All the Words, a Stage: Innovation, Self-Preservation, and the Centrality of Comedy in Ovid’S Metamorphoses

ALL THE WORDS, A STAGE: INNOVATION, SELF-PRESERVATION, AND THE CENTRALITY OF COMEDY IN OVID’S METAMORPHOSES

EMILIE ELIZABETH JORDAN

A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

2018 1

To my dear students, both past and present, and all my brothers and sisters at Saint Mary’s College. Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am exceedingly grateful to my committee chair, Jennifer Rea, who spent countless hours reading and re-reading my chapters and offering indispensable clarity and assistance during this entire process. My committee members, Konstantinos Kapparis, Velvet Yates, and Stephanie

Smith also provided valuable insight, and devoted a generous amount of time and patience to this project. I owe a great deal as well to Tara Welch at the University of Kansas; her seminar on the

Metamorphoses opened my eyes to the beauty of the text, and led me to a great love for all things

Ovid. Additionally, I would like to thank my colleagues at Saint Mary’s College; their tireless encouragement and camaraderie helped me keep my goal in sight amid long days filled with teaching and research. To all of my friends, I owe more than I could every repay, but I would like to give special thanks to Mary Kagay, Andrew and Krista Childs, and Fr. Paul-Isaac Franks for their words of encouragement, their loyal friendship, and their willingness to break for happy hour when necessary and appropriate (vinum laetificat cor hominis). Finally, I thank my mother,

Kim Jordan, for her constant moral support throughout my studies and my life.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...... 4

ABSTRACT ...... 7

CHAPTER

1 INTRODUCTION ...... 8

An Unepic Epic ...... 11 An Ongoing Debate ...... 30 Epic Fail? ...... 43

2 THEATRICAL ELEMENTS IN THE METAMORPHOSES ...... 44

What’s Proem is Prologue: Theatrical Openings ...... 44 Recognizing the Audience ...... 51 Dramatis Personae: Taking Stock of Comic Characters ...... 57 The First Group ...... 60 The Second Group ...... 68 The Third Group ...... 72 Stock Characters in Ovid ...... 75 Disguise and Revelation ...... 81 Puns...... 83 Stunning Visual Effects ...... 86 Mora and Amor: The Spectactle of Pyramus and Thisbe ...... 91

3 RISE, FALL, AND RE-IMAGINING OF ROMAN COMEDY ...... 102

Comic Form ...... 104 The Waning of Comedy ...... 105 Comic Afterlife: Post-Plautine Precedents for the Metamorphoses ...... 108 Politics and Humor ...... 117 Ovid’s Comic Revival: The Practicality of Comic Elements in Ovidian ...... 123

4 NEW PLACES, SAFE SPACES: PERFORMING ON THE VIRTUAL STAGE ...... 131

History of Genre-Blending: Callimachean Debt and Ovidian Self-Referencing ...... 132 Inside Jokes, Audience Rapport, and the Humor of Exhibitionism ...... 137 Changing Places: Altered Perspectives and Virtual Safe Spaces ...... 140 Ovid’s Safety Net ...... 146 Plautus and Ovid: Parallel Histories, Parallel Techniques ...... 156

5 NACHLEBEN: THE METAMORPHOSES, METAMORPHOSED ...... 166

Generic Evolution and Ovid’s Roman Heirs ...... 166 Shakespeare and Beyond ...... 178 Summary and Concluding Thoughts ...... 185

LIST OF REFERENCES ...... 188

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ...... 205

Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

ALL THE WORDS, A STAGE: INNOVATION, SELF-PRESERVATION, AND THE CENTRALITY OF COMEDY IN OVID’S METAMORPHOSES

Emilie Elizabeth Jordan

December 2018

Chair: Jennifer Ann Rea Major: Classical Studies

In writing the Metamorphoses, Ovid fashions an entirely new kind of epic, pushing previously-defined limits and incorporating elements from many other genres. In this thesis I argue that Ovid’s primary goal in integrating multi-generic elements into his epic is to create a new type of literature: a liminal space that has an epic framework but primarily features comedy as a kind of lead voice in a chorus of genres. Ovid’s innovation in genre is not without precedent: it is a continuation in a tradition of generic metamorphosis established by Plautus and Terence in their adaptation of Greek comedy for Roman audiences. Moreover, since Roman comedy both utilizes stock characters rather than invective against specific individuals as in Aristophanic comedy and also was essentially defunct as a genre already a century before the composition of the Metamorphoses, Ovid’s inclusion of comic elements yields a work that is unentangled with current politics while also being performative. Practically speaking, such an approach is both

Ovid’s answer to the new demands of a more sophisticated audience as well as his insurance policy against the potential threat of Augustan censorship and punitive action. The multi-faceted generic identity of the Metamorphoses also influenced later authors; thus, Ovid’s boldly innovative literary mélange plays a pivotal role in later generic experimentation and expansion.

CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION

The Metamorphoses is an entirely new kind of epic, pushing the established limits thereof and picking up elements of a host of other genres, including but not limited to elegy, epistolary, and even oratory.1 In this thesis I will argue that Ovid’s primary goal in integrating multi-generic elements into his epic is to create a new type of literature: a liminal space that becomes an intimate new kind of theatre, particularly of the comic variety. Ovid’s epic metaphorically encompasses and subsequently metamorphoses both the place of performance as well as the genre, allowing the reader to remain and react within the confines of his own home, free from the prying eyes and ears of the potentially threatening scrutiny of Augustus and the new breed of political-literary critic. More significantly, it is a continuation in a tradition of generic metamorphosis established by Plautus and Terence in their adaptation of Greek comedy for

Roman audiences. The expectations of Ovid’s audience had changed from that of the earlier playwrights, as both Rome’s sophistication and its situation had increased; this generic mashup was his answer to new demands.2

In this paper, I will address my topic using the following progression: I will begin by touching upon the ongoing debate surrounding the format, structure, and meaning of the

1 Although Vergil’s epic is distinctly Roman (and thus different from Homer’s), it nonetheless participated much more in Homeric epic convention: it features a traditional invocation to the Muses, a central heroic character, and a central quest in which the gods pick sides. There are even direct parallels between supporting characters in Vergil and Homer: Pallas and Patroclus, Turnus and Hector, Aeneas and Achilles, and so forth. However, it must be admitted that Vergil’s epic is somewhat innovative, especially in that it relies more on cooperation from the reader, who must first be aware of the Homeric allusions in order to appreciate them, and in that it is more psychologically complex and reflective; cf. especially Chapter 1 of Barchiesi (2015) for more on this latter point. However, although there are both innovations as well as Homeric allusions within Vergil, I believe that in the Aeneid the established boundaries of genre overall remain; indeed, the extent to which each author remains within traditional generic parameters differs substantially in Ovid and Vergil.

2 Harrison (2007:1) refers to such a mashup as “generic enrichment,” aiming to expand a text in depth and texture both by confrontation with and accretions from other genres. He adds that Augustan poets in particular employ a systematic unfolding of clues (which he calls a “repertoire of features”) that enable the reader to identify generic signs in a given text and that he divides into formal, thematic, and metageneric aspects (21–22).

Metamorphoses, particularly in regards to those features in it that are atypical for the genre; from there, I will present the basis of my argument for reading the Metamorphoses as a new kind of comic literature firstly by establishing the unepic nature of the text and secondly by demonstrating that before all else it is chiefly performative in nature (Chapter 1). After establishing that the Metamorphoses, as work of performative literature, stretches previously- held notions of the nature of epic, by demonstrating the prevalence of comic elements in the text

I will argue that Ovid accomplishes this by appropriating language, character construction, and other devices from the genre of Roman comedy, particularly as exemplified by the works of

Plautus; I will then enumerate specific examples in the Metamorphoses which exemplify comedy

(Chapter 2). Subsequently I will present a history of Roman comedy from its origins to its decline in popularity (and possible reasons for such a decline) (Chapter 3). With these instances explored, I will present what I believe is Ovid’s chief reason for leaning so heavily upon comedy in the creation of the Metamorphoses: namely, the fashioning of a virtual “safe space” in which he envisioned literary experimentation immune from the scrutiny of Augustus and possible retaliations therefrom (Chapter 4). I will follow by a brief discussion of the Ovidian legacy in later Roman authors and the Renaissance, including in Shakespeare’s plays, particularly in the

Pyramus and Thisbe episode in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I will conclude by offering some possibilities for future academic dialogue (Chapter 5).

I will introduce Farrell’s (1992) notion of a dialogue of genres, which he explores in his analysis of the elegiac and pastoral elements in the Polyphemus episode of the Metamorphoses. I will demonstrate that his theory of generic dialogue has particular application within the

Metamorphoses as a whole; subsequently, I will borrow from and expand Farrell’s theory in formulating my own metric for assessing the generic nature of the Metamorphoses. However, I

will go further than Farrell, and will aim to demonstrate that it is possible within a polyphonic chorus of genres to have one voice or genre emerge as a solo texture within a multi-part song: that is, I believe that within the Metamorphoses there is a multiplicity of voices or genres, the principal of which is that of comedy. I will argue that not only is comedy one of the voices or genres within the work, but it is also the poem’s dominant function and the force contributing more profoundly than another other genre to its identity.3

As Anderson and others are quick to point out, Ovid was arguably more popular even than Vergil up until the nineteenth century’s “depreciation of wit and exaltation of direct emotional expression.”4 But since authors like Galinsky in the 1970s and Solodow in the 80s, there has been a plethora of publications on Ovid.5 Scholarship on Roman comedy too has no shortage of exempla.6 However, in spite of such popularity, nevertheless there is a noticeable paucity of sources detailing certain aspects of these studies. For instance, Goldberg is one of the few scholars to voice an opinion as to the cause of comic theatre’s decline, conjecturing that it was Terence who effected “both a peak of sophistication and end of creative vitality” to the

3 Harrison (2005) too elucidates the complexity of generic interaction involving two or more genres: his focus is the poetry of Vergil and Horace, but again I find that there are many elements of his scholarship in this area that can be applied equally well to Ovidian poetry, particularly the Metamorphoses.

4 Anderson (1998:5).

5 Following Galinsky’s (1975) and Solodow’s (1988) extensive and groundbreaking treatments of the Metamorphoses, Mack (1988), Hardie (2002), and Fantham (2004)—just a few of the foremost names in Ovidian scholarship—have also produced monumental works on the Metamorphoses (in Hardie’s case, the entire Ovidian corpus). In mentioning Hardie, I should add that although he is concerned primarily with the theme of illusion, he too notes the multi-generic nature of the Metamorphoses (e.g., he observes the presence of didactic, elegiac, comic, and tragic elements in the Echo and Narcissus episodes, which he outlines in great detail at 150–172).

6 Duckworth’s comprehensive monograph (1952) on comedy—with an eye toward both Plautus and Terence—is a remarkable pioneering endeavor, treating themes, stock characters, language, staging, and many more aspects of comedy. Segal (1968) was one of the first to analyze the humor of Plautus by seeing in it an inversion of the usual, expected order of things, contrasting him with the rigid Cato the Elder, the central political figure of Plautus’ day (cf. in particular 10–12, 39–41). More recently, Sharrock (2009) revisits and refines the notion of comedy as deliberate upending of social and plot-related expectations, or “getting away with outrageous behavior” (66). Again, this is but a small representative sampling of the current scholarship on Roman comedy.

genre.7 For Goldberg, Plautus was too farcical and Terence too serious for comedy to continue as a viable, vibrant genre, and so it outgrew its use and paved the way for other genres, including epic. There are a good number of references to the un-epic qualities of the Metamorphoses, however. In his two volumes of commentaries on the Metamorphoses, Anderson presents many examples directly from the text to demonstrate various aspects of novelty and performance therein. He recognizes within the Metamorphoses certain features that are more of a parody of epic (e.g., the proliferation of flamboyant epithets8), but does not conclude that the

Metamorphoses is specifically a new variation of the genre of comedy. Hinds too hints at the theatrical underpinnings of at least some episodes within the text, viewing the Metamorphoses as a type of literary spectacle; in particular, he mentions Ovid’s visual language and consequent viewer-centric world.9 I will take this conclusion a step further, arguing that this is not merely literary experimentation but also a choice based on practicality. I will also explore some parallels in the historical contextuality of Ovid and that of Plautus, as well as similarities in their stylistic choices.

An Unepic Epic

Ovid’s importance lies in both his content and his context. Writing during the age of

Augustus, one of the most fascinating and complex periods of Latin literature, he simultaneously references (and even at times reverences) the past with respect to form while manipulating conventions of genre, tone, and substance. Ovid’s colorful and controversial works date from his youth: born in 43, he first published the Amores while in his twenties (although the exact date

7 Goldberg (1982:312).

8 Anderson (1998:21).

9 Hinds (2002:138–140).

has been obscured with the passage of time) and continued writing until his death.10 Considered in relation to other greats among the Who’s Who of Roman authors, Ovid came at the turning of a huge tide: he was born the same year Cicero was assassinated, and died just three years after the death of Augustus, who was twenty years his senior. Thus he straddled the two worlds of the

Republic and the principate, and indeed he seems to have relished having a foot in each literary- historical camp.11 And yet this is only one manifestation of liminality in the life and literature of

Ovid: using elusive layering techniques and a babble of voices that seem to talk at cross purposes

(which I will expound upon at length), he used paradoxical language to his advantage—even as his trademark—to stretch previously-accepted boundaries of genre. Most notably it is in the

Metamorphoses that he wove together multiple tapestries of voices that keep the mind’s eye of the reader moving from image to image, lingering over easy-to-miss details before unveiling the big picture.

I have listed three non-epic genres that appear within the Metamorphoses: 1) elegy, 2) epistolary, and 3) oratory. The first of these should come as no surprise, considering that all of

Ovid’s previous works were elegiac (though the extent to which each is typical of the genre is debatable). There are multiple examples of quasi-elegiac passages in the Metamorphoses, but here I will present two episodes: Apollo’s pursuit of Daphne (1.490–567) and the story of

Polyphemus in Book 13. In the first story, Ovid’s Apollo is the starstruck lover—instantly captivated—who is ultimately powerless to achieve his desire:

Phoebus amat visaeque cupit conubia Daphnes, quodque cupit, sperat, suaque illum oracula fallunt,

10 Hardie (2002a:34–35); Davis (2006:80–81); Citroni (2009:15–16).

11 Although Ovid is not the only poet to bridge the temporal gap between the late Republic and the principate, he nevertheless occupies a unique position in time: for instance, there a twenty-seven-year disparity between Ovid and Vergil, and so the world events they both experienced would have impacted them in different ways and at different points in their lives. See Galinsky (1975:18–19) and Otis (2010:1–2).

utque leves stipulae demptis adolentur aristis, ut facibus saepes ardent, quas forte viator vel nimis admovit vel iam sub luce reliquit, sic deus in flammas abiit, sic pectore toto uritur et sterilem sperando nutrit amorem. spectat inornatos collo pendere capillos et ‘quid, si comantur?’ ait. videt igne micantes sideribus similes oculos, videt oscula, quae non est vidisse satis; laudat digitosque manusque bracchiaque et nudos media plus parte lacertos; si qua latent, meliora putat. fugit ocior aura illa levi neque ad haec revocantis verba resistit… (1.490–503)

Phoebus loves her, and desires marriage with Daphne, now that he has seen her, and that which he desires, he hopes for, and his oracular powers deceives him. And as light remnants from harvested ear of corn are burned, as hedges catch fire from the torches that a traveler accidentally either places too close or leaves behind him all the until morning light, so also the god was dissolved into flames, so does he burn with all his heart and cherishes his fruitless love with hoping. He sees her unadorned hair hanging about her neck and says, “What if it were done up?” He sees her eyes, like the stars, flashing with fire. He sees her lips—and it is not enough merely to have looked upon them. He praised her fingers and hands and upper arms exposed more than halfway, and if anything remains hidden, he imagines it to be more beautiful. She flees fast than a light breeze, nor does she remain within earshot of these words of the one calling her back…12

Even before this moment of Apollo’s case of love at first sight, Ovid casts the god as an elegiac lover:

Primus amor Phoebi Daphne Peneia, quem non fors ignara dedit, sed saeva Cupidinis ira, Delius hunc nuper, victa serpente superbus, viderat adducto flectentem cornua nervo ‘quid’ que ‘tibi, lascive puer, cum fortibus armis?’ dixerat: ‘ista decent umeros gestamina nostros, qui dare certa ferae, dare vulnera possumus hosti, qui modo pestifero tot iugera ventre prementem stravimus innumeris tumidum Pythona sagittis. tu face nescio quos esto contentus amores inritare tua, nec laudes adsere nostras!’ filius huic Veneris ‘figat tuus omnia, Phoebe, te meus arcus’ ait; ‘quantoque animalia cedunt cuncta deo, tanto minor est tua gloria nostra.’ dixit et eliso percussis aere pennis

12 All translations are mine unless otherwise specified.

inpiger umbrosa Parnasi constitit arce eque sagittifera prompsit duo tela pharetra diversorum operum: fugat hoc, facit illud amorem; quod facit, auratum est et cuspide fulget acuta, quod fugat, obtusum est et habet sub harundine plumbum. hoc deus in nympha Peneide fixit, at illo laesit Apollineas traiecta per ossa medullas… (1.452–473)

The first love of Apollo was Daphne, daughter of Peneus, which not ignorant chance, but the cruel wrath of Cupid. The Delian god, proud of having conquered the serpent, had recently seen Cupid bending his bow with tightly drawn string, and said, “What use to you, o impudent boy, are strong weapons?” He had added, “Those are fitting accoutrements for my shoulders, as I can deal sure wounds to a wild beast, or to an enemy, and recently with countless arrows laid low the swollen Python pressing upon so many acres with its plague-ridden belly. You be content to arouse whatever loves with your firebrand, but do not usurp my praises!” The son of Venus said to him, “May your bow pierce everything, Phoebe, but may mine pierce you, and by as much as all living creatures are inferior to a god, by so much less is you glory than mine.” He spoke, the air having been beaten by his stricken wings, and, indefatigable, he landed at the shaded height of Parnassus, and from his arrow-bearing quiver he prepared two darts with opposite effects: the one dispels love, the other produces it. The one that produces it is gold and gleams with a sharp tip; the one that dispels it is blunt and has lead under its point. The latter one the god plunged into the nymph, the daughter of Peneus, but with the former he struck through the pierced bones into the marrow of Apollo.

Ovid’s characterization of Apollo is reminiscent of the elegiac exclusus amator, or lover who is literally or figuratively excluded from his lady’s affections: this is evident from the two arrows

(duo tela), one of which will cause Apollo to fall in the love with Daphne (fugat hoc) while the other will cause her just as surely to flee him (facit illud amorem). Such a lover (and his plight) defines the genre of elegy itself, which is characterized by the supremely frustrating love of an unattainable object. The hallmarks of the elegiac lover, as signified by the poet-creator, point to a simplistic, self-centered set of expectations: that is, the elegiac lover bemoans the lady’s rejection of him without considering her wishes and often while imposing harsher standards upon her than upon himself (e.g., he may expect unswerving loyalty from her while not

necessarily demanding the same of himself).13 Even at first blush, the degree of similarity between the elegiac lover and Apollo is enormous. Moreover, regardless of Apollo’s oracular gifts or his abilities in general, Daphne runs away from him; he does not even have a chance to persuade her with his words, even though he is known for his eloquence and gifted speech; it is as if the Apollo of Metamorphoses 1 is an elegiacally filtered version of his whole self, rendered ineffectual and vaguely distorted. Finally, Ovid’s construction of Apollo in Book 1 is not only intergeneric, is also paradigmatic: this primus amor is his first description of a god in love, and of a metamorphosis consequent to such divine passion. It also clearly alludes to the first poem in the Amores:

Arma gravi numero violentaque bella parabam edere, materia conveniente modis. par erat inferior versus—risisse Cupido dicitur atque unum surripuisse pedem. (Am.1.1.1–4)

Just as in Metamorphoses 1, in Amores 1.1 there is also a dialogue between Cupid and his target:

‘. . . sunt tibi magna, puer, nimiumque potentia regna; cur opus adfectas, ambitiose, novum? an, quod ubique, tuum est? tua sunt Heliconia tempe? vix etiam Phoebo iam lyra tuta sua est? cum bene surrexit versu nova pagina primo, attenuat nervos proximus ille meos; nec mihi materia est numeris levioribus apta, aut puer aut longas compta puella comas.’ Questus eram, pharetra cum protinus ille soluta legit in exitium spicula facta meum, lunavitque genu sinuosum fortiter arcum, ‘quod’ que ‘canas, vates, accipe’ dixit ‘opus!’ Me miserum! certas habuit puer ille sagittas. uror, et in vacuo pectore regnat Amor. (Am. 1.13–26)

13 In discussing the nature and distinguishing marks of elegy, Otis (2010:9–10) observes that the conventions of the elegiac lover, or adulescens, form a type of set role or script—in short, he functions something like a stock character, which topic I shall take up in Chapter 2.

“You have great kingdoms, boy, and too powerful ones; why do you aim at a new work, o ambitious one? Or is what is everywhere yours? Are Helicon’s valleys yours? Is now Phoebus’ lyre scarcely safe as his own? When a new page has come up well in the first verse, that last one weakened my strings, nor do I have matter fit for lighter meters, neither boy nor girl with her long hair done up.” I had complained, when straightaway he selected from his loosened quiver a dart made for my demise, and he energetically bent into a crescent shape the curving bow on his knee, and said, “Take that work of which you sing, poet!” Woe is me! The boy had sure arrows. I burn, and Love reigns in my empty breast.

In both Cupid-focused passages, 1) Cupid’s mark first chastises him, berating the god for lacking respect for appropriate boundaries, and 2) Cupid’s reprisal is swift, lighthearted, and complete. It seems appropriate then that Ovid uses Cupid as a generically-liminal figure introducing two texts whose trajectories change within the course of their respective narratives: just as Cupid is a catalyst for change in the heart of his targets, so also does Ovid use Cupid’s character as a device for stretching the boundaries of genre.14

Also closely tied to elegy is the love song of Polyphemus in Book 13 (13.719–897). He too is a rejected lover, though Ovid presents much of the rather long passage somewhat sympathetically, unlike the Apollo and Daphne narrative. The song itself is a narrative-within-a- narrative: Galatea, the unwilling object of Polyphemus’ affection, is the primary narrator. And although she makes obvious her repulsion toward Polyphemus, Galatea nevertheless fails to elicit all the reader’s sympathy because there is something that is more pathetic, unguarded, and honest about Polyphemus’ feelings than, for instance, Apollo’s, unwanted though they are.

Polyphemus has a couple of strikes against him: Galatea is already in love with someone else, and Polyphemus happens to be a Cyclops, in stark contrast with the handsome young Acis, the

14 Nicoll (1980:175–176) also finds Ovid’s purposeful juxtaposition of unlike (and unexpected) elements—Apollo as an ineffectual elegiac lover and Cupid as wielder of the mighty bow and arrow in a guise more typical of Apollo—as both an allusion to (and expansion upon) the opening of Amores 1 and, consequently, as a sign of the thwarting of generic expectations.

object of Galatea’s affections. Polyphemus’ final plea as if to an absent lover—for Galatea hears his words unbeknownst to Polyphemus—is sad and desperate:

Adde, quod in vestro genitor meus aequore regnat: hunc tibi do socerum; tantum miserere precesque supplicis exaudi! tibi enim succumbimus uni, quique Iovem et caelum sperno et penetrabile fulmen, Nerei, te vereor, tua fulmine saevior ira est. atque ego contemptus essem patientior huius, si fugeres omnes; sed cur Cyclope repulso Acin amas praefersque meis conplexibus Acin? ille tamen placeatque sibi placeatque licebit, quod nollem, Galatea, tibi; modo copia detur: sentiet esse mihi tanto pro corpore vires! viscera viva traham divulsaque membra per agros perque tuas spargam (sic se tibi misceat!) undas. uror enim, laesusque exaestuat acrius ignis, cumque suis videor translatam viribus Aetnam pectore ferre meo, nec tu, Galatea, moveris. (13.854–869)

Add the fact that my father is king in your waters: I give him to you as your father-in- law; only have pity, and hear the prayers of a suppliant! To you alone do I submit, I who spurn Jupiter and his heaven and his piercing lightning bolt; I fear you, Nereid; your anger is fiercer than the lightning bolt. And I would have been scorned as one more patient toward this anger if you were fleeing everyone; but why do you, having scorned the Cyclops, love Acis and prefer Acis to my embraces? He nevertheless is allowed to be pleasing to himself and, which I would not wish, to be pleasing to you, Galatea; only let an opportunity be given: he will perceive that my strength is just as great as my size. I will tear out his entrails alive and scatter the dismembered limbs across the fields and across your waters (so let him unite with you). For I burn, and, wounded, a fiercer flame rages, and I seem to bear Aetna with all its might directed toward my breast; and yet you, o Galatea, will not be moved.

Here too the protagonist is essentially an elegiac lover, whose lament, because of his mistaken belief that he is alone, comes across as less aggressive toward his love interest (whom he fears as well as loves). The framework within a song—reported secondhand as having been overheard by

Galatea—adds a more noticeable performative layer. It is clear that in both this passage and in the Apollo one, the male protagonists are re-workings in epic of the powerless, frustrated lover

typical of elegy.15 In addition to elegiac traits, Farrell also observes that there are multiple hallmarks of pastoral poetry in this episode: Polyphemus is a shepherd, carries a staff, and both sings pastoral songs and plays the Pan pipes. Moreover, Acis and Galatea recline in a cave, as lovers are wont to do in pastoral poetry:

huc ferus adscendit Cyclops mediusque resedit; lanigerae pecudes nullo ducente secutae. cui postquam pinus, baculi quae praebuit usum, ante pedes posita est antemnis apta ferendis sumptaque harundinibus conpacta est fistula centum, senserunt toti pastoria sibila montes, senserunt undae; latitans ego rupe meique Acidis in gremio residens procul auribus hausi talia dicta meis auditaque mente notavi . . . . (13.780–788)

The Cyclops climbed up to this place and sat down in the middle; the wooly sheep followed with no one leading them on. Afterwards the pine tree that he used as a walking stick, fit for carrying a ship’s rigging, was placed before his feet, and the pipe made of a hundred reeds was taken up, and the entire mountainside felt the shepherd’s whistling, and the waves felt them too. Hiding in the rock, lying in my Acis’ lap, from afar I drank in such words with my ears, and in my mind I took note of what I heard . . . .

The image of lovers reclining in a cave occurs (among other places) at the beginning of Vergil’s fifth Eclogue:

MENALCAS. Cur non, Mopse, boni quoniam convenimus ambo tu calamos inflare levis, ego dicere versus, hic corylis mixtas inter consedimus ulmos? MOPSUS. Tu maior; tibi me est aequom parere, Menalca, sive sub incertas Zephyris motantibus umbras,

15 Farrell (1992) touches upon both episodes as containing elements of elegy (he mentions Apollo at 236), though as evidenced by the title he devotes the bulk of his article to the Polyphemus episode (see 240–241 for a list of typical qualities of the elegiac lover that apply to Polyphemus). Additionally, Sara Mack (1999:53–55) sees in Ovid’s treatment both the pastoral poetry of Theocritus and the epic of Vergil, while it maintains respect for Homer. She also recognizes Ovidian innovation with the introduction of a female narrator in place of Odysseus, the noticeable silence of Acis, a female audience (i.e., Scylla), etc. Finally, Creese (2009:562) not only recognizes distinguishing features of non-epic poetry in the Polyphemus episode, he reads it as a “parody of pastoral love themes” and a sort of competition with Ovid’s literary predecessors. Moreover, Creese establishes the genre-bending heritage of this myth (possibly as great an author as Euripides featured the character of Polyphemus in a satyr play), which even in its Homeric origins had “enormous comic and dramatic potential” (562), which Creese argues gave rise to the intentionally ridiculous in Ovid’s characterization of Polyphemus’ size, eroticism, and musicality (563).

sive antro potius succedimus. Aspice ut antrum silvestris raris sparsit labrusca racemis. MENALCAS. Montibus in nostris solus tibi certat Amyntas. MOPSUS. Quid, si idem certet Phoebum superare canendo? MENALCAS. Incipe, Mopse, prior, si quos aut Phyllidis ignis aut Alconis habes laudes aut iurgia Codri; incipe; pascentis servabit Tityrus haedos. MOPSUS. Immo haec in viridi nuper quae cortice fagi carmina descripsi et modulans alterna notavi, experiar: tu deinde iubeto certet Amyntas. MENALCAS. Lenta salix quantum pallenti cedit olivae, puniceis humilis quantum saliunca rosetis, iudicio nostro tantum tibi cedit Amyntas. Sed tu desine plura, puer; successimus antro.

MENALCAS. Why don’t we both, Mopsus, since we have met, good men as we are, sit down hereamongst the hazel mixed with the elm trees, you to blow the lights reeds, I to recite verses? MOPSUS. You’re older; it’s only right for me to comply with you, Menalcas, whether we proceed beneath the uncertain shadows, the breezes stirring the while, or enter the cave instead. See how the wild vine entwines the cave with the occasional woodland grape cluster. MENALCAS. Amyntas alone competes with you on our mountains. MOPSUS. What then if he likewise should strive to surpass Phoebus in singing? MENALCAS. Then begin before he does, Mopsus, if you have any stories about the fiery passions of Phyllis or Alcon’s praises or contentions of Codrus. Begin: Tityrus will guard the goats while they graze. MOPSUS. No, not at all: I’ll try this song that I wrote just recently on the green bark of a beech tree; then you go ahead and tell Amyntas to compete. MENALCAS. As much as the stalwart willow yields to the pale olive, as much as humble gorse to the red roses, so much does Amyntas yield to you in my book. But stop refrain from saying anything more, lad; we have come within the cave. (Ecl. 5.1–19)

The similarities do not stop here, however: in many ways does the Polyphemus story resemble elements in Eclogue 5. As soon as the two enter the cave, Mopsus begins to sing:

Exstinctum Nymphae crudeli funere Daphnim flebant (vos coryli testes et flumina Nymphis), cum complexa sui corpus miserabile nati atque deos atque astra vocat crudelia mater. Non ulli pastos illis egere diebus frigida, Daphni, boves ad flumina: nulla neque amnem libavit quadrupes, nec graminis attigit herbam. Daphni, tuom Poenos etiam ingemuisse leones interitum montesque feri silvaque loquontur. Daphnis et Armenias curru subiungere tigris instituit; Daphnis thiasos inducere Bacchi, et foliis lentas intexere mollibus hastas. Vitis ut arboribus decori est, ut vitibus uvae, ut gregibus tauri, segetes ut pinguibus arvis, tu decus omne tuis. Postquam te fata tulerunt, ipsa Pales agros atque ipse reliquit Apollo. Grandia saepe quibus mandavimus hordea sulcis, infelix lolium et steriles nascuntur avenae; pro molli viola, pro purpureo narcisso carduos et spinis surgit paliurus acutis. Spargite humum foliis, inducite fontibus umbras, pastores (mandat fieri sibi talia Daphnis), et tumulum facite, et tumulo superaddite carmen: Daphnis ego in silvis hinc usque ad sidera notus formosi pecoris custos formosior ipse. (Ecl. 5.20–44)

“The nymphs were weeping over Daphnis, cut off in cruel death (you rivers and hazel trees are witnesses for the Nymphs), when, having embraced the pitiable body of her son, the mother called both the gods and the stars cruel. No one in those days drove their pastured cattle to cold rivers, Daphnis: no four-footed creature either tasted of the stream, nor touched a blade of grass. Daphnis, the lions and the wild mountains and the forest say that the Punic lions mourned your passing. Daphnis decided to yoke Armenian tigers to the chariot, Daphnis to lead on the frenzies of Bacchus and encircle the unyielding spears with delicate leaves. As vines are a glory to trees, as grapes to vines, as bulls to flocks, as the harvest for bounteous fields, you are all glory to your people. After the Fates took you, Pales herself and Apollo himself left the fields. From those furrows to which we have often entrusted large quantities of barley, ill-starred cockle and barren oats are born; in place of soft violet, instead of purple narcissus, thistle and paliurus springs up with sharp thorns. Scatter the ground with leaves, spread shade upon the springs, and make a burial mound, and above the mound add a song: ‘I am Daphnis in the forests, known hence as far as the stars, keeper of a comely flock, myself more comely.’”

At a glance, clear parallels emerge between the Vergil and Ovid passages in question: 1) in both stories, a congenial pair reclines in a cave; 2) there is song in each story, and 3) each tale presents a lost or thwarted love. Each song is a lamentation, each lamentation has an audience, each audience is made up of lovers. In short, the Polyphemus episode represents a polyphonic trialogue of genres involving epic, elegy, and pastoral poetry. Furthermore, this tale, with its diversity of generic traits, is a microcosmic sample representative of the entire work as a glorious symphony of genres.

In an effort perhaps like the Heroides, which were epistolary poems written in elegiac form, in the Metamorphoses Ovid also fuses epistolary with epic (e.g., Byblis and Caunus at

9.439–516, wherein Byblis composes a letter declaring her incestuous love for her brother). At first, Byblis is horrified and shocked at her own illicit desires, but gradually she lets her lust stifle her feelings of repulsion:

‘. . . ergo ego, quae fueram non reiectura petentem, ipsa petam! poterisne loqui? poterisne fateri? coget amor, potero! vel, si pudor ora tenebit, littera celatos arcana fatebitur ignes.’ Hoc placet, haec dubiam vicit sententia mentem. in latus erigitur cubitoque innixa sinistro ‘viderit: insanos’ inquit ‘fateamur amores! ei mihi, quo labor? quem mens mea concipit ignem?’ et meditata manu componit verba trementi. dextra tenet ferrum, vacuam tenet altera ceram. incipit et dubitat, scribit damnatque tabellas, et notat et delet, mutat culpatque probatque inque vicem sumptas ponit positasque resumit. quid velit ignorat; quicquid factura videtur, displicet. in vultu est audacia mixta pudori. scripta ‘soror’ fuerat; visum est delere sororem verbaque correctis incidere talia ceris: ‘quam, nisi tu dederis, non est habitura salutem, hanc tibi mittit amans: pudet, a, pudet edere nomen, et si quid cupiam quaeris, sine nomine vellem posset agi mea causa meo, nec cognita Byblis ante forem, quam spes votorum certa fuisset . . . .” (Met. 9.513–534)

“Therefore I, who would have no intention of rejecting him if he were the pursuer, will seek him myself. Will you be able to speak? Will you be able to acknowledge it? Love will compel me; I will be able to do it; or, if shame will hold my tongue, a secret letter will profess my hidden passions!” This pleases her, and this sentiment overcame her doubtful mind. She is sets herself upon her side, and having reclined on her left elbow, says, “Let him see: let me profess my insane love. Woe is me! To what place am I slipping? Of what fire is my mind conceiving?” And having considered the words, with trembling hand she sets them down: her right hand holds the pen, the other the blank wax. She begins, and hesitates; she writes, and scratches out the writing tablets; she marks, and erases; she changes and blames and approves and alternatingly puts down what she has taken up and having put it down takes it up again. She does not know what she wants; whatever she seems on the verge of doing displeases her. In her face there is boldness mixed with shame. She had written “sister”; it seemed best to her to erase “sister” and, on the corrected wax tablets, to inscribe such words: “This greeting, which she is not going to have unless you give it to her, a lover sends to you: she is ashamed, oh, ashamed to reveal her name, and if you ask what I desire, I would wish it were possible to for my case to be pleaded without my name, and that I should not be known as Byblis before the expectation of my desires were certain . . . .”

Although the narrative features a letter as well as the act and implements of writing, it nevertheless differs from the various Heroides letters in that it does not begin in medias res (that is, the entirety of the Byblis text includes more than the text of a letter) but instead features a framing device (i.e., the letter is the central part of a fairytale-like story, with both the beginning and the end related by the narratorial persona). Thus Byblis’ letter proper shines out all the more as performative, as it becomes a virtual monologue within the context of the larger whole.

Finally, Ovid’s version of the story is the only one featuring the act of writing (and erasing and re-writing) a letter16—a kind of self-referencing or auto-mimesis, and a versatile choice for an author interested in generic manipulation and fusion.

16 Jenkins (2000:440). Expanding on Wheeler (1999), Ramsby (2007, esp. Chapter 6) considers female-authored letters, or literary inscriptions, in the Metamorphoses themselves to have metamorphic significance, in effect “transforming” their female voices to male (i.e., dominant) ones by rendering them permanent litterae scriptae rather than words spoken once and then die; furthermore, she sees in this an Ovidian response to Vergil and an attempt at literary permanence. The embedded letter also has a performative function: Nagle (1993:306) finds that Byblis’ admission in epistolary form not only hearkens to the Heroides in its epistolary form but also its copious use of first person pronouns in what she refers to as the monologues of the letter.

In the final lines of her letter, Byblis admits that she is no longer concerned with right and wrong (that is for old people to fret over, she claims), but tries to win over her brother to her way of thinking by pointing out the convenient opportunities that they have for such a liaison:

‘. . . iura senes norint, et quid liceatque nefasque fasque sit, inquirant, legumque examina servent. conveniens Venus est annis temeraria nostris. quid liceat, nescimus adhuc, et cuncta licere credimus, et sequimur magnorum exempla deorum. nec nos aut durus pater aut reverentia famae aut timor impediet: tantum sit causa timendi, dulcia fraterno sub nomine furta tegemus. est mihi libertas tecum secreta loquendi, et damus amplexus, et iungimus oscula coram. quantum est, quod desit? miserere fatentis amorem, et non fassurae, nisi cogeret ultimus ardor, neve merere meo subscribi causa sepulchro.’ talia nequiquam perarantem plena reliquit cera manum, summusque in margine versus adhaesit. protinus inpressa signat sua crimina gemma, quam tinxit lacrimis (linguam defecerat umor): deque suis unum famulis pudibunda vocavit, et pavidum blandita ‘fer has, fidissime, nostro’ dixit, et adiecit longo post tempore ‘fratri.’ (Met. 9.551–570)

“Let old people know justice, and let them inquire after what is permitted and what is lawful and unlawful, and preserve the balance of the law. Corresponding with our years is impetuous Love. We don’t yet know what is allowed, and we believe that everything is allowed, and we follow the examples of the great gods. Nor will either a stern father or regard of reputation or fear hinder us: only let there be some cause of fearing, and we will conceal sweet thefts under the name of siblings. I have a secret freedom of speaking with you, and we embrace and kiss in front of others. How great a thing is that which is lacking? Have pity on the lover of the one professing it, and who would not profess it if it were not extreme desires, and do not merit to be written down as the reason for my burial.” The filled tablet her hand ploughing through such things in vain, and the last line clung close upon the edge. She signs her crimes straightaway, her seal, which she moistened with her tears (moisture had disappeared from her tongue) having made its impression. And, shamefaced, she called one of her slaves, and having coaxed the that one trembling anxiously said, “Take this letter, most faithful one, to my…” and a long time afterwards added, “brother.”

Such begging and pleading is highly reminiscent of Ovid’s Heroides, themselves written in epistolary form and containing elegiac matter. The entire episode is a theatrical framing of

epistolary elegy—a dramatic performance and generic enhancement of a generic fusion he had already created and mastered in the Heroides.

Another already-established generic mashup that Ovid added further layers to is didactic- epic, made famous by Lucretius in his De Rerum Natura and made Ovidian in the story of

Pythagoras in Book 15. The entire book comprises 879 lines, nearly half of which are devoted to a (very long) speech of Pythagoras wherein he explains his teachings and personal ethics. This ethical exposition in verse displays elements of not only of didactic and epic poetry but also of persuasive and invective oratory.17 This epic-didactic declamation spans topics including vegetarianism, metempsychosis, the four ages of man, and the elements, ending with an “all creatures great and small”-style exhortation to let every animal live its life to old age and a natural death. Not only his verbose oration but also the introduction to it, which essentially summarizes the content of the speech, is worthy of note:

Vir fuit hic ortu Samius, sed fugerat una et Samon et dominos odioque tyrannidis exul sponte erat isque licet caeli regione remotos mente deos adiit et, quae natura negabat visibus humanis, oculis ea pectoris hausit, cumque animo et vigili perspexerat omnia cura, in medium discenda dabat coetusque silentum dictaque mirantum magni primordia mundi et rerum causas et, quid natura, docebat, quid deus, unde nives, quae fulminis esset origo, Iuppiter an venti discussa nube tonarent, quid quateret terras, qua sidera lege mearent, et quodcumque latet, primusque animalia mensis arguit inponi, primus quoque talibus ora docta quidem solvit, sed non et credita, verbis . . . . (Met. 15.60–74)

There was a man here, Samian by birth, but he had fled Samos together with its rulers, and because of his hatred of tyranny was an exile voluntarily, and in his mind he went to the gods even though they were far distant in the region of the sky, and what things

17 Other examples of oratory in an epic context are discernible in the Metamorphoses. Among other places, this genre appears in Jupiter’s address before the council of the Olympians at 1.182-243, when he tells the gods that he has decided to wipe out the human race, and at the persuasive speeches of Ajax and Ulysses at 13.1–381.

nature denied to human sight he drank in with the eyes of his heart, and when he had observed everything with watchful care, he caused them to be learned publicly, and he taught the crowds of silent people and those marveling at his words the origins of the great world and the causes of things and what nature is, what God is, where the snows come from, what the origin of lightning is, whether Jupiter or the winds thunder forth from dispersed cloud, what shakes the earth, by what law the constellations move, and whatever else is hidden. He also was the first to argue against animal flesh being served at table, and was the also the first (but not believed in) to let loose on well-versed speech in such words as these . . . .

If the introduction functions as an outline, or even like a dramatic prologue, the speech proper, although necessarily in hexameter, reads almost like a Ciceronian oration:

“Parcite, mortales, dapibus temerare nefandis corpora! sunt fruges, sunt deducentia ramos pondere poma suo tumidaeque in vitibus uvae, sunt herbae dulces, sunt quae mitescere flamma mollirique queant; nec vobis lacteus umor eripitur, nec mella thymi redolentia florem: prodiga divitias alimentaque mitia tellus suggerit atque epulas sine caede et sanguine praebet…” (15.75–82)

“Mortals, stop defiling your bodies with wicked feasting. There are crops, there are fruits weighing down branches with their own weight, and grapes swelling on the vines; there are herbs that are sweet, and those that can mellow and be moderated in the fire; neither is milky liquid snatched away from you, nor honey fragrant with the flower of the thyme: the lavish earth provides riches and gentle forms of sustenance, and offers you banquets with slaughter and blood…”

The vocative mortales might as well be the Quirites of one of Cicero’s speeches before the people. The repeated sunt also lends a prose-like feel to the text, as does the form of queo, attested uses of which verb occur far more frequently in Cicero and Plautus than they do in poetry.18 But before the speech even begins, the narrator introduces Pythagoras, giving scant biographical detail but adding one notable fact: that he had gone into voluntary exile. I believe that Ovid’s contemporaries necessarily would have connected the reference to voluntary exile to

Cicero’s self-imposed exile after P. Clodius Pulcher’s ascendance to the office of tribune of the

18 cf. Lewis and Short.

people and swift legislative campaign launched underhandedly against Cicero with the endgame of his exile in mind. In fully extending the comparison, we must read Ovid’s Pythagoras as a conservative Roman orator-politician-philosopher thinly veiled in Greek’s clothing.

The speech itself begins with a direct address to his audience, which is as far-reaching as

Ovid promises the Metamorphoses to be: that is, it aims for universal appeal, aiming at all of humanity, or at least as much of humanity as will listen to him. It begins as a persuasive speech, advocating vegetarianism as the only viable modus vivendi for humans with the desire to live a good life. However, a distinctly didactic overtone prevails: humans will not be persuaded to adopt a radically different code of life if they are not made to know why they should do so.

Within his speech Pythagoras also claims the gift of poetic inspiration, essentially styling himself as a vates:

“Et quoniam deus ora movet, sequar ora moventem rite deum Delphosque meos ipsumque recludam aethera et augustae reserabo oracula mentis: magna nec ingeniis investigata priorum quaeque diu latuere, canam; iuvat ire per alta astra, iuvat terris et inerti sede relicta nube vehi validique umeris insistere Atlantis palantesque homines passim et rationis egentes despectare procul trepidosque obitumque timentes sic exhortari seriemque evolvere fati!” (Met. 15.143–152

And because a god moves my speech, with due observance I will follow the god moving my speech, and will reveal my Delphi and the upper heaven itself, and I will unlock the oracles of that august mind. I will sing of great things not traced by the genius of earlier people, things that for a long have been hidden; it will please me to go through the lofty stars, and, having left the earth and this dull dwelling, to be conveyed on a cloud, and to stand on the shoulders of might Atlas, and here and there to look down from afar upon men not standing up on their own and lacking in reason, and trembling, and fearing death, and thus to encourage them and unfold the chain of fate!

