The Reception of Ancient Cyprus in Western Culture 9783110984309, 9783110996654, 9783110984514, 2022946587

Citation preview

The Reception of Ancient Cyprus in Western Culture

Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes

Edited by Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos Associate Editors Stavros Frangoulidis · Fausto Montana · Lara Pagani Serena Perrone · Evina Sistakou · Christos Tsagalis Scientific Committee Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck Claude Calame · Kathleen Coleman · Jonas Grethlein Philip R. Hardie · Stephen J. Harrison · Stephen Hinds Richard Hunter · Giuseppe Mastromarco Gregory Nagy · Theodore D. Papanghelis Giusto Picone · Alessandro Schiesaro Tim Whitmarsh · Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 139

The Reception of Ancient Cyprus in Western Culture Edited by Spyridon Tzounakas, Stella Alekou and Stephen Harrison

ISBN 978-3-11-099665-4 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-098430-9 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-098451-4 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Control Number: 2022946587 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2023 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Editorial Office: Alessia Ferreccio and Katerina Zianna Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Preface and Acknowledgements The collection of essays included in this volume arises from an interdisciplinary research project on the reception of ancient Cyprus in the culture of the western world, a programme that was co-funded by the European Regional Development Fund and the Republic of Cyprus through the Research and Innovation Foundation (Project: EXCELLENCE/1216/0525). All papers in the volume were originally delivered at an international conference entitled The Reception of Ancient Cyprus in Western Culture, which was organized by the Department of Classics and Philosophy of the University of Cyprus and held online in February 2021. Revised and edited, the fourteen papers that were given at the conference bring together eminent scholars and young researchers who cover various issues on the topic in a truly fruitful exchange of ideas. The organizers of the conference and the co-editors of this book are grateful to the editors of “Trends in Classics” for accepting this volume for publication. Special thanks are due to Anne Hiller, Katerina Zianna and Carlo Vessella for all their kind support, helpful suggestions and patience during the publication process. The final word of thanks must go to all the contributors. We would like to express our sincere gratitude to all the scholars involved. It was a great pleasure to have worked with them and we would like to thank them very much for their invaluable contributions. Spyridon Tzounakas, Stella Alekou, Stephen Harrison

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-202

Contents Preface  V Spyridon Tzounakas, Stella Alekou and Stephen Harrison Introduction  1

Part I: Cyprus in Latin Literature Costas Panayotakis Cyprus and its Myths on the Roman Stage  13 Stephen Harrison Venus on Cyprus: Interlinked Lists of Aphrodite’s Cypriot Sanctuaries in Latin Poetry  33 Boris Hogenmüller Idalion, Satrachus and the Annales of Volusius: The Reception of Cyprus in the Carmina Catulli  51 Theodore Antoniadis Nil desperandum …. cras ingens iterabimus aequor (Hor. Carm. 1.7): The Foundation of Salamis by a Bastard Archer as an Exemplum in Latin Literature  65 Robert Kirstein Balance and Excess in Ovid’s Pygmalion Story  87 Richard Jenkyns Was Cyprus Special? The Case of Two Latin Poets  103 Margot Neger Infamem nimio calore Cypron: Ancient Epigrams on Flacci in Cyprus  111 Spyridon Tzounakas The Digression on Cyprus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae  131

VIII  Contents

Part II: Cyprus after Antiquity Thea Selliaas Thorsen Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare: The Significance of Ovid’s Cypriot Metamorphoses  153 Laura Aresi Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers: The Island of Cyprus in Boccaccio’s Decameron (via Ovid’s Metamorphoses)  175 Hélène Casanova-Robin Venus of Paphos in the Latin Poetry of the Quattrocento  201 Stella Alekou Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women: The Cypriot Exemplum Against the Background of the Statue (R)evolution  221 Stamatia Kitsou Osmosis between High Genres: Ovid’s Tragic Formation of Myrrha’s Tale (Met. 10.298–502) and its Reception in Alfieri’s Homonymous Tragedy  249 Bruce Gibson Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire: Western Travellers to Cyprus in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries  265 List of Contributors  289 General Index  293 Index Locorum  299

Spyridon Tzounakas, Stella Alekou and Stephen Harrison

Introduction

What makes ancient Cyprus special? Is it the mystic rituals and folkloric, local traditions of the land of kings and heroes, or perhaps the historical traces of transculturalism in an island at the crossroads of three continents? The representation of Cyprus in Latin literature as both an intercultural bridge and an outlier may be the reason for the conflictual focus of scholarship on its mythical and historical past. Cypriot art, excavated and reconstructed, gives us an idea, through its archaeological remains, of how complex and ambiguous our findings may be for a small island that makes a remarkable appearance in Latin literature. The multifaceted impact of the place that is registered in literature as Aphrodite’s birthplace is, of course, related to the significance of its strategic location that enables a cultural transcendence of its geographical borders. This is why the small island is today known for its massive contribution to historical developments. Addressed by many writers of Graeco-Roman antiquity, Cyprus’ presence in these developments confirms that it acts in ancient times as an important point of transition from the Greek world to the East and to Egypt, a pathway that has aroused many fascinating discussions among scholars. Notwithstanding the symbolic significance the connection of Cyprus to the worship of the goddess Venus held for the Romans, who rarely neglect to turn their attention to the mother of Aeneas, their mythological ancestor, scholarship presents limited information on the representation of Cyprus in Latin literature. It is an unfortunate fact that the literary depiction of ancient Cyprus has been undeservedly under-researched before today. While a few excellent studies have explored the cult of Aphrodite in ancient Greek sources, and even though scholars agree that both Greek and Latin literature abound with references to Cyprus, the study of Cyprus in Latin literature, as well as in its reception, has been mostly overlooked.1 Even though various myths on Cyprus offered material that proved to be quite suitable for literary exploitation as well as philosophical allegorising not only in antiquity but also in modern European culture, the exceptional cases in which Latin literature is included in the study of the literary depiction of ancient Cyprus either do not extend beyond Late Antiquity or focus exclusively on its reception in Modern Greek literature. Thus, the reception of ancient Cyprus in the Western world has not received much

 1 Cf. e.g. Pirenne-Delforge 1994; Brown 1997; Hansen 2000; Young 2005; Karageorghis 2005; Pironti 2007; Anagnostou-Laoutides and Konstan 2008; Faulkner 2010; Hughes 2020. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-001

  Spyridon Tzounakas, Stella Alekou and Stephen Harrison attention in scholarship, despite the fact that significant literary and extraliterary evidence presented by European intellectuals and artists explicitly or implicitly refers to the history of Cyprus, as well as to the myths and art produced on its territory or inspired by its landscape.2 This is a neglect that our volume wishes to address, by re-establishing the literary thread of the representation of ancient Cyprus beyond spatial and temporal limits, and by thus shedding light on its depiction throughout the centuries. Consequently, the book attempts to systematically examine the reception of ancient Cyprus from the ancient Roman to the Western world up until modern times, breaking previous literary, temporal and spatial barriers. The aim of this volume is to investigate the ways in which ancient Cyprus was received in Latin literature and culture and, in turn, in the culture of Europe. The examination of this multi-angled subject suggests a comparative reading of data relating to multiple genres, periods of time and spatial frames with a focus on ancient Cypriot identity and its European reflections that extend from antiquity to our own day. Our aim is therefore to overcome various restrictions imposed in current research, that relate to specific periods, authors, literary genres and works, as the nature of the topic privileges an alternative approach of interpretation; the central thesis of this book is that a number of Cypriot literary and cultural traditions constitute a unique example of intercultural and multi-level fusions of diverse European civilizations, and thus participate in a pan-European cultural heritage. For this examination a holistic approach is required. This work is the first volume that exclusively focuses on ancient Cyprus in Latin literature and its reception and that enables the authors to address the issue at its core: it is only under the lens of philological, literary and historical perspectives that the socio-political, philosophical and anthropological dimension of the topic can be fully, sufficiently and constructively examined. Only in this way can the transcultural force of ancient Cyprus, filtered and reshaped in its western reception, be grasped. This may be what sets this volume apart. The chapters collected in this volume stem from an interdisciplinary International Conference, entitled The Reception of Ancient Cyprus in Western Culture, organized by Spyridon Tzounakas and Stella Alekou, at the Department of Classics and Philosophy of the University of Cyprus. This two-day conference was held online in February 2021 within the framework of the research programme The Reception of Ancient Cyprus in the Culture of the Western World (RACCWW), co-funded by the European Regional Development Fund and the  2 Cf. e.g. Palmatier 1961; Roche Rico 1985.

Introduction  

Republic of Cyprus through the Research and Innovation Foundation (Project: EXCELLENCE/1216/0525) and coordinated by Associate Professor Spyridon Tzounakas. The volume comprises fourteen revised and edited papers given at the conference. As will be shown below, it brings together eminent scholars and young researchers from many countries who deal with different issues of the topic and cover various genres and chronological periods. Clearly, the topic cannot be exhaustively dealt with in this one volume, not least because the papers, aimed at challenging some well-established disciplinary boundaries, examine the subject not in the form of a systematically structured textbook, but rather in the exploratory manner of exemplary case studies. Thus, there have been omissions, such as the already well-researched reception of ancient Cyprus in Modern Greek literature.3 Notwithstanding this, the volume manages to deliberate and discuss multiple facets of the given topic and comes up with significant conclusions that bring light on Cypriot identity in antiquity and its influence on western culture. The volume is divided into two sections. Section I focuses on the examination of Cypriot identity in the Roman world, with special emphasis on the literary function of the Cypriot myths, that extends to matters of cultural interaction in illustrations and expressions of Cypriot ritual and religion and to the sociopolitical implications that emerge from the historicity of the literary and material evidence on Cypriot cults and genealogies. Section II attempts to identify direct or implicit allusions to ancient Cypriot culture in wider European culture, with particular focus on matters of reception in literature and the arts and special emphasis on the European view of the ancient Cypriot civilization as part of the prehistory of Europe’s multi-cultural heritage. More particularly, this volume concentrates on the examination of Cypriot mythology and culture and its reception in classical, postclassical and modern European literature and art, in order to identify, compare and evaluate allusions to the presence of ancient Cypriot culture in the Western world. The discussions investigate the literary, artistic and socio-cultural function of Cypriot myths from antiquity to modernity. Section I follows both a chronological and a thematic order; it begins with the study of Cyprus in Latin comedy, following an intergeneric itinerary which includes aretalogy, epic and epigrams among others, and is completed with studies focusing on the perception of Cyprus in the West in Late Antiquity. It first examines the Roman perceptions of Cyprus in the Latin comedy of the early Republic and tackles themes which appear to be stereotypical in the fabula  3 For the relevant bibliography see the website of the project: https://receptionofancient cyprus.com.cy/.

  Spyridon Tzounakas, Stella Alekou and Stephen Harrison palliata. Costas Panayotakis, in his chapter “Cyprus and its Myths on the Roman Stage”, focuses on the representation of Cyprus in select non-dramatic works of Ennius and in the corpus of the comic playwrights Plautus, Terence, and Turpilius, to argue that the sources seem to have portrayed the island culturally and geographically as a distant but certainly accessible and commercially important location which had strong associations with sex (but not with love) in the Roman theatrical imagination, a portrayal that may not have represented historical reality, as Panayotakis demonstrates. Geographical location with regard to Cypriot topography is further examined by Stephen Harrison, in his study entitled “Venus on Cyprus: Interlinked Lists of Aphrodite’s Cypriot Sanctuaries in Latin Poetry”, which sheds light on brief lists of the various Cypriot sanctuaries of Aphrodite/Venus, as a feature of classical Roman poetry from Catullus to Statius, and of the neo-Latin poetry of the Italian Renaissance which imitates it. This work looks at these lists, which stress Aphrodite’s divine status and power in an abbreviated and topographical form of aretalogy, with the aim of considering the intertextual relations between them and the accuracy or otherwise of their toponyms. The various places on Cyprus mentioned in the work of Catullus are then examined by Boris Hogenmüller in “Idalion, Satrachus and the Annales of Volusius: The Reception of Cyprus in the Carmina Catulli”. In this chapter, Cyprus is presented as a literary standard for the evaluation of the quality of poetry, and, in the case under examination, the devaluation of Volusius’ so called cacata volumina. The literary itinerary of this volume turns our attention towards one of the most famous ancient kingdoms of Cyprus. Theodore Antoniadis, in “Nil desperandum …. cras ingens iterabimus aequor (Hor. Carm. 1.7): The Foundation of Salamis by a Bastard Archer as an Exemplum in Latin Literature”, studies Salamis as Teucer’s Rome and Teucer (Τεῦκρος), the legendary founder of Salamis, as a counterpart of Aeneas. Antoniadis demonstrates that to the Romans Teucer was more familiar, even cherished, as an exile, a man who was forced to abandon his native land and set out to find a new home for himself and his companions, particularly in the famous lines Horace dedicated to him in Odes 1.7 that associate Teucer’s myth with the themes of war, voyage, adventure, passion, relaxation and home also inherent in the story of Aeneas, as well as in Latin lyric and elegiac poetry. Our literary guide to ancient Cyprus then takes us upon a journey that embarks on Ovid’s Metamorphoses and another Cypriot royal city, Amathus. One of the many connecting threads that is crucial for our perception of ancient Cyprus

Introduction  

originates in Metamorphoses Book 10 and Ovid’s Cypriot myths.4 Book 10 constitutes the only text in ancient Latin literature that focuses at length on the mythological tradition of Cyprus; it consists of a series of narrations which revolve around Aphrodite/Venus and her worship. In this book, the Cypriot narratives of Cerastes and the Propoetides, Pygmalion and Cinyras, are presented as part of Orpheus’ songs and provide information on Cypriot genealogies, cultural customs, religious rituals and art.5 Focusing on one of these myths, Robert Kirstein sheds light on Pygmalion and his statue with emphasis on the aspects of beauty, symmetry and, in a manner typical of Ovid, the destabilising and the suspending of balance in the structure of the episode and in the change of focalization between Orpheus and Pygmalion. In his study entitled “Balance and Excess in Ovid’s Pygmalion Story”, Kirstein argues that, since balance is also, at least in part, a fundamentally physical and bodily experience, it seems to be of particular importance in the creation of a living statue. Pygmalion’s story is further examined with regard to the association of Cyprus with Aphrodite/Venus, the prevalence of Kypris as the name for the goddess in tragedy, the Grecian Venus from the Odyssey to Vergil and Ovid. These are some of the examples of allusive but suggestive appearance of Cyprus in Roman literature which are discussed in a chapter written by Richard Jenkyns, who sets up a literary enquiry with a geopolitical tinge: in a study entitled “Was Cyprus Special? The Case of Two Latin Poets”, it is stated that the fact that Cyprus appears in antiquity both geographically and culturally as an outlier raises questions concerning the impact this had on its literary presence. The impact of Cyprus is further discussed by Margot Neger. In her chapter entitled “Infamem nimio calore Cypron: Ancient Epigrams on Flacci in Cyprus”, Neger turns the focus of attention to Martial’s epigrams and in particular to his Book 9, in which we encounter a poem (9.90) that presents the island of Cyprus as a place where Flaccus stays. Neger investigates the literary structure of the poem, its intertexts, its position within the context of the book and its role within other epigrams where Martial mentions or addresses the same Flaccus. A Flaccus in Cyprus is also the topic of the Greek epigram AP 11.146 by Ammianus, a poet from the early second century CE. In this satirical epigram, an individual with the Roman name Flaccus is characterized as a rhetor who produces a considerable number of solecisms and whose upcoming trip to Cyprus promises that he will be able to produce many more solecisms after he has arrived in the island of Venus.  4 Bauer 1962; Anderson 1989; Elsner and Sharrock 1991; Barolsky 2003. 5 O’Bryhim 1991.

  Spyridon Tzounakas, Stella Alekou and Stephen Harrison The first section of this volume is completed with a study in which Cyprus is presented as a locus amoenus in Claudian’s epithalamium for Honorius and Maria, which celebrates the marriage of the emperor to Stilicho’s daughter in 398 CE. Spyridon Tzounakas in “The Digression on Cyprus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae” focuses on an ecphrasis, an imaginary descriptio that unfolds when Cupid is shown visiting Venus’ palace in Cyprus. This description is, as argued by Tzounakas, indicative of the way Cyprus is perceived in the Roman West during Late Antiquity, which seems, in turn, to have influenced later literature and established the image of Cyprus as a land comparable to the campi Elysii. As stated in this chapter, this ecphrasis facilitates Claudian’s intentions on multiple levels by auguring the felicitous marriage of Honorius and Maria and contributing to the laudatory tone of the poem. The allusions to a number of previous texts allow the poet to recall literary predecessors from various genres in order to promote his political agenda, a concluding element that embarks us upon a journey towards the reception of ancient Cyprus in the Western world, a subject addressed in Section II of this volume. As we attempt to demonstrate in this work, the Cypriot myths attested in multiple texts of ancient literature and beyond have an impressive impact on Western literature. From simple references, such as in da Vinci’s Notebooks on Cerastes, to Goethe’s ballad Pygmalion, influenced immensely by ancient literature on Cyprus, creative alterations of Cypriot material by European intellectuals and artists were part of the European attempt to reintroduce classical works and values back into the West.6 Notwithstanding the scholarly interest in the western reception of Cypriot myths that revolve around the cult of Venus, specific aspects of the myths have until now been overshadowed or neglected. This volume wishes to illuminate some of these aspects, by presenting studies on Cypriot mythology in Shakespeare, Boccaccio, Pontano, Carol Ann Duffy, and Alfieri, among others. With a focus on Venus, Thea Selliaas Thorsen examines in “Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare: The Significance of Ovid’s Cypriot Metamorphoses” the reception of Cyprus as the ideal common ground for exploring the possible connection between Assyrian Enheduanna (the first recorded female poet) and the Greek Sappho: an island physically located between the Assyrian world and what has been perceived as the more central Greece, a cultic place for the goddess of love, with a legendary history involving Adonis, and a historical link to Assyrian culture. Cyprus appears as the perfect example  6 Danahay 1994; Sheriff 1997; Barolsky 1998; Miles 1999; Pulham 2008.

Introduction  

of the fusion between reality and literature, history and ancient myth, as Laura Aresi argues in “Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers: The Island of Cyprus in Boccaccio’s Decameron (via Ovid’s Metamorphoses)”. The island occurs in the Decameron’s pages with a twofold connotation. On the one hand, the reader can recognize the features of the Cyprus of the time, a land of passage for merchants, pilgrims and crusaders who were travelling to the Holy Land. On the other hand, the mythical Cyprus is just as important as the historical one, offering the plot a hidden intertextual network that the reader is called on to detect and appreciate for a deeper interpretation of the stories. Aresi is the first to note the significance of Cyprus itself in concluding the story of Alatiel (Decameron 2.7) with the canonical happy ending and to argue that the importance of the role played by the island of Venus in the definition of the destiny of Alatiel suggests how revealing the ‘classical background’ of a story’s setting could be for an ever more precise understanding of Boccaccio’s use of Greek and Latin models in his masterpiece. Boccaccio is further examined by Hélène Casanova-Robin as part of the background to 15th century Latin poetry in Italy, in “Venus of Paphos in the Latin Poetry of the Quattrocento”. Her study of the presence of Venus of Paphos in the works discussed further raises cosmogonic and astronomical questions. The emphasis on the Cypriot identity of the goddess complicates the figure and enriches it with philosophical echoes. Casanova-Robin examines examples of poetic evidence testifying to the reworking carried out by humanist poets who mix Latin sources and Greek texts, to shed light on the harmonising function and aroused sensuality of the goddess. Aspects of harmony and sensuality in the mythology of Venus are put under the microscope by Stella Alekou in “Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women: The Cypriot Exemplum Against the Background of the Statue (R)evolution”. The Cypriot tales of Ovid’ Metamorphoses Book 10 are examined through their reception in the Late Middle Ages and Renaissance literature and in contemporary poetry with focus on Pygmalion’s statue. The aim is to suggest that Ovid, who is explored in early modern and modern literature as a stylistic and thematic model, is also perceived as a resource of ambiguous feminine paradigms, in which the concepts of harmony and sensuality take a disturbingly provocative twist. The study of the evolution of the statue from Ovid’s speechless creation to the educated woman of the early modern era and to the response of Carol Ann Duffy’s ‘Pygmalion’s Bride’ shows that the Cypriot exemplum was preserved through time and space underneath its Ovidian veil, and that it continues to challenge the limits of normativity as a platform of socio-political criticism. Stamatia Kitsou continues the Ovidian reading of Ovid’s Cypriot myths in their reception, in “Osmosis between High Genres: Ovid’s Tragic Formation of Myrrha’s Tale (Met.

  Spyridon Tzounakas, Stella Alekou and Stephen Harrison 10.298–502) and its Reception in Alfieri’s Homonymous Tragedy”. The study is first focused on the fourth Cypriot story of Metamorphoses Book 10, that revolves around Myrrha and her incestuous love of her father Cinyras.7 Kitsou examines the ways in which Myrrha’s transformation enables Ovid to proceed to the transformation of the genre itself and the formation of a tragic story, and presents the Metamorphoses as a work concerned as much with stories of transformation as with the transformation of stories. Kitsou’s work then reflects on the reception of the story in Alfieri’s homonymous tragedy, to reveal the divergences that result in the portrayal of a pre-Romantic Myrrha. Our literary journey in exploring Cypriot mythological and historical treasures is completed with Bruce Gibson’s insightful work entitled “Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire: Western Travellers to Cyprus in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries”. This study sheds light on the reception of Cyprus and its classical antiquities in the writings of a selection of 18th and 19th century travellers, by exploring how these encounters with Cyprus’ classical past relate to the condition and status of Cyprus as part of the Ottoman empire. Gibson shows that a key feature of such travel writings is the creation of a conceptual geography where Cyprus is a staging-post to the East, and that western encounters with the island of Cyprus in the period under consideration also engage in complex ways with the island’s post-classical history. Cyprus in the period emerges as a place where western travellers use the conventions of ancient geographical writing to revisit a complex and shifting classical past, which is then set in counterpoint with conceptions of the contemporary East. While offering a wide spectrum of reflections on the reception of ancient Cyprus in Latin literature and in the culture of Europe, this volume is permeated by a large degree of both unity and heterogeneity among its individual chapters, and originality of material. The contributions cover a range of subject-matter that draws on recent scholarship and confirms the various and often ambiguous ways in which Cyprus was represented in ancient literature and beyond. By shedding light on the multifaceted depictions of Cyprus, as e.g. an island for trafficking (Panayotakis), a heavenly place (Tzounakas), or an alternative Holy Land (Aresi), these new critical essays encourage the building of new, interdisciplinary trends in Latin readership, interpretation and reception, and stimulate further interest both in the contextualization of the texts but also in the variegated ways in which they were revived. The intersection between and coincidence of geographical and literary landscapes (Harrison; Hogenmüller) offers a  7 Indicative for the study of this myth are the works of Nagle 1983, Lowrie 1993 and O’Bryhim 2008.

Introduction  

thorough understanding of the various, and often contradictory, ways in which Cypriot history and culture were transmitted in poetry (Antoniadis; Neger), and raise new questions on the island’s geopolitical and intercultural threads (Jenkyns) through, also, intertextual readings (Thorsen). A source of harmony (Casanova-Robin) and balance (Kirstein), but also of silent socio-cultural battles (Alekou), Cyprus repeatedly changes its form in literature (Kitsou). The western ‘polyphony’ of the written evidence reveals the conceptual geography by which Cyprus was ‘imprinted’ in between its classical past and the contemporary East (Gibson). The volume thus treats the literary reception of ancient Cyprus as a vastly complex matter, and brings together fresh analyses to ensure both originality and impact on the particular topic. The resulting volume is well-rounded and cohesive, and furnished with the unity required to establish it as a selfstanding, seminal contribution on the subject in current scholarship. This volume aims to bridge the divide between the reception of Cyprus in Roman antiquity and its perception in the Western world. The conference from which this work originates demonstrated, with a lively dialogue between experts in Latin literature and Reception studies, that the project is timely, and confirmed that there is a desire to unfold the intertextual, intergeneric, interdiscursive and intercultural renegotiations between the ancient past and its western reception. While we examine the interactions between classical and postclassical literature, comparative literature and gender, geography, history and archaeology, the chapters present thematic connections and engage with literary theory and literary forms of interpretation. This volume opens a fruitful dialogue between scholars of various related fields and thus aims to make a major and much overdue contribution to the interdisciplinary nature of classics. Even though Cyprus has always been an outlier, Cypriot landscape has often been explored in literature as a precious pathway between two worlds. A land of refuge and transition between Greece with its Peloponnese and archipelago on the one hand, Syria and Jerusalem on the other, and a financial shelter, Cyprus seems to be the perfect example of the fusion between reality and literature, as well as history and ancient myth. By tracing with the greatest possible precision how writers of the Western world have reformulated the Cypriot cultural content, this volume sheds light on the island’s position in between past and present, as a pathway, a meeting-point, and an intellectual landscape, and proves that Cyprus survived through its remains to remind us of its place as a unifying thread between at times conflictual yet compatible worlds. This is, perhaps, what makes Cyprus special.

  Spyridon Tzounakas, Stella Alekou and Stephen Harrison

Bibliography Anagnostou-Laoutides, E. and Konstan, D. (2008), ‘Daphnis and Aphrodite: A Love Affair in Theocritus Idyll 1’, The American Journal of Philology 129, 497–527. Anderson, W.S. (1989), ‘The Artist’s Limits in Ovid: Orpheus, Pygmalion, and Daedalus’, Syllecta Classica 1, 1–11. Barolsky, P. (1998), ‘As in Ovid, So in Renaissance Art’, Renaissance Quarterly 51, 451–474. Barolsky, P. (2003), ‘The Spirit of Pygmalion’, Artibus et Historiae 24, 183–184. Bauer, D.F. (1962), ‘The Function of Pygmalion in the Metamorphoses of Ovid’, Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 93, 1–21. Brown, A.S. (1997), ‘Aphrodite and the Pandora Complex’, The Classical Quarterly 47, 26–47. Danahay, M.A. (1994), ‘Mirrors of Masculine Desire: Narcissus and Pygmalion in Victorian Representation’, Victorian Poetry 32, 35–54. Elsner, J. and Sharrock, A. (1991), ‘Re-Viewing Pygmalion’, Ramus 20, 149–182 (= J. Elsner, ‘Visual Mimesis and the Myth of the Real: Ovid’s Pygmalion as Viewer’, Ramus 20, 154– 168 and A. Sharrock, ‘The Love of Creation’, Ramus 20, 169–182. Faulkner, A. (2010), ‘Callimachus and his Allusive Virgins: Delos, Hestia and the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite’, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 105, 53–63. Hansen, W. (2000), ‘Foam-Born Aphrodite and the Mythology of Transformation’, The American Journal of Philology 121, 1–19. Hughes, B. (2020), Venus and Aphrodite: A Biography of Desire, New York. Karageorghis, J. (2005), Kypris: The Aphrodite of Cyprus. Ancient Sources and Archaeological Evidence, Nicosia. Lowrie, M. (1993), ‘Myrrha’s Second Taboo, Ovid Metamorphoses 10.467–68’, Classical Philology 88, 50–52. Martindale, C., ed. (1998), Ovid Renewed: Ovidian Influences on Literature and Art from the Middle Ages to the Twentieth Century, Cambridge. Miller, J.M. (1988), ‘Some Versions of Pygmalion’, in Martindale 1998, 205–214. Nagle, B.R. (1983), ‘Byblis and Myrrha: Two Incest Narratives in the Metamorphoses’, The Classical Journal 78, 301–315. O’Bryhim, S. (1991), The Amathusian Myths of Ovid's Metamorphoses 10, Diss., University of Texas at Austin. O’Bryhim, S. (2008), ‘Myrrha’s “Wedding” (Ov. Met. 10. 446–470)’, The Classical Quarterly 58, 190–195. Palmatier, M.A. (1961), ‘A Suggested New Source in Ovid’s Metamorphoses for Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis’, Huntington Library Quarterly 24, 163–169. Pulham, P. (2008), ‘From Pygmalion to Persephone: Love, Art, Myth in Thomas Hardy’s The Well-Beloved’, Victorian Review 34, 219–239. Pirenne-Delforge, V. (1994), L’Aphrodite grecque, Athens/Liege. Pironti, G. (2007), Entre ciel et guerre: Figures d’Aphrodite en Grèce ancienne, Liege. Roche Rico, B. (1985), ‘From “Speechless Dialect” to “Prosperous Art”: Shakespeare’s Recasting of the Pygmalion Image’, Huntington Library Quarterly 48, 285–295. Sheriff, M.D. (1997), ‘Passionate Spectators: On Enthusiasm, Nymphomania, and the Imagined Tableau’, Huntington Library Quarterly 60, 51–83. Young, P.H. (2005), ‘The Cypriot Aphrodite Cult: Paphos, Rantidi, and Saint Barnabas’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 64, 23–44.



Part I: Cyprus in Latin Literature

Costas Panayotakis

Cyprus and its Myths on the Roman Stage Abstract: This chapter deals with the Roman perceptions of Cyprus in the Latin comedy of the early Republic (late third to late second centuries BCE). By focussing on the representation of Cyprus in select non-dramatic works of Ennius and in the corpus of the comic playwrights Plautus, Terence, and Turpilius, this chapter argues that the sources seem to have portrayed the island culturally and geographically as a distant but certainly accessible and commercially important location which had strong associations with sex (but not with love) in the Roman theatrical imagination. This portrayal may not have represented historical reality, but it surely squares with the stereotypical themes dominating the fabula palliata.

 Introduction The long-standing association of Cyprus with the birth and worship of Aphrodite/Venus, the material wealth and the strategic — albeit peripheral — geographical position of the island as trading centre linking central and powerful cities of the eastern and western worlds, and the Cypriot myths which were transmitted from one culture to the other through oral, written, and visual channels created stereotypical images of Cyprus in the Roman literary imagination.1 They also conjured up different pictures of the island’s cultural, social,  I am grateful to Spyros Tzounakas and Stella Alekou, the organizers of the online conference ‘The Reception of Ancient Cyprus in Western Culture’ (26–27/2/2021), at which a version of this chapter was first presented, and to the audience on that occasion for their helpful feedback. I am especially indebted to Antonis Petrides of the Open University of Cyprus and to Peter Kruschwitz of the University of Vienna for sharing with me their as-yet-unpublished work on the representation of Cyprus in Greek New Comedy and in Plautus and Terence: for details, see Petrides (forthcoming) and Kruschwitz (unpublished paper). Given the paucity of the material under discussion, their conclusions are not dissimilar from mine, although my approach differs somewhat from theirs.  1 These images or literary perceptions were often reinforced by meaningful adjectives which qualified the noun Cyprus in Latin literature from Horace’s time onwards (aerosa, beata, candida, Cinyraea, Cythereia, dilecta [sc. a Venere], famosa diuitiis, infamis nimis calore, ingens, longinqua, magna, opima, portuosa, rorulenta), see TLL Onomasticon s.v. ‘Cypros’, 2.798.7–16. In a future publication it would be worth examining each of these adjectives in their context so as to form a better picture of the network of qualities attributed to Cyprus. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-002

  Costas Panayotakis and political identity in the minds of readers, listeners, and viewers already during the Ptolemaic stage of its history and long before the annexation of Cyprus as Roman province in 58 BCE.2 In short, the place-name Cyprus as a geographical location would have meant something to a Roman, even if he or she had never been there previously. My aim in this chapter is to focus on the images of (and reflections on) Cyprus in staged Latin comedies of the early Republic. My argument will be that, despite the shortage of evidence, Cyprus was not absent from the Roman theatrical tradition of the fabula palliata or ‘Greek-dress comedy in Latin’, which seems to have inherited, perpetuated, and occasionally omitted from its scripts stereotypical beliefs about Cyprus both as a distant geographical locus that featured odd customs and as a literary locus communis associated with luxury and illicit sex. The creation and/or continuation of such beliefs should best be understood, I will argue, in terms of each play’s individual plot-requirements and the necessary manipulation of audience expectations, and need not be viewed as an accurate reflection of historical reality; in other words, the little information we may gather about Cyprus from the extant palliata (plays and fragments) is plausible but may not be true.3 At the end of the

 2 Badian 1965, Mitford 1980, Hunt 1982b, Mitford 1990, and Calvelli 2020 discuss the politics behind (and the effects of) the annexation of Cyprus as Roman province, its monuments, and its cults. Kearns 2018 offers an insightful diachronic analysis of literary perceptions of Cyprus with reference to three registers: its location and distance, its economic geography, and its royal urban histories. Plautus is mentioned briefly (Kearns 2018, 57 n. 16) in relation to the geographical location of the island. My account has a different focus and range, complementing and qualifying some of Kearns’s observations as far as early Roman comedy is concerned. 3 A similar mental process of cultural reconfiguration and manipulation of audience expectations would likewise have taken place, I imagine, in staged spectacles put on from at least the fifteenth century and set fully or partly in Cyprus, for example Shakespeare’s Othello (performed around 1602) and Verdi’s Otello (premiered at La Scala, Milan in 1887), Handel’s opera seria Tolomeo, re d’Egitto (first performed in London in 1728), Mondonville’s opera-ballet The Festivals of Paphos (first performed in Paris in 1758), as well as four short operas by Benda (1779), Cherubini (1809), Donizetti (1816), and von Suppé (1865), all of them dealing with Pygmalion’s passion for Galatea. In his splendid libretto of Verdi’s Otello, Arrigo Boito, himself an operatic composer sensitive to the suffering of the human psyche, beautifully personifies the island of Cyprus at the point of the story when he has Iago deliberately state to Cassio that, upon the safe return of Otello and the happy news of the marriage of Otello and Desdemona, oggi impazza tutta Cipro ‘all Cyprus has gone mad today’ (Act 1, Scene 5); thus he links Otello’s loss of reason with the excessively joyful behaviour of the environment in which the hero of the opera experiences his feelings and turns them into action. In this way the presence of Cyprus as the geographical backdrop of the opera against which Otello’s tragedy unfolds may be explained not only in terms of Verdi’s debt to Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice but also as a meaningful setting that contributes to, and participates in, the disastrous

Cyprus and its Myths on the Roman Stage  

chapter, I will also show briefly how Plautus, one of whose comic techniques was the playfully irreverent treatment of Greek mythology, in some of his plays includes a brief acknowledgement of Cyprus’ mythological legacy to Roman culture, but always does so in a discreet fashion, dissociating the myth from the island and giving it (that is, the myth) an obscure content and a comic value that is both universal (in the sense that the myth’s origins are not place-specific) and tied to the particular context of the scene in which the myth is attested.

