Copyright by Andrew Paul Howard 2009

Making Change Happen:

The Adaptation and Transformation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe

by

Andrew Paul Howard, B.A.

Report

Presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School of The University of Texas at Austin in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

Master of Arts

The University of Texas at Austin May 2009

Making Change Happen:

The Adaptation and Transformation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe

Approved by Supervising Committee

Supervisor: ______Karl Galinsky

______Lawrence Kim

Dedication

In memoria patris, qui legebat omnia quae scripsi

Abstract

Making Change Happen:

The Adaptation and Transformation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe

Andrew Paul Howard (MA) The University of Texas at Austin, 2009

Supervisor: Karl Galinsky

This paper aims to explore the connections and parallels between Longus’

Daphnis and Chloe and Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The conclusions reached should provide fertile ground for further studies in the intertextual play between novels and Latin poetry. To reach these conclusions, there will be a multi‐pronged approach at analyzing the questions and implications raised by the potential connections. First Longus’ novel will be situated within a context of Greek literature under the Roman Empire that consciously utilized Vergilian poetry. Having done that, I will turn to the similar methods that each author uses to play with genre and the visual worlds in his work, a process that shows that Longus was using Ovid as a definite model/kindred spirit for his novel’s

v approach to these topics. Following that, there will be an extended examination of specific episodes in Daphnis and Chloe through which Longus reveals his knowledge of

Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Finally, this paper will attempt to situate the arguments and conclusions that are made in the context of the current debates over the readership of the novel to present a strong case for bilingualism in the ancient world.

vi Table of Contents

The Interrelationship Between Latin and Greek Literature ...... 4

The Adaptations of Genre...………………………………………………………….……………………13

The Question of Metamorphosis…………………………………………….………………………….21

Episodic Connections…………………………………………………………….…………….……………..25

Writing for a Visual World………………………………………………………………………………….42

Readership……………………………….………………………………………………………………………..59

Concluding Thoughts………………………………………………………………………………………….67

Bibliography...... 70

Vita ...... 77

vii While I was going through the indices of the two most recent English‐language works on Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe, I was mildly surprised to find no references to Ovid in either.1 Using Richard Hunter’s A Study of Daphnis and Chloe as an example, from the

Latin corpus in lieu of a Ovidian reference, Hunter cites Silius Italicus and Lucian’s influences on the development of this particular Greek novel.2 The non‐inclusion of Ovid is more than a little surprising, since Ovid’s works—primarily the Metamorphoses—map on rather well to Longus’ pastoral novel, which owes a debt to the imagery and thematics of the Metamorphoses. However, it should be stated at the outset that this paper does not aim to offer a total reconsideration of the sources and influences on

Daphnis and Chloe. It has been well‐established that Longus draws heavily from Homer and Theocritus in addition to his fellow novelists and this assertion should not and will not be challenged.3 However, the Latin influence—particularly Ovid’s influence—has been largely ignored.4

This paper aims to explore the connections and parallels between Longus’

Daphnis and Chloe and Ovid’s Metamorphoses. This is not an exhaustive survey of the connections between poet and novelist, but the conclusions reached should provide fertile ground for further studies in the intertextual play between novels and Latin

1 Bruce D. MacQueen, Myth, Rhetoric, and Fiction: A Reading of Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe (Lincoln: 1990). Richard L. Hunter, A Study of Daphnis and Chloe (Cambridge: 1988). 2 Hunter, 30‐31. Hunter also references Catullus, Horace, Plautus and Vergil, but the omission of Ovidian connections while including Silius Italicus is more than a little unusual. 3 Hunter, 59.

1 poetry. To reach these conclusions, there will be a multi‐pronged approach at analyzing the questions and implications raised by the potential connections. This paper will first utilize two pieces of rather recent literature that provide an excellent re‐thinking of the connections between two Greek novelists (Longus and Chariton) and Vergilian source material.5 These parallel studies will provide a starting point for the argument that there was a tradition of cross‐linguistic fertilization between authors of different genres in different languages. This review will by no means be exhaustive; rather, it is meant to give a sampling of what other scholars have deemed to be significant answers to these pressing questions.

Having looked at other studies of a similar type to establish that the claims that

Longus used Ovid should not be dismissed as spurious, I will turn to the intersections between Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe. Genre figures prominently in this discussion; both works play with the hard‐and‐fast traditional assessments of genre with a result that each falls into categories that bear resemblances to what they purport themselves to be, but in actuality exist almost sui generis. Moving past genre, I will also discuss how Longus manipulates the Ovidian metamorphosis trope. While metamorphosis is by no means a feature confined to Ovid, as we shall see,

4 Excepting Hubbard’s 2005 article that explored the connections between Vergil’s bucolic poetry and Longus. 5 Generally until recent decades, the cross‐linguistic literary transactions were ignored by scholars. Fortunately, in recent years, the trend seems to be moving in the other direction. 2 the metamorphoses contained within Daphnis and Chloe are, in fact, quite Ovidian in nature.

Following that, the focus will shift to specific scenes and themes in which Longus recalls and echoes Ovid—particularly the Dorcon episode, the internal myths and the

Lykaneion episode. Through an examination of these specific scenes, I intend to show that Longus consciously made use of Ovidian elements in a fashion that would be more or less apparent to his readers. The final point of coincidence between the works can be seen in each author’s use of art. Throughout the Metamorphoses and Daphnis and

Chloe, the reader is constantly confronted with artistic imagery. I argue that Longus views Ovid as something of a kindred spirit with the use of artistic language and makes use of the Ovidian suffusion of art in literature to layer his own text in the colors and imagery of the narrative wall‐painting. Finally, I will move the Longus‐Ovid argument into one of the issues plaguing the ancient novel—readership. If Longus were making use of Ovid, it would follow that at least some portion of his audience would also be familiar with the Latin poet, a point with some bearing on the discussion of bilingualism in the ancient world.

3 The Intertextual relationship between Latin and Greek Literature

The traditional view of the interrelationship (or lack thereof) between Greek and

Latin authors has largely remained set in stone in the two centuries following Gibbon’s remark that “there is not, I believe, from Dionysius to Libanius, a single Greek critic who mentions Virgil or Horace. They seem ignorant that the Romans had any good writers.”6

While Gibbon’s point is valid insofar that there are no Greek critics who discuss Latin poetry, he ignores the possibility that a Greek would be reading Latin poets and incorporating their ideas into his own work. It has only been in the last decade or so that scholars have really begun to work on breaking down the assumptions of Greek hostility or ignorance of Latin literature that stems from the linguistic divide between Greek and

Latin to more fully consider the relationship between Longus and Chariton to Vergil.7

Turning first to Longus, the dominant view regarding his sources is that he drew heavily from the Greek bucolic tradition. Valley first laid out the groundwork for a heavily Theocritean model of influence and from there on, the prevailing opinion is that

Longus worked from the Theocritan tradition.8 Until recently, the possibility of Latin

6 Gibbon, vol I, 38 n. 43. 7 There are other connections between Principate Greek writers and Latin authors that have fostered numerous arguments of connection that are not all that pertinent to this argument. In particular, the connection between Greek and Latin epigrammists has been examined by Williams in sufficient detail and the closeness between the stories of Luke‐Acts and the Aeneid. For more on the latter topic, I refer you to Palmer Bonz’s 2000 book on the topic and Shea’s 2005 article for thorough arguments for the influence of Vergil (as well as Greek pagan literature) on the development of the “plot” of Luke‐Acts. 8 Valley, 79‐104. Also, Bernd Effe, “Longos. Zur Funktiongeschichte der Bukolik in der römischen Kaiserzeit,” Hermes 110 (1982), 68‐84) (English translation in Swain (ed.) 1999, 189‐209, esp. 192‐193); Lia Raffaella Cresci, “Il 4 influence on Longus had rarely been discussed, save for a few scattered references.

Mittelstadt dismissed the thought of Vergil’s bucolic poetry shaping Daphnis and Chloe, even though he concedes that Longus’ idealistic conception of the idyllic pastoral falls closer to Vergil than it does to Theocritus’s more realistic depiction.9 It would seem that

Mittelstadt and his predecessors have a solid case for the influence of Theocritan and other Greek lyric poets on Longus; there are explicit parallels in language between the authors as well as a liberal borrowing of names (among other minor characters, several of the major players in Daphnis and Chloe—particularly Daphnis—draw their names from the Theocritan corpus).10 However, in dealing with the intersection of bucolic poetry and Longus, the works of Vergil should also be considered just as heavily as those of his Greek predecessors.

In a key essay from 2006, Thomas Hubbard makes a compelling case for Longus’ use of Vergil’s Eclogues.11 The distinction between the bucolic of Vergil and that of

Theocritus is marked by the sentimental and romanticized imagery employed by the

Latin author as opposed to the ironically unsentimental picture created by Theocritus.12

The pastoral imagery of Longus, as Hubbard points out, actually goes beyond the

romanzo di Longo Sofista e la tradizione bucolica,” A&R 26 (1981), 1‐25 (English translation in Swain (ed.) 1999, 210‐242); et al. 9 Mittelstadt 1970, 221‐215. 10 Mittelstadt 1970 (217‐220) highlights, among others, the erotic lesson of Philetas (2.7) and its counterpoint in Theocritus 9 as well as the wedding of the two protagonists of Longus (4.38) to the end of Theocritus 4. The closeness of these passages in the novel to the Theocritan corpus is undeniable, but as will be argued, the tone of Longus’ work does not neatly overlay the tone of Theocritus. 11 Hubbard, 499‐513. 12 Halperin, 1‐23. 5 potential (yet still unrealistic) world in Vergil to a purportedly real situation in Longus (or as Hubbard puts it “the subjunctive becomes the indicative”).13 But despite this over‐ sentimental and somewhat pastel version of the bucolic world, Longus shares the

Vergilian concern over the threat faced by the pastoral world from the encroaching urban forces—Vergil’s via land confiscations while Longus continually has outside forces from pirates (1.28‐31) to the Methymnian hunters and their army (2.12‐29) to the conniving parasite Gnathon (4.11‐20) appear, poised to ruin the happy and comfortable lives of his protagonists.14

As for specific Vergilian parallels, Hubbard points to Longus’ use of the story of the Pan pipes as coming directly from Eclogue 2.31‐39. In Vergil’s version (which is the earliest one that survives to this day), the author sets himself as one in a line of bucolic poets. Longus also places his bucolic in a line of bucolic authors in his tale of the syrinx

(2.34‐35). The musician Philetas (whose name comes directly from the Alexandrine poet of the third and fourth centuries BC) says “o(/lwv pa/sav su/riggav mi/a su/rigc e)mimh/sato” (2.35: “My one syrinx is able to mimic all syrinxes in every way”15). Hubbard takes this, quite rightly, to be a programmatic statement by Longus that his pastoral narrative is not limited to one forebear (e.g. Theocritus), but many.16 Hubbard proceeds to discredit Du Quesnay’s argument that the syrinx succession motifs of Vergil and

13 Hubbard, 500. 14 Hubbard 500‐501. 15 All translations, unless otherwise noted, are the work of the author. 16 Hubbard 503‐504. 6 Longus, while being closely parallel, probably come from a missing common source rather than it meaning that Longus used Vergil, since no Greek author would consider

Vergil a good model.17

Among other points of contact between Vergil and Longus, Hubbard sees the beauty contest between Dorcon and Daphnis as evoking Vergilian rather than

Theocritan parallels. In the contest, Daphnis defends his dark complexion by saying that he is like the hyacinth, which is much preferred to the lily (1.16). Theocritus is commonly seen as the source for this comparison, as he opined that the dark hyacinth is the first‐ gathered among flowers (Id. 10.26‐29). Hubbard, however, prefers Vergil’s parallel comparison between dark‐ and light‐skinned young men and white and dark flowers, saying that pale privets fall to the ground while dark hyacinths are picked (Eclogue 2.15‐

18).18 While Vergil’s line picks up the original Theocritan sentiment, it is clear that Vergil expands the comparison and, in turn, Longus picks it up and exploits the expanded meaning. From Hubbard’s work, a convincing case can be and should be made for

Longus knowing Latin authors.

Moreover, there is a lingering question about why scholars would want to push aside claims that Longus was Latin‐literate and in turn, used his knowledge of Latin in the crafting of his novel in the light that Longus’ name itself is Latinate. In a discussion of

17 Hubbard 505. The reference is to Ian Du Quesnay’s “From Polyphemus to Corydon. Virgil, Eclogue 2 and the Idylls of Theocritus” in Creative Imitation and Latin Literature, edited by David West and Thomas Woodman (Cambridge: 1979) 35‐69. While the author does not favor the idea that Longus echoing Vergil, his opposition is probably not as resolute as Hubbard makes it out to be.