The next 300-plus lines follow in the mold of pseudo-didactic oratory, with the overlayer of vates superimposed, thus helping to justify the hexametrical framework. As with my previous

examples, this excerpt too is a carefully-blended multi-generic fusion that would be ridiculous if it weren’t actually brilliant.19

In every sense, the Metamorphoses was something entirely new: new for epic, new for

Ovid, new for Augustan Rome. It was new for Ovid in that it was his first and only departure from elegiac couplets, in which he had already written a substantial quantity of verse: 1) the five books of the Amores (49 elegiac poems on traditional themes of the genre); 2) at least most of the

21 Heroides, elegy written in epistolary form; 3) the lost tragedy Medea; 4) the mock-didactic

Ars Amatoria and 5) its sequel volume, the Remedia Amoris, and finally 6) the Medicamina

Faciei Femineae, (a treatise on women’s cosmetics). And so Ovid entered the playing field of epic with roughly twenty years of experience and a sizable output of elegy. Both the meter and the work itself are hefty in comparison with those of his previous writings: all in all, the poem weighs in at 15 books and nearly 12,000 lines. Although groundbreaking, the Metamorphoses is not totally without precedent: it is Ovid’s hat tip to Callimachus, whose Aitia comprised a series of aetiological tales and served as a convenient model for a narrative series, even though they were written in elegiac couplets rather than hexameter.20 Neoteric poets, notably Catullus, subscribed wholesale to this Alexandrian school of thought, which purported that a big poem was a bad poem, and thus avoided touching anything epic.21 But Ovid never was fully anyone’s

19 Solodow (1988) boldly claims that “at one place or another [the Metamorphoses] handles the themes and employs the tone of virtually every genre” (18).

20 Callimachus’ programmatic avoidance of big themes and grand style in the Aitia influenced Ovid; cf. Galinsky (1975:15), Thomas (2009:294–295), et al. Even in writing epic—a big poem, and thus a big evil, to Callimachus’ way of thinking—Ovid eschews the use a single, central heroic figure and/or quest. Also, both Thomas (2009:297) and Galinsky (1975:25) read in Ovid’s phrase carmen perpetuum (Met. 1.4) a direct reference to Callimachus’ ἄεισμα διηνεκές (fr. 471 Schneider). Acosta-Hughes (2009) sees Callimachean roots not only in Ovid’s nearly exclusive use of elegiac meter but also in Ovid’s sole non-elegiac undertaking: he finds Callimachean influence in the culmination of the Metamorphoses, when Aesculapius (symbolizing Greek cultural heritage) is transferred to Rome (243). See also van Tress (2004) on the use of allusion within Callimachus and Ovid.

21 King (1988:384).

disciple, instead choosing to take snippets here and there, which makes him not so much an eclectic mix of others’ writings but rather completely his own person. In the Metamorphoses, he created something new (and, by anyone else’s standards, unthinkable) by fusing the diversity of subjects found in Callimachean narrative and the sheer scope of Homeric-Vergilian stateliness

(which Callimachus rejected on principle).

This notion aligns somewhat with that of Farrell, who not only interprets the

Metamorphoses as something different from conventional epic, but further states that there would then remain two options as to generic identity of the poem: 1) it is a work composed of a primary generic backdrop (i.e., epic) upon which various other genres are occasionally splashed—an “imperfective representative” of an established class, or 2) it is a tertium quid, or something entirely new produced from its parent genres. Farrell argues for the latter, using the metaphor of Kreuzung, or biological crossing; thus the new, offspring genre retains characteristics of its parents but is classified as a new substance. As a new model for understanding the Metamorphoses, Farrell devises the concept of generic dialogue, with each constituent genre representing a different “voice” (or even a different “language”) that interacts with all the others throughout the poem; thus, according to Farrell’s theory, attempting to define the Metamorphoses in terms of a single genre would be myopic.22 While I concur with Farrell’s conclusions that the Metamorphoses is not an example of “a genre of one,” nor is even a genre for which there is a name, I would add that I see nothing inconsistent with admitting that the

Metamorphoses is a new, unnamed genre while also seeing in it overarching formal elements of epic: that is, it most closely resembles the genre of epic speaking purely in terms of its meter and mechanics.

22 Farrell (1992:237–238).

To write an epic so soon after the publication of the Aeneid implies both that there was now a set precedent for epic written in Latin (and in fact this paradigmatic poem was emblematic of the current political regime), and also that Ovid was not afraid to apply his talents to the same genre as the new national literary work. There is a dialogue between the Aeneid and the

Metamorphoses such that without the former, the latter could not have come into exist (not in the same form, at least). Without a professional rivalry of sorts, it is arguable whether Ovid would have written an epic at all, as it was the only departure from his meter of choice: this man who had spent his entire career writing in elegiac couplets now undertook the task of working with the more ponderous medium of dactylic hexameter to create something that would eventually total nearly 12,000 lines.23 Moreover, the Metamorphoses as we know it would never have been possible without Augustus both in a positive and a negative sense: Augustus’ calling for a national epic certainly contributed at least motivationally to Vergil’s creation, which in turn spurred Ovid on; also, Augustus’ censuring of Ovid’s earlier works for their salacious undertones drew a line for Ovid past which it was not prudent to venture. For a poem that was supposed to be for all times (and indeed has endured up to our own times), it is just as much as product not only of its time but also of its author’s circumstances. Moreover, although it engages in dialogue with the Aeneid, it is hardly the same type of poem, and to apply the strictures of Vergilian epic

23 Heinze’s (1919) pioneering study has done much to shape our understanding the of elegiac-epic distinctions in Ovid; his scholarly treatment of Met. and Fasti versions of the same story (particularly that of Proserpina/Persephone and Ceres) illustrates a difference of style due above all to the limitations of each respective genre; in brief, he argues that elegy speaks in a softer, more emotional tone, while epic takes on a more powerful, awe-inspiring form. His ideas find new life and subtlety in Hinds (1987), who in his second to last chapter posits that Ovid’s elegiac and epic Persephone accounts each represent a mutually dependent paradigm of their own generic conventions, while still admitting of some generic crossover (199–214). Otis (2010) too picks up on Heinze and adds clarity by suggesting that rigid generic expectations according to meter did not exist in Callimachus’ Greek models but came about only in post-Gallan Rome, attributing this distinction not only to the unequal precedents for each genre and their perceived disparity of status but also to the nature of the Latin language and how it fills elegiac couplets differently from Greek, resulting in less enjambment and more independence of the couplets in Latin couplets compared with Greek ones. Thus, Otis argues, there is a built-in set of limitations for due to its metrical constraints, which Ovid had essentially perfected by the time he decided to try tackling the more free-flowing epic genre (4–44).

to the Metamorphoses is to measure for all the wrong traits. Again, I believe that the

Metamorphoses should be read as a chorus of genres, with a performative voice emerging as the strongest.

An Ongoing Debate

The Metamorphoses has been a perennial hot topic in Latin literature, as has its author: even during his lifetime, Ovid had a substantial following, and despite the fact that the

Metamorphoses was unfinished (defuit et scriptis ultima lima meis, Tr. 1.7.30), Ovid tells us in the Tristia that his epic had attracted readers prior to his exile, and in fact there were multiple copies of the text in circulation:

quae quotiens spectas, subeat tibi dicere forsan ‘quam procul a nobis Naso sodalis abest!’ grata tua est pietas, sed carmina maior imago sunt mea, quae mando qualiacumque legas, carmina mutatas hominum dicentia formas, infelix domini quod fuga rupit opus. haec ego discedens, sicut bene multa meorum, ipse mea posui maestus in igne manu. utque cremasse suum fertur sub stipite natum Thestias et melior matre fuisse soror, sic ego non meritos mecum peritura libellos imposui rapidis viscera nostra rogis: vel quod eram Musas, ut crimina nostra, perosus, vel quod adhuc crescens et rude carmen erat. quae quoniam non sunt penitus sublata, sed extant (pluribus exemplis scripta fuisse reor), nunc precor ut vivant et non ignava legentem otia delectent admoneantque mei. (Tr. 1.7.17–26)

As often as you look at these things, perhaps it should come into your mind to say: “How far from us is our friend Ovid!” Your loyal love is pleasing, but my verses are a greater image, which I entrust you to read, such as they are—verses speaking about changed forms of people, the unhappy work of an author and one which flight interrupted. Leaving them, as truly many other of my things, in sorrow I myself placed them in the fire with my own hand. As the daughter of Thestius is said to have burned her own son as embodied by a tree trunk (and thus to have been a better sister than a mother), so I placed my undeserving little volumes, my vital organs, to die with me on the quick-consuming pyre, either because I hated my Muses, as my sources of accusation, or because the poem was as yet coming into being and still unpolished. Since they were not totally destroyed

but yet survive (I think they were written down in a number of copies), now I pray that they live, and may energetic leisure delight the one reading—and may they serve as a reminder of me.

If I have selected a work about which many scholars have asked and answered many questions, written by an author just as frequently debated, I am able to justify my choice by pointing to the fact that the Metamorphoses is rich enough to afford yet further scrutiny; that is, not yet has every possible reading of the text been exhausted. Proof of this is readily evident: simply looking at the lack of consensus as to the nature of the Metamorphoses, despite the scholarly efforts of many years and countless individuals, demonstrates a tension generated at multiple, opposing points. Yet if we do not agree as to what the Metamorphoses is, then it seems unlikely that we will be able to agree on much beyond that. Indeed, this is one of the only things Ovidian scholars can agree on in the case of the Metamorphoses: that is, there is a general admission that there is no universally satisfying definition or even explanation of its nature. This is not a condemnation of Ovidian scholars or scholarship, however: not even the ancients could agree on an objective assessment of Ovid. Indeed, sometimes they seemed not even able to form a consistent opinion of the man in their own minds. Quintilian illustrates my point:

Lascivus quidem in herois quoque Ovidius et nimium amator ingenii sui, laudandus tamen partibus. (Inst. 10.1.85)

Ovid indeed is undisciplined too in epic verses, and also too much a lover of his own genius, but praiseworthy in portions.

Such statements read very much like those of someone whose personal dislike allows for only reluctant praise for the sake of honesty. A few lines later, speaking of Ovid as elegist, Quintilian reiterates his earlier assessment of the poet as lacking in seriousness, although considering

Quintilian is trying to demonstrate the superiority of Rome elegy to Greek, his criticism of Ovid is mitigated this time:

Elegia quoque Graecos provocamus, cuius mihi tersus atque elegans maxime videtur auctor Tibullus. sunt qui Propertium malint. Ovidius utroque lascivior, sicut durior Gallus. (Inst. 10.1.93)

I also challenge the Greeks in elegy, of which Tibullus seems to me to be a particularly succinct and elegant author. There are those who would prefer Propertius. Ovid is more playful than either, just as Gallus is more serious.

And yet he cannot help but giving specific credit to Ovid’s talent where he finds it most compelling:

Ovidi Medea videtur mihi ostendere quantum ille vir praestare potuerit si ingenio suo imperare quam indulgere maluisset. (Inst. 10.1.98)

Ovid’s Medea seems to me to show how much that man could have excelled if he had preferred to master his talent rather than indulge it.

Quintilian admits to Ovid’s ingenium, but would have had him apply more discipline to his native talent. It is not Quintilian alone who has a few words of criticism for Ovid: Juvenal too was no fan, embracing what Amsler calls a “rejection of Ovid’s foolish stories.”24 He even sneaks in a pun on Ovid’s name in his fifteenth Satire:

. . . paucae sine volnere malae, vix cuiquam aut nulli toto certamine nasus integer. (Sat. 15.54–56)

Few cheeks were without a wound; scarcely anyone’s nose (or no one’s at all) comes out of the whole struggle intact. (my emphasis)

He also (passive-aggressively?) calls attention to the power of the gifted storyteller to sacrifice veracity in the name of creating a good story:

. . . attonito cum tale super cenam facinus narraret Vlixes Alcinoo, bilem aut risum fortasse quibusdam moverat ut mendax aretalogus. (Sat. 15.13–16)

24 Amsler (2001:62).

When over dinner Ulysses was relating such a crime to thunderstruck Alcinous, he had provoked either anger or perhaps laughter in certain people, as a lying teller of tall tales does.

Indeed, perhaps every objection made against Ovid’s writings hinges on a similar point: it was not that Ovid lacked talent, but rather that he misrepresented the truth either by outright distortion of facts, by directing the readers’ attention away from reality, or, as Juvenal highlights above, by giving cues at odds with each other (which Anderson calls “ambiguities of effect”25).

These readers, now thoroughly confused, cannot not be certain as to how they should react; hence, some are angry, some amused by the same passage because of deliberate, complicated emotional cross-coding. The passage I have cited is but one instance of many: throughout

Juvenal’s entire poem there are copious Ovidian allusions and distortions, making it clear that

Juvenal has no qualms about undercutting his fellow poet on such charges, particularly as extends to the Metamorphoses.26 I believe that one of the primary reasons for such objections against Ovid’s works is their complex, multi-generic nature, and conversely that a greater understanding of their generic interplay will yield an appreciation for the subtlety required to blend together such a nuanced generic palette.

In times following Quintilian and Juvenal, Ovid’s works went through a period of mistrust and obscurity, although his star never completely faded: for instance, the seventh- century bishop Isidore of Seville referred to Ovid as the one pagan poet who must be avoided, but then goes on to quote him twenty times.27 Some Christian authors of the mid-to-late Empire

25 Anderson (1998:18).

26 Ehrhardt (2014) reads Juvenal as an aggressive kind of literary accretion: “Juvenal's repeated allusions to perverted feasts in Ovid are themselves a variety of cannibalism, in this case a literary one in which satire gorges on and surpasses epic itself” (8). I would add that this fits within Farrell’s concept of “dialogue of genres”: the “voice” of satire drowns out (or devours) that of epic.

27 Hall (1927:151–152).

were wary not just of Ovid, but of poetry in general: Lactantius (third to fourth century) cautions against reading too much beautifully-wrought literature:

Carmen autem compositum, et oratio cum suavitate decipiens, capit mentes, et quo voluerit impellit. Inde homines litterati cum ad Dei religionem accesserint, si non fuerint ab aliquo perito doctore fundati, minus credunt. Assueti enim dulcibus et politis sive orationibus, sive carminibus, divinarum litterarum simplicem communemque sermonem pro sordido aspernantur. Id enim quaerunt, quod sensum demulceat. Persuadet autem quidquid suave est, et animo penitus, dum delectat, insidit. Num igitur Deus et mentis, et vocis, et linguae artifex diserte loqui non potest? Imo vero summa providentia carere fuco voluit ea quae divina sunt, ut omnes intelligerent quae ipse omnibus loquebatur. (De Aurium Voluptatibus 21.1)

But well-crafted poetry, and oratory beguiling with pleasantness, captivates minds, and compels where it wishes. Thence well-read people, when they have come to the religion of God, if they not have been formed by some experienced teacher, believe less. For those who are used to sweet and polished writings, whether oratory or poetry, write off as base the simple and mundane speech of divine literature. For they seek that which would caress the senses. On the other hand, whatever is pleasant, is persuasive, and resides deep within the mind while it delights. Surely God then, the maker of the mind, the voice, and language is not unable to speak eloquently? On the contrary, divine providence willed those things that are divine to be lacking in pretence, so that all might understand what He Himself was saying to all.

St. Jerome’s famous letter to Eustochium28 and St. Augustine’s equally celebrated passage on his attachment to Book 4 of the Aeneid29 echo this sentiment that the best poetry pulls hard at the

28 In this letter to Eustochium, a high-born young Roman lady who decided to pursue a life of asceticism, St. Jerome admits his deep fascination with Classical literature. Because he was drawn to the ancients so much so that he felt repulsion at the style of Scripture, St. Jerome decried this reaction in himself as an inordinate attachment: Itaque miser ego lecturus Tullium ieiunabam; post noctium crebras vigilias, post lacrimas, quas mihi praeteritorum recordatio peccatorum ex imis visceribus eruebat, Plautus sumebatur in manibus. Si quando in memet reversus prophetam legere coepissem, sermo horrebat incultus, et quia lumen caecis oculis non videbam, non oculorum putabam culpam esse, sed solis (And so I in my wretchedness used to fast as I was about to read Cicero; after frequent wakefulness at night, after tears, which the recollection of my past sins was causing to rush forth from the deepest fibers of my being, Plautus used to be taken up in my hands. If at any time when I, having returned to my senses, began to read the Prophet, his unrefined language caused me to bristle, and because I with my blind eyes was not seeing the light, I thought that it was not the fault of my eyes, but of the sun.), Ep. 22.30.

29 Quid enim miserius misero non miserante se ipsum et flente Didonis mortem, quae fiebat amando Aenean, non flente autem mortem suam, quae fiebat non amando te, deus, lumen cordis mei et panis oris intus animae meae et virtus maritans mentem meam et sinum cogitationis meae” (Confessions 1.13.20) (For what is more wretched than a wretch not lamenting himself, and one weeping over the death of Dido, which was caused by loving Aeneas, but not weeping over his own death, which was caused by not loving you, o God, the light of my heart and the bread of the mouth of my soul within me, and the strength marrying my mind and the bosom of my thought?).

emotions, possibly to the neglect of higher things that are expressed with less artistry; in short, poetry that is too alluring, too entertaining, is a dangerous thing when its influence is not tempered by faithfulness to the less pleasant but more practical demands of one’s state in life. I believe that this outlook contributed in some degree over the course of several centuries to keeping Ovid from staying at the top of the list of celebrated ancient authors, as his poetry is as captivating as it is accessible.

On the other hand, it would be a gross generalization to suggestion that there were no

Christian authors who approved of Ovid, much less classical poetry as a whole. For one thing, the examples above from St. Jerome and St. Augustine are not outright condemnations of literary pursuit but rather admissions of personal failings: Jerome, turning up his nose at the unsophisticated authors of the Old Testament, took up time reading Plautus when he had the

Scriptures to translate, while Augustine cried over Dido’s fate but could not be bothered to align his way of living with his beliefs. Yet it seems that in the centuries immediately following, these texts and other similar ones were read through a black and white filter. Moreover, louder voices of criticism, such as Lactantius, drowned out Ovidian supporters. And yet a time when there was a chorus of anti-Ovidian voices, Aimeric, a grammarian of the eleventh century, in his Ars

Lectoria described Ovid one of the nine golden auctores, or pagan authors superior to others described in terms of baser metals.30 Further into the Middle Ages, Ovid enjoyed a greater resurgence in popularity, his Metamorphoses being particularly celebrated. Works like the thirteenth-century “Vulgate Commentary” on the Metamorphoses reflected a renewed interest in the subject matter, authorial intention, and method of writing used in the work; the Commentary itself refers to multiple medieval authors who drew from Ovid, including Walter of Chatillon,

30 Binns (2014:193).

Alan of Lille, and Bartholomeus Anglicus.31 Thus, Ovid was fashionable once again. Indeed, in the nineteenth century Ludwig Traube, the first chair of medieval Latin philology at the

University of Munich, dubbed the eighth and ninth centuries the aetas Vergiliana, the tenth and eleventh the aetas Horatiana, and the twelfth and thirteenth the aetas Ovidiana.32

Even during the height of its popularity around this time, the Metamorphoses seemed to be practically all things to all people: attempts to allegorize the epic and coat it with a Christian veneer by converting it into a series of moralizing cautionary tales were considerable (and often far-fetched), as were some of the admonitory directives issued to medieval readers of Ovid. Form and substance deviated so greatly from the original epic that these loose adaptations really were no longer Ovidian. This was the age of L’Ovide Moralisé, a fourteenth-century French adaptation of the Metamorphoses. More than 70,000 lines of poetry treated myths that to the unknown author seemed to illustrate some virtue, vice, or event of religious importance. For example, Apollo’s pursuit of Daphne and her subsequent metamorphosis into a laurel tree featured in L’Ovide Moralisé as an image of the Annunciation: Daphne’s wish to pledge herself to Diana was presented as an allegory in the Incarnation of Christ through the agency of the Holy

Spirit.33 There was also a Latin reboot of the Metamorphoses, it too from the fourteenth century, called quite similarly Ovidius Moralizatus, part of a larger work (Reductiorum Morale) written by Benedictine monk Pierre Bersuire. This contained exegetical remarks on the morality of certain Ovidian myths and was intended to be a reference book for sermon preparation, as each tale highlighted something good and praiseworthy or something wicked and condemnable—

31 Coulson (2007:58).

32 Hexter (2002:413).

33 Coulson (2007:72).

convenient subjects for preaching. For example, Bersuire finds in the story of Callisto an admonition against choosing friends of dubious moral fiber:

The son, Arcas, can signify carnal and worldly friends intent on hunting—that is acquiring—because it is today’s way of doing things that when a man has been changed into a beast—that is made poor—his own son—that is his false, carnal friends—forgets him and disdains to know him.34

As was common during the Middle Ages, Bersuire presented the various myths of the

Metamorphoses in episodic fashion; the reader would be expected to read just one story at a time and meditate on the truth-as-allegory featured therein. Against possible objections to using examples from pagan literature in sermons, Bersuire turned to the Second Epistle of St. Paul to

Timothy as an argument for using fables to elucidate truth: that those with “itching ears”

(prurientes auribus) would turn away from the truth and toward fables (ad fabulas autem convertentur).35 So extensive and fanciful were these fervent attempts to baptize Ovid that the common reception of the Metamorphoses was as an allegory: Hardin sums up the medieval attitude toward the Metamorphoses:

From the first centuries of the Christian empire, when he was almost unread, Ovid rose in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries to great prestige as a covert Christian who had written erotic lyrics and fables in order to convey sacred doctrine and moral wisdom. For the grammaticus who interpreted this medieval Ovid, each myth in the Metamorphoses yielded a moral significance: Narcissus was worldly pride fading like a flower; the three heads of Cerberus were the three elements (air, earth, and water) to which our bodies return after death; Venus tried to keep Adonis from hunting because “luxurye wolde be ydle, and reccheth not of travayll.”36

34 Fumo (2014:119–120) points out that Ovidius Moralizatus was even more widely read than L’Ovide Moralisé, and greatly influenced mythography of the late Medieval and early Renaissance periods.

35 2 Tim. 4:3–4, via Ginsburg (1989:222). See too Fumo (2014:120).

36 Hardin (1972:45).

The Renaissance too celebrated Ovid and the Metamorphoses. In Erasmus, there are probably too many examples of Ovidian allusions to count.37 Shakespeare himself drew from plenty of Ovidian source material and was viewed even by his contemporaries as a Renaissance incarnation of Ovid. I will discuss the topic of Ovidian Nachleben at length in Chapter 5, but at this point in my paper, I will simply reiterate what at the end of the sixteenth century Francis

Meres said of Shakespeare: “The sweet wittie soule of Ovid lives again in mellifluous and honey-tongued Shakespeare; witness his Venus and Adonis, his Lucrece, his sugared sonnets about his private friends.”38 Even in the latter part of the Renaissance, Ovid still remained an influential literary figure: in his old age, Milton delighted in reading the Metamorphoses more than any other work of Latin literature.39

The fact that Ovid metamorphosed, as it were, into so many radically different forms over time is additional bolstering to my claim of its multi-generic nature, and it is precisely because of this nature that the question of how best to read Ovid has been asked so many times. While it may seem to be a matter of trivial concern, there are convincing reasons to consider the modus legendi as something of greater consequence than simply artistic caprice. Richard Hardin (1972) even lists the prevalent manner of reading at the end of the seventeenth century as one of the chief causes of the decline of Ovid’s popularity in England at that time40; if we agree with him, then we must concede that reading Ovid “incorrectly” can result in a diminishing of his modern

37 Erasmus mentions Ovid by name as both objectively important and a source of inspiration to him personally (cf. De Ratione Studii, Ciceronianus, etc.).

38 As quoted in Spiller (1992:222).

39 Martindale (1985:301). On the other hand, it seems Dryden was a rather harsh critic of Ovid, even finding fault with his metrical command (302).

40 Hardin (1972) states that Ovid’s downward trend at this time stems “first [from] the way of reading Ovid which the seventeenth century inherited from the Middle Ages, and second [from] the changing notion of imagination and its place in poetry” (45).

readership. Indeed, as I have already suggested, the pigeonholed, episodic manner of reading the assorted myths corresponded with a complete distortion of the original identity of the

Metamorphoses. But if reading each myth as its own isolated installment fails to explain the nature of the whole, then we have established merely how not to read the text; it still remains for us to crack the semiotic code. While it may be a convenience for readers to distill the poem to a single compositional formula, the use value of this attitude is limited strictly to organizational convenience if at the heart of Ovid’s art there is a tremendous desire to conceal his art. In other words, Ovid exercises his full artistic capabilities to stitch together the story-patches of the epic tapestry using invisible seams. Moreover, Ovid has done his best to conceal not only the transitional seams but also the generic ones: that is, he veils points of intersection or dialogue between two or more genres.

One practical question then is what exactly the organizational framework of the

Metamorphoses indicates as to the best way of reading the work. The method of arrangement is not clear-cut and has been much contested, but understanding how Ovid positioned the stories in relation with each other speaks directly, if not completely, to authorial intention. Firstly, to crack the code of Ovid’s outline with any degree of efficiency, we must engage in the disorienting task of ignoring those transitional devices that are witty and colorful: in other words, those elements that are most iconically Ovidian. They are also the elements that conceal the virtual seams of the tapestry that is the Metamorphoses, and are often marked by images of anger, violence, flight, and the like. Sometimes Ovid completes the transition through meandering but clever means, as in the connecting portion of the text between the case of judgment presented to Tiresias and the first appearance of Narcissus. After relating the incineration of Semele and subsequent birth of

Bacchus, Ovid directs his creative energies to what is essentially a stereotype of a domestic

scene: Jupiter and Juno argue over whether men or women derive more pleasure from sex. Since they are unable to come to an agreement themselves, they consult Tiresias—the logical arbitrator of the debate since he had been transformed into a woman at one time, and had lived in female form for seven years. From here, Ovid undertakes the task of beginning the tale of Narcissus, which on its surface has no connection with anything that has just transpired:

at pater omnipotens (neque enim licet inrita cuiquam facta dei fecisse deo) pro lumine adempto scire futura dedit poenamque levavit honore. ille per Aonias fama celeberrimus urbes inreprehensa dabat populo responsa petenti; prima fide vocisque ratae temptamina sumpsit caerula Liriope, quam quondam flumine curvo inplicuit clausaeque suis Cephisos in undis vim tulit: enixa est utero pulcherrima pleno infantem nymphe, iam tunc qui posset amari, Narcissumque vocat. de quo consultus, an esset tempora maturae visurus longa senectae, fatidicus vates ‘si se non noverit’ inquit. (Met. 3.336–448)

But the almighty father (for it was not permitted to any god to have made the deeds of a god void) in return for the loss of [Tiresias’] sight, gave him the power to know future things and lightened his torment with honor. Tiresias, most renowned in fame throughout the Aonian cities, was giving irreproachable answers to the people asking him; the first to undertake a test of his credibility and his prediction was cerulean Liriope, whom Cephisos once enfolded in his winding current and brought force against her closed up in his waves. The most beautiful nymph gave birth at full term to an infant, who even then could be loved; she called him Narcissus. Having been consulted about him as to whether he would see the long years of a ripe old age, the fate-speaking seer said, “If he will not come to know himself.”

In order to appreciate how great a leap Ovid has to make to interpolate Narcissus at this stage in the text, we can recall how the journey of Cadmus kicked off Book 3. After he kills the giant snake (which he does not realize was sacred to Mars), he hears a prophetic voice telling of his future transformation into a snake. The other tales in Book 3 somehow relate to Cadmus and the downfall of the House of Thebes: the sad fates of Actaeon (Cadmus’ grandson) and Semele (his daughter) immediately follow Cadmus’ founding of Thebes. In a bit of a digression from the

Semele tragedy, Ovid interweaves the tale of Tiresias’ metamorphosis into a woman and subsequent restoration to his original sex. He then digresses from the digression, saying that

Tiresias made prophecies to several individuals, including the naiad Liriope, the mother of

Narcissus. Additionally, Ovid uses this embedded digression as an opportunity to have Tiresias prophecy about the destruction of Pentheus, who, because he is a grandson of Cadmus, easily leads back to the original Cadmean thread of narration. Of course, the theme of prophecy was introduced at the original prophecy spoken by the unknown voice after Cadmus killed the snake; it concludes in Book 4 at the fulfillment of that prophecy. This sequence is essentially a perfect ring composition, and almost a mini epic unto itself.

Yet this is just one of Ovid’s transitional adventures. Quintilian broaches this subject in discussing how the orator should state his point and make his transitions in a speech, cautioning him against too many verbal pyrotechnics for the sake of garnering laughter or eliciting awe:

Quotiens autem prohoemio fuerimus usi, tum sive ad expositionem transibimus sive protinus ad probationem, id debebit in principio postremum esse cui commodissime iungi initium sequentium poterit. Illa vero frigida et puerilis est in scholis adfectatio, ut ipse transitus efficiat aliquam utique sententiam et huius velut praestigiae plausum petat, ut Ovidius lascivire in Metamorphosesin solet; quem tamen excusare necessitas potest, res diversissimas in speciem unius corporis colligentem… (Inst. 4.1.76)

But as often as we have made use of the introduction, whether we will then pass over to the exposition or straightaway to the demonstration, there will be an obligation at the beginning for there to be the last bit in the opening that to which the start of the things that follow will be able to be joined very readily. There indeed is a dull and childish affectation in the schools such that the transition itself should necessarily work out some pithy statement and in the same way should seek applause for this trick; Ovid is accustomed to indulge in this license in the Metamorphoses. But necessity can excuse him, since he was gathering together very diverse episodes into a semblance of one body of work.

Although he is speaking of oratory, Quintilian goes out of his way to give Ovid, who was hardly an orator (and who, as we have seen, was hardly Quintilian’s favorite author), a free pass for his

flashy transitions simply because of the skill with which he organized his vast and diverse material. Williams views the mechanics of the Metamorphoses as something totally original:

This is a new kind of poetry: a reader can take it up at any point, and, provided he is careful to identify the beginning of an episode, he can read without needing to know what has preceded—in fact, straight progress through the work is probably the worst way to treat it; its essential lack of unity breeds tedium.41

And so Williams plants himself firmly in the Metamorphoses-as-episodic camp. Others read

Ovid’s proemic boast of his epic as carmen perpetuum in a much more literal sense: Wheeler asserts that many of the stories recounted in the Metamorphoses are incapable of being read as stand-alone pieces: in fact, he devotes the entirety of a book to reading the carmen perpetuum as a coherent, interdependent whole.42 My reading is aligned much more closely to Wheeler’s than that of Williams, whose evident impatience with the “tedium” of reading too much of the text in a single sitting may well stem from the fact that his reading is more distanced: he does not view the Metamorphoses as performative. In any case, in this poem devoted to change (both of established generic conventions and of its own “rules” the further it progresses) I read a deliberate promise of thematic continuity the very nature of which is lack of continuity. In the words of Barbara Weiden Boyd, “Attempts to isolate a dominant and central theme or pattern in the poem have therefore of necessity faltered, because Ovid makes it clear from the outset that any attempt to find a dominant theme, whether in a book, or a group of books, or a certain percentage of the poem, invites self-subversion.”43 And yet I believe that we can isolate within

41 Williams (1978:247).

42 Wheeler (1999) states: “The purpose of this book is to establish a new basis upon which to read the Metamorphoses as a carmen perpetuum”—the theme which he later unfolds to be a fictive viva-voce performance, with the audience playing the part of the audience and relying on an “underlying fictional framework of the poet reciting his work before an audience from beginning to end” (2–4). I am indebted to Wheeler’s reading of the text as performative.

43 Boyd (2006:172).

the poem a dominant voice: that of comedy, which, like Ovid throughout the Metamorphoses, dashes expectations and revels in over-the-top behavior.44

Epic Fail?

We must concede that the Metamorphoses has an epic framework because of its recognizable participation in the literary convention proper to the genre: that is, it is written in dactylic hexameter, has a proem, features the gods, and has aspects of heroism. Beyond these characteristics of epic, the Metamorphoses also possesses a host of other characteristics from a wealth of genres, and so the question arises as to whether the Metamorphoses is multiple genres at the same time or a cohesive, individualized form.

In an attempt to answer this question, I have explained many ways in which the

Metamorphoses is atypical by demonstrating what it is not (that is, a conventional epic). Having both established this fact and teased out several of the genres or voices represented within the

Metamorphoses, now I will proceed 1) to outline in greater depth how these voices interact and

2) to illuminate ways in which comedy manifests itself as the dominant genre or lead voice within the context of a polyphonic, multi-generic poem.

44 See Sharrock (2009:66) and Segal (1968:10–12).

CHAPTER 2 THEATRICAL ELEMENTS IN THE METAMORPHOSES

Having established already that the Metamorphoses does not check all the boxes for a conventional epic, I will now explore 1) how Ovid nevertheless respected the essential elements of epic and indeed produced in the Metamorphoses a poetic work on a grand scale that meets most of the basic criteria of epic poetry, and 2) on the other hand how he deviated from a few previously-established epic conventions, replacing them with new and unexpected features and grafting into his poem elements from other genres, particularly comedy. In order to do so, I will outline reader expectations based on standard features of the epic genre, and will show that the reality often instead corresponds with comic convention. Additionally, I will catalog comic features such as stage cues, stock characters, and recognition of (and reliance upon) an audience as they occur in the Metamorphoses.

What’s Proem is Prologue: Theatrical Openings

Ovid’s ability to say so much in so short a space as the four-line proem of the

Metamorphoses can be likened to the exordium, or introduction, of an oration. Cicero firmly establishes the importance of the exordium, by which the speaker is to gain the trust and attention of the listeners:

Exordium est oratio animum auditoris idonee comparans ad reliquam dictionem: quod eveniet, si eum benivolum, attentum, docilem confecerit. Quare qui bene exordiri causam volet, eum necesse est genus suae causae diligenter ante cognoscere . . . . Quare cum tam diversa sint genera causarum, exordiri quoque dispari ratione in uno quoque dispari ratione in uno quoque genere necesse est. Igitur exordium in duas partes dividitur, in principium et insinuationem. Principium est oratio perspicue et protinus perficiens auditorem benivolum aut docilem aut attentum. Insinuatio est oratio quadam dissimulatione et circumitione obscure subiens auditoris animum. (De Inv. 1.20)

The exordium is an address suitably preparing the mind of the listener for the rest of the speech, which will come about if he will have rendered him well-disposed, attentive, and receptive. For this reason, it is necessary for one who will wish his cause to be begun well to learn diligently the type of his cause beforehand. For this reason, since the kinds

of causes are so wide-ranging, it is also necessary to begin in a distinct manner in each and every distinct type. Therefore, the exordium is divided into two parts: the beginning and the enticement. The beginning is the address transparently and immediately rendering the listener well-disposed or receptive or attentive. The enticement is the address suggesting itself subtly to the mind of the listener with a certain concealment and indirectness.

And so the chief concern in drafting an effective introduction is a psychological one: preparing the mind of the listener for the entirety of what follows.1 Cicero further imparts how to render one’s listeners benivoli, attenti, and dociles:

Ab auditorum persona benivolentia captabitur, si res ab iis fortiter, sapienter, mansuete gestae proferentur, ut ne qua assentatio nimia significetur, si de iis quam honesta existimatio quantaque eorum iudicii et auctoritatis exspectatio sit ostendetur. Ab rebus, si nostram causam laudando extollemus, adversariorum causam per contemptionem deprimemus. Attentos autem faciemus, si demonstrabimus ea, quae dicturi erimus, magna, nova, incredibilia esse, aut ad omnes aut ad eos, qui audient, aut ad aliquos inlustres homines aut ad deos inmortales aut ad summam rem publicam pertinere; et si pollicebimur nos brevi nostram causam demonstraturos atque exponemus iudicationem aut iudicationes, si plures erunt. Dociles auditores faciemus, si aperte et breviter summam causae exponemus, hoc est, in quo consistat controversia. Nam et, cum docilem velis facere, simul attentum facias oportet. Nam is est maxime docilis, qui attentissime est paratus audire. (De Inv. 1.23)

From the character of the listeners will goodwill be procured, if the exploits will be brought forth by them bravely, wisely, and graciously in such a way that no excessive flattery be intimated, if concerning them it is made clear how honorable their esteem is, and how great an awaiting of their judgment and authority there is. Or from the matters themselves, if we will extol our cause by means of praising, and disparage the cause of our opponents through contempt. But we shall make our listeners attentive if we will demonstrate that those things that we are about to say are important, new, and incredible, and either that they pertain to all people or to those who will be listening, or to some illustrious people, or to the immortal gods, or to the greatest interests of the republic, and if we will promise that we will demonstrate our cause briefly and if we will explain the judgement or judgments (if there are more than one). We will render them receptive listeners if we will plainly and briefly set forth the sum of our cause, that is, wherein the dispute lies. For when you wish to make your listener receptive, it is also fitting that you make him attentive. For he is especially receptive who is prepared to listen most attentively.

1 cf. Aristotle’s Rhetoric 3.14 and Topics 25.97, as well as Cicero’s De Inventione 1.15–18 and De Oratore 2.78–80. See too Ad Herennium 1.4.6–1.7.11 and Quintilian’s Institutio Oratoria 4.11 for additional, similar explications on the nature of the exordium.

In this respect, epic and oratory share a common goal, for the effective opening specific to each must gain the goodwill of its audience members.2 As in oratory, the opening, or proem, of epic poetry, regardless of any ensuing memorable moments (including the very final lines), must grab hold of readers’ minds and emotions in a way that only a first impression can. It seems natural then that, given the singularly powerful impact of the words occupying this space in the text, there should be some conventions and prescriptions surrounding the proem, and a quick perusal of epic proems in Greek and Latin precedent texts reveals this to be true. The Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Aeneid all launch with an iconic introduction that brings the theme before the audience straightaway. For example, Homer’s μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω Ἀχιλῆος of the Iliad unfolds as well the theme (Achilles’ rage) and also arrives at the muse’s invocation before the end of the first line; in the Odyssey, ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα, πολύτροπον speaks to a clever, many-faceted protagonist in Odysseus and as well invokes the muse; finally, Vergil’s arma virumque cano unveils a war story of massive scope featuring psychological drama and following an individual character.3 The narratorial voice, detached from time and space, chants out a prescribed formula that involves thematic focus, minimal backstory, and invocation of the muses; at its conclusion, the epic narrator proceeds to launch in medias res into the story proper.4

2 The most comprehensive English-language source specifically on the Ciceronian exordium is Cerutti (1996), who sees it as means of heightening the dramatic appeal of the speech and determining what persona the orator should use to influence the emotions of the audience and to shape their reception of the oration. Prill (1986) is also concerned with the function of the exordium in Cicero, which he says is chiefly to secure the good will of the listeners (94). Similarly, Myers (1994) finds similarities in the proem of the Metamorphoses to those of the didactic poetry of Hesiod, Aratus, and Nicander (5–6); such similarities would indicate a closer interaction with and reliance upon a readership/audience than the larger, grander themes of Homeric or even Vergilian epic, putting Ovid’s epic closer to oratory in terms of second-person interaction. As far as Ovid’s background in oratory, see Seneca the Elder (Controversiae 2.2.8–12), who speaks of young Ovid’s excellence in oratory among his school-age peers. 3 Of course, these are merely the first few words of their respective proems, each of which numbers under two dozen lines, and a close reading of each text certainly will yield additional understanding; however, at this point in my paper I merely wish to establish that it is in the proem that the subject of the epic is introduced. 4 As for the beginning of the Metamorphoses in particular, Heath (2011) views the proem’s “poetic simultaneity” as a device whereby Ovid announces from the very beginning his own brand of epic. His extremely close reading of the proem—he goes phrase by phrases through the four lines—focuses on Ovid’s “consistent toying with the reader’s generic expectations” (190). His meticulous combing of the text is an enlightening addition to scholarship

However, even though all of these features are common to Vergil and Homer, only some of them occur in Ovid. Instead of all the usual hallmarks of epic, Ovid chooses to replace some of them with his own poetic contrivances—and this is typical of his inventive methodology throughout the entire epic. In both the Iliad and the Odyssey, Homer calls upon the muse within the first line, while Vergil delays the invocation for a few more lines; Ovid, however, dispenses with this epic calling card entirely. Rather than invoking the muses, Ovid calls directly upon the gods in his spare four-line proem:

In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas corpora; di, coeptis (nam vos mutastis et illa) adspirate meis primaque ab origine mundi ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen. (Met. 1–4)

My mind brings me to speak of forms changed into new bodies; o gods (for you have changed them too), breathe life into my beginnings and from the origin of the world down to my times, draw forth my perpetual song.

Immediately we see that something new is happening structurally and content-wise. The enjambed positioning of “corpora” in line 2 is, on a micro-level, the first indication that change has already taken place, for the it requires the reader the reader to re-think the syntax of the first line, which without “corpora” would have had us read about forms changed into new things—he first of countless instances in which Ovid plays with reader expectation. Truly it is a grammatical form that has been changed into a new semantic substance, as well as the first hint of comic

on the proem of the Metamorphoses. Invaluable too is Barchiesi’s (2002) evaluation of Ovid’s narrative technique; characterizing the Metamorphoses as a poem “mostly about narrative” (181), he presents it as a paradigm for narrative construction and an ideal introduction to narratology. Also see Rosati (2002), who in analysing Ovid’s narrative technique reads the text as exceptionally self-reflective and views its mise-en-abyme as problematic, for from the beginning the primary narrator “refuses his own centrality as well as authorial control of voice and meaning” (304); he concludes that Ovid’s mode of narration contributes to a destabilization of the text and obscuring of what is true by intentionally casting doubt on the reliability of the narrators.

appropriation, for this dramatic use of hyperbaton also participates in the trope of disguise and revelation (which I will explore subsequently in this chapter).5

In short, it is not until after the explanatory nam that the reader finally has proof that the

Metamorphoses has an epic structure; Ovid claims at this point that the gods have changed his intended opening, thus already “proving” that the work is the product of divine inspiration. Thus the theme of change applies likewise to the structure of the text as a whole, seeing that the form of the Metamorphoses (dactylic hexameter) is changed into a new type, or body, of literature.

This change in literary form comes in part from the fact that there are two sources of inspiration implied in the first lines of the Metamorphoses. The first is Ovid’s mind (animus) that prompts him to undertake the work in the first place; only after his mind spurs him on does he call upon a higher source (di) to inspire what he has already begun on his own (coeptis . . . adspirate meis).

This is proemically novel in that there is more than one inspiring voice, but also because Ovid appeals secondarily to the gods rather than the muses, as was traditional.

However unprecedented as this opening is for epic, nevertheless search for a similar description of the creative process does yield at least two parallels. Firstly, this motif of subject matter changed through divine agency is also similar to the prologue of Plautus’ Amphitryo, in which Mercury announces to the audience that the play they are about to see is a tragic one; then, reacting to and/or anticipating an outcry at such an evidently disappointing prospect, Mercury lets the people know that he therefore will alter the nature and outcome of the play:

quid? contraxistis frontem, quia tragoediam dixi futuram hanc? deus sum, commutavero. (52–53)

5 Additionally, the formulation of the first two lines is an inversion of the ploy Ovid used in Amores 1.1: whereas in his earlier work Ovid led the reader to think he was going to write in dactylic hexameter and then at the last moment revealed the second line’s identity as pentameter, here Ovid begins as he normally would begin any of his elegiac couplets (i.e., with a line of hexameter), and continues as far as he can, metrically speaking, before metamorphosing the meter into that of epic.

What? Have you furrowed your brows because I’ve said that this will be a tragedy? I’m a god; I will have changed it.

Divine inspiration for what follows is implied by the above lines, which I will discuss in greater detail later in this chapter. As far as similarities in language, I read the first of Ovid’s two sources of inspiration (i.e., his animus) as a hat tip to the prologue of Terence’s Andria, which begins as it often does with oblique reference to an older rival playwright who evidently made Terence’s artistic life somewhat challenging:

Poeta quom primum ad scribendum animum adpulit id sibi negoti credidit solum dari, populo ut placerent quas fecisset fabulas. (Andr. 1–3)

When the poet first directed his mind to writing, he believed that this was the only bit of business given to him: that what stories he should make up might please the people.

Considering the similarities in word choice between this line of Terence and the first line of the

Metamorphoses along with the similarities in the prologue of the Amphitryo, I am drawn to read

Ovid’s opening as his first nod to comic theatre—his grand entrance on the stage, as it were.6

Ovid’s proem encompasses both epic and comic elements in that it is a midway point between the conventionally-recognized direct inspiration of the muses upon the epic poet as instrument or vates and the more or less total authorial independence of the comic playwright: in the Terence line above, the poet turns his own mind to writing, rather than calling upon Muses, gods, or

6 Germany (2013) reads the prologue of the Andria as the announcement of a “quiet revolution” (225) in Roman literature in that it the first known instance of a comic prologue’s use of scribere in describing the function of the playwright, allying it more with explicitly with literature than with non-literary performing arts. Similarly, I believe Ovid uses his proem to herald a comparable shift from traditional epic to a type of epic featuring the language of comic performance. Goldberg (1983b) also sees novelty in both content and style in the Andria’s prologue. In fact, he finds similarity between the prologue of the Andria and the speeches of Cato; however, it is important to note that this resemblance, as Goldberg argues, is indicative of “adapting oratorical techniques to dramatic requirements” (206), thus impacting the development of both drama and oratory rather than forging a political presence (as I shall demonstrate later in this chapter, the comedy of Plautus and Terence steers clear of political controversy). Thus, Terence’s prologue implements an innovative, accretive technique wherein features of multiple genres are evident— just as I propose Ovid does in the proem of the Metamorphoses; Papaioannou (2014) holds a similar position (143). For more on Terence’s innovation in the prologue of the Andria and its impact especially on oratory, see Manuwald (2014); for more on the Andria’s dramatic Nachleben, see Brown (2014) and Smith (2015:402–403).

another other external source of inspiration, while Ovid acknowledges both his own mind and the inspiration of the gods as causal forces of his work. In this sense, Ovid’s proem hovers somewhere between a conventional epic proem and the prologue to a comedy. Sharrock too notes a similarity in language7 but does not assert that this is either conscious or significant; I aver that it is both.