 Ennius’ references to Cyprus It is appropriate to begin my account in the late third/early second century BCE not with Plautus but with Ennius, the celebrated Italian Greek, who composed, among other works, tragedies and comedies in the style of Plautus’ fabulae palliatae. According to Paul the Deacon’s Epitome of Festus and to Lactantius’ Divine Institutions, Ennius referred to Cyprus twice in his works, in neither case as part of a play or in a theatrical context, but in both cases most illuminatingly with regard to the theatrical pieces of evidence to be considered shortly. One of these references is in Ennius’ (now highly fragmentary) text in verse Sota, named after the Greek poet Sotades of Maronea, where the speaker (Ennius himself?) seems to refer to the habit (or to what was viewed as a habit, quod solet fieri) of Cypriot cattle of eating human excrement, a custom also mentioned centuries later in a medicinal context by Pliny the Elder (Enn. Sota 4 Goldberg and Manuwald = Paul. Fest. p. 51.23–25 Lindsay):4

 consequences of the combination of success, power, sex, jealousy, and envy. Shakespeare’s Iago, in the scene at which he attempts to make the inebriated Cassio drunk so as to start a fight, refers to Cyprus as a ‘warlike isle’ (Act 2, Scene 3, line 55) and to the men of Cyprus — ‘noble swelling spirits, that hold their honour in a wary distance’ (Act 2, Scene 3, lines 53–54) — as a ‘flock of drunkards’ (Act 2, Scene 3, line 57). The topic deserves detailed discussion, which the scope of my chapter does not currently allow. 4 The Latin text of Ennius’ Sota and its English translation are from Goldberg and Manuwald 2018, 298–299. On the coprophagical habit of Cypriot oxen, see also Plin. Nat. 28.266 boues in Cypro contra tormina hominum excrementis sibi mederi ‘that the oxen in Cyprus eat human excrement to cure themselves of colic’. On the Ennian fragment, see Courtney 1993, 6 and Kwapisz 2019, 66–67.

  Costas Panayotakis Cyprio boui merendam Ennius sotadico uersu cum dixit, significauit id, quod solet fieri in insula Cypro, in qua boues humano stercore pascuntur. for a Cyprian ox a light meal When Ennius said this in a Sotadic line, he meant what often happens on the island of Cyprus, where cattle are pastured on human dung.

The proverbial expression βοῦς Κύπριος ‘Cypriot ox’, applied as term of abuse against a person who was regarded as ‘dung-eater’,5 featured (according to the sophist Zenobius 2.82 Bühler) in Menander’s comedy Kolax ‘The Flatterer’, one of the two Greek originals which Terence employed in the composition of his hugely successful play Eunuchus ‘The Eunuch’ (originally performed in 161 BCE). However, whereas in the Greek original the insulting phrase ‘Cypriot ox’ was levelled by the pompous soldier Bias against an imaginary Cypriot rival of his (Plut. Mor. 57A), in the Eunuchus Terence not only changed the offensive remark of the pompous soldier to a lengthy witticism whose punchline was aimed at undermining the masculinity of his young rival, but he also altered the rival’s place of origin from the island of Cyprus to the island of Rhodes (Ter. Eu. 420–430). In his ‘green and yellow’ commentary on Terence’s play, John Barsby accounted for this change both in terms of clearer intelligibility to a Roman audience and in terms of the political implications of the reference to Rhodes after the Rhodians’ involvement with Rome in the aftermath of the Second Macedonian War (171–167 BCE).6 Either of these explanations is possible, but it is also worth bearing in mind that scatological humour was avoided in Plautus’ comedies and cannot be found in Terence’s plays, and that (on the basis of our extant evidence) it made its first appearance in the scripts of the Roman stage only in the early first century BCE in the fragments of the native Italian farce known as Atellane comedy.7 It is possible then that the mention of the Cypriot nationality of the soldier’s rival and the reference to a popular belief associated with Cypri-

 5 For a full list of verbatim attestations of the proverb and indirect allusions to it in Greek comedy (Menander and Antiphanes), see Leurini 2019, 19–21, who also cites the various proverbial collections in which the phrase is included and discusses its theatrical effect in Menander’s fragments. 6 See Barsby 1999, 162–164 (commentary on Thraso’s witticism) and 306–307 (the remains of Menander’s Kolax). 7 On the varied linguistic registers in these forms of theatrical entertainment, see de Melo 2010, 148–150.

Cyprus and its Myths on the Roman Stage  

ot cattle in Menander’s Kolax were erased by Terence in his Latin adaptation of scenes from that play not because Terence thought that his audience would not understand the allusion to Cypriot oxen or because he did not wish to portray Cypriots as culturally unsophisticated, but because of Terence’s linguistic aesthetics with regard to composing comedy and the overall literary ethos he wished to give to his work. Cyprus is also mentioned in Ennius’ prose narrative Euhemerus or Historia Sacra,8 in which Ennius seems to relate the genealogy of Jupiter and events linked to his life (at least this is what we can infer on the basis of the verbatim citations and paraphrased material quoted by Lactantius in the Divine Institutions); Ennius appears to have drawn his material from the work of the Greek philosopher Euhemerus of Messene, active around the late fourth and early third centuries BCE (Var. R. 1.48.2, Cic. N.D. 1.119). In his discussion of pagan gods, Lactantius (Div. inst. 1.17.9) condemns the indecent behaviour of Venus, who, according to Euhemerus/Ennius, seems to have been (Euhemerus 10 Goldberg and Manuwald = Lact. Div. inst. 1.17.10) prima, ut in Historia Sacra continetur, artem meretriciam instituit auctorque mulieribus in Cypro fuit, uti uulgo corpore quaestum facerent: quod idcirco imperauit, ne sola praeter alias mulieres inpudica et uirorum adpetens uideretur the first, as it is said in the Sacred History, to introduce the profession of prostitution, and she was its instigator for women in Cyprus, so that they made profit from prostituting their bodies: she ordered this so that she did not appear to be the only one, surpassing other women, to be unchaste and solicitous of men.

I view Euhemerus/Ennius’ aetiological comment on the genesis of prostitution in Cyprus — a comment which I would be reluctant to consider robust evidence for the so-called ‘sacred’ or ‘cult’ or ‘temple’ prostitution9 — as a cultural stereo 8 On the problematic title and character of this work, see Russo 2017. The Latin text of Ennius’ Euhemerus and its English translation are from Goldberg and Manuwald 2018, 256–257. 9 The discussion on this highly disputed topic continues: see Gibson 2019 with earlier bibliography.

  Costas Panayotakis type arising from the island’s firmly established connection with the lustful Aphrodite in the Roman mind already from the time of the early Republic (for the literary sources, see LSJ s.v. Κύπρις 1, TLL Onomasticon s.v. ‘Cypros’, 2.796.76– 797.3); this connection squares well with the repertory and conventions of early Roman comic drama, occurs four times in the extant corpus of Plautus and Terence, and perpetuates the image of Cyprus as a specific geographical, commercial, moral, and literary τόπος in the Roman audience’s imagination. It is to this corpus that I now turn.

 Cyprus in the landscape of the extant fabula palliata Love afflicted by obstacles was one of the cornerstones of the so-called ‘Greekdress comedy in Latin’, and very often the plot of this type of comedy led to the joyful union or reunion of (married or unmarried) lovers, a happy ending which we would expect the Cypriot Venus as goddess of love to have supported and promoted. But, although some of Plautus’ plays are set outside Athens (for example Thebes (Amphitruo), a city in Aetolia (Captiui), Sicyon (Cistellaria), Epidaurus (Curculio), Epidamnus, modern Durrës in western Albania (Menaechmi), Ephesus (Miles Gloriosus), and Calydon (Poenulus)),10 neither Cyprus as a remote romantic exotic location situated far away from Athens nor any famous Cypriot city (for example Paphos) features in the extant Plautine or Terentian drama as the backdrop against which the erotic plot was unfolded. Even in the Rudens, which includes in its stage-setting and cast a temple of Venus, a priestess who looks after the goddess’ property, a pimp, and two prostitutes belonging to him, the story (which in all likelihood was taken from a Greek original by Diphilus) is set not in Cyprus but on a seashore near Cyrene in North Africa (this may also have been the location where the action of the now fragmentary Vidularia was set). Furthermore, Roman comic plays belonging to the palliata, the togata, and the mime are often entitled after place-names that have been formed into adjectives defining a character’s nationality: for example Plautus’ Persa ‘The Persian’, Terence’s Andria ‘The woman of Andros’, Afranius’ Brundisinae ‘The women from Brundisium’, Laberius’ Cretensis ‘The Cretan’. We have no extant titles of Latin comedies or tragedies explicitly associated with Cyprus or  10 For useful discussions of the geographical landscape of Plautine drama with earlier bibliography, see Hanses 2020, Papaioannou 2020, and Monda 2020.

Cyprus and its Myths on the Roman Stage  

with specific Cypriot cities or sites, although there are three short fragments in Greek (125–127 Kassel–Austin = 120–122 Kock) of a play attributed by Athenaeus and the so-called ‘Antiatticist lexicon’ to Alexis and entitled, in the manuscripts, Κύπρις ‘Aphrodite’ (or, less plausibly, ‘The woman from Cyprus’), but this title was emended by Meineke to Κύπριος ‘The Cypriot’.11 Despite it being the island of love par excellence, then, Cyprus paradoxically seems not to have been used as a romantic background for love-stories on the Roman stage. But there is a possible qualification to be made with regard to this statement, and I should like to begin with it out of chronological sequence, since the short, literary fragment I refer to is usually ignored or set aside in discussions regarding Cyprus on the Roman stage; this short quotation is attributed to the playwright Sextus Turpilius, who composed fabulae palliatae (thirteen titles and about two hundred lines survive) long after Plautus and Terence (he is said to have died in 104/3 BCE).12 One of the fragments of his corpus which, according to the lexicographer Nonius, originally formed part of the play Paedium ‘The young slave/child’13 — presumably based on a play by Menander or Apollodorus or Posidippus of the same name — reads as follows: cuíus aduentu ínsula hodie cláret | Cyprós (‘by whose arrival (or ‘by your arrival’, if the relative pronoun cuius refers to a second-person personal pronoun as the missing antecedent) the island of Cyprus shines today’). The context of the fragment, the speaker, and the addressee (if any) are unknown; in his third edition of the fragments of the fabula palliata, Otto Ribbeck speculated that these were the words of a parasite who welcomed the newly arrived addressee, perhaps a travelling young man (or a travelling soldier?),14 and the hyperbole of the statement in the fragment may support his hypothesis, although it ultimately proves nothing. The fragment in question drew Nonius’ attention because of the rare, intransitive use of the verb claro clarare ‘to shine’,15 but I cite it for two other reasons: the first is the substantive insula which is placed in apposition to Cypros, the nominative case of the proper name with Greek ending — note the position of the word Cypros at the start of the line in enjambement; this is the first attestation of the geographical formula insula Cyprus which defined the identity of the island in terms of space and access to it, and which was used frequently in Latin literature, from  11 On the emendation of the manuscripts’ dative Κύπριδι to Κυπρίωι and its implications for the plot of the play, see Arnott 1996, 352–353; Petrides (forthcoming), § 3. 12 The most comprehensive account on him so far (which, however, does not discuss the fragment I discuss here) is Manuwald 2011, 257–260. 13 Turpilius, Paedium 152 Ribbeck3 cited in Non. p. 85.20–22 Mercier = 121 Lindsay. 14 Ribbeck, 18983, 121. 15 OLD s.v. 1; TLL 3.1271.8.

  Costas Panayotakis Cicero’s time, in one of his letters dated to 51 or 50 BCE,16 that is, after the Roman annexation of Cyprus, up to Late Antiquity. Even more interesting, though, is the adverb hodie ‘today’, which suggests that the plot of Paedium may have been set in Cyprus itself. This is so, because, whenever hodie is used in Plautus and Terence (as well as in other early Latin playwrights) in the sense ‘today’, ‘at the present time’ — that is, whenever the meaning of the adverb is purely temporal and has no other connotation (for example as part of a threatening expression such as diminuam ego tuum caput hodie ‘I’ll smash your head in’, Ter. Eu. 803; see OLD s.v. hodie 3) — the speaker and his or her addressee (who could be another character onstage or the audience of the performance) are meant to be located in the same time and space, in the same ‘here and now’. In other words, the use of hodie in the quotation from Turpilius’ play excludes in my view the possibility that the fragment belongs to a narrative of past events, to a memory, and suggests that the fictional setting of Paedium was Cyprus.17 That is all I can say at present about the fragment on the basis of the extant evidence.

 Cyprus and sexual stereotypes in Plautus and Terence Cyprus is mentioned three times in Plautus, but all three instances are gathered in one of his plays, the Mercator ‘The Merchant’, which is set in ‘Athens’ and was probably performed in the late third century BCE (that is, early in Plautus’ dramatic career).18 The plot focusses on the love-interests of a hopeless and profligate young man, Charinus, son of the old man Demipho, who sends Charinus abroad so that he may be a merchant, but then, when the son returns and brings with him his new love-interest, the slave-girl Pasicompsa, Demipho becomes his son’s rival-in-love and, with the help of another old man, his friend and neighbour Lysimachus, Charinus’ father succeeds in buying the slave-girl for himself. In despair and afflicted by love (Mer. 648 quia enim me afflictat amor ‘because love is vexing me’), Charinus confesses to his friend Eutychus that he has decided to go into exile (Mer. 644–647):

 16 Cic. Fam. 15.4.15; for the phrase, see TLL Onomasticon s.v. ‘Cypros’, 2.798.16–25. 17 This is also the view of Arnott 1996, 353. 18 On the dating, see Dunsch 2000 [2001], 31 and 320–321, and de Melo 2011, 8. The Latin text and the English translation of passages from the Mercator in this chapter are from de Melo 2011.

Cyprus and its Myths on the Roman Stage  

645

CH.

EYT. CH. CH.

EYT. CH.

non possum durare, certum est exulatum hinc ire me. sed quam capiam ciuitatem cogito potissumum: Megares, Eretriam, Corinthum, Chalcidem, Cretam, Cyprum, Sicyonem, Cnidum, Zacynthum, Lesbiam, Boeotiam? quor istuc coeptas consilium? quia enim me afflictat amor. I can’t endure it, I’m resolved to go into exile. But I’m not sure which state I’d best seek: Megara, Eretria, Corinth, Chalcis, Crete, Cyprus, Sicyon, Cnidus, Zacynthus, Lesbos, or Boeotia? Why are you adopting this plan? Because love is vexing me.

The mixture of towns (Megara, Eretria, Corinth, Chalcis, Sicyon, Cnidus), regions (Boeotia), and islands (Crete, Cyprus, Zacynthus, Lesbos) in Charinus’ lines to Eutychus is seemingly absurd, and it has rightly been pointed out that many indications in lines 645–647 suggest these three trochaic septenarii were only partially modelled on Philemon’s Greek original, or perhaps were not modelled at all on it, but constituted an entirely original addition on Plautus’ part. This is so, because these lines exhibit the typical features of the playwright’s comic craftsmanship: consider, for example, the alliteration in the cumulative list Corinthum, Chalcidem, Cretam, Cyprum (646), which works successfully only in Latin; the absence of any other reference to these locations in the remainder of the conversation between Charinus and Eutychus; the fact that there is no immediately logical or fully consistent geographical route linking the locations mentioned in lines 646 and 647; and finally that it is possible to understand the conversation between the two young men even if we skip lines 645–647 and we read line 644 followed directly by line 648.19 But even if the catalogue of placenames in lines 646 and 647 were genuinely Plautine, and not taken from the Greek original, it is not as chaotic and illogical as it might seem at first sight. The alliteration and assonance of /k/, /m/, /r/, and /s/ sounds in both lines and the worship of Aphrodite/Venus in many of the luxurious places present in Charinus’ list (for example Corinth, Crete, Cyprus, and Cnidus)20 give the catalogue internal cohesion and some sort of reasoning in Charinus’ mind that is obsessed with luxury and sex, although the association of these locations with

 19 See Fraenkel 1960, 56 n. 1 = 2007, 302 n. 2, and Monda 2020, 80; Dunsch 2000 [2001], 236– 237 makes insightful observations on this comic catalogue, although it is perhaps an exaggeration to claim that all of these locations are ‘“comic places”, institutionalised within the world of comedy’ (at 236). 20 I owe this observation to Harrison’s chapter in this volume.

  Costas Panayotakis the goddess of love surely renders ridiculous the idea of Charinus’ exile in Cyprus and elsewhere, and such an incongruity is surely deliberate on the playwright’s part (one is reminded of the similarly absurd comic effect of Umbricius’ self-imposed exile to Cumae near the luxurious Baiae on the Bay of Naples in Juv. 3.1–5). The anticlimactic effect of this pompous catalogue is shown in line 647, which comprises a pair of geographically remote cities (Sicyon and Cnidus), then another pair of islands (Zacynthus and Lesbos), and then (pricking the bubble) Boeotia, a region just to the north of Attica, as the final item of the list. It may also be argued that the names of these locations are arranged (certainly in line 646 and to an extent also in line 647) in terms of geographical proximity to Athens, where the plot of the play is set. Therefore, an audience member’s mind travels from the nearby cities of Megara and Corinth to the large island of Euboia, represented by Eretria and Chalcis, and from Euboia to the even larger island of Crete, and from Crete to an even more remote and large territory, the island of Cyprus, whose position at line-end is meant also to signify the cultural alienation and distancing effect of voluntary exile from Athens to Cyprus, since Cyprus at the time of the performance of the Mercator was under Ptolemaic rule. When the two friends meet again, Charinus is fully ready to go into exile and, refusing to believe Eutychus who assures him that Pasicompsa is safe and nearby, embarks on a mad fantasy that involves a trip made on a chariot (931) and/or on foot (932) that is supposed to take him directly to the island of Cyprus (Mer. 931–939): CH. EVT.

935

EVT. CH. CH. CH. CH. CH. EVT. CH. EVT. CH. EVT.

iam in currum escendi, iam lora in manus cepi meas. sanus non es. CH. quin, pedes, uos in curriculum conicitis in Cyprum recta, quandoquidem pater mihi exilium parat? stultus es, noli istuc quaeso dicere. CH. certum exsequi est, operam ut sumam ad peruestigandum, ubi sit illaec. EVT. quin domi est. nam hic quod dixit, id mentitust. EVT. uera dixi equidem tibi. iam Cyprum ueni. EVT. quin sequere, ut illam uideas quam expetis. percontatus non inueni. EVT. matris iam iram neglego. porro proficiscor quaesitum. nunc perueni Chalcidem; (…) I’ve already mounted my chariot, I’ve already taken the reins into my hands. You’re not in your right mind. My feet, why won’t you start running, directly to Cyprus, since my father is imposing exile on me? You’re stupid. Please don’t say that. I’m determined to trace her, I’ll make an effort to track her down. She’s at home.

Cyprus and its Myths on the Roman Stage  

CH. EVT. CH. EVT. CH. EVT. CH.

What this chap said was a lie. I’ve told you the truth. I’ve come to Cyprus now.21 Do follow me so that you may see the girl you seek. I’ve made inquiries, but I haven’t found her. I don’t care about my mother’s anger now. I’m setting out to seek her further. Now I’ve arrived in Chalcis; (…)

Why is Cyprus the first destination Charinus wishes to reach in his mad-fantasy trip in order to find his beloved Pasicompsa? This may be because Cyprus had been mentioned previously as one of the islands on which Charinus could go into exile (646), but so had Crete and Lesbos (646–647), and yet they are not mentioned in this passage. What does Plautus wish his audience to think with the reference to Cyprus here? On the basis of the high-flown language and the melodramatic motifs in the exile-soliloquy Charinus recites as he is about to leave his paternal home (Mer. 830–841), and in view of his statement pater mihi exilium parat ‘my father is imposing exile on me’ (Mer. 933), scholars since the beginning of the twentieth century have interpreted Charinus’ exilic madness as a sophisticated Plautine allusion to a specific Roman tragedy, but there is no consensus as to the author, title, and plot of that tragedy. A favourite candidate for the hypothetical tragic intertext of the scene is the myth of Teucer, the founder of the city-state of Salamis on the east coast of Cyprus;22 Teucer’s father, Telamon, king of Salamis, did not allow him to return home to Greece from the Trojan War, after Teucer had failed to bring the body and armour of his halfbrother Ajax back to Greece. Tragedies in Latin entitled Teucer seem to have been composed by Livius Andronicus (so says Varro, L. 7.3, although the play is entirely lost) and Pacuvius (twenty-one fragments of this tragedy survive), but there is also Ennius’ (now fragmentary) tragedy Telamo to consider.23 All this uncertainty about Plautus’ tragic intertext, though, along with the fact that elsewhere in the play (357–358) Charinus associates his father with the notion of

 21 I am grateful to Stephen Harrison who suggested to me (per litteras) the attractive possibility of interpreting this phrase within the context of Charinus’ fantasy as a metaphor which has nothing to do with Cyprus qua geographical space but which stands for ‘“reach my heart’s beloved”, just as “go to Corinth” stands for “live luxuriously”’ (for the meaning of the latter phrase, see Harrison 2017). On the characterization of Charinus and a detailed discussion of the whole irrational journey of this passage, see Anderson 1993, 39–40; Dunsch 2000 [2001], 343– 346; and Raffaelli 2012, 143–148. 22 On the details of the myth, see Antoniadis’s chapter in this volume. 23 See the excellent discussion on the hypothetical tragic intertext in Dunsch 2000 [2001], 321, as well as the observations in Jocelyn 1967, 394 and de Melo 2019, 2.468.

  Costas Panayotakis ‘exile’ without giving his complaint obvious tragic undertones, suggests that Plautus is here probably not thinking of any specific Roman or, in fact, Greek tragedy, but has, in all likelihood, created a madness-scene which contains general, vague, tragic motifs and would, no doubt, have contained also the corresponding tragic gestures in performance. I suggest that we look for another explanation of the reference to Cyprus in this context, and I agree with Peter Kruschwitz in that we should think about the commercial and sexual reputation of the island in the Roman mind. Sharon James, Toph Marshall, and Amy Richlin have discussed the plot of the Mercator in relation to human trafficking and slave-trade for sexual purposes, and, on the basis of the information given in the play’s prologue, delivered by Charinus himself, have viewed the young Charinus as a sex tourist, who is not really emotionally involved with his occasional girlfriends, whom he could not have married anyway, but visits various locations of pleasure in Greece purely for the purpose of sexual gratification. One of these temporary mistresses of his is Pasicompsa, who is unmarriageable according to the conventions of New Comedy, and Peter Kruschwitz is right in pointing out that her social status does not change as the play’s plot unfolds in front of the audience: ‘Pasicompsa is not in charge of her own fate or status in any way,’ Kruschwitz writes, ‘but gets sold and bought repeatedly, and transferred from one owner to another, always for the same purpose.’24 It makes sense, then, for Charinus to think of Cyprus as the first destination during his hallucination, because in his mind he would have viewed the island as a centre of human trafficking; this does not mean that Charinus’ fantasy was historically accurate, but crucially it means that it was a plausible fantasy, and the Roman viewers sharing the sexual stereotypes associated with Venus and Cyprus would have understood Charinus’ train of thought and his hope of finding his beloved in such an environment.25 The same cultural stereotype regarding Venus’ island, which may or may not have portrayed realistically the sexual landscape of the mid second century BCE, is presented in a scene in Terence’s last play, the Adelphoe ‘The Brothers’, which was first performed in 160 BCE and is set in Athens. In an early scene of that play, Cyprus is mentioned twice; Syrus, the slave of the young man Aeschi 24 Kruschwitz (unpublished paper), §IV; see James 2010; Marshall 2013, 185–188; and Richlin 2017, 383. 25 In Plautus’ Poenulus, which is set in a city (perhaps Calydon?) in Aetolia, there is an explicit reference (at lines 339–340) to a mercatus meretricius ‘prostitute fair’: (the young Carthaginian girl Adelphasium speaking) quia apud aedem Veneris hodie est mercatus meretricius: | eo conueniunt mercatores, ibi ego me ostendi uolo ‘because at the temple of Venus there is a prostitute fair today; it is there that the merchants gather, it is there that I want to be presented’.

Cyprus and its Myths on the Roman Stage  

nus, bullies and blackmails the greedy pimp Sannio, pressing him to accept a small sum of money as compensation for Aeschinus’ abduction of the prostitute Bacchis, who belongs to Sannio (Ad. 215–235):26 215

220

SYR. SAN. SYR.

225

SYR. SAN. SAN.

230

235 SYR.

SAN. SYR. SAN. SYR.

SAN.

(…) SYR. age, scis quid loquar: pecuniam in loco negligere maxumum interdumst lucrum. hui! metuisti, si nunc de tuo iure concessisses paullulum atque adulescenti esses morigeratus, hominum homo stultissume, ne non tibi istuc feneraret. SAN. ego spem pretio non emo. numquam rem facies: abi, nescis inescare homines, Sannio. credo istuc melius esse; uerum ego numquam adeo astutus fui quin quidquid possem mallem auferre potius in praesentia. age, noui tuom animum: quasi iam usquam tibi sint uiginti minae dum huic obsequare; praeterea autem te aiunt proficisci Cyprum. SAN. hem. coemisse hinc quae illuc ueheres multa, nauem conductam. hoc, scio, animus tibi pendet. ubi illinc, spero, redieris tamen, hoc ages. nusquam pedem! perii hercle: hac illi spe hoc inceperunt. SYR. timet: inieci scrupulum homini. o scelera! illud uide ut in ipso articulo oppressit. emptae mulieres complures et item hinc alia quae porto Cyprum. nisi eo ad mercatum uenio, damnum maxumumst. nunc si hoc omitto ac tum agam ubi illinc rediero, nil est: refrixerit res. “nunc demum uenis? quor passu’s? ubi eras?” ut sit satius perdere quam hic nunc manere tam diu aut tum persequi.

Come on, you know what I mean! In the right circumstances, if you don’t bother about money, that sometimes makes you the biggest profit. What? Were you afraid that if you retreated a little bit for now from what you’re entitled to, and showed yourself obliging to the young man, that wouldn’t pay you a good dividend? You’re the biggest fool alive! I don’t pay good money to buy hope! You’ll never make a profit. Get away with you! You don’t know how to bait a trap for people, Sannio! I can believe your way’s better; but I’ve never been so clever that I didn’t prefer to take what I could straight away. Come on, I know how your mind’s working: as if the twenty minas were really of any interest to you, as long as you can please him! Besides, they say you’re going on a trip to Cyprus. (horrified that this is known) What?!

 26 The Latin text of Ter. Ad. 215–235 is from Barsby 2001, 274, 276, and the English translation is from Brown 2006, 271–272.

  Costas Panayotakis SYR.

SAN. SYR. SAN.

They say you’ve bought a lot of goods here to take over there, and hired a boat. I know your mind’s set on that. When you return from there, however, as I’m sure you will, you’ll deal with this business. I’m not moving an inch. (Aside) Damn, I’ve had it! That’s what they were hoping for when they started on this! (aside) That’s frightened him; I’ve touched a nerve there! (continuing aside) What a crook! Look at how he’s caught me at the very worst moment! I’ve bought several women, and other goods too that I’m exporting from here to Cyprus; if I don’t go to the market there, I’ll lose heavily. But if I abandon this matter now, I’ll be trying to reopen a case that’s been settled when I return from there—there’s no hope; the business will have gone cold: ‘You’ve come at last, have you? Why did you allow it? Where were you?’ So it’ll be better to cut my losses than to stay here for such a long time now or follow it up later!

Terence must have expected the viewers of his play to believe Sannio’s words — including the references to a market of unspecified character (see my note 25), to (slave-)women as purchased products, and to the heavy loss Sannio would incur if he did not go to that market on time; the playwright surely did not envisage or want his audience to start questioning the veracity of Sannio’s statements, wondering whether or not Cyprus, a location situated far away from Italy and perhaps known to some members of the audience through military employment or business trips, was indeed a commercial centre of organized prostitution. The pimp’s avaricious character, his comic fear of losing his reputation as an efficient and punctual seller of prostitutes, and his financial concerns make sense both in the script and within the conventions of the comic genre to which the Adelphoe belongs: all pimps in New Comedy are greedy and shameless. Therefore, the reference to Cyprus, the island of Venus, adds verisimilitude to Sannio’s character-portrayal and enhances the realism of the whole situation: many of the viewers of the first performance of the Adelphoe would never have set foot on Cyprus, and yet they would have taken Sannio’s words at face value. On the basis of the Ennius and Plautus passages discussed above, then, it would be reasonable to assume that many members in the audience of the Adelphoe in 160 BCE and many of the readers of Terence’s play in later times would have jumped to conclusions about the type of commercial transactions taking place in Cyprus and would not have questioned the details.27 Donatus, the fourth 27 For such assumptions in more recent times, see Martin 1976, 140: ‘Cyprus, the island of Venus, would have a lively mercatus meretricius’; Barsby 2001, 276 n. 14 is more accurate: ‘Cyprus was always an important trading centre in the east Mediterranean, and, being an island sacred to Venus, was particularly appropriate for the dealings of a pimp.’ Brown 2006, 335 even more cautiously omits any mention to a prostitute-fair: his note simply says ‘Cyprus: an important trading centre’.

Cyprus and its Myths on the Roman Stage  

century commentator on Terence, certainly did so. In a comment relating to line 230 of the Adelphoe (p. 51 Wessner), he writes: hanc insulam portat uel quod Veneri sacrata sit, ut Horatius (Carm. 1.3.1) «sic te diua potens Cypri», uel quod mercatus in ea sit, ut idem (Carm. 1.1.13–14) «numquam dimoueas, ut trabe Cypria Myrtoum pauidus nauta secet mare».

QVAE PORTO CYPRVM

THAT I’M EXPORTING TO CYPRUS. He is taking [them] this island either because it was sacred to Venus (as Horace says, ‘[so may] the goddess who rules over Cyprus’) or because there is a market on it (as the same poet says: ‘you could never move [him] … to become a frightened sailor and cut the Myrtoan Sea with Cyprian timbers’28).

Donatus’ explanatory comment on the religious link between Cyprus and Venus is his discreet way of hinting to his readers that the nature of Sannio’s business in the goddess’ sacred island is of a sexual nature, but, owing to the educational character of his commentary, Donatus does not go so far as to specify the type of market Sannio was planning to visit; he prefers to focus on an entirely different sort of Cypriot product, namely the island’s timber. Kruschwitz, then, is right in stating in his conclusions that in both the Mercator and the Adelphoe Cyprus is introduced casually, without hesitation, and without guidance for the audience as a destination where pimps and other merchants would go, and as a place to which girls would be sent for sale, or from which they would be acquired. This suggests that a Roman audience of the late third and early second centuries BCE would have understood the implications of these casual references.29 At least, this is what the playwrights themselves seem to assume by creating a specific image of Cyprus and by expecting their viewers to accept and play along with this stereotype. Thus, in the case of Cyprus, at least as far as we know about it from the extant works of the Roman comic stage, the notions of geographical place and literary commonplace merge and create a location which is adjusted to the needs of the theatrical genre and should not necessarily be taken as historically accurate.

 28 The translation of the extracts from Horace’s Odes is from West 1995, 15 and 3 respectively. On trabe Cypria, see Nisbet and Hubbard 1970, 9. 29 Kruschwitz (unpublished paper), §V.

  Costas Panayotakis

 Concluding thoughts and the myths of Cyprus Cyprus does not feature prominently in Roman comedy. In fact, when compared with the dozen or so references to Cyprus that Antonis Petrides30 identifies in the fragments of Greek Middle and New Comedy, Cyprus seems to be poorly represented by the Latin playwrights in terms of statistical data. On the basis of the extant palliatae, Roman viewers are invited to visualize Cyprus culturally and geographically as a distant but certainly accessible and commercially important island with rich natural resources and strong associations with sex (but not with love). In addition to this dimension, however, there is another aspect of the cultural tradition of the island which has been exploited on the Roman comic stage and with which I would like to finish my discussion, namely versions of myths involving Cyprus. The birth of Aphrodite from the foam of the sea at Paphos, Aphrodite’s love for the youth Adonis, the incestuous relationship between King Cinyras and his daughter Myrrha, and Pygmalion’s passion for Galatea are perhaps the most celebrated of them.31 Plautus in two plays includes brief references to the birth of Venus and to the love-affair between Venus and Adonis, but in neither case does he mention Cyprus in the script, while in both cases he makes ‘mistakes’ in his mythology, as Eduard Fraenkel famously wrote in his Plautine Elements in Plautus.32 In Plautus’ Menaechmi (143–144) the married Menaechmus asks his parasite Peniculus whether he has seen any pictorial representations of Venus abducting Adonis (dic mi, numquam tu uidisti tabulam pictam in pariete | ubi aquila Catamitum raperet aut ubi Venus Adoneum? ‘tell me, have you ever seen a picture painted on a wall where an eagle abducts Ganymede or Venus abducts Adonis?’). Fraenkel comments that ‘[t]here is no pictorial or literary evidence elsewhere for the rape of Adonis, and it is inappropriate to try to regularize the passage by arbitrary grammatical intervention. Rather we must admit that Plautus has indulged in an improvisation based on inaccurate recollection, and that the result is not quite right. The mention of Ganymede probably comes from the original; the motif has been blithely extended to give it greater length.’33 Like 30 Petrides (forthcoming), §§ 2–4. 31 See the contributions of Kirstein, Kitsou, and Thorsen in this volume. 32 Fraenkel 1960, 55–94 = 2007, 45–71 and 302–313 is the standard discussion on this topic. 33 The citation is from the English translation of Fraenkel 2007, 56 (the relevant passage in Italian is in Fraenkel 1960, 71). Gratwick 1993, 152 agrees: ‘There is no known version of the Venus/Adonis myth in which she makes off with him, but this is not the only place where Pl. attests aberrant and/or obscure versions of myth … nor should that surprise us.’

Cyprus and its Myths on the Roman Stage  

wise, in the Rudens (704), the slave Trachalio implores Venus to save the girls Palaestra and Ampelisca from the clutches of the evil pimp Labrax on account of the fact that Venus, people say (autumant), was born from a seashell (te ex concha natam esse autumant: caue tu harum conchas spernas). But Venus was said to have been born from the foam of the sea (not from a seashell; see LSJ s.vv. ἀφρογένεια and ἀφρογενής), although she is said to have been supported by or riding in a seashell as she was rising from the sea (Ἀφροδίτη ἀναδυομένη; see LSJ s.v. ἀναδύομαι Ι). But there are good reasons to suppose that Plautus knew his mythology well with regard to both of these passages, and that what Fraenkel called ‘errors’ were deliberate mythological comic choices on the part of the playwright, choices which, without any explicit reference to Cyprus, were aimed at the refined characterization of the individual linked with the obscure myth (in the case of the passages just mentioned, the pathetic husband Menaechmus I and the comic slave Trachalio, who makes a double entendre concerning the noun concha)34. The audience may draw on their knowledge of familiar mythological repertory to supply the Cypriot connection, spot the ‘aberrant’ version of the myth, and enjoy the joke and its comic implications for the characters onstage. Interestingly, the birth of Venus resurfaces with regard to pantomime, perhaps the most popular spectacle of the Imperial period: in Lucian’s treatise On the Dance (37) we read that a pantomime dancer ought to be familiar with the Hesiodic story of the begetting of Aphrodite (τούτῳ γὰρ τῷ διαστήματι περιωρίσθω ἡμῖν ἡ τοῦ ὀρχηστοῦ πολυμαθία καὶ τὰ διὰ μέσου μάλιστα ἴστω, Οὐρανοῦ τομήν, Ἀφροδίτης γονάς, Τιτάνων μάχην, Διὸς γένεσιν, Ῥέας ἀπάτην, λίθου ὑποβολήν, Κρόνου δεσμά ‘let this be the range we prescribe for the dancer’s learning, and let him know thoroughly all that lies within it: the castration of Uranus, the begetting of Aphrodite, the battle of the Titans, the birth of Zeus, the stratagem of Rhea, the substitution of the stone, the fetters of Cronus’):35 this may well have meant that in the second century CE a male or female dancer

 34 Fletcher 2017 interestingly interprets the ‘mistaken’ mythological reference to Venus and Adonis in the Menaechmi in terms of the married Menaechmus’ power(lessness), (loss of) identity, and (in)ability to manipulate the other characters around him. Marx 1959, 149–150 has a good discussion about the apparently unique attestation of the birth of Venus from a seashell in the Rudens (but cf. κογχογενής used of Aphrodite in Cat. Cod. Astr. Graec. 1.173 Cumont), and collects the literary references to Venus described as riding in a seashell. On concha = cunnus, see OLD s.v. 3b and TLL 4.29.25–26 (but Trachalio’s line in the Rudens is the sole attestation of ‘seashell’ in a sexual sense). 35 The Greek text and the English translation from Lucian’s On the Dance are from Harmon 1936, 248–249.