7 Longus’ biography, Hunter notes that there is a slim chance that the author is an Italian writing in Greek, based primarily on the style that he deems to be too “polished” to be a plausible hypothesis.19 There is plenty of room to object to this nearly out‐of‐hand rejection of this statement, given the age (high imperial) for the text as well as the archaizing Atticisms of Daphnis and Chloe that point more to a highly educated man

(and not necessarily Greek) writing the novel. However, Hunter, backed by epigraphic evidence, puts forth the more probable theory that the writer was from the Lesbian family of Cn. Pompeius Longus whose name is attested in an inscription recording the archierous of Mytilene in the latter half of the first century BC.20 This solution fits very well with the text, as the author reveals an intimate knowledge of the topography of

Lesbos throughout the novel.21 Merkelbach goes as far as to suggest (though speculatively) that Longus wrote his novel in Rome itself.22 This suggestion does not seem to have picked up many (if any) support from the scholasrly community in the years after Merkelbach’s publication; this argument is probably an overreach on

Merkelbach’s part, and so it remains best to think that Longus was a Lesbian and potentially from the family of the Pompeii Longi. If Longus came from this Greco‐Roman family of note, it stands to reason that he would have been schooled in both languages.

18 Hubbard 507‐508. 19 Hunter, 2. 20 Hunter 2‐3. 21 Hunter 21‐22. 22 Merkelbach, 193. Merkelbach strenuously argues for an interpretation of the revelations in Daphnis and Chloe as a part of mystery cults—an interpretation that seems rather over‐stated. 8 Moreover, even if Longus is not of the Mytilenian Pompeii Longi, the choice of the name

“Longus” reflects a desire to be a part of the Roman Imperial apparatus and thusly have

Latin in his background.23

One of the earliest efforts to establish a connection between Latin poetry and the Greek novel was Quintino Cataudella’s article from 1927 that examined the points of coincidence between Chariton’s novel and Vergil’s Aeneid.24 The significance of this short piece has essentially been unrecognized up until the forthcoming work by Stefan

Tilg on Chariton’s novel.25 Catuadella’s clearest link comes from a close comparison of the use of Fh/mh/Fama.26 Tilg greatly expands this point of contact in his chapter on the use of Fh/mh in Chariton’s novel, in which he lays out a comprehensive argument that the Fh/mh of Chariton most closely resembles the Fama of Vergil’s Aeneid.27 Before

Vergil, the basic Greek conception of Fh/mh was of an abstract force, whereas the

Roman conception that Vergil adapted was more akin to a personified horror. However, after Vergil, the distinction breaks down as the Greek authors began to adapt this more

23 Following Hubbard’s note n.41 on p. 512 of his essay, Michael Reeve’s edition of Daphnis and Chloe (p. 900 notes that the expression nu~n…nu~n at 1.13.6 (nu~n e)ge/la, nu~n e)/klaien) is a highly unusual expression in Greek and postulates that it is a translation the Latin modo…modo to convey a fleeting effect that cannot be replicated in a “pure” Greek form. This strengthens speculation that Longus had a knowledge of Latin. 24 Cataudella, 302‐312. Cataudella makes an intriguing reference to a possible Ovidian influence on Chariton’s novel. He reads the interaction between Callirhoe and Dionysius at 2.7 to be a reference to Ovid’s Ars Amatoria 2.291‐292 (si poenam servo, si vincula saeva remittis/quod facturus eras, debeat illa tibi). The comparison is not a bad one, but the generic nature of the scene in Chariton (Dionysius freeing Callirhoe in order that she might fall in love with him) probably should not be taken too conclusively. 25 Tilg has graciously provided a copy of the draft of the manuscript that will be referred to throughout this section. 26 Cataudella, 308.

9 Roman way of conceiving Fh/mh.28 The Rumors of Chariton and Vergil are similar in structure, bringing news from afar that bring change to the direction of the plot.

However, Tilg quite persuasively argues that while both visions of Rumor cause the plot to advance, Chariton subverts and transforms the Vergilian Fama that comes to Africa to destroy a romance into his own Fh/mh that travels to Sicily to revive a love thought lost.29

Cataudella offers a number of other textual connections between the works; however, he declines to analyze many of them in favor of offering them up for the readers’ considerations. At any rate, Tilg picks up the more salient references and weaves them together to present a plausible argument for an intertextual relationship between Chariton and Vergil.30 Two other points of contact stem from the motifs of marriage and a baby as well as the twinning of Dido and Callirhoe. Tilg seizes on a similar sequence of events—heroine is married to hero I, she is separated from him (and might believe him to be killed), hero I comes to heroine in a dream with advice, heroine seeks marriage with hero II, though a connection still exists with hero I and she will eventually return to hero I.31 There are obvious differences in registers (Vergil plays it as tragedy while Chariton goes for romantic tragicomedy), as Tilg notes, but the idea seems to be

27 Tilg, chapter 7 28 Tilg cites Franz Wassermann’s 1920 dissertation to this regard. 29 Tilg, chapter 7. 30 Tilg, chapter 8. 31 Tilg, chapter 8. 10 transferred and adapted.32 Chariton also grants the wish of his Dido (Callirhoe) for a child similar to her Aeneas (Chaereas) to comfort her (4.327‐330) by providing a child in the image of her beloved husband, Chaereas (3.8.7—plh\n ei)ko/na moi de/dwkav a)ndro\v filta/tou) to Callirhoe while she is separated from him.33 In sum, the arguments presented by Tilg and Cataudella strongly suggest that there was a definite connection between Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe and Vergil’s Aeneid.

As discussed above, it should be apparent that the Greek novelists incorporated a wide variety of texts into their works. While there is a strong and undeniably Greek influence on each novel, the Latin backdrop features heavily in the novelists’ attempts to create a literary world of fantasy and adventure. More specific to the topic at hand,

Longus took part in these cross‐linguistic influences in the crafting of Daphnis and Chloe.

However, the work up to this point has been rather limited to Vergil’s influence on

Greek literature. This should come as no surprise, given the universal popularity of the

Aeneid. When a text is used in education, it should be no surprise that it influences the writing of people who were shaped by its words.34 However, very few scholars have moved past Vergilian influence on the Greek novels to explore the influence of other

Latin authors at anything more than a cursory level. As will be demonstrated below, a

32 Tilg, chapter 8. 33 Tilg, chapter 8. 34 Juvenal Satire 7.226 speaking of Vergil’s use as a school text, Quintilian’s that entire school curricula be based on Vergil’s works, and Pompeiian graffiti of portions of the Aeneid all attest to the educational application of Vergil’s epic. See Horsfall’s survey of non‐literary evidence for Vergilian popular reception in his Brill Companion (pp 249‐255). 11 strong case can be made for the influence and utilization of Ovid in Daphnis and Chloe that will shape discourse on Latin‐Greek intertextuality.

12 The Adaptations of Genre

“In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas/corpora.”35 In the opening lines of the Metamorphoses, Ovid explicitly lays out his program: this work centers on changes.

The Metamorphoses cannot be completely called epic, as the work’s genre remains fluid and non‐conformative with standard epic.36 As the proem continues, the reader begins to see that Ovid’s work is both epic and non‐epic; “di, coeptis (nam vos mutatis et illa)/adspirate meis primaque ab origine mundi/ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen” (1.2‐4 Gods, breathe into my beginnings (for you even change these) and lead out an ongoing song from the first origination of the world to my own times). Anderson notes that at the caesura of line two, the reader expects the line to complete the elegiac couplet.37 Instead, Ovid continues his line in dactylic hexameter, metrically embodying the change that he promises in the first line.

A somewhat similar shift in the author‐reader relationship takes place at the opening of Longus’ work. He begins: “7)En Lesbw| qhrw~n e)n a)/lsei Numfw~n qe/ama ei)=don ka/lliston w(~n ei)=don, ei)ko/nov grafh/n, i(stori/an e)/rwtov” (preface 1: I was hunting on Lesbos in a grove of the Nymphs where I saw the most beautiful sight that I have ever seen, a depiction of an image, a story of love). At the novel’s outset, it

35 All of the text for Ovid’s Metamorphoses comes from Tarrant’s Oxford edition. 36 Anderson 1989 questions the constraints of genre on ancient writers in a review of Hinds’ The Metamorphosis of Persephone: “It was not Ovid nor his Roman reader who was obsessed with elegiac and epic constraints, and neither poem is so obsessed: the ‘obsession’ belongs to Heinze and those who still argue, pro and con’ with his artificial problem” 357. Anderson is quite right in noting that Ovid and his readers probably weren’t continually thinking about genre; however, it follows that they were conscious of genre and the implications of the use of one genre as opposed to another. 13 appears that the story will focus on a narrator and his adventures on and around

Lesbos; the narrator is framed as a man of action, since his reason for being on Lesbos is, ostensibly, to hunt. While he is hunting, he enters a grove of the Nymphs, which adds to the budding image of him being an active player in the narrative. However, once he spies the grafh,/ he immediately forgets his hunting pursuits and focuses on the image before him. This image will occupy the rest of the tale since the unnamed narrator chooses to a)ntigra/yai th|= gra/fh |= (preface 3) and he essentially disappears as the narrative continues.

While this is not quite the bait‐and‐switch that Ovid employs at the opening of the Metamorphoses, it shifts the reader’s perspective in an unexpected direction. Of the six fully‐surviving canonical ancient novels,38 only Leucippe and Clitophon and Daphnis and Chloe open with misdirection by the narrator before going into the plot of the novel proper. In these two novels, the audience is treated to what is purported to be an authorial discourse on something that he was doing when suddenly he latched onto the story that he is about to tell. In the case of Apuleius, while the narrator lays out his origin and the purpose of his novel before he continues into his story proper. Apuleius’ story, while being complex and full of multiple narrators, functions just as he promised that it would. Returning to Daphnis and Chloe and Leucippe and Clitophon, we are faced

37 Anderson 1997, 151. 38 The novels are: Daphnis and Chloe, Ephesiaca, Chaereas and Callirhoe, Leucippe and Clitophon, and the Aethiopica from Greek and Apuleius’ Metamorphoses representing the Latin. Petronius’ Satyricon is omitted due to its lack of beginning or end. 14 by the complication that these novels are roughly contemporaneous,39 which makes it impossible to determine whether one influenced another. At any rate, this type of opening is unprecedented in ancient literature, as none of the “true” fictional works start like this either.40 If one were to look for a precedent for this type of opening, there would be two works that fit this type of beginning: Ovid’s Metamorphoses and

Callimachus’ Aetia.41 This leaves the reader with two options for interpreting this unusual method of opening the story: either Longus developed it independently of Ovid or he drew on the influence of these two quasi‐epics. Given the influence of Callimachus and the Alexandrine school on Latin poets and then Ovid’s own influence on Silver Latin, it is rather hard to argue a case for Longus coming up with this opening independently.42

As discussed above, Ovid begins his work with a declaration that he would be creating something new. While Ovid writes the Metamorphoses in the meter and scope of epic, the poet is not sticking to the blueprint of the epic that had been set by Homer,

Vergil and others. There are no central characters whom the readers are allowed to follow through various trials and tribulations; the work is not divided into neat and tidy books that encapsulate a set of actions—instead the action spills over from one book to

39 For a detailed discussion on the difficulty of dating the Greek novels, see Bowie 2008, 17‐38. 40 In discussing “ancient literature,” this paper refers to clearly fictional works that are divided into multiple books. 41 The Aetia opens with an authorial recusal from writing epic works—but then Callimachus launches into a multi‐book spread of tales that, like Ovid, seems to be closest to epic. 42 Tarrant 2002, 31‐32. 15 the next with little regard for the boundaries;43 the narrators are hard to pin down and the poet easily contradicts himself; the poet slips effortlessly from elegy to epic to tragedy and back again;44 the gods are taken down from their lofty pedestals and made to act and speak as if characters in a comedy or elegy.45 About the only thing clearly epic about the Metamorphoses’ plot is that it has the ostensibly central theme of metamorphosis.

