es überhaupt eine eigenständig römische Wahrnehmung des Ostens gegeben habe, nein, habe geben können, wenn doch gewaltige Pflanzstädte des Ostens, nennen wir nur Marseille, schon früh einen Osten im Westen begründeten, und wenn die Lehrer des Ostens, nennen wir nur Pythagoras, im unteritalischen Großgriechenland Bilder und Vorstellungen ihrer Heimat hinterließen, die – denken wir an die wundersame Transfererzählung von Numa und Pythagoras am Ende der Metamorphosen – konstitutiv für die Ausbildung eines römischen Westens wurden. Macht es vor dem Hintergrund solcher und anderer, verwandter Implikationen Sinn, den Osten des Westens zu suchen ? Ich meine, ja.

2 Denn es ist – so meine These – die Leistung erst der augusteischen Epoche, auf der imaginären Weltkarte die großen alten Grenzziehungen zu erinnern, neu zu denken und im Relief der Dichtung zur eindrücklichen Darstellung zu bringen.5 Es ist die augusteische Epoche, der im doch wohl von Augustus selbst zuendegeführten Werk des Vipsanius Agrippa die erste römische Weltkarte verdankt wird (welche Ironie, daß auf dem wichtigsten Überlieferungsträger dieser von England bis China reichenden Karte, auf der tabula Peutingeriana, gerade die westlichen Partien, also England und Spanien, zum größeren Teil verloren sind). Es ist die Leistung des Pompeius Trogus, dessen umfangreiches Werk doch wohl noch wesentlich in augusteischer Zeit wurzelt, in einer auf das Reich der Makedonen fokussierten Darstellung gleichwohl am Anfang und am Ende der Abhandlung die Grenzen und Völker des Ostens wie des Westens in der Weise eines Periplous vermessen zu haben.6 Vergessen wir auch nicht Strabon, dessen eigen-, ja mutwilliger Zugriff auf die Geographie der alten Welt seine poetisch-philosophischen Quellen nicht verleugnet.7 Es ist die augusteische Epoche, die in der Zeichensprache der Paläste und Tempel den Gegensatz des Ostens und der römischen Mitte am stärksten konturiert und in das kulturelle Gedächtnis des römischen Weltreichs überführt hat. Mit dem Tatenbericht des Augustus8 und der monumentalen Grenzziehung durch die

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Altäre des L. Sestius Quirinalis bei Kap Finisterre im Westen (wohl eine Nachahmung der Errichtung der Altäre am indischen Hyphasis durch Alexander den Großen im Osten)9 kommt eine Entwicklung zum vorläufigen Abschluß, die es den dichtenden Kommentatoren des Zeitalters ermöglicht, aus der Sicherheit der neuen Weltordnung heraus erneut und immer wieder das Abenteuer der Repristination der Gefährdung zu wagen. Ein Denken der Grenze, ein erneuertes, souveränes Denken des Anderen im Spiegel des Eigenen kann sich nur vollziehen, wo sich das Eigene ungefährdet weiß durch die Herausforderung des Anderen.10 Es wird kein Zufall sein, daß genau jetzt die alte Sage von der Ankunft der besiegten Trojaner an Latiums Küste unwidersprochen zum fundamentum inconcussum der großen Erzählung vom Ursprung des römischen Volkes werden kann. Gewiß hatten schon ältere Dichter und Historiker ihre Geschichten mit der Flucht des Aeneas beginnen lassen. Aber erst jetzt, auf dem Höhepunkt eines wahrhaftigen „genealogical turn“ (denken wir an Varros verlorene, von Servius zu Aen. 5, 704 zitierte Schrift De familiis Troianis, an Cicero und die aitiologischen Obsessionen des Properz11), ist der Boden dafür bereitet, daß Aeneas zur bestimmenden Figur der Rom-Erzählung werden kann. Wie selbstbewußt und stolz darf man sich eine Kultur vorstellen, die ihre Ursprünge nicht umstandslos zu authentifizieren trachtet,12 sondern freimütig und gelassen in das kulturelle Jenseits einer Landschaft verlegen kann, die schon einmal den östlichen Gegenraum konturiert hatte, an dem sich – im Bericht über den griechisch-trojanischen Krieg – noch vor den Perser-Kriegen die Vorstellung einer panhellenischen Nation ausbilden konnte.