  Costas Panayotakis would have presented the Cypriot myth on stage; but again there is no explicit mention of Cyprus in Lucian’s text. It seems, therefore, that, as far as the Roman comic stage was concerned, emphasis was given to the sensual dimensions of Cyprus’ cultural identity; this may have been a reflection on what was actually going on in Cyprus at the time or it may have come about as a necessary consequence of the dramatic priorities of the palliata which privileged sex over marital love and which created ethnic foreign stereotypes that helped to shape exemplary Roman behaviour.

Bibliography Akrigg, B. and Tordoff, R., eds. (2013), Slaves and Slavery in Ancient Greek Comic Drama, Cambridge. Anderson, W.S. (1993), Barbarian Play: Plautus’ Roman Comedy, Toronto. Arnott, W.G. (1996), Alexis: The Fragments. A Commentary, Cambridge. Badian, E. (1965), ‘M. Porcius Cato and the Annexation and Early Administration of Cyprus’, The Journal of Roman Studies 55, 110–121. Barsby, J., ed. (1999), Terence: Eunuchus, Cambridge. Barsby, J., ed. (2001), Terence: Phormio, The Mother-in-Law, The Brothers, Cambridge, MA/ London. Brown, P. (2006), Terence: The Comedies, Oxford. Calvelli, L. (2020), Il tesoro di Cipro: Clodio, Catone e la conquista romana dell’isola, Venice. Corcoran, P., ed. (2017), Line of Enquiry: Favourite Lines from Classical Literature, Dublin. Courtney, E., ed. (1993), The Fragmentary Latin Poets, Oxford. de Melo, W.D.C. (2010), ‘The Language of Atellan Farce’, in Raffaelli et al. 2010, 121–155. de Melo, W.D.C., ed. (2011), Plautus: The Merchant, The Braggart Soldier, The Ghost, The Persian, Cambridge, MA/London. de Melo, W.D.C., ed. (2019), Varro, De lingua Latina: Introduction, Text, Translation, and Commentary, 2 vols., Oxford. Dunsch, B. (2000 [2001]), Plautus’ ‘Mercator’: A Commentary, Ph.D. Thesis, University of St Andrews (http://hdl.handle.net/10023/7089). Fletcher, K.F.B. (2017), ‘Characterization through the Use of Myth in Plautus’ Menaechmi’, Syllecta Classica 28, 25–50. Fraenkel, E. (1960), Elementi Plautini in Plauto, Florence = (2007), Plautine Elements in Plautus, transl. T. Drevikovsky and F. Muecke, Oxford. Franko, G.F. and Dutsch, D., eds. (2020), A Companion to Plautus, Hoboken, NJ. Gibson, C.A. (2019), ‘Temple Prostitution at Aphaca: An Overlooked Source’, Classical Quarterly 69, 928–31. Goldberg, S.M. and Manuwald, G., eds. (2018), Fragmentary Republican Latin II: Ennius. Dramatic Fragments, Minor Works, Cambridge, MA/London. Gratwick, A.S., ed. (1993), Plautus: Menaechmi, Cambridge. Harmon, A.M., ed. (1936), Lucian: Volume V, Cambridge, MA/London.

Cyprus and its Myths on the Roman Stage  

Hanses, M. (2020), ‘Men among Monuments: Roman Topography and Roman Memory in Plautus’ Curculio’, Classical Philology 115, 630–658. Harrison, S.J. (2017), ‘Horace Epistles 1.17.36’, in Corcoran 2017, 102–103. Hunt, D., ed. (1982a), Footprints in Cyprus. An Illustrated History, London. Hunt, D. (1982b), ‘The Roman Period: 30 B.C. – A.D. 330’, in Hunt 1982a, 120–133. James, S.L. (2010), ‘Trafficking Pasicompsa: A Courtesan’s Travels and Travails in Plautus’ Mercator’, New England Classical Journal 37, 39–50. Jocelyn, H.D., ed. (1967), The Tragedies of Ennius, Cambridge. Kearns, C. (2018), ‘Cyprus in the Surging Sea: Spatial Imaginations of the Eastern Mediterranean’, TAPA 148, 45–74. Kruschwitz, P. (unpublished paper), ‘“Westward, ho!” Cyprus and Human Trafficking in Roman Comedy’. Kwapisz, J. (2019), The Paradigm of Simias: Essays on Poetic Eccentricity, Berlin/Boston. López Gregoris, R., ed. (2012), Estudios sobre teatro romano: el mundo de los sentimientos y su expresión, Zaragoza. Leurini, L. (2019), Proverbi nelle Commedie di Menandro, Perugia. Martin, R.H., ed. (1976), Terence: Adelphoe, Cambridge. Marx, F., ed. (1959), Plautus: Rudens. Text und Kommentar, Amsterdam. Manuwald, G. (2011), Roman Republican Theatre, Cambridge. Marshall, C.W. (2013), ‘Sex Slaves in New Comedy’, in Akrigg and Tordoff 2013, 173–196. Mitford, T.B. (1980), ‘Roman Cyprus’, Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt 2.7.2, 1285– 1384. Mitford, T.B. (1990), ‘The Cults of Roman Cyprus’, Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt 2.18.3, 2175–2211. Monda, S. (2020), ‘Geografia e paesaggio nella commedia plautina’, Geographia antiqua. Rivista di geografia storica del mondo antico e di storia della geografia 29, 75–86. Nisbet, R.G.M. and Hubbard, M. (1970), A Commentary on Horace: Odes Book 1, Oxford. Papaioannou, S. (2020), ‘Plautus and the Topography of his World’, in Franko and Dutsch 2020, 287–300. Papathomas, A., Gavrielatos, A., Karvouni, K. and Karla, G., eds. (forthcoming), Cyprus in Texts from Graeco-Roman Antiquity, Leiden. Petrides, A. (forthcoming), ‘“It was always far away”: Cyprus in Ancient Greek Comedy’, in Papathomas et al. (forthcoming). Raffaelli, R. (2012), ‘Uno strano sentimento. Le follie dell’amore nel Mercator di Plauto’, in López Gregoris 2012, 125–148. Raffaelli, R. and Tontini, A., eds. (2010), L’Atellana letteraria. Atti della prima giornata di studi sull’Atellana. Succivo (Ce) 30 ottobre 2009, Urbino. Ribbeck, O., ed. (18983), Comicorum Romanorum praeter Plautum et Syri quae feruntur sententias fragmenta, Leipzig. Richlin, A. (2017), Slave Theater in the Roman Republic: Plautus and Popular Comedy, Cambridge. Russo, A. (2017), ‘Ἱερὰ Ἀναγραφή, Sacra Historia, Sacra Scriptio, un frammento dell’ Euhemerus di Ennio (54 Winiarczyk = uar. 64–82 V.2) e un passo di Lattanzio (Epit. 13, 3)’, Rivista di Filologia e di Istruzione Classica 145, 346–380. West, D. (1995), Horace Odes I: Carpe Diem. Text, Translation and Commentary, Oxford.

Stephen Harrison

Venus on Cyprus: Interlinked Lists of Aphrodite’s Cypriot Sanctuaries in Latin Poetry Abstract: Brief lists of the various Cypriot sanctuaries of Aphrodite/Venus, which stress her divine status and power in an abbreviated and topographical form of aretalogy (the enumeration of a deity’s qualities or capacities), are a feature of classical Roman poetry from Catullus to Statius, and of the neo-Latin poetry of the Italian Renaissance which imitates it. This paper looks at these lists, considering the intertextual relations between them and the accuracy or otherwise of their toponyms. In particular, it considers the examples to be found in Catullus, Vergil, Ovid, the Catalepton, and Statius, also including a prose instance from Apuleius, plus those in various neo-Latin poets from Boccaccio to Marullo. This diffusion of the theme reflects the status of Cyprus as a province of the Roman empire from the time of Catullus, and as a prominent Venetian possession in the Renaissance.

 Introduction Brief lists of the various Cypriot sanctuaries of Aphrodite/Venus, which stress her divine status and power in an abbreviated and topographical form of aretalogy (the enumeration of a deity’s qualities or capacities),1 are a feature of classical Roman poetry from Catullus to Statius, and of the neo-Latin poetry of the Italian Renaissance which imitates it. This paper looks at these lists, considering the intertextual relations between them and the accuracy or otherwise of their toponyms.

 1 For the literary representation of the language of Greek and Roman hymns and prayers including their use of aretalogy see La Bua 1999 and Goeken 2010. Norden 1913 is still fundamental here. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-003

  Stephen Harrison

 Sanctuary-catalogues in Greek poetry Extant ancient Greek literature shows relatively little interest in Cyprus, no doubt because of its centring on Athens and Ionia. Homer and the Homeric Hymns often refer to Aphrodite as Kypris and mention her rule over the (nonspecified) peaks of Cyprus (Hymns 6.2) and the city of Salamis (Hymns 10.4).2 Her great coastal sanctuary at Paphos is given some prominence (it is her travel destination at Odyssey 8.362–363 and Hymns 5.58–59), and is the only Cypriot shrine of Aphrodite to appear in extant Greek lyric (Sappho fr. 83 Voigt, Alcman fr. 55 PMG), Attic tragedy (Aeschylus fr. 402a Radt, Euripides Bacchae 402–406) or comedy (Aristophanes Lysistrata 833).3 The first multiple-term list of her Cypriot sanctuaries is found in Theocritus 15, where the star female singer at the festival of Adonis in contemporary Alexandria hymns Aphrodite (100–101):4 Δέσποιν’, ἃ Γολγώς τε καὶ Ἰδάλιον ἐφίλησας αἰπεινάν τ’ Ἔρυκα, χρυσῷ παίζοισ’ Ἀφροδίτα … Lady, who loves Golgoi and Idalium, And lofty Eryx, Aphrodite who sports with gold…

Here we find the first literary mention of the Cypriot shrines of Golgoi and Idalium, close to each other in the centre of the island, linked with that of Eryx in Sicily (a connection which will figure again, see below); Golgoi as a shrine of Aphrodite also appears (alone) in Theocritus’ contemporary Lycophron (Alexandra 589). It is not surprising to see such details emerge at this period in the poetry of Ptolemaic Alexandria, full of religious and topographical learning, especially since the Ptolemies ruled Cyprus by the time Theocritus and Lycophron were writing.

 2 This and the mention of a shrine of Venus Prospiciens there by Ovid (Metamorphoses 14.759– 761) are the only poetic passages which link Aphrodite/Venus and Salamis. 3 This last passage is the first to pair Paphos with Laconian Cythera as sanctuaries of Aphrodite, a pairing which will recur later (see below) – ὦ πότνια, Κύπρου καὶ Κυθήρων καὶ Πάφου / μεδέουσ’ (833–834), ‘Lady, ruler of Cyprus and Cythera and Paphos’. 4 For such religious language in Theocritus see Billault 2010.

Venus on Cyprus: Interlinked Lists of Aphrodite’s Cypriot Sanctuaries in Latin Poetry  

 The Roman cities and sanctuaries of Cyprus Cyprus was a relative latecomer to Roman dominion, annexed after the death of its Ptolemaic king (Ptolemy, son of the Egyptian Ptolemy IX Lathyros) in 58 BCE and made part of the province of Cilicia (Cicero was thus its governor in 52–51). It was returned to Cleopatra VII by Julius Caesar in 46, but taken over again with Egypt after her death and the fall of Alexandria in 30.5 Just over a century later, Pliny the Elder gives us a list of the island’s major cities (Nat. 5.130): oppida in ea XV, Nea Paphos, Palaepaphos, Curias, Citium, Corinaeum, Salamis, Amathus, Lapethos, Soloe, Tamasos, Epidaurum, Chytri, Arsinoe, Carpasium, Golgoe. fuere et Cinyria, Mareum, Idalium.

Of the fifteen current cities named here, four are known cult-sites of Aphrodite (Paphos, Amathus, Chytri and Golgoi), as is one of the three former cities (Idalium). Of these five, Paphos and Amathus are coastal, facing Africa at the west end of the island, while Idalium, Golgoi and Chytri are inland, Idalium in the centre, Golgoi and Chytri towards the east. The relevant temples of Aphrodite (where details are known; the exact position of that at Golgoi is uncertain) were located on hills of various heights, a feature which recurs in their literary descriptions.6

 Catalogues of Aphrodite’s Cypriot sanctuaries in Roman poetry . Catullus It is again unsurprising that such sanctuary-lists first emerge in Roman poetry in Catullus in the 50s BCE, around the time that Cyprus becomes a Roman prov-

 5 For the history of Roman Cyprus see conveniently Mitford 1980. 6 For the sanctuaries of Aphrodite on Cyprus see Mitford 1980, Ubrich 2010 and especially Karageorghis 2005. Strabo 14.6.3, written perhaps a generation after the Roman annexation of Cyprus, also has a partial description of the island’s geography, which mentions a temple and a sacred mountain of Aphrodite on the NE peninsula of Karpasia and a joint temple of Aphrodite and Isis at Soloi on the NW coast.

  Stephen Harrison ince, though of course relatively little of earlier Roman literature survives;7 the interest of Catullus and the neoteric poets in Hellenistic-style religious, antiquarian and mythological learning (exemplified e.g. in Catullus 63 and 64) is also a relevant factor here. In Catullus 36 the poet-narrator prays to Aphrodite/Venus in fulfilment of an earlier vow to burn the bad poems of Volusius in her honour if he were reconciled with his puella, addressing the goddess with the full language of the hymn, with the traditional apostrophe and repeated relative clauses (36.11–17):8 nunc, o caeruleo creata ponto, quae sanctum Idalium Uriosque apertos, quaeque Ancona Cnidumque harundinosam colis, quaeque Amathunta, quaeque Golgos, quaeque Dyrrachium, Hadriae tabernam, acceptum face redditumque votum, si non illepidum neque invenustumst.

15

Now, o born from the sky-blue sea, You who inhabit holy Idalium and exposed Urii, And Ancona and Cnidos rich in reeds, And Amathus, and Golgoi, And Dyrrachium, the shop of the Adriatic, Render my vow accepted and fulfilled, If that is not inelegant or uncharming.

Here in the first extensive literary catalogue of these sites textual corruption seems to be a problem, not for the last time; Latin proper names are particularly liable to mangling by the copyists of later periods for whom they have little significance. Idalium and Amathus are clearly there in the text, but the addition of Golgoi (Golgos) is a correction of 1471–1482 by Ermolao Barbaro:9 all three primary manuscripts of Catullus (OGR) here transmit alcos. Since alcos is clearly unmetrical, all modern editors have rightly adopted the small change to Golgos,

 7 There are no mentions of any of Catullus’ list of shrines in the comedies of Plautus and Terence, the largest extant body of earlier literature, though Cyprus is linked with Aphrodite/ Venus/love in Plautus’ Mercator and Terence’s Adelphoe — see Panayotakis’s paper in this volume. 8 For the relative clauses see Norden 1913, 168–196. 9 Here and elsewhere on Catullus I rely on the attributions of conjectures in Dániel Kiss’s excellent Catullus Online database at http://www.catullusonline.org/CatullusOnline/index.php [accessed 9th March 2021]. For Barbaro’s work on Catullus (annotations in the codex Bononiensis 2621) see Pighi 1949 (my thanks to Dr Kiss for this reference).

Venus on Cyprus: Interlinked Lists of Aphrodite’s Cypriot Sanctuaries in Latin Poetry  

following the pairing of the geographically adjacent Amathus and Golgoi at Theocritus 15.100 (above) and matching their likely pairing again in Catullus at 64.96 (see below). Uriosque (12) has been much questioned by scholars, since that exact place-name is hard to parallel elsewhere and does not match any known shrine of Aphrodite.10 The cult-site to be named here could be anywhere in the Mediterranean world if this pair of sanctuaries matches that in line 13, which pairs Ancona in Italy with the celebrated temple of Aphrodite at Cnidos in SW Asia Minor.11 But if the pair rather matches that of line 14 with its two Cypriot sanctuaries, another Cypriot shrine would fit well here: Trappes-Lomax has suggested Paphonque celsam, but I would prefer Bergk’s Chytrosque apertos, which is closer to the transmitted text and points to a key feature of the site of the city of Chytri, on an open plain between forests and hills, on one of which lies the temple of Aphrodite.12 If this second Cypriot sanctuary is inserted in the text of Catullus here, there is a case for transposing lines 13 and 14 so that Idalium and Chytri, Amathus and Golgoi form two pairs of Cypriot shrines in two consecutive lines. A much briefer list (just a pair) is found at Catullus 64.96, quaeque regis Golgos quaeque Idalium frondosum, ‘you who rule Golgoi and leafy Idalium’. Here again the medieval manuscripts of Catullus corrupt the obscure placename Golgos: G and R have colchos (the more familiar home of Medea, mentioned earlier in the same poem (64.5 Colchis), but not attested as a cult place of Aphrodite), while O has cholcos. Politian’s correction to Golgos is rightly accepted by all modern editors,13 producing a pair of Cypriot sanctuaries exactly matching those in Catullus 36 and Theocritus Idyll 15 (see above) by means of a minimal change.

 10 For a defence of Uriosque (unconvincing for me) see Ross 1973; for just scepticism see Trappes-Lomax 2007, 102. 11 For the sanctuary at Ancona see Juvenal 4.40. That at Cnidos was on a peninsula in Caria, the original home of the celebrated statue of Cnidian Aphrodite (Venus pudica: cf. [Lucian] Amores 13–17): see Pliny Nat. 36.20. There was a smaller site also named Cnidos on Cyprus on the NE peninsula of Karpasia (presumably named after Carian Cnidos because of its similar position on a slender peninsula); it is just possible that this was the location of the temple of Aphrodite mentioned by Strabo (n. 6 above), but there is no archaeological evidence of this so far (see Nicolaou 1976c) and Catullus’ Cnidos is almost certainly the well-known Carian one (mentioned in poetry before him by Posidippus fr. 147 A/B). 12 See Nicolaou 1976a. 13 For Politian’s work on the text of Catullus see Gaisser 1994, 67–78.

  Stephen Harrison

. Horace The two lists in Horace both occur in the context of hymnic appeals to Venus in matters of love, again marking her power over humans in this respect; neither includes more than one Cypriot location, but I include them here as both relate to the Catullan catalogues. In the first the poet-narrator addresses the goddess asking for her intervention, a topos which goes back to Sappho fr. 1 Voigt (Odes 1.30.1–4): O Venus regina Cnidi Paphique, sperne dilectam Cypron et vocantis ture te multo Glycerae decoram transfer in aedem. O Venus, queen of Cnidos and Paphos, Scorn your beloved Cyprus and transfer Yourself to the handsome temple of Glycera Who calls you with much incense.

This poem plays on the two senses of aedes: the ‘house’ of the alluring Glycera is also a ‘temple’ to which Venus can transfer from her other shrines. Here the principal Cypriot sanctuary of Paphos is paired with that of Cnidos in Asia Minor; the latter location recalls Catullus 36.13, while the former is the first appearance of Paphos as an Aphroditean sanctuary in extant Latin literature. The summarising injunction to Venus to leave Cyprus could be interpreted as implying that the pair of shrines in the first line are both Cypriot, and the link of Cnidos and Paphos might be wrongly influenced by Odes 3.28 (below), both of which suggest the possibility of textual corruption here; but it is hard to find a suitable Cypriot location that fits the metre of Horace’s ode. Horace’s second list is in the context of a hymn to Venus at a symposium on the day of the festival of the Neptunalia (23 July) at Odes 3.28.13–15: … quae Cnidon fulgentisque tenet Cycladas et Paphon iunctis visit oloribus. … who occupies Cnidos and the shining Cyclades, and visits Paphos with her team of swans.

Venus on Cyprus: Interlinked Lists of Aphrodite’s Cypriot Sanctuaries in Latin Poetry  

Here we get a pleasing picture of Venus travelling between sanctuaries in a swan-drawn chariot. In this list the Cyclades (perhaps indicating the sanctuary of Aphrodite found on Thera and/or that discovered on Paros)14 are added to Cnidos and Paphos; the last seems to be the goddess’s ultimate destination as it was in the Odyssey and the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite (see above). Thus, though only one term in the sequence is Cypriot, it is the climactic one which links the goddess fundamentally to the island. It is not generally noted that these three sanctuaries are all surrounded by the sea: this is surely relevant to the occasion of the poem, the festival of the sea-god Neptune.

. Vergil Venus famously plays a major role in the Aeneid as Aeneas’ mother and divine patron. We find two catalogues of her sanctuaries in the poem, both spoken by her in contexts which stress her divine power and status, and in particular her capacity to hide and protect her grandson Ascanius, presented as the dynastic link to the future. The first of these is in Aeneid 1, where she speaks to her son Cupid of her plan (soon to be accomplished) to disguise him as Ascanius in order to induce Dido to fall in love with Aeneas, and to hide Ascanius meanwhile at one of her shrines (1.680–682): hunc ego sopitum somno super alta Cythera aut super Idalium sacrata sede recondam, ne qua scire dolos mediusue occurrere possit. I will hide him drowsed in slumber on the heights of Cythera, Or on Idalium in my consecrated seat, in case He becomes aware of the trick or turns up in the middle.

Here the Cypriot mountain shrine of Idalium (already found in Catullus 36 and 64, above) is paired with ‘the heights of Cythera’, universally interpreted by Vergilian commentators as the mountainous Laconian island off the easternmost ‘prong’ of the ‘trident’ of the southern Peloponnese. This was the site of a famous temple and cult of Aphrodite supposedly founded by Aeneas and his Trojan refugees en route to Italy.15 It provides the goddess’s epithet Κυθέρεια/  14 Thera: Sigalas 2000; Paros: Kontoleon 1976. 15 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 1.50.2; for Aphrodite’s links with Cythera see Hesiod Theogony 198, Posidippus AP 12.131.1, and for the archaeological remains of the sanctuary of Aphrodite see Picozzi 1976.

  Stephen Harrison Cytherea from the time of the Odyssey (8.288, 18.193) and the Homeric Hymns (5.6, 10.1), and is specifically mentioned as a sanctuary of Aphrodite in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata (833, see above); Herodotus states (1.105.3) that its cult was older than that on Cyprus, and that the principal temple on the island (presumably Paphos) was founded from it. But its pairing with Idalium here might just suggest the possibility that the poet saw Cythera as a Cypriot sanctuary rather than as the Laconian island;16 this passage of Vergil is the first extant reference to this place (as opposed to versions of the Greek epithet Κυθέρεια) in Latin literature, though soon afterwards Ovid plainly identifies Cythera with the Laconian island and pairs it again with Paphos (see below). This interpretation of Cythera as Cypriot might find some support from Aeneid 10.51–53, where Venus in her address to the assembled gods lists some of her sanctuaries as places where she might take Ascanius to preserve him from the war in Italy and ensure his dynastic future: est Amathus, est celsa mihi Paphus atque Cythera Idaliaeque domus: positis inglorius armis exigat hic aevum. Amathus is mine, mine is lofty Paphos and Cythera And my temple of Idalia: here laying aside his arms Let him live out his life without fame.

Here we have three certainly Cypriot sanctuaries (Amathus, Paphos, Idalium) plus Cythera as the penultimate term in a sequence of four. Servius’ late antique commentary here is clear that Cythera here is the Laconian island (insula est contra Laconicam Veneri consecrata, ‘it is an island located opposite Laconia sacred to Venus’), but the poet may just have thought of it as on Cyprus: hic seems to group the four sites together geographically. Whatever Vergil intended, it is clear that some neo-Latin poets interpret his Cythera as a Cypriot site (see below).

 16 It is not impossible that Vergil’s Cythera refers here to the Cypriot sanctuary of Chytri, where Aphrodite also had a hilltop temple (see above on Catullus); this place is now known by the name Kythrea, which has been spelt in a number of ways since the medieval period (including Cytherea), and it is just conceivable that Vergil could refer to it here and at Aeneid 10.51 rather than the Laconian island. For the various names of Chytri see https://inspiral.org/en/zefyros/toponymssearch-results and http://www.geonoma.gov.cy/index.php/ekdoseis [both accessed 9th March 2021]; my thanks to Spyridon Tzounakas and Stella Alekou for these references.

Venus on Cyprus: Interlinked Lists of Aphrodite’s Cypriot Sanctuaries in Latin Poetry  

. Ovid and others Ovid has two examples of Aphroditean sanctuary-lists. The first has only two terms and is in effect an indirect prayer to Venus; the poet-narrator is happy to have the shameful reputation of being enslaved to his mistress provided the goddess does not torture him too much with love’s pains (Amores 2.17.1–4): Siquis erit, qui turpe putet servire puellae, illo convincar iudice turpis ego! sim licet infamis, dum me moderatius urat, quae Paphon et fluctu pulsa Cythera tenet. If there is anyone who supposes it is shameful to play slave to a girl Let me be convicted of being shameful with him as judge! Let me be disgraced, as long as she burns me more moderately, The one who holds Paphos and Cythera beaten by the waves.

Here all the details derive from earlier poets: we find Paphos and Cythera paired as twice in Vergil (last section above), while quae Paphon … tenet picks up Horace Odes 3.28.13–14 quae … tenet … Paphon. As just noted, this text clearly views Cythera as the Laconian sea-girt island, not a Cypriot inland sanctuary. The second list is more extensive, and emphasises the extent of Venus’ passion for Adonis which prevents her from visiting her favourite sanctuaries and even Olympus itself (Metamorphoses 10.529–532): capta viri forma non iam Cythereia curat litora, non alto repetit Paphon aequore cinctam piscosamque Cnidon gravidamve Amathunta metallis; abstinet et caelo: caelo praefertur Adonis. Ensnared by the beauty of the man, she no longer cares For the shores of Cythera, she does not seek again Paphos, Girded by the deep ocean, or Cnidos rich in fish, or Amathus pregnant with mines: She stays away even from heaven: to heaven is Adonis preferred.

Here Cythera and Paphos are again paired (as in Horace) as seaside sanctuaries and, as in the Amores (above), Cythera is not an inland Cypriot shrine but the Laconian island (cf. 530 litora); the second pairing of Cnidos and Amathus comes from Catullus (36.13–14, see above). The elements added here are the details about Cnidos’ wealth in fish and the mines of Amathus; the latter detail seems realistic given the proximity of Amathus to the major copper mines of

  Stephen Harrison Kalavasos, worked from ancient times,17 but the fish of Cnidos are unmentioned elsewhere, and piscosus here may pun on the use of the similarly-formed epithet harundinosus of Cnidos at Catullus 36.13 (see above), since harundo (‘reed’) is a standard word for a fishing-rod (cf. e.g. Ovid Metamorphoses 8.856). Thus we here have two non-Cypriot and two Cypriot sanctuaries in the elegant order ABAB; there is also some wit in the idea that since Ovid in fact sets the episode of Adonis on Cyprus (cf. 10.718), Paphos and Amathus are close by but still unvisited. In Catalepton 14 (probably to be dated between Vergil and Statius)18 we have Vergil’s imagined prayer to Venus on completing the Aeneid: Si mihi susceptum fuerit decurrere munus, o Paphon, o sedes quae colis Idalias, Troïus Aeneas Romana per oppida digno iam tandem ut tecum carmine vectus eat, non ego ture modo aut picta tua templa tabella ornabo … If it is ever granted to me to reach the end of the task I have undertaken, O you who inhabit Paphos, and the temples of Idalium, That Trojan Aeneas should at last be borne with you In worthy song through the cities that belong to Rome, It is not only with incense or a painted picture That I will decorate your temples …

Though this is only a two-element catalogue, pairing Paphos and Idalium, it is a linguistic tissue of the poetic lists analysed above: sedes … Idalias is drawn from Aeneid 1.681 super Idalium sacrata sede, Paphon … sedes quae colis Idalias from Catullus 36.12–14 quae … Idalium … / … / colis and Horace Odes 3.28.13–14 quae … / tenet … Paphon. The overall idea that the poet will make thank-offerings to Venus also recalls the theme of Catullus 36 more generally (see above). Statius has two examples. At Silvae 1.2.158–160 Venus delights in Violentilla’s Roman mansion as much as in her own glorious shrines: exsultat visu tectisque potentis alumnae non secus alma Venus quam si Paphon aequore ab alto Idaliasque domos Erycinaque templa subiret.

 17 See https://www.cyprusisland.net/cyprus-mines/kalavasos-mines [accessed 9th March 2021]. 18 See e.g. Franklinos 2020, 70 n. 4.

Venus on Cyprus: Interlinked Lists of Aphrodite’s Cypriot Sanctuaries in Latin Poetry  

Nurturing Venus exults at the sight and at the house of her mighty nursling Just as if she were entering from the deep ocean The shrines of Idalium and the temples of Eryx.

Again the list derives from texts already analysed above: the linking of Cypriot Idalium and Eryx in Sicily as Aphroditean sanctuaries may look back to Theocritus 15.100–101, while the pairing of Paphos and the adjective Idalius recalls Aeneid 10.51–52 and Catalepton 14.2, and that of Idalius and Erycinus echoes Aeneid 5.759–760 tum uicina astris Erycino in uertice sedes / fundatur Veneri Idaliae. At Statius Thebaid 5.61–64 Hypsipyle depicts Venus leaving Cyprus: illa Paphon veterem centumque altaria linquens, nec vultu nec crine prior, solvisse iugalem ceston et Idalias procul ablegasse volucres fertur She, as she left ancient Paphos and its hundred altars, Changed from before in both feature and hair, they say Loosed her bridal girdle and sent away her Idalian birds.

Here the pairing of Paphos (Paphon veterem is clearly Pliny’s Palaepaphos, see above) and the adjective Idalius matches the Silvae passage and (again) Aeneid 10.51–52; though Idalius here effectively means ‘Cypriot’, the allusion to the sanctuary of Idalium is clear. My final classical example is taken from a prose text, but occurs in an episode within it that has much poetic colour.19 At Apuleius Metamorphoses 4.29, the start of the inserted tale of Cupid and Psyche, mortals are described as neglecting the worship of Venus: Paphon nemo, Cnidon nemo ac ne ipsa quidem Cythera ad conspectum deae Veneris nauigabant, ‘no one sailed to Paphos to see the goddess Venus, no-one to Cnidos, no-one even to Cythera itself’. This is clearly an adaptation of the list at Ovid Metamorphoses 10.529–531 (see above): capta viri forma non iam Cythereia curat litora, non alto repetit Paphon aequore cinctam piscosamque Cnidon gravidamve Amathunta metallis… Ensnared by the beauty of the man, she no longer cares For the shores of Cythera, she does not seek again Paphos, Girded by the deep ocean, or Cnidos rich in fish, or Amathus pregnant with mines …

 19 On the rich literary texture of the episode of Cupid and Psyche see Zimmerman et al. 1998.

  Stephen Harrison The Ovidian original is wittily inverted: in Ovid Venus neglects her own shrines, but in Apuleius it is Venus’ shrines that are disdained by others.

 Catalogues of Aphrodite’s Cypriot sanctuaries in Italian neo-Latin poetry This section considers the catalogues in Italian neo-Latin poetry, which largely constitute receptions of those in Roman poetry discussed above. They give interesting evidence of the transmission and revived study in the Renaissance of the classical Latin poets,20 and present implicit commentary on them.21 Some of these (Pontano and later writers) may reflect a renewed interest in Cyprus in Italy at a time when it was ruled by Venice (1489–1571).22 Giovanni Boccaccio (1313–1375), Buccolicum Carmen 1 [Galla] 104–106: Idalium petii culmen sanctumque Cytheron et Paphi mirteta dolens, oscillaque ramis suspendi, pia tura dedi, I made for the top of Idalium and holy Cytheron And the myrtle-groves of Paphos in my grief, and I hung Ritual mask in their branches, and offered pious incense.

Here the poet/herdsman Damon makes offerings to Venus, listing the same three sites as at Vergil Aeneid 10.51–53; but since he is supposed to have visited all three sites personally (petii), it looks as if Boccaccio thought that Vergil believed that all of them were in Cyprus. The form Cytheron (not found in classical Latin) looks like a Grecising neuter singular generated from Vergil’s accusative plural Cythera at Aeneid 1.680,23 while the link of Paphos and Venus’ plant myrtle goes back to Vergil Georgics 2.64 and Ovid Ars Amatoria 3.181.

 20 For case-studies see Gaisser 1994 on Catullus and Wilson-Okamura 2010 on Vergil. 21 Working with these texts is much facilitated by the excellent Poeti d’Italia in lingua latina database maintained by Ca’ Foscari, Venice — http://mizar.unive.it/poetiditalia/public [accessed 9th March 2021]. 22 On Venetian rule in Cyprus see Birtachas 2011. Of the poets listed here Naldi and Marullo spent time in Venice; cf. Grant 1963 and Kidwell 1989. 23 The neuter plural place-name Κύθηρα goes back to Homer (Iliad 15.432, Odyssey 9.81).

Venus on Cyprus: Interlinked Lists of Aphrodite’s Cypriot Sanctuaries in Latin Poetry  

Marcantonio Aldegati (fl. c.1460) Elegiae 2.77–78: Pressa furore gravi Cnidon atque Amathunta reliquit Et Colchos odit Idaliumque iugum Overcome by heavy anger she left Cnidos and Amathus And rejected Colchi and the ridge of Idalium.

Here Venus is said to leave a series of places which are evidently cult-sites linked with her, two Cypriot, two non-Cypriot. The pair of Cnidos and Amathus is found in Ovid Metamorphoses 10.531 as well as in Catullus 36 (see above), while the other pair of Colchi(s) and Idalium here suggests that Colchos reproduces the corrupt Colchos which is found for the correct Golgos at Catullus 64.96 quaeque regis Golgos quaeque Idalium frondosum in the vulgate text of Aldegati’s time (see above). Tito Vespasiano Strozzi (1424–1505) Borsias 2.25–26: alta sonant clamore Cythera Et nemus Idalium et genialis litora Cypri. Lofty Cythera resounds with shouting And the grove of Idalium and the shores of cheerful Cyprus.

Here Venus on Cyprus is proclaimed by her local sanctuaries. The pairing of Cythera and Idalium is drawn from Aeneid 1.680–682, while the characterisation of Idalium as a grove draws on Catullus 64.96 Idalium frondosum (above); like Boccaccio, Strozzi here seems to interpret the Vergilian Cythera as a Cypriot location. Giovanni Pontano (1426–1503) Eridanus 1.6.1–3: Fontis Acidalii laticem Venus aurea liquit Et Paphias myrtos Idaliumque nemus, Eridanus dominae tantum placet … Golden Venus left behind the water of the Acidalian spring And the myrtles of Paphos and the grove of Idalium, Only the Eridanus pleased its mistress…

  Stephen Harrison Here, in a list which seems to use both Boccaccio and Strozzi, Venus is said to prefer the Eridanus (river Po) to other sites more traditionally linked with her (the fons Acidalius in Boeotia,24 Paphos and Idalium), and to leave all these three behind. All three of the abandoned sites here might well have been seen as Cypriot by Pontano, since the location of the fons Acidalius was not especially well known and the three seem to form a topographical group here.25 Naldo Naldi (1436–1513) Epigrammaton liber 189.11–14: Vertice de Paphio lectos Venus aurea flores Stravit, ut extincta mollius ossa cubent; Rursus in exsanguem suaves ita fudit odores Idalium Veneri quos tulit ante nemus… Golden Venus strewed the flowers she had plucked from Paphos’ summit, So that her dead bones might rest more softly: Further, she so poured on the lifeless one the sweet scents Which the grove of Idalium had borne for Venus…

Here Venus honours a dead beauty with flowers and scents: the Cypriot site-pair of Paphos and Idalium is found in Vergil, Statius and the Catalepton (for all these see above), while the phrase Idalium nemus is shared with Strozzi and Pontano. Faustino Perisauli (1450–1523) De triumpho stultitiae 3.456–460: Hic oritur quicquid Cilices legere vel Indi, Quod nemus Alcinoi genuit, quod dives Hymettus, Grata Cnidos quicquid, Cyprus, Paphos, alta Cythera, Sive in Acidalio quicquid Venus aurea saltu, Aut Amor Idaliis quicquid collegit in hortis. Here there grows all that was harvested by Cilicians or Indians, What the grove of Alcinous produced, or rich Hymettus, Or attractive Cnidos, Cyprus, Paphos and the heights of Cythera, Or golden Venus in the Acidalian glade, Or whatever Cupid gathered in the gardens of Idalium.