This theme plays out in the construction of the episodes of the poem. Joseph

Farrell’s study of the story of Polyphemus and Galatea superbly demonstrates just how generically mixed this “epic” really is.46 Over the course of his article, Farrell aptly demonstrates that this episode—like so many others in the Metamorphoses—is a mixed bag of epic, elegiac and pastoral motifs and he concludes that “the model of dialogism addresses not only the episode’s generic character, but relates directly to its thematic structure at the deepest level, with obvious parallels in both cases to Ovid’s poem as a whole.”47

Before dealing with the generic melding of Daphnis and Chloe, a short word is in order regarding the entire question of genre and the ancient novel. Essentially, there was no consensus idea as to what the novel was in antiquity. Each author envisioned his work as something different; as a result, Leucippe and Clitophon is referred to as

43 Holzberg 1998, 77‐95 44 Metamorphoses 7.1‐73. 45 See the depictions of Apollo at 1.490‐524 and Jupiter at 2.833‐875. 46 Farrell, 235‐268. 16 “e)rwti/koi mu/qoi” (1.2), the Aethiopica is a “sunta/gma” to author Heliodorus (10.41.4), and the Latin novels are fabulae or sermones.48 Moreover, as Goldhill goes on to write,

“the full picture of ‘the ancient Greek novel’ needs to see how the different works spark off each other, creating and playing with reader expectations, and yet to recognise how precarious and porous the genre of the novel is.”49 Holzberg shares similar sentiments as those expressed by Goldhill, writing that discussions of the ancient novel reveal “a picture that is anything but homogenous”50 before he concludes that there are eight

“proper” novels (the seven previously mentioned in this paper as well as an epitome of pseudo‐Lucian’s Ass) that share enough similar traits to constitute a “core” for the genre.51

Even with this realization that the genre of novel is already a mish‐mash of elements, it becomes readily apparent that Daphnis and Chloe could very well be the least conformative of these novels. Theocritean (or Vergilian) pastoral scenes serve as the primary setting for this novel, utterly removing the generic tendency for the lead character(s) to travel far and wide. In fact, the entire set of hyper‐exciting elements of the typical novel (exotic lands, invading generals, dangerous pirates, separation of lovers, etc.), while still present, has been watered down into what George Thornley’s wildly successful seventeenth century translation called “a most sweet and pleasant

47 Farrell, 268. 48 Goldhill, 190‐191. 49 Goldhill, 199. 50 Holzberg 1996, 12. 17 pastoral romance for young ladies.”52 This idyllic love plays out as a mixed bag of erotic teaching (see the Ars Amatoria for the closest parallel) and pedagogic teaching. On top of all this is the greater plot arc coming from New Comedy of two infants, exposed at birth but saved by shepherds, growing up and being recognized by their tokens. Taken as a whole, while this is a member of the family Greek novels, it should not be taken to be a clear‐cut representative of them.

Mittelstadt ventures as far as to call Daphnis and Chloe a form unto itself.53 He strongly contends that Longus was adapting the pastoral to the world of the Greek romance and that he strove to keep his work within the framework of that genre while remaining separate from it.54 Mittelstadt’s argument has virtue, but it seems more likely that Longus was adapting the pastoral to the novel, given his strict adherence (though often with a knowing wink) to novelistic conventions such as pirate raids. The lack of a precedent for prose pastoral tales would suggest that Longus chose to make his work a romantic adaptation of pastoral poetry rather than pastoral poetry adapting to the novelistic format.

Hunter takes this one step farther, writing that the key difference between

Daphnis and Chloe and the other Greek novels does not come from the pastoralization

51 Holzberg 1996, 27‐28. 52 After Reardon, 145. 53 Mittelstadt 1964, 10‐12. 54 Mittelstadt 1964, 10. 18 that is depicted within, but in the conception and structure.55 This analysis comes in support of von Fleschenberg’s article, “Die Technik des Bildeinsatzes” that first demonstrated that Daphnis and Chloe is a compiled of twelve separate episodes which makes it markedly different than the other Greek novels.56 The argument that von

Fleschenberg makes admires the technical artistry of Daphnis and Chloe and thus makes the conjecture that it was the end‐product of the development of the Greek romantic genre. The strict chronology that von Fleschenberg attempts to enforce on the genre stymies his overall argument but his observations on the technique that Longus espouses are generally sound and make up the basis for Mittelstadt’s 1964 dissertation.57

Both generically and stylistically, Longus and Ovid meant for their works to deviate from the “typical” form for each one’s own genre. Arguably no other classical author presents as complex a picture of his own genre as these two writers, but can an argument be made that Longus is specifically taking his cue from Ovid? As much as a scholar might want Longus to outright say that he was inspired by sources X, Y, and

Ovid, the novelist avoids this. While the generic manipulations are a good start for crafting an argument that Longus was looking to Ovid as a source of inspiration, I will

55 Hunter, 59‐73. 56 Schissel von Fleschenberg, 83‐114. The topic of art and the composition of Daphnis and Chloe will be dealt with in far greater detail below. The episodic nature of Ovid’s Metamorphoses should also be noted—though the episodes that Ovid creates are far different with regard to their separate natures than those of Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe. Still, the intrinsic features of the Ovidian episodes invite the reader to think of Roman wall painting—which will be dealt with later on in this paper.

19 caution that that it cannot be seen as absolute proof of influence. But when taken in conjunction with other textual similarities between the two works, the argument becomes stronger.

57 Mittelstadt 1964, 15‐16. 20 The Question of Metamorphosis

While the Metamorphoses occupies itself with the central issue of various metamorphoses of people into one thing or another,58 there really is only one central metamorphosis in Daphnis and Chloe: the maturation of the title characters into man and woman, respectively.59 In the beginning of the novel, both of are referred to by terms of childhood; pai=v or an equivalent word is used three times in connection with

Daphnis and Chloe from 1.7‐10) and, more importantly, they are clearly ignorant of the ways of Love (e)pizhtou=sa to\ e)/rotov o)/noma 1.15.1: seeking out the name of love). As the novel continues, each slowly learns the ways of love, moving from clumsy attempts at coupling inspired by the circumspect sexual education offered by the old man,

Philetas (2.5‐6) to Daphnis’ hands‐on learning experienced from an older neighbor‐ woman (3.17‐19) to their final consummation of marital love (4.40). The novel closes with the coy statement repudiating what they had done earlier as youths in the fields in favor of their present sexual maturity: kai\ to/te Xlo/h prw~ton e)/maqen o(/ti a\ e)pi\ th=v u(/lhv geno/mena h)=n paidi/wn pai/gnia (4.40.3: And Chloe then first learned that what had happened at the edge of the wood were merely the games of children). Edmonds’ emendation of paide/wn (accepted by Winkler60) works better in this context than the

58 That is, the issue of metamorphosis lurks in the background of every story in the Metamorphoses. It is not always a central feature of each and every tale, but because of its omnipresence throughout this work, the reader must always be looking for when and where the metamorphosis will happen. 59 A type of metamorphosis that Ovid does not address. 60 Winkler, 124. This reading is an uncommon reading of that word (two recent texts, Reeve and Morgan both opt for poime/nwn, which is the word preserved in the manuscripts. 21 conventional poime/nwn, which suggests that the two were leaving the shepherding life behind, which, as will be discussed below, is far from the truth of the matter.61 In fact, the use of poime/nwn essentially negates the impact of 4.39 that highlights the two title characters—although they have matured knowing their true parentage and have children of their own—returning to the pastoral life and setting up what can be interpreted as the image that our unknown narrator stumbled upon at the outset of the novel.62 The manuscript tradition, which is somewhat questionable in the first place,63 preserves poime/nwn and as a result, the conclusion is less‐than‐fulfilling. If Edmonds’ reading is correct, the evolution from children to adults is much more emphatic and lasting.

It should be noted that the theme of two lovers postponing sexual relations is one prevalent across the genre of ancient novel.64 However, a variation on the theme expressed is found in Daphnis and Chloe. Konstan notes this difference: “All the Greek novels represent the young couple’s first experience of love, but Longus’ Daphnis and

Chloe dwells upon the innocence of the hero and heroine, and their gradual initiation into the mysteries of adult desire.”65 By the end of the novel, the Daphnis and Chloe whom the reader sees are remarkably changed from the two shepherd children who

61 J. M. Edmonds, Daphnis and Chloe (Cambridge: 1916). 62 Hunter 42‐43. 63 See Reeve’s prologue 5‐9 for a brief summary of the manuscript tree. 64 The three out of five of the canonical novels conclude with the protagonist couple enjoying the first fruits of marital coitus (excepting the Ephesiaca and Chaereas & Callirhoe in which the primal coupling happens before the adventures begin).

22 began the work.66 They have now been recognized as the rightful offspring of two respectable families on Lesbos and they are quite fully man and woman. However, for all these great cosmetic changes, they remain the same in character—lovers of the pastoral life (kai\ ou) to/te mo/non a)ll’ e)/ste e)/zwn to\n plei=ston bi/on poimeniko\n ei)=xon

4.39.1—Not only at that time but for the span of their lives they mostly had a pastoral life). Thus while the superficial forms of the lovers are altered, their defining pastoral sensibilities remain the same. In analyzing the Lycaon episode of the Metamorphoses,

Andrew Feldherr, following Dörrie, writes, “The human beings who undergo metamorphosis, an emphatically final process that leaves no possibility of a return to their prior shape, do not lose the enduring aspects of their being, rather they take on a form that reveals them.”67

Both Daphnis and Chloe follow this paradigm for metamorphosis that is unique in ancient literature. It should be noted that not all of the transformations in Ovid have

65 Konstan, 79‐80. 66 The key issue of whether this is a true change that forces a shift in character or just the process of growing up should be addressed. The changes in Daphnis and Chloe are not spurred on by their maturation but rather, as Longus writes, Love plotted something serious (1.11.1—toia/nde spoudh\n 7)/Erov a)ne/plase). As a result of the machinations of Love, the title characters begin to experience the symptoms of love and fall for each other—precipitating the plot that follows. Now whether this is an example of Love actually forcing the action or just a personification of the natural process of maturation seems to be an inconsequential question, as Longus telegraphs to his audience that he wants the prime mover of the novel to be Love. This sets Love up in a role akin to that of some of the gods in the Metamorphoses (see, among a plethora of examples, Jupiter turning Io into a cow and then back to a woman at 1.568‐750). So while both Daphnis and Chloe grow up physically, this physical maturation and eventual defloration is not the same as the emotional blossoming that each character undergoes. This metamorphosis envisioned by Longus takes the paradigm presented by Ovid and dilutes it into a more drawn‐out process than any metamorphosis detailed by the Roman poet, but at its very essence, Longus’ metamorphosis follows the schema of Ovidian transformations. 67 Feldherr 2002 171. 23 a continuation of character, but there are more than enough (Lycaon, Apollo and

Daphne, Actaeon, Philemon and Baucis, among others) to suitably demonstrate that it is a shared feature. That cannot be said for the Greek inspirations for these tales.68 Thus it can be argued that Longus drew from an interpretation of metamorphosis as a clarifying experience to use throughout his own tale of sexual metamorphosis.69 Throughout

Daphnis and Chloe, Longus utilizes a theme of metamorphosis similar to that which Ovid uses to develop his characters into man and woman. Beyond this incorporation, there is also a subtle shift in genre that makes this novel separate from the other novels of the ancient world. Both of these “big picture metamorphoses” can and should be attributed to the greater influence of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, an attribution that is critical for understanding the allusions and tropes that Longus will use throughout the rest of his novel.

Dörrie, 95‐116. 68 One needs only examine the catalogued examples Irving 1990. Looking at the transformative myths referenced in the first three chapters, it becomes readily apparent that these myths shied away from the different‐but‐the‐same motif expressed by Ovid throughout his Metamorphoses. 69 Solodow, 174‐183. 24 Episodic Connections

If a case is to be made for Longus using Ovid’s Metamorphoses, there should be textual references, however allusive, in Daphnis and Chloe to the earlier work. The first place that features a clear intertextual relationship with Ovid is the attempted rape of

Chloe by the cowherd Dorcon. This episode recalls both the Lycaon and Actaeon myths as well as Ovidian pastoral rape topos. Parry writes: “We shall concentrate on the conventional landscape which Ovid uses as a preface to his scenes of violence—the quiet, unruffled pool, sheltered by encircling trees from the heat of the noonday sun, and sometime including a temple or some other image of sanctity.”70 As the case is so often, these loci amoeni are where anti‐topical scenes of violation and death occur:

Diana’s pool is described in terms of virginal peace (3.155‐162), Ceres finds

Persephone’s girdle floating on the surface of the pool through which Pluto had taken the girl into the underworld (5.469ff), Hermaphroditus bathes in a pool ringed with evergreen grasses (4.300‐304), Arethusa rests alongside a stream flowing sine vertice…sine murmure (5.87) before Alphaeus attempts to rape her. These scenes and others allow Parry to conclude that “Ovid’s sylvan landscapes…are the backcloths against which scenes of violence, sharing thematic similarities, are enacted.”71

The location of Dorcon’s attempted rape of Chloe comes from this literary root.