3 Es lohnt sich, sich noch einmal den Anfang der Vergilischen Aeneis vor Augen zu führen : Geht es hier nicht gleich um die schickssalsgefügte Implementierung eines ferneren Ostens in die Anfangsgründe der römischen Kultur ? Die Sperrung des ersten und des letzten Wortes in der umfänglichen Periode, die die propositio des Eingangs arma virumque cano erläutert, dieses ultimative Hyperbaton (Troiae, v. 1 – Romae, v. 7), umreißt die äußerste Spannung einer trojanischen Peripherie und eines römischen Zielpunkts. Der Osten heißt noch nicht Osten ; aber darauf kommt es nicht an. Entscheidend ist die generöse Selbstverständlichkeit, mit der Troja und Rom zu Eckpunkten einer einzigen Erzählung werden, die auf alles andere als eine geradlinige Verlaufskurve verweist (wie ja auch gerade die Verkennung des Ursprungslandes durch die Aeneaden die herbe Enttäuschung des Umwegs über das vermeinte Land der Väter, Kreta, provozieren wird13). Die Brüche und Unebenheiten werden schon in der Vorrede nicht verschwiegen, sondern thematisiert. Roms Gründer wird nicht genannt,14 sondern in einer Periphrase umschrieben, wie die Städte und Länder nicht als Städte und Länder, sondern als Küsten, Strände und Säume erscheinen. Ja, Laviniums Strand ist Laviniums Strand noch nicht, weil die Frau, die ihm ihren Namen gibt, noch nicht gefreit ist, vielmehr noch in den zuversichtlichen Träumen des noch zu findenden, noch zu treffenden Gegners Turnus weilt.15 Der Umriß dieses küstenstreifenden, städteahnensollenden Mannes aber gibt nur die ruhelose Mitte einer Getriebenheit frei, die den Landesflüchtigen als das bare Gegenteil eines grenzenziehenden Gründers erscheinen läßt. Dieser Gründer ist Objekt der gewalttätigen Einwirkung der „Oberen“ (vi superum, v. 4), die es geschehen lassen, nein, so einrichten, daß er zu Wasser und zu Land, statt zielgerichtet zu fahren, geschleudert wird. Die Stimmung der Vergilischen Gründerzeilen ist eine, die sich Psychophysik und Kinetik eher erschließen mag als den suchenden Blicken des passionierten Historikers. Auch das Codewort der epischen Gründungssage memor (cf. Musa, mihi causas memora, v. 8) wird, wo es zuerst begegnet, zum Beiwort der ira der wütenden Göttin (v. 4). Zorn und Gedächtnis : Was für eine

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Grundlage für die Gründererzählung ! Diese Erzählung schafft nicht Orientierung, sondern heillose Verwirrung ; es müßte denn sein, wir verstünden Orient-ierung als jene Geste der Öffnung zum Osten, die das Einfallstor schafft für kreative Unordnung, wie sie nach der Vorstellung der russisch-tschechischen Formalisten zu den unumstößlichen Konstanten poetischer Sprache zählt. Doch treiben wir das muntere Spiel nicht zu weit. Halten wir nur fest, daß unser Text nicht zu orientieren, sondern nur – offensichtlich verliebt in die Effekte poetischer Sprache – über das ethnisch- geographische Faktengerüst die künstliche Firnis einer gediegenen Atavität und raumzeitlichen Ferne zu legen bemüht ist. Dieser Mann, an dem sich Intensität (multum, v. 3, multa, v. 5) nur als das zermürbende Walten höherer Mächte entzündet, ist Gegenstand einer kontingenten Geschichte des Leidens, die zuletzt überraschend in die Begründung von Stadt, Götterkult, Geschlecht, albanischem Adel und ragenden römischen Mauern mündet. Es ist der vielleicht genialste Einfall des Dichters, die Ursprungserzählung ihrerseits als zielführende Handlung zur Darstellung zu bringen. Daß einer, der seine Stadt verloren hat, in Latium, wo Städte noch nicht sind, nur künftige Namenstifter, die Stadt (urbem, v. 5) begründen soll, daß die erste Wegstrecke, die erste imaginäre Spur des Großepos von der Nicht-mehr-Stadt Troja zu der Noch- nicht-Stadt Lavinium führt, daß die unverrücklichsten Dinge des Lebens, Geschlecht, Väter und Mauern an ethnisch-geographische Schemen geknüpft sind, die in einer Ferne liegen, die noch über die Riesenhandlung der Aeneis hinausweist, daß einer, der Götter bringt, von Göttern verfolgt und getrieben wird, all diese und andere Merkwürdigkeiten sind in den einleitenden Versen nicht verschwiegen, sondern forciert herausgestellt : wie in in verstreuten Steinblöcken gemeißelten, funkelnden Sätzen, deren syntagmatische Beziehung sich der philologischen Mühwaltung erschließen muß (wen wundert‘s, daß in den letzten Jahren gleich mehrere Studien erschienen sind, die mit der syntaktisch sinnvollen Abtrennung der Satz- und Verskola befaßt sind ?16). Schon den zweiten, kürzeren Teil des engeren Prooemiums (v. 8-11) darf man als Selbstanzeige der chaotischen Textur auffassen, die nach dem selbstgewissen, singensstolzen Beginn (cano) jetzt ihre Zuflucht zur memoria der Muse zu nehmen vorgibt. Noch einmal wird der unbegreifliche Zwiespalt von der göttlichen Heimsuchung des götterergebenen Mannes aufgetan, hier die Geworfenheit des zwischen Flucht und fanatischem Zielwillen aufgeriebenen Aeneas, dort die Impulsivität der Göttin ; die abschließende Frage ist, wenngleich sie die „Archäologie“ des Konflikts (v. 12-33) motiviert, entschieden rhetorisch und verhallt effektvoll im Resonanzboden einer gekonnt sich selbst inszenierenden erzählerischen Verzweiflung.