 24 For its links with Venus (sometimes called Acidalia) see Servius on Aeneid 1.720. 25 Apart from the Servian passage (n. 24), the only evidence in classical literature for the Boeotian location of the toponym Acidalius is the relatively obscure Laus Pisonis 91.

Venus on Cyprus: Interlinked Lists of Aphrodite’s Cypriot Sanctuaries in Latin Poetry  

Here we find praise of the fertility of a paradisiacal landscape by evoking lush classical locations; line 458 lists Cyprus and Paphos alongside Cythera, while line 460 adds Idalium. This collection of Venus’ cult-sites seems to combine elements from Vergil Aeneid 1.680–681 and 10.51–52, adding Cnidos from Catullus or Horace (see above). Here a Greek source may also be used: the insertion of Cyprus and its linking with Paphos and Cythera (not found in classical Latin poetry) might pick up Aristophanes Lysistrata 833–834 ὦ πότνια, Κύπρου καὶ Κυθήρων καὶ Πάφου / μεδέουσ’ (see 2 above). Jacopo Sannazaro (1458–1530) Salices 1–3: Si vacat, et blandos etiamnum ventilat ignes Quae dea caerulea vehitur super aequora concha, Turrigeramque Paphon, ditemque Amathunta tuetur… If you are at leisure and if even now the flames of attraction are fanned By the goddess who rides over the ocean in a sky-blue shell, And protects tower-bearing Paphos and rich Amathus …

Here Paphos and Amathus are paired as at Vergil Aeneid 10.51 and Ovid Metamorphoses 10.530–531 (see above); the detail of Paphos’ towers varies Vergil’s celsa … Paphus, while that of Amathus’ wealth seems to modify the Ovidian passage’s mention of its copper mines (531 gravidamve Amathunta metallis). Michele Marullo (1458–1500) Epigrammata 2.31.5–11: Tuque, o, quae Cnidon incolis Paphumque, Piscoso dea procreata ponto, Quam circumsiliunt Iocusque Amorque Et passis Charites comis decentes, Cum per Idalium Cytheraque alta Aut Colchos Amathuntave Eriosve Exerces faciles levis choreas: And you, who dwell in Cnidos and Paphos, Goddess born from the fish-filled sea, About whom cavort Play and Cupid And the fair Graces with their hair loose When through Idalium and lofty Cythera Or Colchi or Amathus or Erii You light-footedly ply your easy dance-steps:

  Stephen Harrison Here Marullo, in a prayer for poetic fame which recalls Horace Odes 3.30, echoes and modifies the list of Venus’ sanctuaries at Catullus 36.11–14 (above): nunc, o caeruleo creata ponto, quae sanctum Idalium Uriosque apertos, quaeque Ancona Cnidumque harundinosam colis, quaeque Amathunta, quaeque Golgos …

He adds the pairing of Cnidos and Paphos from Horace (Odes 1.30.1, 3.28.13–14) and that of Cythera and Idalium from Vergil (Aeneid 1.680–681 and 10.51–52); for all these passages see above. As in Aldegati (above), Marullo’s colchos (2.31.10) matches the colchos then wrongly read at Catullus 64.96 for Golgos before Politian’s correction (see above); but its occurrence here in an imitation of Catullus 36 suggests that Marullo might in fact have read Colchos for Golgos at 36.14 where all the manuscripts read alcos before Barbaro’s correction (see above). This seems not unlikely, and is possible evidence that Marullo had access to a lost early manuscript of Catullus other than the extant O, G and R.26 Similarly, Marullo’s Eriosve in the same line seems to suggest that he also read this for the unsatisfactory Uriosque at 36.12; Eriosve does not appear in any extant manuscript or early edition of Catullus before Marullo and might again come from a lost manuscript, or be Marullo’s own implied conjecture. It must be a place-name and a third sanctuary of Venus in this line: at Hymni Naturales 2.7.59 Marullo clearly uses the same noun to refer to Mt Eryx, the Sicilian shrine of Venus (Eriosque altos), but it seems difficult to restore it in Catullus 36.12 since the first syllable of Eryx (and thus of any derivative/alternative) is always short in classical Latin, and there is no classical example of Marullo’s form Erius. Egidio Gallo (c.1475–after 1524) De viridario Augustini Chigii vera libellus 4.192– 197: Iam patet inter tot populos latissima Cyprus Insula: iam apparent cunctis excelsa Cythera: Iamque Paphos, iam Palepaphos Salamisque videntur. Et iam diva cohors campos intrabat apertos Et tremulas bibula choreas ducebat harena Dum Cyprogeniam expectant in litore Matrem.

 26 For the possible existence of such a manuscript see Kiss 2015a.

Venus on Cyprus: Interlinked Lists of Aphrodite’s Cypriot Sanctuaries in Latin Poetry  

Now the very broad island of Cyprus lies open Amid so many peoples: already lofty Cythera is clear to all, Already Paphos, already Palaepaphos and Salamis are visible: And already the divine company began to enter the open plains, And to perform their excited dancing-measures on the thirsty sand, As they await the Cyprus-born mother on the shore.

Here Venus pays a visit to Cyprus, and the cities named all seem to be mentioned as her Cypriot sanctuaries. Following Boccaccio and others, the poet clearly includes Cythera as one of these; the list of three Cypriot cities in line 194 seems for once to be drawn from a prose source, Pomponius Mela 2.103 (Salamis, Paphos et quo primum ex mari Venerem egressam accolae adfirmant Palaepaphos), while the link of Salamis with Venus is likely to be picked up from Ovid Metamorphoses 14.760–761 which records a cult there of Venus Prospiciens.27

 Conclusion In the extant remains of Greek literature, multiple-term catalogues of the Cypriot sanctuaries of Aphrodite/Venus seem to emerge in poetry in the learned age of Hellenistic Alexandria, perhaps reflecting the political links between Cyprus and Ptolemaic Egypt in that period. Such lists present an element of the traditional ritual language of hymn and prayer in literary form. This is a main reason why they become something of a topic in Roman poetry, appearing in Catullus, Vergil, Horace and Ovid amongst others, against the background of Cyprus’ status as part of the Roman empire. The many humanist receptions and imitations of these lists in Italian neo-Latin verse more than a millennium later bear clear traces of the transmission and wide circulation via printing of classical Latin poetry, mostly at a time when Cyprus was more prominent for Italians as part of the Venetian empire.28

 27 More likely than a reference to Aphrodite’s description as ruler of Salamis at Homeric Hymns 10.4. 28 I am most grateful to Spyridon Tzounakas and Stella Alekou for their kind invitations to the conference, to contribute to this volume, and to act as their co-editor.

  Stephen Harrison

Bibliography Billault, A. (2010), ‘La rhétorique de la prière dans les Idylles de Theocrite’, in Goeken 2010, 93–107. Birtachas, S. (2011), Κοινωνία, πολιτισμός και διακυβέρνηση στο βενετικό Κράτος της Θάλασσας: Το παράδειγμα της Κύπρου [Society, Culture and Government in the Venetian Maritime State: The Case of Cyprus], Thessaloniki. Franklinos, T.E. (2020), ‘Construing the Author as a Catullan Reader in the Pure Iambic Catalepton (6, 10, 12)’, in Franklinos and Fulkerson 2020, 70–83. Franklinos, T.E. and Fulkerson, L., eds. (2020), Constructing Authors and Readers in the Appendices Vergiliana, Tibulliana, and Ouidiana, Oxford. Gaisser, J.H. (1994), Catullus and his Renaissance Readers, Oxford. Goeken, J., ed. (2010), La rhétorique de la prière dans l’Antiquité grecque, Turnhout. Grant, W.L. (1963), ‘The Life of Naldo Naldi’, Studies in Philology 60, 606–617. Karageorghis, J. (2005), Kypris, the Aphrodite of Cyprus: Ancient Sources and Archaeological Evidence, Nicosia. Kidwell, C. (1989), Marullus: Soldier Poet of the Renaissance, London. Kiss, D. (2015a), ‘The Lost Codex Veronensis and its Descendants: Three Problems in Catullus’s Manuscript Tradition’, in Kiss 2015b, 1–28. Kiss, D., ed. (2015b), What Catullus Wrote: Problems in Textual Criticism, Editing and the Manuscript Tradition, Swansea. Kontoleon, N.M. (1976), ‘Paros, Greece’, in Stillwell et al. 1976, 678–679. Mitford, T.B. (1980), ‘Roman Cyprus’, Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.7.2, 1285– 1384. Nicolaou, K. (1976a), ‘Chytroi, Cyprus’, in Stillwell et al. 1976, 223–224. Nicolaou, K. (1976b), ‘Idalion, Cyprus’, in Stillwell et al. 1976, 403–404. Nicolaou, K. (1976c), ‘Knidos, Cyprus’, in Stillwell et al. 1976, 459. Norden, E. (1913), Agnostos Theos. Untersuchungen zur Formengeschichte religiöser Rede, Leipzig. Picozzi, M.G. (1976), ‘Kythera, Greece’, in Stillwell et al. 1976, 469. Pighi, G.B. (1949), ‘Codex Catulli Bononiensis 2621 cum apparatu Ellisiano minore collatus’, Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 93, 24–26. Ross, D.O. (1973), ‘Uriosque apertos, a Catullan gloss’, Mnemosyne 26, 60–62. Sigalas, C.I. (2000), ‘Un sanctuaire d’Aphrodite a Théra’, Kernos 13, 241–245. Smith, A.C. and Pickup, S., eds. (2010), Brill’s Companion to Aphrodite, Leiden/Boston. Stillwell, R., MacDonald, W.L. and McAlister, M.H., eds. (1976), The Princeton Encyclopedia of Classical Sites, Princeton. Trappes-Lomax, J.M. (2007), Catullus: A Textual Reappraisal, Swansea. Ulbrich, A. (2010), ‘Images of Cypriot Aphrodite in her Sanctuaries During the Age of the CityKingdoms’, in Smith and Pickup 2010, 167–193. Wilson-Okamura, D.S. (2010), Virgil in the Renaissance, Cambridge. Zimmerman, M., Hunink, V., McCreight, T.D., van Mal-Maeder, D., Panayotakis, S., Schmidt, V. and Wesseling, B., eds. (1998), Aspects of Apuleius' Golden Ass II: Cupid and Psyche, Groningen.

Boris Hogenmüller

Idalion, Satrachus and the Annales of Volusius: The Reception of Cyprus in the Carmina Catulli Abstract: The carmina of the Roman poet Gaius Valerius Catullus are famous for various reasons. Especially Catullus’ tendency to criticize contemporary literature or to praise it at the highest level is characteristic for the neoteric theory of poetry. Considering Catullus’ poems in toto it seems to be striking that precisely the little-known Annales of Catullus’ contemporary Volusius, a rather unknown poet of the first century BCE, have aroused Catullus’ wrath with lasting effect. No other explanation can be found that they have become the subject of two poems. Equally striking is the fact that both poems are obviously connected with places on the island of Cyprus to evaluate quality of poetry and in this special case devaluate Volusius’ so called cacata volumina.

 Introduction Catullus’ poems have to be considered as one of the most beautiful products of Roman literature of the first century BCE. Their different themes — love, disappointment, hate, mourning –, their linguistic conciseness and finesse, and finally, their universally evident erudition (doctrina) shaped a generation of ‘new’ poets — Cicero famously called them poetae novi or νεώτεροι1 — and shaped simultaneously the emerging genre of Roman love elegy. Although the poems seem easy to understand due to the supposedly simple access to the subject matter — the immediacy of the human emotions expressed — this appearance is deceptive: “He (scil. Catullus) draws us so skilfully into his world and his emotional landscape that we get the feeling of knowing him much better than we actually do”, as Julia Haig Gaisser writes in the first chapter of her monograph on Catullus’ work (Gaisser 2012, 9). Quite often, artful allusions to the underlying hypotexts2 of Hellenistic poetry3 are hidden behind apparently superficial  1 Cf. Cic. Orat. 161 (poetae novi); Att. 7.2.1 (νεώτεροι). 2 On the theory of hypertextuality in the context of intertextuality cf. Genette 1993. 3 On Callimachus’ influence on the poetry of Catullus cf. among others Wimmel 1964, 181–196; cf. also Nelis 2012; Hunter 2006; Fain 2008. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-004

  Boris Hogenmüller phrases, which demand expertise from the reader in order to recognize the depth of Catullus’ erudition. These original texts are not always as easy to identify as in c. 51 or c. 70, which, as Latin re-enactments, go back to a poem (31 V.) of Sappho from Lesbos, or an epigram of Callimachus from Alexandria (25 Pf. = 11 Asper = AP 5.6 = HE 1091–1095). Sometimes the allusions are even more subtle and merely touch the underlying theme and intention of the Greek models without providing clear linguistic or structural indications.4 In addition to this diachronic intertextuality, Catullus’ poetry is captivating in its synchronous allusions, especially to those of his friends from the neoteric circle. A particularly vivid example is Catullus’ critical approach to contemporary writings. Thus, it is not surprising when the poet criticizes a work known as Annales of Volusius5 with harsh words in c. 366 and contrasts it with the epyllion Zmyrna written by his friend Gaius Helvius Cinna7 in c. 95, which, in Catullus’ opinion, is highly successful. Surprising and, in my opinion, still unmentioned in modern research is the fact that Catullus assigns the island of Cyprus a very decisive role in the evaluation of the quality of poetry in general, and allows it to function as a critical mark of outstanding poetry.

 The Annales Volusi as cacata charta: Some remarks on c. 36 Catullus’ c. 36, written in hendecasyllables, is to be seen in the context of a small number of poems (including c. 14. and c. 44) that deal critically with contemporary literature.8 In proximity to c. 35, which — dedicated to Catullus’ highly esteemed friend Caecilius — praises the just published Magna Mater, c. 36 addresses its complete opposite. As can already be seen from the opening verse, Catullus now turns his attention to the Annales — a historical epic written in

 4 See my article on c. 65 and 68 (Hogenmüller 2012). 5 Sometimes Volusius is considered the lawyer and orator Quintus Volusius, a friend of Cicero, cf. Forsyth 1986, 225. 6 Cf. Syndikus I 32001, 205: “Rechte Dichtung ist für ihn leicht, elegant, gewählt, witzig, weltmännisch, das Gegenbild klassifiziert er als schwerfällig, plump, ungestalt, banal und provinziell”. 7 Cf. Hollis 2007, 11–18, here: 14–16. 8 Cf. Buchheit 1959; Syndikus I 32001, 205 n. 2.

Idalion, Satrachus and the Annales of Volusius  

verse — of the unknown poet Volusius, probably from Northern Italy,9 which is considered particularly bad by Catullus. This work is intended to serve as a sacrifice Catullus would like to offer to the gods instead of his own verses for Lesbia (pro mea puella) who is said to be grateful for the reconciliation10 with her beloved poet: Annales Volusi, cacata carta, votum solvite pro mea puella. nam sanctae Veneri Cupidinique vovit, si sibi restitutus essem desissemque truces vibrare iambos, electissima pessimi poetae scripta tardipedi deo daturam infelicibus ustulanda lignis. et hoc pessima se puella vidit iocose lepide vovere divis. nunc o caeruleo creata ponto, quae sanctum Idalium Vriosque apertos quaeque Ancona Cnidumque harundinosam colis quaeque Amathunta quaeque Golgos quaeque Durrachium Hadriae tabernam, acceptum face redditumque votum, si non illepidum neque invenustum est. at vos interea venite in ignem, pleni ruris et inficetiarum. annales Volusi, cacata carta. Volusius’ Annals, defiled sheets, fulfil a vow for my girl: for she vowed to sacred Venus and to Cupid that if I were reunited to her, and I desisted hurling savage iambics, she would give the choicest writings of the worst poet to the slow-footed god to be burned with ill-omened wood. And the wretched girl saw herself vow this to the gods in jest. Now, O Creation of the pale blue sea, you who dwell in sacred Idalium and in storm-beaten Urium,

 9 This can be assumed by an allusion to the river Padua, a branch of the river Po in Northern Italy, which is mentioned in the context of c. 95 and the critique of Volusius, cf. Syndikus I 3 2001, 206 n. 7. 10 Cf. Syndikus I 32001, 205 n. 5; different Williams 1968, 223; Wiseman 1969, 40–45.

  Boris Hogenmüller and foster Ancona and reedy Cnidos, Amathus and Golgos and Dyrrhachium, the tavern of the Adriatic, accept and acknowledge this vow if it lacks neither grace nor charm. But meantime, off with you to the flames, crammed with boorish speech and vapid, Annals of Volusius, defiled sheets.11

In direct emphasis, the poet addresses the Annales of Volusius, which are regarded as ‘expelled from the anus’12 (cacata carta), and invites them to fulfil the vow of the puella (votum solvite). Lesbia had promised the gods of love to burn the extremely ‘exquisite’ writings — that means the iambi written by Catullus on behalf of Lesbia — of an extremely ‘bad poet’, if Catullus had reconciled with her (sibi restitutus essem). Such a vow, which Catullus ironically refers to a pessima puella, would be a very witty suggestion (iocose lepide vovere divis). Catullus, however, wants to fulfil this vow for the puella by burning the mentioned Annales instead of his own verses. The goddess Venus may therefore witness the fulfilment of the vow if the vow lacks neither grace nor charm (non illepidum neque invenustum). Indeed, Catullus does not call Venus by name — similar to the hymn13 –, but metaphorically as ‘the one born of the blue sea’ (caeruleo creata ponto), who rules several places of worship: the holy Idalion (sanctum Idalium), the ‘storm-beaten’ Urion14 (Vriosque apertos) and Ancona (Ancona) on the Italian Adriatic coast, the reed-rich Cnidos on the coast of Asia Minor (Cnidumque harundinosam), the cult sites of Amathus (Amathunta) and Golgoi (Golgos), both located on Cyprus, and Dyrrhachium (Durrachium), which lies opposite Brindisi and, as Catullus himself claims, is called ‘a shop on the Adriatic’ (Hadriae tabernam). With a further emphatic statement — the poet repeats the opening verse verbatim — Catullus concludes wishing the Annales, which in his opinion are so full of rusticitas and silliness (pleni ruris et inficetiarum), to be burnt in the fire (venite in ignem). What is striking in this context is the obvious interaction of good poetry in connection with that which in Catullus’ eyes appears to be bad, and the meta 11 Throughout this chapter, the translations of Catullus’ poems are those of Smithers 1894. 12 Cf. Di Brazzano 1999. See also Gwyn Morgan 1980 and Watson 2005, esp. 272. 13 Cf. Kroll 51968 ad 11; Norden 1913, 148 and 168. 14 The name Urion is very difficult. In ancient times there was a city of Urium or Hyria located between Taranto and Brindisi alongside the Via Appia but without any connection to Venus. It might be possible that the name is even an invented place name simply for the gloss as a fine touch of a doctus poeta, cf. Ross 1973, 62. See also Harrison in this volume.

Idalion, Satrachus and the Annales of Volusius  

phorically mentioned deity. Venus, who had risen from the blue sea, is invoked by Catullus as a witness to the ritual act. But in this context, she is almost synonymously referred to as mistress of various places of worship that were important in ancient times. In addition to the rather “shabby ports on the Adriatic”,15 the Italian towns of Urion, or Oria, Ancona and Durrës on the coast of Albania, which gives the impression of a sailor’s tavern,16 and Cnidos in Asia Minor, there are three17 famous cult sites on the island of Cyprus directly connected with the worship of Venus. It is not surprising that Catullus mentions the holy city Idalion first due to its obvious importance to Venus. This city located in the fertile Gialias valley — flourishing there as an economic centre due to its location close to the mines in the eastern foothills of the Troodos Mountains and its proximity to the cities and ports on the south and east coast of Cyprus — was the centre of the cult of the Great Goddess of Cyprus, the ‘Wanassa’ (ϝάνασσα) or ‘Queen of Heaven’, known as Aphrodite, and her consort the ‘Master of Animals’. This cult probably began in the 11th century BCE and continued throughout the Roman period. The city originally included two acropoleis, but after the palace and the west acropolis had been abandoned, the city’s centre was located on the east acropolis, around the sanctuaries for Aphrodite and Adonis. The city existed in Hellenistic and Roman times. Its geographic extent is not yet known.18 Additionally to Idalion, Catullus explicitly mentions the city of Amathus, a second well-known sanctuary of Venus in Cyprus. The city’s legendary founder Cinyras, the father of Adonis, named this place after his mother.19 According to a version of the myth of Ariadne noted by Plutarch,20 Theseus abandoned Ariadne at Amathus, where she died during childbirth and was buried in a sacred tomb. According to the legend of Adonis, Amathus became famous for the so called ‘Adonia’ games, where athletes competed in hunting wild boars during sport competitions; in Roman times, Amathus became the capital of one of the

 15 Cf. Syndikus I 32001, 208–209. 16 Cf. Williams 1968, 222. See also Marsilio 2012. 17 It is interesting that the most famous cult site of Paphos is absent from this catalogue. It might be possible to attribute this to the neoteric avoidance of the well-known and to the preference for less treated themes. 18 Cf. Oberhummer 1914. 19 Cinyras’ mother was named Amathousa, and it was either from her or Amathous, a son of Heracles, that the city of Amathus received its name, cf. Steph. Byz. s.v. Amathous. 20 Cf. Plut. Thes. 20.3–5.

  Boris Hogenmüller four administrative regions of Cyprus, and thus the temple of Adonis and Aphrodite Amathusia remained famous.21 The triad of cult sites found in Cyprus is completed by Catullus’ mention of the more locally known place Golgi, modern Athienou, which is nowadays a village in the Larnaca district. Athienou is commonly identified with the town Golgoi (Γόλγοι) as part of the ancient kingdom which was already described by Theocritus22 in the third century BCE. According to him, Golgoi was already known for the temple — and the cult — of the goddess Aphrodite before it was established in Paphos. However, Golgoi increasingly lost its importance in Roman times. Various reasons can be assumed for the invoking of Venus as a witness both to the fulfilment of the vow of Lesbia and to the evaluation of literature by Catullus. On the one hand, Venus is the tutelary deity who, within Catullus’ fiction of the tragic love affair with Lesbia, evidently has the greatest validity and is therefore invoked or mentioned several times. One can think, for example, of Catullus’ poem on Lesbia’s dead bird (c. 3), in which the poet calls upon all the gods and goddesses of love to mourn (3.1: Lugete o Veneres Cupidinesque), and of Catullus’ almost desperate prayer to all the gods that Lesbia’s vows of love would come true (109.3: di magni, facite ut vere promittere possit). On the other hand, Venus plays a central role in the self-conception of neoteric poetry, especially in the definition and perception of Catullus’ own literature as distinct from ‘bad’ literature. Catullus pretends to have written defiant iambi due to a dispute with Lesbia — that means defamatory poems which are to be placed in the context of erotic poetry. He also speaks of this kind of iambi in c. 40, which are dedicated to a certain Ravidus as punishment for his attempt to seduce Catullus’ girlfriend.23 Identical in these poems, despite the changed context, is the violation of the underlying amor, which is protected by Venus as goddess of love. Lesbia wants to see these poems to be burnt within the fictious context of c. 36, because — or rather although — they are the electissima [scil. carmina] of a pessimus poeta. The fact, however, that this expression is used by Catullus as an understatement, may be inferred, on the one hand, from the adjective electus or electissimus,24 which is usually found in literary criticism to describe quality, and, on the other hand, from Catullus’ ironic self-designation as pessimus poeta. That Catullus certainly did not perceive himself as such may

 21 Cf. Hirschfeld 1894. 22 Theoc. Id. 15. 23 Cf. Syndikus I 32001, 221–223. 24 Cf. Syndikus I 32001, 207.

Idalion, Satrachus and the Annales of Volusius  

be concluded not least from c. 49, in which the poet uses the phrase pessimus omnium poeta not as an expression of modesty, but as a designation of “provocative self-reduction”,25 from which an ironic light is to be cast on the optimus omnium patronus Cicero. Catullus’ iambi are thus — despite their violent force — poetry of high quality, which meet the demands of the neoteric rules and, due to their context of origin, have a close connection to Venus — Venus, who is Catullus’ divine mistress, ruling the cult sites located on Cyprus and, at the same time, serving as a mark and standard for ‘good’ or ‘bad’ poetry. Consequently, to fulfil Lesbia’s vow, the Annales of Volusius, which not only lack the reference to the goddess of love, but also stand for qualitatively inferior literature in Catullus’ perception, may serve as a sacrifice offered for Catullus’ reconciliation with the puella.

 The Zmyrna mei Cinnae as an alternative to the Annales Volusi: Some remarks on c. 95 This impression of recognizing Venus, or rather the mention of the places of worship Venus ruled, as a standard for good literature, is reinforced in another of Catullus’ poems, which particularly praises the poetry of his friend Gaius Helvius Cinna. The main information about Cinna’s life can be taken from a passage in the Suda26 about the Augustan-period poet Parthenius of Nicaea. It is said there that Parthenius was taken by Cinna as war booty after the defeat of Mithridates VI Eupator. Although not related to them, Cinna shared the surname (cognomen) of the high noble Cornelii Cinnae who were Iulius Caesar’s relatives by marriage. According to Suetonius (Jul. 85), Valerius Maximus (9.9.1), Appian (BC 2.20.147), and Cassius Dio (44.50), a certain Helvius Cinna was killed at Julius Caesar’s funeral in 44 BCE because he was mistaken for Cornelius Cinna, the conspirator. Plutarch (Brut. 20), however, referring to the affair, gives the information that the Cinna who was killed by the mob was a poet. This points to the identity of Helvius Cinna as the tribune with Helvius Cinna as the poet.27

 25 Cf. Syndikus I 32001, 249. 26 Sud. s.v. Παρθένιος III,58,10 Adler (= Parthenius, Test. 1 Lightfood). 27 Cf. Hollis 2007, 18–19.

  Boris Hogenmüller Cinna’s literary fame was established by his magnum opus28 Zmyrna — or Smyrna29 —, a mythological epic poem focused on the incestuous love of Smyrna (or Myrrha) and her father Cinyras, treated after the erudite and allusive manner of the Alexandrian poets. Cinna was a close friend of Catullus (cf. Catul. 10.29– 30: meus sodalis / Cinna est Gaius). After the completion of Zmyrna in about 55 BCE, Catullus hailed it as a great achievement. Unfortunately, the poem has not survived until today. Cinna and his Zmyrna are explicitly the subject and topic of Catullus’ c. 95. The poem, written in elegiac couplets, but, unfortunately, transmitted incompletely, is dedicated to the definition of ‘good’ literature in contrast to ‘bad’ literature, just like c. 36. Cinna’s poem, worked on for a long time, becomes thereby the literary standard for Catullus: Zmyrna mei Cinnae nonam post denique messem quam coepta est nonamque edita post hiemem, milia cum interea quingenta Hortensius uno ******** Zmyrna cavas Satrachi penitus mittetur ad undas, Zmyrnam cana diu saecula pervoluent. at Volusi annales Paduam morientur ad ipsam et laxas scombris saepe dabunt tunicas. Parva mei mihi sint cordi monimenta ..., at populus tumido gaudeat Antimacho. My Cinna’s Zmyrna finally, after the ninth harvest it was begun, and after the ninth winter it was published, when Hortensius meanwhile five hundred thousand [lines] in one [month] [...] […] […] Zmyrna will be sent to the curving waves of innermost Satrachus, hoary ages will roll out Zmyrna long hence. But Volusius’ Annals will die at Padua itself, and will often furnish loose wrappings for mackerel. May the short works of my comrade remain in my heart, as for the people, let them rejoice in bloated Antimachus.

Catullus first reports that, after nine long years (nonam post ... messem / ... nonamque edita post hiemem) that Cinna’s long-expected (denique) Zmyrna has now been finished. Contrary to Cinna, a negative example is found in Hor 28 In addition, Cinna wrote a propemptikon to Gaius Asinius Pollio to accompany him on his journey to Greece. Unfortunately, only one epigram is completely preserved, which is based on Callimachus. Ovid included him in his list of celebrated erotic poets and writers (Tr. 2.435). 29 Cf. Hollis 2007, 29–30.

Idalion, Satrachus and the Annales of Volusius  

tensius,30 who wrote 500.000 verses (milia quingenta) in a single (uno) month31 or year32. Although there is a gap of one pentameter length33 after the third verse, it can be assumed that Catullus, following the scheme of the first couplet, called Hortensius by name as well as — in contrast to Cinna’s Zmyrna — drawing attention to the poetic significance of Hortensius’ work. In the following couplet Catullus again emphasizes the continuity of the Zmyrna, which reaches the deep waters of the distant Satrachus34 (cavas Satrachi penitus mittetur ad undas) and will be still read (pervoluent) in centuries (cana diu saecula). The Annales Volusi, which will hardly get to be known beyond their place of origin, will already die in the small river Padua, a branch of the river Po35 (Paduam morientur ad ipsam), and would only be used as paper for wrapping fish (laxas scombris saepe ... tunicas). Full of pathos, Catullus concludes36 that his friend’s little monimenta would be dear to his heart (sint cordi) — it was sometimes assumed that the last three missing syllables comprised the noun sodalis,37 but there is no compelling proof of this — but that the common people (populus) should take pleasure in Antimachus’ bloated poetry (tumido gaudeat Antimacho).38 As already seen in c. 36, the topic of c. 95 is once more the evaluation of and distinction between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ literature. Again, the historical epic of Volusius is used as an example of bad literature. According to Catullus, Volusius’ work would die a ‘quick death’ because of its inferior quality. That is to say, that, due to the lack of distribution and transmission, the Annales will soon be forgotten and end up on the ‘garbage heap of history’, or, more precisely, in the fish market of the province as packaging for fish.39 By framing these very scornful comparisons, Catullus presents a contrast to the Zmyrna of his highly es 30 It is possible that Catullus criticizes the otherwise esteemed Hortensius for his annals written about the bellum sociale, cf. Syndikus III 32001, 84 n. 11; cf. also Noonan 1986. See, however, Housman’s conjecture Hatriensis in, accepted by Goold 1983 and defended by Solodow 1987. 31 This is the interpretation of Syndikus III 32001, 85 n. 12. 32 Cf. e.g. Fordyce 1961, 384. 33 Cf. Lieberg 2000. 34 As Catullus’ poems were roughly contemporary with Cato’s mission to Cyprus, there could be a possible allusion to this event in 95.5: Zmyrna cavas Satrachi penitus mittetur ad undas, i.e. the Zmyrna being a literary equivalent to Cato the politician. 35 For Padua or Padusa as the name of the estuary cf. Plb. 2.16.11; Verg. A. 11.457; Valgius fr. 3 Morel; Plin. Nat. 3.119; Wiseman 1974, 49. 36 Cf. Hollis 2007, 35–37. 37 Cf. Syndikus III 32001, 87–88 and n. 26. 38 Callimachus had already described the Lyde of Antimachus as a ‘turgid’ work (Call. fr. 398 Pf.); cf. also Ronconi 1967, 1161. 39 Cf. Apicius 9.10.1; 9.77; Mart. 3.2.3–4; 4.86.8; 6.61.8; Thomson 1964.

  Boris Hogenmüller teemed friend Cinna. Not only will Cinna’s writing survive the ages, but, unlike the Annales, his work will also find a way to the ‘farthest reaches’, namely the distant river Satrachus.40 The exact location of this river in Cyprus is still unknown, though George Hill claims the following (Hill 1940, 7 n. 3), contrary to Nonnus (D. 13.420): “Another stream, with its many tributaries, drains the western part of the plain and flows into Morphon Bay. Its ancient name is uncertain; but it may have been Satrachus”. Ludwig Ross,41 however, identifies Satrachus with the Dali river near the ancient city Idalion, but without any striking evidence. As already seen in c. 36, regarding the places of worship of Venus mentioned there, the Satrachus was also deliberately chosen by Catullus: on the surface, since Cinna’s Zmyrna must have referred to it indirectly — as Adrian Hollis states, the Satrachus was Smyrna’s local river42 —, Satrachus was, according to a remark by Nonnus (D. 13.458–460), the river in which Adonis, the son of Smyrna, bathed and was seduced by Aphrodite.43 But in the background, the mention of the Satrachus, given its connection with Venus, might again be understood as a hidden reference to the selfunderstanding of the neoteric ideal of poetry already mentioned in the context of c. 36, and, especially, to the definition and perception of literature considered as ‘good’. Due to the theme of Smyrna’s incestuous love for her father, which, according to the myth, was inflicted by Venus as a punishment, Cinna’s Zmyrna was already connected to the goddess of love and thus inspired by her. At the same time, Cinna’s work corresponds to the neoteric self-conception to the highest degree and to the underlying theory of poetry due to its little treated and learnedly presented topic. It seems to me quite plausible that Catullus therefore alludes to Venus in her affinity with the river located in Cyprus, which embodies an erotic episode from the Adonis myth, as to function as a standard for good poetry in the sense of a witty antithesis to the small and insignificant river Padua. This artistic approach shows once again an example of Catullus’ literary

 40 On the model of rivers as an obiectum comparationis on behalf of good and bad literature cf. Call. Ap. 108–112; see also Clausen 1964, 189. 41 Cf. Ross 1910, 71. 42 Cf. Hollis 2007, 37. 43 Cf. Godwin 1999, 206. See also Hollis 2007, 35–37.

Idalion, Satrachus and the Annales of Volusius  

game with the reader,44 which should encourage him to recognize the poet’s doctrina in every mention,45 independent of its apparent insignificance. At the same time, the Annales of Volusius, which seem to be without wit, grace, and probably without any reference to Venus, are not only denied any literary quality, but they are also confronted with a work — Cinna’s Zmyrna — as much superior in doctrina and elegantia as the Cypriot river Satrachus, as a learned sign for Venus, is superior to the provincial river Padua, mentioned as a symbol of insignificance.46

 Conclusion According to this analysis of the two poems, several different conclusions can be drawn. First, it should be noted that Catullus, both in c. 36 and c. 95, is decidedly critical of what he regards as ‘bad’ literature, in poems which attractively demonstrate the poet’s own neoteric ideal of poetry. In doing so, Catullus skilfully makes use of various metonymies and allusions to various places on the island of Cyprus, not only to expose seemingly bad literature, but also to emphasize the central significance to and affinity with the poetry of Venus and, in my opinion, precisely with the poetry of Catullus. The city of Idalion, which is particularly sacred to Venus, Amathus, founded by Cinyras, the father of Adonis, and Golgoi, famous for its temple of Venus, as well as the river Satrachus, which is directly connected to Venus and her tradition, serve as mythical places to which Catullus can allude in an erudite manner to illustrate his own poetic claims. The fact that these are places in Cyprus, which was particularly close to Aphrodite or Venus, may be proof of the goddess’ special position in Catullus’ poetry.47 Moreover, these mentions can also illustrate the importance of the island in the perception of neoteric poetry.

