Catullus, Tibullus, and Propertius/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI.
THE ROMAN-ALEXANDRINE AND LONGER POEMS OF CATULLUS.
That portion of the poetry of Catullus which has been considered hitherto is doubtless the most genuine and original; but, with the exception of the two epithalamia, the poems now to be examined, as moulded on the Alexandrine form and subjects, are perhaps the more curious in a literary point of view. Contrasting with the rest of his poetry in their lack of "naturalism essentially Roman and republican," they savour undisguisedly of that Roman-Alexandrinism in poetry which first sprang up in earnest among the contemporaries of Cicero and Cæsar, and grew with all the more rapidity owing to the frequent visits of the Romans to the Greek provinces, and the increasing influx of the Greek literati into Rome. Of the Alexandrine literature at its fountain-head it must be remembered that it was the substitute and successor—on the ruin of the Hellenic nation, and the decline of its nationality, language, literature, and art—of the former national and popular literature of Greece. But it was confined to a limited range. "It was," says Professor Mommsen, "only in a comparatively narrow circle, not of men of culture—for such, strictly speaking, did not exist—but of men of erudition, that the Greek literature was cherished even when dead; that the rich inheritance which it had left was inventoried with melancholy pleasure or arid refinement of research; and that the living sense of sympathy or the dead erudition was elevated into a semblance of productiveness. This posthumous productiveness constitutes the so-called Alexandrinism." Originality found a substitute in learned research. Multifarious learning, the result of deep draughts at the wells of criticism, grammar, mythology, and antiquities, gave an often cumbrous and pedantic character to laboured and voluminous epics, elegies, and hymnology (a point and smartness in epigram being the one exception in favour of this school), whilst the full genial spirit of Greek thought, coeval with Greek freedom, was exchanged for courtly compliment, more consistent with elaboration than freshness. Among the best of the Alexandrian poets proper—indeed, the best of all, if we except the original and genial Idyllist, Theocritus—was the learned Callimachus; and it is upon Callimachus especially that Catullus has drawn for his Roman-Alexandrine poems, one of them being in fact a translation of that poet's elegy "On the Hair of Queen Berenice;" whilst another, his "Nuptials of Peleus and Thetis," has been supposed by more than one critic to be a translation of Callimachus also. This is, indeed, problematical; but there is no doubt that for his mythologic details, scholarship, and other features savouring of ultra erudition, he owes to Callimachus characteristics which his intrinsic poetic gifts enabled him to dress out acceptably for the critics of his day. The singular and powerful poem of "Atys" belongs to the same class, by reason of its mythological subject. A recent French critic of Catullus, in a learned chapter on Alexandrinism, defines it as the absence of sincerity in poetry, and the exclusive preoccupation of form. "He," writes M. Couat, "who, instead of looking around him, or, better, within himself, parades over all countries and languages his adventurous curiosity, and prefers l'esprit to l'âme—the new, the pretty, the fine, to the natural and simple—such an one, to whatever literature he belongs, is an Alexandrinist. Alexandrinism in excess is what in this writer's view is objectionable; and whilst we are disposed to think that few will demur to this moderate dogma, it is equally certain that none of the Roman cultivators of the Alexandrine school have handled it with more taste and less detriment to their natural gifts than Catullus. With him the elaborateness which, in its home, Alexandrinism exhibits as to metre and prosody, is exchanged for a natural and unforced power, quite consistent with simplicity. As is well observed by Professor Sellar, "His adaptation of the music of language to embody the feeling or passion by which he is possessed, is most vividly felt in the skylark ring of his great nuptial ode, in the wild hurrying agitation of the Atys, in the stately calm of the Epithalamium of Peleus and Thetis." Herein, as indeed in the tact and art evinced generally in these larger poems, we seem to find ground for dissent from the opinion of several otherwise weighty critics of Catullus, that they were the earlier exercises of his poetic career—a subject upon which, as there is the scantiest inkling in either direction, it is admissible to take the