Similarities beyond word choice exist in both works, as a close look at the next few lines in the Andria—and their context—will demonstrate:

verum aliter evenire multo intellegit; nam in prologis scribundis operam abutitur, non qui argumentum narret sed qui malevoli veteris poetae maledictis respondeat. (4–7)

But he understands that things are turning out much differently [than he expected]. For in writing prologues he is wasting his time, not so that he may relate the subject matter but that he may respond to the abusive words of a malevolent old poet.

The “malevolent old poet” in question is Luscius Lanuvinus, a rival playwright who evidently devoted much energy to criticizing Terence8; in turn, Terence directly replies to these attacks in a number of his plays’ prologues. Thus, he uses the prologue of the Andria not to further the argumentum as was conventional but to answer the charges of an adversary, as he plainly states; a further parallel emerges then with the Metamorphoses, which without announcing so defies convention and responds to hostile criticism of a public figure. Both Ovid and Terence in their respective lines were introducing a work written later in their careers. Both authors were

7 Sharrock (2009:80). As for other scholars who read Ovid’s proem in a performative light, Lada-Richards (2013) presents a case for reading the proemic nova corpora not only as a reference to new generic possibility but also as an allusion to pantomime dancing, both of which she finds focus their gaze on the “staged, dancing body” (105). Her performance-centered reading of the Metamorphoses aligns with my own reading; however, as I shall outline later in this chapter, I find in the Metamorphoses more similarities with comedy than the other performative media of Ovid’s day. Anderson (1996) sees the proem as indicating an “instability of form” (150) whereby Ovid aims “to surprise and tantalize his audience” (151), thus underscoring the status of the Metamorphoses as a performative text from the earliest lines.

8 It is possible that he even devoted entire prologues to ripping into Terence, according to Garton (1971:28).

composing their current subjects as self-defense in the face of criticisms leveled against them,

Terence’s from the “malevolent old poet,” and Ovid’s from Augustus after the princeps had articulated his displeasure at the Ars Amatoria. In both cases, it was poetic genius defending that same genius, proving that their artistic integrity was beyond reproach.9

Ovid’s proem also fulfills Cicero’s criteria (outlined in De Inventione) for an effective exordium as I have presented earlier in this chapter. The subject matter is ideal for gaining the attention of the listeners, as a poem covering thematic ground from the beginning of the world up to the author’s own times certainly promises to relate events that are magna, nova, and incredibilia. It also renders the listeners receptive (dociles) by plainly and briefly (aperte et breviter) setting forth the theme. Finally, it makes them well-disposed (benivoli) for what follows, at it implicitly promotes its own message by positive framing (nostram causam laudando extollemus): to claim for one’s poem the title of carmen perpetuum is certainly to elevate it to lofty heights. Whether this was a conscious application of rules as Cicero delineated them is immaterial, for Ovid instinctually realized what Cicero distilled into a formula: namely, that both oratory and epic are expansive, performative works, the scope of which necessitates establishing rapport (i.e., making one’s readers benivoli, attenti, and dociles) at the beginning and for the long haul.

Recognizing the Audience

As I have implied already in my discussion of Cicero’s advice for producing an effective exordium in an oration and how Ovid applies these principles to epic, another dramatic feature of

9 Beacham (1996) find differences in the function of the prologues of Plautus compared with those of Terence: Plautus’, says Beacham, are concerned with grabbing the audience’s attention so as to “induct [them] into a theatrical world” (52), while Terence’s are more concerned with presenting certain ideals of Roman comedy and also defending himself against critics, particularly Luscius Lanuvinus, his hostile rival. While I believe that Ovid’s proem more obviously incorporates those functions that Beacham associates with Plautus, I also believe (as I have suggested above) that Ovid’s proem fulfills similar purposes to Terence’s as well.

the Metamorphoses is its interaction with and dependence upon an audience. From the proem to the closing lines, Ovid plays with the reader’s horizon of expectation, anticipating certain preconceptions with the hopes of revealing them as false in the end; without the reader, there are no preconceived notions to debunk, thus necessitating a virtual audience.10 In this sense, the narrative voice is less detached from time than the conventional narrative voice in epic, for it both is aware of an audience and recognizes its own nature as participating in a creative process that will extend up to the poet’s own times. This recognition of and reliance upon a virtual audience makes the Metamorphoses practically speaking a performative piece of literature, with a particular inclination toward comedy, the nature of which Sharrock sums up boldly: “The essence of comedy is getting away with outrageous behavior.”11 If this is so, then it is difficult not to read Ovid as comic literature.

When the reader is not laughing out loud, chances are he is smiling: at times Ovid unexpectedly imputes a sense of superiority to the readers and other times plays tricks on us and/or slyly interjects false assertions, which would hardly be possible without direct interaction with the reader as a virtual audience: that is, a readership for whom Ovid creates a compelling

“fiction of viva-voce performance,” with the act of writing presented as secondary to the goal of creating a performative illusion.12 Recognition of the presence of a reader external to the framework of the text is made manifest by Ovid’s use of what Wheeler calls the “generalizing

10 See Wheeler (1999), particularly Chapter 1, for more on this; he argues that the unity and genius of the Metamorphoses does not stem from its existence as a text written on the page but rather as a living piece of performing art requiring audience participation. Other scholars have outlined the performative nature of various episodes in the Metamorphoses, including Young (2008) on Orpheus, and McNamara (2010) on Pentheus.

11 Sharrock (1996:154). She views deception as a particularly potent element in comedy. Consequently, for her the audience is hugely important, for without it there would be no one to deceive. Clarke (2007) takes a similar stance with respect to the outrageous, emphasizing the reversal of values, particularly pietas (36).

12 Wheeler (1999), Chapter 2.

second person,” or direct address to a hypothetical reader, an unusual device in epic.13 But as we have seen, the Metamorphoses occupies a liminal space in literature and possesses elements of comedy, in which deception is essential for plot. Moreover, if such a direct engagement with the reader is unusual, so are the times in which Ovid is writing: Augustus’ status as essentially the self-promoted censor and literary critic meant that Ovid has a uniquely powerful potential reader, and one from whom he already had received a rebuke. To the casual reader of the Arachne account, Ovid’s trick is easy to overlook:

. . . tantus decor adfuit arti, sive rudem primos lanam glomerabat in orbes, seu digitis subigebat opus repetitaque longo vellera mollibat nebulas aequantia tractu, sive levi teretem versabat pollice fusum, seu pingebat acu; scires a Pallade doctam. (Met. 6.18–23)

There was such great beauty to her art, whether she wound the raw wool into new balls, or she finished off her work with her fingers and softened the wool rivaling clouds as it was caught up again in a sweeping gesture, or twisted the smooth spindle with a nimble thumb, or embellished with a needle; you would know that she had been taught by Pallas. [my emphasis]

He says of Arachne: scires a Pallade doctam. And yet there is no indication in the narrative that she actually has been taught by Minerva; in fact, even Minerva is unsure of the details of

Arachne’s backstory.14 Later in the episode, in a mesmerizing ekphrasis on Arachne’s tapestry,

Ovid again reaches out to the reader:

Maeonis elusam designat imagine tauri Europam: verum taurum, freta vera putares. (6.103–4)

13 Wheeler (1999:150–151). He finds nearly fifty examples of generalizing second person within the primary and embedded narrative of the Metamorphoses.

14 At the beginning of Book 6, Minerva merely has heard that Arachne to give to Minerva any credit for her skill (quam sibi lanificae non cedere laudibus artis/audierat, 6–7). Her entire motive in seeking out Arachne is a jealous one: she wishes to be praised, since to give praise is not enough (laudare parum est, laudemur et ipsae/numina, 3– 4); moreover, she is determined to punish anyone whom she construes as scorning her divine powers (nec sperni sine poena nostra sinamus, 4).

The Maeonian fashioned Europa as deceived by the image of a bull: you would think it a real bull; you would think the waves real. (my emphasis)

Of course, we know these things are not “real”: they’re Ovid’s depiction of artistic depictions, as

René Magritte’s famous La Trahison des Images would remind us, with its insistence that the image of a pipe is not an actual pipe. But the ekphrasis goes deeper than a pedantic exercise: in

Europa’s story, there is no real bull, and therein lies the problem: it is a dissembling Jupiter disguising himself in order to rape her. But just for a moment, we do not consider this because we are too busy interacting with the art and the depiction of the art. Again, all this deceptive language hearkens back to the comedy of Plautus.15

Talking to the audience is similar to talking about them, in front of them. This recognition of the audience’s presence—in theatre parlance, “breaking the fourth wall”16 —is also present in Plautus:

In pauca confer: sitiunt qui sedent. (Poenulus 1224)

Cut to the chase: the people in the seats are thirsty.

Both speaking to the people in the seats as well as speaking about them accomplishes the same goal: namely, that of acknowledging their presence. It is a dynamic approach, and one that establishes an interrelationship of mutual dependence; it is as though each author is winking at his audience.

15 Sharrock (1996) remarks that every act of reading Plautus involves willfully seeking out a pleasurable self- deception (152); Jenkins (2005) reiterates this (see esp. 361). I believe that such a statement applies equally well to reading Ovid.

16 For drama of the naturalistic, or illusionistic, school, the action plays out before the audience, whose presence the players do not acknowledge. The fact that the characters act independently of the audience invites a kind of suspension of belief as well as a voyeuristic participation; see Pavis (2000:154, entry for “Fourth Wall”). For occurrence of this technique and other means of interacting with the audience in Plautus, see Handley (1975), Moore (1998:8–23), Slater (2000:3–12 and elsewhere), Marshall (2006:16–83), and Richlin (2014).

If there is an audience, they must be watching something, and in the Metamorphoses they have plenty to watch. Many stories means many characters, each of whom has at least one entrance to make. Entrances of characters are several times marked by ecce, a barely-verbalized stage cue often accompanied by words such as venit, adest, and the like; such entrance signposts are also found in Plautus.17 In the first part of the Cadmus saga, after finally managing with great difficulty to kill the serpent of Mars, which has been trying to slay him, Cadmus takes a moment to look upon the huge snake:

Dum spatium victor victi considerat hostis, vox subito audita est; neque erat cognoscere promptum, unde, sed audita est: ‘quid, Agenore nate, peremptum serpentem spectas? et tu spectabere serpens.’ ille diu pavidus pariter cum mente colorem perdiderat, gelidoque comae terrore rigebant: ecce viri fautrix superas delapsa per auras Pallas adest motaeque iubet supponere terrae vipereos dentes, populi incrementa futuri. (Met. 3.95–103)

While the victor surveys the span of the conquered enemy, a voice was heard suddenly, nor was it clear to tell from where, but it was was: “Why, son of Agenor, do you look upon the annihilated serpent? You too will be looked upon as a serpent.” For a long time, trembling, he utterly lost his color along with his mind, and his hair stood on end from terror. Behold, having slipped down through the upper air, the man’s patroness, Pallas, is here, and she bids him place within the earth the viper’s teeth, germ of a future people.

Once the fight scene between Cadmus and the snake is finished, there is a sound cue (vox subito audita est) alerting us to an imminent new plot point; the demonstrative ille signals the end of the speech and the description of Cadmus’ reaction to it, in essence making us “look” back at

17 Ecce has its share of occurrences in the Bacchides, Epidicus, Miles Gloriosus, Poenulus, Rudens, and Trinummus (via Lewis and Short). Moore (1998) sees the Plautine ecce as a particularly interactive word, a “subtle request for attention” from the audience, a toned-down version of vide(te) when addressing the audience (8, 29).

Cadmus. Immediately following the depiction of the son of Agenor as a thoroughly frightened hero, ecce turns our attention to the entrance of a new character, and a divine one.18

Such theatrical cues also occur in the tale of Acoetes. The protagonist proceeds to tell his own story, several times using embedded direct speech in his account of the metamorphosis

(involving the crew of his ship) that he witnessed. Central to reading this account in a comic light—for on the surface it is difficult to read the introduction to Pentheus’ violent death as funny—is a concession that the story of the beautiful boy is a caricature of the disguise and reveal trope of comedy. In the midst of a series of stories about Bacchus, Ovid has Acoetes tell a tale about a beautiful boy who is heavy with wine and sleep (ille mero somnoque gravis titubare videtur, 3.608) and who cannot be less than divine (nil ibi quod credi posset mortale videbam,

3.610; . . . quod numen in isto/corpore sit dubito, sed corpore numen in isto est!, 3.611–612); in essence, we know that the boy is Bacchus. The comic element is clearest when Acoetes feels compelled to state explicitly that the boy is in fact Bacchus, an absurd redundancy given the earlier revelations about the boy. The culmination of the episode occurs at the Maenads’ murder of Pentheus, wherein Ovid uses vivid description and entreaties to look:

non habet infelix quae matri bracchia tendat, trunca sed ostendens dereptis vulnera membris 'adspice, mater!' ait. visis ululavit Agave . . . . (Met. 3.723–725).

The unfortunate man did not have any arms to stretch out to his mother, but showing her his disfiguring wounds—his limbs having been ripped off—said, “Look, mother!” Having seen them, Agave howled . . . .

In the lines immediately following, I find another visual word in “io,” particularly since it is accompanied by the demonstrative hoc:

. . . collaque iactavit movitque per aera crinem avulsumque caput digitis conplexa cruentis

18 This is also a comic variation on the deus ex machina device, similar to the appearance of Jupiter in the Amphitryo (1131 ff.).

clamat: ‘io comites, opus hoc victoria nostra est!’ (Met. 3.726–728)

. . . and she jerked her neck and thrashed her hair through the air and having torn off his head, she embraced it with her bloody fingers, and said, “Behold, comrades, this work is our victory!”

These words mark the end of the tale, and with their direct address and concluding announcement are not unlike the epilogical words closing a comedy.19

Lastly, though it might seem counterintuitive to include such a device under the umbrella of audience recognition, I will also mention here the tale-within-a-tale trope. Rather than pulling the audience in via direct address, this framework is a distancing one, but nevertheless one that presupposes an audience. As with certain other forms (e.g., epistolary), this method of presentation gives voyeurism the green light, maintaining the illusion of separation while tantalizing the audience with information intended for another: the proverbial forbidden fruit.

The inherent distortion of the elegant verbal skill of the primary narrative voice by the ineptly hijacking secondary narrator functions like the masks worn by actors to depict stock characters and looks ahead to the play-within-a-play trope.20 This distortion can be likened to the elements of disguise and deception, and so fits well within the context of the Metamorphoses, for in nearly every story some character’s transformation comes about from one of these sources.

Dramatis Personae: Taking Stock of Comic Characters

Although the proem of the Metamorphoses is a programmatic statement similar to the prologue of Terence’s Andria, nevertheless a much greater number of similarities exists between the Metamorphoses and the works of Plautus, including a strong resemblance in various

19 Cf. the Mostellaria, (Spectatores, fabula haec est acta…, 1181), the Captivi (Spectatores, ad pudicos mores facta haec fabula est, 1029), etc.

20 The trope itself was a relatively late invention (likely not until the 16th century). Evidently the framing device caused some confusion among the audience, who sometimes were left in doubt as to what they had seen or how they were meant to react; see West (2008:217–219). This puts Ovid well more than a millennium ahead of his time.

character types that appear in Plautine comedy and the Metamorphoses.21 Where Terence approaches a kind of comedy of manners or even a psychological drama wherein he explores the thoughts and emotions of highly individualized characters, Plautus is less serious, choosing instead to rely upon situational comedy and zany antics put into motion by a predictable assortment of equally predictable types of people. Just as in the works of Plautus, I will demonstrate that in multiple episodes in the Metamorphoses the use and development of a cast of stock characters is evident. I will also present an explanation for this artistic choice.

Reliance upon a formulaic list of characters facilitates the “outrageous behavior” I have mentioned before as Sharrock’s yardstick for comedy, as it creates the possibility of humor either by leaning upon stereotypes for the sake of mimicking or caricaturing them, or by thwarting the reader’s expectation of those very same stereotypes by. For instance, the former brand of humor might depict a stern and severe old man, while the latter would employ a gullible or libidinous one; the commonality is a distortion of gravitas, of which one character has an excess and the other a defect. In either, the humor revolves around a presupposition of some type of standard or stereotype, without which Roman comedy as we know it would not exist.

Stock characters in Roman comedy were an important device in accommodating the audience’s the tastes and possibly the even legal demands of the day.22 Unlike the Old Comedy

21 For instance, Feldherr (2010) finds the contrast between status and behavior of the Olympian gods of the Met. (particularly Book 2) reminiscent of Plautine characterization and plot creation (290). Anderson (1996) sees Jupiter in the Callisto episode (especially 2.429–431) as a comic figure (282). And while her discussion is not confined to the genre of comedy, Stirrup (1977) discusses Ovid’s use of wit and wordplay (which I view as a distinguishing mark of comedy) in the Metamorphoses.

22 Segal (1968:10) believes that the Twelve Tables forbade the mention of a person by name on the stage; he cites Cicero: “. . . veteribus displicuisse Romanis vel laudari quemquam in scaena vivum hominem vel vituperari” (De Rep. 4.10). Freeman (1998) agrees, adding that Pliny the Elder (HN 28.17) speaks of a prohibition in similar terms (80). Not everyone agrees on the De Republica excerpt as sufficient proof that the Twelve Tables forbade the portrayal of living persons on the stage: some instead argue that it simply indicates that such a practice was distasteful to the ancients and/or Cicero; see Flower (1995:177–179), Gruen (1996:94), and Clark (2007:113). Ferriss-Hill (2015) admits it is possible that the Twelve Tables did prohibit such a defamation, but seems to favor

of Aristophanes, which famously lampooned important figures of the time (including Socrates),

Roman comedy had to turn to other sources of humor. For Plautus though, such restrictions did not mean the audience were no longer made to laugh at people: on the contrary, Plautine drama features some completely ludicrous characters bound to provoke laughter, but it pokes fun at stock characters rather than recognizable individuals. Without the direct personal assaults of

Greek Old Comedy, this form of humor still feeds the central human need that comedy fulfills, for as Segal points out, this “inner urge to ‘misbehave’ . . . Plato long ago recognized . . . as one of the prime appeals of comedy.”23

There is a vast number of stock characters appearing in Roman comedy; for the sake of convenience and relative brevity, I will confine my discussion to three major character divisions similar to those outlined by Duckworth: 1) male characters within the household, 2) female characters (both apart from and within the household), and 3) humorous characters; each of the divisions I will further subdivide into particular role types. The first group includes such characters as the young man (adulescens); the old man (senex), usually the father of the adulescens or of a young girl in the plot; and the slave (servus). The second group includes

the notion that this was Cicero’s faulty interpretation of the law, which more likely applied to malicious magic spells (100). In any case, some laws against defamation of character were in place, as evidenced by the libel suit brought by the Metelli against Naevius, who was subsequently imprisoned, in 206; see Frank (1927), Mattingly (1960), Fantham (2005:222), Rudich (2006), and Sciarrino (2011:83–85 and 121–123). For more on other anti-defamation laws, see Stambusky (1977) and Rudich (2006:11-16), both of whom state that this matter also came under the (much later) Sullan Lex Cornelia de Iniuriis prohibiting attacking a person “nominatim in scaena”; see Rudich (2006:32–33).

23 Segal (1968:9); he cites Plato’s Republic 10.605a-b. Earl (1962) finds that Terence’s use of terms bound in Roman politics (e.g., virtus, gloria) are both scanty and of neutral tone—even in the prologues, where we might expect politically-loaded sentiments (473); possibly this avoidance stemmed from his ties to the Scipionic circle, to which he was linked only in the literary sphere and not the political (485). In the Plautine corpus, Earl finds many more instances of such terms, but in any case he suggests the possibility that the political vocabulary of the Roman elite was coming into being at this very time, and that Plautus’ use of these words was more indicative of their frequency of occurrence in daily speech rather than an intentional politicizing (475–476). Plautus’ language is more concerned with establishing a rapport with his audience—often to let them in on some plot-driving deception—than making overt political statements; cf. Moore (1998:47–48).

female characters such as the young girl (virgo), the courtesan (meretrix), the wife/mother

(matrona), and the female slave (ancilla). Lastly, the third group includes the parasite

(parasitus), the pimp (leno), the soldier (miles), the banker or moneylender (trapezita or danista), the doctor (medicus), and the cook (cocus). Of these three, the first group is the most important to the development of the plot; consequently, I will devote the majority of my attention to these character types.24

The First Group

The chief motivator of the action is the adulescens, or young man. Central to the plot, he is rarely married (although the first Menaechmus, for instance, is in fact married) and ordinarily is in love with a virgo, a meretrix, or an ancilla. Often there is some difficulty—likely centering on a lack of funds—to pursuing this love, resulting in a series of actions that drives the plot forward. The adulescens may have a friend appear, the dramatic purpose of whom is generally to highlight sympathetically the difficult plight of the adulescens rather than actually to assist him toward his goal. Typically, the adulescens has a rather cynical outlook toward toward love, realizing the difficulties it presents both for the lover and for all those around him, as Lysiteles in the Trinummus:

fit ipse, dum illis comis est, inops amator. haec ego quom ago cum meo animo et recolo, ubi qui eget, quam preti sit parvi: apage te, Amor, non places nil te utor; quamquam illud est dulce, esse et bibere, Amor amara dat tamen, satis quod aegre sit: fugit forum, fugitat suos cognatos, fugat ipsus se ab suo contutu, neque eum sibi amicum volunt dici. mille modis, Amor, ignorandu's, procul abhibendu's atque abstandu's,

24 For a general overview of stock characters and their function in Roman comedy, see Beacham (1991:31–32) and Hurbánková (2014). For the use of stock characters as insurance against political attacks (and as a workaround in times of censorship), see Grant (1999:29–30).

nam qui in amorem praecipitavit, peius perit quasi saxo saliat: apage te, Amor, tuas res tibi habeto, Amor, mihi amicus ne fuas umquam . . . . (Trin. 254–268)

The lover himself, while he is courteous to them, becomes a beggar. When I ponder and revisit these things in my mind, when one who is in need is of such little value—away with you, Love! You’re not pleasing to me, I profit nothing from you. Although it is sweet to eat and drink, yet love gives bitter things, enough for it to be distasteful. He flees the forum, drives away his relatives, and himself speeds himself away from his own contemplation, nor do people want him to be called a friend to them. In a thousand ways, o Love, are you to be disregarded, kept far away from, and avoided, for the one who has fallen head over his in love dies a worse death than if he should throw himself off a cliff. Away with you, Love; keep your own things to yourself.25 O Love, never be a friend to me . . . .

The adulescens can be open and realistic about life and love, as in the Trinummus, or he can be inclined to more desperate action. In the Pseudolus, the adulescens, Calidorus, is so disappointed in love that he intends to buy a rope so he can hang himself:

CALIDORUS. Actum est de me hodie. sed potes nunc mutuam drachumam dare unam mihi, quam cras reddam tibi? PSEUDOLUS. Vix hercle, opinor, si me opponam pignori. sed quid ea drachuma facere vis? CALIDORUS. Restim volo mihi emere. PSEUDOLUS. Quam ob rem? CALIDORUS. Qui me faciam pensilem. certum est mihi ante tenebras tenebras persequi. PSEUDOLUS. Quis mi igitur drachumam reddet, si dedero tibi? an tu te ea causa vis sciens suspendere ut me defraudes, drachumam si dederim tibi? CALIDORUS. Profecto nullo pacto possum vivere, si illa a me abalienatur atque abducitur. (85–95)

CALIDORUS. It’s all over for me today. But can you now loan me a drachma, which I’ll give back to you tomorrow? PSEUDOLUS. By god, I hardly can, I think, even if I set myself as a pledge. But what do you want to do with that drachma? CALIDORUS. I want to buy a rope for myself. PSEUDOLUS. Why? CALIDORUS. So that I can hang myself. I’m determined to chase down the shadows by nightfall. PSEUDOLUS. Who then will give me the drachma, if I will have given it to you? Or do you, knowing that you’re going to hang yourself, wish for that very reason to defraud me, if I will have given the drachma to you? CALIDORUS. At any rate, by no means can I live if she is carted off and carried away from me.

25 These words were the Roman divorce formula originating with the Twelve Tables; see Rosenmeyer (1995:203), Watson (2003:26), and Braund (2005:53).

Some scholars, both recent and of the past century, are of the opinion that in Plautus the adulescens is often ineffectual and colorless; Dunkin dubs the adulescens the “slinking, whining, sensual Young Man.”26 On the other hand, Slater articulates a more enthusiastic outlook on the character, recognizing in the adulescens the potential for comic complexity, and even going so far as to say that the Bacchides is not a comedy until Pistoclerus, in the role of adulescens amans, makes it one.27 Others read even the Plautine adulescens sympathetically and find nothing parodic or even particularly humorous in the representation of this character.28 I believe that there is a spectrum of substance within the adulescens type, the high and low points of which are well illustrated by the examples from the Trinummus and the Pseudolus to which I have referred above. In other words, this type can be a believable, even edifying, example of a person confronted with an obstacle, or he can be brooding, sulky, and ineffectual.

Together with the adulescens, the senex is the character that occurs mostly frequently in

Roman comedy. Not to be applied to a character merely because he happens to be an old man, the term senex is reserved for the older men (in contrast with the adulescens type) who are free members of a household. The senex is a multi-faceted character who may figure as the father of the adulescens or virgo, the unlikely lover (or would-be lover) of the meretrix, the counseling

26 Dunkin (1946:7). Parker (1989) considers the adulescens to be “naïve in his monomaniac pursuit of the girl” (245)—naïve particularly because it is the servus callidus who does all the plotting and scheming to bring the lovers together, thus taking on himself any guilt that the adulescens would otherwise incur (246). McCarthy (2000) clearly states that her position is similar to Parker’s, but she goes as far as to say that the adulescens is “always the least interesting character in any Plautine play” (20). Porter (2004) contrasts the “melodramatic excess” (396) of the adulescens with the less dire passion of the virgo.

27 Slater (2000:79).

28 Duckworth (1952:239–240) adopts this kind of attitude. But Porter’s (2004) outlook on the adulescens is also rather sympathetic, for any excessive emotions (prompted by some obstacle to getting the girl) in the adulescens Porter considers as necessary to driving the plot forward (396–397).

friend, or a fusion of two or more of these subtypes.29 Speaking principally of Plautine senes,

Donatus describes this type as angry (iratus), raging (saevus), strict (severus), stubborn

(difficilis), and gullible (credulus), although on the other hand he might sometimes be lenient

(mitis).30 For the most part, he is genuinely concerned for the welfare of his children, although sometimes his selfishness gets in the way.31 Though the senex type has had its share of critics who see in it lack of character depth32, this character nevertheless may play a significant part in the deception on which the plot depends so largely, either as deceiver or as deceived. Cicero in

De Amicitia hints at why this is so:

Haec enim etiam in fabulis stultissima persona est improvidorum et credulorum senum. (De Am. 26.100)

For even in plays the most foolish character is that of the old men who are lacking in foresight and easily deceived.

It is for the very reason that we expect a certain gravitas and wisdom from him that the senex, when fooled or undignified, is one of the funniest characters. When many of the qualities most

29 There may even be distinctions within the subtypes: Ryder (1984) categorizes the senes inclined to rival the adulescentes as either amatores (marked by unrestrained passions) or lepidi (acting generally within acceptable limits, despite their desires). The senex may be a liminal figure, as he sometimes appropriates what is proper to other character types; for example, McCarthy (2000) defines the senex amator as “usurping the role of the adulescens” (69); this is contra Duckworth, who describes the senex in much less emotionally-charged terms as “parent, aged lover, helpful friend” (240). For more about the senex (particularly the father of the adulescens) and his various steretypes (pius, indulgens, amator, etc.), see also Maurice (2007).

30 Ad And., praef. 1, 3; ad Hec. 198; ad Ad., praef. 3, 6; 787; etc.

31 The best example of the selfish senex is Euclio in the Aulularia, whose chief concern is keeping his stash of gold hidden even if it means sacrificing his own daughter’s happiness to this end by claiming he cannot furnish her with a dowry (190–192, 238). However, Euclio is unique among senes in his almost total lack of regard for his child; see Konstan (1986), who paints the anti-social, misanthropic passion that leads to Euclio’s paranoid behavior as more similar to the qualities of a lover than a senex (33–46). Sharrock (2016) also emphasizes Euclio’s paranoia, adding that this is a different technique by which Plautus renders a senex ridiculous (117–118).

32 Norwood styles the type as a “bad-tempered old imbecile whose one function is to be swindled out of the statutory forty minae” (via Duckworth 1952:94); he presents the senex in much less nuanced terms than the other scholars I have mentioned above. I must hasten to add that Norwood is speaking primarily of the character in Terence’s plays rather than those of Plautus, which I believe accounts for his difference in outlook.

laudable in an old man are noticeably absent in such a one, he becomes a ridiculous character— and a perfect vehicle for outrageous behavior. A classic example, from the Mercator, of the sort of senex that Cicero laments is Demipho, who falls in love with a slave girl whom his son has brought home. Demipho falls in love at first sight, which he admits is ridiculous, even using himself as a cautionary tale for the audience:

postquam id quod volui transegi, atque ego conspicor navem ex Rhodo quast heri advectus filius; conlibitumst illuc mihi nescio qui visere: inscendo in lembum atque ad navem devehor. atque ego illi aspicio forma eximia mulierem, filius quam advexit meus matri ancillam suae. quam ego postquam aspexi, non ita amo ut sani solent homines, sed eodem pacto ut insani solent. amavi hercle equidem ego olim in adulescentia, verum ad hoc exemplum numquam, ut nunc insanio. unum quidem hercle iam scio, periisse me; vosmet videte ceterum quanti siem. (Merc. 256-267)

After I transacted what I wanted, I caught sight of a ship from Rhodes by which my son was conveyed yesterday. It was to my liking to visit there, I don’t know why; and I went on board a cutter and was carried to the ship. And there I beheld a woman of exceptional beauty, whom my son brought as a slave for his mother. After I saw this woman, I loved her—not as sane men are accustomed to love, but in the same way as mad men are accustomed. I loved in my youth, to be sure, once upon a time, but never in this manner, as I now am mad. Now one thing indeed I know: that I’ve perished; you yourselves consider moreover of what worth I am.

The situation is comical because Demipho’s character is at odds with social expectations and behavioral standards for an old man, but there is more to this senex amator than that: he is the key to moving the story forward. And even though it is almost always Terence and not Plautus who gets credit for creating psychologically-complex characters, nevertheless with Demipho’s appeal to audience for sympathy a rapport is established whereby the audience is aligned with

the unfortunate old man who falls in love essentially against his will and at the expense of his dignity.33

Lastly, the senex may serve as an advisor to a friend who is in a difficult situation. This incarnation of the senex is a lesser character than the first two subtypes and typically acts as a foil or sounding board for a main character. In the Rudens, Charmides, a senex, laments his association with Labrax, a pimp:

LABRAX. Mendicitatem mi optulisti opera tua, dum tuis ausculto magnidicis mendaciis. CHARMIDES. Bonam est quod habeas gratiam merito mihi, qui te ex insulso salsum feci opera mea. LABRAX. Quin tu hinc is a me in maxumam malam crucem? CHARMIDES. Eas. easque res agebam commodum. LABRAX. Eheu, quis vivit me mortalis miserior? CHARMIDES. Ego multo tanto miserior quam tu, Labrax. LABRAX. Qui? CHARMIDES. Quia ego indignus sum, tu dignus qui sies. (514–522)

LABRAX. You brought beggary upon me by your effort, while I was paying heed to your big-talking lies. CHARMIDES. It’s for this reason that you should have good favor toward me, as I’m deserving—I who by my effort seasoned you out of your blandness. LABRAX. Why don’t you get away from me and go to hell? CHARMIDES. You go. I was just seeing to those things. LABRAX. Alas, what mortal alive is more wretched than I? CHARMIDES. I’m far more wretched than you are, Labrax. LABRAX. How? CHARMIDES. Because I’m undeserving, but you’re deserving to be so.

In summary, the senex appears as: 1) a paterfamilias who either is depicted as a strict parent or who falls at the total opposite end of the spectrum as an indulgent father; 2) an aging lover, or would-be lover; and 3) a counseling figure who offers advice to a friend.

Every surviving Roman comedy has at least one servus, the ordinary motivator of the action. It it the servus whom the adulescens (and sometimes the senex) trusts to get the girl for him by some clever means or other; for this reason, the term servus callidus is sometimes used to

33 For more on Demipho as an embodiment of the overreaching senex amator (a figure of ridicule because of his inversion of expected values), see Ryder (1984:186–187), Maurice (2007:4–6), Augustakis (2008), and Berger (2017:253–254).

describe this character. Hallmarks of the servus are his cleverness, loyalty, and garrulity, which may proceed to boastfulness, impudence, indolence, and love of gossip.34 The servus both adds humor by his antics and brings an element of deception, making him gratuitously funny in his manner and integral to the plot’s resolution in his ultimate function.

In the Pseudolous, the eponymous servus finds himself in a sticky situation when his loyalty to both his masters (the senex and the adulescens of the play) is at odds. Resolution of this problem (in short, by risking the more distant of two threats) creates the heart of the storyline, while the overblown threats from the master(s) add to the comic relief:

SIMO. Iuberes hunc praecipitem in pistrinum trahi. CALLIPHO. Numquid peccatum est, Simo? SIMO. Immo maxime. PSEUDOLUS. Desiste, recte ego meam rem sapio, Callipho; peccata mea sunt. animum advorte nunciam. quapropter te expertem amoris nati habuerim? ~ pistrinum in mundo scibam, si dixem, mihi. SIMO. Non a me scibas pistrinum in mundo tibi, cum ea mussitabas? PSEUDOLUS. Scibam. SIMO. Quin dictum est mihi? PSEUDOLUS. Quia illud malum aderat, istuc aberat longius; illud erat praesens, huic erant dieculae. (494–503)

SIMO. You would be ordering this man to be dragged headlong into the pounding mill. CALLIPHO. There isn’t any offence, is there, Simo? SIMO. There absolutely is. PSEUDOLUS. Stop; I correctly understand my own business, Callipho; the offences are mine. Pay attention so that I may tell you for what reason I kept you in the dark as to your son’s love. I knew that the mill was close at hand if I told you. SIMO. And you didn’t know the mill would be close at hand when you kept silent on me? PSEUDOLUS. I knew. SIMO. Why wasn’t it told to me? PSEUDOLUS. Because the one evil was near, the other farther away; the one was immediate, the other a ways off.

34 Fraenkel (2007) argues that Plautus essentially promotes the servus to comic hero status, unlike Menander or Terence (see especially Chapter 8). For more on the servus callidus, especially as primary motivator of the plot, see Hughes (1997:184–193, McCarthy (2000), Sharrock (2009), Karakasis (2013), Papaioannou (2014). For more on the prevalence of violent yet empty threats surrounding the servus callidus, see Parker (1989); the character, in his view, gains the sympathy of the audience, whose desire for rebellion is indulged by participating in his antics.

The servus is not always a victim: in fact, this character can encompass anything the plot demands.35 Aside from playing a starring role in situational comedy, the servus too may deliver a mock-serious monologue, as in the Bacchides, when Chrysalus compares himself with the

Greeks before Troy:

Atridae duo fratres cluent fecisse facinus maxumum, quom Priami patriam Pergamum divina moenitum manu armis, equis, exercitu atque eximiis bellatoribus mille cum numero navium decumo anno post subegerunt. non pedibus termento fuit praeut ego erum expugnabo meum sine classe sineque exercitu et tanto numero militum. cepi expugnavi amanti erili filio aurum ab suo patre. (925–931)

The two brothers, the sons of Atreus, are reputed to have done a very great deed, when with arms, horses, an army, and choice warriors, with a total of a thousand ships they subdued Pergamus, the native land of Priam, which was protected by a divine hand, in the tenth year afterward. Nor was it a torment to my feet in comparison with the fact that I will my go before and take my master by storm, without a fleet, without an army, and without so great a number of soldiers.

He continues:

. . . ego sum Vlixes, cuius consilio haec gerunt. tum quae hic sunt scriptae litterae, hoc in equo insunt milites armati atque animati probe. ita res successit mi usque adhuc. atque hic equos non in arcem, verum in arcam faciet impetum: exitium excidium exlecebra fiet hic equos hodie auro senis. nostro seni huic stolido, ei profecto nomen facio ego Ilio; miles Menelaust, ego Agamemno, idem Vlixes Lartius, Mnesilochust Alexander, qui erit exitio rei patriae suae; is Helenam avexit, cuia causa nunc facio obsidium Ilio. nam illi itidem Vlixem audivi, ut ego sum, fuisse et audacem et malum: in dolis ego prensus sum, ille mendicans paene inventus interiit, dum ibi exquirit fata Iliorum; adsimiliter mi hodie optigit. vinctus sum, sed dolis me exemi: item se ille servavit dolis. (940–952)

I am Ulysses, by whose counsel they do these things. Then the letters that have been written here are in this horse as soldiers, armed and suitably courageous. So the matter has fallen out to me even up to now. This horse will make an attack not against a citadel but a coffer: a destruction, a demolition, a decoy will this horse become for the old man’s gold today. To our obtuse old man straightaway I give the name Troy; the soldier is

35 I find Slater’s (2000:12) description of the servus as a versipellis (werewolf, or “skin-changer”) to be apt.

Menelaus, I Agamemnon, and likewise Ulysses, son of Laertes. Mnesilochus is Alexander, who will be the ruin of his father’s estate; he has carried off Helen, for whose sake I am now carrying on the siege at Troy. For therein likewise I have heard that Ulysses was, as I am, both bold and mischievous: in my cunning have I been caught, he, begging and almost having been found out, was ruined, while there he sought out the deeds of the Trojans. Likewise has it happened to me today. I have been overcome, but by my cunning I have redeemed myself: he too saved himself by cunning.

He continues at length in a similar vein for the duration of the scene. Everything about this monologue is over the top—which is why it succeeds comedically.36

The Second Group

I will assign to the second group all female characters. In descending order of frequency of occurrence, the basic female character types are: 1) female domestics, including the young female slave, the old female slave, and the nurse (ancilla, anus, nutrix); 2) the courtesan or prostitute (meretrix); 3) the wife/mother (matrona); and 4) the young girl (virgo or puella). The madam (lena), the priestess (sacerdos), and other minor roles also appear at times. The types most important to plot development are the meretrix and the matrona, while the others tend to be underdeveloped personalities who do not actively propel the stage action themselves.

The female domestic type is not usually as pivotal to the story development as her male counterpart (the servus), but can serve as a mouthpiece for another more important female character, as the ancilla in the Menaechmi who is sent by Erotium to demand earrings from

Menaechmus (524-558). Sometimes too one of these domestics (often the nutrix) presents both to the audience and to the other characters new information that may reveal the true identity of one of the other characters, as when Giddenis in the Poenulus brings to light the true identity of

Hanno, who then gives Agorastocles permission to marry his newly-found daughter, culminating

36 For more on Chrysalus and this speech, see Jocelyn (1969), Clark (1976), Owens (1994), Scafoglio (2005), and Fontaine (2006).

in a happy ending of the play (1120 ff.).37 There may also be some overlap between this type and the third group, the comic characters: for instance, in the Curculio, Leaena, an absurdly comical anus who drinks too much:

PHAEDROMUS. . . . anus hic solet cubitare custos ianitrix, nomen Leaenae est, multibiba atque merobiba. PALINURUS. Quasi tu lagoenam dicas, ubi vinum Chium solet esse. PHAEDROMUS. Quid opust verbis? vinosissima est; eaque extemplo ubi vino has conspersi fores, de odore adesse me scit, aperit ilico. (Curc. 76–81)

PHAEDROMUS. Here an old woman, guard and keeper of the door, is accustomed to lie down; her name is Leaena, drink-a-lot and drink-it-straight. PALINURUS. As if you should speak of a flagon where Chian wine is wont to be. PHAEDROMUS.What need of words is there? She’s very much fond of wine, and straightaway when I’ve sprinkled these doors with wine, she knows by the smell that I’m here, and she opens them immediately.

The door in question leads to the house of the pimp Cappadox, who is contemplating forcing one of his slave girls work as a prostitute with whom Phaedromus has fallen in love. Along with his slave Palinurus, Phaedromus bribes Leaena with wine, enticing her thereby to allow him into the house so that he can visit the girl, Planesium. This allows for a ridiculous moment when Leaena sings a kind of parodic hymn to the wine-bribe:

Flos veteris vini meis naribus obiectust, eius amor cupidam me huc prolicit per tenebras. ubi ubi est, prope me est. euax, habeo. salve, anime mi, Liberi lepos. ut veteris vetus tui cupida sum. nam omnium unguentum odor prae tuo nautea est, tu mihi stacta, tu cinnamum, tu rosa, tu crocinum et casia es, tu telinum, nam ubi tu profusu's, ibi ego me pervelim sepultam.

37 See Dutsch (2004) for more on the importance of the nutrix in this scene. Another important character among the female domestic types is Saturio’s unnamed daughter in the Persa. Saturio is a parasite and friend of his fellow slave Toxilus, and together they scheme to deceive the pimp Dordalus. The daughter’s impersonation of an Arabian slave is pivotal to the deception; see Lowe (1989) and Hardy (2005), both of whom view her as a combination of the virgo and the clever slave types. In a similar vein, Holland (2008) attributes considerable importance to the old woman Staphyla, Euclio’s only slave in the Aulularia. Because Euclio has no one else to serve as a foil to him, Staphyla appropriates many of the traits associated with the servus callidus; as Holland states, her slave status makes her the butt of many jokes but her nutrix role clothes her with a certain amount of respect (22–23).

sed quom adhuc naso odos obsecutust meo, da vicissim meo gutturi gaudium. nil ago tecum: ubi est ipsus? ipsum expeto tangere, invergere in me liquores tuos, sine, ductim. sed hac abiit, hac persequar. (Curc. 96–109)

The bouquet of aged wine has been put before my nostrils; the love of this entices me, eager, through the darkness. Where, where it is . . . it’s near me. Aha! I have it. Hail, my soul, charm of Bacchus! How desirous I in my age am of your age. For the scent of all perfumes is bilgewater in comparison with your scent; you are my myrrh, my cinnamon, my rose, my saffron and my cassia—you are my ointment of fenugreek, for where you have been poured, there I would wish absolutely to be buried. But since as yet fragrance has gratified my nose, grant in turn joy to my throat. I’m not persuading you at all; where are you yourself? I’m earnestly seeking to touch you, to pour your liquids into myself; allow me to, by drawing you out. But it’s gone this way; this way will I follow it.

This is only the beginning of the buffoonery, since at this point Phaedromus and Palinurus, who have witnessed the entire spectacle (similar to the play-within-a-play trope), exploit the situation so that they can enter the house. Phaedromus lures Leaena away from the gate by pretending that he is Bacchus, and offers the old woman more wine. Amidst much inebriation and badinage,

Leaena begrudgingly offers the mere dregs to Venus as a caricatured libation, then finally accedes to Phaedromus’ request to let him meet with Planesium. This truly is one of the most riotous scenes in all of Plautus, and shows well the comedic potential for the anus and the lena.38

Many of the most powerful female roles in Plautine comedy are meretrices, who are either shrewd and manipulative or actually care for their lovers and may hope for a more serious, permanent relationship with them. The former category of meretrix has the power to seduce, yet generally cleverly defers bestowing her favors until and unless she gets what she wants (which is

38 For more on Leaena’s role as stereotypical anus ebria, see Rosivach (1994:113–114) Sharrock (2008:5–6), and Gunderson (2015:125–141).

usually money or costly gifts), while the latter may be sincerely faithful to one lover.39 Often though she is fairly hardboiled, like Phronesium in the Truculentus:

quem ego ecastor mage amo quam me, dum id quod cupio inde aufero. (887)

By god, I love him more than myself, as long as I get what I want from him.

The spectrum of possibility for this character is evidence of its versatility and its impact upon the plot.

The matrona40 is frequently an important role, though generally not cast in a flattering light. More often than not, she is jealous, irritable, hot-headed, suspicious (rightly or wrongly), and inclined to spend lavishly. A classic matrona is the wife of Menaeachmus of Epidamnus, who complains (not inaccurately) of her husband’s flaws:

Egone hic me patiar frustra in matrimonio, ubi vir compilet clanculum quidquid domist atque ea ad amicam deferat? (559–561)

Should I allow myself to remain in marriage here in vain, when my husband secretly makes off with whatever’s in the house and brings it to his girlfriend?

On the other hand, matronae may be loyal and loving to their husbands—even, in the case of

Alcumena, when she is falsely accused of infidelity, having been tricked instead by Jupiter. She defends her honor to her husband, proclaiming what she believes to be the greatest dowry a wife can bring to her husband:

Non ego illam mihi dotem duco esse, quae dos dicitur, sed pudicitiam et pudorem et sedatum cupidinem, 840 deum metum, parentum amorem et cognatum concordiam,

39 e.g., Silenium and Philaenium in the Asinaria (537, 542) and Philematium in the Mostellaria (204-228). McCarthy (2000:65) views this as pivotal for the machinery of the plot. She adds that when there is a leno or lena present, the meretrix usually is particularly charming while the leno or lena is severe and exacting, but when the meretrix is independent, she combines these contrasting qualities in herself. Witzke (2015), as Adams (1983:324– 325) before her, points out the the meretrix, both in actual Roman life and in Plautus, may or may not be considered “high class,” and that there is much variation possible within the role; I would add that the meretrix shares this characteristic with the servus, and that this is not accidental, for both roles are pivotal to plot development.