4 Der Anfang der Aeneis gibt ein Bild eines ethnischen, politischen und kulturellen Transfers, das in seiner Zerrissenheit die extremen Spannungen reflektieren mag, die mit jedem Geschehen verbunden sind, das von Untergang und Entwurzelung über Flucht und Vertreibung zu neuen Anfängen führt.17 Es ist, als bebe das Unfaßliche solcher Geschichten in den Satzfragmenten der Erzählung nach. Diese kann das Geschehene nicht diskursivieren, sondern nur Bilder schaffen oder auf Bilder zugreifen, die je einen Ausschnitt des Ganzen bieten, das nach den ehernen Gesetzen der Sprache freilich nie abschildernd einzuholen ist. Es ist sogar nicht einmal unwahrscheinlich, daß diese Bilder dem unerreichbar bleibenden „Wahren“ gleichwohl näherkommen, als es die stimmig-sein-wollende geschichtsphilosophische Erzählung je könnte. Will sagen : Das Prooemium der Aeneis gibt womöglich das Maß, wie überhaupt räumliche Verhältnisbestimmungen (also etwa Rom und der Osten) zur textlichen Darstellung gebracht werden können. Auch wenn Troja nicht als ein Fixpunkt des

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Ostens erwogen wird, so erlaubt uns die Vergilische Darstellung doch, das Drama der verspäteten Empfindung einer Symbiose zu erleben, die sich eben nicht historisch protokollieren und, nach so vielen Jahrhunderten, stillstehen läßt, sondern im Gegenteil als das „perpetuum mobile“ einer Traditionsbildung erscheint, die den Gegensatz, der sie hervorgebracht hat, sprachlich und denkerisch immer neu zur Geltung bringen muß. Wir haben bei einer früheren Gelegenheit gesehen, daß die augusteische Epoche fast als eine Regel raumzeitliche Oppositionen in augenblickshaften Konkretionen zum Verschwinden bringt.18 Hier sehen wir es wieder : Erlaubt eine Kultur, die – vielleicht sogar per definitionem – darauf ausgerichtet ist, ethnische und kulturelle Gegensätze zugleich zu tilgen und in sich emblematisch abzubilden (siehe auch den Schild des Aeneas), ein Denken in Himmelszonen, das mehr vorstellt als räumlich-geographische Orientierung ? Suchte das römische Weltreich den Gegensatz der Regionen nicht zu vernichten, indem es an seine Stelle die Opposition des Römischen und des Barbarischen setzte ?19 Das Erfolgsgeheimnis römischer Weltmachtpolitik wäre dann – ähnlich dem der Vereinigten Staaten –, daß sie früher oder später erkannt hätte, daß sie nach dem Prinzip einer verschobenen Ursprünglichkeit, einer, wie ich sie nennen möchte, obliquen Originalität, besser führe als mit der Behauptung, Verteidigung und Durchsetzung eines – doch wohl fiktiven – Eingeborenseins.20 Bezeichnenderweise kann sich die genealogische Beziehung, die Vergil im dritten Buch zwischen Italien und den Dardaniden knüpft,21 aufs Ganze gesehen nicht durchsetzen. Der eigenartig fiktionale Charakter dieses älteren Rechts erhellt schon daraus, daß die Wahrheit des dunklen Apollo-Orakels Aeneas erst in der Traumrede der Penaten erscheint.

5 Mit Slavoj Žižek gesprochen : An die Stelle der ideologischen Phantasie22 der Autochthonie hat Rom in aller Regel das Phantasma eines Ausschlusses gesetzt, der die strafenden Mächte überlebt und im Außen der zufluchtgewährenden neuen Welt ein neues Innen generierte, das hinfort den Maßstab setzte für jede Beurteilung, was innen, was außen, was Westen oder Osten sei. Der Verzicht auf Glauben und Rede der Autochthonie bewahrt die Weltmächte vor dem Schicksal des Hauses der Labdakiden, das – wie kürzlich Richard Rader gezeigt hat23 – zum Untergang schon deshalb verurteilt ist, weil es auf dem Wege des Inzests die nivellierten Geschlechter- und Generationengrenzen im Phantasma der Autochthonie restituieren möchte. Wenn Vergil gleichwohl die überlieferte Sage um den genealogischen Einfall bereichert hat, daß der Stammherr der Aeneaden, Dardanus, dereinst in Italien siedelte, die Trojaner mithin in das Land ihrer Ursprünge zurückkehrten (vgl. Aen. 3, 94-96 u. 3, 163-168),24 so möchte man diesen Kunstgriff am liebsten als Sekundärauthentifizierung auffassen : Der durchschlagende Erfolg der Erzählung vom verschobenen Ursprung der Römer erlaubte irgendwann die souveräne Rocaille von der Umdeutung der Flucht der Trojaner zur Heimkehrergeschichte. Ost und West waren ethnoideologisch ununterscheidbar geworden. So fügt sich auch die vermeinte Korrektur in die Logik der verschobenen Originalität.

6 Die lange Vorrede war unumgänglich, wenn wir begreifen wollen, ob und wo überhaupt noch Raum für die Entwicklung unserer Fragestellung bleiben könnte. Wenn die Mitte zugleich Westen und Osten, Süden und Norden umgreift, dann mußten wir eben die Mitte ins Auge fassen, die sich irgend einmal an ihren Rändern konturiert und diese ihre indigene Heterogenität zu reflektieren nie aufgehört hat. Und wichtiger noch : die es nicht zugelassen hat, daß die geschichtsphilosophische Rede von der „Pax Romana“ jemals die Spuren und Reste ihres unruhigen Zentrums überdecken konnte.