negative view. As a work of art, no doubt the "Nuptials of Peleus and Thetis" are damaged by the introduction of the episode of Ariadne's desertion within the main poem—an offence obviously against strict epic unity. But it is not by any means sure that this is so much a sign of youthful work as of an independence consistent with poetic fancy, and certainly not amenable to the stigma of Alexandrinism, which must be en règle, if anything. It is with this largest, and in many respects finest, sample of Catullus's epic capacity, that we propose to deal at greatest length, reserving space for a glance or two at the "Atys" and the "Hair of Berenice." "The whole poem" (Peleus and Thetis), to quote Mr Sellar once more, "is pervaded with that calm light of strange loveliness which spreads over the unawakened world in the early sunrise of a summer day." If here and there a suspicion of over-wrought imagery and description carries back the mind to a remembrance of the poet's model, it must be allowed that, for the most part, this poem excels in variety, in pictorial effects, in force of fancy, and clever sustentation of the interest. It begins with the day on which, in the hoar distance of mythic ages, the Pelion-born Argo was first launched and manned, and the first sailor of all ever burst on the realm of Amphitrite—a statement which we must not criticise too closely, as the poet elsewhere in the poem tells of a fleet of Theseus prior to the Argonautic expedition:—
Soon as to oarsmen's harrow frothed the wave,
Forth from the eddying whiteness Nereids shone,
With faces set—strange sight to look upon.
Then, only then, might mortal vision rest
On naked sea-nymph, lifting rosy breast
High o'er the billows' foam. 'Twas then the flame
Of love for Thetis Peleus first o'ercame:
Then Thetis deigned a mortal spouse to wed!
Then Jove approved, and their high union sped."
—D.
The poet having thus introduced the betrothal, as it were, of the goddess and the hero, pauses, ere he plunges into his subject, to apostrophise heroes and heroines in general, and more especially the twain immediately concerned: Peleus, for whom the very susceptible father of the gods had waived his own penchant for Thetis; Peleus, the stay and champion of Thessaly; and Thetis, most beautiful of ocean's daughters, and grandchild of earth-girding Tethys and her lord Oceanus—a fitting proem to the action of the poem, which commences with no further delay. We see all Thessaly come forth to do honour and guest-service to the nuptials, gifts in their hands, and joy and gladness in their countenances. Scyros and Phthia's Tempo, Cranon, and Larissa's towers are all deserted on that day, for the Pharsalian home where high festival and a goodly solemnity is kept. A lively description follows of the country and its occupations given over to complete rest and keeping holiday; and this is seemingly introduced by way of contrast to the stir and splendour and gorgeous preparations within the halls of Peleus. But the poet without delay presses on to one of his grand effects of description—the rich bridal couch, with frame of ivory and coverlet of sea-purples, on which was wrought the tale of Ariadne's desertion by Theseus. She has just awakened to her loss, and the picture is one of passionate fancy and force. To give a transcript of this is impossible; and though Mr Martin's handling of the whole passage is admirably finished, yet where the best comes far short of the original, it seems justifiable to introduce a distillation of its spirit, without attempting metrical likeness. The following version is by the Rev. A. C. Auchmuty[1] (see Catull. lxiv. vv. 52-75):—
Sweet Ariadne stood, in fond dismay,
With wild eyes watching the swift fleet, that bore
Her loved one far away.
And still she gazed incredulous; and still,
Like one awaking from beguiling sleep,
Found herself standing on the beachy hill,
Left there alone to weep.
But the quick oars upon the waters flashed,
And Theseus fled, and not a thought behind
He left; but all his promises were dashed
Into the wandering wind.
Far off she strains her melancholy eyes;
And like a Mœnad sculptured there in stone
Stands as in act to shout, for she espies
Him she once called her own.
Dark waves of care swayed o'er her tender soul;
The fine-wove turban from her golden hair
Had fallen; the light robe no longer stole
Over her bosom bare.
Loose dropped the well-wrought girdle from her breast,
That wildly struggled to be free: they lay
About her feet, and many a briny crest
Kissed them in careless play.
But nought she recked of turban then, and nought
Of silken garments flowing gracefully.
Theseus! far away in heart and thought
And soul, she hung on thee!