40 She also appears as uxor or mulier; see Packman (1999:245).

tibi morigera atque ut munifica sim bonis, prosim probis. (Amph. 839–842)

I do not consider my dowry that which is called one, but rather modesty and decency and controlled desire, fear of the gods, love of parents, and harmony with kin; that I may be yielding to you and so that I might be generous to the good, and helpful to the honorable.

Alcumena is certainly no Juno type; thus we see that the matrona need not always be irate or suspicious, but can even be noble and eloquent.41

In contrast, the virgo is a much less substantial character than the others I have mentioned; often her importance to the plot is such that she does not even appear on stage but rather is discussed in her absence by other characters. In fact, in all of the Terentian corpus, there is only one virgo who actually makes an appearance.42 The typical guideline is that in Roman comedy a virgo from a respectable lineage does not appear on stage; she may, however, make an appearance if her true identity as coming from an honorable family is eventually brought to light

(disguise and reveal trope) and she is rescued from living the life of a courtesan.43 Mostly though the function of the virgo is that of the seemingly unattainable love interest of the adulescens, and as such is generally one-dimensional.

The Third Group

The third and final group encompasses all the truly funny characters, who, although not always essential to the plot, add hilarity and provide relief from dramatic tension. This group includes the parasite (parasitus), the pimp (leno), the soldier (miles), the banker or moneylender

(trapezita, danista), the doctor (medicus), and the cook (cocus). Collectively these roles are

41 Alcumena’s reference to a dowry is particularly fascinating, since a wife with a dowry (matrona dotata) is typically “bossy” and “nagging”; see Papaioannou (2015:178).

42 Antiphila in the Heauton Timorumenos.

43 e.g., Planesium in the Curculio and Adelphasium in the Poenulus.

sometimes referred to as “professional” types and are likely lifted straight from New Comedy. In

Terence, these characters assume many of the traits and functions of the servi, whose machinations are fewer because their masters and mistresses are less likely to engage in subterfuge and more likely to try to solve their own problems than their counterparts in Plautine plots.44 The humor value of these roles lies in the playwright’s ability to tap into the cultural biases and stereotypes regarding these occupations; for instance, the cocus in the Pseudolus, who, after loudly talking up his culinary expertise, makes a remark that points to a contemporary stereotype of the cook as inclined to steal:

COCUS. Fateor equidem esse me coquom carissumum; verum pro pretio facio ut opera appareat mea quo conductus venio. BALLIO. Ad furandum quidem. COCUS. An tu invenire postulas quemquam coquom nisi miluinis aut aquilinis ungulis? (848–852)

COCUS. I admit that I’m a very expensive cook; but I make it so that my services appear in keeping with my price, hired for which I come. BALLIO. Sure, for stealing. COCUS. Do you really expect to find any cook except one with the claws of a kite or an eagle?

Like the cocus, our next character gets to deliver some memorable one-liners: the parasitus, while not holding a true profession, is arguably the most important of this last group.

All his considerable cunning goes toward ingratiating himself with the rich and useful, and filling his belly. This role is an elastic one, depending greatly on the individual character’s circumstances and personality and thus varying tremendously from one play to the next: sometimes the parasitus is open to engaging in menial labor for a single meal, while in other

44 Duckworth, (1952:261). Lowe (1985) is greatly helpful in forming a picture of the Plautine coci/coqui and how they embody a thorough Romanization of mageiroi; they pick up on motifs associated with the mageiroi while being also being slaves (which was not the case for the mageiroi), and thus have a heightened comic value; thus, the cocus/coquus is a fusion of the servus and the Greek model mageiros, and displays many of the same cunning and rascally traits of the servus, albeit on a smaller scale (102). See too Hallett (1993).

situations he is enterprising and shrewd. The parasitus provides laughs centering around his perpetual longing for food, as embodied in Saturio in the Persa:

Veterem atque antiquom quaestum maiorum meum servo atque obtineo et magna cum cura colo. nam numquam quisquam meorum maiorum fuit, quin parasitando paverint ventres suos: pater, avos, proavos, abavos, atavos, tritavos quasi mures semper edere alienum cibum, neque edacitate eos quisquam poterat vincere; atque eis cognomentum erat duris Capitonibus. (53–60)

I am preserving and maintaining the old and ancient profession of my ancestors, and I cultivate it with great care. For never was there any one of my ancestors except that he filled his belly by playing the parasite: my father, grandfathers, great grandfathers, great- great grandfathers, as well as their fathers and grandfathers always ate the food of others, like mice, nor could anyone surpass them in eagerness for eating—and the surname to these tough men was Capito.45

In the words of Elizabeth Tylawsky, the parasite is “the most marginal member of society,”46 a liminal figure who lingers at the doorposts and tries to gain access to the familia and its resources. On the outside looking in, the parasitus is not merely a ridiculous character, but also a valuable vehicle for social commentary.

The miles, or miles gloriosus, is a shameless self-promoter who thinks in his delusion that his charm is irresistible. Invariably he is a lover, often in competition with the adulescens. For the most part a caricature rather than a solid character, the miles often voices ridiculous sentiment, as Stratophanes in the Truculentus when he finds out about the birth of his son:

ASTAPHIUM. Peperit puerum nimium lepidum. STRATOPHANES. Ehem, ecquid mei similest? ASTAPHIUM. Rogas? quin ubi natust machaeram et clupeum poscebat sibi? STRATOPHANES. Meus est, scio iam de argumentis. ASTAPHIUM. Nimium tui similest. STRATOPHANES. Papae,

45 There is also a pun embedded here, for if we read duris with Capitonibus, as the word order suggests, rather than with eis (as I have translated it above), then the parasite is referring to his ancestors as bearing the surname “big- headed tough guys.”

46 Tylawsky (2002:2). See too Damon (1997).

iam magnust? iamne iit ad legionem? ecquae spolia rettulit? ASTAPHIUM. Heia, nudius quintus natus ille quidem est. STRATOPHANES. Quid postea? inter tot dies quidem hercle iam aliquid actum oportuit. quid illi ex utero exitiost prius quam poterat ire in proelium? (505–511)

ASTAPHIUM. She’s given birth to a very fine boy. STRATOPHANES. Is he at all like me? ASTAPHIUM. You’re asking? Why, when he was born, he demanded a dagger and a shield for himself. STRATOPHANES.He is mine; I know already from the proofs. ASTAPHIUM. He’s really very like you. STRATOPHANES. Marvelous! Is he big already? Has he already gone to his legion? Has he brought back any spoils at all? ASTAPHIUM. Come on, he’s only five days old. STRATOPHANES. What afterward? Indeed, within so many days, by god, he should have done something already. What business did he have leaving the womb before he could go into battle?

Similarly, the leno functions as a minor, stereotypical character; the leno drives a hard bargain but is also a target for deception and abuse, and is similar to both the servus callidus as well as the trapezitae and danistae. These latter types, along with the medici and others appear as incidental characters to further the plot and/or elicit additional laughter.47

Stock Characters in Ovid

With even a basic knowledge of these stock types and their functions, it is easy to see how Ovid relied upon similar character construction to create humor; this approach is particularly effective in an epic covering hundreds of discrete stories and clearly emerges early on in the text. I read Jupiter in Book 1 as a mashup of the miles gloriosus and the senex, who appears alternately as boasting and bumbling, a swift punisher who cannot keeps the other gods in check; again, this is the kind of “outrageous behavior” that Sharrock rightly insists is at the heart of comedy.48 In his first appearance, Jupiter summons the gods to a council, wherein

47 On the leno, see Welsh (2005) and Gellar-Goad (2016). For more on the crucial role of minor (especially mute) characters in supporting the text, see Klein (2015).

48 Fusion of stock character types has its roots in Plautus; for instance, Lysidamus in the Casina displays elements of the senex and the adulescens; so McCarthy (2000:105). I believe that in the case of Jupiter in Met. 1, this fusion of roles is a clear parallel of the fusion of epic and comic genres and a foreshadowing of his display of opposing

ostensibly he wishes to ask for their advice as to how to deal with the now-wicked human race.

In classically-Ovidian, mock-serious language, Jupiter shows his angry disapproval by giving a magnificent hair toss (terrificam capitis concussit terque quaterque/caesariem, 1.179–180). And yet Jupiter eventually reveals that he has already acted as judge, jury, and executioner for at least one mortal, and admits that he wants the entire human race to be destroyed (perdendum est mortale genus, 1.188), a moment all the darker since it follows the ludicrous depiction of luscious-locked Jupiter. Like the senex iratus of comedy, the pater omnipotens launches into a partial litany of human faults, cutting it short with the explanation that whole story would take too long to tell (longa mora est . . .enumerare, 1.214–215), but this is completely ironic since

Jupiter’s story has already proved to be meandering—and in the Metamorphoses, a long-winded tale is often a precursor to violence (cf. Mercury and Argus, etc.).

Perhaps the most creatively distorted caricature of an inept storyteller is also a re- fashioning of Mercury into the servus callidus stock character of Roman comedy (which Stace dubs an agent of intrigue or deception49), who is cunning and loquacious, yet overall still loyal to his master.50 A few lines lines prior to the embedded tale of Syrinx (1.689–721), Jupiter sends

Mercury to kill Argus, who has been stationed by Juno to guard Io, currently in bovine form.

Instead of dispatching the many-eyed Argus immediately, Mercury strikes up a friendly conversation with him and even plays gentle music on a reed pipe in an attempt to lull him to

traits of divine majesty and lover’s folly, which point Ovid himself makes with non bene conveniunt nec in una sede morantur/maiestas et amor; on this latter point, see Otis (1970:104) and C. Segal (2001:82). Anderson (1998:168– 176) also sees the Jupiter of Met. 1 as self-centered, lacking in dignity, and driven by emotions—a much different kind of god than that of Vergil or Horace.

49 Stace (1968:66).

50 See especially Fredericks (1977), who views this episode as singling out Mercury as the most successful of the gods due to his gift for witty speech, a trait that I have already established as typical of the servus. In contrast, Fredericks views Apollo as “a rash young man” and a “constantly unsuccessful lover” (244), which supports my reading of Apollo as an elegiac amator as I have outlined in Chapter 1.

sleep. But though Argus lets a few of his dreary eyes rest for a moment, the others he keeps steadfastly intent on Io. As if on cue, Argus makes the fatal mistake of asking how exactly the reed pipe was invented, which question proves an almost too convenient segue for Mercury’s next (and final) story of this episode. Delighted at the prospect, Mercury begins the story but tells it so tediously that it actually causes Argus to fall asleep. Ovid renders this all the more comic by noting wryly that Mercury himself is quite taken with his tale, as well as his new-found role as storyteller. He gets as far as depicting the setting, but then he notices that every last one of

Argus’ eyes has shut. In a kind of praeteritio, Ovid as primary narrator finishes the story (which also includes direct speech put in the mouth of Pan) that Mercury wanted to tell but never got the chance (talia dicturus, 1.713). Quickly deepening Argus’ sleep by using magic, only then does

Mercury proceed to cut off the head of his victim:

. . . restabat verba referre et precibus spretis fugisse per avia nympham, donec harenosi placidum Ladonis ad amnem venerit; hic illam cursum inpedientibus undis ut se mutarent liquidas orasse sorores, Panaque cum prensam sibi iam Syringa putaret, corpore pro nymphae calamos tenuisse palustres, dumque ibi suspirat, motos in harundine ventos effecisse sonum tenuem similemque querenti. arte nova vocisque deum dulcedine captum ‘hoc mihi colloquium tecum’ dixisse ‘manebit,’ atque ita disparibus calamis conpagine cerae inter se iunctis nomen tenuisse puellae. talia dicturus vidit Cyllenius omnes subcubuisse oculos adopertaque lumina somno . . . . (Met. 1.700–714)

[Mercury] still had to relate [Pan’s] words and, his entreaties scorned, the fact that the nymph had fled through remote places until she came to the tranquil river of sandy Lado; and that here, when the waves impeded her course, she had begged her watery sisters to transform her, and that Pan, when he thought he that Syrinx to his advantage caught, held the reeds from the swamp instead of the nymph’s body, and that while he was sighing there, the wind shaken in the reed made a slight sound like one lamenting. Captivated by his new skill and the sweetness of his voice, the god said: “This means of conversing with you will remain to me,” and thus by uneven reeds joined together with wax he

preserved the girl’s name. About to relate such things, Cyllenian Mercury sees that all the eyes [of Argus] had closed, and their light had been dimmed in sleep…

Ovid makes his readers suffer a little, since we must endure even more Mercury’s long-winded, meandering account than Argus did, since this is the part of the story that he merely intended to tell (Argus falls asleep before he ever gets to that part). But the effect is successful because with the sudden revelation that Argus has drifted off to sleep while Mercury continues to drone on, our impatience gives way to amusement. And yet this is not the meat of the matter, as Argus still stands in the way of Mercury’s shot at rescuing Io. The action then runs to violence:

supprimit extemplo vocem firmatque soporem languida permulcens medicata lumina virga. nec mora, falcato nutantem vulnerat ense, qua collo est confine caput, saxoque cruentum deicit et maculat praeruptam sanguine rupem. Arge, iaces, quodque in tot lumina lumen habebas, exstinctum est, centumque oculos nox occupat una. (Met. 1.715–721)

Right away he stops speaking and deepens [Argus’] rest, soothing the drowsy eyes with his enchanted wand. Without delay, using his curved swords he wounds him as he is dozing, in that place where the head joins with the neck, and casts it all bloody down the rocks and stains the steep cliff with blood. Argus, you lie there, and what light you have in so many eyes is extinguished, and one night takes a hundred eyes.

And so this narrative turns from comic (Argus is bored to sleep) to dangerous (he never wakes up). Wheeler views this episode as significant on a metanarrative level: audience participation is, as it were, a matter of life and death. I too read this segment as a kind of verbal caricature of inept reciters of Ovid’s time, the worst of whom possibly did bore their listeners to sleep (though probably not to death, as ultimately was the case for the unfortunate Argus). Though the audience remains safe from violence, this tale is nonetheless a cautionary one illustrating the cost of inattentiveness.51

51 Wheeler (1999:1) borrows from Richard Martin (1989:5) the story of a Romanian epic singer who called out his backup singer for falling asleep during a performance; this was intended to render the rather somnolent audience more attentive.

Thus Ovid, as storyteller, succeeds in creating a storyteller who succeeds by intentionally failing to tell his story. The deception, loquacity, and loyalty that are essential traits of the servus callidus (particularly in Plautine comedy), all appear in Mercury as he gives his violently magnificent performance in order to grant the wishes of his master. The following commentary from Duckworth on Plautine servi callidi applies just as readily to Mercury: “. . .in spite of temporary setbacks they are never really at a loss and usually carry through their outrageous undertakings to an exultant and laughable conclusion.”52

Many of the women of the Metamorphoses are also a re-fashioning of comic stock characters. Unsurprisingly, Juno in the Io account of Book 1 fits quite well the stereotype of the impatient matrona. First, she emerges as jealous and suspicious (in this case, rightly so):

Interea medios Iuno despexit in Argos et noctis faciem nebulas fecisse volucres sub nitido mirata die, non fluminis illas esse, nec umenti sensit tellure remitti; atque suus coniunx ubi sit circumspicit, ut quae deprensi totiens iam nosset furta mariti. quem postquam caelo non repperit, 'aut ego fallor aut ego laedor' ait delapsaque ab aethere summo constitit in terris nebulasque recedere iussit. coniugis adventum praesenserat inque nitentem Inachidos vultus mutaverat ille iuvencam; bos quoque formosa est. speciem Saturnia vaccae, quamquam invita, probat nec non, et cuius et unde quove sit armento, veri quasi nescia quaerit. Iuppiter e terra genitam mentitur, ut auctor desinat inquiri: petit hanc Saturnia munus. quid faciat? crudele suos addicere amores, non dare suspectum est: Pudor est, qui suadeat illinc, hinc dissuadet Amor. victus Pudor esset Amore, sed leve si munus sociae generisque torique vacca negaretur, poterat non vacca videri! (Met. 1.601–621)

Meanwhile, Juno looked down into the midst of Argos, and having marveled that quick mists had brought about the appearance of night under the shining daylight, she perceived

52 Duckworth (1952:252).

that they were not mists of a river or from the damp earth. And she looked around to see where her husband was, as she was one who so many times now had come to know the stolen loves of a husband caught in the act. After she did not find him in heaven, she said, “Either I’m deceived or I’m injured,” and having slipped down from the uppermost air, she halted on the land and ordered the mists to recede. He had divined his wife’s arrival beforehand and had changed the features of the daughter of Inachus into a gleaming young heifer; even as a cow, she is beautiful. The daughter of Saturn, though unwilling, approves of the cow’s looks, and as if ignorant of the truth asks whose it is and from what herd. Jupiter lies, saying that she was born from the earth, so that the origin might cease to be inquired after: Saturnian Juno asks for her as a gift. What should he do? It’s a cruel thing to cede over one’s love, suspicious not to give it: it is shame that would urge him from the one way, Love that would pull him the other way. Shame would have been conquered by Love, but if a trifling gift of a cow were denied to the companion of his ancestry and his bed, it could seem not a cow!

Interestingly, the next word of the text is paelice, referring unfairly to Io:

Paelice donata non protinus exuit omnem diva metum timuitque Iovem et fuit anxia furti . . . .

The mistress having been given up, the goddess did not put off all her fear right away, and she was apprehensive of Jupiter and uneasy as to his trickery . . . .

I read these lines and the preceding section as a hearkening to the stock types of the matrona and the meretrix (called here a paelex) respectively, the last two lines being a typical reaction of a matrona to her husband’s suspected indiscretions with a meretrix.53

I believe that there is a twofold significance to Ovid’s use of comic elements, including stock characters, in the Metamorphoses. On an artistic level, by this technique he stretches generic bounds beyond mere litterae scriptae, tacitly rendering the reader into a virtual audience of a performative spectacle as a consequence of his having turned epic into virtual comic theatre; he also is reviving a genre that has not been touched in years, meaning there are no current examples of this genre clamoring for attention (which he thus will monopolize). But more pragmatically speaking, this also means that he has stepped into a generic realm untouched by

53 Fantham (2004) sees comedy in Ovid’s description of Juno’s suspicions and Jupiter’s appearance as the “erring husband” (18).

political controversy in Rome’s past history or its present—a savvy choice considering his previous tangle with Augustus.

Disguise and Revelation

Having taken stock of the central characters of Roman comedy, I will now turn to elements of plot. Sharrock captures the essential qualities of Roman comedy in three words: consilium, architectus, and turbare, or “a self-referential plot, a clever plotter and a comic mess.”54 As we shall see, all of these elements are present in the Metamorphoses, creating multiple comic plots within a larger, pseudo-epic framework, each time involving suspense and resolution. We can look at a two-fold division of methods for creating dramatic suspense in Roman comedy: 1) ignorance of key facts, accompanied by a highlighting of the characters’ ignorance as well, and

2) thwarting of audience expectations engendered by foreshadowing vel sim. Despair and seemingly insurmountable obstacles also create dramatic tension and underscore the ignorance of the spectators.55

As I have already mentioned, in the opening of Book 6 a more sinister incarnation of

Plautine disguise and revelation explores the darker side of comedy and bridges the gap between gods against conflict and mortals against mortals in the next third of the poem. The theme of gods pitted against mortals comes to a close with Arachne and Minerva’s weaving contest, which reads as a theatrical dialogue, first presenting Minerva’s handiwork and then Arachne’s; the

54 Sharrock (2009:17). Similarly, Konstan (1986) points to “conflicting values or impulses” (9) that provide narrative tension; this tension or obstacle must then be resolved through characters’ interactions and plot machinations.

55 “. . . (1) when the spectators are ignorant or uncertain about the events to be unfolded subsequently, their tension is increased by stressing the ignorance or helplessness of the characters; (2) if the spectators have been prepared for the later action either by foreshadowing or by more definite announcement, the playwright may counteract the anticipation to a degree by portraying the fears and forebodings of the characters that the expected happening will not occur or that something will jeopardize the success of their plans.” So Duckworth (1952:223). Papaioannou (2014) holds that in Terentian comedy, the very driving force of the plot is in fact “the subversion of stock characters” (144), showing an upsetting of expectations even in the more psychologically-oriented comedies.

emphasis is so visual that it is like looking at a series of panels in a museum. There is also a subtle motif of deceit underlying the tale: it’s not a real bull and Arachne is not taught by

Minerva—and we know these things. Yet we are sucked into the lie because the narrative, like the tapestry, is so very life-like. The ekphrasis though is not the first moment of disguise and revelation in the Arachne narrative: the first one occurred early in the meeting between Arachne and Minerva. While the goddess was disguised as a feeble old woman, she approached Arachne and sanctimoniously told her to hone her skills in weaving, but also to be sure to yield to

Minerva and show reverence toward old age. Arachne replies impatiently, ending with a taunt to the goddess to come a demonstrate her skills. In a dramatic gesture and with a single word,

Minerva discards her disguise:

cur non ipsa venit? cur haec certamina vitat?' tum dea 'venit!' ait formamque removit anilem Palladaque exhibuit… (Met. 6.42–44)

“Why doesn’t she herself come? Why does she avoid this contest?” Then the goddess said, “She has come!” and put off the old woman’s appearance and revealed Pallas . . . .

These few lines combine both disguise-and-reveal elements as well as a stage cue: though the ecce is absent, the verb of entrance (venit) is prominent.56 Truly, this soft-pedaled entrance is appropriate, since no new performer enters the virtual stage, but instead one who is already present shows herself to be different from how she was perceived. Here and elsewhere, the contrast in the Metamorphoses between reality and illusion parallels the comic thwarting of expected outcomes.

56 Similarly, Anderson (1996) uses the term “stage directions in parenthesis” in connection with the Jupiter’s pointing out the shadowy darkness of the woods to Io at Met. 1.591: et nemorum monstraverat umbras (207). While Anderson does not use this to signal the immediate entrance of a new character, he does use it 1) to signify something that I would term a theatrical gesture, and 2) Juno does in fact the narrative a mere 10 lines later. Moreover, Kohn (2012) contrasts similar such parenthetical stage cues—which he defines in the same way as Anderson—within the Metamorphoses as both atypical of non-Ovidian epic (767, 769–770) and much more closely associated with comedy (769) and even with oratory (768).

Puns

Within the framework of puns, I will make a distinction between ambiguities (equivoca, when we initially understand a word to have a particular meaning only to find out later that it is used in a different sense) or wordplay (paronomasia, when a word appears next to or instead of another word with a similar sound, resulting in an absurdly different meaning).57 An example of the first type occurs in the exchange between Theopropides and Tranio in the Mostellaria:

THEOPROPIDES. Surgedum huc igitur. consulere quiddam est quod tecum volo. TRANIO. Sic tamen hinc consilium dedero. nimio plus sapio sedens. tum consilia firmiora sunt de divinis locis. (Most. 1102–1104)

THEOPROPIDES. Get up and come here. I want to ask your advice about something. TRANIO. I can give my advice from here. I’m a lot wiser sitting down. Besides, you get better advice from holy places.58

The key word around which the pun hinges is sedens, which means both sitting down and sitting in judgement or presiding in court—an equivocation that is humorous coming from the mouth of old Tranio. In the same play, there is also Simo’s reply to Theopropides:

THEOPROPIDES. Numquid processit ad forum hodie novi? SIMO. Etiam. THEOPROPIDES. Quid tandem? SIMO. Vidi efferri mortuom. THEOPROPIDES. Hem. (Most. 999–1000)

THEOPROPIDES. Did anything new come to pass at the forum today? SIMO. Yes. THEOPROPIDES. What then? SIMO. I saw a dead man carried out. THEOPROPIDES.Wow.

The verbal humor centers on processit, can be read as having the dual meaning of “occurred” and “passed out in procession.”

As for the second type of pun—the paronomasia, or wordplay—there is a clear instance in Agorastocles’ wry retort to Milphio in the Poenulus:

AGORASTOCLES. Milphio, heus, ubi es? MILPHIO. Assum apud te, eccum.

57 Duckworth (1952:350–351). For convenience’s sake, in this paper I will refer to both types as puns.

58 Translation is Duckworth’s (1952:351).

AGORASTOCLES. At ego elixus sis volo. (Poen. 279)

AGORASTOCLES. Hey, Milphio, where are you? MILPHIO. Here, I’m right with you. AGORASTOCLES. Ha, I wish you were boiled through.

Duckworth elucidates the joke: Milphio’s assum is his saying that he is present (adsum), but

Agorastocles sees an opportunity to rail against Milphio and capitalizes on the (admittedly ludicrous) possibility of hearing assum as “roasted.” Throughout all of Plautus’ plays, there are numerous puns, which do not feature prominently in Terence, nor are there thought to be many in the Greek originals Plautus drew from.59

At the hearts of punning is the element of the unexpected, which I have stated is essential to comedy. This also manifests itself in Plautus in what Duckworth calls “the surprise turn,” wherein a standard verbal formula (e.g., a greeting or a proverb) is reversed, cut off, or otherwise altered παρὰ προσδοκίαν, or contrary to expectation.60 This sudden shift in meaning occurs in the

Menaechmi:

CYLINDRUS. numquid vis? MENAECHMUS. Vt eas maximam malam crucem. (Men. 328) CYLINDRUS. Nothing else you’d like, am I right? MENAECHMUS. I’d like you to die the most shameful death on the cross.

There is another surprise turn in Cylindrus’ reply to Menaechmus’ imprecation:

CYLINDRUS. Ire hercle meliust te interim atque accumbere (Men. 329)

CYLINDRUS. Good God, better for you to go—and rest meanwhile.

59 Further examples of both types of puns are found in Duckworth (1952:351–355), Parker (1989), Hallett (1993), Franko (1999), Welsh (2005), Fontaine (2006), et al.

60 Duckworth (1952:356) and Fontaine (2006:281).

The double surprise turn relies upon the fact that it terminates in something polite rather than irately obscene, for no one expects a mild, hospitable reply to a harsh insult. These examples are but a small sample of the vast ocean of puns found in the Plautine corpus.61

Both types of puns are plentiful in the Metamorphoses as well. A chilling example of the first, consisting of ambiguities (equivoca), occurs in the dark tale of Tereus, Procne, and

Philomela. Tereus, a Thracian (and thus a barbarian), is also a descendant of Mars and, unsurprisingly, skilled in battle. He marries Procne, a daughter of the king of Athens, but after five years of marriage she wishes to visit home once again. During this visit, Tereus rapes and mutilates Procne’s sister, Philomela, cutting out her tongue so she cannot reveal the sordid, grisly truth. After Tereus lies about Philomela’s misfortune and conceals his wickedness to the best of his abilities, eventually Procne finds out what has happened, and together the sisters plot to take revenge against Tereus by killing Itys, his son with Procne. Worse still, the women prepare a defiling banquet of vengeance:

His adhibet coniunx ignarum Terea mensis et patrii moris sacrum mentita, quod uni fas sit adire viro, comites famulosque removit. ipse sedens solio Tereus sublimis avito vescitur inque suam sua viscera congerit alvum, tantaque nox animi est, ‘Ityn huc accersite!’ dixit. dissimulare nequit crudelia gaudia Procne iamque suae cupiens exsistere nuntia cladis ‘intus habes, quem poscis’ ait: circumspicit ille atque, ubi sit, quaerit; quaerenti iterumque vocanti, sicut erat sparsis furiali caede capillis, prosiluit Ityosque caput Philomela cruentum misit in ora patris nec tempore maluit ullo posse loqui et meritis testari gaudia dictis. (Met. 6.647–660)

61 In addition to the other sources I have cited, I have found Fontaine’s (2010) extensive study (including its Index Iocorum or “pundex”) on Plautine wordplay to be particularly comprehensive and pertinent to this paper. Also, I believe that Grant (1999) makes a crucial point about the practical value of puns during times of censorship: they are built-in protection from political opposition, for to see a “bad” double meaning there must be a certain degree of “smut in the mind of the listener” (29) more so than in the author, it can be argued; likewise, Ovid would have similar practical use for puns during the Principate.

The wife invites unsuspecting Tereus to this feast, and having said falsely that it was a sacred rite according to the custom of her country, which was permitted only for a husband to approach, sends away her companions and the household. Tereus himself sitting tall in his ancestral chair eats, and takes his own flesh and blood into his belly, so great is darkness of mind. “Fetch Itys here!” he said. Procne cannot conceal her cruel delight, and now desiring to act as messenger of destruction, says,“The one whom you seek, you have inside.” He looks around and searches for where Itys is. To the one searching and calling repeatedly, just as with her hair bespattered with dreadful blood, Philomela leaped forth, and hurled Itys’ bloody head at the face of his father, nor at any other time did she want more to be able to speak and to give witness to her joy with deserved words. (emphasis mine)

The terrifying and gruesome realization that he has unwittingly just eaten his son hits Tereus long after it has hit us, but the witty double entendre is shudder-inducing: Tereus interprets intus as signifying “in the house,” but we know that Procne’s meaning is much more sinister.

As for wordplay of the second type, I have already demonstrated in Chapter 1 that the very proem of the Metamorphoses turns παρὰ προσδοκίαν as early as the second line, when Ovid reveals that his subject is not forms changed into new things but into new bodies, the enjambment between lines 1 and 2 creating a kind of paranomasia, or pun of the second type I have outlined. The importance of the proem both with respect to location in the text and to the theme clearly demonstrates that from the beginning of the Metamorphoses, Ovid promises his readers (and challenges himself) to deliver wordplay, thus manipulating audience expectation by focusing their collective gaze on transformational elements and verbal twists and also adding to the performative value of the text.

Stunning Visual Effects

There is a further theatrical correlation with Ovid’s use of what I will refer to as visual language. Throughout the Metamorphoses, Ovid makes frequent use of words relating to sight: video(r) and imago are recurring vocabulary choices that often suggest a distorted view rather

than an objective reality.62 Such choices mirror the visual words that occur in Plautus with the dual function of stage cues for the actor and invitation to the audience to direct their gaze to the newly-entered character, as in Peniculus’ announcement in the Menaechmi:

Menaechmum eccum ipsum video, progreditur foras (Men. 108)

Look, I see Menaechmus himself; he’s coming outside.

Thus, such language is further similarity between the Metamorphoses and Roman comedy.

The first story I will consider that employs clearly visual language is the case of Daphne and Apollo. The would-be rapist-god faces a major setback when Daphne prays to her father, the river god Peneus, to deliver her from her pursuer; Peneus obliges by transforming her into a laurel tree. Even when his desires are frustrated beyond recall, Apollo still tries to claim that the whole thing was a win for him:

Hanc quoque Phoebus amat positaque in stipite dextra sentit adhuc trepidare novo sub cortice pectus conplexusque suis ramos ut membra lacertis oscula dat ligno; refugit tamen oscula lignum. cui deus ‘at, quoniam coniunx mea non potes esse, arbor eris certe’ dixit ‘mea! semper habebunt te coma, te citharae, te nostrae, laure, pharetrae; tu ducibus Latiis aderis, cum laeta Triumphum vox canet et visent longas Capitolia pompas; postibus Augustis eadem fidissima custos ante fores stabis mediamque tuebere quercum, utque meum intonsis caput est iuvenale capillis, tu quoque perpetuos semper gere frondis honores!’ finierat Paean: factis modo laurea ramis adnuit utque caput visa est agitasse cacumen. (Met. 1.553–567)

62 The subject of visual language in the Aeneid forms the basis for Alden Smith’s 2005 monograph. Much of what he notes in reference to Vergilian visual language applies at least as well in Ovid: for instance, in his second Chapter, Alden Smith discusses the impact of the gods’ alteration of their appearances, including Venus’ apparition to Aeneas in Aen. 1, which Alden Smith reads as “ironic, almost comical” (28). Furthermore, Alden Smith articulates the narratological importance of the deception: if the characters being deceived by such imagines knew they were being deceived, there would indeed by no story (cf. Europa and Jupiter’s disguise as a bull, and many other such examples in the Metamorphoses).

Phoebus loves her thus too, and with his hand placed on the trunk he feels her heart still quivering beneath the new bark, and having embraced in his arms the branches as if they were human limb, he gives kisses to the wood; still, the wood shrinks back from his kisses. To whom the god said, “But since you are not able to be my wife, surely you will be my tree! My hair will always wear you, my lyre and my quiver too, o laurel. You will be among Roman leaders, when the happy voice will sing the triumph and the Capitoline will behold their long processions. Likewise as a most faithful sentinel at the posts of Augustus you will stand before the doors and keep watch over the oak between them, and just as my head with its unshorn locks is always young, so also always do you wear everlasting honor of your foliage.” Paean Apollo had finished: the laurel with its newly- made branches nodded and seemed to have shaken its peak as if it were a head.

The end of the story is the product of Apollo’s delusional mind. Despite Daphne’s having given him every reason to believe that her unwillingness persists even after her metamorphosis, Apollo refuses to see this or concede defeat. In reality, Daphne never yields to Apollo: a tree cannot give consent any more than pre-transformation Daphne would have given consent. And even if she were expressing approval at something, it is possible she was merely agreeing to be entwined in

Rome’s future rather than in Apollo’s arms.63 I read this as a metaphor for Ovid’s self- representation: on the surface, his art has changed into a new genre (and seemingly compliant tone), and yet he still retains his defiance of reader expectations (including expectations of genre) that is evident as early as Amores 1, as I have discussed earlier in this chapter.

Contrast between appearance and reality is perhaps even more striking at the close of the first portion of the Cadmus narrative. After slaying a massive snake, fulfilling the mission of

Apollo, and founding Thebes, it seems that Cadmus is going to have a happy ending:

Iam stabant Thebae, poteras iam, Cadme, videri exilio felix: soceri tibi Marsque Venusque contigerant; huc adde genus de coniuge tanta, tot natos natasque et, pignora cara, nepotes, hos quoque iam iuvenes; sed scilicet ultima semper exspectanda dies hominis, dicique beatus ante obitum nemo supremaque funera debet. (Met. 3.131–137)

63 Ginsberg (1989:226–227) notices that Ovid takes pains to show that despite outward appearances, Daphne has remained the same: even as a tree she refuses Apollo’s advances, and even the name by which the god addresses her is significant, for laurea is of course the Latinized version of her Greek name.

Now Thebes was standing; now you were able, Cadmus, to be seen as happy in your exile: Mars and Venus had become related to you as in-laws; to this, add your offspring from so great a wife—so many sons and daughters, and dear pledges, your grandchildren, and these are now young people. But of course it’s always a person’s last day that he has to look out for, and no one ought to be called happy before his death and the last rites of his funerals.

By outward appearances, Cadmus did seem to have it all. But the cautionary dictum at the end of the passage tells the reader that Cadmus’ story has not ended. The foreboding voice a few lines earlier already (which I have already mentioned in my discussion of ecce as a theatrical cue) made this clear by a prophetic announcement that has not yet been fulfilled at this point in the narrative:

While the victor surveys the span of the conquered enemy, a voice was heard suddenly, nor was it clear to tell from where, but it was heard: “Why, son of Agenor, do you look upon the annihilated serpent? You too will be looked upon as a serpent.”

This reiterates the thematic message that, whether for the viewer or the one viewed, the act of looking is inevitably dangerous. Danger can creep in as well with the recurring “false image” or illusion; this is similar to the disguise and reveal plot point that I have discussed earlier.

Immediately prior to the introduction of Cadmus, it is love that prompts Jupiter to disguise himself as a bull in order to abduct Europa (Cadmus’ sister):

non bene conveniunt nec in una sede morantur maiestas et amor; sceptri gravitate relicta ille pater rectorque deum, cui dextra trisulcis ignibus armata est, qui nutu concutit orbem, induitur faciem tauri mixtusque iuvencis mugit et in teneris formosus obambulat herbis. (Met. 2.846–851)

Dignity and love do not sit well together nor do they linger in one dwelling; the burden of his scepter having been left behind, the father and ruler of the gods, whose right arm is

equipped with three-forked fire, who with his nod shatters the earth, puts on the appearance of a bull, and he moos, insinuated himself with the young cattle and, finely formed, walks in the soft grass.

Speaking more candidly than at other times in the Metamorphoses, Ovid here unequivocally points out the unsettling contrast between appearances and reality when Jupiter transforms himself into a (seeming) bull—a deception that bears a marked resemblance to the comic disguise-and-reveal trope. A further parallel between the Metamorphoses and performative literature is the correlation between the infamia incurred de facto by an actor, who is subject public view, and the dangerous gaze (or glance) of either the giving or the receiving party of an

Ovidian metamorphosis (e.g., Diana vs. Actaeon: for each of them, the act of looking involves some peril).

In this first third of the Metamorphoses, the comic qualities of the text are easily visible, primarily because of the sense of contrast afforded by the gods-versus-mortals theme; it is also reminiscent of the prologue of Plautus’ Amphitryo, wherein Mercury professes that he as a god will change the the genre of the play to a mix of tragedy and comedy:

Nunc quam rem oratum huc veni primum proloquar, post argumentum huius eloquar tragoediae. quid? contraxistis frontem, quia tragoediam dixi futuram hanc? deus sum, commutavero. eandem hanc, si voltis, faciam ex tragoedia comoedia ut sit omnibus isdem vorsibus. utrum sit an non voltis? sed ego stultior, quasi nesciam vos velle, qui divos siem. teneo quid animi vostri super hac re siet: faciam ut commixta sit: sit tragicomoedia. nam me perpetuo facere ut comoedia, reges quo veniant et di, non par arbitror. quid igitur? quoniam hic servos quoque partes habet, faciam sit, proinde ut dixi, tragicomoedia. (Amph. 50–63)

Now the matter that I’ve come here to speak I will first speak out, after I declare the subject of this tragedy. What? Have you furrowed your brows because I’ve said that this will be a tragedy? I’m a god; I will have changed it. If you wish, I’ll make this same from

a tragedy into a comedy, so that it might be with all the lines the same. Do you wish this to be or not? But I’m too foolish, as if I, who am I god, wouldn’t know that you do want it. I have in mind what your opinion on this matter is: I will see to it that it be mixed: let it be a tragi-comedy. For I don’t think it’s right for me to make it a comedy throughout, where kings and gods appear. What then? Since here the slave has a role as well, I will make it, as I said before, a tragi-comedy.

And so as early as Plautine comedy do we see a distinct, self-proclaimed effort to blend two heretofore distinct genres.64 Just as Ovid implies that it will take direct inspiration from the gods themselves in order to tell of “forms changed into new bodies,” so also does Plautus imply that fusing literary genres requires godlike talent. Ovid also voices a similar sentiment at nam vos mutastis et illa (“for you have already changed them too”): ostensibly the gods have changed his beginnings, heretofore elegiac couplets, into perpetual hexameter. Even the perpetuo of Plautus and the carmen perpetuum of Ovid share obvious similarity.65

Mora and Amor: The Spectactle of Pyramus and Thisbe

The Pyramus and Thisbe story told by Arsippe in Book 4 is one of the most theatrical in the entire epic. It begins with a series of rejected possible stories:

e quibus una levi deducens pollice filum ‘dum cessant aliae commentaque sacra frequentant, nos quoque, quas Pallas, melior dea, detinet’ inquit, ‘utile opus manuum vario sermone levemus perque vices aliquid, quod tempora longa videri non sinat, in medium vacuas referamus ad aures!’ dicta probant primamque iubent narrare sorores. illa, quid e multis referat (nam plurima norat), cogitat et dubia est, de te, Babylonia, narret, Derceti, quam versa squamis velantibus artus stagna Palaestini credunt motasse figura, an magis, ut sumptis illius filia pennis

64 Bond (1999:203–204) reads the Plautus text as a true blend of the two genres, and remarks that there are instances therein at which it is not clear whether the reader is meant to laugh or cry. See also Hinds (1998) and Harrison (2007) for more on allusion, intertext, and the challenges in creating and reading a multi-generic text.

65 See Hanses (2014:247–250), who calls attention to the close similarity of the proem of the Metamorphoses and the prologue of the Amphitryo in their promises of generic transformation to be effected through the agency of the gods.

extremos albis in turribus egerit annos, nais an ut cantu nimiumque potentibus herbis verterit in tacitos iuvenalia corpora pisces, donec idem passa est, an, quae poma alba ferebat ut nunc nigra ferat contactu sanguinis arbor: hoc placet; hanc, quoniam vulgaris fabula non est, talibus orsa modis lana sua fila sequente… (Met. 4.36–54)

One of whom, spinning out the thread with deft thumb, says, “While other women idle about and throng to fictitious religious rites, let us whom Pallas, a better deity, detains, lighten our useful work with diverse conversation, and by turns among us recall to our idle ears something that will prevent the time from seeming long.” Her sisters approve of her words, and entreat her to tell the first story. She considers which of many she should tell (for she knew quite a few), and she is in doubt whether she should tell of you, Babylonian Dercetis, whom the Palestinians believe to have moved the still waters with your shape changed and scales covering your limbs. Or rather how Dercetis’ daughter, having assumed wings, lived out her last years in a white tower, or how the naiad, with song and too-powerful herbs, changed the bodies of youths into silent fish, until she underwent the same fate—or how the tree that used to bear white fruit now bring black fruit because of contact with blood: this one pleases her, and this tale, because it is not a common one, and in such a way, the wool following the weaving, she began . . . .

I will begin by looking at the introduction to this story as serving the threefold purpose of dubitatio, recusatio, and praeteritio. As I have mentioned, hesitation in a character in comedy is a means for producing suspense in theatre, particularly when it is coupled with the audience’s ignorance as to how the plot will unfold, and it is precisely suspense that Ovid creates when he introduces a potential storyteller who hesitates. Moreover, the narrator of this tale does not hesitate between a mere two possible choices, but rather she is overwhelmed by a huge number of options for her story. Such a framework creates a huge amount of suspense, especially since we as readers know that the story is not going to be told by the universal narrator with whose style (varied as it is) we are familiar, but by someone about whom we know very little. When she finally does select a story, it is in fact not a well-known one: in fact, the tale of Pyramus and

Thisbe is known only via Ovid.66

66 Anderson (1998:418) and Keith (2001:309). Some alternate, pre-Ovidian origins of the story are suggested by Knox (1989) and Shorrock (2003), but these theories have not put the question to rest.

In addition to being a vehicle for suspense, this introduction is also a variant of the recusatio trope of Ovid’s earlier works wherein with false modesty he protests that he is unable to fall in step with his immediate poetic predecessors either prosodically or thematically, as he explains in the Amores:

Arma gravi numero violentaque bella parabam edere, materia conveniente modis. par erat inferior versus—risisse Cupido dicitur atque unum surripuisse pedem. 'Quis tibi, saeve puer, dedit hoc in carmina iuris? Pieridum vates, non tua turba sumus. (Am. 1.1.1–6)67

I was getting ready to spin a tale of arms in great number and violent wars, the matter suiting the meter. The lower line was up to snuff; Cupid’s said to have laughed, and to have snatched away a foot. “Who is it, cruel boy, who’s given to you this power over poetry? The bard is the Muses’ domain; we’re not part of your crowd.”

It too is similar to the rhetorical device of praeteritio, most commonly found in oratory and perhaps most often associated with Cicero; a highly dramatic pretended omission, praeteritio can be used either to a damning or comic effect. Of course, here the sense is comic: his contemporary readers would have had the requisite familiarity with both the Aeneid and Ovid’s earlier amatory works to understand the playful jest.68 This is all the more compelling if we view the dubitatio as

67 This approach is reminiscent of Callimachus’ retooling of generic convention, as well as his specific rejection of generic expectations: he is not going to produce in the Aetia one long continuous song. See Acosta-Hughes/Stephens (2002) for further explication of this as well as evidence of wordplay in the opening of the Aetia, like that which I have just shown is in the Amores 1 opening (i.e., playing with the Aeneid proem). Otis (1970) notes the comic interaction of this text with Vergil as well as its dashing of generic expectations; he also reads in it an appropriation and exaggeration of the stock motifs of the elegiac genre for comic effect (13–15). Although I disagree with Otis’ assessment of the tone of the Amores as one of “relaxed and provocative malice” (15), I nevertheless find his observations regarding Ovid’s cavalier treatment of the genre to be true and insightful, as well as supportive of my multigeneric reading of Ovid.

68 Seeds of the transformation of genre that is thematic in the Metamorphoses are discernible even here with the “snatching” of the metrical foot and the consequent alteration from epic to elegy.

either a real or pretended hesitation on the part of the main narrator too, who struggles to put a story within a story.69

The narrative proper ensues, culminating in an ostensibly failed attempt to tell a love story.70 Not needing any additional encouragement, the first sister begins:

Pyramus et Thisbe, iuvenum pulcherrimus alter, altera, quas Oriens habuit, praelata puellis, contiguas tenuere domos, ubi dicitur altam coctilibus muris cinxisse Semiramis urbem. notitiam primosque gradus vicinia fecit, tempore crevit amor; taedae quoque iure coissent, sed vetuere patres: quod non potuere vetare, ex aequo captis ardebant mentibus ambo… (Met. 4.55–62)

Pyramus and Thisbe, the one a most handsome young man, the other esteemed above the maidens whom the Orient contained, lived in neighboring houses, where the Semiramis river is said to have the high city with its brick walls. Their proximity caused their acquaintance and their first steps, and in time love grew; and they would have united by right of marriage, but their parents forbade it, which they were not able to forbid. Both burned equally in their captive minds.

The narrative begins like a fairytale: both lovers are young and very good-looking, and the setting is vague and foreign. They even live in adjacent houses, a fact that might seem a bit too convenient. However, the lover next door is a very common trope in Plautus and Terence— there are about ten plays that feature it71—and so this episode shares similarities with comedy even at these very earliest lines in the narrative.