 44 This can be proved by several poems; as an example here cf. my articles on c. 96 (Hogenmüller 2017) and c. 68 (Hogenmüller 2018). 45 Cf. Syndikus III 32001, 83: “Catull hat aber nicht nur auf ein seltsam schillerndes Kunstwerk hinweisen wollen, er will in seinem Gedicht auch zeigen, daß er selbst ganz von dem neuen Geist erfüllt ist und ein Gedicht als kostbar ziseliertes Gebilde zu formen vermag”. 46 Cf. Syndikus III 32001, 87 on behalf of Call. Ap. 47 It seems remarkable that Catullus obviously used Venus — in connection with the noun venustas — as a literary-critical term of ‘good’ poetry. This can be seen best from the opposite use of the adjective invenustum in 36.17, where Catullus denotes Lesbia’s vow to burn the ‘bad’ poetry of Volusius as a sacrifice to the gods as non illepidum neque invenustum.

  Boris Hogenmüller Catullus’ poems thus offer a particularly vivid example of the “Reception of Ancient Cyprus in Western Culture”, which is worth being mentioned in this context.

 Addendum Besides references to Cyprus in Catullus’ c. 36 and c. 95, there could also be a remarkable allusion to Cyprus in c. 64. As is widely known, this poem addresses, amongst other topics, the myth of Theseus and Ariadne. In the central part, Catullus presents Ariadne abandoned by Theseus on the shore of the island Dia (64.52–54: namque fluentisono prospectans litore Diae / Thesea cedentem celeri cum classe tuetur / indomitos in corde gerens Ariadna furores, ‘Looking forth from Dia’s beach, resounding with crashing of breakers, Ariadne watches Theseus moving from sight with his swift fleet, her heart swelling with raging passion’). Usually, Dia is identified with the island of Naxos, although there is a special variation of the myth, referring to Amathus in Cyprus as the place where Theseus tragically abandoned Ariadne.48 According to this, Theseus’ ship was swept off course and the pregnant Ariadne was put ashore in the storm. Theseus, attempting to secure the ship, was inadvertently swept out to sea and thus was not able to save Ariadne. Ariadne, however, washed ashore on Cyprus, was rescued by Cypriot women who cared for her and memorialized her in a shrine after her death in childbirth. Finally, Theseus returned to Cyprus, spent money for sacrifices to Ariadne, and ordered two cult images of her, one of silver and one of bronze. The sacred grove, in which the shrine was located, was named the ‘Grove of Aphrodite-Ariadne’.49 According to Cypriot legend, Ariadne’s tomb was located within the temenos of the sanctuary of Aphrodite-Ariadne.50 Certainly, it is not entirely clear whether Catullus identified the island of Naxos in his version of the Ariadne myth with the name Dia, or if he even wanted to allude to Cyprus. But although most commentators51 have argued for an identification with the island of Naxos, the idea of recognizing Cyprus in Dia is  48 Cf. Plut. Thes. 20.3–5 concerning the Hellenistic mythographer Paeon of Amathus whose works are unfortunately lost. 49 Cf. Cueva 1996. 50 Cf. Breitenberger 2007, 32. 51 Cf. Ellis 1889, 293–294; Syndikus II 32001, 140 n. 165: “Die Insel heißt in Vers 52 und 121 Dia. Unter diesem Namen verstand man in der Ariadnesage schon lange Naxos; cf. Call. Fr. 601 und Pfeiffer ad 1”.

Idalion, Satrachus and the Annales of Volusius  

probably worth mentioning in accordance with the neoteric theory of poetry, which focuses on the unusual, the exquisite, and maybe even, in this context, on a non-popular variation of the Ariadne myth.

Bibliography Breitenberger, B. (2007), Aphrodite and Eros: The Development of Greek Erotic Mythology, New York. Buchheit, V. (1959), ‘Catulls Dichterkritik in c. 36’, Hermes 87, 309–327. Clausen, W. (1964), ‘Callimachus and Latin Poetry’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 5, 181–196. Cueva, E.P. (1996), ‘Plutarch’s Ariadne in Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe’, American Journal of Philology 117, 473–484. Deroux, C., ed. (2012), Studies in Latin Literature and Roman History XVI, Brussels. Di Brazzano, S. (1999), ‘Cacata charta. Nota a Catull. 36,1 e a Priap. 59,4’, Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici 43, 179–189. Du Quesnay, I. and Woodman, T., eds. (2012), Catullus: Poems, Books, Readers, Cambridge. Ellis, R. (1889), A Commentary on Catullus, Oxford. Fain, G.L. (2008), Writing Epigrams: The Art of Composition in Catullus, Callimachus and Martial, Brussels. Fordyce, C.J. (1961), Catullus: A Commentary, Oxford. Forsyth, P.Y. (1986), The Poems of Catullus: A Teaching Text, Boston. Gaisser, J.H. (2012), Catull. Dichter der Leidenschaft, Darmstadt. Genette, G. (1993), Palimpseste. Die Literatur auf zweiter Stufe. Aus dem Französischen von W. Bayer und D. Hornig, Frankfurt am Main. Godwin, J. (1999), Catullus: The Shorter Poems, Liverpool. Goold, G.P. (1983), Catullus, London. Gwyn Morgan, M. (1980), ‘Catullus and the Annales Volusi’, Quaderni Urbinati di Cultura Classica 33, 59–67. Hill, G. (1940), A History of Cyprus, vol. I, Cambridge. Hirschfeld, G. (1894), ‘Amathus 4’, in Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft I,2, Stuttgart, col. 1752. Hogenmüller, B. (2012), ‘Der Tod des Bruders. Bemerkungen zum Vorbild von Catull c. 65 und 68’, Vichiana 14, 203–213. Hogenmüller, B. (2017), ‘Catulls Epicedium für Calvus (c. 96). Die Parallelen zu Parth. fr. 27 Lightfoot (= SH 626) und Call. epigr. 2 Pfeiffer’, Paideia 72, 741–755. Hogenmüller, B. (2018), ‘„ (…) und die Werke der alten Dichter bringen ihm keine Freude, wenn er angsterfüllt die Nacht durchwacht.“ Bemerkungen zur Intra- und Intertextualität von Cat. c.68’, Paideia 73, 104–115. Hollis, A.S. (2007), Fragments of Roman Poetry: c. 60 BC– AD 20, Oxford. Hunter, R. (2006), The Shadow of Callimachus: Studies in the Reception of Hellenistic Poetry at Rome, Cambridge. Kroll, W. (51968), C. Valerius Catullus, Stuttgart. Lieberg, G. (2000), ‘L’integrazione di Catullo 95.4’, Prometheus 26, 137–142.

  Boris Hogenmüller Marsilio, M. (2012), ‘Catullus 36: Love and Literary Criticism’, in Deroux 2012, 126–133. Nelis, D.P. (2012), ‘Callimachus in Verona’, in Du Quesnay and Woodman 2012, 1–28. Noonan, J.D. (1986), ‘Myth, Humor and the Sequence of Thought in Catullus 95’, The Classical Journal 81, 299–304. Norden, E. (1913), Agnostos Theos. Untersuchungen zur Formengeschichte religiöser Rede, Leipzig. Oberhummer, E. (1914), ‘Idalion’, in Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft IX,1, Stuttgart, coll. 867–872. Ronconi, A. (1967), ‘Note sulla poetica e critica letteraria in Catullo’, Studi Urbinati 41, 1155– 1166. Ross, L. (1910), A Journey to Cyprus (February and March 1845), transl. by C.D. Cobham, Nicosia. Ross, D. (1973), ‘Uriosque apertos: A Catullan Gloss’, Mnemosyne 26, 60–62. Smithers, L.S. (1894), Catullus. The Carmina of Gaius Valerius Catullus, London. Solodow, J.B. (1987), ‘On Catullus 95’, Classical Philology 82, 141–145. Stem, R. (2012), The Political Biographies of Cornelius Nepos, Michigan. Syndikus, H.P. (32001), Catull. Eine Interpretation vol. I, II and III, Darmstadt. Thomson, D.F.S. (1964), ‘A Note on Statius Silvae 4.9.13’, Phoenix 18, 30–36. Watson, L.C. (2005), ‘Catullan Recycling? Cacata carta’, Mnemosyne 58, 270–277. Williams, G. (1968), Tradition and Originality in Roman Poetry, Oxford. Wimmel, W. (1960), Kallimachos in Rom, Wiesbaden. Wiseman, T.P. (1969), Catullan Question, Leicester. Wiseman, T.P. (1974), Cinna the Poet and other Roman Essays, Leicester.

Theodore Antoniadis

Nil desperandum...cras ingens iterabimus aequor (Hor. Carm. 1.7): The Foundation of Salamis by a Bastard Archer as an Exemplum in Latin Literature Abstract: Teucer, the legendary founder of Salamis in Cyprus, is not registered among the prominent figures in classical literature, though he has his moments not only in the epic tradition, but also in tragedy. Τhe son of king Telamon of Salamis and Hesione took part in the Trojan War fighting as a great archer alongside his half-brother Ajax. Having allegedly failed to stand by him after the award of Achilles’ arms to Odysseus, however, Teucer stood trial as soon as he got back home and eventually was disowned by his father and banished from his homeland. Such is the basic version of his myth as we know it from Greek authors, but to the Romans it seems that Teucer was more familiar, or even cherished, as a refugee, a man who was forced to abandon his native land and set out to find a new home for himself and his companions. Ηis toils and wanderings already make him a counterpart of Aeneas in the eyes of Vergil’s Dido. However, it is rather Horace’s Carm. 1.7 that associates Teucer’s myth with the themes of war, voyage, adventure, and rehabilitation that are also inherent in Rome’s foundation myth.

 Introduction: Contextualizing mobility and immigration in Graeco-Roman myth and literature According to myth and literary rhetoric, the legitimation of the Roman state lay in the legend that Aeneas, following his destiny in the wake of Troy’s fall, settled down in Italy after a series of adventures across the Mediterranean. There he was supposed to have founded Lavinium as a political and religious centre. From a historical perspective, since the whole region of Latium was originally under Etruscan supremacy, the Romans seem to have appropriated the Trojan myth for themselves as soon as they established their domination of the Latin League in the fifth century BCE. It was in the Augustan Age, though, that this myth was endorsed with special political significance and made part of their https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-005

  Theodore Antoniadis ‘ethnic’ ideology thanks to Vergil’s Aeneid, the epic which established Aeneas as the leading figure of proto-Roman history in the role of a profugus / ‘refugee’ (Α. 1.2) who became a migrant founder to ensure a better future for himself and his people. Nevertheless, Aeneas’ successful story of immigration and integration was not unique in Graeco-Roman myth. Already in the Aeneid, actually, the Trojan hero is acquainted with other refugees who had crossed the Adriatic Sea in search of their own ‘promised land’. In his encounter with Evander, an Arcadian settler at the site of Rome, Aeneas finds out that the latter was also driven from his homeland in the Peloponnese to Italy (A. 8.333: pulsum patria).1 Later in the epic, the Greek Diomedes is said to have settled in Apulia in Southern Italy after the end of the Trojan War, where he founded several cities, among which the best known is Arpi. Α peaceful settler in his post-Homeric career, Diomedes declines the local Rutulians’ request to undertake a war against Aeneas, thereby promoting the idea of cultural integration, an idea that was particularly cherished in the Augustan Age when the Aeneid was written. Above all, though, it is the story of Dido, Aeneas’ lover, which suggests another foundation myth. Having settled on the shores of western North Africa where she founded Carthage, Dido is moved as she is listening to the story of Aeneas and his companions, since she too was forced to abandon her land, the Phoenician city-state of Tyre, in order to flee the tyranny of her brother Pygmalion. If we further recollect the mythic origins of other city-states such as Thebes and Cyrene founded by refugees (Kadmos and Battus), we then realize that in the Graeco-Roman world migrant founders and not autochthonous or aboriginal people were commonly found in the core of a community’s origins as founders, civilizers and leaders. However, as I will try to showcase, the Romans rather than the Greeks were those who preferred to embrace such stories. This becomes particularly evident, if we cast light on one of the most neglected foundation myths in the classical tradition so as to contextualize it within the political, ethnic and literary representation of Rome as a community largely built by refugees. I used the word “neglected” because, if compared to the more ‘celebrated’ refugees mentioned above, Teucer’s name and his exploits have not claimed much scholarly attention so far. This is perhaps because this son of king Telamon of Salamis is somehow overshadowed by the figure of his famous father and especially by that of his half-brother Ajax. The first owes his reputation to  1 On Aeneas’ association with Evander in the Aeneid and their representation by Vergil, Ovid and Livy as refugees, see Lee-Stecum 2008, who compares the relative refugee narratives in Augustan literature. Note also Antenor at Padua in A. 1.242–249.

Nil desperandum…cras ingens iterabimus aequor  

his involvement in the Argonautic expedition and the hunt for the Calydonian Boar, while he features in all versions of Hercules’ sacking of Troy. Ιt was in honour of his contribution to Hercules’ feat indeed that Telamon took as a prize the daughter of king Laomedon, Hesione, the woman who bore him Teucer.2 As for Ajax, the ‘bulwark of the Achaeans’, whose might and colossal figure are proverbial in Homer, he is also well-known from Sophocles’ play, which recounts his suicide after his failure to be awarded with the armour of Achilles. In contrast, as we shall see, for most classical Greek authors, Teucer, despite his other qualities as a hero, is a mere νόθος, a bastard son of a slave woman, due to his mother’s Trojan origins, already evident from his very name.3 Ηis exile in Cyprus is briefly mentioned only by Pindar (N. 4.46–48) and Euripides (see below), while there is no reference to it by Proclus in his summary of the Nostoi.4

 A Bastard archer in Homer and Sophocles In the Iliad Teucer is generally presented as an efficient killer by virtue of his excellence in archery.5 Homer supplies a list of his victims in Il. 8.273–277, while the hero’s best moment, a kind of a mini-aristeia, appears in Book 15, when he twice tries to kill Hector as the latter is driving back the Achaeans towards their ships (Il. 15.442–483). His heroic status, though, is constantly undermined by the fact that in most battle scenes Teucer is fighting under the protection of Ajax, as we frequently find him loosing his shafts from behind his half-brother’s enormous shield.6 Undoubtedly, the most characteristic example is at Il. 8.266– 272: Τεῦκρος δ’ εἴνατος ἦλθε, παλίντονα τόξα τιταίνων, στῆ δ’ ἄρ’ ὑπ’ Αἴαντος σάκεϊ Τελαμωνιάδαο.

 2 See S. Aj. 433–440; Parth. 26; Ov. Met. 13.151–158. 3 Before the arrival of Dardanus, the land of Troy was known as Teucria after King Teucer who was said to have been the son of the river-god Scamander and the nymph Idaea. See Verg. A. 3.104–110, D.H. 1.61. In fact, as Higbie 1985, 11–12 has argued, since it was quite rare for a son’s name to be formulated by his mother’s qualities, Teucer’s name bears illegitimate associations for this reason too. For other examples, see Ebbott 2003, 67–83. 4 Pin. N. 4.46–48: καὶ Κύπρῳ, ἔνθα Τεῦκρος ἀπάρχει / ὁ Τελαμωνιάδας· ἀτάρ / Αἴας Σαλαμῖν' ἔχει πατρῴαν. See Seo 2013, 45. 5 See Hom. Il. 8.226–334, 13.313–314, 23.859–869. Odysseus compares his great skill as an archer to that of Philoctetes at S. Ph. 1057: Τεῦκρος παρ’ ἡμῖν, τήνδ’ ἐπιστήμην ἔχων. 6 See Hom. Il. 8.265–272; 12.349–350, 364–412; 15.442–444, 478–483.

  Theodore Antoniadis ἔνθ’ Αἴας μὲν ὑπεξέφερεν σάκος· αὐτὰρ ὅ γ’ ἥρως παπτήνας, ἐπεὶ ἄρ’ τιν’ ὀϊστεύσας ἐν ὁμίλῳ βεβλήκοι, ὁ μὲν αὖθι πεσὼν ἀπὸ θυμὸν ὄλεσσεν, αὐτὰρ ὁ αὖτις ἰὼν πάϊς ὣς ὑπὸ μητέρα δύσκεν εἰς Αἴανθ’· ὁ δέ μιν σάκεϊ κρύπτασκε φαεινῷ.

270

Ninth came Teukros, bending into position the curved bow, and took his place in the shelter of Telamonian Aias’ shield, as Aias lifted the shield to take him. The hero would watch, whenever in the throng he had struck some man with an arrow, and as the man dropped and died where he was stricken, the archer would run back again, like a child to the arms of his mother, to Aias, who would hide him in the glittering shield’s protection (trans. Lattimore 1951).

Teucer’s fighting tactic is presented as devious and cunning, as the use of the concomitant verbs δύσκεν (271) and κρύπτασκε (272) indicates. Shooting his arrows from behind the μέγα σάκος of Ajax, he returns to the safety of his brother’s shield once he has hit a rival (267–270). Homer’s likening him to a child always looking for his mother’s arms (271) is very apt and telling indeed, but it appears to detract from Teucer’s heroism by pointing to his disproportionate relationship with his brother.7 Even more, by hiding himself behind Ajax’s shield, a weapon that identifies his brother par excellence in the Iliad,8 Teucer is figuratively losing his identity and autonomy as an epic hero (272) being overshadowed by the dominant figure of Ajax, which is exemplified through his enormous stature and weapon. One way or another, Teucer’s method of fighting seems to undercut his martial display defining him more as the ‘recessive’ brother of Ajax than as a true comrade in arms.9 This sentiment is further detectable even in Agamemnon’s compliment to him for his successful performance in the next scene (Il. 8.280–285):

 7 Here it must be noted that fighting with a bow in general was not as much appreciated among the Greeks as the full-contact combat with a sword or a spear. See Hom. Il. 11.385–390; Od. 8.215–228 and cf. Menelaus’ derogatory reference to Teucer in S. Aj. 1020 (with Garvie 1998, ad loc): Ὁ τοξότης ἔοικεν οὐ σμικρὸν φρονεῖν to be discussed shortly. 8 Cf. Hom. Il. 11.485, 572; 13.709–771; 16.106–107; 23.820. For the description of the shield, see Il. 7.222, 11.545. Ebbott 2003, 38 also notes that shield-related terms such as τελαμών (Il. 14.404), whence the hero Telamon took his name and εὐρὺ…σάκος (Il. 11.527), whence Ajax’s son took his name, are used in the descriptions of Ajax’s shield. 9 See again Ebbott 2003, 38–39 who further argues that Homer’s depiction of the brothers’ fighting method and their inclusion together in the older dual form creates a shared identity between them.

Nil desperandum…cras ingens iterabimus aequor  

στῆ δὲ παρ’ αὐτὸν ἰὼν καί μιν πρὸς μῦθον ἔειπε· Τεῦκρε φίλη κεφαλή, Τελαμώνιε, κοίρανε λαῶν βάλλ’ οὕτως, αἴ κέν τι φόως Δαναοῖσι γένηαι πατρί τε σῷ Τελαμῶνι, ὅ σ’ ἔτρεφε τυτθὸν ἐόντα, καί σε νόθον περ ἐόντα κομίσσατο ᾧ ἐνὶ οἴκῳ· τὸν καὶ τηλόθ’ ἐόντα ἐϋκλείης ἐπίβησον.

280

285

He went over and stood beside him and spoke a word to him: ‘Telamonian Teukros, dear heart, o lord of your people, strike so; thus you may be a light given to the Danaans, and to Telamon your father, who cherished you when you were little, and, bastard as you were, looked after you in his own house. Bring him into glory, though he is far away; (trans. Lattimore 1951)

Although the use of a patronymic suggests a common way to address a Homeric hero, Agamemnon is almost at pains to disclose Teucer’s ‘special’ relationship with his father by hinting at his illegitimate status as a child of a concubine. His somewhat derogatory tone was enough to make the Alexandrian scholiasts omit line 284 on the basis that calling Teucer a νόθος is at odds with the flattering scope of Agamemnon’s exhortation.10 On the other hand, Agamemnon’s preceding phrase ἔτρεφε τυτθὸν ἐόντα (283) suggests a neat expression used by Homer in cases where someone is raised by someone other than a parent.11 As a result, modern critics and editors accept the verse on the ground that Agamemnon’s purpose is to encourage Teucer to make his father proud through his martial deeds and thereby prove himself a true son of his. Nevertheless, his words still bear some unfavourable connotations in terms of Teucer’s parentage. Frankly, no matter how excellent a warrior or archer he is, Teucer must try hard in order to convince his renowned father and the rest of the Greeks that he deserves to be called his son. By asking him therefore to become a light that brings glory to his father and the Greek warriors (282), Agamemnon is essentially urging him to come out of the shadows in which his illegitimate parentage places him, and fight for his self-identification.12 The idea that Teucer’s illegitimacy is structurally important for the definition of his relationship with both his brother and his father, as Mary Ebbott (2003, 39) eloquently argues, also pervades the Ajax of Sophocles. As we might  10 See with Kirk 1990, ad loc. the A scholia on Iliad 8.284 according to which Zenodotus omitted the line, while Aristarchus and Aristophanes athetized it. 11 See again Ebbott 2003, 39 n. 4, who quotes Hom. Il. 11.223 (Iphidamas is raised by his grandfather); 13.466 (Aeneas raised in the house of his brother-in-law); Od. 1.435 (Telemachus raised by Eurykleia) etc. 12 Ebbott 2003, 39.

  Theodore Antoniadis well expect, Teucer’s attempt to establish his own ‘status’ as a hero acquires a far more dramatic character now, for the very reason that he must act without his brother’s support. Moreover, in contrast to the Iliad where Agamemnon’s reference to his illegitimacy does not necessarily carry negative connotations, in this play Teucer is confronted with the humiliating conduct of the two Atreides, who demand that the corpse of his dishonoured brother be left unburied. Expressing his determination to protect Ajax’s rights in answer to his plea before his suicide (562–564), Teucer is first mocked by Menelaus for being overconfident (1120): ὁ τοξότης ἔοικεν οὐ σμικρὸν φρονεῖν ‘This mere archer seems to entertain some big ideas’.13 Such a scornful remark does not hint so much at Teucer’s cunning way of fighting as an archer, as exhibited in the Homeric imagery discussed above (Il. 8.266–272), but rather undermines his overall martial capacity, given that fighting with a bow was not much appreciated in classical Greece.14 However, there is no doubt that by far the most malicious insults are delivered by Agamemnon. Soon after he is introduced in the play, the leader of the Greek army attacks Teucer addressing him as the son of a slave-mother (1228: σέ τοι, τὸν ἐκ τῆς αἰχμαλωτίδος λέγω ‘You, the son of a captive woman, it’s you I’m talking to!’, 1235: Ταῦτ’ οὐκ ἀκούειν μεγάλα πρὸς δούλων κακά; ‘Is it not shameful that I have to hear such monstrous insults from the mouths of slaves?’) and mocking his mother’s origins (1229–1230: Ἦ που τραφεὶς ἂν μητρὸς εὐγενοῦς ἄπο / ὑψήλ’ ἐκόμπεις ‘Heaven knows what sort of fine speeches you’d be making if you were born of a noble woman’) and his barbarian language (1263: τὴν βάρβαρον γὰρ γλῶσσαν οὐκ ἐπαΐω ‘I don’t understand this barbarian accent’). On top of this abuse, Agamemnon berates his resolution to protect his brother’s corpse from maltreatment arguing that Teucer, being nothing himself, is hopelessly trying to defend someone who is nothing now (cf. 1231: ὅτ’ οὐδὲν ὢν τοῦ μηδὲν ἀντέστης ὕπερ ‘You are a nobody, and here you act the champion for this nonentity’). By coupling him, a living person, with his dead brother and describing both men as nonentities, Agamemnon expands on Teucer’s insignificance in the most humiliating manner.15 His contemptuous conduct is not inexplicable. Since he cannot deny Ajax’s prowess or his contribution to the Greek cause, his obvious purpose is to dishearten the only man who can plead Ajax’s case after his death. In doing so, the Mycenaean king appears to sum up and epitomize all the Greek literary and mythological tradition that treats Teucer as nothing more  13 See further Garvie 1998, 214. 14 See n. 7. 15 See further Garvie 1998, 235; Finglass 2011, 481–482.

Nil desperandum…cras ingens iterabimus aequor  

than a bastard archer who owes his standing to his father’s name and his brother’s martial valour.16 Actually, even Teucer in this tragedy exhibits a kind of self-awareness of his reception in Greek myth and literature and reflects on his position in a way that anticipates what is about to happen to him. Before his illegitimacy is emphasized by the Atreides in their insults against him, he alone predicts his banishment, expressing, with a touch of irony, his certainty that his father Telamon will reject him for his failure to return home with his brother (1006–1016): Ποῖ γὰρ μολεῖν μοι δυνατόν, εἰς ποίους βροτούς, τοῖς σοῖς ἀρήξαντ’ ἐν πόνοισι μηδαμοῦ; Ἦ πού Τελαμών, σὸς πατὴρ ἐμός θ’ ἅμα, Δέξαιτ’ ἂν εὐπρόσωπος ἵλεώς τ’ ἴσως χωροῦντ’ ἄνευ σοῦ· πῶς γὰρ οὔχ; ὅτῳ πάρα μηδ’ εὐτυχοῦντι μηδὲν ἥδιον γελᾶν. οὗτος τί κρύψει; ποῖον οὐκ ἐρεῖ κακόν, τὸν ἐκ δορὸς γεγῶτα πολεμίου νόθον, τὸν δειλίᾳ προδόντα καὶ κακανδρίᾳ σέ, φίλτατ’ Αἴας, ἢ δόλοισιν, ὡς τὰ σὰ κράτη θανόντος καὶ δόμους νέμοιμι σούς.

1010

1015

Where can I go, among what mortals, I who was not there to help you in your troubles? Smiling and kindly, I imagine, will be my welcome from Telamon, your father and also mine, when I come there without you! Of course, seeing that even when fortune is good it is not his way to smile more graciously! What will he keep back? What evil will he not speak of me, the bastard born of the prize he won in battle, the betrayer, in my cowardice and weakness, of you, dearest Ajax, or in my cunning, so that with you dead I might control your lordship and your house? (trans. Lloyd-Jones 1994)17

In Teucer’s imagination, Telamon will not just blame him for being a coward, but will further suspect him of treachery assuming that he has dishonourably abandoned his brother to death so as to become the sole heir to the throne (1014).18 This is the first time the strong bond between the two brothers, as exemplified so far in their shared efforts in the battlefield, their shared fears of provoking their father’s disapproval, is weakened and devious motives are at-

 16 His further humiliation and degradation, when referred to as slave, has been thought to conform anachronistically to Sophocles’ time, since Athenian slaves could not plead their case in courts themselves, but had to be represented by free men. See Finglass 2011, 486–487 with Kyriakou 2011, 232 n. 85. 17 All translations to follow are taken or adapted from the Loeb Classical Library. 18 Note Davies 1987, 65–66 with Finglass 2011, 426.

  Theodore Antoniadis tributed to Teucer.19 Most significantly, for all the implications regarding Teucer’s illegitimacy that the Atreides’ insults endorse, only Telamon actually calls him a νόθος on the grounds of his disloyalty. From this aspect, Telamon’s rebuke has a more profound effect than Agamemnon’s provocative words in this play and in the Iliad, as it ascribes to Teucer’s illegitimacy the violation of his close relationship with his brother. Once again, it is Teucer’s heroic status that will be further questioned, albeit from a different angle.20 Τhis is because the roles now are reversed inasmuch as he is the one who must back up his brother’s honour by protecting Tecmessa and Eurysakes and taking revenge on the Atreides. Even more, he is the one to suffer from his father’s condemnation, if he fails to do so.21 In conclusion, Sophocles’ Teucer perceives and anticipates his disowning and his future exile as the ultimate consequence of the systematic ‘bullying’ from which he has suffered so far in the mythological and literary tradition. For his part, Sophocles, like Agamemnon in the Iliad, seems to recast the issue of Teucer’s problematic parentage as a kind of motivation for the hero to take some action in the play. By the end of the tragedy, Teucer will have managed to respond more or less convincingly to all the challenges set him. The fact that the chorus castigates his loquacity and overall lack of restraint (1118–1119, 1264– 1265) should not be dismissed, since it indicates the hero’s moral weakness and his rhetorical flaws.22 Moreover, he is granted the permission to make arrange 19 Commentators have duly acknowledged that Teucer’s reluctance to face his father through the poignant questions of lines 1006–1007 reflects Ajax’s similar deliberations on account of his own shame and the dishonour he brought to his house (440: ἄτιμος ᾿Αργείοισιν ὧδ’ ἀπόλλυμαι ‘I am thus perishing, dishonoured by the Argives’) after his failure to win Achilles’ armour and the slaughter of the cattle (462–467). The shared identity between the two brothers, which in the Iliad was established through their dual fighting method, is now reinforced under their common fear that they will fail to measure up to the standard set by their father, whose imposing and unforgiving figure hovers over the play; see Kyriakou 2011, 192–202. Note also Ebbot 2003, 52. 20 Finglass 2011, 417 argues that Teucer is further worried about the impact of Ajax’s death on himself both in Salamis (1008–1021) and at Troy (1021–1023) echoing the similar anxieties of the chorus and Tecmessa (900–902, 944–945). 21 On the stage, such an association could be further enhanced, if the same actor actually played the part of Ajax and Teucer. Garvie 1998, 216 notes that by committing suicide Ajax has merely transferred his problems to his brother, leaving him at the same time without his support. 22 On Teucer’s moral ambivalence in the Ajax, see further Kyriakou 2011, 233–235. Νote especially his contemptuous reference to the Atreides’ forebears (1290–1298) and his groundless implication that Helen, who is stigmatized as the cause of a worthless war, was shared by the two brothers (1311–1312).

Nil desperandum…cras ingens iterabimus aequor  

ments for his brother’s burial only after the intervention of Odysseus, who eventually succeeds in persuading Agamemnon to allow Ajax a proper burial by claiming that even one’s enemy deserves respect in death (1346–1421).23 As for Teucer’s own reward, his post-Trojan War fate and the misery of his exile, these are left to the audience’s imagination as an open, unresolved issue. Ιt is Ajax’s honour that is restored in Sophocles’ play, not Teucer’s good fame. The latter must still fight for his survival and his self-vindication.

 Teucer in Euripides’ Helen Unfortunately, from the rest of the tragedies that have been handed down to us, we cannot have a precise idea of how Teucer’s struggle played out.24 To our surprise, Teucer appears in Euripides’ Helen merely playing the part of an informant, who tells the heroine about the aftermath of the war at Troy and the homecoming of the Greek warriors. Though his post-war experience makes him a suitable interlocutor, his rather arbitrary appearance in this drama has been much disputed in terms even of its very necessity.25 For our purposes, it is important to note that his status, as we have traced it so far, remains unchanged. Answering Helen’s persistent questions in her excitement at finding someone who has returned from Troy, he introduces himself as a Greek who has been banished from his homeland (90: φυγὰς πατρῴας ἐξελήλαμαι χθονός ‘I have been exiled from my native country’). An exile too, as we shall see, Helen shows her sympathy and wants to learn more about his drama (91: τλήμων ἂν εἴης· τίς δέ σ’ ἐκβάλλει πάτρας; ‘How terrible for you! Who exiled you?’). Teucer’s responses, however, are consciously terse and quite vague, especially in terms of his father’s decision to banish him (92: Τελαμὼν ὁ φύσας· τίν’ ἂν ἔχοις μᾶλλον φίλον; ‘Telamon is my father. What closer relative might a man have?’) and the reason for his disgrace (94: Αἴας μ’ ἀδελφὸς ὤλεσ’ ἐν Τροίᾳ θανών ‘My brother Ajax’s death at Troy was my undoing’). Αs for his illegitimacy, this seems to be

 23 Odysseus’ argumentation is so impressive and effective that many scholars have considered him the real hero of the play. See the discussion in Garvie 1998, 15–16. 24 Apart from Sophocles’ now lost Teucer (frs. 576–579 R), the hero probably featured also in Aeschylus’ lost Salaminiae, the final play of his Ajax trilogy (frs. 216–220 R). 25 Teucer does not show up in any previous version of Helen’s myth. According to Kyriakou 2020, 925: “he is not the only or likeliest character that might have informed Helen about the outcome of the Trojan War (107–108) or the misfortunes of her relatives (123–142)”. See also Ebbott 2003, 58.

  Theodore Antoniadis discreetly absorbed by his other misfortunes. Overall, he appears quite reluctant to speak more of his traumatic past and relates only what is absolutely necessary about the fate of Helen’s husband and her family members. His presence in the play, however, is better understood on a symbolic level, if one gives more credit to Helen’s words at the end of her opening monologue, before he enters the stage (Ε. Hel. 66–67): ὡς, εἰ καθ’ Ἑλλάδ’ ὄνομα δυσκλεὲς φέρω, μή μοι τὸ σῶμά γ’ ἐνθάδ’ αἰσχύνην ὄφληι even if my name is reviled in Greece, my body shall not here be put to shame! (trans. Kovacs 2015)

Though Helen’s major concern refers mostly to her chastity,26 any reading of these verses outside their immediate context, or even within it, may plausibly evoke Teucer’s misfortune too, as he was also banished from his homeland for the alleged disgrace he caused his family and his country. Aside from their dislocation, there is another thing that connects Helen’s fate with Teucer’s in this tragedy. They both suffer from shame connected with their alter egos (the ghost and Ajax respectively) and rumours concerning their illegitimacy.27 Euripides stresses Helen’s problematic lineage from the very beginning as, according to the story she relates in lines 17–21, Zeus mated with her mother in the form of a swan. Her illegitimacy is further enhanced by the legend of her monstrous birth from an egg (256–259) and especially by her ambiguous identity due to her removal to Egypt. Thus, though Teucer is the only character in the play to show and express his contempt of her (72–77, 81, 162–163) confirming the universal disgrace that unfairly accompanies her name all over Greece, on a dramatic level his appearance in the play corroborates her misery (52–64). Mutatis mutandis he too has suffered unjustly as a result of his complicated parentage and identity, while he has been also falsely accused of treachery and sent into exile. This is why the two characters take a step nearer to each other at the end of their

 26 See Allan 2008, 157. 27 See further Ebbott 2003, 58–65. According to her story (42–48), when she was placed as a trophy between the Greeks and the Trojans, Ηermes hid her within a cloud and brought her to the house of Proteus in Egypt at Zeus’ request. Thus, the war that followed was fought in vain over a breathing ghost (eidolon), which Hera shaped out of air and handed over to Paris. Although she was an innocent victim of divine will and remained chaste, this was enough to cause the Greeks’ hatred against her for the deaths of thousands of warriors, while she was accused of having betrayed her husband.

Nil desperandum…cras ingens iterabimus aequor  

stichomythia, when Teucer finally tells Helen about his quest pleading for her help (143–150): ἅλις δὲ μύθων· οὐ διπλᾶ χρήιζω στένειν. ὧν δ’ οὕνεκ’ ἦλθον τούσδε βασιλείους δόμους, τὴν θεσπιωιδὸν Θεονόην χρήιζων ἰδεῖν, σὺ προξένησον, ὡς τύχω μαντευμάτων ὅπηι νεὼς στείλαιμ’ ἂν οὔριον πτερὸν ἐς γῆν ἐναλίαν Κύπρον, οὗ μ’ ἐθέσπισεν οἰκεῖν ᾿Απόλλων, ὄνομα νησιωτικὸν Σαλαμῖνα θέμενον τῆς ἐκεῖ χάριν πάτρας.