Ay me! that hour did cruel love prepare
A never-ending thread of wildering woe;
And twining round that heart rude briars of care,
Bade them take root and grow;
What time, from old Piræus' curvèd strand
A ship put forth towards the south, to bring
Chivalrous-hearted Theseus to the land
Of the unrighteous king."
A comparison of the above with the Latin text will show that, as in the italicised passages, the translator has been careful to preserve, as much as might be, the expressions, metaphors, and similes of the author. That author proceeds from this point to explain the causes of Theseus's visit to the home of Minos, and to unfold the legend of the monster, the labyrinth, the clue to it supplied by Ariadne, and the treachery of Theseus, who, when he had vanquished the monster, and led the princess to give up all for him, forsook her as she lay asleep in Dia's sea-girt isle. The lament of Ariadne on discovering her desolation is a triumph of true poetic art in its accommodation of the measure to the matter in hand; the change from calm description to rapid movement and utterance, as, climbing mountain-top, or rushing forth to face the surges up-plashing over the beach to meet her, she utters outbursts of agony and passion intended to form a consummate contrast to the ideal happiness of them on whose coverlet this pathetic story was broidered. Two stanzas from Martin's beautiful and ballad-like version must represent the touching character of this lament, in which, by the way, are several turns of thought and expression which Virgil seems to have had in mind for the 4th Book of the 'Æneis:'—
How shall I fly to thee across this gulf of angry foam?
How meet my father's gaze, a thing so doubly steeped in guilt,
The leman of a lover, who a brother's blood had spilt?
And leaves me here to perish on this savage ocean steep.
No hope, no succour, no escape! None, none to hear my prayer!
All dark, and drear, and desolate; and death, death everywhere!"
—(C. Ixiv. vv. 177-187.)
The lines in which she declares that, had Ægeus objected to her for a daughter-in-law, she would have been his handmaid, to spread his couch and lave his feet, have more than one echo in English poetry; and the climax of the lament, in a deep and sweeping curse on her betrayer, is a passage of terribly realistic earnestness:—
Or ere this heart has ceased to heat, I to the gods will cast
One burning prayer for vengeance on the man who foully broke
The vows which, pledged in their dread names, in my fond ear he spoke.
Ye maids, whose snake-wreathed brows bespeak your bosom's vengeful ire!
Come ye, and hearken to the curse which I, of sense forlorn,
Hurl from the ruin of a heart with mighty anguish torn!
Let not my cry of woe and wrong assail your ears in vain!
Urge the false heart that left me here still on with headlong chase,
From ill to worse, till Theseus curse himself and all his race!"
—M.
It is not to be denied that it would have been more artistic had the poet here dismissed the legend of Theseus and his misdemeanours, or, if not this, had he at least omitted the lesson of divine retribution conveyed in his sire's death as he crossed the home-threshold, and contented himself with the spirited presentment of Bacchus and his attendant Satyrs and Sileni in quest of Ariadne, on another compartment of the coverlet. So far, the reader of the poem has represented one of the crowd gazing at the triumphs of needlework and tapestry in the bridal chambers. Now, place must be made for the divine and heroic guests, and their wedding-presents: Chiron, with the choicest meadow, alpine, and aquatic flowers of his land of meadows, rocks, and rivers; Peneius, with beech, bay, plane, and cypress to plant for shade and verdure in front of the palace; Prometheus, still scarred with the jutting crags of his rocky prison; and all the gods and goddesses, save only Phœbus and his twin-sister, absent from some cause of grudge which we know not, but which the researches of Alexandrine mythologists no doubt supplied to the poet. Anon, when the divine guests are seated at the groaning tables, the weird and age-withered Parcæ, as they spin the threads of destiny, in shrill strong voices pour forth an alternating song with apt and mystic refrain, prophetic of the bliss that shall follow this union, and the glory to be achieved in its offspring. Here are two quatrains for a sample, relating to Achilles the offspring of the union:—
Shall mothers o'er their stricken sons confess,
As smit with feeble hand each bosom bleeds,
And dust distains each grey dishevelled tress.
Run, spindles, run, and trail the fateful threads.