The spring to which she is driving the animals is described in highly rustic terminology

70 Parry, 275‐276. Along with Segal and Curtius, Parry offers the standard analysis of the locus amoenus in Ovid and the creeping dangers that underlie these idyllic places. 25 suggesting an absence of any civilizing feature: e)n koi/lh| de\ pa/nu gh|= h)=n h( phgh/, kai\ peri\ au)/thn pa~v o( to/pov a)ka/nqaiv kai\ ba/toiv kai\ a)rkeu/qw| tapeinh|= kai\ skolu/moiv h)ri/wto (1.20.3: There was a spring in a deep depression and around it, the entire area was covered with fierce thorns, brambles, twisted junipers and thistles).

While not quite the wholly virginal landscape of Ovidian rapes, it is sufficiently removed from humans to at the very least recall similar Ovidian descriptions. The opening lines of the description specifically call upon a similar Ovidian parallel in the description of

Diana’s grotto in the Actaeon myth. That grotto that holds the spring is described as in extremo est antrum nemorale recessu/arte laboratum nulla (3.157‐158: in the depths there was a cave in a woodland recess, created by the art of no man), just as Chloe’s spring is e)n koi/lh| de\ pa/nu gh|= h)=n h( phgh./ Likewise, the area in which Diana’s grotto is located is nearly as wild and unkempt as the novel’s spring: vallis erat piceis et acuta densa cupressu (3.155: it was a valley, piney and with the sharp‐needled cypress).

Longus’ description takes the Ovidian precedent and uses it to set the scene for the attempted rape—in essence, Longus transfers Ovid’s preferred setting for rape to his own work and in this manner, he plays off of reader expectations for the action that is about to come.

Dorcon lurks in this virginal expanse as the cowherd‐in‐wolf’s‐clothing. Having been thwarted from wooing Chloe via a beauty pageant between Daphnis and him as well as Chloe’s adoptive father turning down his marriage proposal, Dorcon’s thoughts

71 Parry, 280. 26 turn to rape. His plan is one that Longus calls a te/xnhn poi/meni—clothing himself in the skin of a wolf to surprise and take advantage of the defenseless Chloe. The text makes it quite clear that this metamorphosis is a temporary transformation of a cowherd into a truly dangerous wolf.72 The immediate parallel to this scene comes from the transformation of Lycaon in Book One of the Metamorphoses (1.232‐239). Ovid describes Lycaon’s transformation:

Ab ipso Colligit os rabiem solitaeque cupidine caedis Utitur in pecudes et nunc quoque sanguine gaudet. In villos abeunt vestes, in crura lacerti: Fit lupus et veteris servat vestigia formae; Canities eadem est, eadem violentia vultus, Idem oculi lucent eadem feritatis imago est.

His savage nature was apparent in his blood‐thirsty jaws and he now directed against the flocks his innate desire for slaughter alone. Even now he reveled in blood. His clothes gave way to hairs, his arms to legs—he was a wolf and he preserved traces of his old form. The grayness of his hair was the same as was the violence of his expression; his eyes shone as before with the same specter of ferocity.

Compare that with the description of Dorcon’s metamorphosis (1.20.2‐3):

Lu/kou de/rma mega/lou labw\n o\(n tau=ro/v pote pro\ tw~n bow~n maxo/menov toi=v ke/rasi die/fqeire, perie/teine tw|~ sw/mati podh=rev katanwtisa/menov w(v tou/v te prosqi/ouv po/dav e)fhplw~sqai tai=v xersi\ kai\ tou\v kato/pin toi=v ske/lesin a)/xpi pte/rnhv kai\ tou= sto/matov to\ xa/sma ske/pein th\n kefalh\n w(/sper a)ndro\v o(pli/tou kra/nov. e)kqhpiw/sav de\ au)to\n w(v e)/ni ma/lista…

Taking the skin of a massive wolf that a bull had killed with its horns while defending his cows, he covered his back and wrapped his body from head‐to‐toe so that the front paws fitted over his hands and the back ones over his legs to his

72 Epstein, 59‐60. 27 ankles and the chasm of the jaws covered his head just as an infantry‐man’s helmet. Having bestified himself as best as he could…

Following the precedent of Lycaon, Dorcon becomes a wolf from the top‐down. The arms become just like legs and the form of Dorcon itself becomes as wolf‐like as possible. Working off of the idea that the wolf is a gluttonous, bestial creature, Turner presents the hypothesis that “the wolf represents the sex instinct conceived of as something animal, violent and potentially promiscuous.”73 Turner declines to expand on the thought, but it could be that he was onto something. The wolf is a creature that has been often presented as something to be feared, so to assume the guise of a wolf would be to accept the role of fear‐bringer. Being in a pastoral setting, the pool of potential rapists would be significantly lowered, so in order to disguise himself, Dorcon puts on this wolfskin, but in the process of donning it, he puts off his humanity. Dorcon’s single‐ minded desire for rape places him into the camp of wolves, as in his lust for the beautiful young girl, he fails to realize that any attack on her would leave him exposed

(1.20.4). As a result of the wolfskin being only stretched over his back, surely any rape would reveal his true human persona.

But Dorcon does not think like this, because he is so intent on raping Chloe. This maps onto the Lycaon episode; after the metamorphosis, Lycaon is described in terms that preserve his original savage nature—et nunc quoque sanguine gaudet—just as

Dorcon has taken on the character of a beast in order that his internal lustfulness might

73 Turner, 121. 28 be satisfied. The Lycaon of Ovid has been transformed into something that fully embodies his true character, just as Dorcon’s wolfish appearance reveals the true predatory nature of the cowherd.74

The textual richness of Longus’ novel extends beyond the Lycaon‐Dorcon parallels, as the author includes another reference to the Metamorphoses—depicting

Dorcon as an Actaeon figure. This reference has its roots earlier in the novel when

Dorcon is first introduced, as his name comes from dorka/v (a roe deer), and could have immediately brought to the readers’ minds the connections between the character and that particular type of fauna.75 But while Dorcon’s name recalls the timid deer, paradoxically, Dorcon also resembles a dog from the catalogue of hounds in the Actaeon episode: Dorceus (3.210).76 The name similarity should not be taken as too great a sign of parallels between the text, as Dorceus is mentioned in passing within a string of names of Actaeon’s other hunting hounds. The reader of Longus probably cannot be expected to remember this one small detail of Ovid unless he has made a careful study of the text. However, if Longus knew his Ovid as well as is being hypothesized here, it is entirely possible that he added this tidbit as a facet of his own literary knowledge as well as an erudite pointer that he used Ovid. The name Dorceus comes from the same Greek root as Dorcon, and likewise carries the hunting implications. However, this meaning is inverted by the dog’s role in tearing its master apart in the Metamorphoses and it

74 Epstein, 59. 75 Morgan, 163. 29 should be that implication that the reader carries from the Metamorphoses to Daphnis and Chloe.

The connections between the Actaeon episode and the Dorcon‐as‐a‐wolf episode are made more clearly in the congruencies between this episode and the

Actaeon episode from Ovid. While Dorcon is lying in wait and stalking Chloe, the sheep dogs notice him and set upon him as if he were a real wolf (w(v e)pi\ lu/kon 1.21.2). While there is nothing similar to the catalogue of dogs included by Ovid, the dogs attack similar locations—shoulders and backs. And despite this onslaught of dogs, Dorcon refrains from crying out because of his shame. It is only after the hide is ripped off by the dogs and Dorcon recovers his human form that he finally cries out for help (1.21.3).

This is a key distinction in the notion of metamorphosis—when in animal form, humans lose the powers of speech.77 Ovid’s metamorphosed people similarly lose this defining human characteristic, most famously Actaeon, to whom the poet devotes a great deal of time describing how he wanted to cry out, but was prevented by his new form (3.201,

229‐230, 237‐241).78

76 Bömer, 505. 77 This is not a specifically Ovidian feature of metamorphosis; rather, it comes from Greek tales of metamorphosis. However, Longus adapts the style of Ovid’s use of this trope. For more on this trope, Natoli has an excellent discussion on the importance of speech throughout the Metamorphoses. 78 Coming out of a similar tradition of faux‐metamorphosis is the story of Thrasyleon in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (4.18‐21) who dresses himself in a bearskin to act as an “inside‐man” so that his fellow robbers might rob a rich man’s house. However, after Thrasyleon had carried out his role and opened the house, the guards sic the dogs on him. Thrasyleon remains silent throughout his time in the bearsuit to give his companions a chance to make their robbery and, as a result of his bravery, Thrasyleon is mauled to death. Just like Dorcon, the person dons the garb of a ferocious and terrible beast and plays the part of it to carry out a nefarious deed. However, when dogs are sicced on him, he is faced with a choice between 30 Why would Longus want to mix these two Ovidian myths?79 One possible answer is that Dorcon is not a completely savage beast that Lycaon is made out to be; indeed, at the end of the first book, Dorcon is made out to be the hero through his thwarting of a pirate kidnapping while he lay dying of wounds sustained in the attack. If Dorcon had remained the wolf, his character would remain an unsympathetic one, and so his final dying scene would lose its pathos and instead become an occasion of relief. However, by straddling the line between Lycaon and Actaeon, Longus allows Dorcon to believably rehabilitate his own character by his final action of causing the stolen cows to scuttle the fleeing ship, resulting in Daphnis’ freedom. In this way, Dorcon exists both as a victim of an unforeseen attack but also the perpetrator of perfidity.

Continuing with the wolf motif, it is impossible to ignore Lykaneion, the older woman who teaches Daphnis the ways of love‐making and by doing so, drastically affects his transformation into an adult man. Her wolfish name sets her into the category of threats to the pastoral lifestyle—a threat that has already occurred twice in the novel, once from the cowherd‐turned wolf (see above) and the other from an actual

life and success, with each character choosing poorly. However, just as Dorcon is given a fine send‐off by Longus, the narrator of Apuleius’ tale memorializes Thrasyleon as something akin to an epic warrior (gloriam sibi reservavit, vitam fato reddidit 4.21—he had won eternal glory for himself as he gave over his life to fate). While it takes somewhat longer for Longus to rehabilitate Dorcon, the novelist molds Dorcon in a heroic guise, with an honorable burial being carried out by Daphnis, Chloe, and his family. In the end, both roguish man‐beasts receive the glory that they might or might not deserve from those who knew them best. 79 This brings to mind the practice of contaminatio in Roman comedy. Just as the comic playwrights would bring in elements from other plays to create a work that was their own production, so too might Longus be combining different pieces of Ovidian source material. For more on contaminatio, see Duckworth 202‐ 208. 31 wolf (1.12). While this female wolf is less dangerous than her more violent presages, she is wilier and far smarter. Having been seized by a desire for the young Daphnis,

Lykaneion attempts to make Daphnis her lover. Longus employs terminology that emphasizes her lupine character (kai\ dh/ pote loxh/sasa mo/non, 3.15.3—ambushing him when he was alone) as she stalks Daphnis. Afterward, as she tracks the young couple and observes their failed attempts at lovemaking, Longus depicts her as a wolf crouching in the bushes (au)toi=v parhkolou/qhse kai\ ei)/v tina lo/xmhn e)gkru/yasa e(auth/n, 3.15.4—she stalked them and hiding herself in the bushes to escape their notice). While this action is not exactly a clear‐cut example of acting as a wolf,

Lykaneion’s furtive pursuit of Daphnis has reduced her to acting like an animal by the abandonment of civilized places for the woods and bushes. Furthermore, if one takes her name into account, she is closest to a wolf. Finally, the location of her sexual conquering of Daphnis is rather typical of where one would find a wolf—in the deepest and darkest areas of the wood, near a spring (kai\ e)peidh\ kata\ to\ pukno/taton e)ge/nonto phgh=v plhsi/on kaqi/sai keleu/sasa au)to\n, 3.17.1—and when they were in the deepest part of the wood, she bade him to sit down next to a spring).80

All of these wolfish allusions should bring to mind Dorcon from the first book of the novel. Each one lusted after the protagonist of the opposite gender and each one made their move in the woods. The difference comes in the success—Chloe is frightened by Dorcon and lets the dogs attack the faux wolf, while Daphnis is overjoyed

80 Epstein, 61‐62. 32 by the prospect at learning the joys of sex. These passages are deliberately set as antitheses to each other, allowing the reader to consider the parallelisms of these attempts at initiating the title youths into adulthood.

However, the Lykaneion passage looks back to the Dorcon episode not only for its literary structure. The depiction of Lykaneion as a hunter and Daphnis as the prey is the crucial issue in this passage. This inverts the normative male‐female separation in the courting process in which it is the man who chases the women—witness Ovid’s hunting metaphor in Ars Amatoria I.45‐46. The Ovidian references continue throughout the Lykaneion episode. Peppered throughout his Metamorphoses are references to women hunting and stalking men.81 Both Echo (3.370‐374) and Procris (7.838‐843) stalk their beloveds (Narcissus and Cephalus, respectively) before meeting unkind ends.

