Lesbia's Sparrow - Katherine Langrish

Like many a great poet, Gaius Valerius Catullus didn’t live long. Born into a wealthy family near Verona in around 84 BCE, he was dead by the age of thirty: in this short space he made his mark as a lyric poet who, perhaps like Sappho, derived much of his extraordinary force from elements of his own life, so that his voice appears to speak so directly, so personally  to the reader that we feel as if we know him. He wrote fiercely and wittily of both love and hatred. Many of his poems are savagely scatological (there’s a typical example here: http://rudy.negenborn.net/catullus/text2/e97.htm ). He satirised Julius Caesar (here: http://rudy.negenborn.net/catullus/text2/e29.htm ) and was forgiven. His work survived as a single manuscript of 116 poems, so we’re lucky to have him. According to the Poetry Foundation website  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/gaius-valerius-catullus :

In general Catullus remained unknown until a manuscript known as V surfaced in Verona about 1305, only to disappear before the end of the century. Two copies were made from V (O and X). One of these copies is now in the Bodleian Library, Oxford; the other, which was probably owned by Petrarch, was copied twice (G and R in 1375) and then it, too, disappeared...

The article continues:

Invariably Catullus’s corpus fractures along divides between contradictory alternatives or tendencies: learning and passion; seriousness and frivolity; conservative values and revolutionary attitudes; ethical “piety” and vulgar obscenity; accounting and kissing; the great themes of Rome—love and betrayal, war and death; and lesser preoccupations with napkin stealing, urine, buggery, and bad breath.

Nothing not to like, then! And the rest of the article is well worth reading.

It was probably in Rome that Catullus fell in love with the woman he names ‘Lesbia’ in his poems, usually identified as Clodia Metellus, a married lady who – from what he says – seems to given him a run-around and to have had a number of other lovers besides him. Two of the best known of the poems he wrote to her, or for her, or about her, concern her pet sparrow. Known in the canon as Catullus II and Catullus III, the first poem is a delicate, lively and distinctly eroticized account of the poet watching Lesbia playing with the sparrow and offering it her finger to nip. The strength of the poem is the tension set up between the girl’s apparent absorption with her pet, and Catullus’ voyeuristic gaze. https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Translation:Catullus_2

The second poem is a lament: the sparrow is dead.  Here’s the Latin:

Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque

et quantum est hominum venustiorum;

passer mortuus est meae puellae,

passer, deliciae meae puellae,

quem plus illa oculis suis amabat;

nam mellitus erat, suamque norat

ipsa tam bene quam puella matrem,

nec sese a gremio illius movebat,

sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc

ad solam dominam usque pipiabat.

qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum

illuc unde negant redire quemquam.

at vobis male sit, malae tenebrae

Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis;

tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis.

o factum male! o miselle passer!

tua nunc opera meae puellae

flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.

And here’s a prose translation by Leonard C. Smithers, published 1894: 

O mourn, you Loves and Cupids, and all men of gracious mind. Dead is the sparrow of my girl: sparrow, darling of my girl, which she loved more than her eyes; for it was sweet as honey, and its mistress knew it as well as a girl knows her own mother. Nor did it move from her lap, but hopping round first one side then the other, to its mistress alone it continually chirped. Now it fares along that path of shadows from where nothing may ever return. May evil befall you, savage glooms of Orcus, which swallow up all things of fairness: which have snatched away from me the comely sparrow. O wretched deed! O hapless sparrow! Now on your account my girl's sweet eyes, swollen, redden with tear-drops.

This little poem is so lovely, so tender, so playfully and so deliberately conscious of the chiaroscuro created by sensuous physicality contrasted with death, it probably defies translation. So here in the rest of this post are a couple of different attempts: put them together and maybe those of us who don’t read Latin (that includes me) can get an inkling of the original? Let’s start with Lord Byron who published his own translation at the age of nineteen in ‘Hours of Idleness’, 1807:

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS (Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, etc.)

Ye Cupids, droop each little head,

Nor let your wings with joy be spread,

My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,

Whom dearer than her eyes she lov'd:

For he was gentle, and so true,

Obedient to her call he flew,

No fear, no wild alarm he knew,

But lightly o'er her bosom mov'd:

And softly fluttering here and there,

He never sought to cleave the air,

He chirrup'd oft, and, free from care,

Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain.

Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn,

From whence he never can return,

His death, and Lesbia's grief I mourn,

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.

Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!