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Eine solche Kultur hat es auch ertragen, daß die vielleicht mächtigsten Artikulationen eines echt östlichen religiösen Empfindens, erst die Tiger des Dionysos, dann die Löwen der phrygischen Göttermutter Kybele,25 schließlich die Schellen und Klappern der Isis in Rom Einzug hielten. Verbote und Gesetze konnten den zunehmenden Einfluß dieser ekstatischen und Erlösungskulte nicht aufhalten. Einige der besten Texte der spätrepublikanischen und frühaugusteischen Epoche steigern sich zu so eindringlicher Beschreibung (Lucrezens magna mater [2, 598-643], Catulls Großgedichte 63 und 64, Tibulls Frauen), daß sie – vielleicht unfreiwillig – zu Dokumenten der allmählichen Kodifikation des östlichen Wahnsinns im römischen Westen geworden sind. Aber welches wurde die Form dieses Ostens im Westen ? Man kann sich des Eindrucks nicht erwehren, daß die beschwörenden Gesten der Dichter nur der apotropé des besungenen Irrsinns dienen sollten. Als erst beschworene, dann abgewehrte Phantasmen wurden die Gesten und Riten Teil der Grammatik einer Epoche, die ihre stärksten Anregungen aus ihrem bald abgeschilderten, bald auch bloß imaginierten Gegensatz zu gewinnen trachtete. Jetzt also geschieht etwas, das seltsam, aber doch nicht ganz unverständlich ist : Das heterogene Reich entwickelt Routine und muß die politisch überwundenen Grenzziehungen wieder und wieder phantastisch regenerieren, wenn es nicht in tiefste Starre und bloße Iteration des Erreichten verfallen soll. Gut versteht man den rekusatorischen Gestus jener augusteischen Autoren, die sich auf die bloße Ereignisgeschichtsschreibung nicht festlegen lassen wollen, sondern an die Stelle der carmina perpetua der historischen Großerzählung lieber die fragmentierende Sprechweise der kleinen Gattungen setzten. Hier wurde des Nachts zerschnitten, was der augusteische Diskurs des Tags zustande gebracht haben mochte. Aus Erzählungen wurden Bilder, die schon als Bilder an die alte Unlust zur Bindung, an die alte generische Unruhe erinnerten, die das Reich dereinst, so glaubte man doch, begründet hatte.

7 Man darf darüber streiten, wie originell die Bilder sind, die augusteische Dichtung für die Länder und Völker des Ostens gefunden hat. Es ist wiederum ratsam, von den Gedichten des Catull auszugehen und zunächst hier die Weisen der Orientierung aufzusuchen und vielleicht an ihnen einen Punkt zu gewinnen, der die Folgeentwicklung verständlicher macht : Schon hier irritiert ein Gestus, der in den Gedichten 10 und 11 augenfällig wird : In 10 spricht aus jeder Silbe die monströs und selbstgefällig zur Schau gestellte Langeweile und Ignoranz gegenüber einer konzentrierten Wahrnehmung des bithynischen Ostens, die auf wirkliche Einsichten führen könnte. Daß das Hürchen strebt, auf des Sprechers dreist erfundener Sänfte zur Kultstätte des Sarapis getragen zu werden, verdoppelt die Verspottung eines kritiklos verehrten Ostens im Westen.26 Die Weltvermessung der gleich darauf folgenden sapphischen Ode (c. 11) ist allein der ironisch-zynischen Abschiedsrede geschuldet, die die eingeforderte Treue der Freunde am grotesk überdimensionierten Weltmaßstab zu bestimmen sucht. Über dem phantastischen Riesenmaß der Catullischen Geographie geht jede Orientierung verloren. Die übergroße Karte zeigt denn auch im kleinen, um die präzise Beschreibung ersichtlich unbekümmert (vgl. dagegen die empathetisch fingierte Teilnahme an der erwarteten Erzählung des aus dem Westen heimkehrenden Freundes in c. 9, dort v. 6-8 : audiamque Hiberum / narrantem loca, facta, nationes, / ut mos est tuus), eben jene Einstellungen, die – so scheint es – in der augusteischen Literatur dann wieder und wieder getreulich nachgebildet werden : Die Araber sind weich (mollis), die Parther pfeilbewehrt (sagittifer),27 der Nil siebenarmig (septemgeminus), die Alpen hoch (altus), das Nordmeer grausig (horribile aequor), die Britanner liegen

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zuäußerst (ultimi) und ganz zu Beginn schon heißen die Inder extremi, litus ut longe resonante Eoa / tunditur unda. Aber auch Catull kennt einen Osten, der für ihn – erstaunlich genug – zur Landschaft einer grenzenziehenden und grenzenüberschreitenden Erfahrung wird. Im Zentrum der fiktiven Autobiographie im Mittelteil des Langgedichts 6828 steht die Verwünschung Trojas, das kühn als „Europas und Asiens gemeinsames Grab“ apostrophiert wird : Troia (nefas !) commune sepulcrum Asiae Europaeque (v. 89). Troja ist der unselige Ort, der nun auch den Bruder hinweggerafft hat : quae … etiam nostro letum miserabile fratri / attulit (v. 91f.). Mit ihm, so der Sprecher, ist das ganze Haus begraben (tecum una tota est nostra sepulta domus, v. 94) ; ihn hält nun kein Grab unter vertrauten Gräbern, nah bei der Asche seiner Verwandten, fest, sed Troia obscena, Troia infelice sepultum / detinet extremo terra aliena solo (v. 99f.). Stärker läßt sich die Empfindung äußerster Ferne und Entfremdung wohl nicht ausdrücken. Ein fremdes Land verwahrt den Leichnam des nächsten Verwandten in abgelegenster Erde im „obszönen“ Troia, im „Unglücks-Troia“.