However the man‐stalking reaches its apex in the Metamorphoses in the story of

Salmacis and Hermaphroditus: ait simulatque gradu discedere verso,/tum quoque respiciens, fruticumque recondita silva/detulit flexuque genu submisit (4.338‐340—She spoke and with a turn, she faked an exit, even then looking back, she slipped into a thick clump of bushes and she hid herself there on bended knee). Salmacis lays out a pattern of behavior for Lykaneion by secretly observing her beloved (or perhaps, belusted) boy from a clump of bushes. Similarly, each woman differs from the rest of the women around her: Salmacis is chided by her naiad friends for being unmartial in spirit, preferring to laze around her spring and beautify herself (4.298‐312); Lykaneion is

33 not a country girl but a city woman whom an older farmer had imported to be his wife and is thus distinguished as being more sophisticated (a(bro/teron) than her rustic counterparts (3.15.1). Despite both women lacking the rustic instincts their peers possessed, they were able to spy upon their beloved without being detected.

Upon reaching their targeted lovers, both Lykaneion and Salmacis leave permanent impressions upon their men. Upon reaching Hermaphroditus in the pool,

Salmacis cries out vicimus et meus est (4.356—I’ve won and he is mine). Richlin rightly describes this as the language of rape, as it this language carries the connotations of conquering rather than proper consensual love.82 But while Salmacis cannot rape the same way a man can, she achieves her conquest through a fusion of their bodies (4.375‐

379). On the other hand, while Lykaneion never violently conquers Daphnis, she does leave her young lover the lasting memory of their woodland tryst. On Daphnis’ wedding night, the sex that he has with Chloe is described in this fashion: kai\ e)/drase/ ti Da/fniv w(~n au_to\n e)pai/deuse Lukai/nion (4.40.3—and Daphnis did the things which Lykaneion taught him). Even on a joyful night on which Daphnis first has sex with his beloved

Chloe, Longus makes certain to include the neighbor woman who stalked and taught him, which just emphasizes the extent to which Lykaneion had changed him, willing or

81 Parry, 272‐275. 82 Richlin, 165‐166. 34 not.83 In this light, it seems best to think that Longus subtextually (but not overtly) patterned his Lykaneion on the Ovidian character of Salmacis.

Longus’ use of Ovid is not merely confined to sex, as he expands the

Metamorphoses into some of the sweeter and more innocent passages of the novel— particularly the early stirrings of love between Daphnis and Chloe (1.13‐18). While it has been rightly noted that this sequence owes quite a bit to Sappho,84 there are Ovidian elements scattered about. After rendering Chloe’s symptoms and complaints of the mysterious ailment plaguing her after seeing Daphnis bathing, Longus writes “Toiau=ta e)/pasxe, toiau=ta e)/legen, e)pizhtou=sa to\ e)/rwtov o)/noma” (1.15.1—She suffered these things, she spoke these things, seeking the name of love). This only serves to highlight the extent to which Chloe is ignorant of the ways of love and consequentially is subject to the extremes brought on by that passion.

Similarly, Daphnis also suffers from the ravages of love after his first kiss from

Chloe (1.17.1). Longus describes the results of his “disease” just as he did with Chloe

(1.17.3‐4) before moving onto a soliloquy that echoes Chloe’s lamentations (1.18).

Longus sums up Daphnis’ situation as he did Chloe’s: Toiau=ta o( be/ltistov Da/fniv e)/pasxe kai\ e)/legen, oi(=a prw~ton geno/menov tw~n e)/rwtov kai\ e)/rgwn kai\ lo/gwn

(1.19.1—The most excellent Daphnis suffered these things, spoke these things because this was his first experience with the deeds and words of love). Just as before, the

83 MacQueen, 133‐137. 84 Hunter, 73‐76. 35 protagonist knows nothing of love, so too do the new sensations that he is enduring shock and unsettle him.

The irrational and rambling speeches by Daphnis and Chloe share traits with

Ovid’s representation of Medea in the Metamorphoses. The outset of her speech provides a key characteristic in the poet’s depiction—she lacks any knowledge of love

(nescio quis deus 7.12). Anderson makes it clear that this line should be construed as a representation that she is experiencing her first love, just like the protagonists of

Daphnis and Chloe.85 The speech continues as Medea flies from fancy to depression at the effects that this love is having upon her. By the end of her soliloquy, it has become quite clear that Medea lacks any control over her body and mind, as witnessed by the routing of her previous resolution to banish love only to falter when she sees Jason again (7.77).

This lack of self‐restraint, while not a unique feature in literature, is a common thread between Ovid and Longus. The theme of young people struck down by their first love is a crucial element in each story. In other tales, people struck by love tend to at least have the knowledge to recognize that it is love that is causing the pain in their hearts, but that is not the case with these two. An argument could conceivably be made that Medea knows that it is love because she admits that what she is feeling could be nisi hoc est…quod amare vocantur (7.12‐13—unless this is it…what they call “to love”).

However, she couches her language in a veil of unease, as she never makes the direct

36 claim that this is love, only that it might be what it is called “to love.” While Ovid the poet clearly recognizes Amor and Cupid as gods throughout the poem (including a reference to Cupid immediately after Medea closes her speech at 7.73), the important distinction is that Medea knows neither, just like Daphnis and Chloe. This point ought not be belabored much further, but it should be clear that there are definite traces of

Ovid’s influence on the depictions of Daphnis and Chloe at the mercy of the previously‐ unknown love (although, mercifully, this tale has a far less‐bloody ending than that of

Medea, as one would expect in the shift from the world of tragedy and epic to the more benign pastoral).

The use of myths as aitia is a central facet in the development of the protagonists in Daphnis and Chloe.86 There are three myths told in the text, one for each of the first three books. Two of these myths (Pan and Syrinx, and Echo) are also duplicated in Ovid. Neither usage in the novel directly uses the Ovidian precedent since the functional use of these myths, as Bowie draws out, is to provide instruction in love for Daphnis and Chloe as well as to demarcate the difference between the mythos of these embedded tales and the greater mythos of Chloe.87 Ovid’s versions of these myths would not have worked as well for Longus, which necessitated the re‐styling.

While examining Longus’ myth of Echo, it is quickly apparent that the Ovidian model of a beautiful nymph pining away for want of a voice of her own has been

85 Anderson 1972, 245. 86 Philippides, 193‐199. 37 abandoned in favor of a more violent story. Instead of a nymph cursed by Juno, pining away for an unattainable boy, Longus presents a beautiful girl skilled in song who shuns men, thus angering an ardent Pan. As a result, Pan drives the shepherds mad and they violently attack and rip the girl into pieces. The earth, as a favor to the nymphs, preserved Echo’s voice and now copies the sounds of everyone and everything (3.23). It seems that Longus has complexly inverted the Ovidian tale of Echo and Narcissus. In

Ovid’s version of the myth it is Narcissus who rejects the love of others but Longus makes Echo the rejecter. This subsumation of the Ovidian Narcissus into an alternate story of the woman rejected by him shows Longus’ keen knowledge of his source as well as his own ability to deftly combine the different threads.

However, a stronger Ovidian influence on Longus comes not through the Echo and Narcissus story, but rather the Orpheus myth. The best place to begin is the end of

Orpheus’ life and his gruesome sparagmos. Ovid writes (11.13‐14, 20‐24, 41‐43):

Sed enim temeraria crescent Bella modusque abiit insanaque regnat Erinys … Ac primum attonitas etiamnum voce canentis Innumeras volucres anguesque agmenque ferarum Maenades Orphei titulum rapuere theatri; Inde cruentatis vertuntur in Orphea dextris Et coeunt … Sacrilegae perimunt, perque os (pro Iuppiter!) illud Auditum saxis intellectumque ferarum Sensibus in ventos anima exhalata recessit.

87 Bowie 2003, 361‐376. 38 Nevertheless, the war‐like violence grew and moderation left them and the manic Furies reigned supreme…but first the Maenads seized upon the innumerable birds, even yet spell‐bound by the voice of the singer and then the snakes and the host of beasts—the audience that had brought fame to Orpheus. From there they turned on Orpheus with their blood‐stained hands and rushed upon him…Utterly impious, they tore him to shreds, and through the mouth that was heard by rocks and understood by the minds of beasts, his breath slipped away and vanished in the winds.

Compare that with the death of Echo: “oi( de\ w(/sper ku/nev h)\ lu/koi diaspw~sin au)th\n kai\ r(i/ptousin ei)v pa~santh\n gh=n e)/ti a|)/donta ta\ me/lh” (3.23.3‐4: Just like dogs or wolves, they tore her to shreds and the scattered her limbs, even yet singing, across the entire earth). The parallels between the passages are quite striking, although there should be some caution in trying to take this too far—speragmos was not an uncommon theme in ancient literature,88 but unlike what happens in other frenzied dismemberments, the figure is not quite dead and gone. The limbs of Echo are still singing after her death, just as Orpheus’ head, while floating down the Hebrus, makes a pitiable murmur while his lyre plays a mournful tune (flebile nescioquid queritur lyra, flebile lingua/murmurat exanimis 11.52‐53—the lyre lamented pitifully and the lifeless tongue murmured pitifully). These fates are incurred for similar reasons: the spurning of the advances from the opposite sex.

The deaths of Ovid’s Orpheus and Longus’ Echo come about because of their complete rejections of the opposite gender. After the death of Eurydice, Orpheus took to promoting pederasty throughout Thrace (10.83‐85) while Echo loved her virginity and

39 spurned all men. These twinned rejections of “normal” sexual behavior would lead to angry potential lovers—the Thracian women in the case of Orpheus and Pan in the case of Echo—to become enraged and tear their spurners’ bodies apart.89 In essence, Longus’

Echo has become a female version of Ovid’s Orpheus—living a life rejecting the opposite sex, angering someone who then leads a mob to tear the rejecter into small pieces and leaving behind the remnant of a voice.

In sum, it is clear that Longus makes use of Ovidian archetypes in his novel.

While these literary precedents are not the only (or the largest influences) on his writing, they are still present. In Dorcon, Longus attempts to show the influence of the

Lycaon metamorphosis while using Actaeon parallels to temper the readers’ judgment of Dorcon so that he might be “redeemed” later in his death at the hands of the pirates.

However in Lykaneion, the focus shifts to the huntress motif of Ovid. Longus has some success in presenting a figure similar to the predatory women in Ovid, but the connection is not strong enough to outright call deliberate patterning. Rather, it retains an allusive nature that pays homage to the Latin poet but still keeps Lykaneion as a woman‐unto‐herself. Longus looks back to Ovid in his presentation of the symptoms of

88 One needs to look no further than Euripides’ Bacchae and Ovid’s subsequent adaptation of it in his own telling of the fate of Pentheus (3.701‐733). 89 The adjective “normal” is used here to denote what seem to be the authorial comments on their behaviors. Ovid makes Orpheus the one who brings pederasty to Thrace where it evidently thrived (from his perspective). However, as was shown earlier in the Metamorphoses, Thrace is defined as a foreign and barbaric place, witness the actions of Tereus in Book Six), which leads to the idea that Ovid was not condoning this pederasty. Echo’s spurning of men can also be read as a rejection of sexual norms, as the entire novel continually points to the marriage union between man and woman, a union that Echo flees, to her great detriment. 40 the lovers and their utter confusion of what love is doing to each one of them. Longus uses Medea’s soliloquy and the terms of the myths employed as aitia, to incorporate imagery and themes from similar Ovidian myths while avoiding the actual usage of that particular myth. As a result, the Ovidian references and parallels add extra layers to the novel and ought to have caused the ancient reader to make connections between this and other works from disparate genres.

41 Writing for a Visual World

Longus and Ovid share another key similarity—each author relies on the visual media of his day to connect with his audience in ways that words cannot approach.

When the reader sits down to read the Metamorphoses and Daphnis and Chloe, there is a rather clear emphasis in the text on the importance of visual stimulation. Each author makes an attempt at evoking the arts of his world to create a visual world through his words. However, it should be made clear that Ovid and Longus do not use the same visual media—Longus primarily uses wall painting whereas Ovid’s selection spans all artistic genres—but the affinity that each author has for the visual arts can be connected. In this section, following a brief analysis of the ways these authors use visual media, it will be argued that Longus looks back to Ovid as he has so many times before, and recognizes the Roman poet as a congenial predecessor for this sort of writing.