Whose jaws eternal victims crave,

From whom no earthly power can save,

For thou hast ta'en the bird away:

From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow,

Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;

Thou art the cause of all her woe,

Receptacle of life's decay.

Byron’s got the sweetness, but misses the emotional strength. He apostrophises the Cupids but leaves out those more weighty ‘men of gracious mind’ from the first line, and the effect is to trivialise the poem. So does his omission of the line where Catullus says that Lesbia knows the sparrow as well as a girl knows her own mother – which speaks of a strong, tender, nurturing relationship. I’m not sure he’s hit off the playful mock-heroics either: Catullus portrays this sparrow almost as a sort of Aeneas descending into the underworld... Finally it would have made better poetry, and been truer to Catullus, to have changed the order of lines in the last verse, so:

Thou [ie: the grave] art the cause of all her woe,

Receptacle of life's decay:

From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow,

Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow.

The poem ought to end with the girl’s swollen, tear-filled eyes – which you can feel Catullus is just longing to kiss – but Byron can’t manage it because the form he’s chosen demands that each eight-line verse rhymes AAAB/CCCB: the eighth and final line must rhyme with the fourth.  And so he ends on a vision of the grave straight from an 18^th century tombstone, ‘Receptacle of life’s decay’ – rather than leaving us with Catullus's erotically charged and tactile close-up of Lesbia’s face. 

Sir Richard Francis Burton does better. Here’s his translation, published in the same year as Smithers’ prose version, 1894:

LESBIA'S SPARROW

Weep every Venus, and all Cupids wail,
And men whose gentler spirits still prevail.
Dead is the Sparrow of my girl, the joy,
Sparrow, my sweeting's most delicious toy,
Whom loved she dearer than her very eyes;
For he was honeyed-pet and anywise
Knew her, as even she her mother knew;
Ne'er from her bosom's harbourage he flew
But 'round her hopping here, there, everywhere,
Piped he to none but her his lady fair.
Now must he wander o'er the darkling way
Thither, whence life-return the Fates denay.
But ah! beshrew you, evil Shadows low'ring
In Orcus ever loveliest things devouring:
Who bore so pretty a Sparrow fro' her ta'en.
(Oh hapless birdie and Oh deed of bane!)
Now by your wanton work my girl appears
With turgid eyelids tinted rose by tears.

He’s got the sweetness, the eroticism and the darkness too: he almost succeeds in the mock-heroics (‘evil Shadows low’ring/In Orcus ever loveliest  things devouring/ ...Oh hapless birdie and Oh deed of bane...’) His choice of poetic diction is an interesting blend of the archaic and stiff – ‘Thither, whence life-return the fates denay’ – and the vernacular – ‘my girl’. I think it just about works in its own right, but it’s very mannered and doesn’t sound like someone chatting to us.  

The same cannot be said of Dorothy Parker’s wonderful riff on the poem (included in ‘The Original Portable’, 1944) – which gives Lesbia a voice and some very distinct opinions.

From A Letter From Lesbia

... So, praise the gods, Catullus is away!
And let me tend you this advice, my dear:
Take any lover that you will, or may,
Except a poet. All of them are queer.

It's just the same – a quarrel or a kiss
Is but a tune to play upon his pipe.
He's always hymning that or wailing this;
Myself, I much prefer the business type.

That thing he wrote, the time the sparrow died –
(Oh, most unpleasant – gloomy, tedious words!)
I called it sweet, and made believe I cried;
The stupid fool! I've always hated birds...

It’s not, of course, a translation at all.  But I suspect Catullus would have loved it.

Picture credits

Dead Sparrow by E. Sloane Stanley, 19th c.
Lesbia and her Sparrow by Sir Edward John Poynter 
Lesbia weeping over her sparrow by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, 1866

Catullus comforting Lesbia on the death of her sparrow by Antonio Zucchi (1726-1796)

Five Latin Love Poems by Caroline Lawrence

Cupids play music with Apollos instruments

As an excuse to do a bit of Latin translation I thought I’d post five Latin love poems in the run-up to Valentine’s Day. 

The first Latin poem I ever fell in love with is one of the simplest and one of the most famous. It is by Gaius Valerius Catullus who lived in the first century BCE. He’s the one who famously asked Lesbia to give him a thousand kisses and then a thousand more in order to confound the old men. And he wrote about the sparrow. But the poem I fell in love with is this one. In twelve words he sums up a certain type of love affair that every one of us has probably experienced. 

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, nescio. Sed fieri sentior et excrucior. 