8 Das ist die genaue Mitte des Langgedichts, das an seinem Anfang Einblick in die innersten Befindlichkeiten des Schreibers zu geben verspricht. Läßt sich ein kraftvollerer Gegenpol zum Eingang der Aeneis denken ? Statt Verschmelzung äußerste Trennung, statt zukunftsweisendem Aufbruch Abbruch und ein ultimatives Ende. Wie endgültig die Trennung zu denken ist, erhellt aus dem bekannten Abschiedsepigramm 101. Der Sprecher steht, multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus (v. 1),29 schließlich vor der stummen Asche des Bruders und vollzieht am „traurigen Grabe“ nach „alter Vätersitte“ (prisco … more parentum, v. 7) das geschuldete Opfer. Auch dies die markante Antithese zur Bewegungsrichtung des Vergilischen Aeneas (und schon des Homerischen Odysseus)30. Vor allem aber : Vor der Folie des Catullischen Dramas erkennen wir die Aeneas-Erzählung als die pointierte Umkehrung der Orientierung : Strebte Catull aus dem ökumenischen Geschichtsbild heraus, so ist in Vergils Sicht die Aneignung des Unglücksortes und seine Umbildung zu neuer Größe der beherrschende Gedanke. Doch seien wir genau : Auch bei Catull bildet sich das Troia-Erlebnis zur bestimmenden Mitte. In einem gewissen Sinne liegt es am Grunde seiner experimentellen Pathopoetik.31 Die markante Differenz zur Konstruktion der Vergilischen Aeneis liegt darin, daß die Catullische Dichtung, weit entfernt, in den Kategorien von Staat und Geschichte zu denken, allein auf die Pathogenese eines römisch-modernen Dichtersubjekts gerichtet ist.32 Noch die Glücksmomente dieser Dichtervita wie die Rückkunft in Sirmio (c. 31) werden in Vergegenwärtigung der langen mühevollen Entfernung vom Osten genossen. Jetzt, im Überschwang der Heimkehr, darf gar der Gardasee den glücklich überwundenen Osten spiegeln : … vosque, o Lydiae lacus undae, / ridete quidquid est domi cachinnorum (v. 13f.).33 Treiben wir es nicht zu weit : Aber liest sich dieses „klassische“ Heimkehrergedicht nicht wie die Antizipation dessen, was Vergil dem Aeneas zuschreibt ? Nur übersteigert, freudebebend, triumphalisch ? Und beweist nicht diese seltene Extroversion unsere These, wie sehr die nicht zu revidierende Grenze des Todes (vgl. auch c. 5) die Matrix bildet auch für die Erfahrung intensiv genossenen Augenblickglücks ? Die Parallelen zur großen Heimkehrererzählung Odysseus-Aeneas sind damit noch nicht erschöpfend behandelt. Es scheint, daß c. 31 den klassischen Nostoi durchgehend verpflichtet ist : Die strukturelle Beziehung reicht von der Betonung des Inselcharakters der Heimat (Paene insularum, Sirmio, insularumque / ocelle, v. 1f.) über die Neptunerwähnung (v. 2f.), das ungläubige Staunen des Heimkehrers (v. 5f.) und die Herausstreichung der erschöpfenden Mühsal der Fremde (peregrino / labore fessi, v. 8f., cf. v. 11) bis zur starken Betonung des ersehnten Bettes und der

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Thematisierung der Herr-Schaft des Heimkehrers : salve, o venusta Sirmio, atque ero gaude (v. 12). Zweifellos spielt auch das Ende von c. 46 auf den odysseischen Nostos an : o dulces comitum valete coetus, / longe quos simul a domo profectos / diversae varie viae reportant (v. 9-11).

9 Noch einen zweiten klassischen Glücksmoment gibt es, in dem die poetische Imagination eines (nahen) Ostens das Unmaß der Freude dokumentieren soll. Das zweite Kuß-Gedicht (c. 7) verweist die fragende Lesbia auf die unfaßliche Fülle libyschen Sands im buchsbaumtragenden Cyrene „zwischen dem Orakel des hitzeglühenden Zeus und des alten Battos’ heiligem Grabmal“ (oraclum Iovis inter aestuosi / et Batti veteris sacrum sepulcrum, v. 5f.). Wieder wird ein Osten als Grenze genommen. Aber diese Grenze entpuppt sich als die Bestimmung des Unmaßes. Die Maßlosigkeit des Genusses im Augenblick findet ihr Aequivalent dort, wo des Messens kein Ende ist : im heißen Wüstensand.34 Auch die Bestimmung der Strecke dort, wo es am schwersten fällt, in der wenig differenzierten Einöde des Wüstenlandes, zeugt von der übermütigen Willkür des küssenden Sprechers, der Grenzen nennt, nur um an ihnen den phantastischen Exzeß seiner launigen Begierde darzutun. Der „libysche Sand“, das „silphiontragende Cyrene“, der „heiße“ Gott und der ehrwürdige Battos werden als Stereotypen aufgerufen, um Phantasie nicht zu bannen, sondern möglich zu machen. Die Bilder sind dem Sprechenden, indem er sie ausspricht, so kongenial, daß er sich hinreißen läßt, die beschworene Fremde an einem Teil zu romanisieren : Wie er eben die Wogen des Gardasees leichthin orientalisierte, wird ihm jetzt der ägyptokyrenische Ammon zum römischen Juppiter. Mit diesen Bildern, die die Grenzen der Vorstellung zugleich errichten und niederreißen (weil sie ebensowohl stereotyp wie herausfordernd sind), immunisiert sich die Catullische Liebesrede gegen den bösen Zauber einer profanen Arithmetik, die den maßlos Liebenden, so sollen wir glauben, immer über die Schultern blickt. Gegen den Neid der Außenwelt hilft nur sei es der entgrenzende Blick auf die Unzahl der Sterne, diese himmlischen Mitwisser verstohlener Lieben, oder die phantastische Introspektion in jene Regionen, in denen Maß und Zahl zu Inbegriffen eines absurden Denkens werden müssen.