145

150

But enough of stories: I do not want to double my tears. I came to this royal house because I wanted to see Theonoe, chanter of the gods’ will. Arrange this visit for me so that I can learn by prophecy how I must sail my ship to reach the seagirt land of Cyprus. It is there Apollo prophesied that I must live, calling the place by the island name of Salamis in honor of my far-off native land. (trans. Kovacs 2015).

In his determination to move past the casualties and misfortunes of the Trojan War, Teucer brings Helen’s enquiries about her family (144) to an abrupt end. His absolute priority is to continue his journey to the land where Apollo has promised him a new home. It should be noted that this is the only existing passage in Greek literature, apart from a couple of lines in Pindar, where the prospect of the foundation of a new Salamis in Cyprus is mentioned.28 Such a reference does not simply explain Euripides’ innovation in having Teucer drop by Egypt on his way to Cyprus.29 On a metapoetic level, the above lines may convey Teucer’s resolution to get over his reception in Greek epic and drama and move beyond his mythological and literary past. In contrast to the audience’s expectations, Helen’s feedback, despite her assurance that his ‘journey itself will show him the way’ (151: πλοῦς, ὦ ξέν᾽, αὐτὸς σημανεῖ), is somehow vague, if not confusing (cf. 157: ἐγώ τε σιγῶ· τί γὰρ ἂν ὠφελοῖμί σε; ‘I will not tell you. What good would it do you?’) as it provides no clear sign that Teucer will ever be happy or rewarded for his sufferings.30 We understand that he will reach Cyprus as long

 28 According to Allan 2008, 164, Euripides’ emphasis on Teucer’s mission must have particularly appealed to his audience, because throughout the fifth century the Athenians had tried to prevent the Persians from gaining control of Cyprus several times. See Hdt. 5.108–115, Th. 1.112.2–4. 29 See Allan 2008, 164. 30 On Helen’s reticence, see Kyriakou 2020, 926–927 who further points to lines 698–699, 855– 856, 1450, 1666–1677.

  Theodore Antoniadis as this is something ordained by Apollo’s oracle (148–149), but his social and ethical rehabilitation remains uncertain as in Sophocles’ Ajax.

 Teucer’s rehabilitation in Roman literature Contrary to the Greek tragedians, Teucer’s drama was more cherished among the Roman playwrights and their audiences. It appears that the Romans favoured a Teucer written by Pacuvius,31 since Cicero cites several verses from this play in his works.32 However, in none of these fragments do we find any reference, no matter how oblique, to Teucer’s illegitimacy. Actually, the most celebrated line of Pacuvius’ play must have been one that Cicero recalls in his Tusculan Disputations to deprecate the evils of exile (Cic. Tusc. 5.37.108 – Trag. Inc. 92 Klotz): Itaque ad omnem rationem Teucri vox accommodari potest: ‘Patria est, ubicumque est bene’. So Teucer’s words can be accommodated to every situation: ‘Home is wherever one is well’

This neat verse must have inspired the Roman audience with sentiments of hope and courage that are missing from all the extant Greek versions of the myth. In the context of Cicero’s treatise, it is adduced as a Stoic sententia to illustrate the doctrine that virtue alone is sufficient for happiness under any possible circumstances, among which exile was regarded as one of the most appalling.33

 31 Pacuvius’ drama is believed to have drawn its plot from Sophocles’ lost Teucros, whereas an influence from Aeschylus’ Salaminiae may not be excluded too. See further Pearson 1917, 214–220, Boyle 2006, 100–101. Based on the co-examination of the preserved fragments, scholars and editors agree that both plays dealt with Teucer’s return to Salamis from Troy, his renunciation by Telamon, while they probably ended with his departure for Cyprus. 32 Cf. Cic. Fam. 8.2.1 with Boyle 2006, 100. 33 Not accidentally, the same conviction is envisaged by Seneca in his Epistles, written in the dark days of the sociopolitical and moral crisis of the imperial age. Cf. Sen. Ep. 28.4, where the Stoic philosopher declares: non sum uni angulo natus, patria mea totus hic mundus est. See more in Busseto 2017, 304.

Nil desperandum…cras ingens iterabimus aequor  

However, there is no question that Teucer was mostly cherished as a homeless wanderer in Augustan literature.34 His portrait as a distraught veteran and a stateless nobleman, who is ready to accept whatever fortune might bring, is now evoked to endorse sentiments and ideas that are pertinent or complementary to Cicero’s approach. In the Aeneid, Vergil reincarnates him in the role of an informant from whom Dido claims to have first heard about the misfortunes of the Trojans but also of Aeneas’ virtue (A. 1.619–626): Atque equidem Teucrum memini Sidona venire finibus expulsum patriis, nova regna petentem auxilio Beli; genitor tum Belus opimam vastabat Cyprum, et victor dicione tenebat. Tempore iam ex illo casus mihi cognitus urbis Troianae nomenque tuum regesque Pelasgi. Ipse hostis Teucros insigni laude ferebat, seque ortum antiqua Teucrorum ab stirpe volebat.

620

625

Indeed, I myself remember well Teucer’s coming to Sidon, when exiled from his native land he sought a new kingdom by aid of Belus; my father Belus was then wasting rich Cyprus, and held it under his victorious sway. From that time on the fall of the Trojan city has been known to me; known, too, your name and the Pelasgian kings. Foe though he was, he often lauded the Teucrians with highest praise and claimed that he was sprung from the Teucrians’ ancient stock. (trans. Fairclough & Goold 1999)

Vergil adds another critical chapter to Teucer’s wanderings, as from Dido’s account to Aeneas of her encounter with Teucer we learn that after his exile the hero took refuge in Sidon, where he joined her father’s successful campaign against Cyprus.35 Like Helen, Dido is touched by Teucer’s story, because, as she explains (A. 1.627–630), she was also forced to abandon her homeland in search of a new patria.36 For the Roman audience, though, it is the wider applicability of Teucer’s exploits to Aeneas’ cause that matters here, as the Salaminian war-

 34 Teucer’s story is even recorded by Velleius Paterculus, a minor historian of the early Empire, who names him among the few Greeks who founded a new city after the end of the Trojan War. Cf. Vell. 1.1: Teucer, non receptus a patre Telamone ob segnitiam non vindicatae fratris iniuriae, Cyprum adpulsus cognominem patriae suae Salamina constituit. 35 Vergil, though, does not include the foundation of Salamis in Dido’s account. In his commentary to lines 1.619–621, Servius notes that, as a reward for his contribution to her father’s cause, Teucer was allowed to establish his power in Cyprus and found Salamis. 36 See A. 1.627–630: Me quoque per multos similis fortuna labors / iactatam hac demum voluit consistere terra. / Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco.

  Theodore Antoniadis rior represents a fine example of how a homeless refugee manages to gain a new kingdom. By telling his story, therefore, Dido serves a dual purpose. On the one hand, she displays her kinship to the Trojans through her father’s guest-friendship with Teucer, while, on the other, she is indirectly offering Aeneas a new patria like her father did to Teucer.37 In this instance, the issue of Teucer’s descent is no longer a taboo either for himself or for those who surround him, as Dido remembers him speaking proudly of his Trojan origins. Most significantly, the allusive use of words of poetic memory such as memini (619) and ferebat (625) in her speech,38 combined with the etymological wordplay (Teucros~Teucrorum, 625–626) that fosters a strong connection between Teucer’s name and his ancient Trojan/Roman stock, suggest Vergil’s metapoetic claim to establish a tradition around Teucer that is purely Roman in its concept and exemplarity.39 On the whole, the ultimate reason Teucer is given some fifteen lines of fame in the Aeneid is now apparent. Projected as a proto-founder and a proto-Aeneas, the Salaminian exile serves the epic’s politics in a discreet, but highly symbolic way. And this is more than enough to earn him a totally sympathetic appearance in Vergil’s poem, which is based on a foundation myth. However, the complete rehabilitation of the former ‘bastard archer’ in Roman letters is mostly achieved by Horace in Carm. 1.7, an ode considered as one of the most problematic pieces of his lyric collection.40 This is mostly due to the poem’s complex structure and its generic pluralism for which the intricate use of Teucer’s exemplum in the second half has often gathered the lion’s share of scholarly criticism. The ode’s dramatic setting is basically a sympotic one.41 An after-dinner conversation takes place, while Horace is supposed to be relaxing in Tibur together with his friend Plancus, a noble statesman, who grumbles because his military obligations keep him away from his residence in this beauty-spot. To justify the claim and the complaint of his addressee, Horace opens

 37 Similarly, Adler 2003, 36. See also Lovatt 2013, 7, n. 40. Cf. particularly Atque … memini … nova with Ov. Ep. 12.1–2 and 13: At regina Colchorum, memini, … nova puppis, and see further Alekou 2019. 38 On the usage of such words as Hellenistic footnotes, see Hinds 1998, 1–8. 39 Contra Seo 2013, 44–47, who claims that such words of poetic allusion underscore the anomaly of Dido’s argumentation as Teucer, being both Greek and Trojan, is both enemy and friend. 40 For a brief summary of the poem’s interpretive issues, see Moles 2002, 88–91. 41 Cairns 1972, 211–216 registers the poem to the genre of the epibaterion. On the poem’s typology and its literary constituents, see Nisbet and Hubbard 1999, 105–106 and Moles 2002, 91–92.

Nil desperandum…cras ingens iterabimus aequor  

the poem with a typical priamel (Laudabunt alii...) admitting that, while others will praise various Greek cities and places (1–9), he prefers the delights of Tibur like Plancus (10–14). From this point on, however, there is a sudden rise both in the rhetorical and philosophical level of the ode, which appears to take the form of a consolation.42 In particular, the lyric sapiens exhorts Plancus to put an end to his tristitia with wine in whatever place he finds himself (17–19). Behind the light tone of his recommendation, some Stoic connotations are discernible. Plancus is asked to attain tranquility by putting his principles into practice wherever fortune might place him. Like Cicero in the passage discussed above, Horace applies the mythological exemplum of Teucer in the remainder of the poem to enhance this point further (Carm. 1.7.21–32): Teucer Salamina patremque cum fugeret, tamen uda Lyaeo tempora populea fertur vinxisse corona, sic tristis affatus amicos: ‘Quo nos cumque feret melior fortuna parente, ibimus, o socii comitesque. Nil desperandum Teucro duce et auspice Teucro: certus enim promisit Apollo ambiguam tellure nova Salamina futuram. O fortes peioraque passi mecum saepe viri, nunc vino pellite curas; cras ingens iterabimus aequor.’

25

30

Teucer, even when he had to flee into exile from Salamis and his father, is said to have put a garland of white poplar round his head (which was well moistened by the Loosener) and to have spoken thus to his dejected friends: “Fortune is kinder than my father. Wherever she takes us, my comrades and companions, there will we go. As long as Teucer is your leader and Teucer watches over you, there is no need for despair. Apollo is never wrong, and he has promised there will be another Salamis in a new land. My brave fellows! You have often suffered worse things at my side. Banish your worries now with wine. Tomorrow we shall set out once more over the boundless sea.” (trans. Rudd 2004)

In contrast to earlier criticism on Horace’s somewhat awkward use of Teucer’s myth here, modern readers maintain that the exemplum does not damage the coherence of the poem to the extent that some have argued.43 Even more re 42 See further Grollios 1996, 103–104. 43 The ode’s much debated historical background in relation to the events of Plancus’ life (18: vitae labores) and particularly his complaint regarding his ‘homesickness’ is echoed in Teucer’s misery because of his banishment (cf. 18: tristitia~24: tristis), while the latter’s inclination towards wine as a means of comforting himself (22–23) and restoring his men’s confidence (31)

  Theodore Antoniadis warding, though, are the intertextual readings of Teucer’s exhortation to his companions that culminates the poem (25–32). Most of them (see n. 45) focus on the well-attested correspondence between his exhortation in lines 31–32 and Aeneid 1.198–207, where Aeneas rallies his men in a similar way: ‘O socii—neque enim ignari sumus ante malorum— O passi graviora, dabit deus his quoque finem. Vos et Scyllaeam rabiem penitusque sonantis accestis scopulos, vos et Cyclopea saxa experti: revocate animos, maestumque timorem mittite: forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Per varios casus, per tot discrimina rerum tendimus in Latium; sedes ubi fata quietas ostendunt; illic fas regna resurgere Troiae. Durate, et vosmet rebus servate secundis.’

200

205

“O comrades—for ere this we have not been ignorant of misfortune—you who have suffered worse, this also God will end. You drew near to Scylla’s fury and her deep-echoing crags; you have known, too, the rocks of the Cyclopes; recall your courage and banish sad fear. Perhaps even this distress it will someday be a joy to recall. Through varied fortunes, through countless hazards, we journey towards Latium, where fate promises a home of peace. There it is granted that Troy’s realm shall rise again; endure, and live for a happier day.” (trans. Fairclough & Goold 1999)

The context of Aeneas’ parainesis is familiar both to Teucer’s story and Horace’s placement of it in the dramatic setting of his poem, while an influence from Pacuvius’ Teucer may also not be excluded. Separated from most of his ships and his companions, the storm-wrecked Aeneas offers his remaining men the wine Acestes had given him in Sicily (A. 1.180–197) and tries to improve their mood. Beyond their obvious similarities, the two texts have a common ancestry that further strengthens their interconnection. This is of course Homer’s Odyssey and, more particularly, Odysseus’ similar exhortations to his own men before their encounter with Scylla and Charybdis in Od. 12.208–212, which reads as follows: ὦ φίλοι, οὐ γάρ πώ τι κακῶν ἀδαήμονές εἰμεν: οὐ μὲν δὴ τόδε μεῖζον ἕπει κακόν, ἢ ὅτε Κύκλωψ εἴλει ἐνὶ σπῆι γλαφυρῷ κρατερῆφι βίηφιν: ἀλλὰ καὶ ἔνθεν ἐμῇ ἀρετῇ, βουλῇ τε νόῳ τε, ἐκφύγομεν, καί που τῶνδε μνήσεσθαι ὀίω.

210

 aptly fits the symposiastic atmosphere of the poem and Horace’s previous recommendation to his friend. On the poem’s unity, see Commager 1962, 175; Vaio 1966, 168–169; Nisbet and Hubbard 1970, 90–94; West 1995, 35–37; Moles 2002, 89–91.

Nil desperandum…cras ingens iterabimus aequor  

Friends, hitherto we have been not at all ignorant of sorrow; surely this evil that besets us now is no greater than when the Cyclops penned us in his hollow cave by brutal strength; yet even from there we made our escape through my valor and counsel and wit; these dangers, too, I think, we shall someday remember. (trans. Dimock & Murray 2015)

The verbal similarities between the two Latin texts through their Greek source are too many to be reproduced here (cf. especially Carm. 1.7.26: socii, A. 1.198: socii, Od. 12.208: φίλοι),44 but there is no question that Odysseus’ words are closely echoed both in the Aeneid and in Teucer’s speech in Horace’s ode (cf. especially 1.7.27: Nil desperandum Teucro duce et auspice Teucro ~ Od. 12.211– 212: ἀλλὰ καὶ ἔνθεν ἐμῇ ἀρετῇ, βουλῇ τε νόῳ τε, / ἐκφύγομεν, 1.7.30–31: O fortes peioraque passi / mecum saepe viri ~ Od. 12.208: ὦ φίλοι, οὐ γάρ πώ τι κακῶν ἀδαήμονές εἰμεν).45 The latter’s final exhortation is essentially rewriting a similar phrase Odysseus utters some eighty lines later (Carm. 1.7.32: cras ingens iterabimus aequor ~ Od. 12.293: ἠῶθεν δ᾽ ἀναβάντες ἐνήσομεν εὐρέι πόντῳ). However, the ultimate result of this triple interaction between Homer and the two Latin poets has various parameters that need to be examined further. As already seen, in the Aeneid Teucer and Aeneas are cast as survivors of the Trojan War and postwar vagrants, who are given the chance to get over their past misfortunes. From this point of view, the concept that Teucer is first presented to Aeneas by Dido as an archetypal founder arguably gives prominence to Vergil as the one who may have paved the way to the insertion of Teucer’s myth in Horace’s Odes. Indeed, the Aeneid is the story of a successful foundation myth par excellence.46 For his part, Horace complements Vergil’s version and recuperates his exemplary hero further by making him more ‘optimistic’, confident and committed to his purpose. Seeking to reassure his despairing fellows, the lyric Teucer retrieves Apollo’s oracle now from the domain of Greek tragedy (cf. E. Hel. 148–149: ἐς γῆν ἐναλίαν Κύπρον, οὗ μ’ ἐθέσπισεν / οἰκεῖν ᾿Απόλλων) as a guarantee of his ktistic success. Thus, the foundation of Salamis in a new land, which in Greek literature remains in question, is finally put forward in Horace’s version (Carm. 1.7.28–29: certus enim promisit Apollo / ambiguam tellure nova Salamina futuram). While Horace’s wording in these verses continues to confuse most commentators because of the emphatic contradiction between certus and

 44 For a detailed account see again MacLeod 1981, 143–145. 45 See further Nisbet and Hubbard 1970, 107; Αustin 1971, 82; Moles 2002, 90. Schafer 2016, 448–450 argues for Horace’s wider emulation of the Aeneid in this poem and the ‘Parade Odes’ as a whole. 46 McLeod 1981, 143–145. On the priority of the Aeneid as a subtext in Horace’s ode, see the argumentation in Schafer 2016.

  Theodore Antoniadis ambiguam…Salamina, in fact Teucer’s point here might be that his relocation to Cyprus and the founding of Salamis, which in the Greek literary tradition remained ‘uncertain’, is now ‘authorized’ by a certus Apollo as well as by himself, a trustworthy leader and seer (Carm. 1.7.27: duce et auspice Teucro).47 From this aspect, the metaphor cras ingens iterabimus aequor that prominently encapsulates Teucer’s imminent departure does not only communicate a pathos that is missing in Od. 12.291–293 (quoted above),48 but also seems to be in stark contrast to its epic parallel that concludes Aeneas’ speech quoted above (A. 1.208– 209): Talia voce refert, curisque ingentibus aeger / spem voltu simulat, premit altum corde dolorem. While the Trojan leader ‘being sick with enormous cares, feigns hope with his face and suppresses his grief deep in his heart’, Horace’s Teucer is more poised than ever and more determined than any literary or mythological foil to become a founder.49

 Meta-literary echoes and conclusions New contextualizations of Greek figures involved in the Trojan War is a highly interesting question both in terms of ideology and metapoetics. As seen in the introduction, Τeucer is neither the only nor the most representative case of a refugee-founder. For our purposes, apart from Aeneas, particularly relevant is Vergil’s Diomedes in Aeneid 11. There the former enemy takes it upon himself to redefine Aeneas as a hero-warrior against a Homeric background that shows the latter as a second-class figure, who is reckless enough to fight Achilles and is only saved at the last moment by Poseidon.50 Already recognized as a typical figure of Roman re-contextualization, which supervenes on a Greek textual past, Diomedes reaches a new and more mature philosophy of war designed, as

 47 On other possible resonances of ambiguam…Salamina see Elder 1953, 6; Nisbet and Hubbard 1970, 107; Moles 2002, 88. 48 For a full discussion of these lines see McLeod 1981, 144; Schafer 2016, 452–453. 49 The same metaphor is found at A. 3.495–497, where Aeneas doubts whether the foundation of a new city will ever become true: nullum maris aequor arandum, / arva neque Ausoniae semper cedentia retro / quaerenda. 50 See further Wiltshire and Krickel 1982, 75–76; Fletcher 2006, 244–246, who illustrate how Vergil’s Diomedes is essentially promoting Augustan peace (11.292–293) and the Italian Golden Age (11.252–254). On Aeneas’ duel with Achilles see Il. 20.291–340. More generally, in the Iliad Aeneas loses frequently and/or must be saved by gods (Il. 5.311–343, 431–451).

Nil desperandum…cras ingens iterabimus aequor  

much else in the Aeneid, to redress the balance for the defeated Trojans.51 In metapoetic terms, Diomedes now inhabits a less archaic, more humane and morally more balanced epic world, i.e. that of a modern epic, which is more about loss, exile, restoration etc. than about revenge and sin. Promoting Augustan peace and envisaging an idealized Italy, Diomedes in essence serves as Vergil’s mouthpiece, while his leadership and confidence set a paradigm for Aeneas to emulate. In the same vein, Teucer is somehow ‘purged’ and redefined in the Aeneid. As for Horace, who takes up Teucer after Vergil, he obviously comes to a ready-made perception of Teucer as mainly a foundation figure, though now the sympotic re-contextualization requires a more marked emphasis on the sedative qualities of wine-drinking. This makes the Greek hero a Horatian peculiarity since the ode appears to dwell on a moment of otium just before the resumption of epic action-negotium on the ingens aequor. In this sense, one might talk of an escalation of Teucer’s domestication as a former war figure, already purged of any unpleasant associations in Roman drama and epic. To sum up, the Roman Teucer is a wholly remodelled and recuperated hero from Greek myth and literature. Not only is he no longer overshadowed by the superior military prowess of his brother, but he also feels no need to apologize either for his illegitimate parentage or for his failure to match his father’s excellence and his brother’s bravery. All the above belong to his ‘Greek past’, a past that was gradually erased from all Roman literary records. As is often the case when Augustan poets reject a particular genre or theme, this recusatio of Teucer’s past in Greek literature carries both a political and a literary message as well. His appropriation in Latin poetry demanded his transformation from a bastard archer into a noble founder, a man with a sense of purpose and honour, a hero not unlike Aeneas. Nevertheless, his portrait always obeys the generic rules of the texts that introduce and ‘promote’ him to Roman readers. If for Pacuvius Teucer was an emblematic exponent of ‘the freedom in exile’ creed and for Cicero he provided an exemplar of the Stoic doctrine that virtue can be achieved in every situation, in Vergil’s poetic imagination this minor figure of Greek myth represented an ‘Odysseus-plus’, a warrior, a wanderer, but also a promising colonist, that is a proto-Aeneas. Last but not least, Horace’s Teucer meets the highest standards in all aspects of his multifaceted career, plus he is an occasional drinker for the needs of the poet’s occasional lyrics. Even as a  51 On Diomedes’ portrayal as a post-Homeric hero in A. 11.225–274, see Papaioannou 2000, 207–216, who emphasizes the political and cultural aspects of the hero’s portrait that appropriately enhance the Augustan message of the epic.

  Theodore Antoniadis drinker, though, he personifies freedom and hope and the tranquility of mind establishing himself as a lifelong paradigm for all Roman readers.52

Bibliography Alekou, S. (2019). ‘Cultural Conflicts in Medea’s Letter: Hellenism Revised in Ovid’s Heroides 12’, Rivista di Cultura Classica e Medioevale 61, 441–454. Allan, W. (2008), Euripides: Helen, Cambridge. Austin, R.G. (1971), Vergili Maronis Aeneidos liber primus, Oxford. Boyle, A.J. (2006), An Introduction to Roman Tragedy, London/New York. Busetto, A. (2017), The Idea of Cosmopolitanism from its Origins to the 21st Century, Leiden. Commager, S. (1962), The Odes of Horace, New Haven. Davis, G. (1991), Polyhymnia: The Rhetoric of Horatian Lyric Discourse, Berkeley. Dimock, G.E. and Murray, A.T. (2015), Odyssey, Cambridge, MA. Douglas, A.E. (1990), Cicero, Tusculan Disputations II & V, with a Summary of III & IV. Edited with an Introduction, Translation and Commentary, Warminster. Ebbott, M. (2003), Imagining Illegitimacy in Classical Greek literature, Lanham, MD. Elder, J.P. (1953), ‘Horace Carmen 1. 7’, Classical Philology 48, 1–8. Fairclough, H.R. and Goold, G.P. (1999), Virgil. Eclogues; Georgics; Aeneid: Books 1–6, Cambridge, MA. Fletcher, K.F.B. (2006), ‘Vergil’s Italian Diomedes’, American Journal of Philology 127, 219–259. Garvie, A.F. (1998), Sophocles: Ajax, Warminster. Grollios, K. (1986), Οράτιος: Oι Ωδές. Βιβλίο 1, Athens. Higbie, C. (1985), Heroes’ Names, Homeric Identities, New York. Kovacs, D. (2015), Euripides Helen; Phoenician Women; Orestes, Cambridge, MA. Kyriakou, P. (2011), The Past in Aeschylus and Sophocles, Berlin/Boston. Kyriakou, P. (2020), ‘Minor Characters’, in Markantonatos 2020, 911–929. Lattimore, R. (1951), The Iliad, Chicago. Lloyd-Jones, H. (1994), Sophocles: Ajax; Electra; Oedipus Tyrannus, Cambridge, MA. Lovatt, H. (2013), ‘The Eloquence of Dido: Exploring Speech and Gender in Virgil’s Aeneid’, Dictynna 10. http://journals.openedition.org/dictynna/993 [accessed 15th March 2021] Lowrie, M. (1997), Horace’s Narrative Odes, Oxford. Markantonatos, A., ed. (2020), Brill’s Companion to Euripides, vol. II, Leiden. Mayer, R.G. (2012), Horace: Odes Book 1, Cambridge.  52 I would like to thank Prof. Spyridon Tzounakas and Dr. Stella Alekou from the Department of Classics and Philosophy, University of Cyprus for their invitation to the International Conference on the Reception of Ancient Cyprus in Western Culture. I am also grateful to the Harvard Center of Hellenic Studies for the fellowship in Comparative Cultural Studies (2020–21), which provided me access to the University’s digital libraries during the Covid-19 pandemic. Professors Theodore Papanghelis and Poulcheria Kyriakou deserve special credits for their critical remarks and suggestions on the first draft of the present work, while Prof. Stephen Harrison was kind enough to add his finishing touch to its final version.

Nil desperandum…cras ingens iterabimus aequor  

Mcleod, C. (1981), ‘Ethics and Poetry in Horace’s Odes: II (1.7; 2.9)’, Greece and Rome 28, 141– 149. Moles, J. (2002), ‘Reconstructing Plancus (Horace, Carm. 1.7)’, The Journal of Roman Studies 92, 86–109. Nisbet, R.G.M. and Hubbard, M. (1970), A Commentary on Horace: Odes Book I, Oxford. Papaioannou, S. (2000), ‘Vergilian Diomedes Revisited: The Re-Evaluation of the Iliad’, Mnemosyne 53, 193–217. Pearson, A.C. (1917), The Fragments of Sophocles, vol. II, Cambridge. Rudd, N. (2004), Horace. Odes and Epodes, Cambridge, MA. Schafer J.K. (2016), ‘Horace Odes 1.7 and the Aeneid’, American Journal of Philology 137, 447– 485. Seo, J. (2013), Exemplary Traits: Reading Characterization in Roman Poetry, Oxford. Vaio, J. (1966), ‘The Unity and Historical Occasion of Horace Carm. 1.7’, Classical Philology 61, 168–175. Wiltshire, S.F. and Krickel, A.H. (1982), ‘Diomedes and Aeneas. A Vergilian Paradox’, Classical Bulletin 58, 73–77.

Robert Kirstein

Balance and Excess in Ovid’s Pygmalion Story Abstract: The chapter takes its starting point from the aspect of beauty in the Pygmalion story. It argues that symmetry and balance play a key role, for example in the structure of the episode or in the change of focalization between Orpheus and Pygmalion. Since balance is also, at least in part, a fundamentally physical and bodily experience, it seems to be of particular importance in the creation of a living statue. In a manner typical of Ovid, the destabilizing and the suspending of balance, including the potential even to turn into forms of excess, are also evoked at the same time.

 Introduction This paper takes its starting point from aspects of aesthetics in Ovid’s Pygmalion story (Met. 10.243–297), set on Cyprus. It argues that aspects of balance play a key role, for example in the symmetrical structure of the episode or in the distribution of focalization between the figures Orpheus and Pygmalion. Since balance is also, at least in part, a fundamentally physical and bodily experience, it seems of immediate relevance to the description of a statue, whose bringing to life is narrated. Aesthetics is used here in the meaning of ‘taste or sense of beauty’, following the tradition of Baumgarten’s Aesthetica. Relating to a (literary) text, this use of the term aesthetics presupposes that the description of an aesthetic object itself works with structures that make the properties of the described object aesthetically effective. Applied to Ovid’s story, it will be demonstrated that the beauty of the statue as Pygmalion perceives it finds a reflection in the symmetrically structured text itself.1 In a manner typical of

 1 “Theorie der schönen sinnlichen Wahrnehmung” (Baumgarten 2007, § 14 of Aesthetica). See also Wolf 2013, 5: “Die Semantik eines literarischen Werkes ist daher nicht abtrennbar von der formalen Selbstrepräsentation des Werkes, seine Bedeutsamkeit entfaltet sich erst im Zusammenspiel mit der ästhetischen Wahrnehmung der sinnlichen Formkonstituenten des Werkes, der Reflexion auf die Wahrnehmung der dichterischen Wahrnehmung von Welt”. For the role of the reader in the constitution of meaning between the text and the reader see Iser 1979, who speaks of “Appellstrukturen”. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-006

  Robert Kirstein Ovid, the destabilizing and the suspending inscribed in the concept of balance are also evoked at the same time. That balance is of relevance not only in the story of Pygmalion, but also in the Metamorphoses as a whole, has already been emphasized in Ovidian scholarship. A recent example is offered by Alison Sharrock’s observation: “The overall effect is that all the elements of a proper epic poem can be identified within the Metamorphoses, but that the balance of parts […] constantly threatens to undermine the reader’s perception of the epic whole”.2 The occurrence of balance phenomena in the Pygmalion episode hardly comes as a surprise. Pygmalion’s perception of the statue is centrally concerned with an aesthetics of beauty (Met. 10.266 formosa videtur). And the close association of beauty and balance in ancient discourses on beauty is pointed out, among others, by David Konstan: “Beauty is achieved by the balance among parts, in language as in the visual arts and the human form or even the entire cosmos, which contribute collectively to the integrity of the whole”.3 Ovid’s story of Pygmalion’s love affair with the statue has provoked a wealth of interpretations. This is in part due to its central position within the Orpheus song in the tenth book — especially remarkable because of its striking deviation from Orpheus’ announced theme to sing of pueros dilectos superis and puellas libidine meruisse poenas (Met. 10.152b–154) — but also in its inherent metapoetic potential. It has often been noted that Ovid’s version of the story can be read as offering a reflection of the poet’s own writing process. Along this line of interpretation, Philip Hardie has characterized the episode as “an aition of illusionist art”.4 This metapoetic understanding of the artist Pygmalion can, at the same time, also be extended to other artist figures of the Metamorphoses like Orpheus, Arachne, or Daedalus.5 There are several other themes that are relevant to our understanding of the story and that are related to the theme of balance in one way or another, such as

 2 Sharrock 2019, 275. 3 Konstan 2014, 159; see also 1: “When ascribed to a work of art, the term (i.e. beauty) may signify balance or proportion, or some other quality that we think of as aesthetic”. 4 Hardie 2002, 190; also Segal 1972, 491: “Ovid provides a metaphorical reflection of the creative and restorative power of his own art”; Solodow 1988, 219: “The story of Pygmalion is crucial to the Metamorphoses, for here by a double argument the poet demonstrates most vividly the power of the artist and his art”; Segal 1998, 17. 5 Sharrock 1991, 39: “Many commentators on the Metamorphoses have noted the foregrounding of the ‘artist as hero’. Since […] a reference to a practitioner in one artistic medium can reflect on any other type of artist, all artists in the Metamorphoses reflect to some extent on the one artist — the poet himself. Pygmalion is clearly a fertile ground for this kind of study”. See also Kailbach-Mehl 2020 on ‘Reflexionsfiguren’ in the Augustan age.

Balance and Excess in Ovid’s Pygmalion Story  

the intratextual position of the story within the framework of the tenth and the neighbouring books, the gendered gaze of Pygmalion and the (limited) agency of the female statue that has “no autonomy or identity beyond that of Pygmalion” (Hershkowitz), the relation to material sculptures in the fine arts, the problem of realism and Pygmalion as “viewer-lover” (Elsner), the shifting of focalization, and aspects of beauty with regard both to the content of the story and to the presentation of the story.6 In the following, these aspects will be addressed and brought into connection with the concept of balance.

 The concept of balance in cultural studies Recent research on the concept of balance has revealed that its historical and contemporary semantics can be found almost ubiquitously in all areas of life and across cultures.7 They can be traced, for example, in the ancient Egyptian concept of equilibrium and harmony (ma’at), in ancient Greek philosophical reflections such as those by Aristotle on the golden mean (μεσότης / mesotes), in economic and political theories including ideas such as balance of power and checks and balances, in recent debates on endangered balances in our global ecosystems, or in sociological considerations on human society.8 For the latter, Norbert Elias’s study Die höfische Gesellschaft can be taken as an example. In it Elias predicts that future societies will tend to move away from binary oppositions such as ‘freedom' and ‘determination’ and instead turn more to questions

 6 Quotations from Hershkowitz 1999, 189 and Elsner 1991, 155. See also Fantham 2004, 59: “Women readers may feel less enthusiasm for this story of the perfect wife and its implied guarantee that she will never show discontent or independence”. A survey on recent studies on the Pygmalion episode is provided by Salzman-Mitchell 2005, 68–69 and Kailbach-Mehl 2020, 165–166; see also Liveley 1999, Salzman-Mitchell 2005, 68–75, Feldherr 2010, 257–276. For intratextual links to more distant parts of the Metamorphoses like the Narcissus story in the fourth book see Sharrock 1991, 36 and Hardie 2002, 189. 7 For an even broader understanding of balance see Arnheim 1974, 36: “Going a step further, we realize that man strives for equilibrium in all phases of his physical and mental existence, and that this same tendency can be observed not only in all organic life, but also in physical systems”; cf. Johnson 1987, 74–100 and Kaye 2014, 1–19. 8 An overview is presented by Goebel and Zumbusch 2020b. Ma’at: Assmann 2006, 163; balance in Aristotle: Grund 2020, in politics and economics: Strohmeyer 2007, Kaufman et al. 2007, Tieben 2012.