In golden corn-lands 'neath a burning sun,
E'en so, behold, Pelides' falchion shears
The life of Troy, and swift its course is run.
Run, spindles, run, and trail the fateful threads."
—D.
At the close of this chant of the fatal sisters, Catullus draws a happy picture, such as Hesiod had drawn before him, of the blissful and innocent age when the gods walked on earth, and mixed with men as friend with friend, before the advent of the iron age, when sin and death broke up family ties, and so disgusted the minds of the just Immortals that thenceforth there was no longer any "open vision"—
Nor longer men's abodes to visit deign."
It is by no means so easy to give any adequate idea of the "Atys," which is incomparably the most remarkable poem of Catullus in point of metrical effects, of flow and ebb of passion, and of intensely real and heart-studied pathos. The subject, however, is one which, despite the praises Gibbon and others have bestowed on Catullus's handling of it, is unmeet for presentment in extenso before English readers. The sensible and correctly-judging Dunlop did not err in his remark that a fable, unexampled except in the various poems on the fate of Abelard, was somewhat unpromising and peculiar as a subject for poetry. In a metre named, from the priests of Cybele, Galliambic, Catullus represents—it may be from his experience and research in Asia Minor—the contrasts of enthusiasm and repentant dejection of one who, for the great goddess's sake, has become a victim of his own frenzy. A Greek youth, leaving home and parents for Phrygia, vows himself to the service and grove of Cybele, and, after terrible initiation, snatches up the musical instruments of the guild, and incites his fellow-votaries to the fanatical orgies. Wildly traversing woodlands and mountains, he falls asleep with exhaustion at the temple of his mistress, and awakes, after a night's repose, to a sense of his rash deed and marred life. The complaint which ensues is unique in originality and pathos. "No other writer"—thus remarks Professor Sellar—"has presented so real an image of the frantic exultation and fierce self-sacrificing spirit of an inhuman fanaticism; and again, of the horror and sense of desolation which a natural man, and more especially a Greek or Roman, would feel in the midst of the wild and strange scenes described in the poem, and when restored to the consciousness of his voluntary bondage, and of the forfeiture of his country and parents and the free social life of former days." The same writer acutely notes the contrast betwixt "the false excitement and noisy tumult of the evening and the terrible reality and blank despair of the morning," which, with "the pictorial environments," are the characteristic effects of this poem. In the original, no doubt these effects are enhanced by the singular impetuosity of the metre, which, it is well known, Mr Tennyson, amongst others, has attempted to reproduce in his experiments upon classical metres. Such attempts can achieve only a fitful and limited success. English Galliambics can never, in the nature of things or measures, be popular. And even supposing the metre were more promising, it is undeniably against the dictates of good taste to make the revolting legend of Atys a familiar story to English readers of the ancient classics.
Curiosity, however, would dictate more acquaintance with "Berenice's Lock of Hair," a poem sent, as has been already stated, by Catullus to Hortalus, and purporting to be the poet's translation of a court poem of his favourite model, the Alexandrian poet Callimachus. The metre of both is elegiac; but of the original only two brief fragments remain—so brief, indeed, that they fail to test the faithfulness of the translator. The subject, it should seem, was the fate of a tress which Berenice, according to Egyptian tables of affinity the lawful wife and queen of Ptolemy Euergetes, king of Egypt, although she was his sister, dedicated to Venus Zephyritis as an offering for the safety of her liege lord upon an expedition to which he was summoned against the Assyrians, and which sadly interfered with his honeymoon. On his return the vow was paid in due course: the lock, however, shortly disappeared from the temple; and thereupon Conon, the court astronomer (of whom Virgil speaks in his third eclogue as one of the two most famous mathematicians of his time), invented the flattering account that it had been changed into a constellation. So extravagant a compliment would naturally kindle the rivalry of the courtly and erudite Alexandrian poet; and the result was soon forthcoming in an elegiac poem, supposed to be addressed to her mistress by the new constellation itself, in explanation of her abduction. To judge by the fragments which are extant, Catullus appears to have paraphrased rather than closely translated the original of