10 Die augusteische Dichtung, so meine These, hat diese stehenden Bilder und Figuren zum integralen Bestandteil ihrer poetischen Kartographie gemacht. Wenn das Stereotype der Standbilder nicht mehr in gleicher Weise offen zu sein scheint für den Einfall der Imagination, so ist dies zweifellos den veränderten Verhältnissen unter der Führung des Augustus geschuldet. Es scheint, wenigstens in den letzten Gedichten des Horaz, daß der Osten sein nervenaufreibendes, neugiererregendes Potential eingebüßt habe. Glichen die früheren Beschwörungen des Ostens meist noch beschwichtigenden Autosuggestionen (Typ : mitte civilis super urbe curas : / occidit Daci Cotisonis agmen, / Medus infestus sibi luctuosis / dissidet armis, c. 3, 8, 17-20 ; vgl. c. 2, 11, 1-4 ; jeweils in Verbindung mit der Aufrufung auch der Westgrenze) oder ritualisierten Sorge-Reflexen als Zeichen, daß der Sprecher zur patriotischen Solidargemeinschaft gehöre (Typ : in me tota ruens Venus / Cyprum deseruit, nec patitur Scythas / et versis animosum equis / Parthum dicere nec quae nihil attinent, c. 1, 19, 9-12), so ist die Gefahr nun wirklich gebannt. Spätestens nach der Rückgabe der Feldzeichen des Crassus durch die Parther ( … tua, Caesar, aetas / … / … signa nostro restituit Iovi / derepta Parthorum superbis / postibus, c. 4, 15, 4-8) obsiegt die Vorstellung einer Oikumene, die von ihren ostwestlichen Rändern nichts mehr zu fürchten hat. Sogar die alte kulturelle Geste der bewundernden Verehrung des Ostens hat sich nun umgekehrt : „Bewundernd schaut gezähmt nun der Kantabrer, / der Meder, Inder, flüchtige Skythe auf / Dich

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immerwachen Hort der Herrin / Rom, des italischen Heimatlandes“35 (te Cantaber non ante domabilis / Medusque et Indus, te profugus Scythes / miratur, o tutela praesens / Italiae dominaeque Romae, c. 4, 14, 41-44, cf. auch ebd. 45-52). Ähnlich der Gestus in Vergils Schildbeschreibung, wo – nebenbei bemerkt – der Gegensatz des Ostens im Augenblick seiner triumphalen Überwindung vielleicht am sinnfälligsten wird : Hier Augustus Caesar und Agrippa (vgl. Aen. 8, 678-684, Augustus bezeichnenderweise cum patribus populoque, penatibus et magnis dis, v. 679), dort die Heerscharen eines barbarischen Ostens : hinc ope barbarica variisque Antonius armis, / victor ab Aurorae populis et litore rubro, / Aegyptum virisque Orientis et ultima secum / Bactra vehit, sequiturque (nefas) Aegyptia coniunx (8, 685-688).36 Es liegt in der Logik der Vergilischen Perspektive, daß der Sieg über den Osten und die sich anschließenden Unterwerfungs- und Schenkensgesten37 als der utopische Vorschein einer in ferner Zukunft liegenden Geschichte ästhetisch genossen und nicht etwa – im Sinne einer beschwichtigenden Trostrede – reflexiv verarbeitet und zum Wissensinhalt objektiviert werden.

11 Wenn der Eindruck nicht trügt, ist auch Horazens Schlußode (c. 4, 15) nicht frei vom Unterton der alten Angstrede : Erst wird die revocatio des alten Geistes (veteres … artes, cf. v. 12) gefeiert, die Latiums Namen (Latinum nomen, v. 13) und Italiens Macht (Italae / … vires, v. 13f.) wiedererstarken ließ und „Ruf“ und „Größe“ des Reichs (fama … et imperi / … maiestas, v. 14f.) ad ortus / solis ab Hesperio cubili (v. 15f.) dehnte, dann wird die neue Ruhe (otium, v. 18) an den Namen des einen custos rerum, Caesar, gebunden (custode rerum Caesare, v. 17), der den Bürgerkrieg bannen und die gesunkenen Mächte des Ostens an unverbrüchliche „Julische Weisungen“ binden wird : non qui profundum Danuvium bibunt / edicta rumpent Iulia, non Getae, / non Seres infidique Persae, / non Tanais prope flumen orti (v. 21-24). Man mag es für selbstverständlich halten, daß die Völker des Ostens (bei Horaz wie bei Vergil) im Frieden ihre feindseligen Attribuierungen nicht ablegen dürfen. Ihre Trutzpose erhöht ja das Vergnügen an ihrer neuen, abhängigen Stellung. Aber die Dinge liegen so einfach nicht. Sehen wir es einmal so : Die Leistung des augusteischen Friedens zu verstehen, braucht es die alten Bilder, die mitten in der Pax Romana als die widerwörtnerischen Fortsätze der alten Opposition fungieren müssen. Sie sind nicht mehr, was ihre Bezeichnungen aussagen. Es ist, als tue sich an dem unterworfenen Fremden die innere Hohlheit und Lüge jedes Versuches kund, außerhalb des latinisch-römischen Namens und seiner fama eine Vorstellung von konstruktiver Identität zu begründen. Die ererbten Wahrnehmungen : der „untreue Perser“, der „ungegürtete Afrer“, der „pfeilbewaffnete Gelone“, der „unbezwingliche Daker“ müssen bleiben, weil sie – am nomen und an der Macht und Geltung des römischen Volkes gemessen – als präzise Formeln ihrer inneren Unwahrheit erscheinen. Die alten Bilder stürzen in sich zusammen und werden zu widersprüchlichen Gesten : Der Daker ist nicht mehr unbezwinglich, und der Afrer wird bald die römische Toga tragen. Als Römer allein machen die Daker, die Afrer, die Perser der Zukunft Sinn.