  Robert Kirstein of balance.9 On the whole, balance, regardless of the respective theoretical fields, remains a concept that is difficult to define.10 Of particular importance for the phenomenon seems to be the bodily experience, as it can be felt, for example, in the case of vertigo, which may be partly responsible for balance being rather difficult to specify. This nexus between balance and body is pointed out in Mark Johnson’s study The Body in the Mind. The Bodily Basis of Meaning, Imagination, and Reason (1987): It is crucially important to see that balancing is an activity we learn with our bodies and not by grasping a set of rules or concepts. First and foremost, balancing is something we do. The baby stands, wobbles, and drops to the floor. It tries again, and again, and again, until a new world opens up — the world of the balanced erect posture […] Balancing is a preconceptual bodily activity that cannot be described propositionally by rules.11

Similarly, Joel Kaye, in his 2014 study History of Balance 1250–1375, stresses the role of the body: But balance, I want to suggest, is different. Even in our common understanding today, balance is tied to a generalized and mostly unconscious sense — our physical awareness of our bodies and selves within our environment(s). It finds expression as an unworded feeling for how objects and spaces are or ought to be arranged; as an apprehension of how things properly fit together and work together in the world.12

This physiological sense of balance forms together with the physical and the hydraulic dimensions of balance — the (human) inner ear, the beam balance (bilancia), and the flow equilibrium — the fundamental sources for our metaphorical speaking of balance in ethical, religious, philosophical, aesthetic, medical, economic, political, and ecological contexts.13 Finally, a further definition  9 Elias 1969, 220. 10 Kaye 2014, 2, Kister 2020, 15; Grüny and Nanni 2014, 9: “[ein Begriff], der es bis heute nicht zu terminologischer Schärfe gebracht hat und der […] eher allgemein bestimmt wird”. 11 Johnson 1987, 74; Schönhammer 2009b, 11. 12 Kaye 2014, 2. See also Goebel and Zumbusch 2020b, 15–16 and Kister 2020, 15, who describes balance, in the context of Thomas Mann’s writings, as a “präreflexives, körperliches und daher schwer verbalisierbares Gefühl”. 13 Johnson 1987, 87: “the metaphorical projections move from the bodily sense (with its emergent schema) to the mental, epistemic, or logical domains. On this hypothesis, we should be able to see how it is that our experience of bodily balance, and of the perception of balance, is connected to our understanding of balanced personalities, balanced views, balanced systems, balanced equations, the balance of power, the balance of justice, and so on”. See also Goebel and Zumbusch 2020b, 11, with reference to Schönhammer 2009b, 11; Mast and Grabherr 2009. In contrast, Allesch 2009, 244 emphasizes the autonomy of speaking about balance in the

Balance and Excess in Ovid’s Pygmalion Story  

Kaye makes is of importance. In this, he differentiates between a passive and an active use of balance, depending on whether the balance has already been achieved or is in the process of being achieved (“the model of equality” versus “the model of equalization”).14

 Balance and symmetry in the Pygmalion story In aesthetics, one fundamental aspect of balance lies in symmetry. Symmetry in this sense represents an “aesthetic analogy” to philosophical mesotes- or medical eukrasia-concepts.15 We find such a relationship between balance and symmetry, for example, in the field of music and sculpture theory, the latter especially with reference to the representation of the human body in the fine arts: Just as the Pythagoreans sought to express the perfect harmonies in music by ratios of numbers, so Polycletus described the perfect human body by ratios of measures. Moreover, his theory of symmetry also transferred the doctrine of the balance of opposites, important in Greek medicine, to the visual arts. Just as the Pythagorean Alcmaion and, following him, the Hippocratic School defined the state of health as a balance of elementary physical forces, so the perfect human sculpture, exemplified in his Doryphoros, should embody a balance of rest and movement, tension and relaxation, elevation and depression, etc., which was later subsumed under the term contrapposto. Both together, the perfect measure-number ratios of the body and the proper measure between opposites, formed the first aesthetic theory of symmetry.16

Also in the context of symmetry, Johnson emphasizes the importance of a physical experience of balance: As we saw earlier, balance involves symmetry. We experience symmetry not only in our perception of symmetrical objects but also in our experience of bodily balance. Symmetry in our perception is understood relative to an axis, such that we can rotate what is on one side of the axis over onto the other side with a good fit. In an object that we perceive as

 realm of aesthetics: “Ein Gebäude, das aus dem Gleichgewicht geraten ist, löst keinen Schwindel aus, sondern allenfalls ein ästhetisches Missbehagen”, and “die Redeweise vom Verlust der Balance gibt also eher ein rationales Urteil als eine tatsächliche Wahrnehmung wieder”. 14 Kaye 2014, 4. See also Tieben 2012, 2: “Traditionally, equilibrium is seen as a balance of forces, but it can also be understood as a state of rest or as a tendency towards such a state”. 15 Goebel and Zumbusch 2020b, 10. 16 Schummer 2006, 60–61, transl. by Robert Kirstein. See also Seyler 2009 and Konstan 2014, 102: “It is clear that for Hermogenes beauty is closely connected with symmetry and balance, features that apply naturally to visible objects”; cf. Buchheim 2010, Jedan 2010.

  Robert Kirstein symmetrical, all the sizes, shapes, locations, and relations on, say, the left side, map point-for-point onto those on the right side. With respect to our experience of bodily balance, we also experience a symmetry of weight and forces relative to our own vertical axis.17

The connection between balance, symmetry, beauty, and bodily experience, on the one hand, and the theme of the ‘living’ statue in Ovid’s Pygmalion, on the other, provokes the question whether general balance theories can contribute to our understanding of the Ovidian text. The relevance of balance for the interpretation of the passage is already apparent against the background of its macrostructural disposition. In a 1962 study, Douglas Bauer investigates the extent to which symmetry as a composition principle is of significance for this part of the Metamorphoses. Looking at “poetic imagery and symmetry as well as mathematical proportion” Bauer comes to the conclusion that both the tenth book as a whole and the Pygmalion story in particular follow significantly symmetrical design principles.18 In particular, Bauer attempts to demonstrate that the Pygmalion story stands in the logical centre of the book, surrounded by three frames. The first outer frame consists of Orpheus and Venus as the main male and female representatives of love. The second frame comprises the three stories about the pueri dilecti superis — Cyparissus, Ganymede, and Hyacinthus — in the first half and the Atalanta story in the second half of the book. The third inner frame that immediately surrounds the Pygmalion story in the middle consists of the narratives about the prostitution of the Propoetides and about the incest of Myrrha.19 Complementing this analysis of the macrostructure of the tenth book, Bauer observes a two-part construction scheme within the Pygmalion episode itself.20 The episode as a whole can be summarized and analyzed as consisting of six subordinated parts: beginning of story — creation of the statue — events following the creation of the statue — gaze of the statue by Pygmalion / the reader — prayer to Venus — end of story. What Bauer’s analysis is able to uncover is the remarkable fact that the goddess Venus and her cult come to stand exactly in the middle of this particular story (line 270) and thus in the intellectual centre of the entire highly semanticized tenth book, additionally highlighted by their repetition at the end of the story (line 297):

 17 Johnson 1987, 96. 18 Bauer 1962, 1. 19 Structural schemes are offered by Bauer 1962, 12 and Wheeler 1999, 209. 20 Bauer 1962, 12–13.

Balance and Excess in Ovid’s Pygmalion Story  

243 270 297

Quas quia Pygmalion aevum per crimen agentis / viderat … 27 lines in between … Festa dies Veneris tota celeberrima Cypro / venerat … 27 lines in between … illa Paphon genuit, de qua tenet insula nomen.21

Bauer’s approach derives from the same context as other studies of the period that deal with principles of composition in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, among them the analyses of Walter Ludwig and Brooks Otis.22 Otis, in particular, makes a large-scale attempt to analyze the Metamorphoses according to structural principles such as symmetry, contrast, and balance. Above all, he sees the Pygmalion story in a balanced correspondence with the preceding Iphis story (Met. 9.666–797) on the one hand and with the following Midas story (11.83–193) on the other, supposing a contrasting correspondence in the case of the latter.23 As Otis states himself, however, symmetries and related principles alone do not constitute a sufficient explanatory model for understanding the textual dynamics of the Metamorphoses: “But there is much more than counterpoint or symmetry. Ovid’s carmen perpetuum is also proceeding on its evolutionary way”.24 Therefore, Solodow has focused in his analysis more on recurring themes to move away from the structuralist approach of his predecessors.25 Nevertheless, he too identifies similar correspondences between the individual stories as Otis does, for example between the Iphis and Pygmalion story.26 In his chapter on structure he comes to a ‘balanced’ assessment of structural approaches, by

 21 Bernbeck 1967, 63–64 draws attention to the fact that one of Ovid’s narrative techniques in the Metamorphoses is to mark cuts by mentioning of religious festivals: “Pygmalion ist in sein Bildwerk verliebt. Dann kommt das Venusfest (270ff.). Der Leser kann erraten: jetzt wird Venus mit Pygmalion Verbindung aufnehmen”. Tarrant 2005, 75 characterizes Pygmalion’s prayer to Venus, which immediately follows, as “clearly the focal point of the story”. Hardie 2002, 190 poses the question whether, when a few lines later it is said that the ‘golden Venus’ (Met. 10.277 Venus aurea) is present at her feast, one should think of the goddess herself in epiphany or rather of a golden cult statue; cf. Jenkyns and Thorsen in this volume. 22 Ludwig 1964, Otis 1970. 23 Otis 1970, 189 and 166–230, The Pathos of Love I. Other examples of a symmetrical analysis include the Aeacus-Cephalus-sequence in Met. 8.404–868 (Otis 1970, 181). 24 Otis 1970, 171. 25 Solodow 1988, 14–15: “Structural analyses like those of Ludwig and Otis, which rely of course on abstraction, run aground on the uncapturable exuberance and variety of the poem. Several more concrete, recurring features give greater promise of indicating where the poem’s unity lies and are more likely to point us towards the book’s central concerns”. See already Fraenkel 1953, 97. 26 Solodow 1988, 215.

  Robert Kirstein arguing that the text of the Metamorphoses does indeed feature various structural features, but in such a way that it cannot be reduced to one overarching principle: “The poem at the same time invites and repels attempts to interpret it through its structure”.27 For this paper, a conclusion as to the degree to which symmetries in the structure of the text play a role in the Metamorphoses and whether they affect the work as a whole or only individual parts is not of essential importance. The general observation seems sufficient that symmetries, together with other principles, make part of its dynamic and multilayered structure.28 If balance, symmetry, and beauty can be interrelated in a given aesthetic context, as suggested above, one can conclude that beauty is a central theme of the story. The description of the object of the statue displays a structure that makes the properties of the statue itself aesthetically effective. Beauty is then present in the Pygmalion episode both with regard to the content of the story (the beauty of the female statue) and the balanced and symmetrical presentation of the story (the beauty of the text).29

 Balance and focalization in the Pygmalion story Above, it has been argued that the composition of the text displays a balanced symmetry, with two parts of equal length and the mention of the Paphian Venus in their middle (v. 270). Balance, however, also plays a role in another aspect of the narrative, focalization. The technique of focalization appears to be of particular interest for an analysis of the Pygmalion story because the hero combines the functions of creator and viewer in the course of the narrative. Therefore, it has already been observed that, in addition to the creation of the statue, aspects of vision and sensory perception are central to our understanding of the story.30 This overlaps, at the same time, with approaches that shift the emphasis from

 27 Solodow 1988, 13. See also Martindale 1990, 258. 28 On the artist figure Arachne in the Metamorphoses Feeney 1991, 193 notes that when she is changed to a spider “the celebrator of beautiful disorder is doomed to the spider’s weaving of utter symmetry”. 29 For observations on symmetry in other stories of the Metamorphoses see e.g. Gildenhard and Zissos 1999, 166–167 (Procne story). 30 Elsner 1991, 155; Liveley 1999; Salzman-Mitchell 2005, 72–73: “[…] Pygmalion takes the role of both the artist and the viewer […]”.

Balance and Excess in Ovid’s Pygmalion Story  

the process of creation to the process of reception of art.31 Due to the complicated narrative with ‘Ovid’ as primary and Orpheus as embedded narrator, the distribution of focalization is complex. For this is then, in turn, passed on from Orpheus as narrator to ‘his’ character Pygmalion.32 At the beginning of the episode, the focalization is with Orpheus, when he tells how Pygmalion creates a female statue out of ivory after deciding to live alone and without a wife, deterred by the sinful life of the Propoetides (Met. 10.244–245 sine coniuge caelebs / vivebat thalamique diu consorte carebat). Shortly thereafter, however, Pygmalion himself becomes the focalizing figure when he is described admiring, even devouring, his work and touching it with his hands. This change in (embedded) focalization is indicated by a series of linguistic markers involving both visual and bodily perception (miratur, haurit pectore, manus admovet, 252–253; cf. mira arte, 247, and stupet, 287).33 At the end of the story, Orpheus is once again the focalizing subject. It is noteworthy that the vocabulary is chosen in such a way that descriptive, ‘objective’ words are used for the framing focalization on Orpheus’ side (the material, ebur, in line 248 and simulacra, 280); simulacra, especially, presupposes the distanced perspective of the narrator, who knows about the unreality, unlike Pygmalion, who is caught in the aesthetic illusion. In contrast, when Orpheus presents Pygmalion’s focalization, the statue is described as a living object with feminine and erotically charged adjectives (e.g., nuda, 266; sociam, 268) and with metaphorical, ‘subjective’ or ‘evaluative’ words (and its moving effect on the viewer, simulati corporis ignes, 253). A further level of complication is created by the fact that the reader is also brought into the narrative as a further instance of (hypothetical) focalization (quam vivere credas, 250). This technique generally proves to be typical of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, as Hardie emphasizes: “The reader’s view is frequently focalized and guided through the astonished gaze of spectators within the text, so inviting our presence at the visual feast of the poem”.34 In the case of the Pygmalion  31 Elsner 1991; Feldherr 2010; Kailbach-Mehl 2020, 165. 32 Liveley 1999, 205: “[…] the focalization of this episode is so complex […]”. 33 The description of the bodily perception is intensified when the statue comes to life: rursus amans rursusque manu sua vota retractat. / corpus erat! saliunt temptatae pollice venae (Met. 10.287–288). Bal 2017, 143: “Verbs like ‘see’ and ‘hear’, in short all verbs that communicate perception can function as explicit attributive signs”; de Jong 2014, 51: “When verbs of seeing and so on are lacking […] we must look for other signs, such as evaluative words, interactional particles, moods, or deictics that reveal a character’s focalization”. 34 Hardie 2002, 173, with reference to Rosati 1983, who stresses the importance of modes of viewing and of the spectacular in the Metamorphoses. On apostrophes in the Metamorphoses in

  Robert Kirstein story, Elsner, by analogy with the “viewer-lover”, therefore speaks pointedly of the “reader-lover”.35 With the symmetrical structure of the story, the balanced distribution of the focalization Orpheus-Pygmalion-Orpheus is striking. The reader’s immersion further lends this structure a touch which complicates and undoes simple symmetries: 247–248 250 252–253 ⁞ 280–281

Interea niveum mira feliciter arte / sculpsit ebur(Or) formamque dedit credas(Read) miratur et haurit(Py) / pectore Pygmalion simulati corporis ignes. / saepe manus operi temptantes admovet(Py) ut rediit, simulacra (Or) suae petit ille puellae / incumbensque toro dedit oscula

That focalization can be a narrative device that adds balance to texts has been demonstrated by Manfred Jahn using the example of Patrick White’s novel The Solid Mandala (1966). The novel tells the story of two brothers, Waldo and Arthur Brown. The two are closely related to each other, and the story presents the point of view of both brothers, who have entirely different characters. By this time, the reader […] has long suspected that Arthur is not the idiot Waldo takes him to be, and Chapter 3, now focalized entirely through Arthur, gives us an opportunity to see what he is really like. Arthur’s mind now serves as the balancing filter through which the episodes earlier remembered by Waldo are revisited, and this produces the juxtaposition of contrary apperceptions characteristic of multiple focalization.36 The foregoing thumbnail sketch of The Solid Mandala illustrates how strategic choices in focalization determine this novel’s structure (especially in its counterbalancing or rather

 general see Wheeler 1999, 151–161. Often it remains open to some degree to what extent the second-person-conjunctive means an apostrophe to the reader and thus a real metalepsis or just indicates the presence of an “anonymous focalizer” (de Jong 2014, 69). While some see this as an illusion-producing technique (Allan et al. 2017, 36–37), others emphasize those effects that interrupt the illusion (Fondermann 2008, 91). On hypothetical focalization see further Herman 1994 and Jahn 1996. 35 Elsner 1991, 164, see also 160 on credas, and 166: “If Ovid’s Pygmalion as artist can be taken for a symbol of the writer, then the beholder-lover in Pygmalion may be read as a myth of the reader”, with Salzman-Mitchell 2005, 15: “Elsner’s juxtaposition of viewer and reader, which extends in much of this study to internal and external viewers, is compelling. Elsner shows that Pygmalion’s supremacy as an artist has to do with his preponderance as viewer — he is actually the only one who ever sees his statue”. 36 Jahn 2007, 104.

Balance and Excess in Ovid’s Pygmalion Story  

contrapuntal chapters), characterization (opening up several viewpoints on the characters), and its surprise outcome.37

It appears not unattractive to apply Jahn’s observations on the interrelation between focalization and balance based on the macrostructure of The Solid Mandala to microstructures like Ovid’s Pygmalion episode. While White’s novel is about the antagonistic character of the two brothers, in Ovid the emphasis is on the difference in distance and closeness to the object of the statue between Orpheus and Pygmalion. The reader is then put in the role of observing and evaluating this balance of viewpoints between Orpheus and Pygmalion. An analysis of focalization also exposes the masculine, gendered gaze in which the story is narrated. Liveley points to the associated one-sided and in some ways extreme potential of the Pygmalion story that leaves the woman’s side without agency: “However, while readers of the Metamorphoses […] might consider the sympathies and prejudices of the author to be focalized through the figures of Orpheus and Pygmalion, the resisting reader might seek an alternative perspective. Thus, the misogynist perspective displayed by both Orpheus and Pygmalion […] may be regarded as an extreme point of view that the external narrator invites his readers to resist”.38

 Endangered balance: Excess The observations on the masculine predominance and the corresponding lack of agency on the side of the female statue already allow a hint at the destabilizing element that is inscribed in the concept of balance. From the beginning endangerment, loss and utopian recovery are essential parts of our thinking and speaking about balance.39 Moreover, concepts of balance are regularly formulated in the face of provocations by forms of imbalance or even excess. The same seems to apply to reflections on beauty that entail its own questioning: “We see here the germ of Roger Scruton’s affirmation that ‘beauty is not just an

 37 Jahn 2007, 105. 38 Liveley 1999, 202; Segal 1998, 17–18; Sharrock 1991, 36. See also notes 6 above and 43 below. 39 Goebel and Zumbusch 2020b, 20: “Balance erweist sich insgesamt als eine […] Daseinsmetapher im Sinne Hans Blumenbergs, die im kulturellen Selbstverständigungsprozess kompensierend eintreten muss, wenn das dem Schwindel ausgesetzte Denken an seine Grenzen und das Subjekt dergestalt aus dem Gleichgewicht gerät”.

  Robert Kirstein invitation to desire, but also a call to renounce it’”.40 That an excess of balance can also lead to a turning point that proves negative for the aesthetic sense, is pointed out by the sculptor and art theorist Axel Seyler: It is true that our eyes are always looking for order — and symmetry is the easiest to find. But our striving for an equilibrium is condemned to inactivity by exact symmetry […] If an artist makes symmetry visible, then it becomes bearable only by refraction or by built-in variety.41

The property of balance, to carry a sense of imbalance, already shows up in the analysis of the structure of the Pygmalion story. Because, next to the symmetry of two parts with the goddess Venus in its centre, shown above, an asymmetrical structural feature appears at the same time: a rather short description of the actual creation of the statue (Met. 10.247–249a) is followed by a much longer part of around fifty lines. In this part, the events after the creation are described with much greater detail: the reactions of Pygmalion — his immediate falling in love (operisque sui concepit amorem, 249b), his and the reader’s viewing of the statue, his admiration and his actions towards it —, the prayer to Venus, and the coming to life of the statue (249b–297).42 This imbalance on the level of the text can then be read as a reflection of the mental imbalance of Pygmalion. This mental imbalance displays properties even of excess when Pygmalion desires the statue to the extent that it comes to life.43 Pygmalion’s excessive

 40 Konstan 2014, 186, with reference to Scruton 2009. 41 Seyler 2009, 217, transl. by Robert Kirstein. For Ovid as a poet of excess and moderation, see Gibson 2006 and Gibson 2007. 42 Elsner 1991, 155 (see also 159): “Ovid in fact gives only two and a half lines to describing Pygmalion’s creation […] The rest of the story (some fifty lines) dwells in exquisite detail on the viewing which sees the ivory statue as a real woman, on Pygmalion’s desire and its fulfilment”. 43 Sharrock 1991, 36 compares the Narcissus and the Pygmalion stories as taking the lover to extremes. On transgressions in the Pygmalion story with regard to the boundaries of fiction see Pavel 1986, 60: “[…] when sufficient energy is channeled into mimetic acts, these may leave the fictional mode and cross the threshold of actuality. The myth of Pygmalion narrates this transformation”. Interestingly, the related Atalanta story also talks about excessive love: dixerat [Hippomenes] ac nimios iuvenum damnarat amores (Met. 10.577). See also Enterlein 2010, 124: “On such an understanding of linguistic subjectivity, and of the difference between fetishism and poetic language, I would suggest that these seemingly fetishized female figures be read as signs pointing to the cultural conditions legislated for becoming a ‘speaking-subject’. They are assigned a peculiar place: these idols become signs of what the culturally fashioned male subject of poetic language must renounce if ‘he’ is to accede to symbolic form. Diana, Eurydice, Pygmalion’s maiden, Medusa, Laura: over and over in the Metamorphoses and the Rime

Balance and Excess in Ovid’s Pygmalion Story  

behaviour breaks the balance and the status of equality is abandoned. In a process of equalization (Kaye), however, this balance is regained, though not on the level of the figures, objects, and events represented, but on the level of representation, by capturing the Pygmalion episode in a well-balanced textual macrostructure. If one understands the story metapoetically and Pygmalion as a symbol of the poet, the excessive character of Ovidian poetry is brought here to mind, which is why Sharrock refers to Quintilian’s judgment nimium amator ingenii sui (Inst. 10.1.88).44 Balance — implemented by narrative devices such as compositional (a)symmetries and the distribution of focalization — seems to be the aesthetic principle in Ovid’s Pygmalion story, against the background of which the endangerment of balance and the possibility of turning into excess is made explicit.

Bibliography Allan, R.J., Jong, I.J.F. de, Jonge, C.C. de (2017), ‘From Enargeia to Immersion. The Ancient Roots of a Modern Concept’, Style 51/1, 34–51. Allesch, C.G. (2009), ‘Gleichgewichtssinn, Balance und Ästhetik’, in Schönhammer 2009a, 243–250. Arnheim, R. (1974), Art and Visual Perception. A Psychology of the Creative Eye, Berkeley. Assmann, J. (2006), Ma’at. Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im Alten Ägypten, Munich. Bal, M. (2017), Narratology. Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, Toronto (4th edition). Bauer, D.F. (1962), ‘The Function of Pygmalion in the Metamorphoses of Ovid’, Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 93, 1–21. Baumgarten, A.G. (2007), Ästhetik. Lateinisch-Deutsch. Übersetzt, mit einer Einführung, Anmerkungen und Register herausgegeben von Dagmar Mirbach, 2 vol., Hamburg. Bernbeck, E.J. (1967), Beobachtungen zur Darstellungsart in Ovids Metamorphosen, Munich. Buchheim, T. (2010), ‘Sterbliche Unsterbliche. Über die Lage des Menschen in der vorsokratischen Philosophie’, in Jansen and Jedan 2010, 31–68. Elias, N. (1969), Die höfische Gesellschaft, Berlin (new edition Frankfurt am Main 2002). Elsner, J. (1991), ‘Visual Mimesis and the Myth of the Real’, Ramus 20/2, 154–168. Enterline, L. (2010), The Rhetoric of the Body from Ovid to Shakespeare, Cambridge. Fantham, E. (2004), Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Oxford. Feeney, D.C. (1991), The Gods in Epic. Poets and Critics of the Classical Tradition, Oxford. Feldherr, A. (2010), Playing Gods. Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the Politics of Fiction, Princeton.

 Sparse, female forms become signifiers for what is in excess of the voice, in excess of signification, and in excess of the culturally imposed order of sexual difference”. 44 Sharrock 1991, 49. Enterlein 2010, 8: “Because of Ovid’s frequent metapoetic, metalinguistic, and metarhetorical turns, however, he has often been condemned as an author marred by rhetorical excess, insincerity, and misplaced ingenuity”.

  Robert Kirstein Fondermann, Ph. (2008), Kino im Kopf. Zur Visualisierung des Mythos in den Metamorphosen Ovids, Göttingen. Fraenkel, H. (1953), Ovid. A Poet Between two Worlds, Berkeley (1st edition 1945). Gibson, R.K., Green, S. and Sharrock, A., eds. (2006), The Art of Love. Bimillenial Essays on Ovid’s Ars Amatoria and Remedia Amoris, Oxford. Gibson, R.K. (2006), ‘Ovid, Augustus, and the Politics of Moderation in Ars Amatoria 3’, in Gibson et al. 2006, 121–142. Gibson, R.K. (2007), Excess and Restraint. Propertius, Horace and Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, London. Gildenhard, I. and Zissos, A. (1999), ‘Somatic Economies. Tragic Bodies and Poetic Design in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’, in Hardie et al. 1999, 162–181. Goebel, E. and Zumbusch, C., eds. (2020a), Balance. Figuren des Equilibriums in den Kulturwissenschaften, Berlin. Goebel, E. and Zumbusch, C. (2020b), ‘Einleitung’, in Goebel and Zumbusch 2020a, 3–34. Grüny, Ch. and Nanni, M., eds. (2014), Rhythmus, Balance, Metrum. Formen raumzeitlicher Organisation in den Künsten, Bielefeld. Grund, S. (2020), ‘Der Weg der ‘goldenen Mitte’. Aristoteles’ Lehre der μεσότης (mesotes) und ihre Bedeutung für die Daseinsmetapher der Balance’, in Goebel and Zumbusch 2020a, 35–56. Hardie, Ph. (2002), Ovid’s Poetics of Illusion, Cambridge. Hardie, Ph., Barchiesi, A. and Hinds, S., eds. (1999), Ovidian Transformations. Essays on Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Its Reception, Cambridge. Herman, D. (1994), ‘Hypothetical Focalization’, Narrative 2/3, 230–253. Herman, D., ed. (2007), The Cambridge Companion to Narrative, Cambridge. Hershkowitz, D. (1999), ‘The Creation of the Self in Ovid and Proust’, in Hardie et al. 1999, 182– 196. lbel, E. and Zumbusch, C., eds. (2020), Balance. Figuren des Äquilibriums in den Kulturwissenschaften, Berlin. Iser, W. (1979), ‘Die Appellstruktur der Texte’, in Warning 1979, 228–252. Jaeger, F., ed. (2007), Enzyklopädie der Neuzeit, Vol. 4: Friede, Gutsherrenschaft, Darmstadt. Jahn, M. (1996), ‘Windows of Focalization. Deconstructing and Reconstructing a Narratological Concept’, Style 30, 241–267. Jahn, M. (2007), ‘Focalization’, in Herman 2007, 94–108. Jansen, L. and Jedan, Ch., eds. (2010), Philosophische Anthropologie in der Antike, Berlin. Jedan, Ch. (2010), ‘Im Visier der Ärzte. Hippokrates und Galen über die Natur des Menschen’, in Jansen and Jedan 2010, 311–340. Johnson, M. (1987), The Body in the Mind. The Bodily Basis of Meaning, Imagination, and Reason, Chicago. Jong, I.F. de (2014), Narratology and Classics. A Practical Guide, Oxford. Kailbach-Mehl, A. (2020), Künstlerfiguren als poetologische Reflexionsfiguren in der augusteischen Dichtung, Hildesheim. Kaufman, S.J., Little, R. and Wolforth, W.C., eds. (2007), The Balance of Power in World History, Basingstoke. Kaye, J. (2014), A History of Balance 1250–1375. The Emergence of a New Model of Equilibrium and Its Impact on Thought, Cambridge. Kister, A. (2020), Fragile Balance. Schwindelerfahrungen und Gleichgewichtsideale im Werk Thomas Manns, Frankfurt am Main. Konstan, D. (2014), Beauty. The Fortune of an Ancient Greek Idea, Oxford.

Balance and Excess in Ovid’s Pygmalion Story  

Krohn, W., ed. (2006), Ästhetik in der Wissenschaft. Interdisziplinärer Diskurs über das Gestalten und Darstellen von Wissen. Sonderheft 7 der Zeitschrift für Ästhetik und allgemeine Kunstwissenschaft, Hamburg. Liveley, G. (1999), ‘Reading Resistance in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’, in Hardie et al. 1999, 197– 213. Ludwig, W. (1964), Struktur und Einheit der Metamorphosen, Berlin. Martindale, Ch. (1990), ‘Review: The World of Ovid’s Metamorphoses by Joseph B. Solodow’, Comparative Literature 42, 258–60. Mast, F.W. and Grabherr, L. (2009), ‘Mit dem Körper denken. Der Gleichgewichtssinn als fundamentale leibliche Selbsterfahrung’, in Schönhammer 2009a, 49–60. Nünning, A., ed. (2013), Metzler Lexikon. Literatur- und Kulturtheorie. Ansätze, Personen, Grundbegriffe, Stuttgart. Otis, B. (1970), Ovid as Epic Poet, Cambridge (1st edition 1966). Pavel, T.G. (1986), Fictional Worlds, Cambridge, MA. Raeburn, D. (2004), Ovid. Metamorphoses. A New Verse Translation. With an Introduction by Denis Feeney, London. Reitz, C. and Finkmann, S., eds. (2019), Structures of Epic Poetry, Vol. I: Foundations, Berlin. Rosati, G. (1983), Narciso e Pigmalione. Illusione e spettaculo nelle Metamorfosi di Ovidio, Florence. Salzman-Mitchell, P.B. (2005), A Web of Fantasies. Gaze, Image, Gender in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Columbus. Schönhammer, R., ed. (2009a), Körper, Dinge und Bewegung. Der Gleichgewichtssinn in materieller Kultur und Ästhetik, Vienna. Schönhammer, R. (2009b), ‘Der Gleichgewichtssinn in materieller Kultur und Ästhetik. Ein Überblick’, in Schönhammer 2009a, 11–45. Schummer, J. (2006), ‘Symmetrie und Schönheit in Kunst und Wissenschaft’, in Krohn 2006, 59–78. Scruton, R. (2009), Beauty, Oxford. Segal, Ch. (1972), ‘Ovid’s Orpheus and Augustan Ideology’, Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 103, 473–494. Segal, Ch. (1998), ‘Ovid’s Metamorphic Bodies. Art, Gender, and Violence in the Metamorphoses’, Arion 5, 9–41. Seyler, A. (2009), ‘Gleichgewichtssinn und Wahrnehmen von Symmetrie’, in Schönhammer 2009a, 211–219. Sharrock, A. (1991), ‘Womanufacture’, The Journal of Roman Studies 81, 36–49. Sharrock, A. (2019), ‘Ovid’s Metamorphoses: The Naughty Boy of the Graeco-Roman Epic Tradition’, in Reitz and Finkmann 2019, 275–316. Solodow, J.B. (1988), The World of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Chapel Hill. Strohmeyer, A. (2007), ‘Gleichgewicht der Kräfte’, in Jaeger 2007, 925–931. Tarrant, R.J. (2004), P. Ovidi Nasonis Metamorphoses. Recognovit brevique adnotatione critica instruxit, Oxford. Tarrant, R. (2005), ‘Roads Not Taken. Untold Stories in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’, Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici 54, 65–89. Tieben, B. (2012), The Concept of Equilibrium in Different Economic Traditions. An Historical Investigation, Cheltenham. Warning, R., ed. (1979), Rezeptionsästhetik. Theorie und Praxis, Munich.

  Robert Kirstein Wheeler, S. (1999), A Discourse of Wonders. Audience and Performance in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Phildalephia. White, P. (1966), The Solid Mandala. A Novel, New York. Wolf, P. (2013), ‘Ästhetik/ästhetisch’, in Nünning 2013, 5–6.

Richard Jenkyns

Was Cyprus Special? The Case of Two Latin Poets Abstract: This essay studies two passages in Latin poetry, the disappearance of Venus in Virgil, Aen. 1, and the story of Pygmalion in Ovid, Met. 10, considering also their relationship to Greek precedent, especially in Homer’s Odyssey. It suggests that these passages are unusual in the work of each poet, and that the idea of Cyprus, partly from its strong association with Aphrodite, partly because it combined reality with remoteness, contributed to their distinctive tone.

Latin poetry is filled with Greek mythology, and it is accordingly stuffed with place names from the Hellenic world also. Many of these may be of slight significance. Some of the myths that Roman writers took over from the Greek storehouse are not set anywhere in particular, but others do belong to a known locality, and in these cases the poet may simply be carrying on the tradition that he has received. At other times, toponyms may offer hardly more than a generalised Grecian colouring, as (say) with honey from Hybla or Hymettus. However, some authors probed the possibilities of place names more keenly, Virgil especially. In the Aeneid he used no less than four names for the River Tiber: Tiberinus, the sacral name, Thybris in direct speech or when he is looking from his characters’ viewpoint, the ordinary prose form Tiberis once only, in the catalogue of Italian forces, and the lost name Albula also once, when Evander’s narrative delves deep into a primeval past.1 Aeneas and the Trojans become Phrygians when they are looked upon as orientals,2 through the Italians’ western eyes, commonly with a sneer. In turn, it is worth considering whether Cyprus carries any particular flavour when it appears in Latin poetry. Is it merely another Hellenic name, carrying the prestige of Greek culture with it more or less automatically, or might it have a more individual character, conveying the island’s distinctiveness — as it were, the Cyprusness of Cyprus? This essay will propose two places in Roman poetry where the evocation of Cyprus seems to conjure an effect of this kind. They are two famous and remarkable places, as it happens, and it may be significant that each has an atmosphere which is perhaps unique within the work of the poet in question: the appearance of Venus to  1 Cf. Warner 1917; Momigliano 1966; Rutledge 1980; Fratantuono 2016. 2 Cf. e.g. Hardie 2007. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-007

  Richard Jenkyns her son in the first book of Virgil’s Aeneid and the story of Pygmalion in the tenth book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. And since Roman poetry grew and flourished under the shadow of Greece, this will be a means of glancing at how Cyprus was treated in Greek poetry too. As these Latin poets read and absorbed the work of their Greek predecessors, how did they find Cyprus handled? The island does not appear in the Iliad, and that may be significant. The Iliad, or the tradition out of which it grew, pulls figures from other story traditions into its orbit. Most of the heroes among the besiegers are from the Achaean heartland, but Odysseus, a folk-tale trickster from the Ionian Sea, has been incorporated, and turned into a regular hero like Ajax, Diomedes and the rest. Idomeneus king of Crete is included. Helen, a Peloponnesian nature goddess, has lost her immortality and become a femme fatale. Although we learnt in childhood that the war was fought between the Greeks and the Trojans, in Homer’s telling it seems to be an all Hellenic affair, with the Trojans culturally and linguistically identical to the Achaeans: yet their allies include some barbarophonoi, men of alien speech who speak a language other than Greek.3 Even so, the Iliad’s power grab has not reached all the way to Cyprus: Crete and Ithaca were within its centripetal pull, but Cyprus, it seems, was too far away. If we travel west from Cyprus to Crete, the next easternmost of the Mediterranean Sea’s big islands, we find it rich in mythology. Zeus was born there; Minos, the Minotaur, Pasiphae, Ariadne, Phaedra — all were Cretan; the Athenian hero Theseus too was caught up in Cretan story. Crete is, we might say, myth rich. And conversely, Cyprus is myth poor: Aphrodite’s birth is perhaps the only major myth placed in it (few would know about Pygmalion but for Ovid, and most of those who know his story could not say where it is set). That makes the mutual association between the goddess and the island all the tighter. Even today the visitor to Cyprus is likely to be struck by her ubiquity: she seems almost as omnipresent as John Paul II in southern Poland. No other Greek deity has sustained his or her presence in any part of the Hellenic world quite as well. The nature of Aphrodite’s relationship to her island also seems to be distinctive in literary sources.4 Of course, gods had their local habitations, or at least centres of cult: Zeus had Olympia and Dodona, Apollo had Delphi and Delos, Hera had Argos, Athena had Athens, and so on. But there are two differences. These other gods had particular locations for their cult, whereas Aphrodite has a realm, a whole large island. Secondly, Aphrodite is represented as  3 Hom. Il. 2.804, 2.867 (Carians), 4.437–438. 4 See e.g. Karageorghis 2005.