Schissel von Fleshenberg was the first to put together an argument that Longus was working with the landscape paintings of his era but Mittelstadt took the idea and greatly expanded it.90 To Mittelstadt, the impetus for this description comes from the prologue of the novel that describes a painting that the author came upon while in the woods of Lesbos (1.2):

Gunai=kev e)p’ au)thv ti/ktousai kai\ a)/llai sparga/noiv kosmou=sai, paidi/a e)kkei/mena, poi/mnia tre/fonta, poime/nev a)nairou/menoi, ne/oi suntiqe/menoi, lh|stw~n katadromh/, polemic/wn e)mbolh/, polla\ a)/lla kai\ pa/nta e)pwtika/.

90 Mittelstadt 1964. 42 On it were women giving birth and others dressing the babies in swaddling clothes, children left exposed and sheep and goats nursing them, shepherds taking them up and young people courting, raids of pirates and attacks of hostile armies, as well as many other things—all of which having something to do with love.

This painting, of course, forms a rough outline of the plot that the author will record in his romance. However these scenes are unconnected in the painting, as is the case with narrative wall‐painting, so it is incumbent upon Longus to fill in the gaps. Before moving into Longus’ technique, a brief explanation of Roman narrative art is in order. This type of art is defined as the realization of the continuous method “in a series of consecutive compositions, each with a separate and centered action in which the chief actor or actors recur, so that in each individual scene the unities of time and place are preserved.

Since, in contradistinction to the isolated or monoscenic method, it presents a series of several scenes possessing iconographic coherence, such a series may be considered as a cycle, and the new mode itself might thus be called the cyclic method.”91

By the second century, the cyclic form had evolved to become a primarily Roman method of narration.92 Mittelstadt acknowledges that narrative art came from the

Hellenistic Greeks but that it reaches its apex under the Romans.93 From the late

Republic into the early Empire, there was a peak in activity for these narrative

91 Swift, 58. Following Mittelstadt (1964) 116. 92 Zanker, 283‐291. This has essentially been the prevailing opinion since Wickhoff’s initial assessment of the Romanness of narrative cycles in 1900 (pp. 16‐17). Von Blanckenhagen further delineated the characteristics of the Roman style from the Hellenistic (82). 93 MIttelstadt 1964, 116‐117. He cites the Telephus frieze from Pergamum as an excellent example of the early narrative art; the scenes from the story of Telephus chronologically flow without any formal or

43 landscapes. These paintings can be divided into two categories: those concerned with

Greek myth and those concerned with the legendary history of Rome. There are two friezes showing scenes from the Trojan War in the House of the Cryptoporticus in

Pompeii94 and a frieze in the house of M. Loreius Tiburtinus follows the course of events as given in the Iliad.95 The columbarium of the Statilii on the Esquiline portrays twelve scenes from the arrival of Aeneas at Latium to the foundation of Rome.96 What all this should suggest is that the Roman artists took the Hellenistic model and developed it to its most sophisticated form on the Italian peninsula.97

The narrative style—though in a more impressionistic style that centered on pastoral scenes—came back into fashion in the second century AD, as evidenced by the tomb of the Pancratii (c.a. 150) and the tombs of Caivano (c. 130‐160).98 These landscapes are not a composed uniform image; rather, a series of scenes set next to each other, allowing the viewer to float in a world that Zanker describes as akin to a vision or epiphany.99 These landscapes, as Zanker notes, are replete with contradictions stemming from the painters being forced to imagine the pastoral life from the vantage

tectonic interruption. However, he notes that the scenes do not present a totally continuous narrative, as sudden changes in location occur with trees acting as separating forces. 94 Swift 62, n. 33. 95 Swift 62, n. 34. 96 Swift 62, n. 37. 97 Leach 310. Also, see Leach 197‐306 for a highly detailed analysis of these wall‐painting genres and their popularity/form on the Italian peninsula. 98 Swindler, 361‐364. 99 Zanker, 287. 44 point of luxurious society.100 As a result, the world portrayed is full of otium and rustic piety—which Zanker sees as one of the few breaks between the Augustan moral campaign and art. The social problems that the Augustan moral program highlighted do not appear in these paintings that show a world lacking problems.101 However, these paintings probably should not be seen as reactions against the Augustan moral art scheme, but rather as a part of a careful interplay between the political issues of the day and a desire to retreat into a pastoral idyll. Moreover, this art endured after the

Augustan era and, as a result, should not be construed in a pro‐ or anti‐Augustan model but seen as a neutral expression of the tastes of connoisseurs.102

Elsner rightly points out that the painting styles of these walls was intended not to tell entire stories but rather to leave gaps to force the reader to make connections.103

He concludes, “in Roman culture, wall‐paintings were a primary artefact for generating subjectivity, and Roman viewing was the means by which this subjectivity was created.”104 A more telling authority on the popularity of this style of painting is

Philostratus and his Imagines from the beginning of the third century. In these, the sophist describes what he purports to be actual paintings—some of which are conceivably a part of a series (1.15 ff). It cannot be certain whether Philostratus is

100 Zanker, 287. 101 Zanker, 287‐289. 102 For more on the political implications of Augustan art, please refer to Clarke 2005, which will be discussed in some detail below. 103 Elsner 1995, 74‐87. 104 Elsner 1995, 87. 45 describing actual pictures or merely reveling in his literary genius, but that question is essentially irrelevant. In the preface to his Loeb edition of the Imagines, Fairbanks writes:

Whether they were all actual paintings, whether some were real paintings and others created by the imagination of the sophist, whether there ever was such a gallery as is described, we have no means of knowing[…]there is little or nothing to indicate any inconsistency between the paintings existing in his day and the paintings he actually describes. The student of late Greek paintings is fully justified in treating these examples as data for his study, whether or not they were actual paintings.105

Mittelstadt uses the evidence from Philostratus to conjecture that there was a distinct taste for this style of painting and writing in the second century, which would place

Longus in the context of this artistic milieu.106

This returns the focus to Longus and his novel. As seen in the painting that

Longus describes in the prologue, there is a definite narrative progression set in the same frame with separate episodes that are not explicitly connected in the painting, but interpreted by the author/viewer as a series of episodes from the lives of his protagonists.107 Mittelstadt notes that while these pictures are in a logical chronological

105 Arthur Fairbanks, Philostratus; Callistratus (Cambridge: 1931), 26. 106 Mittelstadt 1964, 8‐9. Also, Mittelstadt 1967 makes the distinction between the use of paintings in Longus and in the other novelists—particularly Achilles Tatius. While these other novels feature paintings—sometimes described in great detail—they mostly exist as interesting and titillating side notes. As discussed previously, Longus was striving to differ from the other novelists and these amusingly captivating digressions that crop up in the rest of the canon are nowhere to be found in Daphnis and Chloe. The difference between Longus and Philostratus comes from their different uses of paintings. Philostratus’ Imagines, while being all about (potentially) fictitious paintings, seeks only to beguile readers with its technical mastery of the Greek language, whereas Longus uses the language of painting to enhance his novel and to lend depth to it. 107 Something like the carmen continuum of Ovid’s opening lines. 46 context, they end without a conclusion of marriage.108 This point he dismisses as not all that important, as the description alludes to other scenes, while the prologue insists that the story should have a happy ending—which would imply a marriage.109 Another issue that Mittelstadt addresses is Longus’ ignorance of the tenet that these narrative paintings have no central feature—something that the novelist subverts by focusing on the scene of the youths courting (a motif that occurs throughout the text). While Longus emphasizes the scenes of love more than any other, he remains true to the overall theme of growing up.110 This theme of love is emphasized by Longus as an attempt to move the Greek novel back to its romantic roots from the adventure‐laden novels that dominated (e.g. those by Chariton, Achilles Tatius, Heliodorus, Xenophon—basically every novelist aside from Longus).111

The greatest contribution from Mittelstadt’s dissertation is an ingenious interpretation of the novel as an elaborate translation of narrative art. Each of the twelve episodes that Mittelstadt takes from Fleschenberg112 are examples of Longus

108 MIttelstadt 1964, 115. 109 Mittelstadt 1964, 123. 110 Mittelstadt 1964, 123. 111 Mittelstadt 1964, 35‐43, 124. Mittelstadt is perhaps too gung‐ho in his negative opinions of the other Greek novels. He views them as full of superfluous side‐stories of wondrous travels, ethnographia, and digressions that distract from the psychological developing‐love between hero and heroine as well as from artistic unity. Perhaps Mittelstadt is losing sight of the idea that the Greek novels were NOT homogenous in purpose and audience, but rather developed to fit the tastes and fancies of different groups. 112 These episodes being (1) the discovery of the children, (2) the beginnings of love and Dorcon’s attempts, (3) Summer pastoral activity, (4) the pirate raid, (5) Philetas’ teaching, (6) the hunt of the Methymnian youths, (7) the Methymnian fleet attacks, (8) the country festival, (9) the winter yearnings of 47 combining three genres of monoscenic painting—description (landscape with no action), narrative (the action), and idyllic love (emphasis on tender emotion/sentimentality).113 These episodes are unified by the pastoral landscape that intrudes upon each scene, ultimately playing just as great a part in the progression of the story as the two protagonists. However, Longus takes the construction farther by

“ingeniously” employing the principle of separation. Mittelstadt views the episodes of the novel as being causally distinct from each other in that they can be viewed as an entity unto itself.114 However, as causally distinct as these episodes are, they still enjoy a thread of continuity linked by the pastoral landscape and the dominant theme of love.

As a result, it can be seen that Daphnis and Chloe fits rather well into the definition for narrative art, as Longus was able to combine the monoscenic isolated elements and the continuous motion of narrative wall‐painting into a coherent and unified plot.

Turning to Ovid, it rapidly becomes apparent that the relationship between art and the Roman poet is not as clear‐cut as the one enjoyed by Longus and narrative wall‐ painting. Ovid does not create a continual piece of art, as per Longus, but rather opts for an approach that resembles a gallery of artistic pieces, each one distinctively its own entity but forming an aesthetically‐pleasing collection for its audience. Barchiesi alludes to the Roman sculpture garden and suggests that these might hold a key to

Daphnis and Chloe, (10) Love lessons of summer, (11) the seeking of Chloe’s hand in marriage, and (12) the Recognition. 113 Mittelstadt 1964, 120‐122.

48 understanding the effects that Ovid is striving for in his collection of metamorphoses.115

Moreover, the Augustan age was one in which great stock was placed in the power of images.116 Zanker describes a culture that is image‐centric throughout his The Power of

Images in the Age of Augustus.117 As a result of this overwhelming power of Augustan imagery, the internal decorative schemes reflected the visual propaganda of the principate.118 However, Clarke has recently argued that the interior decorating schemes of the Romans do not necessarily reflect the Augustan ideological program, but rather can be more simply viewed as an adoption of a decorative scheme for its aesthetic values.119 Simply put, the decorative schemes were erected because the homeowners liked them. This makes it entirely logical to postulate that the Roman world was exceptionally visual and, accordingly, Ovid tailored his writing for a visual audience.

Sharrock notes that the writing style of the Metamorphoses better displays the act of metamorphosis than visual representations.120 Art is limited to capturing a single moment, which limits its representations of metamorphosis to three methods: panels, suggestion and incompletion.121 However, Ovid’s medium of text allows him to flesh out the metamorphoses partially represented in art and endow them with a kinetic

114 Mittelstadt 1964, 122. He makes it quite clear that the episodes of the other canonical novels cannot be seen as separate, but rather interdependent upon the episodes before and after. 115 Alessandro Barchiesi, “Introduction” to the Metamorphoses of Ovid, Vol 1 (Fondazione Valla: 2004), CLIII‐CLIV. 116 See Elsner 2000, et al. 117 See esp. 79‐166. 118 Zanker 265‐296. 119 Clarke 264‐278, esp 276‐278. 120 Sharrock 1996, 103‐130. 49 energy. As a result, Ovid’s text should be interpreted as complementary to the visual world in which he dwelled and for which he wrote. Keeping this facet in mind, certain episodes in the text will be examined for their sculptural quality before coming back with a conclusion about what can be said regarding Ovid and art.