12 Was man leicht als integralen Bestandteil einer „Poetik des Vorurteils“ verkennen könnte, zeigt vor der Folie der erneuerten Zeichensprache des augusteischen Reichs einen tieferen Sinn : Nicht um kritikwürdige Fortschreibungen einer allein an der Logik feindlicher Auseinandersetzung orientierten, sonst interesselosen imperialen Wahrnehmung geht es, sondern um die poetische Dokumentation und Kodifikation jener widerstreitenden Momente der Staatsräson, die ein nur juristisch-formales Denken nicht angemessen beschreiben könnte. Die nicht zu zähmende poetische Investitur allein schafft eine Objektivität, die, aufs Ganze der Geschichte ausgehend, die

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Architektur ihres inneren Sinns mit all ihren Rissen und Widersprüchen zur Darstellung zu bringen hoffen kann. Von solchen Voraussetzungen ausgehend, können Vergil und Horaz zugleich über den gebändigten furor und das neue otium sprechen. Und in dem Bewußtsein, daß die neugewonnene Größe auf ebensolchen zu Ausgleich und Harmonie gebrachten Gegensätzen beruht, kann zuletzt – und nun hören wir noch einmal die Mitte des Catullischen und den Anfang des Vergilischen Hauptwerks „nach Väter-sitte“ auch die lydische Flöte erschallen, wenn, so Horaz in einer letzten, jetzt nur noch poetologischen Autosuggestion, „wir Troja und Anchises und das Geschlecht der hehren Venus singen“ (nosque … / Troiamque et Anchisen et almae / progeniem Veneris canemus, c. 4, 15, 25-32). Jetzt erhält auch die recusatio des Anfangs einen neuen Sinn : Ablehnen kann der Dichter die Schlachtengesänge auch deshalb, weil er über die Rolle des Abschilderers und Nachsängers des Politisch-Faktischen längst hinausgewachsen ist : Vielmehr gibt er der fragmentierten Selbstwahrnehmung des politischen Außen in der poetischen Totale das totum der Geschichte zurück, das ihr, der Geschichte, in dem Maße, wie sie zur Wirklichkeit wurde, abhanden gekommen war. Es ist eine Leistung der augusteischen Dichtung, daß sie, weit entfernt, ihre Epoche nur abzubilden, dieser je für den Augenblick des Singens (der darum wie am Anfang der Aeneis, so am Ende der Horazischen Oden zur Sprache kommen muß) das Maß bestimmt, wie sie sich jenseits räumlicher, ethnischer und ideologischer Grenzziehungen als ein selbstbewußtes Ordnungsgefüge erfahren könnte. Über Zweckdienlichkeit und Schönheit dieses imaginären Ganzen haben wir nicht zu urteilen. Es gleicht wohl mehr einer sozialtechnologischen Apparatur, einer Anleitung-zur-Selbsterfahrung-Maschine à la Jonathan Swift oder Peter Sloterdijk, oder auch der pferde-, vogel- und fischleibigen schönen Frau aus dem Zerrspiegel der Horazischen Poetik, als dem, was ältere Interpreten sich unter einem wohlorganisierten Staatswesen vorstellten. Aber, Sie wissen ja : Wo die Institutionen irgendeinmal verstummen, haben die Dichter das letzte Wort.

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NOTES

1. Abschlußvortrag, gehalten an der Sapienza, Università di Roma auf dem Internationalen Kolloquium der Forschergruppe La poésie augustéenne: „Orientalismo romano“ vom 19. bis 21. November 2009. 2. Vgl. die diesen Beitrag beschließende Auswahlbibliographie. 3. Vgl. die Einführungen von Trüdinger (1918), Dihle (1961), Müller (1972), Sordi (1979) und Siebenborn (1998). 4. Siehe Stoneman (1994). 5. Darüber soll die Vorleistung in den Werken Ciceros und Caesars, die schärfere Konturierung eines ethnographischen Horizonts nicht vergessen werden: Zu Cicero siehe Vasaly (1993), zu Caesar siehe Sherwin-White (1967), p. 1-32, Bell (1995) und Lund (1996). 6. Cf. García Moreno (1992). 7. Cf. Van der Vliet (2003). 8. Zur ethnographischen Einstellung des Augustus siehe jetzt Ando (2002), p. 134f. 9. Siehe Grüner (2005). 10. Vgl. etwa Barchiesi (1997), p. 214-219. 11. Cf. Lee-Stecum (2004). 12. Über die genealogische Volte des Vergil, den Ahnhern der Aeneaden, Dardanus, in Italien siedeln zu lassen, siehe unten Paragraphen 4 u. 5. 13. Cf. Aen. 3, 84-117 u. 147-191. 14. Erst in v. 92 fällt der Name zum ersten Mal, dann bezeichnenderweise nicht in klassisch- heldischem Kontext: extemplo Aeneae solvuntur frigore membra; / ingemit … 15. Zum Problem der „Gendered Ethnicity“ cf. jetzt Syed (2005), p. 137f. 16. Ich verweise nur auf die von Nussbaum (1986) und Kraggerud (1989), p. 119-124, ausgelöste Diskussion. 17. Ando (2002), p. 136, führt die ethnographische Sensibilität, schon in der Abwägung italischer und römischer Gesichtspunkte, auf des Autors Verwurzelung in der oberitalisch-keltischen Peripherie zurück. 18. Schwindt (2005). 19. Und an den Rändern der römischen Oikumene lauert die phantasmagorische Exzentrik, der morphologische Wahnsinn. Vgl. Evans (1998). 20. Ein Phänomen, das auch im europäischen Mittelalter zu beobachten ist. So nutzten die Welfen immer wieder verschobene, fiktive Ursprünglichkeiten zur Begründung und Aufrechterhaltung ihrer Dynastie. (Für den Hinweis danke ich meiner Mitarbeiterin Désirée Rupp.) 21. Siehe unten Paragraph 5. 22. Cf. Žižek (1989) u. (1994). 23. Siehe Rader (2009) und vgl. Möller (2009).