Callimachus, though how far he has improved upon or embellished his model it is of course impossible to say. In some degree this detracts from the interest of the poem—at any rate, when viewed in connection with the genius of Catullus. Still, it deserves a passing notice for its art and ingenuity, as employed after Catullus's manner, in blending beauty and passion with truth and constancy. It is curious, too, for its suggestive hints for Pope's "Rape of the Lock." The strain of compliment is obviously more Alexandrian than Roman; and readers of Theocritus will be prepared for a good deal in the shape of excessive compliment to the Ptolemys. But even in the compliment and its extravagance there is a considerable charm; and it is by no means uninteresting to possess, through the medium of an accomplished Latin poet, our only traces of a court poem much admired in its day. If, after all, the reception of Berenice's hair among the constellations forming the group of seven stars in Leo's tail, by the Alexandrian astronomers, is a matter of some doubt, it is at least clear that Callimachus did his best to back up Conon's averment of it, and that it suited Catullus to second his assertion so effectually, that it has befallen his muse to transmit the poetic tradition. The argument of the poem may be summarised. The Lock tells how, after its dedication by Berenice, if she received her lord from the wars safe and sound, Conon discovered it a constellation in the firmament. He had returned victorious; the lock had been reft from its mistress's head with that resistless steel to which ere then far sturdier powers had succumbed—
'Twas that which made the proudest mountain reel,
Of all by Thia's radiant son surveyed,
What time the Mede a new Ægean made,
And hosts barbaric steered their galleys tall
Through rifted Athos' adamantine wall.
When things like these the power of steel confess,
What help or refuge for a woman's tress?"—(42-47.) M.
Need we suggest the parallel from Pope?—
And monuments, like men, submit to fate.
Steel could the labours of the gods destroy,
And strike to dust the imperial towers of Troy;
Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,
And hew triumphal arches to the ground.
What wonder then, fair nymph, thine hairs should feel
The conquering force of unresisted steel?"
I ne'er may grace my mistress' forehead more,
With whom consorting in her virgin bloom,
I bathed in sweets, and quaffed the rich perfume."
In conclusion, the personified and constellated lock, with a happy thought, claims a toll on all maids and matrons happy in their love and nuptials, of an onyx box of perfume on the attainment of each heart's desire; and this claim it extends, foremost and first, to its mistress. Yet even this is a poor compensation for the loss of its once far prouder position, to recover which, and play again on Berenice's queenly brow, it would be well content if all the stars in the firmament should clash in a blind and chaotic collision:—
Next to Orion blaze, and all the world
Of starry orbs be into chaos whirled."—M.
After a survey of the larger poems in the foregoing chapter, and that next before it, it would be especially out of place to attempt the barest notice of all that remains—a few very scurrilous and indelicate epigrams, having for their object the violent attacking of Cæsar, Mamurra, Gellius, and other less notable names obnoxious to our poet. By far the most part of these are so coarse, that, from their very nature, they are best left in their native language; and in this opinion we suspect we are supported by the best translators of Catullus, who deal with them sparingly and gingerly. Here and there, as in Epigram or Poem 84, Catullus quits this uninviting vein for one of purer satire in every sense, the sting of it being of philological interest. Arrius, its subject, like some of our own countrymen, seems to have sought to atone for clipping his h's by an equally ill-judged principle of compensation. He used the aspirate where it was wrong as well as where it was right. The authors of a recent volume already alluded to—'Lays from Latin Lyres'—have so expressed the spirit and flavour of Catullus's six couplets on this Arrius, that their version may well stand for a sample of one of the most amusing and least offensive of his skits of this nature. It is, of course, something in the nature of a parody:—
An H, his care was unavailing;
He always spoke of 'orse and 'ound,
And all his kinsfolk had that failing.
But tidings came that grieved us bitterly—
That 'Arry, while he stayed at Rome,
Enjoyed his 'oliday in Hitaly."
And so we bid adieu to a poet who, with all his faults, has the highest claims upon us as a bard of nature and passion, and who was beyond question the first and greatest lyric poet of Italy.
- ↑ Verses, Original and Translated, by A. C. Auchmuty. Exeter, 1869.