Within a line and a half (4.59–60), Arsippe has all but ruined the effect of her fairytale- like introduction (4.55–58), as she omits any romantic language or emotional descriptions and

69 This is similar to the position of Duke (1971:322).

70 Rudd (2000:113) points out that although the focus is on a pair of romantic lovers, nevertheless we cannot truly term the poet himself here a romantic one.

71 These include the Asinaria, Bacchides, Curculio, Poenulus, Truculentus, Adelphoe, Andria, Eunuchus, Hecyra, and Phormio.

instead depicts the lovers’ first meeting in impersonal terms and abstract nouns. I read this jolting lack of character development as a caricature of the adulescens and virgo stock characters of

Roman comedy. This odd frustration at the outset of the story establishes the paradigm for the rest of the scene: key plot points are downplayed, while trivial details loom large in the account; for instance, Arsippe not only glosses over the lovers’ first meeting but also omits the reason for their parents’ disapproval of the match. In short, we cannot tell what kind of story this is until we come to the end and view the thing as a whole.

The next literary convention comes most directly from elegy but also appears in comedy: it is a complaint to the cruel wall that heartlessly separates the two lovers:

fissus erat tenui rima, quam duxerat olim, cum fieret, paries domui communis utrique. id vitium nulli per saecula longa notatum - quid non sentit amor? - primi vidistis amantes et vocis fecistis iter, tutaeque per illud murmure blanditiae minimo transire solebant. saepe, ubi constiterant hinc Thisbe, Pyramus illinc, inque vices fuerat captatus anhelitus oris, “invide” dicebant “paries, quid amantibus obstas? quantum erat, ut sineres toto nos corpore iungi aut, hoc si nimium est, vel ad oscula danda pateres? nec sumus ingrati: tibi nos debere fatemur, quod datus est verbis ad amicas transitus auris.” (Met. 4.65–77)

The wall had been split by a thin crack, which had formed some time ago when the wall common to each house was being built. This flaw, noted by no one through long ages (what does love not perceive?) you lovers first saw, and made a passageway for your voices, and your sweet nothings were wont to travel across it with very little murmuring. Often, when Thisbe had taken her place on one side, Pyramus on the other, and the exhalation of their mouths had been held back in turn, they used to say: “O cruel wall, why do you stand in the ways of lovers? How great a thing would it would be for you to allow us to be joined in body entirely or, if that’s too much, to open for us to give kisses? We’re not ungrateful: we admit that we owe you, because a passage for words has been given to friendly ears.”

Immediately evident in this speech is the similarity to the paraclausithyron, or lover’s lament to a closed door, most commonly associated with elegy.72 However, the earliest example of the paraclausithyron occurs not in elegiac poetry but in the Curculio (and is meant to be absurdly funny): Phaedromus sings a sad serenade to the barred door, which causes Palinurus immediately to laugh derisively. First, Phaedromus pours wine; there’s some banter, plus a few opportunities for laughter, and a creaking hinge:

PHAEDROMUS. Sequere hac, Palinure, me ad fores, fi mi obsequens. PALINURUS. Ita faciam. PHAEDROMUS. Agite bibite, festivae fores; potate, fite mihi volentes propitiae. PALINURUS. Voltisne olivas aut pulpamentum aut capparim? PHAEDROMUS. Exsuscitate vostram huc custodem mihi. PALINURUS. Profundis vinum: quae te res agitant? PHAEDROMUS. Sine. viden ut aperiuntur aedes festivissumae? num muttit cardo? est lepidus. PALINURUS. Quin das savium? PHAEDROMUS. Tace, occultemus lumen et vocem. PALINURUS. Licet. (87–95)

PHAEDROMUS. Follow me this way, Palinurus, to the doors, and be obedient to me. PALINURUS. I’ll do so. PHAEDROMUS. Come, drink, festive doors; drink your fill, willingly be propitious to me. PALINURUS. Do you want some olives or a bit of meat or a caper? PHAEDROMUS. Rouse up your lady guardian here for me. PALINURUS. You’re spilling the wine; what’s the matter with you? PHAEDROMUS. Leave me alone. Don’t you see that the most festive doors are being opened? That isn’t the hinge turning, is it? It’s delightful. PALINURUS. Why don’t you give it a kiss? PHAEDROMUS. Quiet; let’s keep the light and our voices hidden. PALINURUS. All right.

Even the comic reference to the kiss recurs in the Pyramus and Thisbe tale, immediately following their querulous conversation on opposite sides of the wall:

talia diversa nequiquam sede locuti sub noctem dixere “vale” partique dedere oscula quisque suae non pervenientia contra.

72 The occurrence of paraclausithyron in the Pyramus and Thisbe tale is noted by Hardie (2002:144), Keith (2002:256), Salzman-Mitchell (2005:66), et al. Also, Frangoulidis’ (2013) detailed treatment of paraclausithyron in the Curculio demonstrates the comic potential of this device and how Plautus capitalizes on it by altering all of its primary features. There is a noticeable dearth of scholarship outlining a correlation between the paraclausithyron of the Curculio and the Pyramus and Thisbe scene in the Metamorphoses, with Franko (2015) being a welcome exception: he establishes a connection between Leaena (the obstructive lena of the Curculio) and the leaena (the leonine adversary in the Pyramus and Thisbe story).

Having said such things to no avail, from their separate positions they said farewell at nightfall, and gave kisses, not reaching all the way across to the other, each to their own side. (Met. 4.78–80)

Then in the next scene, Phaedromus sings:

PHAEDROMUS. Pessuli, heus pessuli, vos saluto lubens, vos amo, vos volo, vos peto atque obsecro, gerite amanti mihi morem, amoenissumi, fite causa mea ludii barbari, sussilite, obsecro, et mittite istanc foras, quae mihi misero amanti ebibit sanguinem. hoc vide ut dormiunt pessuli pessumi nec mea gratia commovent se ocius. re spicio, nihili meam vos gratiam facere. st tace, tace. PALINURUS. Taceo hercle equidem. PHAEDROMUS. Sentio sonitum. tandem edepol mihi morigeri pessuli fiunt. (147–157)

PHAEDROMUS. Bolts, alas, o you bolts, I willingly salute you, I love, I want you, I beseech and implore you, give gratification to me, a lover, most delightful ones. Become for my sake foreign play-actors, leap up, I pray, and send her out, who drains the blood from miserable me in love. Look at this, how those wretched bolts sleep and do not move themselves any more quickly for my sake. I see that you prize my favor at nothing. Shh, quiet, quiet! PALINURUS. By heaven, I am being quiet. PHAEDROMUS. I perceive a sound. Finally, by god, these doors are obliging me.

In contrast to the very brief account of the couple’s following in love, in a bizarre simile involving plumbing imagery the internal narrator spends a bit too much time lingering over

Pyramus’ blood spurting from his death wound, going into a graphic, gory simile involving a pipe:

“accipe nunc" inquit "nostri quoque sanguinis haustus!” quoque erat accinctus, demisit in ilia ferrum, nec mora, ferventi moriens e vulnere traxit. ut iacuit resupinus humo, cruor emicat alte, non aliter quam cum vitiato fistula plumbo scinditur et tenui stridente foramine longas eiaculatur aquas atque ictibus aera rumpit. (Met. 4.118–124)

“Receive now,” he said, “the gushing of my blood!” And the sword with which he was girt he plunged into his side. Without delay, as he was dying he pulled it from the seething wound. As he lay face up on the ground, his blood spurted upward, no

differently than when a pipe bursts due to faulty lead, and through the hissing hairline split ejects long streams of water and with its attacks bursts forth into the air.

But let us back up a few lines to the first scene change. Once Pyramus and Thisbe have made their plan, Arsippe turns her attention first to Thisbe, who sneaks out of her parent’s house apparently without difficulty:

Callida per tenebras versato cardine Thisbe egreditur fallitque suos adopertaque vultum pervenit ad tumulum dictaque sub arbore sedit. audacem faciebat amor. venit ecce recenti caede leaena boum spumantis oblita rictus depositura sitim vicini fontis in unda; quam procul ad lunae radios Babylonia Thisbe vidit et obscurum timido pede fugit in antrum, dumque fugit, tergo velamina lapsa reliquit. ut lea saeva sitim multa conpescuit unda, dum redit in silvas, inventos forte sine ipsa ore cruentato tenues laniavit amictus. (Met. 4.93–104)

Clever Thisbe through the darkness, the hinge having been turned, goes out and deceives her own people, and having covered her face, she arrives at the tomb and sits under the tree. Love was making her bold. Look, there comes a lioness, her foaming jaws smeared from her recent killing, about to quench her thirst in the water of the nearby fountain. Babylonian Thisbe saw the lioness from afar by the moonbeams, and on fearful foot ran away into the dark cave. And while she ran off, she left behind her veil, which had fallen down from her back. When the savage lioness slaked her thirst with much water, while she returned into the forest, the delicate mantle (found by chance without Thisbe) she ripped to pieces with her bloody mouth.

This passage is rich with theatricality. In the first line there occurs the device of the creaking door, which in Roman comedy alerts both actors and audience to the entrance of a character.73

As I have stated, this trope is found in both Greek and Roman comedy and elegy; for Pyramus and Thisbe, both the door and the wall harken to this device. When Thisbe slips out of her

73 As in the Aulularia: “attat, foris crepuit. senex eccum aurum ecfert foras” (“Aha! The door creaked; look, the old man is bringing out his gold”), 665. Duckworth (1952:116) gives more than 10 examples of this device. More recently, Sharrock (2008) stresses the importance of the door as crucial to the plot, as it “embodies desire for entry and exit which drives the plot . . . and makes the play happen” (1), and is anthropomorphized almost to the point of being a character in its own right; she too views the creaking door as a paradigmatic theatrical convention (3).

parents’ house to meet her lover under cover of darkness, immediately she is transformed by receiving two distinguishing marks. Firstly, she is callida, which I believe Ovid’s contemporaries would have associated with Homer, as it smacks of reference to Odyssean cunning, or μῆτις. The epithet Babylonia appears next, turning her into a pseudo-epic heroine, a choice both out of place (she is very much a minor character within the larger framework of the epic) and odd (this particular myth is only one of hundreds, and Thisbe is a far cry from the protagonist of the entire epic).74 It too is suggestive of Thisbe’s attempt via deception to appropriate the role of servus callidus for herself—a role that we quickly see she is ill-equipped to take on.

A seemingly small detail, the venit ecce of line 96 brings together two additional Plautine elements that announce a character’s entrance: namely, a verbal marking the entrance of a character and the interjection ecce, often written as eccum in Plautus. The next scene too kicks off with an ecce:

Ecce metu nondum posito, ne fallat amantem, illa redit iuvenemque oculis animoque requirit, quantaque vitarit narrare pericula gestit; utque locum et visa cognoscit in arbore formam, sic facit incertam pomi color: haeret, an haec sit. (Met. 4.128–132)

Look! Not yet having put her fear to rest, lest she deceive her lover, she returns, and searches for the youth with her eyes and her mind, eager to relate what great dangers she escaped. And just she recognizes the place and the shape in the tree as having been seen, so also does the color of the fruit make her uncertain: she is at a loss as to whether this is it.

The recurrence of ecce, along with redit when used to announce the entrance of a character, once again operates as a theatrical cue, this time to the reader rather than the performer. This usage is clearly similar to its Plautine origins.

74 Jones’s commentary (2007:106) on the text interprets Babylonia Thisbe as an epic epithet, albeit an ironic one, as does Newlands’ (2014:102) commentary. Anderson’s (1996:422) position is virtually identical.

In a way similar to the business before the internal narration proper—when Arsippe was able to decide on a story only after indecisively weighing each of her own suggestions—Ovid creates suspense by making his character hesitate while keeping his audience ignorant of the next part of the plot progression, as I have discussed already; words like incertam and haeret make this clear, as does the next portion of the text:

dum dubitat, tremebunda videt pulsare cruentum membra solum, retroque pedem tulit, oraque buxo pallidiora gerens exhorruit aequoris instar, quod tremit, exigua cum summum stringitur aura. (Met. 4.133–136)

While she hesitates, trembling, she sees the limbs quivering on the bloody ground, and took a step back. Having a countenance paler than boxwood, she gave a shudder, like the sea, which trembles when its surface is touched by a slight breeze. (my emphasis)

In addition to containing odd points of emphasis, at times the Pyramus and Thisbe narrative also becomes meandering and difficult to follow. The entire episode is supposed to be an aetiological tale explaining the now-dark color of the mulberry, but the treatment is forced and the story is rather that of a rendezvous gone frightfully awry. The erratic, illogical focal points of the internal narrator—the mulberry bush, the pipe simile, etc. —are like the jerky movements of a camera in the hands of an unskilled filmmaker: they both tell a story, but someone else—like Ovid, the master cinematographer—could have done it better.75 Thus in creating a clumsy creator, Ovid also chisels out a meta-narrative to prove yet again that he is the poet par excellence, as the contrast between internal and master narrators further intensifies his verbal agility: it is not Arsippe after all who is the author of the tale but Ovid himself, who sets up a false dichotomy between authorial intention and meta-authorial intention.76

75 Bernbeck (1967:1–39) finds a similar disjointedness, which he views as counter to epic convention, in the Ino tale. The end result is suspense and surprise.

76 Wheeler (1999:207) distinguishes between “heterodiegetic” and “homodiegetic” narrators: i.e., narrators who, respectively, are outside the story or characters within a story.

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Lastly, though similarities to the wordsmithing of Plautus may not be expected in a tragic and bloody tale told by a female internal narrator, they are present even in this episode. There is a subtle underlay of paronomasia with on words that are important as themes or motifs in the tragic account of the young lovers: words like mora, morus, mors, and morsus occur and recur throughout, signifying the perils of delaying—but also signifying the perils of love, amor.77

Thus, in the Pyramus and Thisbe tale, Ovid revisits and refashions both the situational comedy of Plautus and the psychologically complex character creation of Terence. As Rudd notes, with Pyramus and Thisbe Ovid mints a pair of romantic lovers, though we cannot dub

Ovid in this instance a romantic poet.78 For his elegist predecessors of old, all roads lead to love, but for Ovid love leads to all manner of things. Horror, laughter, anarchy, violence—all these are found to stem from love as Ovid writes it. Though at the surface love may seem to be the central theme of a particular Ovidian narrative, nevertheless it acts as a vehicle rather than a final destination. And yet it is with purpose that Ovid chooses love for his vehicle: it is both the theme of his earlier works (and thus self-referencing and in fact self-promoting) but also a theme in which appearances often run counter to reality, the artistic and pragmatic significance of which I shall explain more completely in the next two chapters.

77 See Keith (2001), who recognizes the etymological-rooted punning. Furthermore, I read this device as yet another tie to comedy: I have shown that paranomasia is a feature of comedy; Wheeler (1997:195) adds that Plautus gives us a specifically etymologyzing paranomasia (that is, paranomasia in which each comes from the same ultimate root; here, the example hinges on vir) at Amph. 212: magnamini viri freti virtute et viribus. Thus there is comic precedent for both paranomasia in general and linguistically-connected paranomasia in particular.

78 Rudd (2000:113).

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CHAPTER 3 RISE, FALL, AND RE-IMAGINING OF ROMAN COMEDY

As I have already stated, Roman literacy predated its literature, but the fact that literature in general and theatre in particular did not emerge until so many years after Rome itself came into being is curious, although scholars certainly have attempted to explain such a great time gap.

Habinek attributes the content and the timing of this earliest of Roman literature as an answer to a twofold force: 1) Rome’s blooming from a young city-state to what he calls a “traditional aristocratic empire,” and 2) “crisis of identity” that stemmed from this same cultural and political shift.1 Essentially, the swift and vast territorial expansion that swept Rome after the Second

Punic War meant growing pains: previously a culturally influential force among similar powers in central Italy, Rome now was unsure of its identity. Whether they were firstly Romans, Italians, or participants in a new alliance was not clear, and as they struggled to come to grips with their identity, they also experimented in new, written art forms. This early tendency toward innovation as a form of self-expression in Latin literature informed generations of authors including Ovid, whose experimentations in genre are contextualized in a period of similar political uncertainty.

With the rise of a literary culture, a more rigid framework in the realm of entertainment took shape, and Roman theatre was born. After the imposition of a unified and coherent plotline came the dedicated use of actors and singers for their specific functions on the stage: no longer was it a one-man show, so to speak. As I shall discuss later in detail, these first performances were, like the bulk of Augustan-age poetry centuries later, commissioned works. Moreover, as with the patron/poet system of later years, early dramatic works were commissioned specifically

1 Habinek (1998:35). He also presents the possibility that “performances that were not necessarily transmitted in writing” (37) preceded Livius Andronicus (cf. Livy, AUC 7.2). Wiseman (1998) too suggests that non-literary drama could have existed at Rome prior to 240 and, due to that fact that is would not have been written down, simply could have been forgotten by the time Varro and other later theatrical historians came around. See too Lebek (1996).

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by public officials—an important point, as the demands of the state shaped the subject matter of these plays, which often dealt with historical matters viewed through self-aggrandizing lenses.

Nationalism and the deeds of individuals from current “celebrity” families comprised the themes of many plays from this age.2 For the most part, Roman comedy steered clear of direct personal attacks along the lines of Aristophanes’ lampoon of Socrates in The Clouds.3 Perhaps the most obvious reason for this is the fact that the state assumed the costs of production for theatrical performances and other spectacles associated with the ludi, which were directly organized by magistrates. In turn, the magistrates worked with the director/producer (the dominus gregis), who sometimes collaborated with the playwrights.4 In essence, this work indeed was the first type of

Roman literary patronage (although certainly on a less sweeping scale than during the Augustan era), and was produced virtually under the aegis of the state, since state officials had a say in dramatic content. Thus, from the first, Roman comedy was not only politically inoffensive, it demonstrated cooperation and good faith with political figures. All these factors contributed to the formation of a uniquely Roman genre which Ovid was later able to resurrect as a politically innocuous medium.

2 Livius Andronicus, for instance, enjoyed the patronage of the prominent Livii Salinatores; see Lebek (1996:31). Harriet Flower (2000) suggests that the very funerals of Roman aristocrats were sometimes the occasion of dramatic performances lauding the gens of the deceased; see too Manuwald (2011:41). The practice of the funeral spectacle is yet another link associating religion, aristocratic power, and early Roman theatre. I think it is also plausible that pre- Livius Andronicus, non-literary drama similar to that suggested by Wiseman included such funeral dramas. For more on the propagandistic nature of the fabulae praetextae, see also Beacham (1999:5).

3 Naevius is a possible exception to this, as we know he famously attacked the powerful Metelli family and was likely even jailed for political reasons, but his comedies are not extant and so speculation on their content is simply speculation; see Rudich (2006:12–13). See also Mattingly (1960) and Stambusky (1977), which despite being older sources are still relevant. In contrast, Sciarrino (2006) holds that the hostility of the Metelli toward Naevius is generally exaggerated.

4 Manuwald (2011:62–63).

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Comic Form

In Chapter 2, I established that central to Roman comedy was the use of stock characters, denoted at least in part by the use of distinctive theatrical masks.5 With a more or less fixed dramatis personae, there was a certain predictability that permeated the genre: in most cases, as soon as the plot became apparent, the audience knew more or less how the play would end. As I have explained in Chapter 2, the stock characters themselves were usually one-dimensional, especially the adulescentes: these young men resembled the exclusi amatores of elegy as far as depth of character, while the lackluster virgines hardly even appeared on stage.6

But while the characters and situations of Plautine comedy are predictable, nevertheless there often is still an element of the unexpected, which is most evident in elements of the characters’ language. With most unvarying stock characters on the one hand and linguistic innovation on the other, Plautine comedy constantly toys with audience expectation: sometimes a given line or situation is funny because it is exactly the kind of response that the audience expects, while at other times it elicits laughter precisely because it is unexpected. Caricatures and imitations make us laugh for the same reason that stereotypes do; thus some of the same tricks of invective oratory, which relies upon stereotypes perhaps more than any other genre, truly are born from comedy (e.g., focusing on quirks of an individual’s appearance or his exceptional mannerisms). On the other hand, a skilled author can set up a situation that runs totally contrary

5 Masks with large eye holes and predictable facial expressions and features were worn by the actors to make character recognition possible even before the performers delivered their first lines, and could be switched out by an actor playing more than one role. These masks were so much a part of character portrayal that persona—the word for character—originated from the practice of wearing such masks to depict stock characters. The use of such masks, along with costumes likewise suggestive of specific character types, also reflected the fact that it was the character stock type more than the specifics of the individual upon which much of the humor hinged; thus, stereotypes and generalizations figured largely in Roman comedy. For more on the function of actors, masks, and staging, see Slater (2000), Brown (2002), Marshall (2006:83–202), Clarke (2007:13–36 esp.), et al.

6 This is especially true of Plautine comedy; Terence certainly went into greater psychological depth when creating his characters, as I have already established.

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to audience expectation: in the creation of an undignified old man, for instance, a playwright can strike comic gold quite simply because such a character runs counter to expectations and stereotypes. The comic potential of incongruity is often actualized in Plautus quite naturally by turning to the contrasting form of tragedy: Goldberg argues that Plautus uses specifically the external form of tragedy to add incongruity—and thus humor—to the comic storylines of his plays, pointing to exempla including the scene in the Menaechmi (826-88) when the second

Menaechmus pretends to go into a frenzy at the behest of Bacchus and Apollo; the entire scene is reminiscent of any number of “mad” scenes in Roman tragedy, including plays by Pacuvius and

Ennius.7

Aside from the obvious, slapstick features and the humor deriving from varying the degrees of predictability, comedy also afforded its authors the opportunity to engage in verbal wordplay. Plautus most notably is master of the pun, as I have explored in detail in Chapter 2.

Whether it was the dynamic physicality of the slapstick elements or the sparkling verbiage of the dialogue, nearly anyone could find something to laugh at in Plautus. Ovid later recognized the versatility of Plautine comedy and its possibility for humor on multiple planes; such artistic potential coupled with the non-controversial history of the genre made it incredibly appealing for the talented poet writing in a restrictive climate.

The Waning of Comedy

Though it is an impossibility to assign epitaph-style birth and death dates to a literary genre, nevertheless for the sake of convenience I will align my sights with Goldberg’s8 in viewing the death of Turpilius in 103 BC as an approximate endpoint for comedy. If we accept

7 Goldberg (1983:207–208).

8 Goldberg (1982:312).

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Goldberg’s argument that theatre died partially because Plautus was too steeped in the absurd while Terence was too psychologically complicated, then Turpilius as the last of the comic playwrights makes sense. Manuwald further suggests that while Turpilius maintained the framework, or form, of comedy, he nevertheless also integrated thematic and structural elements more usually associated with tragedy.9 We know that Cicero was acquainted with Turpilius, since he quotes him in the Tusculanae Disputationes.10 Thus, Turpilius was at least a minor success in his day (he was celebrated enough to merit a shout-out from Cicero). However, he was the last writer of the palliata, and there was no substantial reception of his work by any later authors.11 Regardless of the causal nuances of comedy’s defunct status, by Cicero’s time (and well beyond) there were no large-scale opportunities for attending comic theatrical performances, and comedy obsolesced—either to be taken up again at a later date or to be abandoned in perpetuity.

This distancing of the late Republic from comedy hinges on the double standard that permeated Roman theatre: there was one set of standards for viewers, whose social status was not violated by their status as audience members, and one for performers, who were tainted with infamia the moment they stepped onto the stage.12 When Pompey built his theatre, he in fact dedicated it as a temple—to Venus Victrix—rather than as a theatre because he feared some

9 Manuwald (2011:260) believes that Turpilius used the ostensibly light, even frivolous, genre of comedy to serve as a vehicle for heavier topics, including themes pertaining to the supernatural and/or mythical.

10 Tusculanae Disputationes 4.72–73.

11 So Manuwald, (2011:260), who adds that the bulk of extant Turpilius fragments survive because of the grammarians. See too Rychlewska (1971) and Chapter 7 of Wright (1974).

12 Corbeill (1996:24–25 esp.).

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would decry a permanent theatre as a smacking of dissipation.13 Tacitus reiterates this objection as being in the memory of some even during the reign of Nero:

Nerone quartum Cornelio Cosso consulibus quinquennale ludicrum Romae institutum est ad morem Graeci certaminis, varia fama, ut cuncta ferme nova. quippe erant qui Cn. quoque Pompeium incusatum a senioribus ferrent, quod mansuram theatri sedem posuisset. nam antea subitariis gradibus et scaena in tempus structa ludos edi solitos, vel si vetustiora repetas, stantem populum spectavisse, [ne], si consideret theatro, dies totos ignavia continuaret. [ne] spectaculorum quidem antiquitas servaretur, quotiens praetor sederet, nulla cuiquam civium necessitate certandi. (Annales 14.20)

In the consulate of Nero—for the fourth time—and of Cornelius Cossus, a quinquennial public game was established at Rome according to the custom of a Greek contest, of various report, as almost all new things are. Indeed there were those who were reporting that even Cn. Pompeius was rebuked by the senators because he had set up a permanent place for a theatre. For, they said, before this time games were usually put on using temporary platforms and a stage built for the occasion, or if you should go back to older examples, the people watched while they were standing, lest, if they should sit down in the theatre, they should pass entire days in idleness. Indeed let the ancientness of the spectacles be kept, as often as a praetor was presiding, with no need of competing for anyone among the citizens.

Considering the history of Roman comedy from its origins until its demise, we must conclude that comedy was always a kind of liminal genre, unstable due to the strictures that society imposed upon it and consequently eventually either to be consigned to oblivion or reassigned for another purpose and assimilated within another more stable type of literature.

If a genre ceases to exist as such, it is because it has outlived its usefulness: it serves no immediate purpose. But often it happens organically that certain elements of a genre are discarded while others are reincarnated and assimilated into a new genre, and that is exactly what happened with Roman comedy. Harrison calls this fusion of genres “generic enrichment” and is prompted at least in part by shifting expectations of a readership that changes over time; at the

13 Tertullian comments on this potential controversy in De Spectaculis 10 and concludes that it was merely on a technicality that Pompey’s Theatre was able to open, so great was the popular opinion against all things theatrical. For more on this and other theatrical venues, see Slater (2000:150), Marshall (2006:31–48), Coarelli (2008:283– 285), and Manuwald (2011:55–68 and 62–63).

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core of his argument is presence of a lesser genre within a major.14 Similarly, Farrell discusses the notion of a “polyphonic genre,” and though he reads the Polyphemus episode of Book 13 as a mingling of epic and elegy, I believe that 1) in this particular tale Farrell’s principle of polyphonic genre applies equally well to a reading of Polyphemus as a distortion or parody of the adulescens of comedy, and 2) that the same principle applies to the Metamorphoses, yielding a contrapuntal reading featuring epic and comic voices.15

Comic Afterlife: Post-Plautine Precedents for the Metamorphoses

Factors of entertainment—the characteristics of comedy that were performative and made people laugh—found their way into different types of literature. Chiefly, the genres that adopted these comic qualities were first oratory and then satire. While Lucilius (180–103 BC) was the first author of satire, a uniquely Roman genre (as Quintilian famously remarked, satire was entirely the Romans’: satura quidem tota nostra est16), satire as such did not come into vogue until much later, with Petronius, Juvenal, and others ushering in a new literary age with their satirical works. Midway in time between the floruit of Roman oratory and that of satire, there was Ovid, whose work contains the entertainment functions of both genres, the literary descendants of comedy. Although I am hardly the first to note hallmarks of multiple genres in

Ovid—Solodow even boldly claims that “at one place or another [the Metamorphoses] handles

14 Farrell (1992:16) sums up: “This situation, where a primary genre dominates but others appear in subordinate roles, is crucial to my idea of generic enrichment.” He uses the terms “visiting” and “receiving genres,” but even more so the labels “guest” and “host” genres. He also states that the idea of generic enrichment a novel concept, but rather “a convenient new label for a familiar general idea” (2).

15 Farrell (1992:238) suggests that such a genre both engages in intertextual dialogue with the past but also facilitates the creation of additional new genres in the future.

16 1.93.

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the themes and employs the tone of virtually every genre”17 —I believe that Ovid represented a crucial point in the development of something new from something old: he occupied a liminal space in time and appropriated a similarly liminal genre that he transformed into something new, specifically by introducing the guest genre of comedy to the host genre of epic.

In order to follow the course of such an assimilation or reincarnation of comedic elements in the Metamorphoses, we must first examine two facets of comic theatre: 1) as theatre, it has a visual aspect and utilizes visual language and 2) as comedy it makes us laugh. Developing from these two aspects are two types of spectacles which are very different from each other, yet they both possess elements of comedy. I will divide these related spectacles as follows: 1) mimes and pantomimes, and 2) political orations.

Dancing featured largely in pantomime, which Fantham characterizes as “the degenerate popular offshoot of tragedy.”18 Though Roman tragedy predated its comic counterpart, pantomime was certainly a later performing art than comedy and did not come into its own until the 20s BC.19 Closer to comedy than tragedy were mimes, which label extended widely enough to encompass both actors of comedy-like performances with viable plots as well as jugglers, actors, and others who did not speak on stage; in essence, it was a hodgepodge of a genre that defies categorization, but as the name suggests, mime usually involved mimetic action.20

17 Solodow (1998:18). I have already mentioned in Chapter 1 some of the scholars who recognize the multigeneric status of the Metamorphoses; cf. Farrell (1992), Mack (1999), Hardie (2002), Creese (2009), Miller (2009), et al.

18 Fantham (1989:154). Slater (1994:121–122 esp.) and Lada-Richards (2007:29–38) also emphasize the tragic origins and themes of pantomime.

19 Slater (2002:315-316) dates the first initial surge of pantomime popularity as thirty years after the completion of the Theatre of Pompey.

20 Slater (2002:315); he dubs mime an “anarchic genre” that “resists any attempt at narrow definition.” See also Lebek (1996), who mentions that mimes sometimes even mocked politicians and other persons in the spotlight, citing Cicero Ad Familiares 11.7.2. As I am more interested in types of performance evolving from comedy, in this paper I will focus on mime rather than pantomime.

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However, mimes did not involve masks, nor were they limited to male performers. The thematic material itself was far more risqué than Plautine comedy, as it often centered on adultery and did not shy away from depicting graphic sexual activity.21 Unlike the the comic actors of Plautus’ day, the performers in these productions were not necessarily slaves, but were considered infames.22 In a passage that is unfortunately fragmentary, Cicero talks about the stigma attached to acting:

Cum artem ludicram scaenamque totam in probro ducerent, genus id hominum non modo honore civium reliquorum carere, sed etiam tribu moveri notatione censoria voluerunt… (De Rep. 4.10)23

Since they considered theatrical performance and the stage in its totality to be a disgrace, they wanted that class of people not only to be deprived of the honor of other citizens but also for them to be removed from their tribes by censorial blacklisting.

A grave and absolute notoriety accompanied the profession of acting: the notatio censoria to which Cicero refers above meant that a literal black mark would be placed next to the offending name in the list of those citizens in the tribe of such a man thus now in disgrace. Rather than an obliteration, Roman justice demanded a singling out as punishment for such an indecorous profession. And yet, the people still flocked to the performance venues, highlighting an insubstantial and artificial distinction between those who watched and those who acted.

21 Fantham (1989:153–154). For more on the nature and themes of mimes, see Sumi (2002), Panayotakis (2005), Denard (2007), and Manuwald (2011:178–184), all of whom stress the broadly inclusive nature of the genre. See also See also McKeown (1979), who establishes that mime influenced other genres including elegy during the late Republican and Augustan eras.

22 Manuwald (2011:277). Arguably the most famous author of mimes was the freedman Publilius Syrus, a contemporary of Cicero now chiefly known for his witty aphorisms excerpted from these same mimes. In 45, Julius Caesar granted to him the prize in a contest of all the major mime-writers of the day, including Decimus Laberius, who previously had been acknowledged as supreme in his art. Not only did he write, Syrus evidently also acted in his own mimes, which is not altogether shocking since he was not freeborn. Though the bulk of pantomime productions were sponsored by private individuals, there is nevertheless some evidence that publicly-funded mime troupes did exist—an odd consideration given the general conservative tendencies of Roman politicians of the late Republic and early Empire; see Slater (2002:318).

23 Preserved via Augustine, De Civitate Dei 2.13.

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The only possible exemption from infamia for a theatrical performer extended to actors in traditional Atellane drama, which used large masks to portray stock characters, thus concealing the identities of the actors and preservering their integrity as citizens in good standing.24 Atellane drama was a genre that predated both the palliatae and the togatae, taking its name from the city of Atella in the Campanian region, whose language was Oscan rather than Latin. Atellane plays were of minimal structure—perhaps they were even improvised25—and farcical elements and slapstick, developing from the Fescennine verses.26 However, aside from this exception, appearance of a Roman on the stage meant deprivation of his rights as a citizen.

Having commented briefly on mime and pantomime and their displacing of comedy, I will now turn to oratory, which, like the Metamorphoses, often borrows elements of comic humor. Like epic, oratory undertook a re-drawing of generic lines—likewise due in large part to political concerns—during Cicero’s final years. Just as Augustus cast an unfavorable eye on

Ovid, so also did Antony find fault with Cicero, even taking to invective speech against him.27

This section from the second Philippic illustrates both the visual and the humorous performative aspects of comedy:

At etiam quodam loco facetus esse voluisti. Quam id te, di boni, non decebat! In quo est tua culpa non nulla. Aliquid enim salis a mima uxore trahere potuisti. (Phil. 2.20)

But at a certain point you even wanted to be clever. Good gods, how this did not suit you! In this you are not blameless, for you could have gleaned some wit from your actress-wife.

24 Fantham (1989:153–154) and Brown (2002:227). Even legislation reinforced this culturally-bound view of actors as second-rate human beings: as Fantham notes, they were useful but subject to a host of inconveniences and worse, including condemnation to death (granted by the Lex Iulia de Adulteriis) at the hands of an aggrieved husband if the actor were caught in the act of adultery.

25 For more on Atellane drama, see Panayotakis (2005) and Manuwald (2011:169–177).

26 Cf. AUC 7.2.

27 See Ramsey (2003).

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This passage is quite dense and bears some explanation. In using the phrase “mima uxor,” Cicero is referring to Cytheris, who was not Antony’s wife at all but his very publicly-acknowledged mistress, who indeed was an actress in mimes. Outraged at the juxtaposition of infamis and

Roman magistrate, Cicero attacks Antony for acting in an unseemly manner: not only does

Antony flaunt his mistress (who is an actress, no less) he also lacks talent in speech-making—a huge liability for a Roman politician. In saying that Antony would have done better if he had consulted his mistress in the speech-writing process, Cicero is implying a few startling things: 1)

Antony could not write an adequate speech by himself, and 2) he lacked the integrity need to be a good magistrate (because he was already having other people draft his speeches at least in part), and 3) he himself virtually was an actor—and consequently an infamis—since he was reading a script written by someone else.28 All of these things taken together are mordantly funny; where Cicero could have called out Antony plainly and directly for the above offenses, he instead chooses to do so in a sarcastically humorous manner calculated to garner laughter from his virtual audience.

Cicero alludes more than once to infamia and acting in the second Philippic. Again,

Cicero brings up Cytheris:

Vehebatur in essedo tribunus plebis; lictores laureati antecedebant, inter quos aperta lectica mima portabatur, quam ex oppidis municipales homines honesti, obviam necessario prodeuntes, non noto illo et mimico nomine, sed Volumniam consalutabant. (Phil. 2.58)

The tribune of the people was being conveyed in a chariot; going before him were laurel- wreathed lictors, in the midst of whom, in an open litter, the actress was being carted,

28 Sussman (1994) also sees the Antony of the Second Philippic as bound in the theatrical: he sees Cicero’s portrayal of Antony as not only fraught with levitas but even as a fusion of different stock characters from Roman comedy (see esp. 56), most notably the miles gloriosus; in a later article Sussman (1998) also explores Cicero’s characterization of Antony as a meretrix audax. Sussman sees throughout the Second Philippic 1) comic language, 2) narration of comic scenes, and 3) comic characterizations, particularly that of Antony as a miles gloriosus (54). This lends weight to my position regarding the rejuvenation of comedy in other genres during this period.

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whom honorable men from the municipalities—coming from the towns, under duress, to meet her—hailed her not by her well-known stage name, but as Volumnia.

Trying to foment outrage against this public flaunting of immorality, Cicero does not call

Cytheris by name, but he does twice refer to her profession (mima, mimico nomine). Moreover, the outrage centers not on the fact that this woman whom Antony is publicly parading is his mistress—which would be fodder enough for Cicero’s audience—but that she is an actress. The lurid nature of her status as tainted by infamia is made even more clear by the fact that those who were compelled to salute her were made to address her as Volumnia, not Cytheris, which she used as a stage name and by which the people knew her. This sad attempt at gravitas was a total failure, for not only was it unconvincing, it was also problematic in that Volumnia was the name of the wife of Coriolanus, and thus a title of honor, which Cytheris did not deserve. Cicero’s virtual performance, though more audacious than Ovid’s, nevertheless circumvents a problem

(i.e., violent retaliation from Antony—which eventually does catch up to him) by changing the venue from physical to virtual; in integrating comedy into epic, Ovid does the reverse, but in both cases the author goes against convention.

I have presented Antony’s case because it illustrates a paradox in Roman culture that continued into Ovid’s time and beyond: Cicero portrays Antony as highly connected with acting—a taboo in Roman society—and yet a certain degree of involvement with actors was permitted, as long as the citizen did not engage in public performance. Just as individuals were free to attend theatrical performances, politicians likewise were free to consult actors as coaches in the elusive art of audience persuasion, which they then could integrate into their own

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speeches, as in fact even Demosthenes did.29 However, a darkly drawn line separating politicians and performers still remained—a line that Ovid was later to decry as hypocritical.30

With the stage set, so to speak, for a continuation of this dichotomy between theatre and politics even after the Republic gave way to the principate, it seems shocking that Augustus himself should have been a fan not simply of theatre but particularly of mimes, which society generally considered to be risqué and clearly were at odds with the image of impeccability that

Augustus himself seeked to cultivate with his so-called moral laws. Nevertheless, the princeps evidently had a special fondness for this type of performance. Ovid writes in the Tristia:

Quid, si scripsissem mimos obscena iocantes, qui semper vetiti crimen amoris habent: in quibus assidue cultus procedit adulter, verbaque dat stulto callida nupta viro? Nubilis hos virgo matronaque virque puerque spectat, et ex magna parte senatus adest. Nec satis incestis temerari vocibus aures; adsuescunt oculi multa pudenda pati: cumque fefellit amans aliqua novitate maritum plauditur et magno palma favore datur; quoque minus prodest, scaena est lucrosa poetae, tantaque non parvo crimina praetor emit. Inspice ludorum sumptus, Auguste, tuorum: empta tibi magno talia multa leges. Haec tu spectasti spectandaque saepe dedisti (maiestas adeo conlis ubique tua est) luminibusque tuis, totus quibus utitur orbis, scaenica vidisti lentus adulteria. Scribere si fas est imitantes turpia mimos, materiae minor est debita poena meae. An genus hoc scripti faciunt sua pulpita tutum, quodque licet, mimis scaena licere dedit? Et mea sunt populo saltata poemata saepe, saepe oculos etiam detinuere tuos. (Tr. 2.497–520)

29 Cf. Quintilian Institutio Oratoria 11.3.3–7.

30 See Fantham (2002) for more on performative similarities between acting and oratory. Also see Graf (1992) for more on the social acceptability of orators’ hiring of actors as coaches for very specific, limited purposes, and Sussman (1994) for Cicero’s use of comic elements in his speeches and his studying under the comic actor Roscius.

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What if I had written mimes saying dirty things in jest, which always feature the crime of forbidden love, in which a carefully-polished adulterer appears, and a cunning bride cons her idiotic husband? The marriageable maiden and the matron and the young boy see them, and the majority of the Senate is there. Nor is it enough that people’s ears be defiled with unchaste words: their eyes too become accustomed to endure many shameful things, and when the lover has deceived the husband by some novelty, he is applauded, and the palm is given to him with great acclaim; and it is of less benefit: the stage is profitable for the poet, and the praetor buys such great crimes at no small cost. Look into the costs of your own games, Augustus: you will read of many such things bought at great expense for you. You’ve seen these things, and often have had such things performed (your greatness everywhere is so lofty), and with your own eyes, which the whole world employs, you, unmoved, have seen theatrical adulteries. If it is licit to write mimes representing base things, the punishment owed from my subject matter is less. Or do their stage platforms make this kind of writing safe, and is it permitted, and has the theatre given license to the mimes? My poems have been danced to publicly as well, and often have captivated even your eyes.

In this plea for his own case, Ovid highlights another cultural double standard: contemporary

Roman tolerance allowed for graphic depictions of immorality on stage in performances of mimes but much less indulgence for such themes in literature (at least in Ovid’s case). When the princeps himself—who is both the architect of the moral laws and, de facto, the foremost literary critic in Rome—on the one hand attends ribald public performances portraying adultery and on the other censures Ovid for writing about similar themes in the Ars, there is a clear polarity of conduct and ideology.

The paradigm for Augustan fascination with performance, including comic theatre and its baser cousin mime, in fact was established during the previous generation with Cicero. As far as more serious drama, the spectacle, in a literal sense, had moved to the political arena. To be sure, as long as government existed in Rome, so also did oratory, and oratory, like poetry, adjusted its generic parameters during times of political turmoil and/or surveillance. But the oratory of the age of Cicero was different than what came earlier, since before him no Roman statesman had influenced the course of political history so greatly by the nearly exclusive means of his oratorical genius. Having set the standard for Roman speechcraft, Cicero was also known to

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break from that same paradigm. While he outlined ideals of speech drafting in De Oratore,

Brutus, and other similar works, he did not always adhere to his own rubrics. Arguably Cicero’s most dramatic example of deviation from the traditional oratory form was in the Second

Philippic, which I have already mentioned in connection with Antony, Cytheris, and the concept of infamia. Not only is it the longest of the Philippics and among the longest of all of Cicero’s orations, it is also remarkable in that it creates and sustains a fictive stage: though Cicero leads the reader to think otherwise through various references to details of the event, the speech was never actually delivered. As with Ovid and the Metamorphoses, Cicero’s approach in Phil. 2 kept both artistic and practical ends in focus. Throughout the text of the oration Cicero maintains the fiction of a presumptive audience and physical setting: allusions to circumstances on the day of the speech’s delivery, direct address to the senators, and even remarks upon the visible reactions of Antony all create the illusion of a locus.31 Of course, this was not simply a literary device but the product of a real fear that delivering such a speech publicly would produce potentially life-threatening results for Cicero, a fear that was far from groundless and came to most tragic fruition when Antony, having reached the limit of his patience, finally ordered

Cicero’s on-the-spot execution in 43.

A similar paradigm shift occurs in Ovid, for his epic dispenses with many of the genre’s conventions and replaces them with neologisms. Although Ovid, as I have demonstrated, already had a history of blending genres, I believe that in the case of the Metamorphoses (as with Cicero and Phil. 2) his motivation for generic fusion was not only artistic but also (and more

31 Ramsey (2003:157–158). Despite the gap between the fictive date of delivery and the actual date of publication, Cicero even avoids commenting on events after September 19, which would have been proof of a chronological discrepancy. For more on the date and circumstances of the composition of Philippic 2, see Denniston (1926:xvii), Shackleton Bailey (1986:31), Sussman (1994), Myers (2003:338 esp.), and Arena (2007:60–61); Cerrutti (1994) alone argues for an actual delivery of Philippic 2.

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importantly) related to his survival, at least in a literary capacity. Ovid realized that if he wished his career to remain viable, he would have to present himself and his works in a more conservative light, a position that, although necessary due to the political climate under

Augustus, Ovid could view not as a restrictive but as leading to a new kind of poetic experiment.

Although the two were vastly different in many ways, both Cicero and Ovid ventured to make artistic choices that were prompted by real-life political challenges: Cicero’s oration without audience, and Ovid’s epic piece of theatricality.

Politics and Humor

The persistence of farcical elements in Latin literature even after Plautus and Terence demonstrates that there was still an eagerness for witty banter and even slapstick at the end of the

Republic and beyond, though often the two styles of humor—respectively at the restrained and the outrageous ends of the spectrum—were seen separately, as I have explained in my initial discussion of mime/pantomime versus oratory as representing as representing both the visual/performative and the humorous qualities of comedy, respectively. In the following portion of this chapter, I will examine more closely some of the shared qualities of comedy and oratory, arguing that the same political speeches that captivated the public eye (and ear) during the late

Republic and beyond by their metamorphosis into a kind of spectacle involved elements of humor.

In contrast with mime and pantomime, oratory shifted the venue of performance to the rostra and the role of performer to the honorable citizen. So far free being tainted by the infamia which marked actors and the like, hopeful magistrates—candidates—would don bleached white togas before approaching the rostra as a symbol of their (conjecturally) impeccable lives and morals. Political canvassing (and consequently, political speech writing) had been around since

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long before Cicero began declaiming, but during the late Republic it had taken a different shape.

Truly these speeches had become a form of public entertainment: aside from the venue, the only thing distinguishing them from theatrical performance was the fact that the politicians themselves (Antony perhaps excepted32) wrote the texts. The rise of oratory corresponded with one factor: Cicero. Had he not entered the political arena, it is unlikely that oratory would have become such an important vehicle for public entertainment. And so the genre, along with the man, rocketed to stardom.