While thinking about Ovid the artist and his relationship with his text, the best place to seek the poet’s self‐revelation is the Pygmalion episode (10.243‐297). Hardie highlights the thematic closeness between erotic desire and primal responses to art— not only of the visual but also of the verbal.122 Through the descriptions of the sculpture that forms the central figure of the metamorphosis, Ovid is able to stretch the desire felt by Pygmalion to the audience. This desire facilitates a close connection between poet and audience through a shared image communicated in the text in a most desirous and tactile fashion. Sharrock analyzes the story as Ovid’s way of inverting the elegiac motif of love‐object as art‐object.123 She goes to great lengths to present an argument that

Pygmalion and elegy depend on art to give depth to love. Sharrock’s argument rests on the notion that the woman created by Pygmalion recalls real, physical sculptures. The impact of the story can only be communicated to the audience by the descriptive mastery deployed by Ovid. The poet sings of the simulacrity that Eburna124 has for a real

121 Sharrock 1996, 107. 122 Hardie 2002, 193. 123 Sharrock 1991, 36‐49. 124 Sharrock 1991, 42. This co‐opts Sharrock’s name for the statue, to which Ovid declines to identify. The closest Ovid comes to naming her is in Pygmalion’s prayer to Venus that he might have a woman “similis mea[…]eburnae” (275). This invites a wealth of questions regarding the woman herself after the 50 woman to the point that the reader can vividly imagine this ivory figure of perfection that the sculptor would be described as saepe manus opera temptantes admovet, an sit/corpus an illud ebur, nec adhuc ebur esse fatetur (10.254‐255: Often he moves his hands, trying the work, whether it is flesh or ivory, not yet admitting that it was ivory).

The poet, like the sculptor, interacts with the statue throughout the text, creating an image that brings the readers to recall the artistry of statues that they could see in their own world—but unlike Ovid’s Eburna, their beautiful Parian delights would not come to life.

As strongly as the passage of a statue‐coming‐to‐life would resonate with his audience, Ovid far more commonly uses the motif of life‐turning‐to‐stone in the

Metamorphoses. The transition might be literal (the chase of dog and fox in the story of

Cephalus and Procris 7.759‐793) or figurative (Narcissus at the pool in 4.418‐420).

Rabun Taylor notes that the art depicting the Narcissus myth draws primarily on the

Ovidian rendering of what had been a fairly obscure tale.125 However, Ovid’s take on the transformation of Narcissus frames the youth’s capture by the lovely image in the water in a statuary fashion: Adstupet ipse sibi vultuque immotus eodem/haeret, ut e Pario formatum marmore signum (4.418‐420: He is astounded by himself and motionless he remained with the same expression as if he were an image carved from Parian marble).

Narcissus has become trapped by the water and is reflected as if he were, essentially, a

metamorphosis, as she lacks the capacity for speech (or perhaps the poet merely chooses not to let her speak). 51 statue. Anderson notes that the Romans used a combination of statues and pools for aesthetic effect, citing examples from the richer houses at Pompeii and the Serapeum of

Hadrian’s Villa.126 Anderson goes on to suggest that the posture and depiction of

Narcissus reflects the lifelessness exhibited by the callow youth throughout the story— in essence, Ovid is making use of a pre‐conceived decorative motif to represent the vapidity of Narcissus.127

Ovid uses the motif of literal transformation of living‐to‐stone five times in the

Metamorphoses: the stories of Aglauros (2.740‐832), Ino’s attendants (4.543‐562),

Perseus and the petrifaction of Phineus (4.663‐5.235), Niobe (6.165‐312), and the recollection of the chase between fox and hound by Cephalus (7.771‐793). These figures share a common thread in that they all become stone‐bound in the midst of a futile act—Aglauros attempts to bar the way of Mercury, Ino’s attendants want to throw themselves from a cliff in mourning for their mistress, Phineus desires the destruction of his amatory rival, Niobe after losing her children as the result of a boast, and the fox being chased by the equally‐swift hound (7.791 fugere hoc, illud captare putares: You’d think that the former was fleeing and the latter one was catching). The connection of futility with Aglauros, the attendants, Phineus, and the fox and hound are rather easy to make—the poet indicates fairly clearly that these instances are all vain attempts by the central figures.

125 Taylor, 64. 126 Anderson 1997, 380. 52 However, the futility in the Niobe tale is somewhat more difficult to make a solid case for. Before Niobe was turned to stone, she attempts to shelter her one last child from the divine onslaught, praying “‘unam minimamque relinque;/de multis minimam posco’ clamavit ‘et unam’” (6.299‐300: ‘Leave the one, the youngest! Out of many children, I beg for the youngest, only one!’ she shouted’). This does not come to pass, as the last child drops dead, turning her grief into utter devastation. One could argue that if her last daughter had been allowed to live, Niobe would not have been turned into stone, but because there was nothing to live for after her futile prayer, the situation allowed the poet to turn her into a statue.128 This is, admittedly, a reader‐response type of reaction,129 but the Metamorphoses are full of stories that allow the reader to take in any direction desired.

Returning to the hypothesis that Ovid used these examples of futility as candidates for petrifaction, one possible reason would be the nature of the futility involved. In the cases of the humans, Ovid makes it clear that these are all meant to be

127 Anderson 1997, 380. 128 Andrew Feldherr makes an interesting argument regarding the Niobe story and statuary in “Reconciling Niobe” (Hermathena 177 (2004) 125‐146). He draws upon evidence of Niobe statue groups in the Augustan temples to Apollo in Rome and uses the Niobes presented (particularly at the Temple of Apollo in Circo) as potential evidence for a reading that Augustus’ Niobe commemorates Ovid’s Niobe. However, the two figures can be linked circularly and Ovid’s attempts to ensure that neither the Augustan statue nor his own story can stand alone; rather they will always be linked in the minds and eyes of the Roman readers. Thinking about the Niobe story in this context works, in that it places great emphasis on the connections that the poet is trying to make with the visual world to enliven his own work. Another superb example of Ovid’s use of the Roman setting to lend visual effects to his myths is in the Phaethon episode (2.1‐328), which Barchiesi (forthcoming) breaks down the locational/societal/artistic references that Ovid makes. 129 As discussed above, following Elsner’s hypothesis, the purpose of Roman wall painting was to present these subjective images to the audience. 53 examples of mortals angering the gods. While Aglauros is barring Mercury’s entrance to her sister’s room, she states that she will stay there for as long as necessary, to which the god turns her into stone (2.816‐820). While Ovid does not explicitly state that

Aglauros is to remain there as an exemplum, it can be implied that this was meant to be a clear sign of what happens when a god is denied. The poet makes it even clearer that

Ino’s attendants are supposed to be exempla, as he gives Juno the words “‘faciam vos ipsas maxima’ dixit/‘saevitiae monimenta meae’” (4.549‐550: I will make you into the greatest monument of my wrath). Similarly, Perseus taunts Phineus, taunting his foe thusly (5.227‐229):

Quin etiam mansura dabo monimenta per aevum Inque domo soceri semper spectabere nostri Ut mea se sponsi soletur imagine coniunx

Indeed, I will create a monument to endure through the ages and in my father‐ in‐law’s house, you will always be a centerpiece so that my wife might be consoled by the image of her fiancé.

The humiliation of Phineus, who had interrupted the banquets held in honor of Perseus, was decided by the vain attempts to violate the rites of hospitality. Hardie goes on to discuss the virtual statuary garden created by Perseus as Ovid’s gambit of passing between appearance and reality (the false statues seeming real because they once were).130

130 Hardie 2002, 178‐186. 54 The futility of Niobe has been discussed already, but it should be clear that the purpose of her metamorphosis was to warn the people of the dangers associated with insulting the divine. The instance of the dog and fox being stuck in a perpetual hunt is somewhat more difficult to pin a cause. Neither creature defied the gods—rather their actions were something akin to the pinnacle of behavior. The hunt that they were engaged in could have been frozen as a monument to excellence erected by an admiring god (7.792‐793). At any rate, the result of these metamorphoses is the creation of several groupings of statues, all distinctly life‐like. These statuary groups could be a representation by the poet of similar groupings in and around Rome (see note 23 on

Feldherr’s explanation of the Niobe statue).

An exploration of Ovid’s involvement with the language of art cannot be complete without a consideration of the poet’s use of ekphrastic art descriptions. While ekphrasis is a topos employed by most every poet (at least those writing lengthy poems), Ovid uses the ekphrasis differently than his predecessors in that he focuses as much on the circumstances surrounding the creation of a particular piece of craftsmanship.131 This enables Ovid to integrate the art on both the aesthetic level of his fellow poets but also in a tangible relationship with the rest of the narrative. Patricia

Johnson has termed these episodes as “performative ekphrases” and highlights a

131 Elsner 2007 is one of many recent pieces on the differing uses of ekphrasis by Roman poets, particularly with reference to narrative wall painting. 55 parallel narrative tied closely to the episode in which it is embedded.132 These performative ekphrases further the poet’s relationship with the reader by allowing access to the creative process in which the poet is already engaged.133 Turning to perhaps the greatest performative ekphrasis of all, the reader is drawn to the contest between Minerva and Arachne. Situated at the beginning of the second pentad, this prominent position showcases Ovid’s mastery of artistic poetry. The tapestry woven by

Arachne spins out the tales of Olympian rapes (6.103‐128), first described with relative detail (6.103‐107):

Maeonis elusam designat imagine tauri Europen; verum taurum, freta vera putares. ipsa videbatur terras spectare relictas et comites clamare suas tactum vereri adsilientis aquae timidasque reducere plantas.

Arachne wove a picture of Europa, deceived by Jupiter as a bull—you’d think that it was a real bull and the waves were actual waves. Europa herself was seen, looking at the land left behind and shouting for her companions, fearing the touch of the rushing water and drawing back her timid feet.

This detail is lost as Ovid continues the description of the scene—names of rape victims are forgotten and verbs govern multiple clauses (e.g. 6.122‐124 est illic agrestis imagine

Phoebus/utque modo accipitris pennas, modo terga leonis/gesserit—Phoebus appeared here in the guise of a farmer, at one point in the feathers of a hawk, at another he wears the lion’s skin). The art is becoming clouded with the images of the gods—in essence, one great narrative piece that sets everything in a background of deceit and rape. In this

132 Johnson, 27‐29. 56 episode, Ovid only sets the events in motion with a few details at the beginning that allow the audience to envision other such artwork before he lets their imaginations run free in the scenic backdrop of rapes piled one‐atop‐another.

With regard to Ovid’s artistic leanings, it can be summed up that the poet was engaging in an ongoing conversation with the visual world. This conversation was a medium through which he could bring an extra layer to his work and stimulate his audience even more than through his words alone. Considering Ovid in the scope of his poetic predecessors (particularly from the Latin literary tradition—though the Greeks cannot be ignored), it is difficult to think of another poet who consistently and intricately incorporates the language of art into a large corpus of work. Solodow found an extensive and thorough overlap between the vocabularies of metamorphosis and of art; time and time again, the reader encounters monumentum, imago and simulacrum— all words that are artistic in nature and connotation—used in reference to metamorphoses in the Metamorphoses.134 Solodow continues to detail how Ovid depicts his characters just as they were represented in well‐known works of art.135

Solodow argues that this is a nod by the artist to the fact that his literary world is one shaped by art.136 This is true, but it also seems that the artist is attempting to connect

133 Johnson, 29. 134 Solodow, 204‐206. A quick look at a concordance yields a total of 64 instances of imago, 14 of simulacrum, and 6 of monumentum. 135 Solodow, 224. 136 Solodow, 224. 57 with the audience (particularly the audience versed in art) via the avenue of art, which allows for a stronger sensation of being immersed in the world of metamorphosis.

Tying this argument together, it has been demonstrated that both Longus and

Ovid are fluently conversant in both the worlds of literature and art. Beyond being conversant, each author makes art a centerpiece of his literary creation. The motivations behind such a move are two‐fold. On one hand, they could be acting out of an impulse to create art for the sake of art by layering baroque visuals onto their own works. Or they could be trying to fulfill the public’s love of art by creating these stimulating works. The precedents for either motivation are rather slim, which allows for speculation that, among other things, Longus was looking at Ovid as a kindred predecessor. Ovid’s art is not the art of Longus, but Ovid’s extensive use of art is akin to

Longus’ use of art. As a result, yet another link can be postulated between the two literary artists.

58 Readership

If I am going to argue that Longus included these Ovidian reference points in his work, it is necessary not only to make the case that the author himself knew Ovid but also that his audience would know Ovid enough to “get” the references that the novelist includes within his text. As a result, the issue of readership will be dealt with to some degree in this section. The issue of readership of the ancient novel is one that is still under immense scrutiny, so it is my goal to add to the intellectual fire.