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24. Siehe Suerbaum (1967), p. 180f. 25. Cf. das Gebet des Aeneas in der Krisensituation Aen. 10, 252-255 und die Aen. 9, 77-106 für den Fall der glücklichen Ankunft in „Ausonischen Häfen“ und auf „Laurentischen Fluren“ versprochene, Aen. 10, 215ff. vollzogene Vergöttlichung der Schiffe vom Ida. Nota bene: Kybeles „heilige Fichten“ segeln im städte- und kulturverpflanzenden Auftrag. 26. Zum historischen Hintergrund s. Cairns (2003). 27. Cf. Hutter (2002). 28. Siehe schon Skutsch (1892). 29. Wenn die zuletzt vor allem von Kofler (2003) vertretene These richtig ist, daß sich Schiffahrtsszenarien häufig poetologisch lesen lassen, erfährt die autoreferentielle Deutung des Aeneis-Eingangs auch von hierher Unterstützung (vgl. auch Deremetz [2000]). 30. Auf die Verkehrung der Bewegungsrichtung hat schon Fitzgerald (1995), p. 187, hingewiesen. 31. Siehe demnächst Schwindt (2013). 32. Siehe zuletzt Möller (2008). 33. Die kühne Personifikation und Verbindung mit dem zuhause verfügbaren, neoterischen Lachen zeigen die souveräne Verschmelzung imaginärer und materieller Landschaften. 34. Cf. Schwindt (2008) und Jacquier (2010). 35. Die Übersetzung nach Kayser, Nordenflycht und Burger v. H. Färber (Horaz. Sämtliche Werke. Lateinisch und deutsch, München 1957, 81979). 36. Auch die Götter des „Westens“ und des Ostens in entsprechender Gegensetzung: omnigenumque deum monstra et latrator Anubis / contra Neptunum et Venerem contraque Minervam / tela tenent (v. 698-700). 37. Siehe Stöckinger (2013).

RÉSUMÉS

In dem folgenden Beitrag wird das Thema des "Orientalismo Romano" nicht motivisch, sondern radikalphilologisch behandelt. Ausgehend von der Hypothese, daß die Sicherheit der neuen, augusteischen Weltordnung ein zugleich souveränes und phantastisches Denken der Grenze ermöglicht, wird der Anfang der Vergilischen Aeneis als das Paradigma einer poetischen Geschichtsdarstellung gelesen, in der das Abenteuer der Stadtgründung als das perpetuum mobile einer Traditionsbildung erscheint, die den Gegensatz, der sie hervorgebracht hat, sprachlich und denkerisch immer neu zur Geltung bringen muß. Während Catull noch, in dezidierter Umkehrung der odysseischen Fahrtrichtung, im Osten die Pathogenese seines römisch- modernen Dichtersubjekts erfährt, liefert Vergil das Erfolgsmodell einer hochgradig assimilationsfähigen "obliquen Originalität". In Horaz' späten Oden werden die überlieferten stereotypen Wahrnehmungen des Ostens zu präzisen Formeln ihrer inneren Unwahrheit. Nicht um die Fortschreibung einer allein an der Logik feindlicher Auseinandersetzung orientierten Wahrnehmung des Ostens geht es, sondern um die poetische Dokumentation und Kodifikation jener widerstreitenden Momente der Staatsräson, die ein nur juristisch-formales Denken nicht angemessen beschreiben könnte. Die augusteische Dichtung erreicht gerade in der Fragmentierung der ideologischen Totale eine Objektivität, die die Architektur des römischen Herrschaftsgedankens mit all ihren Rissen und Widersprüchen zur Darstellung bringen kann.

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INDEX

Mots-clés : Vergil, /Aeneis/-Prooemium, Catull, c. 7, 10, 11, 31, 46, 68 u. 101, Horaz, 3.8, 1.19, 4.14 u. 4.15, Orientalismus, historische /versus/poetische Kartographie, Traditionsbildung, Autochthonie, Authentifizierung, verschobene Ursprünglichkeit/oblique Originalität, ideologische Phantasie (Z(iz(ek), Poetik des Vorurteils, Fragment und Totale, Geschichtsphilosophie /versus/ Geschichtspoetik

AUTEUR

JÜRGEN PAUL SCHWINDT Heidelberg

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