Out of utility as well as artistry did these speeches adopt elements from other genres— elements that changed over time as the audience for such speeches grew to involve a broader demographic. With the extended influence of oratory as a form of entertainment, the spectacle, in a literal sense, moved to the political arena. As the nature of oratory altered to encompass more and more elements previously associated with comedy, other aspects of the genre shifted too, including elements pertaining to form. In his first speech against Catiline, Cicero dispenses with any sort of standard introduction, or exordium,33 beginning instead with a series of inflamed rhetorical questions and proceeding in a circuitous manner to the narratio, or presentation of facts; among other things, this progression conveys the sense of a spontaneous, off-the-cuff delivery—such an approach of course was utterly fictive. Indeed, within Cicero oratory even the listeners could be invented: the most dramatic example of a Ciceronian speech lacking a traditional audience is the second Philippic speech. Not only is it one of the longest of Cicero’s

32 Cicero insinuates that the rhetor Sextus Clodius had perhaps more of a hand than would have been considered appropriate in helping Antony compose his invective reply to Phil. 1 (Phil. 2.42–43).

33 Batstone (1994) does apply the term exordium to the beginning of this speech, though he recognizes its deviation from the Ciceronian norm. In fact, it is because of its upsetting of audience expectations coupled with its calculated spontaneity that Batstone reads the Ciceronian persona introduced in the exordium of Cat. 1 as a brilliant strategy to create an ethos of authority (227–233).

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orations, it is also remarkable in that it was never actually delivered. Yet throughout the speech

Cicero maintains the fiction of a presumptive audience and physical setting: allusions to circumstances on the day of the speech’s delivery, direct address to the senators, and even remarks upon the visible reactions of Antony all create the illusion of a physical locus.34 Of course, this was not simply a literary device but the product of a real fear that delivering such a speech publicly would produce potentially life-threatening results for Cicero. Despite the fact that the two were vastly different in many ways, both Cicero and Ovid ventured to make artistic choices that were prompted by real-life political challenges: Cicero’s oration without audience, and Ovid’s epic of theatricality.

Just as oratory grew to assimilate performative elements from comedy, so too did the genre absorb comic subject matter. Those same traits which Cicero excoriated in certain individuals often were the same sort that years earlier Plautus had caricatured in his stock characters. According to Süss via Ramsey, there are ten topoi frequently occurring as means of attack in invective: 1) accidental oddities of physical appearance, pertaining to such things as clothing, demeanor, and deportment; 2) immorality, including prostitution and homosexuality; 3) avarice and theft; 4) extravagance and prodigality; 5) enmity toward family; 6) cowardice in battle; 7) servile origin of one’s father; 8) barbarian ancestry; 9) lowly trade of ancestors; and 10) ugly physical features.35 It is no coincidence that these various means of eliciting a strong reaction from the audience heavily overlap with elements from earlier comedy, as employing standard, familiar tactics of humor was a safe and proven way to win over the crowd to one’s

34 Ibid. Despite the gap between the fictive date of delivery and the actual date of publication, Cicero even avoids commenting on events after September 19, which would have been proof of a chronological discrepancy.

35 Ramsey (2003:159–160) credits the enumeration to W. Süss (1910:245–267). See also Craig (2007), who takes up this same business of topoi (or, to use his term, loci) enumeration; his final count is seventeen (336–337), which can be accounted for largely by his subdivision of Süss’ original topoi.

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side. For instance, the topos of pouncing upon someone’s ancestors simply because they practiced a lowly trade is very similar to the satirical apologia of Saturio, a parasite in a long line of parasites, in the Persa:

SATURIO. Veterem atque antiquom quaestum maio servo atque obtineo et magna cum cura colo. nam numquam quisquam meorum maiorum fuit, quin parasitando paverint ventres suos: pater, avos, proavos, abavos, atavos, tritavos quasi mures semper edere alienum cibum, neque edacitate eos quisquam poterat vincere; atque eis cognomentum erat duris Capitonibus. unde ego hunc quaestum optineo et maiorum locum. neque quadrupulari me volo, neque enim decet sine meo periclo ire aliena ereptum bona, neque illi qui faciunt mihi placent. planen loquor? nam publicae rei causa quicumque id facit magis quam sui quaesti, animus induci potest, eum esse civem et fidelem et bonum. (53–67)

SATURIO. The long-standing and ancient occupation of my ancestors I do preserve and maintain, and I cultivate it with great care. For never was there any one of my ancestors except that he filled his belly by playing the parasite: my father, grandfathers, great grandfathers, great-great grandfathers, as well as their fathers and grandfathers always ate the food of others, like mice, nor could anyone surpass them in eagerness for eating—and the surname to these tough men was Capito, or the Hard Heads. Wherefore, I hold on to this occupation and position of my ancestors. Nor do I wish to turn informant, for neither is it fitting that I go to snatch away others’ goods without any danger on my part, nor are those who do this pleasing to me. Am I speaking plainly? For whoever does this for the sake of the republic rather than of his own profession, my mind can be persuaded that he is both a faithful and a good citizen.

The practical reason for the dovetailing of topoi in both genres is, again, that the performative aspects of both comedy and oratory demand laughter, to a greater or lesser extent, from the audience so as to establish rapport. However, this was not the same type of laughter evoked by the comedies of yesteryear, for this brand of humor garnered laughter by its ad hominem attacks—more similar to the Old Comedy of Aristophanes and his contemporaries than anything

Plautus ever produced. Thus there is a limit to the similarity between Ciceronian oratory and

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Plautine comedy. But this limit left room for Ovid to explore even more of the genre, as I have established previously.

In many ways, the assassination of Cicero in 43 was the end of an era, and yet it was not the end of performative literature in Rome. The same topoi that Cicero employed in his invective enjoy a virtual reincarnation in Ovid. Even a cursory glance at the Metamorphoses reveals the obvious presence of these topoi, an unsurprising fact given that we have seen already Ovid’s splicing of comedic elements into his epic. One such example is the occurrence of topoi numbers

2 through 5 (according to Süss’ reckoning) —that is, immorality, avarice/theft, extravagance/prodigality, and enmity toward family—in virtually all narrative excerpts pertaining to Jupiter in the Metamorphoses. Other topoi appear elsewhere in the Metamorphoses: oddities of physical appearance surface in the description of the Furies in Book 4. The effect is darkly comic, yet undeniably theatrical:

Nec mora, Tisiphone madefactam sanguine sumit inportuna facem, fluidoque cruore rubentem induitur pallam, tortoque incingitur angue egrediturque domo. Luctus comitatur euntem et Pavor et Terror trepidoque Insania vultu. limine constiterat: postes tremuisse feruntur Aeolii pallorque fores infecit acernas solque locum fugit. monstris est territa coniunx, territus est Athamas, tectoque exire parabant: obstitit infelix aditumque obsedit Erinys, nexaque vipereis distendens bracchia nodis caesariem excussit: motae sonuere colubrae, parsque iacent umeris, pars circum pectora lapsae sibila dant saniemque vomunt linguisque coruscant. inde duos mediis abrumpit crinibus angues pestiferaque manu raptos inmisit. (Met. 4.481–496)

Without delay, ominous Tisiphone took her torch, soaked with blood, and put on her mantle red with flowing gore, and bound her waist with a coiled snake, and left the house. Grief accompanied her as she left, and Trembling, and Terror, and Madness, with disturbed face. She took her place at the threshold: the Aeolian door posts are said to have shaken, and Pallor infected the maple doors, and the sun fled the place. Athamas

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was terrified, and so was his wife, and they were preparing to leave their home: but the ill-boding Erinys blocked the way, and obstructed their passage. Stretching out her arms entwined in knots of vipers, she struck her hair: the serpents, having been provoked, made noises. Part of them lie on her shoulders; part, having slipped around her breasts, hiss, and vomit putrid blood and flick their tongues. Then she tears away two snakes from the midst of hair and throws them, having been snatched, with plague-bearing hand.

Although the very beginning presents a frightening picture, Ovid adds that Tisiphone grabbed a snake to use as a belt—an action that seems ridiculously unnecessary since she leaves rage-filled and “without delay” to inflict swift punishment. In the latter part of the text, the incongruence of the terrifying figure of Tisiphone and the uncooperative snakes, which she tries in vain to beat into subjection, also makes for a ludicrous contrast. Finally, Tisiphone’s violent removal

(abrumpit) of the snakes, now functioning as projectiles, seems both painful and strange. Thus, oddities both of physical appearance and behavior comprise the bulk of this description.

Throughout the Metamorphoses, these and similar invective topoi, which as we have seen also appear in comedy, figure prominently: for example, barbarian status is an important aspect in building the character of Tereus: he is introduced as the Thracian (Threicius Tereus, 6.424), and likewise is called Thracius as he realized that he has eaten his murdered son (6.661).

For the Romans, strict, carefully-delineated rules governed both various entertainment forms and the world of politics: I have established, for instance, that many types of spectacula were considered socially acceptable to attend but not to engage in as a performer without incurring infamia. Moreover, the Romans’ very concept of performance was rigorously outlined: employing someone else to draft one’s speeches would have reduced a Roman magistrate to a mere mouthpiece for others’ words, much like an actor, who can wring the entire spectrum of emotions from his audience and convince them of just about anything, even if he does not believe it himself. And so with both the changes in the sophistication of the elite Roman audience as well as the increasing involvement of political authority in the realm of art, both

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poets and prose authors began to inject a myriad of elements from the world of entertainment into their works. It was now more likely than ever that a poet would function essentially as an orator, statesman, comic and tragic actor, gladiator, and charioteer wrapped up into one, and no one did this more compellingly than Ovid, as I have established in previous sections.36 The fusion of expected and unexpected, after all, is at the heart of humor.

Ovid’s Comic Revival: The Practicality of Comic Elements in Ovidian

Having seen already a broad assortment of specific examples of comic features within the

Metamorphoses, we now will turn to the whys of Ovid’s artistic experiment. His reputation already established, writing epic was a challenge that Ovid was ready to take up for himself at this point in his career: he had written plenty of elegy, and now it was time to move on to something (literally) bigger. The allure of epic was understandable: Ovid, who had to be the best at everything he attempted, was writing in the years immediately following the publication of the

Aeneid, which was not only an overnight sensation but also a composition beyond reproach. For the highly competitive and already highly successful elegist from Sulmo, epic was tantalizingly uncharted water. This was hardly surprising: in the Tristia, Ovid claims that from his earliest days poetry came to him naturally:

frater ad eloquium viridi tendebat ab aevo, fortia verbosi natus ad arma fori; at mihi iam puero caelestia sacra placebant, inque suum furtim Musa trahebat opus. saepe pater dixit 'studium quid inutile temptas? Maeonides nullas ipse reliquit opes.' motus eram dictis, totoque Helicone relicto scribere temptabam verba soluta modis. sponte sua carmen numeros veniebat ad aptos,

36 Historically, it is also important to note that in the later years of Ovid’s life and beyond, young equites evidently took to the stage regardless of the consequent infamia: a senatus consultum of 19 AD castigates those who had become professional gladiators or who had appeared on stage; see Lebek (1996:40). Thus we see that the theatrical calling had at least some pull on Roman citizens, which demonstrates the centrality of performing arts in Roman society immediately after Ovid.

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et quod temptabam scribere versus erat. (Tr. 4.17–26)

My brother tended toward eloquence from a young age, born to the powerful weapons of the word-heavy forum as he was. But the sacred rites of heaven were pleasing to me even as a boy, and my Muse sneakily pulled me toward her work. My father often said, “Why do you try your hand at useless work? Homer himself left no wealth behind.” I was moved by his words, and having forsaken all Helicon, I tried to write words free from meter. But of its own accord my poetry sprang into fit measures, and what I began to write was verse.

Looking back to Ovid’s elegy, we see that each example of it of he made to occupy a liminal space: the Heroides were elegiac-epistolary; the Ars Amatoria and its sequel, the

Remedia Amoris, elegiac-didactic, with Ovid’s narratorial voice speaking as praeceptor amoris; the Fasti too adds elements of the didactic, this time to more religious and historical themes.

Indeed, there is a parallel between Ovidian (and earlier) genre-splicing and Roman cultural assimilation in general. As Habinek observes, Cicero makes the startling assertion in the

De Officiis that if an elite Roman population found that its resources had been exhausted, then it was allowed and even expected that such a population should appropriate new resources from its weaker neighbors.37 Habinek applies this principle to native Latin versus Greek literature, but I believe that it applies equally well to considerations of genre: if the creative waters of one genre were in danger of running dry, additional literary waterways of a second genre, perhaps more, provided rejuvenation and refreshment to something moribund. It was a beautiful example of

Roman practicality married with artistry.

But there remains the question of why Ovid turned his epic into a virtual comic play.

Certainly he could have fused epic with any other genre he pleased. I believe that Ovid’s choice of a second “guest” genre was both deliberate and based on practical considerations. As I have started already, Roman comedy differed from Greek New Comedy in that it did not single out a

37 Habinek (1998:34–35).

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specific, overtly political target: that is, it was a genre that readers—including Augustus—would consider non-confrontational, light-hearted, and entertaining. And truly it was in his own best interest to avoid further conflict with Augustus, who had not been pleased with Ovid’s earlier poetry:

Quid mihi vobiscum est, infelix cura, libelli, ingenio perii qui miser ipse meo? Cur modo damnatas repeto, mea crimina, Musas? An semel est poenam commeruisse parum? Carmina fecerunt, ut me cognoscere vellet omine non fausto femina virque meo: carmina fecerunt, ut me moresque notaret iam demi iussa Caesar ab Arte meos. (Tr. 2.1–8)

What are you to me, little books, my unlucky care, I, miserable as I am, who have perished by my own talent? Why do I seek my newly-condemned Muses, my accusations? Or is it too little to have deserved punishment only once? My poems have made it so that man and woman wished to know me, not with good omen: my poems have made it so that Caesar took note of me and my ways from my Ars, already ordered to be banned.

And after the censure he had received already from the princeps, an older, less antagonistic

(probably simply because he was concerned for his artistic survival) Ovid had the foresight to look after his professional reputation by choosing 1) a host genre that on its surface had more gravitas than his earlier works, doubly so because it also followed in the footsteps of Vergil’s national(ist) epic, and 2) a guest genre that historically in Rome had been both entertaining and inoffensive. It was a one-two punch of a generic combination that was as prospicient as it was clever.

Also, as I have stated previously, comedy relied heavily upon stock characters, stereotyping, and generalizations to induce laughter. This is more obviously true in Plautus, who deftly utilized these elements to construct comedy revolving around situation, repartee, and neologistic invention, than in Terence, who wanted to explore more deeply the possibilities of

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psychological development within a character. Thus, not only was comedy of the Plautine variety a practical choice as a guest genre for the Metamorphoses, it also afforded one of the things most prized by Ovid in his art: exciting potential for creative innovation.

Aside from Ovid’s own earlier attempts at genre blending—and such attempts encompass essentially the entire Ovidian corpus—there were other works typifying fused genres predating the Metamorphoses, including experimental hybrids of epic.38 There have even been scholarly attempts to read the moody Catullus as deliberately introducing elements of comedy, including stock characters, into his poetry: O’Bryhim even sees Catullus 23 not merely as a sarcastic address to Furius, but as a tweaking of the stock character of the adulescens, or young lover.39

While my own reading of Catullus points to a text more self-reflecting and less comedic, nevertheless I believe that O’Bryhim’s stance on Catullus serves to strengthen mine on Ovid, in whose epic there are more intensely comic hallmarks and in greater abundance. Clearly, there was precedent already by Ovid’s time for injecting comedic hallmarks into other genres, but what set Ovid apart was that he dared to try this comic splicing within epic, a literary vessel so big and so fraught with specific convention that for him to do so would require him to stretch the parameters of epic identity—and that is exactly what he did. And if there is didactic epic (as with

Lucretius) or didactic elegy (as with Ovid’s own early works), there is also comic epic: that is, a completely new variation—an intentional mutation—of the classic form of the genre.

We may consider yet another function of the virtual stage: as with Cicero’s fictive locus senatus habendi of the second Philippic, Ovid’s creation of a virtual stage in the Metamorphoses

38 Lucretius in De Rerum Natura, for instance, fuses together elements of didactic poetry (in this case, part philosophical treatise and part natural history) in an epic framework; for more on multigeneric experimentation in Lucretius, see Toohey (1996), Gale (2001 and 2007), Volk (2002), Warren (2007), and Hardie (2009).

39 O’Bryhim (2007:136).

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heightens the audience’s sense of their own importance and relating it with the text’s. As

Habinek puts it, such an artistic choice privileges the text: that is, only those who have access to it are admitted to such a (virtual performance), essentially guaranteeing that the entire experience will be enjoyed by the elite and inaccessible to the masses.40 Such a performance, such a reading becomes then an event to which only the uppercrust are invited, a very exclusive affair which everyone wants to attend but only a few are allowed inside. Of course, this is true only up to a point: the enduring nature of the littera scripta means the possibility of such a performative experience lasting as long as the published edition itself, rather than simply for one evening, as with a conventional theatrical performance. In this way, one could think of the libri

Metamorphoseon as a virtual season ticket, granting access for the lucky holder to each and every performance, or a lifetime of re-readings.

I believe that as early as the proem itself Ovid speaks of his desire to make the

Metamorphoses a piece of virtual performance when he refers to his epic as a carmen perpetuum:

. . . primaque ab origine mundi ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen. (Met. 1.3–4)

. . . and from the origin of the world down to my times, draw forth my song without end.

While perpetuum here is generally understood in a temporal sense—that is, the poem is for all times, or perhaps claims not even to be bound by time—I read it as a simultaneous reference to space: that is, the Metamorphoses is universal, lacking not only temporal bounds but also geographical ones. Thus the former nuance of perpetuum points to the expectation of the poem’s

40 Habinek (1998:37).

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long-term success (for all times), while the latter anticipates immediate fame (for all places and peoples).

Distancing of author from audience also can manifest itself in more negative ways. In the

Epistulae ex Ponto Ovid implies (quite understandably, given Ovid’s circumstances) that physical distance from Rome is tantamount to the forcible distancing of the author from his customary social rank. For instance, Ovid’s relegation not only separates him from his homeland but also from civilized company:

Cur ego sollicita poliam mea carmina cura? An verear ne non adprobet illa Getes? Forsitan audacter faciam, sed glorior Histrum ingenio nullum maius habere meo. Hoc ubi vivendum est, satis est, si consequor arvo, inter inhumanos esse poeta Getas. Quo mihi diversum fama contendere in orbem? Quem fortuna dedit, Roma sit ille locus. Hoc mea contenta est infelix Musa theatro. Hoc merui, magni sic voluere dei. Nec reor hinc istuc nostris iter esse libellis quo Boreas penna deficiente venit. Dividimur caelo quaeque est procul urbe Quirini aspicit hirsutos comminus ursa Getas. Per tantum terrae, tot aquas vix credere possum indicium studii transiluisse mei. (Ex Pont. 1.5.61–76)

Why should I polish my poetry with anxious care? Or should I be afraid that a Getan won’t approve of them? Perhaps I’m acting boldly, but I boast that the Danube has none greater than my genius. In this land in which I have to live, it’s enough if I manage to be a poet among the uncivilized Getans. Why should I strive to contend in fame with a world far remote from me? What place fortune has given to me, let it be Rome. With such a theatre is my unlucky Muse content. Such a one have I deserved; thus have the great gods willed. Nor do I reckon that there’s passage for my little books from here to there, where Boreas comes on languid wing. We’re divided by the sky, and the Bear, which is far from the city of Quirinus, looks upon the hairy Getans close up. I can scarcely believe that through so much land, so many waters an indictment of my work has leapt. (my emphasis)

Without the presence of a sophisticated audience of peers, Ovid’s poetry, in his own estimation, suffered. As much as Ovid was underwhelmed by the Getans, the real source of consternation for

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the poet was his separation from Rome and its people, for without contact with the urbs Quirini, home of Ovid’s Muse, there was no inspiration and consequently no poetry beyond verses of lamentation. Noteworthy too is Ovid’s creation of a virtual stage with the word theatrum; I read this as a clear admission from the author of the performative nature of his works—or at least his works prior to his relegation. This view allowed Ovid to put on a show for an audience, who gave him adulation in return. It was as close to savoring the smell of the greasepaint and the roar of the crowd as any Roman could get without relinquishing his citizenship.

There is a flip side to this same concept of virtual performance that applies similarly to the distance of the Metamorphoses’ author from both the audience and the performance venue: that is, between the narratorial voice of the Metamorphoses and the intended audience thereof we can speak of another kind of distance, as Ovid does not limit himself to reciting his poetry for groups however large or small but rather separates himself from both a single place of performance and a specific, limited assembly of listeners. He thus in fact broadens the potential pool of observers to whoever has access to the published and disseminated text. Orators—the politically-bound quasi-performers of Rome—seemed similarly to crave an audience expanded in time and place, since it was common practice well before Ovid to publish their speeches as well as deliver them before a live audience.41 The chief difference between this scenario and the distance between himself and Rome that Ovid refers to in the Tristia is that since Ovid himself takes ownership of the distancing within the Metamorphoses, he wields far more control over his epic text and its intended effects than he does over his poetry after exile.

Thus, a further look at the historical context of both Ovid and Plautus highlights some interesting parallels. In both cases, the political climate in which the author was writing was such

41 Cicero (Brut. 61) asserts that beginning with Cato, orators began the practice of publishing their speeches.

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that Rome was exploring a new identity: Plautus wrote after the Second Punic War, which as we have seen was what sparked the advent of Roman literature in the first place; Ovid wrote after the civil wars. Also, Plautus’ floruit overlapped with the age of Cato the Censor, an imposing character who in the face of newly-emerging cultural and political forces advocated a highly conservative ideological and social agenda. In Ovid’s time, the obvious parallel figure was

Augustus, who similarly had the most powerful voice of his age, and used it to promote conservative views on many topics, including morality, the edge of which Ovid trod upon rather audaciously with his early poetry. Coupled with the fact that Augustus also assumed the role of primary literary patron (and thus imposer of restrictions), this meant that Ovid had to find creative solutions to literary limitations. Thus, Plautus and Ovid each were caught at the turn of a political tide, each of which in similar ways placed restrictions on creative production in general, and each of which our authors managed not only to circumvent but ultimately to use to their own artistic benefit. Some tension, after all, is necessary to produce great art.

In brief, after having been burned by Augustus, Ovid had developed a sense of self- preservation and was trying to succeed at the long game, exploring original avenues in genre while upping the entertainment ante. On the one hand, he followed in the footsteps of those like

Lucretius who experimented with melding an epic host genre and a distinct guest genre; however, more than this, he created a new type of epic entirely by giving the Metamorphoses, his carmen perpetuum, its own locus in (essentially boundless) time and space.

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CHAPTER 4 NEW PLACES, SAFE SPACES: PERFORMING ON THE VIRTUAL STAGE

Having established previously that Ovid wrote the Metamorphoses as a piece of performative literature with the genre of comedy taking the lead part, I will now proceed to the more practical ramifications of Ovid’s iconoclastic approach. In addition to the innovations in genre, the Metamorphoses also anticipates the need to find an enterprising solution to a practical problem: namely, that of potential scrutiny and/or censorship from Augustus, the de facto literary patron (and of course princeps) of the age. In this chapter, I will explore both 1) some examples of multi-generic texts contemporaneous with and immediately preceding the Metamorphoses, and 2) some artistic considerations pertaining to multi-generic elements in the Metamorphoses; subsequently, I will offer my analysis as to what I believe his motives were in employing them.

In the title of this chapter, I have used a phrase that needs definition at the outset: I will use the term “safe spaces” to signify a literary device (or sample of literature using this device) that claims for itself a liminal space with respect to genre, with the specific intent of avoiding and/or deflecting censure from a political, censorial, or generally adversarial authority figure. I will argue that the liminal space occupied by the Metamorphoses firstly is an artistic choice in the Callimachean tradition of stretching generic horizons, with the secondary intention of escaping Augustan criticism and thus maintaining freedom to continue writing during this new era of literary patronage involving the head of the state. In reading comedy as a “safe space” in the Augustan period, I must insist on the sharp distinction between Roman comedy and that of the Greeks, particularly the comedies of Aristophanes, who engaged in direct personal attacks on public figures and had no qualms about loudly voicing his political opinions.1 For the Romans, comedy was divorced from politics, making it an ideal medium for entertaining one’s audience

1 Olson (2001:12–13), Sidwell (2001:252–254), Sommerstein (2004:145ff); Worman (2008:62–65 et passim); et al.

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without fear of reprisal. This is why Ovid selected comedy as the chief voice in the chorus of genres that blend together to create his carmen perpetuum.

History of Genre-Blending: Callimachean Debt and Ovidian Self-Referencing

As far as generic experimentation is concerned, Ovid chose to enter into a dialogue with the Neoteric poets of earlier generations. Already I have mentioned the Hellenistic poet

Callimachus and his Aetia, stating that both were influential upon Augustan poetry, including

Ovid’s works from the very earliest. Callimachus also used fewer metrical forms than his predecessors did, but used those forms for a host of thematic material, favoring hexameter, elegiac, and iambic forms. This tendency to favor a small core group of metrical varieties is similar to Ovid, who in the wake of poets such as Horace (who wrote the first Latin examples of many different kinds of meters) only ever wrote in elegiac couplets or hexameter.2 Thus,

Callimachus (as Ovid later would also do) fashioned new uses for old genres.3 The school of poets upon which Callimachus was most influential at Rome was that of the Neoterics (most notably Catullus); understanding something of these poetae novi is important to our discussion because they are both the generation of authors preceding Ovid as well as the legacy of

Callimachus, whose innovations in genre represented a departure from established convention and whose impact upon Ovid I introduced in Chapter 1 and aim to visit further in this chapter.

Like Ovid, Catullus and the other Neoterics adopted a style both accretive and iconoclastic; however, there are also some important distinctions between the two groups of

2 Pontani (2011:98).

3 So revolutionary was Callimachus (and, in turn, those he influenced) in his approach to conventions of genre that Halperin (1983) wryly comments: “It is almost as if the Alexandrians undertook to analyze and define the rules of the classic genre in order to be able to violate them all the more vigorously” (204). By contrast, in Cameron’s (1992) view, Callimachus started this revolution in genre not merely for the sake of being different or of breaking with the old regime, but rather as a natural consequence of changing social norms: “Callimachus lived in a new and different world. He and his generation were not so much deliberately repudiating choral lyric as responding in their own way to changes forced upon them” (305).

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poets. We can think of the Neoterics as more directly iconoclastic and Ovid as more subtle; both owe something to Callimachus but in different ways. The Neoteric modus scribendi drew upon that of Callimachus, who commented that a big book was a big evil (μέγα βιβλίον μέγα κακόν4).

Although the Neoterics, like their Greek progenitor, also wrote pithy verses jabbing at individuals real and fictitious, their greatest innovation was perhaps the epyllion, or epic in miniature.5 This type of poem featured the same thematic elements as epic but was pared down to a size that could be read at a single session; however, it was not the only type of poem that these poets wrote. Catullus 64—his longest poem—is perhaps the most celebrated epyllion in

Latin. A narrative of the marriage of Peleus and Thetis, the poem unfolds the events leading up to the marriage by the use of ekphrasis, or extended description of inanimate objects—in this case, a pseudo-epic description of the coverlet on the royal marriage bed. In the manner of

Homer’s depiction of the shield of Achilles in Book 18 of the Iliad, the ekphrasis that is Catullus

64 tells in virtual pictures the myth of Theseus and Ariadne. Although rather lengthy a selection, the lines below show some additional epic features (as well as some cross-generic allusions) worth commenting upon:

4 fr. 465 Pfeiffer.

5 Mendell (1965:43) asserts that this is in fact the greatest contribution of the Neoteric poets to Latin poetry. See Trimble (2012) for more on the importance of Catullus 64 to the world of epyllion, and also for some challenges to applying the label of “genre” to epyllion; as with the generic identity of the Metamorphoses, there is no scholarly consensus, says Trimble, as to what defines epyllion (54–61 and elsewhere). Trimble too mentions that every Neoteric poet wrote an epyllion, and so the literary movement was linked with the type of poem (67–68). Konstan (1996) cautions against reading the epyllion merely as a smaller epic, viewing it as something distinct and yet associating the form with instability, thus accounting for generic tensions and uncertainty (see esp. 75–76). Pechillo (1990) finds a strong link between this Neoteric innovation and the Metamorphoses: positing that Ovid uses the epyllion structure throughout the Metamorphoses, she focuses on the Aeacus and Cephalus tale set within the framework on the larger Theseus episode to demonstrate that Ovid uses the epyllion structure throughout the Metamorphoses Pechillo accomplishes this by insisting on two prerequisites for epyllion: 1) the tale-within-a-tale structure, and 2) the presence of multiple genres. The first is easy enough to establish in the Aeacus and Cephalus setting; in establishing the second criterion, Pechillo articulates elements of epic, didactic, elegiac, and tragic genres within the episode. Although I do not read the Metamorphoses as a disconnected series of epyllia, I do find that the presence of multigeneric elements in both Catullus 64 and the Metamorphoses to be indicative of a mutual, Alexandrian heritage in generic experimentation.

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quantos illa tulit languenti corde timores! quanto saepe magis fulgore expalluit auri, cum saevum cupiens contra contendere monstrum aut mortem appeteret Theseus aut praemia laudis! non ingrata tamen frustra munuscula divis promittens tacito succepit vota labello. nam velut in summo quatientem brachia Tauro quercum aut conigeram sudanti cortice pinum indomitus turbo contorquens flamine robur, eruit (illa procul radicitus exturbata prona cadit, late quaevis cumque obvia frangens,) sic domito saevum prostravit corpore Theseus nequiquam vanis iactantem cornua ventis. inde pedem sospes multa cum laude reflexit errabunda regens tenui vestigia filo, ne labyrintheis e flexibus egredientem tecti frustraretur inobservabilis error. sed quid ego a primo digressus carmine plura commemorem, ut linquens genitoris filia vultum, ut consanguineae complexum, ut denique matris, quae misera in gnata deperdita laeta omnibus his Thesei dulcem praeoptarit amorem: aut ut vecta rati spumosa ad litora Diae aut ut eam devinctam lumina somno liquerit immemori discedens pectore coniunx? saepe illam perhibent ardenti corde furentem clarisonas imo fudisse e pectore voces, ac tum praeruptos tristem conscendere montes, unde aciem in pelagi vastos protenderet aestus, tum tremuli salis adversas procurrere in undas mollia nudatae tollentem tegmina surae, atque haec extremis maestam dixisse querellis, frigidulos udo singultus ore cientem: 'sicine me patriis avectam, perfide, ab aris perfide, deserto liquisti in litore, Theseu? sicine discedens neglecto numine divum, immemor a! devota domum periuria portas? nullane res potuit crudelis flectere mentis consilium? tibi nulla fuit clementia praesto, immite ut nostri vellet miserescere pectus? at non haec quondam blanda promissa dedisti voce mihi, non haec miserae sperare iubebas, sed conubia laeta, sed optatos hymenaeos, quae cuncta aereii discerpunt irrita venti. nunc iam nulla viro iuranti femina credat, nulla viri speret sermones esse fideles…” (64.99–144)

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With what great gleaming more than that of gold did she often grow pale when, eager to strive against the savage monster, Theseus was seeking either death or the prizes of renown! Yet, promising to the gods not unpleasing gifts (though in vain), she offered prayers with silent lip. For as a wild storm, twisting with its blast a tough oak tree shaking its limbs on Taurus’ peak or a cone-bearing pine with sweating bark, uproots it (cast far off, it lies leveled at the roots, breaking far and wide whatever meets it), so did Theseus lay low the savage creature, its body having been subdued, tossing its horns in vain to the empty winds. Thence, unharmed, he retraced his path amidst much praise, guiding his wandering footprints by a fine thread, lest undiscoverable wandering of the building should thwart him going out of the labyrinthine twists. But why should I, having departed from my first verse, recall more: how the daughter, leaving the countenance of her father, the embrace of her sister, and finally that of her mother, who lamented, desperate over her daughter, how she, happy, chose the sweet love of Theseus before all these; or how she was carried in a raft to the to the foam-flecked shores of Dia; or how her husband, departing with forgetful mind, left her with her eyes bound by sleep? Often they report that she, raging with burning heart, uttered clear-sounding cries from the depths of her heart, and that she now in sadness climbs the steep mountains from where she might stretch forth her keen gaze over the vast swellings of the sea, and that she now runs out into the facing waves of tremulous brine, lifting the soft clothing from her calf. And they say that she said these things mournfully in her final laments, uttering chilled sobs with damp face: “Thus have you, o faithless one, left me, carried away from the altars of my ancestors, on the shore, o faithless Theseus? Thus departing, the will of the gods disregarded, unmindful, ah! Do you carry cursed perjury home? Could nothing bend the plan of your cruel mind? Was no compassion present in you, so that your merciless heart would wish to have pity on me? But these were not the promises you once gave to me with coaxing voice, not these things for which you bid wretched me to hope, but a joyful marriage, but desired nuptials, all of which the ethereal winds scatter as useless. As things are now, let no woman believe a man swearing an oath, nor hope that a man’s speeches be trustworthy…” (My emphases.)

As is typical of conventional, full-scale epic, we see an expansive simile (nam velut in summo quatientem brachia Tauro, etc.) as well as digression (sed quid ego a primo digressus carmine plura/commemorem), which is associated both with oratory (especially as this example includes a pretended omission, or praeteritio, in the manner of Cicero, which each ut following the commemorem). There is also direct speech in the form of a monologue—with an apostrophe

(perfide . . . Theseu) —which is both characteristic of epic and innovative for (pseudo-)epic in that it is embedded within an ekphrastic passage. Just as Ovid was to do later, Catullus used conventional epic as a starting point for creating something original: rather than taking thousands

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of lines to develop the storyline, he truncated the narration drastically, telling nearly the entire tale by using a single device characteristic of epic (i.e., ekphrasis). Thus, he took something monumental and set it in miniature, down to centering the action (such as it is) on an object in a single room.

Some of these Neoteric elements creep into the Ovidian corpus, but not all; Ovid alternates between eschewing and embracing Neoteric principles. In the Metamorphoses, Ovid dramatically frames a vast series of mini-epics, each one of which is something like the epyllion of the Neoterics: as a whole, the work is a tapestry of tiny epics (each with elements of multiple genres) sewn into one mega-epic, and presented in the context of a performance. Such an approach both hearkens to the Neoteric epyllion while assuming the form of the μέγα βιβλίον that they so despised. Thus he built upon a Neoteric foundation while both fitting his writing to the times as well as engaging in dialogue with epic tradition and imprinting upon it something of his personality.

As I stated in Chapter 3, Ovid was playing around with generic boundaries as early as

Amores 1, which opens with a comic re-working of the proem to the Aeneid. In fact, it is not an outrageous assertion that not a single work that Ovid wrote typified a pure, paradigmatic generic sample but rather always fused together at least two distinct genres into one Ovidian whole. This approach of course is largely Callimachean, as a drastic re-defining of genre lines the fabric of the Alexandrian’s poetry. And it seems that genre itself is a bit of a sacred space: playing with genre has caused Callimachus throughout the ages to have been viewed as a writer of parody or as sort of political cartoonist aiming to poke fun at a prominent figure of his day (most notably,

Aristotle). A parallel situation during Ovid’s age is easy enough to see, as his writing has been

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viewed repeatedly as total parody, even an outright provocation, of Augustus.6 Likewise, both

Ovid and Callimachus have been attacked for their deliberate lack of unity.7 But these objections are tenable only if one applies traditional notions of genre to either of these two poets: if we allow for a certain novelty of style while still presuming the sine quibus non of the genre, then we can allow for and even expect a certain of amount of surprise or confusion in reading such a text. However, a reader who is merely mystified will not keep coming back for more; unless the reading process affords some enjoyment, the book will go back on the shelf. Hence I argue that

Ovid utilizes the aforementioned “ambiguities of style” so as to make his readers laugh, keeping in mind what I have quoted already: namely, that the essence of humor lies in outrageous behavior.8

Inside Jokes, Audience Rapport, and the Humor of Exhibitionism

Shared laughter is a sign of shared values.9 The language of humor looks to social cues for proper syntax, and even can be something of a watermark for national identity; when the

6 See C. Segal (1969), Holleman (1971), and Moulton (1973) for arguments in favor of an anti-Augustan reading of Ovid. On the other hand, Millar (1993) reads the post-exilic poems as indicative of a pro-Augustan spirit in Ovid, whom he characters as a “rejected loyalist” (6), before his relegation. Similarly, Ludwig (1964:82-83) favors a pro- Augustan reading, concluding the end of the Met. suggests a promising evolution from chaos to an Augustan sense of order. Even in more recent times, the pro- versus anti-Augustan debate has continued: Davis (2006) devotes an entire chapter to defending such an either/or approach. In contrast is Kennedy’s (1992) groundbreaking recommendation of a non-binary view of Ovidian politics: Kennedy proposed that Ovid’s poetry was more nuanced than simply pro- or anti-Augustan; I am indebted to Kennedy’s insightful and groundbreaking study, as I am to Galinsky’s (1975), which I shall treat in greater depth later in this chapter. For more recent discussion of the question in light of Kennedy’s scholarship, see Sharrock (1994), Barchiesi (1997), Habinek (1998), and Giusti (2016).

7 Cf. Alan Cameron (1992) for further reading on Callimachean innovations in genre. On the whole, Cameron believes that Callimachus was not flouting conventions of genre but rather responding to societal changes (305): that is, he was not taking a categorical stance against the epic genre, but was rather was turning his energy toward elegy, which, says Cameron, offered new possibilities for a more personal narrative tone (310). This notion of a new poetry for a new age also meshes well with the premise that Ovid inserted non-epic generic “voices,” including comedy, into the Metamorphoses so as to present a different kind of narrative.

8 Sharrock (1996:154).

9 E. Segal (1968) refers to laughter as the “affirmation of shared values” (vii). See too Richlin (2014), who sees particularly in Plautine humor a series of common experiences shared between the playwright/performers and the

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subject and manner of humor alters, so too do cultural norms. With the death of Turpilius and the demise of comedy, Roman humor changed, as we have seen, with comic theatre no longer having a place on the stage. However, in their sophisticated clamor for new forms of entertainment, the Romans of the late Republic and early Empire still maintained an appreciation for many of the comic features found in earlier works, particularly those of Plautus (which I have detailed in Chapter 3). For example, wordplay, situational comedy, delayed revelations, and the like appear both in Plautus and in literature of Ovid’s time, which I believe was a deliberate move on Ovid’s part. Although the slapstick of early Roman comedy did not conform to the social dictates of the Augustan-era elite, Ovid through his poetry was able to convey successfully the same humorous elements that permeated the rougher comedy of the old days. In this way,

Ovid effectively broadened his target audience: he could appeal to a readership that, while still composed of society’s elite and bound by refined tastes, nevertheless encompassed both boisterous crowds as well as sophisticated wits and wags. And so while the preferred form changed, nevertheless much of the matter of earlier entertainment endured.

With both the changes in the urbanitas of the elite Roman audience as well as the increasing involvement of political authority in the realm of art, both poets and prose authors began to inject a myriad of elements from their (often privileged and multifaceted) daily lives into their works. For instance, Horace, who was born more than twenty years before Ovid, wrote a huge assortment of works, which varied in content, tone and meter, covering everything from caustic epodes to triumphant odes to witty satire, each with an underlay of the poet’s signature quasi-Stoic, quasi-Epicurean, totally Horatian philosophy. It was now more likely than ever that the poet would take on some of the functions of orator, statesman, comic or tragic actor,

various social tiers within the audience. On the other hand, for Goldberg (1982:316 and elsewhere) one of the causes of the demise of comedy was Terence’s lack of this kind of inside joke or common bond shared with the audience.

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gladiator, and charioteer.10 Likely this was due in part to the more varied social demands of the authors themselves, who now frequently relied upon patrons, who themselves were often friends of Augustus. However, I believe it was also impacted by the newly-repopularized influence of the world of performance, as embodied by the building of a permanent theatre so late in the

Republican period. Moreover, Cicero’s groundbreaking oratorical exhibitionism had paved the way for an audience in the proper sense: that is, one that fixed its attention just as much on the words spoken as on the gestures or other accompanying actions. As for a simultaneously greater emphasis on visual aspects of performance, evidence for such can be found (as elsewhere) in more frequent onstage depictions of violence at this time—depictions which in Greek theatre were never acted out before the audience but rather summed up by a narrator post factum. This summing up, or “verbal reenactment,”11 may have been graphic but were simply made of words and for the most part did not involve gory special effects, but late Republican Rome demanded more onstage action. Finally—at the salty end of the performative spectrum—the elite Romans of the late Republic and early Empire were also enthusiastic about mimes, as I have said in

Chapter 3. With these various influences now in the mainstream, the bar was set higher than ever for poets, who now faced the expectation of being both artists as well as purveyors of Roman entertainment in the broadest possible sense.

In short, Roman literary elements were evolving constantly long before the

Metamorphoses: from the comedies of Plautus and Terence to the revolutionary poetry of

Catullus and even the highly performative oratory of Cicero all guided the development of

10 Hanses (2015:25) remarks that in both Vergil’s and Ovid’s day, dramatic readings of poetry were a matter of course, and sometimes were performed by someone other than the poet himself; Ovid carmina were even performed before a full house (cf. Ovid Tr. 5.7.25: pleno . . . theatro). Thus poetry took on a varied, performative function.

11 Henrichs (2000:177).

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literature. Even non-literary spectacles such as gladiatorial combat, mime, and pantomime contributed to the formation of a Roman readership increasingly more performance-oriented in tastes. Thus Ovid found both precedence and inspiration for his own performative generic experimentation.

Changing Places: Altered Perspectives and Virtual Safe Spaces

In times of political turmoil, even literary circles are not immune from controversy, real or perceived. Of course, those figures who straddled the line between the literary camp and the political one—such as Cicero—had the greatest challenge. In the hopes of avoiding criticism, unpopularity, or even violence, Cicero had recourse to something like what I have defined as a safe space: that is, he measured his words carefully with the specific intent of deflecting censure from hostile political figures should the need arise. While the example of Cicero is not necessarily liminal generically speaking, he nevertheless does deviate from normal parameters in that he too engages in virtual performance (especially in the second of the Philippics, as I have shown in Chapter 3), and paved the way for later authors, including Ovid, to defy expectations while maintaining a certain amount of cautious self-preservation.

In addition to these literary forerunners of Ovid, there are also examples of circumspect filtration to be found in the Augustan era and thus more or less contemporaneous with Ovid. As the foremost historian of the age, Livy is an integral part of this discussion. Like Ovid, he wanted to write something that reached back to some beginning point (for Livy, it was the beginning of

Rome rather than the beginning of the world) and extended to his own times, as he states in the preface12 to his monumental undertaking, the Ab Urbe Condita:

Facturusne operae pretium sim si a primordio urbis res populi Romani perscripserim nec satis scio nec, si sciam, dicere ausim . . . .

12 Syme (1959:37) argues that Livy wrote the Praefatio in 27 BC as an introduction to Books 1 through 5, the first installment of the series.

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Whether effort will be worth my while if I will have dared to write a complete account of the affairs of the Roman people from its inception, I do not sufficiently know, nor if I were to know would I dare to say . . . .

Further in this same preface, he adds:

Res est praeterea et immensi operis, ut quae supra septingentesimum annum repetatur et quae ab exiguis profecta initiis eo creverit ut iam magnitudine laboret sua; et legentium plerisque haud dubito quin primae origines proximaque originibus minus praebitura voluptatis sint, festinantibus ad haec nova quibus iam pridem praevalentis populi vires se ipsae conficiunt . . . .

The topic is, moreover, also one of intense labor, since it is one that goes back more than 700 years and that, having started out from humble beginnings, has grown to such an extent that it already struggles with its own vastness; and I scarcely doubt that the first origins and those things closest to the origins will furnish less pleasure for the majority of readers, hastening as they will to these new things by which the very power of a long- prevailing people is bringing about its own demise . . . .

The similarity in language between Livy’s preface and Ovid’s proem seems too pronounced to be coincidental: Livy’s phrase primae origines is Ovid’s primaque ab origine mundi, while both authors look ahead to nova (cf. Met. 1.1–4). And while Livy is the only one to articulate such a thought (et legentium plerisque haud dubito quin primae origines proximaque originibus minus praebitura voluptatis sint, festinantibus ad haec nova . . .), both the length and especially the tone of each author’s earliest narratives in their respective texts seem to indicate that they expect their readers to move quickly past such events as the the involvement of Aeneas in Rome’s founding or the creation of the world: Livy’s discussion of Aeneas concludes halfway through

1.3, while Ovid does not bother to commit to naming a creative force behind the origin of the

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world,13 instead choosing to proceed quickly to a proto-geographical description of the world followed by a much longer chronology of the ages.14

Livy also employed another type of strategy in guardedly presenting potentially controversial versions of historical accounts: namely, the use of indirect statement with an unspecified (or generic third person) subject, including such words as ferunt, tradunt, dicitur, fertur, traditur, and the like. The end result is a kind of genericizing filter, a filter mask behind which Livy could stand, turning himself essentially into a reciter of a script written by someone else. Thus, he could get away with presenting contentious topics or theories of causation, because he put them in the mouths of others rather than taking ownership for them himself. A prominent example of this type of “word-on-the-street” framing occurs at his narrative of the death of Romulus:

13 Ovid’s tone is dismissive and unconcerned (Hanc deus et melior litem natura diremit, 1.21; Sic ubi dispositam quisquis fuit ille deorum/congeriem secuit sectamque in membra coegit/principio terram, ne non aequalis ab omni/parte foret, magni speciem glomeravit in orbis, 1.32–35), while in his Preface Livy states that anything that occurred before the foundation of the city or indeed during its construction lies within the realm of the poets, and he wishes neither to confirm nor deny the truth value of such traditions (Quae ante conditam condendamve urbem poeticis magis decora fabulis quam incorruptis rerum gestarum monumentis traduntur, ea nec adfirmare nec refellere in animo est.)