Harris writes that “there was no such thing as ‘popular literature’ in the Roman

Empire, if that means literature which became known to tens or hundreds of thousands of people by means of personal reading.”137 Papyrus evidence suggests that the novel was not a highly popular form of literature in Roman Egypt, as the Greco‐Roman readers of the region owned substantially more copies of “high literature” (particularly Homer,

Demosthenes, and Thucydides).138 This comes with the caveat that this data largely comes from the finds at the provincial Oxyrhynchus and is hardly a random sampling, but the profile of the town (up‐and‐coming bourgeois—precisely the popular model of novel readership) ought to fit the anticipated readers of these novels.139 However, this view cannot be completely wrong, as there are so few references to these novels in the literature of the time. There are no Christian polemicists condemning the novel (even the salacious novels) and even though Julian condemns the reading of “love stories”

137 Harris, 227. 138 Stephens, 415‐416. 59 (Epistolae 89b), novels do not seem to be more prevalent than the similarly‐condemned works of “high literature” like Aristophanes’ plays.140 This vacuum of evidence for the novel’s popularity should not necessarily portend that its readership would have been all that limited. A more probable hypothesis is that this readership was not only reading these novels but also other texts, thus providing a solid and varied literary background for the readers.

Popular or not, the novel had to have some sort of audience. Perry has championed the view that the novel was written for juvenile audiences, a conclusion reached through the judgment that “the novel appears first on a low and disrespectful level of literature adapted to the taste and understanding of uncultivated or frivolous‐ minded people.”141 Shortly after this statement, Perry qualifies this blanket assertion, writing “in Daphnis and Chloe, the novel approached the top level of literary quality for its time.”142 Generally, this theory has not caught on among novel scholars, but it also has not been wholly refuted.

More lastingly, Brigitte Egger has argued quite persuasively that there were women reading these novels,143 although Bowie cautions that they might not have been the primary audience envisioned by the novelist, given the sexual explicitness would hardly commend itself to being presented by the head of the oikos to his

139 Stephens, 405. 140 Stephens, 414‐415. 141 Perry, 5. 142 Perry, 7. 60 daughters/wife.144 Scholarship until the last two decades has been loath to consider the audience for these novels to be the upper classes, but it seems that the general consensus has come around to deciding that it includes readers from all classes.145

Bowie concludes: “I am not persuaded, however, that the typical (which is as nice a construct as can be found) reader envisaged by Chariton or Xenophon (far less by the sophistic novelists) was significantly different from the sort we assume for the Lives and

Moralia of Plutarch, for the historians, or for Lucian, or the sort of people who attended lectures and epideictic performances by philosophers and sophists.”146

If the question of the novel readership gets too much attention in the scholarly world, the opposite is true for that of Ovid. While it is apparent that Ovid was quite popular in the Middle Ages given the number of codices that have survived, his ancient reception has not been addressed all that well. Holzberg suggests that Ovid attempted to reach as large an audience as possible as quickly as possible, basing his conclusions off of the lack of personal friendships/dedications within his poems (only three poems of the Amores—1.9, 2.10, 2.18—directly address his friends) and the general lack of evidence for his belonging to a literary circle.147 This hypothesis is supported by Ovid’s

143 Egger, 31‐48. 144 Bowie 1994, 437. Bowie critiques the female reader theory on pp 437‐440, eventually concluding that while its points are valid and that it is likely that women read novels, they were not the primary target audience for the ancient novelist. 145 Bowie 1994, 440‐442. 146 Bowie 1994, 441. This conclusion is certainly not provable, but logically, it makes perfect sense and should be accepted. 147 Holzberg 2002, 28. 61 own words regarding the goal of his work in the sphragis of the Metamorphoses

(15.875‐879):

parte tamen meliore mei super alta perennis astra ferar, nomenque erit indelebile nostrum; quaque patet domitis Romana potentia terris ore legar populi, perque omnia saecula fama (si quid habent eri vatum praesagia) vivam

However, for my part, undying, I will be carried beyond the stars and my name will be imperishable. Wherever Roman power extends over the conquerd lands, I will be read by the mouth of the people. If there is any truth in the prophecies of poets, I will live through every age, made immortal by my fame.

And Ovid was able to reach some sort of an audience, although not one that was always receptive. Hardie cites Tacitus, both Senecas, and Quintilian as critics of Ovid’s

“corrupt style.”148 This critical disapproval might be proof enough of Ovid’s warm reception among the non‐culturally elite, which gives von Albrecht the latitude to comment that Ovid was the most widely‐read poet in his lifetime.149 While Ovid’s reception among the critical writers might not have been stellar, the reverberations of his works—particularly the Metamorphoses—echo throughout ancient art. Returning to

Rabun Taylor, there is a discussion of the incredible impact that the Metamorphoses had on the art of the Romans. The depictions of Narcissus, which saw a boom in popularity in the centuries after Ovid—it was Ovid’s version that influenced the visual medium.150

It is also imperative to note that Ovid’s readership was not monolinguistically Latin‐

148 Hardie, 2002, 42. 149 von Albrecht, 814. 150 Taylor, 56‐77. 62 speaking. The Metamorphoses enjoyed a cross‐cultural impact, one that is best evidenced by a third century mosaic from Antioch that shows Echo and Narcissus—a pairing that only existed after the advent of Ovid’s combination of the two separate myths.151 The mosaic shows that the Greeks of Antioch were aware of Ovid’s work and were most likely bilingual. There is also the possibility that the theme crossed over into the consciousness of Imperial Roman culture and might not have necessarily implied that there was a Greek readership of Ovid, but this is a small possibility.

During the Augustan Age, the Romans began to completely grasp their role as the leader of a global culture. Galinsky calls this perspective the “Augustan Oikumenē,” as Augustus grasped his role as the successor to Alexander.152 As a result, while Italy and

Rome remained central to the cultural landscape, the outlook was universal. Galinsky cites the works of geographers and historians such as Strabo and Nicholaus of Damascus as typifying the focus on the events that happened beyond the bounds of the Italian peninsula.153 But this universal outlook was not limited to the writers of non‐fiction (or at least as non‐fictional as ancient histories can be); Ovid also bought into the oikumenē in his Metamorphoses. Following Vergil by a generation, Ovid was freed from having to write another Aeneid that would follow the foundation of Rome from the outside‐in.154

Ovid’s stories concern themselves with the world itself and do not follow the same

151 LIMC III.2, page 534, Echo 13 152 Galinsky, 341. 153 Galinsky, 341‐343. 154 Galinsky, 352. 63 teleological progression of Vergil’s Aeneid. While Ovid follows Vergil’s east‐to‐west movement, because of the broader scope of the Metamorphoses, Ovid leaves the reader with a much more ecumenical reflection of the Augustan world that synthesized

Greece and Rome.155 As discussed previously, the idea of an oikumenē extends beyond the realm of Romans bringing Greek forms and ideas into their own culture to the

Greeks accepting and incorporating Roman culture into their own. As a result, we should see Longus as buying into the cultural zeitgeist that saw literature as a two‐way exchange of ideas and motifs.

If the hypothesis presented in this paper is true and Longus actively used Ovid’s

Metamorphoses as an inspiration for his depictions in Daphnis and Chloe, it should serve as a fairly telling marker that the general literacy level—at least in the rising middle classes, not to mention the bourgeois, that made up the novel’s prospective audience— extends to both the Latin and Greek literary cultures. The implications of this assertion are rather large. The audience for each of these works would not have been as separate as speculation based on the disparate nature of the two genres and cross‐over appeal would have been necessary for Longus to successfully exploit the cultural appreciation and knowledge of Ovid.

The intertextuality of Longus and Ovid is a topic that has been rarely, if ever, been fully explored, in part, perhaps, because of bulwarking of study into Greek and

Latin camps. Also hindering study has been the excessive compartmentalization of the

155 Galinsky, 358. 64 drastically different genres from which these texts emerged. However, as discussed above, both texts “play” with many other genres, making it difficult to fully consider them either part of a strictly novelist or epic tradition. Accordingly, that “divide” should not be considered a divide. The bigger issue has been this linguistic barrier. The mindset that the Second Sophistic literary movement separated itself from the surrounding

Latin‐ruled world is an outdated one. The Greek writers living Greek‐rooted areas could not exist in a vacuum free of the influences of their Roman rulers. Following Whitmarsh, it should be strenuously asserted that the Greek authors of the Second Sophistic were clearly aware of the two worlds—the local and literary Greek world and the wider range of the Roman world—in which they operated. The adoption of Greek language and style was a deliberate move on the part of these authors to serve their works, with different motives for each author.156 Longus should be viewed in the same paradigm—an author knowledgeable of both worlds and utilizing them to further his own work.

The reality of living in a mixed Greco‐Roman world extended beyond Longus and the other authors of the Second Sophistic to the citizens of Greece and Asia Minor—a key portion of the presumed audience for the ancient novel. A brief examination of the physical evidence from this period should suffice to show the clear duality of this world.

Smith’s study of second century statues in the Greek East has shown quite conclusively that the local Greeks quite consciously chose (or did not choose) to represent

156 Whitmarsh, 269‐305. 65 themselves as Romans.157 Likewise, the Roman emperor became a key component in the religious rituals in Asia Minor during the second century, particularly in the widespread adaptation of the imperial cult.158 In a similar fashion, the houses of Antioch in the High Empire also incorporated both Greek and Roman art and architectural designs, belying any theoretical divide that would separate Greek from Roman cultures.159 The material evidence points to a melding of Greek and Roman elements— should that not also be the case for literature?

157 Smith, 56‐93. 158 Price, 171‐248, esp. 234‐248. 159 Hales, 171‐191. 66 Concluding Thoughts

Regarding the artistic milieu and canonical choices of literature from the

Augustan Age onward, Woolf states “Roman civilization, having been taken on by the provinces, no longer belonged to the City of Rome.”160 Indeed, as the provinces grew in stature and importance, the epicenter of cultural statements was no longer necessarily in the city of Rome. For this reason, Woolf proposes that Vergil, Horace, Cicero, and perhaps Ovid all benefitted from the shift in cultural trend‐setting from Rome to its provinces.161 Accordingly, the greater emphasis on “the world” allowed for the adoption of Latin literature into a regionalist setting. When literature is conceived of in this fashion, Longus suddenly fits into a schema of extra‐Roman authors interacting with their textual predecessors to present the work that they thought would make some sort of cultural impact.

In Daphnis and Chloe, Longus presents a solid picture of a Greek author using and manipulating a Latin text to augment his own work, which in turn gives a window into the literary and linguistic levels of his audience in the second century. Longus was clearly writing in a milieu in which it was commonplace for writers of his genre to borrow—sometimes obviously, sometimes discreetly—from their literary predecessors, both from the Latin and Greek sides. As a result, it is not a surprise to see Longus to look at Ovid as a potential model for his own novel. In using Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Longus

160 Woolf, 127 161 Woolf, 125‐127. 67 styled his romance as a creation that could be just as easily seen as belonging to the pastoral or romantic genre just as Ovid created the Metamorphoses that are neither elegiac nor epic but a class unto themselves. Within Daphnis and Chloe, Longus incorporated episodes from the Metamorphoses, but adapted and combined elements of these scenes to give certain effects to his characters—Dorcon as the pitiable rapist in the mold of Actaeon/Lycaon, Lykaneion as a latter‐day Salmacis—and as a result, created a highly nuanced novel. Moreover, the picture of metamorphosis that Longus presents—that it is a revelatory process of true character—is of the same ilk as Ovid’s metamorphic paradigm. In addition to borrowing scenes and paradigms from Ovid,

Longus also looked to his Latin predecessor as a fellow aesthete with regard to art and literature. Each work is suffused with artistic imagery that has very few parallels in the classical literary tradition. This supports the idea that Longus looked at Ovid as a congenial artist in the fields of art‐as‐literature.

Because of these connections between two authors, it is possible for the modern scholar to postulate answers to questions of ancient literacy. Surely Longus would not have been writing with this Ovidian flair had he not expected a portion of his audience to recognize the effects for which he was striving. As a result, it allows for a fairly confident proposal that not only the authors of Greek novels were conversant in the language of Latin literature but also that their audiences would be knowledgeable and interested in both languages. What results is a picture of a cosmopolitan world that is less‐divided by language than what the opinion has been until recent years. The world 68 of Longus was a smaller world than what might be imagined, which is reflected in the careful and considered use that he makes of Ovid in his Daphnis and Chloe.

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76 Vita

Andrew Paul Howard was born in Rochester, Minnesota on May 26, 1984, the son of

Julianne Jirele Howard and Paul Philip Howard. Upon graduating from Lourdes High

School in Rochester, Minnesota, in 2003, he entered Gustavus Adolphus College in St.

Peter, Minnesota. During the Spring of 2006, he attended the Intercollegiate Center for

Classical Studies in Rome, Italy. He graduated Magna Cum Laude from Gustavus

Adolphus College in May, 2007, receiving the degree of Bachelor of Arts in Classical

Studies. In August, 2007, he entered the graduate school at the University of Texas at

Austin.

Permanent Address: 1404 Glendale Hills Drive

Rochester, Minnesota 55906

This report was typed by the author.

77