I love you and I hate you. 
Why I do this, I have no idea. 
But I feel it happening and I’m in agony. 
[Catullus 85]

Bust of Virgil from his so-called tomb in Naples

My favourite Latin author is Virgil. I especially love his use of colour, sound and movement. Publius Vergilius Maro lived in the late first century BCE but if he were alive today, he’d be making movies. Here’s a bit of love poetry from his masterpiece, the Aeneid. This is the famous scene where beautiful Queen Dido and the handsome Trojan refugee Aeneas are out hunting when a sudden hailstorm drives them to shelter in a cave. As they consummate their relationship the thunder crashes and the nymphs cry out in a tableau that makes me think of the famous scene in From Here to Eternity where Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr kiss in the crashing surf. 

Like the others this is a fairly free translation:

Speluncam Dido dux et Troianus eandem
deveniunt. Prima et Tellus et pronuba Iuno
dant signum; fulsere ignes et conscious Aether
conubiis, summoque ulularunt vertice Nymphae. 

Dido and the Trojan leader come together
In the same cave. First Earth and then 
Juno the goddess of marriage
Give permission. Heaven watches the act of love
And illuminates the scene with lightning
And from the highest peak the Nymphs shriek. 
[Virgil Aeneid IV. 165-168]

Fresco from Lake Albano, Italy

Publius Ovidius Naso brings us into the first century CE. Born a year after the assassination of Julius Caesar, he lived during the reign of the first Emperor, Augustus. When he was about fifty, that emperor sent him into exile. Some people think a love poem was what got him in trouble. Or it may have been an adulterous love affair. Or perhaps both. All his surviving poetry is sublime but I chose these first lines of a poem addressed to his friend Atticus because of a wonderful fresco I once saw in a modern palazzo on the shores of Lake Albano near Rome. 

Militat omnis amans, et habet sua castra Cupido: 
Attice, crede mihi, militat omnis amans. 

Every lover does battle, Cupid has his own camp
Believe me, Atticus, every lover does battle.
[Ovid, Amores I.9]

My friend Matt dressed as a Roman

The Latin author I love to hate (and most enjoy reading) is Marcus Valerius Martialis. Martial was writing in the late first century CE, during the reign of Domitian. Many of his poems put me in mind of Sex in the City, Roman-style. He was a loathsome anti-Semitic misogynist, but he could also be funny, perceptive and sensitive. The thing I love most about him is his attention to detail. Nobody else describes the concrete world of ancient Rome as well as he does, certainly not that old sourpuss Juvenal. Many of Martial’s poems are X-rated, but this one is beautiful. It reminds us that at this period of Roman history it was normal for men to desire boys as well as women.

Quod spirat tenera malum mordente puella,
Quod de Corycio quae venit aura croco; 
Vinea quod primis floret cum cana racemis,
Gramina quod redolent quae modo carpsit ovis; 
Quod myrtis, quod messor Arabs, quod sucina trita, 
Pallidus Eoo ture quod ignis olet; 
Gleba quod aestivo leviter cum spargitur imbre,
Quod madidas nardo passa corona comas: 
Hoc tua, saeve puer Diadumene, basia fragrant.
Quid si tota dares illa sine invidia?

Like an apple when a tender girl bites into it, 
Like the perfume that wafts from saffron crocus, 
Or a bright vineyard flowering with new clusters,
Like grass newly nibbled by a lamb,
Like crushed myrtle 
Or the fingers of an Arabian spice collector, 
Like rubbed amber or flaming frankincense,
Like light summer rain on earth
Or a garland resting on hair dripping with nard…
Your kisses, cruel boy, smell of all these. 
Just imagine what they would be like 
If you gave them without holding back. 
[Martial III.65]

bedroom of the Hotel Europeo, Naples

Finally, I want to end with a couple of rare lines written by a female poet. We know of two Roman poetesses named Sulpicia. The later one lived during the reign of Domitian at the end of the first century CE. She was praised by her contemporary Martial as a model Roman wife: sensual but chaste. Two tentatively restored lines survive, here freely translated by me. 

Si me cadurci restitutis fasciis
nudam Caleno concubantem proferat

If you were to untangle the sheets of my marriage bed
You would find me lying nude with my husband Calenus…

And on that sensual but chaste note of conjugal love I wish you all a Happy Valentine’s Day!

Caroline writes historical mysteries for kids set in Ancient Rome and the Wild West but has recently retold two stories from Virgil's Aeneid for reluctant or dyslexic teen readers. Try Queen of the Silver Arrow for a tragic love story.