14 Aside from these similarities with Ovid, Livy also possibly was concerned that Augustus would attempt some interloping, a concern that, as it turned out, was grounded in reality. Livy deferred bringing to light the final books of the Ab Urbe Condita—those dealing with contemporary history—until after the death of Augustus, for reasons disputed but which I believe included the desire to minimize the risk of incurring political displeasure. His caution was not excessive: we know that Augustus had admonished Livy with respect to a point of history in Book 4, to which Livy was compelled to add what Syme (1959) calls an “antiquarian digression” (44) regarding the precise requirements for the spolia opima. Augustus’ insistence stemmed from his ulterior motive of highlighting the stringent prescriptions regarding the spolia opima, including the stipulation that in order to claim the spolia opima, one must be of consular rank. This point was of great importance to Augustus, for in 29 BC Crassus had claimed the spolia opima after having killed Deldo, chief of the Bastarnae, in hand-to-hand combat. With an eye to rendering this potential rival powerless, Augustus viewed this claim to such a huge honor—which had been secured only three times and most recently in 222—as a threat to his military supremacy. Consequently, Augustus went to the Temple of Jupiter Feretrius to see for himself what the inscription of Cossus, dedicating the spolia opima he had snatched from the Veian king Lars Tolumnius, actually said. Augustus himself reported his findings directly to Livy, who did not quibble. In turn, Livy inserted an addendum to this effect into Book 4. Despite questions as to the authenticity of the libri lintei that Augustus had consulted (and despite a discrepancy in dates that Livy allowed to stand), Rome’s greatest historian of the age bowed to Augustus. This episode demonstrates at what an early date Augustus was involved in literary creation, and indeed what power he had to impact even the most renowned authors. Thus Livy shared with Ovid the experience of having been called to the carpet by Augustus.

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His immortalibus editis operibus cum ad exercitum recensendum contionem in campo ad Caprae paludem haberet, subito coorta tempestas cum magno fragore tonitribusque tam denso regem operuit nimbo ut conspectum eius contioni abstulerit; nec deinde in terris Romulus fuit . . . . Deinde a paucis initio facto, deum deo natum, regem parentemque urbis Romanae salvere universi Romulum iubent; pacem precibus exposcunt, uti volens propitius suam semper sospitet progeniem. Fuisse credo tum quoque aliquos qui discerptum regem patrum manibus taciti arguerent; manavit enim haec quoque sed perobscura fama; illam alteram admiratio viri et pavor praesens nobilitavit. (AUC 1.16)

These immortal works having been made known, when he was holding a meeting in the Campus Martius near the swamp of Capra for the purpose of reviewing the army, a storm having suddenly arisen with great thunder and lightning covered the king with a cloud so dense that it made seeing him impossible for the assembly. At that point Romulus was no longer on earth . . . . Then, with the initial effort started by a few people, all insisted on hailing Romulus as a god born of a god, and as the king and father of the city of Rome. They demanded peace with entreaties that he willingly and graciously preserve his children. I believe that there were also at that time some who quietly maintained that the king was torn to pieces at the hands of the senators, for this account, albeit an obscure one, trickled out; admiration of the man popularized the one version of the story, immediate fear the other.

While the first part of the account is rendered in simple direct statement and even ostensibly continues in this way, Livy is still careful enough to say that he believes that there were also at that time some who quietly maintained another, more violent causality (fuisse credo tum quoque aliquos qui discerptum regem patrum manibus taciti arguerent). Although Livy presents two versions of the demise of Romulus in an ostensibly unbiased side-by-side, it is nevertheless clear both by amount of virtual stage time and verbal flair which version he favors. Immediately following the second, more sinister, account, Livy adds a bit of drama in the monologue he puts in the mouth of Proculus Iulius:

Et consilio etiam unius hominis addita rei dicitur fides. Namque Proculus Iulius, sollicita civitate desiderio regis et infensa patribus, gravis, ut traditur, quamvis magnae rei auctor in contionem prodit. “Romulus” inquit, “Quirites, parens urbis huius, prima hodierna luce caelo repente delapsus se mihi obvium dedit. Cum perfusus horrore venerabundusque adstitissem petens precibus ut contra intueri fas esset, ‘Abi, nuntia’ inquit ‘Romanis, caelestes ita velle ut mea Roma caput orbis terrarum sit; proinde rem militarem colant sciantque et ita posteris tradant nullas opes humanas armis Romanis resistere posse.’ Haec” inquit “locutus sublimis abiit.” Mirum quantum illi viro nuntianti

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haec fides fuerit, quamque desiderium Romuli apud plebem exercitumque facta fide immortalitatis lenitum sit. (AUC 1.16)

And to the strategy of one person credibility is said to have been added. For Proculus Iulius, the state being both anxious out of longing for a king and hostile to the fathers, gravely, as it is said, went forth into the assembly as the as originator of this matter however great. “Romulus,” he said, “o Quirites, the father of this city, yesterday at dawn, suddenly having slipped down from heaven, appeared to me. When I had stopped, overcome with terror and trembling, entreating with prayers that it might be permitted to look upon him, he said, ‘Go, announce to the Romans that the gods thus will that my Rome be the head of the world; that accordingly they should foster the military, and they should know and thus hand down to their descendants that no human power can resist Roman arms.’ Having said these things, he went back on high.’ It is amazing how great a thing this trust was for this one man announcing such things, and how the loss of Romulus was assuaged among the people and the army, with faith in his immortality having been engendered. (My emphases.)

Although Livy has already introduced this account as belonging to others (qui . . . arguerent), he guardedly adds another “filter verb,” dicitur, for further security. Also, the word fides is prominent, occurring three times, thus stressing the fact that even at the beginning the more sanitized version of the story rested upon the word of those eyewitness closest to the events (who also had the most to gain from popularizing that account and burying any version smacking of violence and ambition). Additionally, the conception of of fides implies two parties, which in the

Proculus Iulius episode align with (internal) speaker and (internal) audience and consequently forming a kind of solemn spectacle which ultimately is controlled by the primary narrator (Livy) and enjoyed by the primary audience (the reader). And so Livy manages to insinuate a second possible cause for Romulus’ death, one that is riddled with violence, intrigue, and corruption at the highest levels of the nascent Roman government. He elegantly and adroitly draws the reader in, maintaining interest by giving the impression that he is sharing something uncommon and a bit dangerous while insinuating that such is the opinion of others, not himself. Using the double filter of fuisse credo . . . qui . . . arguerent, he distances himself enough so that not only is he not the first-person source of this account, but it is also unclear as to who the source actually is.

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This approach is not found in Livy alone: Ovid uses similar language in various points in the Metamorphoses, as I shall outline later in this chapter. Furthermore, Livy not only uses this reporting technique to keep himself at a safe distance from Augustan scrutiny, he also employs it as a frame for the monologue-within-a-monologue of Proculus Iulius, thus giving his distancing filter a performative function similar to that which I have demonstrated occurs in the

Metamorphoses. And whereas Livy begins this alternate version with a cautious indirect statement leading into another indirect statement, he in contrast creates in the character of

Proculus Iulius one who is doubly direct: not only does Livy assign him direct speech, he also has him relate the supposed words of Romulus in direct speech as well, conveying the impression of certainty that Proculus Iulius actually did see Romulus, whose words he remembered clearly, thus tacitly claiming added authority for himself. Unlike his opportunistic literary creation, it is precisely the same type of onus of authority that Livy wishes to avoid claiming for himself; hence, Livy uses opposing techniques in maintaining his own narrative persona versus fashioning the narrative for Proculus Iulius.

This combination of subjectless indirect statement and internal narrator/audience limited to this passage or to Livy alone. Levene finds significance in the creation of such an internal narrator/audience pairing. In general, he argues that the creation of this type of internal pairing functions as a set of didactic cues:

. . . internal narrators are in fact adopting a position analogous to that of the reader and so insinuate one possible way in which the reader might respond to the narrative. This is particularly obvious in those cases where the internal audience is extraneous to the action and appears to be introduced precisely to provide such guidance.15

15 Levene (2006:75). Similarly, he states that “The introduction of an internal audience whose role in some sense parallels that of the reader easily shades into an invitation to analyze that internal audience’s ‘readings’ self- consciously as providing a model of how one is to view such texts in general” (76). For more on Livy’s guidance of audience reaction, see Stem (2007), who finds in Livy’s portrayal of Romulus the shaping of an exemplary figure who always put the good of Rome first. Although Stem’s conclusion is different from my own, I do agree with Stem that in the narratives offering multiple versions of an event, Livy guides the reader as to how to evaluate Romulus’

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Levene is quick to add that this is not a shoo-in situation, as the reader may not wish to comply with these subtle guides for how to react, nor are internal audiences infallible. I myself would add that it is also possible that “focalization” (Levene’s word) even on a particularly uncompelling narrator/audience pairing is also possible, as in my previous example of Proculus

Iulius and the Romana pubes. In this case and others like it, I believe that Livy is in fact cuing the audience toward a reaction dissimilar to that of the internal audience, who is ready to give credence (signified by the repetition of fides) to an implausible story that at best bolstered the importance of the speaker and at worst covered up a heinous regicide orchestrated by those closest to him. Furthermore, Levene’s reading of Livy is readily applicable to my discussion of

Ovid: where Levene advocates a metahistorical reading of Livy that ultimately seek to shed light on both Livy’s methodology and his intent, a similar prospicience is discernible in Ovid, who also embeds in his text similar c(l)ues for discerning authorial intention while first requiring of the “real” (that is, not merely censorial) reader some digging past the surface meaning. Both

Livy and Ovid seek a more personal audience interaction in a time where the most powerful reader (i.e., Augustus) is someone other than the intended readership; consequently, both have recourse to metatextual meaning. Ultimately, the Metamorphoses demands of the sincere reader attention to metapoetic nuance, the virtual lines between which Ovid discloses how and why he chooses to write.

Ovid’s Safety Net

The “ferunt filter” that Livy uses is not simply an artistic choice; it also yields another way around the aforementioned type of potentially hostile climate: it creates the possibility of a

actions, which are guided by a complex moral code: as Stem admits, Romulus’ behavior at times can “challenge a reader’s sense of healthy morality” (440).

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literary safe space, which I have defined earlier in this chapter. Additionally, there is similarity between this kind of “filtration” and Ovid’s use of an internal narrator (or plurality of internal narrators). In fact, I would argue that the creation of an internal narrator is the dramatic equivalent of the “ferunt filter,” the only substantial difference being that the internal narrator necessitates a switch from impersonal to personal construction syntactically speaking. However, even that distinction fades, for with respect to authorial ownership and accountability, the function of the internal narrator is virtually the same as that of ferunt, etc.: namely, plausible deniability for the author as the original source of the ensuing narrative or assertion.16 As we have seen, Livy augments the safety afforded to this device by using a highly circumspect narrative tone, but with such a filter in place, an author could also use an ostensibly superficial medium to convey deeply critical thoughts, as in later times Seneca chose to do in the

Apocolocyntosis or Petronius did in the Satyricon. In Ovid’s case though, the reverse was true: the Metamorphoses, in serious, epic guise, was covertly playful. Creatively speaking, Ovid’s approach was the next logical step for epic after Vergil, whom most current scholars view, in varying degrees, as being less than totally pro-Augustan politically but who nevertheless had received commission for what was to become the national epic. While still preserving artistic integrity, it also paralleled Livy’s careful treading after the admonition from Augustus.

As for Augustus himself, a discussion of Ovid’s historical context is impossible without touching upon the political climate of the day. Some modern scholarship fashions Ovid into anti-

Augustan anarchist, casting him as a chiefly political figure.17 I would like to distinguish

16 Papaioannou (2017:327), referring to this verbal filter by Ross’ (1975) label of “Alexandrian footnote,” points out that its usual function is to hearken to a tradition, respected source, while Ovid sometimes employs it in order to create a fictive voice of authority outside of himself.

17 Richard Thomas (2009:299, 303) views Ovid as at least potentially subversive both artistically and politically, standing in opposition to Vergil and the Aeneid, or at least to the pro-Augustan reading of it.

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between Ovid’s early elegiac works (e.g., the Amores and particularly the Ars Amatoria) and the more mature work that is the Metamorphoses, the former of which are more overtly antagonistic while the latter is less so. We know that Augustus’ view of the Ars Amatoria was far from propitious; it was no great wonder that a poem trivializing the subject of Augustan promotion of morality (and the legislation pertaining to such matters) incurred the displeasure of the princeps.

But like Livy, after having been rebuked Ovid made an attempt at greater discretion. Unlike

Livy, however, Ovid did not remove potentially offending references or even add apologetic notes to them, but chose instead to sublimate or embed them. One such example of sublimated criticism occurs at the council of the gods scene in Met. 1, when Ovid ostensibly praises the princeps:

nec tibi grata minus pietas, Auguste, tuorum quam fuit illa Iovi. (Met. 1.204–205)

Nor is the piety of your people, Augustus, less pleasing to you than that of Jupiter’s people was to him.

Certainly language like this seems laudatory, even sycophantic. But given the context, the comparison is less than flattering: far from pious, Jupiter’s crowd of Olympians is noisy, rowdy, and inattentive to Jupiter’s admittedly rambling speech. Furthermore, as C. Segal18 notes, Jupiter is a comical figure of excess when, in his supposed ire, he shakes his head multiple times:

. . . celsior ipse loco sceptroque innixus eburno terrificam capitis concussit terque quaterque caesariem, cum qua terram, mare, sidera movit. (Met. 1.178–180)

He, higher in position and having reclined on his ivory scepter, shook three and four times his awe-inspiring hair, with which he moved the earth, sea, and stars.

18 C. Segal (2001:79–80) points out that not only would this look ridiculous and likely cause dizziness, it also simply is not fitting for the pater omnipotens, who should be able to convey authority with a single nod. Anderson (1998) reads the council of the gods as a parodied, out-of-control meeting of the Senate, adding that the same technique is in Lucilius Sat. 1 and later in Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis; furthermore, he specifically states that this passage is not “just another epic device, therefore serious and even majestic like those in Homer and Vergil” (168).

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But this purported sedition in his art is only part of the picture: Ovid uses politics to further his image as clever artist; he does not exploit his own art, however witty it is, primarily to advance a political cause. This is the reverse of authors such as Cicero, who used humor to shape political thought, often relying on the prejudices of the audience. These cheap humor tactics, though socially acceptable and even elegantly wielded by skilled orators, were more or less equivalent to playing a laugh track for the benefit of the audience.19 Ovid’s instructions for laughter are still present, but much more subtle—and ultimately serve not so much to tear down political authority but more to bolster his own image as artist; as with the inept internal narrators throughout the

Metamorphoses, Augustus caricatured is useful for Ovid because he makes Ovid look the wittier by contrast. The humorous effect is created either when the audience or reader recognizes stereotype (Cicero’s invective weapon of choice) or when something unexpected happens, where there is a divergence between expectation and reality. Once a baseline of the familiar is established, the artist’s creative genius can shine through in contrast with the anticipated outcome. Most importantly at least on the pragmatic level, there is always a virtual escape clause for Ovid—a concrete word or combination of words that he could point to as a virtual filter, as with Livy as the use of ferunt and similar language.

Despite multiple scholars’ readings20 of Ovid as at least somewhat anti-Augustan, my own reading of the Metamorphoses inclines toward something much less politically antagonistic.

19 Corbeill (1996) includes physical appearance, funny-sounding names, effeminate actions and dress, and more as traits that a Roman orator could freely attack as indicative of moral failings (8–13).

20 I have already mentioned Segal (1969), Holleman (1971), Moulton (1973), and Davis (2006) as supporters of a strongly anti-Augustan reading of Ovid; however, Feeney, P. Johnson, and W. R. Johnson represent a less cut-and- dried view of Ovid’s artistic relationship with Augustus. Feeney (1992) recognizes speech regulation as a central theme of the Fasti. He asserts that it is possible even that Ovid intentionally did not complete the last six books of the Fasti, which would have treated months dedicated to Julius Caesar and Augustus; rather than offer any words of praise to these men, he maintained a powerful, oppositional silence, Feeney suggests. P. Johnson (2008) an even more mitigated view of Ovid’s opposition to Augustus. In fact, I agree with her position that after the Ars, Ovid developed a new, more cautious artistic strategy (13). W. R. Johnson (1978) sees Ovid as taking a tone of superiority

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Ovid had already received a slap on the wrist from Augustus for writing the Ars Amatoria: granted it comes after the fact, he admits this himself in the Tristia:

carmina fecerunt, ut me moresque notaret iam demi iussa Caesar ab Arte meos. (Tr. 2.7–8)

My poetry made it so that Caesar took note of me and my ways because of my Ars now ordered to be suppressed.

And so he admits that the Ars was essentially banned (and, unable to resist a good pun, also that his art was repressed). From the publication of the Amores, Ovid never created an unadulterated example of any type of genre, but instead pushed for expansion of generic horizons (e.g., interweaving didactic and elegiac elements in the Ars Amatoria and the Remedia Amoris). Truly in writing the Metamorphoses, the older, wiser, yet still playful Ovid exercised a certain kind of caution: he did not write a brash epic so much as a conservative comedy. This new kind of performative space was a comic theatre replacement within Augustan context, a “safe space” for comedy (as opposed to the stage, which because of its public nature and its easy scrutiny was no longer a safe venue). And while any sort of public space (whether political, artistic, etc.) was liable to become dangerous at the end of the Republic and even during the principate, nevertheless there was still a huge desire to participate in and produce public entertainment.

Rather than choosing to become a playwright or actor (a problematic choice given the accompanying infamia), or to enter the political stage as a magistrate given to oratory, Ovid’s solution to the problem was to present such entertainment on a completely individualized stage.

He created a literary safety net by weaving a tapestry of myriad narrative voices, thus creating a built-in filter for his own words, so that if they came to be criticized at any point in the future he

to Augustus, but a superiority specifically of culture: Augustus’ “outbursts of irrational, agrarian puritanism” (12) are both an inconvenience for Ovid’s art and also fuel for them: Augustus’ “sham, hypocrisy, grandiloquence, and delusion” (13) give Ovid something entertaining to write about.

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had only to point out that they were the artistic voice of his own creation. The personae of the internal narrators are like the masks used to identify the stock characters in early comedy; they also resemble Livy’s “ferunt,” whereby he renders as much or as little as he wishes in indirect statement, as I have already discussed.21 Further, they serve as as a point of contrast whereby his own creative genius might shine the brighter.

Ovid’s creation of the virtual comedy that is the Metamorphoses firstly is a choice based on practicality, but also a choice he embraces for its possibility for artistic innovation. Like

Feldherr’s and even Hinds’, my reading of the Metamorphoses is only incidentally political.22 In a scholarly climate of pro- versus anti-Augustan readings of many texts, I present a third way: a circum-Augustan reading, as it were, a way around the strictures imposed by the contemporary political regime. Galinsky says outright that aside from those in Book 15, direct references to

Augustus by name are not of thematic significance to the Metamorphoses, but rather that they are part and parcel of Ovid’s exploration of narrative possibilities.23 Specifically, Galinsky argues that the case for a politically combatant reading of Ovid rests in the “ad mea tempora” of the proem as politically programmatic, as this centers contemporary history on Ovid and not

21 In addition to using this type of filter to present potentially controversial accounts, Livy also used it to introduce narratives that are fanciful and/or clearly apocryphal. For example, Livy relates the fantastical tale of the boy Servius Tullius’ head being surrounded by flames; the entire narrative depends on ferunt (AUC 1.39). This removes from Livy the onus of responsibility for the account and places it upon the generalizing third person. It also makes for a more dramatic framing of the narrative.

22 Hinds (1987:121 and elsewhere) views the Metamorphoses as aiming more at generic tension and artistic boundary crossing than political statement-making. Feldherr (2010) sees the Metamorphoses as a hermeneutical puzzle for the reader, who must constantly shift his or her frame of reference by accepting one perspective, or “focalization,” and rejecting another (149). These shifting viewpoints, alongside the poem’s multigeneric “voices” that I have discussed, put emphasis on both the internal narrator (as perspective-deliverer) and on the quasi-visual experience of the reader; thus, I read Feldherr’s argument as compatible with and supportive of my own.

23 In short, Galinsky (1975:252–253) views Augustus’ presence in the early books of the Metamorphoses as insignificant: “The actual presence and use of Augustan and Roman themes before Book 15. . . are not an important thematic element of the poem.” He adds that themes that other authors used to laud Augustus—the gigantomachy of 1.151–162 and the labors of Hercules in 9.1–272, for instance—lacked encomiastic color in the Metamorphoses.

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Augustus. Galinsky strongly rejects this reading, asserting that it is simply a temporal indicator.

In passing, he also comments that in the Tristia, Ovid re-drafts this, saying:

Atque utinam revoces animum paulisper ab ira, et vacuo iubeas hinc tibi pauca legi, pauca, quibus prima surgens ab origine mundi in tua deduxi tempora, Caesar, opus: aspicies, quantum dederis mihi pectoris ipse, quoque favore animi teque tuosque canam. Non ego mordaci destrinxi carmine quemquam, nec meus ullius crimina versus habet. (Tr. 2.557–564)

And would that you might recall your mind from anger for a while, and hence bid a few lines be read to you at your leisure—a few lines in which, arising from the earliest beginning of the world down to your times, I have brought forth my work, Caesar: you will see how much sentiment you yourself have given to me, and with what partiality of mind I sing of you and yours. I have not reviled anyone with biting verse, nor does my poetry contain the offenses of anyone.

I read the retooled proem as it appears in the Tristia as serving the dual functions of self- reference for the sake of furthering one’s own glory, and intertextuality for the sake of playing with genre, insinuating one into another, as he had done with all his earlier works. Certainly the last thing Ovid was aiming for at this time was to antagonize Augustus anew, as he still maintained hope of his eventual recall at this point. Thus, in repeating these lines from the opening of the Metamorphoses, Ovid must be advocating a reading that is not anti-Augustan. But even the overt, thematic Augustan allusions in the Metamorphoses, I believe, are mostly apolitical. For many readers, it is easy to see how the so-called epilogue can be read as incendiary toward Augustus:

Iamque opus exegi, quod nec Iovis ira nec ignis nec poterit ferrum nec edax abolere vetustas. cum volet, illa dies, quae nil nisi corporis huius ius habet, incerti spatium mihi finiat aevi: 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,

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siquid habent veri vatum praesagia, vivam. (Met. 15.871–879)

And now I have finished my work, which neither the wrath of Jupiter nor fire nor the sword nor ravenous time will be able to erase. Let that day, which has nothing except power over this body, end the span of my uncertain life when it will: yet in the better part of me I will be borne immortal over the lofty stars, and my name will be indestructible, and wherever Roman power extends over the conquered lands, I will be spoken by the mouth of the people, and with fame throughout all ages, if the foretellings of the bards hold any truth, I will live.

Yet far from seeing these lines as a parody of prayer, Galinsky and others24 see in 15.858—just a few lines before the above passage—a likeness to Vergil. Ovid presents the theme of a son’s superiority to his father as one prevalent throughout mythology:

. . . natique videns bene facta fatetur esse suis maiora et vinci gaudet ab illo. hic sua praeferri quamquam vetat acta paternis, libera fama tamen nullisque obnoxia iussis invitum praefert unaque in parte repugnat: sic magnus cedit titulis Agamemnonis Atreus, Aegea sic Theseus, sic Pelea vicit Achilles; denique, ut exemplis ipsos aequantibus utar, sic et Saturnus minor est Iove: Iuppiter arces temperat aetherias et mundi regna triformis, terra sub Augusto est; pater est et rector uterque. (Met. 15.850 –860)

And seeing that the deeds of his son were done well, [Caesar] confesses that they are greater than his own and rejoices to be surpassed by him. Although [Augustus] forbids his own deeds to be preferred to those of his father, nevertheless fame, free and submissive to no one’s orders, prefers him against his will and fights him back in this one matter: thus did great Atreus yield to the titles of Agamemnon, thus Theseus surpasses Aegeus and Achilles Peleus. Finally, so that I might employ examples equal to themselves, so also is Saturn less than Jupiter: Jupiter regulates the heavenly citadels and the kingdoms of the three-fold world, while the earth is under Augustus; each is father and ruler.

24 Galinsky (1975:259). Holding a very similar position is Little, who in general terms (1972) and specifically in regard to the Augustan portion of Met. 15 (1976) disavows the view of C. Segal (1969)—although he later (2001:94- 95) expresses doubt that Ovid was systematically anti-Augustan—Coleman (1971) and others who argue for a parodic reading of the final book of the Metamorphoses. More recently, Gareth Williams (2009:154) acknowledges an Augustan omnipresence throughout the Metamorphoses while cautioning against a simplistic interpretation of its nature. Williams concludes that the Augustus of the Metamorphoses is elusive, as is Ovid’s interaction with both this construct and (even more so) the princeps himself. Naturally, Williams acknowledges the pioneering efforts of Kennedy (1992), who first articulated the importance of approaching Ovid’s Augustus as a construct: that is, not so much as person as an idea, in Williams’ (2009:155) words. See too Barchiesi (1997), who also regards “Augustus” as difficult to define—“a shifting signifier” (255).

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But the ideas expressed in this passage are quite similar to the following sentiment in Book 6 of the Aeneid, which promises that Augustus will succeed, and even surpass, Saturn:

. . . hic vir, hic est, tibi quem promitti saepius audis, Augustus Caesar, divi genus, aurea condet saecula qui rursus Latio regnata per arva Saturno quondam, super et Garamantas et Indos proferet imperium . . . . (Aen. 6.791–795)

This, this is the man whom you very often hear promised to you, Augustus Caesar, offspring of a god, who will establish for our Latin land a Golden Age again throughout the fields having been ruled at one time by Saturn, and will extend the empire beyond both the Garamantians and the Indians.

And so it seems that Ovid’s claim of the prevalence of this theme in mythology is a valid one. In these last lines, Ovid is trying to convey a sense that the at the heart of the Metamorphoses there is nothing political, but rather that everything centers on his own accomplishments.

As for the direct references to Augustus to which I have already alluded, I perceive their tone as playful. In the description of Hercules as “augusta gravitate verendus,”25 there is evidence of a reincarnated myth of long-standing comic significance. Gravitas thus is meant in a literal as well as figurative manner, a fact that is made clear three lines later with the occurrence of the words pondus and the reiteration of gravitas itself in reference to Alcmena’s pregnancy.

That the portrayal of Augustus in the guise of Hercules was a common theme at this time also points to a barely-veiled reference to the princeps with augusta, forms of which occur only three times in the entire epic. Yet there is nothing subversive in this passage, only playful humor.26

For Galinsky, Williams, et al. (and for my own part), the pro- versus anti-Augustan debate regarding the Metamorphoses asks the wrong question: it is too narrowly confining. Far

25 Met. 9.270, or “awesome with august weightiness,” as Galinsky (1975:257) translates it.

26 Galinsky (1975:257-258).

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from political activists, Ovid’s generation was one of “political inertia,” men who adopted a far different outlook than would have resonated with Vergil and Horace, who witnessed the ravages of civil war.27 Tacitus, a source much closer to this time than we are, wryly commented on the generation which Augustus inherited, so to speak:

. . . Caesar . . . militem donis, populum annona, cunctos dulcedine otii pellexit. . . . (Ann. 1.2)

. . . Caesar . . . enticed the soldiers with gifts, the people with grain, and everyone with the sweetness of leisure. . . .

Tacitus clearly views the people of this time and marked by leisure, although his use of pellexit is quite strong.28 I also think it is crucial to bear in mind that at the time of the publication of the

Metamorphoses, the Pax Augusta had been the status quo for over forty years; it was no longer a something shiny and new, nor had Ovid’s generation been the ones to fight to bring it about in the first place. However, one key bit of information that Galinsky does not touch upon in this discussion is Augustus’ censure of Ovid’s early works, a point that is particularly germane to political temperature-taking of the Metamorphoses. As Livy before him, Ovid would have taken the authority of the princeps seriously after this, which I believe to be attested by the more mythological and nationalistic subject matter of his ensuing works. Between the Ars and the

Metamorphoses, works such as the Heroides and the Fasti indicate a greater gravitas in the author, now keenly aware of the boundaries set by Augustus.

27 Three years earlier before Galinsky, Little (1972) raised the same issue, holding that as Ovid and his generation were marked by “political inertia” and concluding that the Metamorphoses was “non-Augustan” (400); Galinsky’s treatment, although more expansive and nuanced, covers much of the same ground.

28 I read this instance of pellexit as indicating an attempt to cement rapport rather than suggesting any plotting on the part of Augustus, as a more literal reading would suggest.

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Plautus and Ovid: Parallel Histories, Parallel Techniques

Lastly, I believe there is great similarity between the historical context of Ovid and that of Plautus, and that such a similarity was one of the creative factors directly influencing the kind of art that each of these men produced. In my view, one of the greatest correlations between

Ovid and Plautus and their respective works is the twofold reality that 1) each author achieved fame in his own lifetime, and 2) each lived in a time of so-called moral legislation, with a single figure of authority dominating the landscape during each author’s time.

E. Segal finds significance in the instant success of Plautus during his own lifetime and the political climate of the age—the age of Cato the Censor. Segal points to Aulus Gellius as evidence of the fame of each:

Ac deinde annis fere post quindecim bellum adversum Poenos sumptum est . . . M. Cato orator in civitate, et Plautus poeta in scaena floruerunt (NA 17.21.46)

And then, almost fifteen years after the beginning of the Punic War, the men of prominence were Marcus Cato the orator in the state, and Plautus the poet on stage.29

Segal proceeds to enumerate the “spartan” or “puritanical” characteristics of Rome during this time, finding particular significance that it was in 215 BC—at the very beginning of Plautus’ career—that the sumptuary Lex Oppia was enacted. Designed to check luxurious display of wealth among matronae, the Lex Oppia placed some very rigid (and evidently unpopular) limitations on female adornment:

Inter bellorum magnorum aut vixdum finitorum aut imminentium curas intercessit res parva dictu sed quae studiis in magnum certamen excesserit. M. Fundanius et L. Valerius tribuni plebi ad plebem tulerunt de Oppia lege abroganda. tulerat eam C. Oppius tribunus plebis Q. Fabio Ti. Sempronio consulibus in medio ardore Punici belli, ne qua mulier plus semunciam auri haberet neu vestimento versicolori uteretur neu iuncto vehiculo in

29 E. Segal (1968:10) (translation is his). Richlin (2014:205–206) shows similarities between that Plautus’ treatment of the servus type and the popular perception of Cato’s harsh treatment of his slaves; cf. Plutarch Cato 21. See too Barsby (2010:52), who envisions a mutually-informing experience between Cato and Plautus: that is, he suggests that comedy may have influenced the development of rhetoric and vice versa.

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urbe oppidove aut propius inde mille passus nisi sacrorum publicorum causa veheretur. (AUC 34.1)

In the midst of the cares of great wars either barely concluded or simply threatening, a matter arose trivial to tell but which turned out as unto a great contention with respect to partisan efforts. The tribunes of the people M. Fundanus and L. Valerius referred to the people concerning the matter of the abrogation of the Lex Oppia. Tribune of the people C. Oppius had passed it during the consulship of Q. Fabius and Ti. Sempronius, in the midst of the heat of the Punic War, that no woman should have more than half an ounce of gold, nor should wear multicolor clothing, nor be carried in a drawn carriage in a city or in a town or nearer than a mile from such a place except for the sake of public religious rites.

Not surprisingly, such a law seemed to be met with vocal opposition among Roman women, who upon hearing of the possibility of its repeal flocked to the streets in an attempt to make their position heard among the magistrates:

matronae nulla nec auctoritate nec verecundia nec imperio virorum contineri limine poterant, omnes vias urbis aditusque in forum obsidebant, viros descendentes ad forum orantes ut florente re publica, crescente in dies privata omnium fortuna matronis quoque pristinum ornatum reddi paterentur. augebatur haec frequentia mulierum in dies; nam etiam ex oppidis conciliabulisque conveniebant. iam et consules praetoresque et alios magistratus adire et rogare audebant…

Neither by authority nor modesty nor command of their husbands could the matrons be confined within the home; they blocked all the streets of the city and the entrances to the Forum, beseeching the men coming down to the Forum that, with the Republic flourishing and the private fortune of all growing day by day, their former adornment also should be free to be restored to the matrons. This thronging of women was increasing day by day, for they were gathering together even from the towns and market places. Already they were daring to approach and entreat the consuls both the consuls and the praetors as well as other magistrates.

If matronae flocked to the Forum in numbers anywhere close to what Livy suggests, this must have been an issue that impacted nearly everyone in the city in some way or another. Although

Cato’s speech in support of the Lex Oppia is no longer extant, Livy nevertheless immortalized its content in AUC 34.2–4. Highlights of Cato’s fiery evidently oration included appeals to a sense of virility, which he claimed was being assaulted by the outrageous demands of intractable

Roman matronae:

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. . . ceterum minime exorabilem alterum utique consulem M. Porcium Catonem habebant, qui pro lege quae abrogabatur ita disseruit: “Si in sua quisque nostrum matre familiae, Quirites, ius et maiestatem viri retinere instituisset, minus cum universis feminis negotii haberemus: nunc domi victa libertas nostra impotentia muliebri hic quoque in foro obteritur et calcatur, et quia singulas sustinere non potuimus universas horremus. equidem fabulam et fictam rem ducebam esse virorum omne genus in aliqua insula coniuratione muliebri ab stirpe sublatum esse; ab nullo genere non summum periculum est si coetus et concilia et secretas consultationes esse sinas. (AUC 34.2)

Moreover, they considered the other consul, M. Porcius Cato, as unable to be swayed; he thus argued on behalf of the law that was being abrogated: “If each one of us in the case of his own wife had resolved to hold fast to the right and the grandeur of the husband, Quirites, we would not be having trouble with the entirety of our women. Now our freedom, vanquished at home by female intractability, here and also in the forum is crushed and trampled, and because we have not been able to keep our women in check individually, we quake before them collectively. For my part, I used to consider it a story and an invention that a whole tribe of men on some island had been done away with at the root by a conspiracy of women; from no class [of women] is there not the greatest danger if you should allow meetings and assemblies and secret inquiries to take place.

The hot-button issue of sumptuary laws appears as a source of humor in the Aulularia in a conversation between Megadorus, a senex from Athens, and his sister, Eunomia. As Livy’s account of Cato’s speech above, the action centers on a curmudgeonly old man who insists on reining in women in general. In the excerpt below, Megadorus, although his sister wants him to get married, insists that marriage does not appeal to him—particularly marriage to the wealthy, middle-aged woman Eunomia has in mind:

Post mediam aetatem qui media ducit uxorem domum, si eam senex anum praegnatem fortuito fecerit, quid dubitas, quin sit paratum nomen puero Postumus? nunc ego istum, soror, laborem demam et deminuam tibi. ego virtute deum et maiorum nostrum dives sum satis. istas magnas factiones, animos, dotes dapsiles, clamores, imperia, eburata vehicla, pallas, purpuram, nil moror quae in servitutem sumptibus redigunt viros. (Aul. 162–169)

Now if an old man who marries a woman past middle age by chance shall happen to have gotten this old woman pregnant, why would you doubt that the name in store for the child is Postumus? I will relieve you of this task, sister, and lessen your burden. I’m rich enough, by the grace of the gods and our ancestors. I don’t waste my time with those

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women of lofty status, with their haughtiness, gigantic dowries, shouting, ordering, ivory carriages, clothing, and purple, who by their spending reduce their husbands to servitude.

The references to the splendid clothing and ostentatious carriages overlaps with exactly the kind of display that the Lex Oppia restricted. Later in the play, Megadorus reiterates his dim view of women’s extravagance:

Narravi amicis multis consilium meum de condicione hac. Euclionis filiam laudant. sapienter factum et consilio bono. nam meo quidem animo si idem faciant ceteri opulentiores, pauperiorum filias ut indotatas ducant uxores domum, et multo fiat civitas concordior, et invidia nos minore utamur quam utimur, et illae malam rem metuant quam metuont magis, et nos minore sumptu simus quam sumus. in maximam illuc populi partem est optimum in pauciores avidos altercatio est, quorum animis avidis atque insatietatibus neque lex neque sutor capere est qui possit modum. namque hoc qui dicat ‘quo illae nubent divites dotatae, si istud ius pauperibus ponitur?’ quo lubeant, nubant, dum dos ne fiat comes. hoc si ita fiat, mores meliores sibi parent, pro dote quos ferant, quam nunc ferunt, ego faxim muli, pretio qui superant equos, sint viliores Gallicis cantheriis. (475–495)

I’ve told many friends my plan regarding this arrangement. They praise Euclio’s daughter. They say it’s wisely done, and well thought out. For indeed I am of the opinion that if the rest of the fairly well-off men should do the same thing, such that they would marry the dowry-less daughters of poor men, the state would be much more harmonious, and we would incur less hatred than we do now, and the women would fear wretched circumstances more than they fear them now, and we would be with less expense than we are now. To that point the best thing for the majority of the people is a dispute against the relatively few poor men, for whose greedy and insatiable dispositions there is no limit, nor is there a shoemaker who might be able to take their measurements. For one who might say, “Where will those rich girls in possession of a dowry marry if this rule is set forth for the poor ones?” Let them marry where they please, provided their dowry not come as their companion. If it should happen thus, they would prepare a better character for themselves which they might bring instead of a dowry, which they now bring. I would see to it that their mules, which outstrip horses in cost, would be cheaper than Gallic geldings.

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Indeed, it is hardly a stretch to see in the character of Megadorus a caricature of the stern Cato, who repeatedly argued (at least according to Livy) that checks placed on matron’s display of wealth would lead to greater harmony in families and in the State. Euclio’s reply to the above lines is hilarious, particularly if we read it in light of the Lex Oppia and other sumptuary legislation:

EUCLIO. Ita me di amabunt ut ego hunc ausculto lubens. nimis lepide fecit verba ad parsimoniam. MEGADORUS. Nulla igitur dicat ‘equidem dotem ad te adtuli maiorem multo quam tibi erat pecunia; enim mihi quidem aequomst purpuram atque aurum dari, ancillas, mulos, muliones, pedisequos, salutigerulos pueros, vehicla qui vehar.’ EUCLIO. Vt matronarum hic facta pernovit probe. moribus praefectum mulierum hunc factum velim. (496-504)

EUCLIO. The gods will so love me that I willingly listen to him. Exceedingly charmingly has he spoken about thrift. MEGADORUS. Then no woman would say, “For my part I brought to you a dowry much bigger than the money you had. For indeed it’s fair for purple and gold to be given to me, and maidservants, mules, mule drivers, footmen, errand boys, carriages to carry me.” EUCLIO. He so thoroughly knows the doings of matrons. I would wish that he be put in of the morals—of the women.

Without naming any names, Plautus brings the extolling of thrift to the level of the absurd, making it one of the chief vehicles of humor in the play. Especially worth noting is Euclio’s last comment in the excerpt above, which I read as highlighting the double standards applied to the moral conduct of men versus women in the legislation promoted by Cato and others of like opinions. Even though I agree with Harvey, who cautions against using exempla from the text to delineate a date of composition precisely corresponding with the repeal of the Lex Oppia,30 nevertheless the inclusion of such elements in the play demonstrates the timeliness of the topic,

30 Harvey (1986:300). As early as 1935, John Hough was saying the same thing, arguing that since the Lex Oppia was passed in 215 until its repeal in 195, there was ongoing debate as to the nature of wealth in general and “feminine extravagance” in particular (50-51).

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which, combined with stereotyping, is exactly why it was funny to the original audience. Segal establishes a correlation between the traditionally-accepted year of Plautus’ death (184 BC) and the reactionary vehemence with which Cato and Valerius Flaccus assumed censorship during the same year. In fact, Segal believes that Plautus’ success was largely due to the political and social strictures of the time.31

I find striking similarity between the works of Plautus under the watch of Cato and those of Ovid during Augustus’ reign.32 Both authors feature puns and other wordplay, while neither avoids alluding to contemporary politics (e.g., Plautus and the Lex Oppia, and Ovid and

Augustus and his moral legislation). A parallel exists too in regard to dates of composition relative to war time: Ovid at the time of the drafting of the Metamorphoses stood at a distance of about forty years from the civil wars fought by the generation before him; for Plautus, the first

Punic War (264–241 BC) was also a matter of memory rather than a current event (although the second Punic War was on the horizon). Lastly, each author belonged to a generation following a pioneer figure who was the first of his kind: for Plautus, Livius Andronicus was predecessor,

31 E. Segal (1968:13–14): “To a society with a fantastic compulsion for hierarchies, order, and obedience, he presents a saturnalian chaos . . . . This very appeal to what Shakespeare call ‘holiday humor’ accounts in large measure for the unequaled success of Plautus.” See also Konstan (1986:44–46) for more on Megadorus’ speech as a protest against the repeal of the Lex Oppia and as the episode as a larger commentary on the potential for wealth to disrupt social harmony.

32 Hanses (2015) boldly states that Ovid “exploits Plautine humor” (14) while also displaying tragic elements. Hanses outlines both political and generic overlappings between Ovid and Plautus, and finds greatest similarities between the two authors in the Amphitryo and Alcmene’s tale of the birth of Hercules at Met. 9.281–325; see Hanses (2015:233–284). Additionally, Gibson (2007) sees Ovid’s attitude toward female clothing and adornment in Ars Amatoria 3 to be a rejection of the binary opulence-versus-austerity debate prompted by the Lex Oppia and other such sumptuary laws, and a demand for a happy medium between the two opposing positions (127–132). Although she is considering Livy—particularly his treatment of the debate surrounding the repeal of the Lex Oppia—rather than Ovid, Milnor (1998:52–92 esp.) recognizes that during the principate, any discussion of the Lex Oppia debate would have resonated with Augustus’ moral legislation, especially the Lex Iulia de adulteriis; by the same reasoning, I suggest that Ars Amatoria 3 and other similar Ovidian passages alluding ostensibly to the Lex Oppia would have been received as commentary on Augustan legislation as well. Papaioannou (2017:325–332) likewise sees a critique of Augustan moral legislation (and appropriation of Rome’s early history) in the Fasti, particularly in Ovid’s unlikely aetiology and etymology of the Carmentalia and treatment of the proposed repeal of the Lex Oppia. Thus, I read Plautus’ jocose treatment of the Lex Oppia debate as analogous to Ovid’s somewhat-veiled criticism of the Leges Iuliae.

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introducing with a single work both the first play at Rome and the first example of Roman literature; for Ovid, Vergil had written the great Roman epic mere years before the

Metamorphoses. Thus both Plautus and Ovid wrote during periods of time when the genre of their chosen works was already established and in which each introduced multigeneric, highly performative innovations.

Finally, I believe that Ovid found inspiration in Plautus even in the creation of a humorous synthesis of genres. Once again, let us turn to the Pyramus and Thisbe narrative, which not only features protagonists presented as stock characters, as I have shown in Chapter 2, but also lifts additional comic techniques straight from Plautus. Perhaps the most compelling evidence in support of this claim is the notable similarity between Pyramus and Thisbe’s address of the wall in Met. 4 and Phaedromus’ serenade to the door in the Curculio, which I have cited previously. The Ovidian lovers’ complaint against the wall is in several ways an inversion of the

Plautine example: whereas in the Curculio Phaedromus begins his address to the door’s bolts in flattering tones and only later loses patience, the opposite is true for Pyramus and Thisbe, who straightaway launch into a verbal attack on the wall but then, as if they realize they may have spoken too boldly, backpedal into friendlier speech. Both texts also contain elements from multiple genres within a single text. The example from the Curculio is one of the funniest scenes in the plays: Phaedromus performs a comic serenade that both interpolates and pokes fun at the genre of elegy:33

PHAEDROMUS. Quid si adeam ad fores atque occentem? PALINURUS. Si lubet, neque veto neque iubeo, quando ego te video immutatis moribus esse, ere, atque ingenio. PHAEDROMUS. Pessuli, heus pessuli, vos saluto lubens, vos amo, vos volo, vos peto atque obsecro, gerite amanti mihi morem, amoenissumi,

33 On a practical level, it also would have afforded more time for the character of Leaena to get off the stage and get ready for the next scene.

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fite causa mea ludii barbari, sussilite, obsecro, et mittite istanc foras, quae mihi misero amanti ebibit sanguinem. hoc vide ut dormiunt pessuli pessumi nec mea gratia commovent se ocius. re spicio, nihili meam vos gratiam facere. st tace, tace. PALINURUS. Taceo hercle equidem. PHAEDROMUS. Sentio sonitum. tandem edepol mihi morigeri pessuli fiunt. (145–157)

PHAEDROMUS. What is I shall go up to the doors and sing a serenade? PALINURUS. If you want to; I neither forbid nor command you to, when I see that you are of unchanged disposition and temper, master. PHAEDROMUS. Bolts, o bolts, I gladly greet you. I love you, I want you, I seek and beseech you: be favorable to me, a lover, o most charming ones. Become foreign players for my sake; leap up, I beseech you, and send out the girl who drains the blood from me, a pitiable lover. Look how you sleep, most wicked bolts, and do not rouse yourselves more quickly for my sake. I see that you prize my favor at nothing. Shh, quiet, quiet. PALINURUS. I for my part indeed am quiet. PHAEDROMUS. I perceive a sound. Finally, by Pollux, the bolts are becoming favorable to me.

The melodramatic tone and the mock-serious double anaphora (pessuli, vos) in the first two lines immediately indicate Plautus’ attempt to “out-elegy” elegy. Phaedromus’ serenade to the bolts of the closed door is a clear parody of the paraklausithyron (or lament of a scorned lover outside the door of his beloved) of elegy, which although not yet entrenched in Latin literature nevertheless certainly did exist in Greek elegy, including works by Callimachus. The allusion to ludii barbari is also particularly droll, as the lines of this very serenade were most likely delivered by a foreign actor. Plautus thus by his sly, metatheatrical allusion to the actors on the stage touches upon, if not outright breaks, the fourth wall in this comically self-referential moment.

Ovid not only nods to the inventive pseudo-elegy within the Curculio, but also plays with its already-playful tone and structure:

“invide” dicebant “paries, quid amantibus obstas? quantum erat, ut sineres toto nos corpore iungi aut, hoc si nimium est, vel ad oscula danda pateres? nec sumus ingrati: tibi nos debere fatemur,

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quod datus est verbis ad amicas transitus auris.” (Met. 4.73–77)

“O cruel wall, why do you stand in the ways of lovers? How great a thing would it would be for you to allow us to be joined in body entirely or, if that’s too much, to open for us to give kisses? We’re not ungrateful: we admit that we owe you, because a passage for words has been given to friendly ears.”

The entertaining use of the vocative invide paries is reminiscent of Plautus’ pessuli pessumi, both of which function as melodramatic verbal attacks against the source of the lovers’ separation. Also, Ovid’s lovers are also not exclusi amatores like Phaedromus, who is hindered not only by a door but also by the madam in charge of the house, but rather inclusi amatores— lovers who are separated from each other because they are shut inside their respective houses, a clever comic enhancement of an already-comic literary predecessor.34

As evident from the passages I have used as exempla, Ovid in the Metamorphoses explored a liminal space, shining the spotlight on the comic genre, or lead voice, within his polyphonic, multigeneric epic. Like Livy, Ovid had to assume that Augustus would complete a censorial reading of his poetry, and so (especially after his initial Augustan admonition) he was careful to create a virtual “safe space” or set of protective filters for his work. At the same time, he also, like Plautus, succeeded in referencing current events and famous figures, while still safely distancing himself through internal narrators and the like.

For Ovid, one of the few patronless poets of the era, there was unfettered license to pursue the kind of writing he himself wanted. And yet this freedom was a double-edged sword: it

34 For more on the comic repurposing of the paraklausithyron in the Curculio, see Fraenkel (2007:74–75). See also Moore (1998), especially his outlining of the novel Romanness of the play (127–137) and the characters’ high level of interaction with the audience (137–139). Of particular relevance is Frangoulidis (2013), who refers to comedy as the “host genre” (267) of the Curculio, in which Plautus inserts a type of comically-altered paraklausithyron, which serves to thwart audience expectation by defying convention. Frangoulidis posits that the Curculio paraklausithyron has traditional elements but with all the principal features (e.g., the theme is reciprocal rather than requited love, Phaedromus tries to persuade Leaena to send Planesium out to him rather than get access inside for himself, the door is personified and anthropomorphized, wine-smearing is takes the place of door-knocking, etc.) altered to develop the comic characters on the stage and to move the plot forward (269–279).

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both facilitated his generic experiments (since he did not need to produce specific, commissioned works for a patron) and meant that any misstep was his alone to face, without a patron to hide behind. Ovid circumvented this danger by using a complex generic code as a partial mask to both hint at and conceal his deepest intentions.

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CHAPTER 5 NACHLEBEN: THE METAMORPHOSES, METAMORPHOSED

Having stated in the previous chapter that Ovid borrowed a number of conceptual ideas from Vergil and in fact made the next logical creative step as far as using a seemingly serious genre in order to embed in it more critical thoughts, in this chapter I will explore Ovid’s literary legacy in the form of later authors who also experimented with polyphonic genre featuring a prominent comic voice. My progression will be a chronological one: that is, I will investigate two of Ovid’s literary descendants from two very different periods, concentrating primarily on

Petronius in Rome during the reign of Nero, but also looking a bit at Shakespeare in the

Elizabethan era. I will establish similarities in methodology, political-historical context, tone, content, and other similar features. I will also share some possibilities for further research and interdisciplinary dialogue.

Generic Evolution and Ovid’s Roman Heirs

Starting with the most basic units, elements of language are constantly falling in and out of usage, as Horace asserts in the Ars Poetica.1 Claiming for the poet the right to coin new words

(in moderation), Horace adds that words’ popularity rises and falls according to the ius et norma loquendi:

Multa renascentur quae iam cecidere, cadentque quae nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus, quem penes arbitrium est et ius et norma loquendi. (70–72)

1 Horace’s longest poem (476 lines), the Ars Poetica is a didactic work written in dactylic hexameter as an epistle to the young sons of the pontifex L. Calpurnius Piso. Including advice on what to do and what to avoid in writing poetry, the Ars Poetica treats such topics as unity as coherence (including lines 1–23), the choosing of a subject suitable both to the metrical constraints and the experience and skill of the poet (lines 23–98), the appropriate development of characters (lines 99–118), and more. Its influence upon the field of literary criticism has been huge, most likely exceeding Horace’s expectations for it; see Laird 2007:132. For an overview of the nature and impact of the Ars Poetica, the commentaries of Brink (1982) and Rudd (1989) are pivotal; see too Kilpatrick (1990), Frischer (1991), Freudenburg (1992), Golden (2010), and Reinhardt (2012) for more on the context and reception of the Ars Poetica.

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Many words will be reborn which have fallen out of use, and many will fall which now are in esteem, if such will be the wish of usage, upon which decision and permission and the standard of speaking rely.

Horace here underscores the role of popular usage in the transmission and evolution of language and literature: a word will die only if there is no practical need or a desire for it; perhaps it is more accurate to say that words, which come and go as tastes change, never really die but only lie dormant, waiting for a latter generation to breathe new life into them at some future time.

What Horace says of words also holds true for literary genres, the rise and fall of which depend on changing social mores, perhaps most mutable during times of political upheaval. Already I have shown that such a cycle occurred in Roman comedy: we have seen both the end of the comic stage at the death of Turpilius, and its reincarnation as the primary genre, or solo voice, in the Metamorphoses. We have seen too that after having spent its usefulness, comedy— particularly its performative aspects—crept into the highly contrasting genres of oratory and lesser theatre (mime and pantomime). Similarly, after Ovid came other authors who found inspiration in his generic innovation. Among the authors of the earliest group showing similarity in this regard is Petronius, who was of a social rank as well as temperament similar to that of

Ovid. C. Petronius Arbiter created for himself a persona of studied carelessness, audacious speech, and general dissipation, as Tacitus describes in Annales 16:

De C. Petronio pauca supra repetenda sunt. nam illi dies per somnum, nox officiis et oblectamentis vitae transigebatur; utque alios industria, ita hunc ignavia ad famam protulerat, habebaturque non ganeo et profligator, ut plerique sua haurientium, sed erudito luxu. ac dicta factaque eius quanto solutiora et quandam sui neglegentiam praeferentia, tanto gratius in speciem simplicitatis accipiebantur. proconsul tamen Bithyniae et mox consul vigentem se ac parem negotiis ostendit. dein revolutus ad vitia seu vitiorum imitatione inter paucos familiarium Neroni adsumptus est, elegantiae arbiter, dum nihil amoenum et molle adfluentia putat, nisi quod ei Petronius adprobavisset . . . . (Ann. 16.18)

As for Petronius, a few things have to be further revisited. For his day was spent in sleep, his night in duties and pleasures; and as industry did other men, so had his indolence

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brought him to fame, and he was considered not as a degenerate and a profligate, as very many exhausting their resources, but as with studied excess. And the more unrestrained his words and deeds, and exhibiting a certain carelessness of self, the more freely they were received as unto an appearance of frankness. Yet as proconsul of Bithynia and soon afterwards consul, he showed himself to be energetic and fair in his affairs. Then, having turned back to vices, or at least out of an imitation of vices, he was received among the few of Nero’s household, as arbiter of taste, while [Nero] thought nothing to be charming and pleasant unless Petronius had approved of it to him . . . .

There are multiple phrases in this passage that indicate a certain artifice in Petronius’ life.

Indeed, Tacitus claims that it was precisely this artifice that catapulted Petronius ad famam: the behaviors that Tacitus says were typical of Petronius in fact are also typical of the two things that

Tacitus says Petronius was not considered to be (i.e., ganeo et profligator); in contrast, Tacitus describes the common perception of Petronius not by using an appositional noun at all, but rather by the descriptive ablative phrase erudito luxu, implying that any debauchery or profligacy that he displayed was something he had to work at or put on, not something innate. Moreover,

Petronius paradoxically seemed more his natural self the harder he tried to become something other: the phrase in speciem simplicitatis is particularly important, as it spells out the divergence between who Petronius was and who he seemed to be. In Petronius’ life as in Ovid’s epic, there is a discrepancy between appearance and reality, and often where there seems to be the least amount of effort there is in fact careful labor required of the author.2 And just as the

Metamorphoses distorts reality for the sake of giving a good performance—as Mars’ snake (in the Cadmus episode), which is big enough that when it raises itself up to half its full height, it

2 The example of the Mercury and Argus episode in Book 1 comes to mind, for the plot line demanded that Ovid purposely write poorly so as to convey a story so boring that the listener would fall asleep, as I have detailed in Chapter 2.

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can see the entire grove3—Petronius evidently lived out his life as if he were perpetually in character, perhaps cautiously keeping a mask over his true self.

Tacitus mentions Petronius’ nickname of arbiter elegantiae, or alternately arbiter elegantiarum, which apparently was first an allusion to his influence in society and subsequently evolved into his cognomen, Arbiter. And indeed the epithet seemed apt: Tacitus’ account suggests that, like an overly-attached lover, Nero possessively watched Petronius’ every move, making everything he did into the next great trend. Yet in the Satyricon, Petronius not only wryly attacked the nouveau riche freedmen class of his time but also possibly had some veiled words of criticism (or at least mockery) to levy against Nero, an easy target for laughter. Suetonius tells of

Nero’s interest in music, despite his lack of native talent:

. . . quamquam exiguae vocis et fuscae, prodire in scaenam concupiit, subinde inter familiares Graecum proverbium iactans occultae musicae nullum esse respectum. (Nero, 20)

. . . although he was of a slight and indistinct voice, he desired to appear on the stage, from time to time among his close friends tossing about the Greek proverb that there is no regard for hidden music.

The urge to perform is one that Trimalchio too possesses, often speaking in proverbs and certainly presenting himself in a theatrical manner. Just as Trimalchio in his household (as we shall see later in this section), Nero too gave instructions that his efforts be applauded:

Captus autem modulatis Alexandrinorum laudationibus, qui de novo commeatu Neapolim confluxerant, plures Alexandria evocavit. Neque eo segnius adulescentulos equestris ordinis et quinque amplius milia e plebe robustissimae iuventutis undique elegit, qui divisi in factiones plausuum genera condiscerent—bombos et imbrices et testas vocabant—operamque navarent cantanti sibi, insignes pinguissima coma et

3 ac media plus parte leves erectus in auras/despicit omne nemus… (Met. 3.43–44). This exaggeration heightens both the expectation that the snake will kill Cadmus and the drama of the role reversal when Cadmus turns the tables and finally kills the snake, as Parry (1964:274) indicates. This role reversal is yet another instance of traits shared with comedy. Anderson (1996:343–344) adds that this scene is highly audience-dependent and interactive: it contains a generalizing second-person invitation to the spectacle (si totum spectes, Met. 3.45), which I have shown in Chapter to 2 be another feature of performative literature.

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excellentissimo cultu, puris ac sine anulo laevis, quorum duces quadringena milia sestertia merebant. (Suetonius, Nero 20)

Enchanted moreover by the rhythmic praises of the Alexandrians, who had converged at Naples from a newly-arrived convoy, he summoned more men from Alexandria. Eagerly he chose young men of the equestrian order and more than five thousand men of hardy youth among the people from all over, who, divided into groups, should learn together the types of applause—they called them “buzzing” and “gutter tiles” and “bricks” —and should perform this task diligently for him while he was singing. They were noteworthy for their very thick hair and very fine apparel, their left arms bare and without rings; their leaders earned four thousand sesterces each.

Scholars have put forth many other examples of similarities between Trimalchio and Nero, some funny, some less so.4 In any case, the comparison is hardly a flattering one. Moreover, it is not merely the dressing of a mocking message in carefree garb that points to Petronius’ Ovidian heritage. Just as the Metamorphoses transcended previously-established boundaries of epic, so too did the Satyricon in terms of its generic scope. Like the Metamorphoses, the Satyricon is many things, which is indeed what satire is; in fact, the word satire itself is thought to come from satura lanx, or platter of assorted types of food, like a smörgåsbord or buffet.5 Ovid took the

4 Slater (1994:550) believes that Petronius’ readers would have seen a parallel between a performance of the myth of Icarus at which Nero was present and a similar episode in the Cena. In the historical performance, attested by Suetonius (Nero 12.2), the lead actor accidentally fell near Nero’s couch, flecking him with blood. Slater compares this with the incident in which a young acrobat falls on Trimalchio, thus injuring his arm (Sat. 54.1).

5 Coffey (1989:12–17), Cloud and Braund (1982:78), Gowers (1993:110), Freudenburg (2005:14), Hooley (2007:13–14). Ferriss-Hill (2015:102–103) proposes that the genre and its connection with the satura lanx found inspiration from the hodgepodge nature of Old Comedy. As for the Satyricon, the question of whether it is truly satire has been debated for decades, which itself points to the fundamental question of how to define satire in the first place. For Sandy (1969), the argument is already an old one: contra Highet (1941), who finds satire impossible without some kind of moralizing conclusion, he argues that Petronius is a satirist without being a moralist, asserting that Petronius aims to point out a societal lack of manners and culture—or “artificiality and self-delusion” (295)— rather than any moral deficiency. Zeitlin (1971) finds so much confusion as to the genre of the Sat. that he concludes that Petronius must have been trying actively to “[defeat] the expectations of an audience accustomed to an organising literary form” (635). In his study on the implications of Petronius’ choice of Encolpius as narrator, Conte (1996:168) finds that Petronius both creates and dashes expectations of Menippean satire in the Satyricon. Rimmell (2005:162–166) reiterates that how and even whether the Satyricon is truly satiric has been a long-debated point, with scholars falling more or less into two camps: one labeling it as satire, the other as a novel (interestingly, she views the “novel” label as conveying elements of comedy); she favors labeling it a Menippean satire—“a flexible, artificial category,” thus permitting us “to evade pinning the Satyricon down to a single genre, yet at the same time to be consoled by a label” (166). I believe that the ongoing question of the generic status of the Satyricon points to a plurality of voices in the text: that is, it is a polyphonic genre, and thus on a similar generic footing as the Metamorphoses.

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ancient, weighty genre of epic and turned it into a virtual performance; Petronius revived satire, which found its entirely Roman roots in Ennius and especially in Lucilius; as Quintilian says of the genre to contrast it with the rest, “Satura quidem tota nostra est.”6 However, unlike Lucilius’

Concilium Deorum, Petronius’ work does not mention an explicit target; the readers are left to deduce for themselves whether this is a target at all, and if so, who it is. In the respect, the

Satyricon is more like Plautine comedy, which as we have seen relies on stock characters rather than lampoons individuals called out by name.

Furthermore, in my discussion in Chapter 1 of Farrell’s notion of generic polyphony, I mentioned a tapestry of voices or languages each interacting with the other in a particular work.

Farrell reads not only the Metamorphoses but also Horace’s Epistulae in this light, and even describes the entire genre of satire as a polyphonic genre7; I too advocate a reading of satire according to this paradigm. Satire then is both like and unlike the Metamorphoses: like because of the multiplicity of genres in one text and unlike because satire really cannot be read in terms of a primary genre mottled with various lesser genres, but rather as a piece in which each voice has equal “melodic” importance, so to speak. Consequently, I include the Satyricon among the works of polyphonic genre, though without a solo or lead voice (unlike the Metamorphoses).

Ovid’s Plautine influences are perceptible in Petronius elsewhere too: emphasis on creation of comic, over-the-top characters rather than a complicated, carefully blueprinted plot is evident throughout the Satyricon. The eponymous protagonist of the largest extant episode within the Satyricon—the Cena Trimalchionis—is the most compelling example of this: he is a libertinus who somehow has come into a huge fortune, and is equal parts lavish and gauche. In

6 Horace Ep. 10.1.93.

7 Farrell (1992:238).

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many ways, Trimalchio is a Jupiter figure, with clear similarities between him and Ovid’s

Jupiter. Both speak in unpredictable, capricious, and sometimes bombastic language, which is tied integrally to the creation of their exaggerated personae. For instance, Trimalchio rewards and punishes his slaves according to his whims rather than as a reflection of their behavior or performance:

Haec dum refert, puer calicem proiecit. Ad quem respiciens Trimalchio: “Cito, inquit, te ipsum caede, quia nugax es.” Statim puer demisso labro orare. At ille: “Quid me, inquit, rogas? Tanquam ego tibi molestus sim. Suadeo, a te impetres, ne sis nugax.” Tandem ergo exoratus a nobis missionem dedit puero. Ille dimissus circa mensam percucurrit. Et “Aquam foras, vinum intro” clamavit Trimalchio. (52)

While he was relating these things, a slave dropped a cup. Looking at him, Trimalchio said, “Quickly, go kill yourself, since you’re a fool.” Immediately the boy, with lowered lip, began to entreat him. But Trimalchio said, “What are you asking me? As if I were an annoyance to you. I’m suggesting that you obtain from yourself that you not be foolish.” Thus finally entreated by us he released him. Dismissed, the slave ran around the table, and shouted, “Out with the water, in with the wine!”

Trimalchio’s initial response is clearly out of bounds. Whether he is in earnest or is merely acting out a farce with the slave in order to shock and entertain his guests, he is outrageous regardless, as his words indicate. Again, Trimalchio is also a Nero figure; both act inappropriately given their stations, and indulge their taste for the unsuitably theatrical in life and in death: each in fact expresses melodramatic sentiments about humanity’s loss at his death.8

These similarities taken collectively suggest that, as Ovid with Augustus, Petronius could not resist creating a literary caricature of the most powerful man at Rome at the time, thereby establishing further correlation between the two authors.

Another feature for which Petronius is known is his use of colloquial register: that is, phraseology characteristic of a lower social class; this feature too is useful in constructing a

8 Nero reportedly exclaimed that upon his demise the world was to suffer the loss of a great artist (Suetonius, Nero 49), while Trimalchio has a mock funeral for himself, composing his own epitaph and even weeping (Cena 71–72).

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comically exaggerated persona. To this end, there are countless hapax legomena in Petronius, many of which are apparent latinizations of Greek words but may not be totally understood or agreed upon by modern readers (apocolamus, baciballum, etc.).9 There is also the use of dubious grammar, as for instance when Niceros relates how he fell in love with Melissa, the wife of an innkeeper named Terentius:

Si quid ab illa petii, nunquam mihi negatum; fecit assem, semissem habui; in illius sinum demandavi, nec unquam fefellitus sum. (my emphasis) (61)

If I asked anything of her, it was never denied to me; she made a penny, and I had half of it; I put [money] into her purse for safekeeping, and I was not ever deceived.

This is the only attested instance of a last principal part fefellitus.10 Clearly it is derivative of the third principal part, fefelli, but Petronius of course would have known that fefellitus sum was non-standard. Not only does he share neologistic tendencies with Ovid11, Petronius also invents new parts of speech— “creative” ones that easily could represent the mistake of a non-native speaker. Thus, where there is a need (whether of nuanced meaning or of tone) both authors engage in linguistic invention, hearkening back to Plautus, whose comedy revolves around situations and words and is safely removed from the realm of politics. Whether from Nero,

Augustus, or Cato, all authors could thus distance themselves from any censorial figures.

Petronius’ immortalizing of common speech has a twofold purpose: 1) artistically, it adds to the color and texture of the satirical fabric; and 2) it allows Petronius to speak through a filter

9 Via Lewis and Short. Smith (1975) is of the opinion that baciballum—presumably a term of endearment—has a “comic ring” to it (170); he also demonstrates that apocolamus is almost certainly a Greek-Latin hybrid word, which would be natural enough given the fact that it is spoken by a freedman (172).

10 Ibid.

11 Ovidian hapax legomena include innabilis, which he uses to describe the water (such as it was) before the creation of the world (1.16); indevitato, describing Apollo’s arrow (2.605); and delamentatur, depicting Daedalion’s mourning over the death of his daughter, Chione (11.331). For various instances of Ovidian hapax legomena, see Anderson (1998:154, 306); Papaioannou (2005:164); Myers (2009:58, 63, 76, 84, 107, 121).

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or in a persona much different from himself even down to social circumstances, for it is from the vantage point of the freedman Encolpius that the action plays out. This latter function of

Petronius’ colloquialization is analogous to Ovid’s use of internal narrators, who says what (and how) he cannot or will not in his own person. Horsfall sums it up as follows:

Petronius recounts the Cena not in propria persona but through the mouth of Encolpius, a participant-observer, who gazes and guzzles, swills and sneers, mocks, marvels, and munches. The satiric novelist, that is, filters his account through a narrator who is both appalled and amazed; the narrator’s perception is often clearly not Petronius’. 12

Encolpius thus is a kind of safety net, functioning in much the same way as Ovid’s internal narrators as well as Ovid’s use of comic earmarks. And if we read Encolpius as a safety net, it is no great stretch to read Petronius as a virtual descendant of Ovid in that he used some of the same techniques with the goal (at least in part) of creating performative literature that ensconced itself in a safe space, away from the unsteady yet potentially pernicious gaze of Nero.

Aside from colloquialisms in the characters’ speech, puns too run rampant in Petronius, as in Plautus and Ovid; in fact, the punch line of the entire jocose episode below hinges on a terrible pun:

“Suadeo,” inquit Trimalchio, “cenemus; hoc est ius cenae.” Haec ut dixit, ad symphoniam quattuor tripudiantes procurrerunt superioremque partem repositorii abstulerunt. Quo facto, videmus infra altitia et sumina leporemque in medio pinnis subornatum, ut Pegasus videretur. Notavimus etiam circa angulos repositorii Marsyas quattuor, ex quorum utriculis garum piperatum currebat super pisces, qui tamquam in euripo natabant. Damus omnes plausum a familia inceptum et res electissimas ridentes aggredimur. Non minus et Trimalchio eiusmodi methodio laetus: “Carpe!” inquit. Processit statim scissor et ad symphoniam gesticulatus ita laceravit obsonium, ut putares essedarium hydraule cantante pugnare. Ingerebat nihilo minus Trimalchio lentissima voce: “Carpe! Carpe!” Ego suspicatus ad aliquam urbanitatem totiens iteratam vocem pertinere, non erubui eum qui supra me accumbebat, hoc ipsum interrogare. At ille, qui saepius eiusmodi ludos spectaverat: “Vides illum, inquit, qui obsonium carpit: Carpus vocatur. Ita quotiescumque dicit ‘Carpe,’ eodem verbo et vocat et imperat.” (36)

12 Horsfall (1989:74–75). See also Conte (1996).

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“I suggest,” said Trimalchio, “that we eat; this is the law of the dinner.” When he said these things, four ritual dancers rushed out to the music and removed the top part of the dish. This having been done, we noticed beneath fattened fowl and sow’s udders and a rabbit done up in the middle with wings so as to look like Pegasus. We also noticed about the corners of the dish four Marsyas figures, out of the bagpipes of which peppery fish sauce was flowing over fish which were swimming as it were in a channel. We all gave applause, which had been begin by the household, and, laughing, attacked this most exquisite fare. And Trimalchio was no less happy at this device: “Slice!” he said. Immediately a carver came forth and, having gestured to the music, mangled the food in such a way that you would think that a charioteer were fighting with a someone playing a water organ. Trimalchio carried on nonetheless in a very gentle voice: “Slice! Slice!” Suspicious that this word repeated so frequently pertained to some jest, I was not ashamed to ask this very thing of the man who was reclining in the place above me. But he, who had watched spectacles of this same kind rather often, said, “You see that man who is slicing the meat? His name is Slice. However often he says “Slice,” with the same word he both calls and commands.”

Before he even sets up the joke at the heart of the scene, Petronius inserts a pun in Trimalchio’s invitation to proceed to the meal, for not only does ius cenae refer to what he considers to be the standard protocol for initiation the feast, but it also can be understood in reference to the soup course. The use of tripudiantes to describe the dancing ministers at table conveys a religious, ritualistic setting, or rather a parody of such a setting. This is reminiscent of 1.2 in the Curculio, when the alcoholic Leaena pours a sad excuse for a libation in Venus’ honor:

Venus, de paulo paululum hoc tibi dabo haud lubenter. nam tibi amantes propitiantes vinum potantes danunt omnes, mihi haud saepe evenunt tales hereditates. (125–127)

Venus, scarcely willingly will I give a very little bit of this little bit to you. For lovers, suppliants, and drinkers of wine all give to you, but such rights of inheritance do not often happen befall me.

In both passages, the action (dancing and pouring libations, respectively) are those that religion demands in certain contexts; the problem (or rather the humor) is that in both the Curculio and the Cena, the context is hardly the appropriate one prescribed: religious dance is not meant to occur at private dinner parties nor is a stingy libation from a besotted old woman the standard for wine offerings. It is the mix of expected and unexpected that yields the outrageous behavior

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central to comedy, for Roman expectation is for authority figures and the aged to possess a certain gravitas, which of course both Trimalchio and Leana sorely lack. This discrepancy between expectation and reality that is integral to comedy is also found in Ovid in numerous instances, including assigning to Jupiter at the council of the gods in Book 1 characteristics of both an angry and an inept senex, as I have discussed in Chapter 2.13 Thus we see in Ovid and subsequently in Petronius a revival of the traits of comedy, which we have seen already originated as a non-confrontational genre free from the ad hominem attacks characteristic of

Aristophanes, coming into being at times of political turmoil centering around a single individual—a move fostering both artistic experimentation and self-preservation.

Nor are these the only hallmarks that the Satyricon shares with Roman stage performance: in the late fourth and early fifth centuries, the Christian apologist Marius Mercator criticized Petronius’ work specifically for its similarity to mimes in their common use of ribald themes and depiction of generally obscene behavior:14

Eleganter, scurra, loqueris more tuo et more quo theatrum Arbitri Valeriique detristi. Constat in illis prosatoribus generis humani fuisse libidinem insitam eorum naturae, quam quidem divinae scripturae, non ut tu vis, libidinem solent, sed carnis concupiscentiam nominare…15

You speak elegantly, you clown, according to your custom and the custom by which you have rendered hackneyed the theatre of Arbiter and Valerius. It is generally agreed that in those prose authors a lust of a human sort has been grafted into their nature, which indeed the Holy Scriptures are accustomed to term lust, not such as you wish, but as concupiscence of the flesh . . . .

13 A divine council was also the setting of Lucilius’ massive Concilium Deorum, a parody of the council of the gods as typical of the epics of Homer and Ennius. The target was Lentulus Lupus, whom the Scipios disliked; see Freudenburg (2001:151–154), and Manuwald (2001:193 esp.) and (2009:46–61). Thus, the Cena shares characteristics with not only the Metamorphoses and the Plautine corpus, but also with early satire, which is not surprising.

14 Liber Subnotationum in Verba Juliani 4.1, as noted by Panayotakis (1994:319).

15 As in Panayotakis (1995:xxi).

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The word theatrum I interpret as a direct and compelling indication that Marius read Petronius as performative. It is worth pointing out too that the derogatory term by which Marius addresses

Julian—scurra—can, according to Lewis and Short, refer to “the clown in a pantomime.”16 Also, the word prosator may be understood as an ancestor (compounding pro and sero), implying that

Petronius is Julian’s literary forebear. Finally, the connection between eleganter and Petronius’ cognomen is real and obvious. Collectively these assertions and nuances are pertinent to my discussion in that they demonstrate Marius’ recognition of the theatricality in a very real sense of

Petronius just a few centuries after the Satyricon was written.

As I have mentioned, there have been a number of scholarly observations as to similarities between various episodes in Petronius and in Ovid, but I would suggest applying this viewpoint to the Satyricon as a whole: like Marius, I too read Petronius as one large dramatic performance—a hyperbolic performance, like the very antics that Trimalchio himself thinks up and acts out, and like the exaggerated, unexpected language of the text. Like Ovid, Petronius lived in an age in which the most powerful man in Rome also appropriated adjudicative power over art, including literature. While Augustus was interested in promoting epic poetry and historiographical prose, Nero wanted to take center stage literally and figuratively, and whether

Petronius wanted it this way, he was under Nero’s constant gaze—a dangerous place to be, especially during Nero’s later years. And so, like Ovid, he had to be circumspect in his words and even in the manner of his delivery. Thus, he adopted a foreign persona for his filter, a persona so over the top as to be unbelievable—which is exactly what Petronius needed to ensure his own safety.17

16 The corresponding passage cited with this meaning is Juvenal 13.111.

17 See Goddard’s (2015) PhD thesis, which argues that early satirical works, especially Phaedrus’ Fabulae, Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis, and Persius’ Satires, interact with Ovid as a sort of how-to for writers active during times of

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Shakespeare and Beyond

In keeping with his boast at the close of the Metamorphoses, Ovid’s influence far outlasted Rome. Throughout the ages, great art has been often imitated (whether to good or bad effect). No less celebrated an author than Shakespeare draws uncontestedly from Ovid throughout his own works: in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he re-works the tale-within-a-tale trope of Pyramus and Thisbe (found in no ancient sources prior to the Metamorphoses18), taking the comic elements of Ovid’s narrative and reducing them to the truly absurd. This speech from

Met. 4 presents a storyline familiar to both Ovid and Shakespeare fans alike:

saepe, ubi constiterant hinc Thisbe, Pyramus illinc, inque vices fuerat captatus anhelitus oris, “invide” dicebant “paries, quid amantibus obstas? quantum erat, ut sineres toto nos corpore iungi aut, hoc si nimium est, vel ad oscula danda pateres? nec sumus ingrati: tibi nos debere fatemur, quod datus est verbis ad amicas transitus auris.” talia diversa nequiquam sede locuti sub noctem dixere “vale” partique dedere oscula quisque suae non pervenientia contra. (Met. 4.71–80)

Often, when they had sat down, Thisbe on one side and Pyramus on the other, and the breathing of their mouths had been caught each in turn, they would say, “O cruel wall, why do you stand in the way of lovers? How much would it be for you to let us join together with our entire bodies, or if that is asking too much, at least to open so that we could kiss? We are not ungrateful: we admit that we owe you, because [by you] there has been given a passageway for our words toward friendly ears.” Having said such things to no avail, from their separate positions they said farewell at nightfall, and gave kisses, not reaching all the way across, each to their own side.

There are few noteworthy features in this passage. In the line introducing Pyramus and Thisbe’s joint monologue, Ovid cannot help but interject a bit of himself into Arsippe’s pathetic lamentation, adding a beautifully symmetrical chiasmus (“hinc Thisbe, Pyramus illinc”) as text

“restrictive, imperial circumstances” (iv). I believe much of her argument applies well to Ovid’s influence on Petronius, who worked under similarly challenging circumstances.

18 Keith (2001:309).

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painting to illustrate the separation of the lovers. With this device, he lifts our expectations aloft and implies that he is about to deliver a finely-wrought speech. In reality, Pyramus and Thisbe’s querulous interjections are a laughable vacillation between ire and timidity. Recognizing this as pure comic gold, Shakespeare centuries later in a memorable reductio ad absurdum, puts these lines through his own filter, writing in large characters what Ovid interpolated as sly subtext.

Hearkening back to the proem, which promised forms changed into new bodies (“In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas/corpora,” 1.1–2) Ovid’s melodramatic apostrophe to the cruel wall—the one physical barrier that separates the lovers—itself changes form in Shakespeare’s rendition: indeed, words like “transform” and “translate” occur throughout A Midsummer Night’s

Dream.19 In Act 5, Scene 1, Shakespeare amps up Ovid’s personification of the wall, having it take on independent identity as the character of Wall. In Act 5 Scene 1, Quince, the deliverer of the Prologue, primes the audience for a rather dim view of the Wall:

Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show; But wonder on, till truth make all things plain. This man is Pyramus, if you would know; This beauteous lady Thisby is certain. This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder; And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are content To whisper.

The extremely brief introductions of Pyramus and Thisbe mirror the hasty character setup in Met.

4, which I discussed in Chapter 2. Also, as in the Metamorphoses, here more time and energy is devoted to describing the less important characters and details than the protagonists: Pyramus and Thisbe each get a single line by way of introduction, while the wall gets more than three.

Just as with Arsippe in Ovid’s original, the narrator of this play-within-a-play tells the story

19 Indeed, Rudd (2000) reads the proliferation of these “transformative” words (1.1.233, 3.1.113, 4.1.63, 4.2.4, 5.1.24) as “Shakespeare’s Metamorphoses” (115).

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ineptly. “That vile Wall” too is in keeping with “invide . . . paries,” as in the original. The comic image of the lovers trying (and failing) to kiss through a chink in the wall is not only preserved but even heightened in Shakespeare’s take, which starts off with a complaint to the wall (as in

Ovid):

THISBE. O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans, For parting my fair Pyramus and me! My cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones, Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. PYRAMUS. I see a voice: now will I to the chink, To spy an I can hear my Thisby's face. Thisby! THISBE. My love thou art, my love I think. PYRAMUS. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace; And, like Limander, am I trusty still. THISBE. And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill. PYRAMUS. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true. THISBE. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you. PYRAMUS. O kiss me through the hole of this vile wall! THISBE. I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all. PYRAMUS. Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straightway? THISBE. 'Tide life, 'tide death, I come without delay. Exeunt Pyramus and Thisbe WALL. Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. Exit (5.1.185–202) (my emphasis)

The failed kiss attempt presented in these lines comes directly from Ovid:

. . . partique dedere oscula quisque suae non pervenientia contra. (Met. 4.79–80) (my emphasis)

. . . and they gave kisses to their respective side—kisses not reaching all the way across.

The players, who take their acting very seriously—as does Arsippe her role as storyteller in the

Metamorphoses—fail to elicit sympathy from the audience (reminding us that, as in Ovid,

Shakespeare situates this as a tale within a tale). Instead an unimpressed Hippolyta, queen of the

Amazons, says, “This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.”20 Although the other two Minyeides

20 5.1.205.

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do not react with such scorn to Arsippe’s tale, nevertheless we as readers come away from

Ovid’s Pyramus and Thisbe with mixed feelings; as Anderson says in his commentary on the episode, “We pity them, but we do not feel compelled by the narrative to identify with them or their rather unrealistic love.”21 I would add that the inept language of the narrator distracts from the pity we would otherwise feel for the lovers: it pulls at our emotions from the opposite end of the spectrum, jarring us with the unnecessarily gory pipe simile (4.122–124) and perhaps even making us laugh at the improbability of speaking through a crack so small as to have gone unnoticed since the original construction of the wall (4.65–66). Shakespeare heightens this incongruity; nevertheless, this incongruity has its origins in Ovid.

There is even biographical significance in these few lines. The extent of Shakespeare’s

Latin knowledge, which Ben Jonson described as “small” in the Preface to Shakespeare’s First

Folio edition22, continues to be debated among scholars. Bate avers that a typical English school setting would have “provided Shakespeare with his first exposure to the major Roman poets . . .

Ovid, being perhaps the easiest to read and to imitate in verse-writing exercises, occupied the foremost place.”23 The extent of Shakespeare’s knowledge of Latin may be better understood by reading even this one episode in an Ovidian light. The first English-language translation of the

Metamorphoses was in fact available during Shakespeare’s lifetime, having been published by

Golding in 1567. However, there are dual-language puns embedded in the Shakespeare text that would not have been possible without consulting the original Latin text. For example, Rudd sees an undeniable connection between the malapropism “Ninny’s tomb” (a mistake that Nick

21 Anderson (1998a:417).

22 “And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek…,” line 31.

23 Bate (2000:21).

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Bottom, the character portraying Pyramus, makes more than once) originates in the Latin ad busta Nini (Met. 4.88). Rudd also points out that the description of Pyramus’ wound in the

Shakespeare is much closer to the Latin than to Golding’s translation. The Met. 4 text reads:

. . . demisit in ilia ferrum, nec mora, ferventi moriens e vulnere traxit. (119–120)

He plunged the sword into his vital organs, and without delay he, dying, pulled it out of the boiling wound. (my emphasis)

Something very close to ferventi vulnere appears in the Shakespeare:

Whereat with blade—with bloody, blameful, blade— He bravely broached his boiling bloody breast. (my emphasis)

If Shakespeare had Golding’s translation alone and not the original Ovid, all he would have gotten would have been “bleeding wound,” as Rudd is quick to state.24 In other places, however, he made similar use of Golding, at times aiming to parody his style and play with his word choice.25 Consequently, we must understand the Pyramus and Thisbe interlude in A Midsummer

Night’s Dream to be a comic adaptation of and dialogue with both the original Ovid and

Golding’s Ovid.

Finally, Quince presents to the spectators a catalogue of rejected possibilities similar to

Arsippe’s pre-narrative lineup. Although the original dubitatio involves only the single character of Arsippe as she mulls over various possible stories to tell, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Philostrate, the “master of the revels,” presents to Duke Theseus a written list of options, which he reads aloud for all the guests at his wedding to hear:

24 Rudd (2000:117).

25 Forey (1998:321–322). She also notes Golding’s moralizing as he devotes a substantial part of his Preface to explaining (somewhat tediously) the fictional nature of the gods (325–326); this becomes a parody in Shakespeare’s internal prologue, delivered by Quince, in which he also explains the dramatis personae quite tediously, as well as the first entrance by the character of the Lion, who breaks character to inform the ladies in the audience that he really is Snug the joiner, and only represents “a lion fell”(5.1.218).

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PHILOSTRATE. There is a brief how many sports are ripe: Make choice of which your highness will see first. Giving a paper THESEUS. Reads ‘The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.’ We'll none of that: that have I told my love, In glory of my kinsman Hercules. Reads ‘The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.’ That is an old device; and it was play'd When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. Reads ‘The thrice three Muses mourning for the death Of Learning, late deceased in beggary.’ That is some satire, keen and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. Reads ‘A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.’ Merry and tragical! tedious and brief! That is, hot ice and wondrous strange snow. How shall we find the concord of this discord? (5.1.44–63)

This hodgepodge of stories finds its inspiration in the Metamorphoses, when Arsippe considers which story to tell her sisters:

illa, quid e multis referat (nam plurima norat), cogitat et dubia est, de te, Babylonia, narret, Derceti, quam versa squamis velantibus artus stagna Palaestini credunt motasse figura, an magis, ut sumptis illius filia pennis extremos albis in turribus egerit annos, nais an ut cantu nimiumque potentibus herbis verterit in tacitos iuvenalia corpora pisces, donec idem passa est, an, quae poma alba ferebat ut nunc nigra ferat contactu sanguinis arbor: hoc placet; hanc, quoniam vulgaris fabula non est, talibus orsa modis lana sua fila sequente… (Met. 4.36–54)

She considers which of many she should tell (for she knew quite a few), and she is in doubt whether she should tell of you, Babylonian Dercetis, whom the Palestinians believe

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to have moved the still waters with your shape changed and scales covering your limbs. Or rather how Dercetis’ daughter, having assumed wings, lived out her last years in a white tower, or how the naiad, with song and too-powerful herbs, changed the bodies of youths into silent fish, until she underwent the same fate—or how the tree that used to bear white fruit now bring black fruit because of contact with blood: this one pleases her, and this tale, because it is not a common one, and in such a way, the wool following the weaving, she began…

Arsippe’s rejected tales, unlike those in Theseus’ court, are stories of transformation, each one a metamorphosis in brief. But as with Arsippe’s discarded tales, the possibilities proffered to

Theseus are all rather odd and incongruous choices, especially given the context of the duke’s wedding. The “tipsy Bacchanals” and the “Thracian singer,” although from the story of Orpheus

(Met. 11.1–66), are also reminiscent of Ovid’s recounting of the myth of Pentheus (Met. 3.528–

733), torn to pieces at the hands of his raving mother, Agave, and her companions—the last story of Met. 3 and the one immediately preceding the introduction of the Minyeides. Both the

Pentheus and the Minyeides refuse to worship Bacchus; as punishment, the former undergoes a gruesome dismemberment, the latter are transformed into bats. At the heart of Pentheus’ tragedy is the story of Cadmus, the founder of Thebes, whose unknowing transgression against Mars brings sorrow and death to his descendants—including his grandson Pentheus. Shakespeare subtly acknowledges this Cadmean backstory in referring to Thebes by name.

In my estimation, there is great potential for dialogue between Ovidian and

Shakespearean scholarship, relatively little of which has been tapped.26 Since Shakespeare found direct inspiration from the Metamorphoses—and the example of Pyramus and Thisbe is hardly the only example of this—readings of each within the light of the other surely would prove

26 Some of the most comprehensive volumes in this promising field are those of Bate (1994), Taylor (2000), and Enterline (2006). Forey (1998) also implies throughout her paper that the extent of Shakespeare’s direct reliance upon Ovid’s Latin original rather than Golding’s English translation is a subject rich in potential for scholarly debate; considering that this is only one possible avenue for Ovidian-Shakespearean dialogue, I think there is ample opportunity for discovery in this area of interdisciplinary convergence.

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illuminating, both with regard to the complexity of the text and the author’s intention as to its reception; it also could provide some insight as to the nature and extent of Latin pedagogy in

English grammar schools of the Elizabethan era. This is an intersection that is largely unexplored, and yet a cooperation between Classical and Shakespearean scholarship is both possible and exciting: with careful attention and sensitivity to the texts of both authors, a new richness of understanding can be achieved, which would thus add to our collective knowledge of and appreciation for both disciplines. Additionally, scholars have begun to explore the ultimately

Ovidian roots of pop cultural phenomena, establishing connections between the Metamorphoses and such unexpected works of entertainment as the late 90s/early 2000s TV series Buffy the

Vampire Slayer27 and the 2000 film What Women Want.28 Clearly there is also opportunity for scholarly interaction between classical studies and film and theatre, and even cultural studies, demonstrating the immense appeal and relevance of Ovidian heritage down to our times.

Summary and Concluding Thoughts

In Chapter 1, I established that from its opening lines, the Metamorphoses promises and delivers a new kind of genre wherein the parameters of epic are redefined, as signified in the proem by such words as in nova . . . corpora and mutates . . . formas. I went on to show while the Metamorphoses does indeed retain the metrical hallmarks of epic, it nevertheless has more in common substantially with performative literature (particularly comedy) than it does with

Vergilian or Homeric epic.

27 Paula James (2011:137). James is particularly focused on similarities between the character of April (the “new girl” in town who in fact is a robot built by another character, Warren) and Pygmalion (140–141 and elsewhere).

28 Geoff Bakewell (2014) articulates a parallel between the protagonist, Nick (who crossdresses in an attempt to find out what women are looking for so that he can give it to them), and Tireisias. In the abstract to his article, Bakewell claims that he “examines the Nick/Tiresias parallel in light of Ovid’s treatment of other Theban myths in Book 3” (accessed online).

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Following my claim (and subsequent proofs thereof) that the Metamorphoses defies epic convention, I showed in Chapter 2 that, while still respecting epic convention enough to meet the genre’s basic criteria, Ovid composed in the Metamorphoses a virtual symphony of genres, with comedy featured as the lead melodic line or genre. After having catalogued a large number of comic features (including stage cues, stock characters, hallmarks of language, and audience recognition), I presented examples of these features as found in the Metamorphoses.

After having enumerated the characteristics of the genre, I proceeded in Chapter 3 to touch upon the stages in the development of Roman theatre, beginning with Livius Andronicus’ first tragic production in 240 followed by the first comic play some time before 166 and concluding with the death of the last Roman comic playwright, Turpilius, in 107. I further demonstrated that, far from fading into oblivion after 107, the performative characteristics of comedy made their way into two divergent camps: namely, oratory and mime/pantomime.

Finally, I enumerated some similarities between the language and historical context of Ovid and

Plautus, respectively.

In Chapter 4, I explained how Ovid created a virtual safe space: a literary device occupying a liminal space with respect to genre, aiming for immunity from the punitive gaze of

Augustus. I also established a similar (albeit less performative) liminality of genre in Livy after he, like Ovid, had received some words of censure from Augustus. Additionally, I demonstrated historical parallels between Ovid and Plautus.

Finally, in this last chapter I have shown two of Ovid’s literary descendants, Petronius and Shakespeare, each of whom in his own way and his own time took inspiration from Ovid’s use of comic elements in an unexpected context. I have also presented some further opportunities for future research, including some possibilities for interdisciplinary dialogue.

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The cycle of transformation continues, with Ovid and making his presence felt even today. This reality is nothing other than filtering an ancient voice through a contemporary medium or two—which is exactly the kind of thing Ovid achieved in using multiple levels of narration and consequently enhancing the theatricality of his myth-making. I think he would be pleased with such a perpetuation of his carmen perpetuum.

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Emilie Elizabeth Jordan earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in liberal arts from Saint Mary’s

College in Kansas, representing the class of 2005 as valedictorian. In 2009, she completed a

Master of Arts degree in classical studies from the University of Kansas, where she was the 2009 recipient of the Albert O. Greef translation award. She earned her degree of Doctor of

Philosophy in classical studies at the University of Florida in December 2018.

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