Was Cyprus Special? The Case of Two Latin Poets  

really living in Cyprus in an unusually strong, even literal sense, in poetry from the Odyssey onwards.5 Horace begins one of his odes by invoking a blessing from ‘the goddess who rules over Cyprus’, Sic te diva potens Cypri….6 He may well have had in mind the similar formulation in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite: χαῖρε, θεά, Κύπροιο ἐυκτιμένηϲ μεδέουϲα (‘Hail, goddess ruling over wellbuilt Cyprus’).7 To describe (say) Athena as queen of Attica or ruler over Athens would indeed be possible, but perhaps less natural. In the Odyssey, famously, the hero’s true adventures happen in fairyland, while his false tales are set in the real world, naming places about which we know. In the lying story that he tells to the suitors about himself he claims to have visited Cyprus on the way back from Egypt.8 Back in Sparta Menelaus has told Telemachus and Pisistratus his true adventures:9 Κύπρον Φοινίκην τε καὶ Αἰγυπτίουϲ ἐπαληθείϲ, Αἰθίοπάϲ θ’ ἱκόμην καὶ Ϲιδονίουϲ καὶ Ἐρεμβοὺϲ καὶ Λιβύην, ἵνα τ’ ἄρνεϲ ἄφαρ κεραοὶ τελέθουϲι. I wandered to Cyprus and Phoenicia and to the Egyptians, and came to the Ethiopians and the Sidonians and the Erembi and to Libya, where the lambs are born with horns.

In each case we may notice the strategic significance of Cyprus as a staging post for travelling to and from Egypt — a geographical fact that was already important in the mythical age of the Trojan War as it was to be at the Congress of Berlin. In Menelaus’ narrative we also see Cyprus as the first step of an adventure into an increasingly fantastical world — on beyond Phoenicia and Egypt, non-Hellenic but real lands, to the Ethiopians and the Erembi (who appear only in this passage or in other passages derived from it). Cyprus is half way to terra incognita as, in a somewhat different way, the realm of the Phaeacians is half way to fairyland. Another appearance of Cyprus in the Odyssey was to catch the fancy of Virgil. It comes at the very end of Demodocus’ story relating how Hephaestus and Aphrodite were caught in adultery, sung to Odysseus and the Phaeacians in the house of their king Alcinous. When the guilty pair are released from the net that has entrapped them,10  5 Cf. e.g. the case of Claudian discussed by Tzounakas in this volume. 6 Hor. Carm. 1.3.1. 7 h. Hom. 5.292. 8 Hom. Od. 17.442. 9 Hom. Od. 4.83–85. 10 Hom. Od. 8.361–366.

  Richard Jenkyns αὐτίκ’ ἀναΐξαντε ὁ μὲν Θρήικηνδε βεβήκει, ἡ δ’ ἄρα Κύπρον ἵκανε φιλομμειδὴς Ἀφροδίτη, ἐϲ Πάφον, ἔνθα τέ οἱ τέμενοϲ βωμόϲ τε θυήειϲ. ἔνθα δέ μιν Χάριτεϲ λοῦϲαν καὶ χρῖϲαν ἐλαίωι ἄμβρότωι, οἷα θεοὺϲ ἐπενήνοθεν αἰὲν ἐόνταϲ, ἀμφὶ δὲ εἵματα ἕϲϲαν ἐπήρατα, θαῦμα ἰδέϲθαι. They sprang up at once, and Ares went to Thrace, while Aphrodite lover of smiles came to Cyprus, to Paphos, where she has her precinct and altar smoking with incense. There the Graces washed her and anointed her with the immortal oil which is upon the ever-living gods and clad her in lovely raiment, a wonder to see.

A spirit of remoteness infuses these lines: Odysseus is in Scheria, itself a semifairyland, listening to a bard singing a story set on a supernatural Olympus, at the end of which Aphrodite ‘leaves the stage’ for distant Paphos. Cyprus is an absent place, the sort of far idyll wherein divine beings might bathe and dress. And yet that is not the whole story, because within Demodocus’ tale the goddess’s journey is from a supernatural realm to something much closer to our own experience. The assembly of the gods on Olympus is poetic fantasy, but Paphos and Cyprus are real places. And Aphrodite’s recovery there is humanised: this is strong anthropomorphism. She seems here only half supernatural; the other half is more like a defeated president retreating to his residence at Mar a Lago, with massage and aromatherapy thrown in for the luxury spa treatment. The divine glamour of the setting is blended with a domestic note, perhaps not quite humorous but at least smiling, not exactly quaint but at least planted on our earth. We shall see in due course what Virgil was to make of this moment. Virgil is also likely to have known the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, which echoes this passage in the Odyssey, including the direct quotation of three lines, although now the goddess is getting the full wash and brush-up not at the end but at the start of her adventure, before she sets out for the Troad to vamp Anchises.11 But there is probably nothing here that Virgil could not already have got out of the Odyssey. The association between the goddess and her island is reinforced by tragedy, where she is Kupris over and over again. This seems to have been a matter of simple metrical convenience. Aphrodite can be got into an iambic line, but not easily, whereas Kupris slips in very comfortably indeed, with the added convenience that the short upsilon can be lengthened at will. In Aeschylus, for example, the name Aphrodite comes only in lyrics; Kupris comes mostly but not ex-

 11 h. Hom. 5.58–66.

Was Cyprus Special? The Case of Two Latin Poets  

clusively in iambic passages.12 Euripides’ Aphrodite introduces herself at the beginning of Hippolytus with the words, θεὰ κέκλημαι Κύπριϲ, ‘I am a goddess and my name is Kupris.’13 Our reaction to that is not meant to be, ‘No, your name is Aphrodite.’ Rather, we are to understand Kupris as a substitution: we hear Kupris and understand Aphrodite. As it happens, in this place Aphrodite is presenting herself as a universal force, whose power extends over all those who look upon the light of the sun, from Pontus to the Atlantic; the local reference to Cyprus would be a distraction, and the hearer is not meant to notice it. The geographical alias does not have the same value in Latin verse, where Venus is a metrically friendly name, but the practice of tragedy will have helped to embed the goddess in her favourite place. Virgil’s Jupiter addresses his daughter as Cytherea,14 invoking her other island; here the metonymy is chosen not for its useful brevity, but rather for rhythm and amplitude.15 It is time to turn to Virgil directly. In the first book of the Aeneid the hero encounters Venus disguised as a young huntress.16 The atmosphere is elusive: she appears to be simply an ordinary young woman, but somehow Aeneas senses the presence of the numinous: he is sure that she is a goddess, he says, and asks if she is one of the Nymphs, or the sister of Phoebus.17 The spirit of divinity hovers, but also a sense of the apparent maiden’s physical allure: three times the reader’s attention is directed to her bare legs.18 The poem’s gaze upon her is the male gaze, and it is also Aeneas’ gaze — on the girl who, as we know and he does not, is in reality his mother. The scene is thus both natural and epiphanic, innocent and disturbing at the same time. Such is the highly original context into which Virgil puts his borrowing from the Odyssey. Only as she disappears does Aeneas realise this is Venus and that he has both met his mother and not met her. The scene then ends with these lines:19 ipsa Paphum sublimis abit sedesque revisit laeta suas, ubi templum illi, centumque Sabaeo ture calent arae sertisque recentibus halant.

 12 Besides the authentic plays, Kupris comes twice also in Prometheus Bound, both times in iambic lines. 13 E. Hipp. 2. 14 For the epithet Κυθέρεια in Greek literature, see Pirenne-Delforge 1994, 204. 15 Verg. A. 1.257. 16 For this episode, see Gutting 2009, esp. 44 ff. 17 Verg. A. 1.327–329. 18 Verg. A. 1.320, 337, 404. 19 Verg. A. 1.415–417.

  Richard Jenkyns She departs aloft to Paphos and returns joyful to her abode, where is her temple and a hundred altars are hot with Sabaean incense and breathe the fragrance of fresh garlands.

The adaptation from Demodocus’ song in the Odyssey is obvious, but in borrowing these words Virgil has inverted their effect.20 As Venus leaves her son, she has been wrapped in a cloud or mist (that motif, of course, originally from the Iliad). Whereas Homer’s Aphrodite left Olympus and came to earth on a Mediterranean shore, Virgil’s Venus leaves our world and vanishes into an aromatic oriental sanctity. The scene as a whole has moved from pellucid maidenly innocence to something steamier — literally so. And that heady, mysterious assumption is not into heaven but to Paphos. Cyprus, we may reflect, was likely to seem a good deal more distant, more exotic, for most of Virgil’s readership than it had been for Homer’s audience. Ovid’s story of Pygmalion is richly studied elsewhere in this volume,21 and the present essay’s concern is only with one or two details in this brilliant narrative. It stands out in the Metamorphoses for its vivid sensuousness. Although there are many love stories in the poem, there is rather little erotic writing in it, but Pygmalion’s falling in love is indeed erotically evoked, with perhaps a more strongly tactile feeling than anywhere else in the work. Like Virgil’s epiphany of Venus, this story is charged with a physical sense of the female body:22 the sculptor’s hands repeatedly wandering to the ivory as though it were flesh, the hands on the breast, the hardness softening to the fingers’ touch, as wax softens at the thumb’s pressure, the veins pulsing in response.23 The narrative insists on the physical presence of Venus as well. The statue’s transformation occurs on her feast day, to which, we are told, all Cyprus thronged, and the incense smoked.24 Venus heard and understood Pygmalion’s prayer, says the poet, for the golden goddess was herself present at her festival (ut ipsa suis aderat Venus aurea festis).25 This can only mean that she is present in some strongly actual and anthropomorphised sense, and not merely in the looser or more spiritualised sense in which gods are always in their temples or available to receive prayer and sacrifice. As Catullus observed at the end of his Poem 64, the fact of gods being present, in actual person, at the celebrations of mortals is a phenomenon that belongs to a long lost, golden past: it does not happen in our own  20 Cf. Beck 2007. 21 See especially Kirstein, Thorsen, Alekou in this volume. 22 Generally, for Ovid and the female body see e.g. Stanivukovic 2001; Hallett 2009. 23 Ov. Met. 10.244–247, 280–289. 24 Ov. Met. 10.270–271. 25 Ov. Met. 10.277.

Was Cyprus Special? The Case of Two Latin Poets  

world.26 But it does happen, in Ovid’s telling, in this particular case — when the goddess is Venus and when the celebration is held in Cyprus. And once the statue has become woman, Ovid immediately continues, coniugio, quod fecit, adest dea, ‘the goddess is present at the wedding that she has made’.27 Further to enforce the sense of place, we learn that the couple’s daughter is called Paphos, from whom, the poet rather oddly adds, the island has its name.28 Now Ovid mostly has rather little interest in the specificity of place (unlike Virgil, in whose imagination it bulked so large): seldom does it matter much in the Metamorphoses where a particular story is set.29 In the only version of a Pygmalion story that we know earlier than Ovid the protagonist is king of Cyprus;30 so Ovid did not make up the location himself. None the less, that placing seems to have kindled his imagination into the creation of a style of feeling which is unusual for him. There appears to be no direct or obvious link between Virgil’s scene and Ovid’s story, which may make some similarities of tone and atmosphere between the two episodes all the more interesting. A broader consideration of the representation of Cyprus might also prompt one to think about what is not said. It is not easy to call to mind anything much in imaginative literature, ancient or modern, that praises Cyprus as the cradle of Stoicism. It is true that Zeno lived and taught in Athens, but this need not have suppressed the consciousness of his birthplace; after all, Aristotle has often been remembered as the Stagirite, bringing to mind his origins in the backwoods of Macedonia. Citium has not benefited from a similar acclaim. Cyprus and Stoicism somehow seem not to fit; Aphrodite still rules. One can compare and contrast Latin poetry’s treatment of another island on the edge of Europe. Britain was certainly exotic. For Catullus the Britons were ‘horrible and farthest distant’, although a German editor generously emended the natives’ messiness out of existence.31 For Virgil’s goatherd they were the ‘Britons utterly separated from the whole world’.32 Roman gentlemen abroad liked a spot of tourism; however, Cicero twitted his friend Trebatius, on service in Gaul, for having shown himself none too keen a sightseer (φιλοθέωροϲ) when

 26 Catul. 64.384–386, 407–408. 27 Ov. Met. 10.295. 28 Ov. Met. 10.297. 29 For the configuration of space in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, see e.g. Ziogas 2014. 30 Cf. Solodow 1988, 215–216. 31 Catul. 11.11–12. Haupt 1841, 24–32 proposed horribile aequor, ‘the rough sea’. The line as transmitted is unmetrical and needs minor emendation, but Haupt’s is not likely. 32 Verg. Ecl. 1.66.

  Richard Jenkyns it came to Britain — but Cicero could not blame him for that.33 And there was the difference: Cyprus might, for a Roman, represent the glamour of distance, but the glamour of civility hung about it too.

Bibliography Beck, D. (2007), ‘Ecphrasis, Interpretation, and Audience in Aeneid 1 and Odyssey 8’, The American Journal of Philology 128, 533–549. Fögen, T. and Lee, M.M., eds. (2009), Bodies and Boundaries in Graeco-Roman Antiquity, Berlin/New York. Fratantuono, L. (2016), ‘Unde pater Tiberinus: The River Tiber in Vergil’s Aeneid’, Classica et Christiana 11, 95–122. Gutting, E. (2009), ‘Venus’ Maternity and Divinity in the Aeneid’, Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici 61 (= Callida Musa: Papers on Latin Literature in Honor of R. Elaine Fantham), 41–55. Hallett, J.P. (2009), ‘Corpus erat: Sulpicia’s Elegiac Text and Body in Ovid’s Pygmalion Narrative (Met. 10.238–297)’, in Fögen and Lee 2009, 111–124. Hardie, P. (2007), ‘Phrygians in Rome / Romans in Phrygia’, in Urso 2007, 93–103. Haupt, M. (1841), Observationes criticae, Leipzig. Karageorghis, J. (2005), Kypris: The Aphrodite of Cyprus. Ancient Sources and Archaeological Evidence, Nicosia. Momigliano, A. (1966), ‘Thybris pater’, Terzo contributo alla storia degli studi classici e del mondo antico, Rome, Vol. II, 609–639. Pirenne-Delforge, V. (1994), L’Aphrodite grecque, Athens/Liège. Rutledge, E.S. (1980), ‘Vergil and Ovid on the Tiber’, The Classical Journal 75, 301–304. Skempis, M. and Ziogas, I., eds. (2014), Geography, Topography, Landscape: Configurations of Space in Greek and Roman Epic, Berlin/Boston. Solodow, J.B. (1988), The World of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Chapel Hill. Stanivukovic, G.V., ed. (2001), Ovid and the Renaissance Body, Toronto/Buffalo/London. Urso, G., ed. (2007), Tra Oriente e Occidente. Indigeni e Romani in Asia Minore, Atti del convegno internazionale Cividale del Friuli, 28–30 settembre 2006, Pisa. Warner, V.J. (1917), ‘Epithets of the Tiber in the Roman Poets’, The Classical Weekly 11, 52–54. Ziogas, I. (2014), ‘The Topography of Epic Narrative in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’, in Skempis and Ziogas 2014, 325–348.

 33 Cic. Fam. 7.16.1 (32 Shackleton Bailey).

Margot Neger

Infamem nimio calore Cypron: Ancient Epigrams on Flacci in Cyprus Abstract: Book 9 of Martial’s epigrams contains a poem about the island of Cyprus as a place where Flaccus, one of Martial’s friends and patrons, is dwelling in 94 CE (9.90; cf. 8.45.7–8). In this poem, Martial first wishes that Flaccus may enjoy a pleasant locus amoenus together with wine and love in the notorious heat of Cyprus (1–12) and then invokes the Paphian goddess Venus and asks her to favour Flaccus’ safe return back home to Rome (13–18). The paper investigates the literary models of the poem — one of them being Horace, the Augustan Flaccus —, its position within the context of the book and its role within a series of other epigrams where Martial mentions or addresses the same individual. Martial’s friend is not the only Flaccus who visited Cyprus. A Greek epigram (AP 11.146) by Ammianus, a poet from the early second century CE, also mentions a Roman named Flaccus, in this case a rhetor who produces a considerable number of solecisms. His upcoming trip to Cyprus promises that his solecisms will increase considerably after he has arrived on the island, due to the terrible Greek which is spoken there.

Within the Roman empire’s epigrammatic geography as depicted in the work of Martial, we also encounter the island of Cyprus. Books 8 and 9 contain one poem each (8.45 and 9.90) where Martial mentions the sojourn of his friend and patron Flaccus in Cyprus. Flaccus is the name of a character who appears several times throughout Books 1–12 of Martial’s work, and it seems reasonable to assume that Martial refers to one and the same person.1 Apart from this Flaccus, whose full name is never revealed, Horace too is referred to by his cognomen Flaccus in three epigrams.2 The younger Flaccus whom Martial presents as his friend and patron is not known from other sources outside the epigrams. Epigram 1.61 informs us that his homeland was the region of Patavium (3: Aponi…tellus),

 1 On Martial and Flaccus see Pitcher 1984; Rühl 2015, 96–101; Moreno Soldevila, Marina Castillo and Fernández Valverde 2019, 236–237. 2 Mart. 1.107.4; 8.18.5; 12.3.1; for Martial and Horace see Neger 2012, 240–253; Mindt 2013, 175– 190; Pentzer 2019. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-008

  Margot Neger the birthplace of Livy as well as of Lucius Arruntius Stella, another important friend and patron of both Martial and Statius.3 Scholars have entertained the idea that Martial’s Flaccus might be identical with Calpurnius Flaccus, the addressee of Pliny’s letter 5.2.4 Neither Martial nor Pliny explicitly refer to their respective Flaccus as someone holding public office. Similarly to Pliny’s letter, in Martial’s epigrams we also encounter Flaccus frequently as the silent partner (or the interlocutor) in a conversation with whom the poet discusses various matters such as the client-patron relationship, the composition of poetry as well as erotic and sexual topics, the latter also with the use of obscene language (mentula, fellator etc.).5 Thus, the epigrams are suggestive of a certain intimacy between Flaccus and Martial as well as of a friendship between two almost equal individuals, with the exception that Flaccus (who probably was younger than Martial) seems to have been quite wealthy and therefore able to support Martial financially.6 Flaccus’ visit to Cyprus is first mentioned in poem 8.45,7 where the epigrammatist addresses Flaccus and expresses his joy about the safe return of their common friend, Terentius Priscus,8 from Sicily. Martial announces that he wants to celebrate this day with wine, and at the end of the poem he envisions Flaccus’ own journey to Cyprus (5–8): continget nox quando meis tam candida mensis? tam iusto dabitur quando calere mero? cum te, Flacce, mihi reddet Cythereia Cypros, luxuriae fiet tam bona causa meae.

 3 For Martial and Stella see Nauta 2002, 155–159; Neger 2012, 162–186; Mindt 2013, 217–220. 4 See White 1975, 297 n. 46; Henriksén 2012, 349; a different identity of Pliny’s Calpurnius Flaccus is suggested by Sherwin-White 1966, 316: “Calpurnius Flaccus may be the suffect consul of 96, CIL xvi. 40, FO…He may have Spanish origins…”. Pliny’s letter 5.2 to Flaccus shares similar motifs with Martial’s poem 9.55 addressed to Flaccus (both texts deal with giftgiving and birds, turdi, as presents) and perhaps deliberately alludes to the epigram; therefore, I am inclined to believe that the epigrammatic and the epistolary Flaccus might be the same individual. 5 See Nauta 2002, 163–164; cf. Mart. 1.57; 1.59; 1.61; 1.76; 1.98; 4.42; 4.49; 7.82; 7.87; 8.45; 8.55; 9.33; 9.55; 9.90; 10.48; 11.27; 11.80; 11.95; 11.98; 11.100; 11.101; 12.74. 6 See Pitcher 1984, 423. 7 See Schöffel 2002, 391–397. 8 He was from Spain like Martial and is the dedicatee of Epigrams Book 12; Schöffel 2002, 392.

Infamem nimio calore Cypron  

When shall another night so fair befall my table? When shall I be vouchsafed so good a reason to grow warm with wine? When Cytherean Cyprus returns you to me, Flaccus, there will be as good a cause for my indulgence.9

The future return of Flaccus from Cyprus will offer an occasion for a celebration with a cena adventicia like the return of Terentius Priscus from Sicily.10 Martial characterizes Cyprus with the adjective Cythereia, an epithet which refers to Venus/Aphrodite and her temple on the island of Cythera.11 The combination of the adjective Cythereia with Cypros12 is probably a reminiscence of Ovid, Met. 10.717–718, the only other instance in Latin poetry where a similar combination appears; the context is Ovid’s narration of the death of Adonis in Metamorphoses Book 10 (717–718: vecta levi curru medias Cytherea per auras / Cypron olorinis nondum pervenerat alis, ‘borne through the middle air by flying swans on her light car, Cytherea had not yet come to Cyprus’).13 After having narrated the story of Hippomenes and Atalanta, Venus is on her way to Cyprus and can hear the groaning of the dying Adonis.14 Martial does not explicitly mention whether Flaccus, to whom poem 8.45 is directed, has already left for Cyprus or is still waiting for his departure.15 The publication of Martial Book 8 is usually dated to 93 CE, and in Book 9, which may have been published in 94 CE, Flaccus’ stay in Cyprus is mentioned again.16 Epigram 9.90, a poem which has received only little attention from scholars, presents Flaccus as having already arrived in Cyprus: Sic in gramine florido reclinis, qua gemmantibus hinc et inde rivis curva calculus excitatur unda, exclusis procul omnibus molestis, pertundas glaciem triente nigro, frontem sutilibus ruber coronis; sic uni tibi sit puer cinaedus et castissima pruriat puella:

5

 9 Translations of Martial are by Shackleton Bailey 1993 with slight adaptations. 10 Mindt 2013, 210 suggests that Hor. Carm. 1.36 might have inspired Martial’s poem. 11 Schöffel 2002, 397. 12 Cf. Ar. Lys. 833: ὦ πότνια Κύπρου καὶ Κυθήρων καὶ Πάφου; h. Hom. 10.1: κυπρογενῆ Κυθέρειαν ἀείσομαι; AP 12.131.1 (Posidippus): ἃ Κύπρον, ἅ τε Κύθηρα, καὶ ἃ Μίλητον ἐποιχνεῖς. 13 Translation by Miller/Goold 1984. 14 See Bömer 1980, 229. 15 See Henriksén 2012, 349. 16 Coleman 2005, 24–25 suggests that Book 8 was published in late 93/94 CE and Book 9 in late 94/95 CE.

  Margot Neger infamem nimio calore Cypron observes moneo precorque, Flacce, messes area cum teret crepantis et fervens iuba saeviet leonis. at tu, diva Paphi, remitte nostris illaesum iuvenem, remitte, votis. sic Martis tibi serviant Kalendae et cum ture meroque victimaque libetur tibi candidas ad aras secta plurima quadra de placenta.

10

15

So, lying in flowery grass, where on either hand pebbles are stirred by winding waters in a sparkling brook, all worries banished afar, may you bore through ice with a black bumper, your brow ruddy with stitched garlands; so may you have a boy queen to yourself and the purest of girls lust only for you: I warn and beg you, Flaccus, beware of Cyprus, ill-reputed for her excessive heat, when the floor threshes the rattling harvests and the Lion’s glowing mane waxes fierce. But you, goddess of Paphos, send the young man back unharmed, back to our vows. So may Mars’ Kalends serve you and many a square of cut cake be offered at your fair altars, with incense, wine, and sacrifice.

Martial’s epigrammatic προπεμπτικόν can be divided into three parts: in lines 1–8 the poet creates the idyllic image of his addressee (who is not yet mentioned by name) enjoying an outdoor symposium in a locus amoenus with grass, flowers and cool water, far away from all his worries, wearing a wreath of roses and drinking chilled wine, while enjoying the love of a puer cinaedus and a lustful puella. The central part of the poem (9–12) reveals the addressee’s name and location, at the same time advising him to beware of Cyprus which, according to Martial, is notorious for its heat during summer. The final part of the poem (13–18) contains a shift of addressee, away from Flaccus to the Paphian Venus, to whom Martial directs a prayer with the request for Flaccus’ safe return back home. The epigrammatist does not reveal the exact purpose of Flaccus’ stay in Cyprus: was he there in 93/94 CE on an official mission as a praetorian proconsul, legatus or quaestor (cf. Henriksén 2012, 349),17 as the comes of the governor (Pitcher 1984), or just for the purpose of trading (Nauta 2002, 69)? Within his oeuvre, Martial never explicitly refers to any political or administrative ambitions of Flaccus, whereas the consulship of their common friend and Flaccus’ compatriot, L. Arruntius Stella, is mentioned twice in the epigrams (9.42; 12.2[3]).18

 17 Cf. White 1972, 113 ff. 18 He was suffect consul under Trajan in 101 or 102 CE; cf. CIL VI 1492; see Henriksén 2012, 181–182; PIR2 A 1151.

Infamem nimio calore Cypron  

Scholars have already noticed the parallel between the first part of Martial’s poem 9.90 and Horace’s ode 2.3 to Dellius,19 although without elaborating on the possible implications of this intertextual dialogue. As I would like to show in this chapter, more allusions to Horace can be discovered. In his ode 2.3, Horace reminds Dellius of the transience of life and worldly possessions and exhorts him to live in the present and enjoy the moment, for example in the form of an outdoor symposium (1–16): Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem, non secus in bonis ab insolenti temperatam laetitia, moriture Delli, seu maestus omni tempore vixeris seu te in remoto gramine per dies festos reclinatum bearis interiore nota Falerni. Quo pinus ingens albaque populus umbram hospitalem consociare amant ramis? Quid obliquo laborat lympha fugax trepidare rivo? Huc vina et unguenta et nimium brevis flores amoenae ferre iube rosae, dum res et aetas et Sororum fila trium patiuntur atra.

5

10

15

Remember to keep a level head when life’s path is steep; likewise, when the going is good, to restrain it from excessive joy, Dellius; for you are sure to die, whether you live in perpetual gloom or on holidays lie in a secluded meadow, treating yourself to a Falernian vintage from the back of your cellar. For what purpose do the tall pine and white poplar like to form a welcoming shade with their branches? Why does the hurrying water go to the trouble of bustling along its winding course? This is just the place. Tell them to bring wine and perfume and the all too brief blooms of the lovely rose, while circumstances and time and the black threads of the Three Sisters allow it.20

 19 See Henriksén 2012, 347; for Hor. Carm. 2.3 see Nisbet and Hubbard 1978, 51–66; Pöschl 1994; West 1998, 20–29; for the symposium as a topic in Horace’s Odes and Epodes see Mindt 2007. 20 Translations of Horace are by Rudd 2004, slightly adapted.

  Margot Neger Horace opens his poem by highlighting the importance of the aequa mens, the Epicurean ideal of ἀταραξία, and advises his addressee to refrain from exaggerated grief or joy in face of inevitable death. In Martial’s epigram, the philosophical aspects of Horace’s ode are absent, with the exception perhaps of line 4, where Martial refers to freedom from worries (exclusis procul omnibus molestis). Horace’s description of the outdoor symposium per dies festos reappears isolated from its philosophical context in Martial’s poem, where only the images of the grass (6–7: in remoto gramine…reclinatum), the clear water of a stream (12: lympha fugax trepidare rivo), the consumption of wine (8: Falerni; 13: vina) and the wearing of wreaths made of roses (14: flores amoenae…rosae) are extracted from Horace’s version. The rest of Horace’s poem (17–28), which continues in a more melancholic mood and reminds Dellius of the inevitability of death, is not echoed in Martial’s epigram. Whereas Horace does not locate the symposium in a specific setting (one could think of Dellius’ own horti), Martial imagines the island of Cyprus as the place where he hopes that his Flaccus will enjoy wine in a refreshing locus amoenus. Rather than the awareness of death in Horace’s ode, it is the summer heat of Cyprus which serves as a justification for spending some pleasant moments with a good cup of wine in the shade. It is not until line 10 that the name of Martial’s addressee, Flaccus, is revealed — it seems as if the epigrammatist deliberately mentions the name Flaccus after the section where Horace’s ode 2.3 has been evoked; thus, the learned reader’s suspicion that the first part of the epigram echoes a poem written by the Augustan Flaccus is more or less confirmed. After having envisioned the locus amoenus where Flaccus is located in line 1–6, the epigrammatist picks up the beginning of the poem with sic in line 7 and imagines a sexual encounter between Flaccus and a puer cinaedus as well as a lustful castissima puella (a witty oxymoron) who offer their sexual services only to Flaccus (7–8).21 There is a comic antithesis between the vocative Flacce in line 10 and the sexual appetite (pruriat) of the puella mentioned in line 8: as Horace himself seems to suggest, the name Flaccus can also be understood in the sense of ‘limp, floppy’ or ‘lop-eared’, a pun which the Augustan poet uses in the Epodes (Epod. 15.12: nam siquid in Flacco viri est).22 Martial’s Flaccus, we might conjecture, is in danger of losing his virility due to the notorious heat of Cyprus.  21 See Henriksén 2012, 349: “casta is here synonymous with fida”; the combination of a symposium with homoerotic love is also the topic of Hor. Carm. 1.4. 22 See e.g. Holzberg 2009, 110; however, Parker 2000 contradicts the widespread idea that Horace puns on his name (455: “This is a load of cobblers”).

Infamem nimio calore Cypron  

By referring to Flaccus’ erotic adventures, Martial more or less continues the literary tradition of erotic tales located on Cyprus, especially as narrated in Book 10 of Ovid’s Metamorphoses (10.238–502: the Propoetides, Pygmalion and Myrrha).23 It is also possible that Martial indirectly alludes to Cyprus’ reputation as a place for prostitution, often linked with Venus’ temple in Palaepaphos.24 Moreover, Flaccus’ boy in 9.90 shares many similarities with the ideal puer delicatus whom Martial describes in epigram 4.42 and who at the end of this poem is revealed as representing Flaccus’ former lover Amazonicus (14–16): vir reliquis, uni sit puer ille mihi…‘talis erat’ dices ‘noster Amazonicus’ (‘let him be a man to all besides, a boy to me only… “Such,” you will say, “was my Amazonicus.”’).25 Martial praises Amazonicus for his Egyptian origin (4.42.3: Niliacis…in oris; 5: in Mareotide)26 and reveals that he used to please his master not only with his exceptional beauty but also his sexual versatility (11–12). The verbal similarity between 9.90.7 (sic uni tibi sit puer cinaedus) and 4.42.14 (uni sit puer ille mihi) suggests recalling Amazonicus’ qualities while reading about Flaccus’ homoerotic adventure in epigram 9.90. From the past tense used in 4.42.16 it becomes clear that Amazonicus is no longer Flaccus’ lover (he might have died or just become a man),27 and thus it seems as if in 9.90 Martial wishes his friend to find a similarly pleasant puer delicatus in Cyprus. Although it is natural to assume that the puer and the puella in 9.90 are together with Flaccus in Cyprus, one could also imagine them as waiting back home in Rome for Flaccus’ return.28 In this case, the poem would gain additional humour through Martial’s wish that the boy and the girl may remain faithful to their master during his absence instead of cheating on him with other lovers. Thus, the elegiac motif of the foedus aeternum29 and the wish for the lover’s fidelity would be transferred into an epigrammatic context through the use of sexually explicit vocabulary such as cinaedus and prurire.30

 23 See Kirstein, Jenkyns, Thorsen, Alekou and Kitsou in this volume. 24 Cf. Enn. Var. 142–145 Vahlen; Ov. Met. 10.220–242; Iustin. Epit. 18.5; Firm. Mat. Err. prof. rel. 10; Ath. 12.516a–b; for a discussion of relevant sources see Bömer 1980, 88; Cairns 2016, 120– 122. 25 For poem 4.42 see Obermayer 1998, 55–58; Moreno Soldevila 2006, 309–318. 26 According to Martial, Egypt offered the best nequitiae (4.42.4). 27 Moreno Soldevila 2006, 309. 28 For this interpretation see Obermayer 1998, 18. 29 Cf. Tib. 1.2.9: ianua, iam pateas uni mihi, victa querelis; [Tib.] 3.19.5–6: atque utinam posses uni mihi bella videri! / displiceas aliis: sic ego tutus ero. 30 See Adams 1982, 188 and 228.

  Margot Neger It is not until the end of the poem’s first half that Cyprus is revealed as the epigram’s setting. After having read about a possible sexual encounter in lines 7–8 and before we reach the end of line 9 where Cyprus is mentioned, we could expect that the words infamem nimio calore are still referring to some kind of erotic activity and understand calor as someone’s erotic fervour.31 If we imagine the poem as having been read aloud (I will discuss this possibility in due course), the speaker could have made a dramatic pause before reading Cypron (which appears almost exactly in the middle of the poem). In the central part of the poem, Martial admonishes Flaccus to ‘beware of’ Cyprus (9: observes) which he characterizes as notorious for its heat. Henriksén remarks that “the TLL…gives no instance of this use of the word earlier than the present”.32 However, if we assume that Flaccus was in Cyprus on an official mission, the better attested meaning of observare as ‘take care of, respect’ likewise fits here.33 Lines 11–12 envision the summer heat with the metaphors of threshing and the astrological constellation of the Lion.34 The image of threshing in line 11 (messes area cum teret crepantis) seems to echo Tibullus 1.5 where the elegist dreams of the simple life in the country during summer which he had wished to spend together with Delia before she cheated on him with another man (21–22): rura colam, frugumque aderit mea Delia custos, / area dum messes sole calente teret (‘I will cultivate the fields, and my Delia will be present as the guard of the crops while the floor threshes the harvest in the heat of the sun’).35 By using the language of the Augustan elegist, Martial depicts Flaccus’ stay on Cyprus, the island of Aphrodite, in a similar way to how Tibullus had imagined the idyllic country life in summertime. Whereas Tibullus in elegy 1.5 deplores the infidelity of his puella, Martial wishes that his Flaccus may not have a similar experience with his lovers. Apart from Tibullus’ elegiac summer, Horace’s lyric summer seems also to lurk behind Martial’s depiction of the heat in Cyprus through the reference to the constellation of the Lion (12: et fervens iuba saeviet leonis): in

 31 Cf. Prop. 1.12.17; Hor. Carm. 4.9.11; Ov. Ep. 15.12: me calor Aetnaeo non minor igne tenet; TLL III, 182 s.v. calor II B; one could especially think of Myrrha’s story as narrated in Ov. Met. 10.298–502 as an example for a calor infamis in the erotic sense and associated with Cyprus. 32 Henriksén 2012, 349. 33 Cf. TLL IX.2, 202 s.v. observo; thus, the epigram would serve a similar purpose like Cicero’s letter to C. Sextilius Rufus (Fam. 13.48): omnis tibi commendo Cyprios, sed magis Paphios…; see also Cic. Q. fr. 1.1 or Pliny’s letter 8.24, where the addressees who are about to serve in the provinces of Asia (Quintus) and Achaia (Maximus) are admonished by the letter writers to treat the inhabitants respectfully; cf. Zucker 1928. 34 From the end of July to the end of August; see Henriksén 2012, 349–350. 35 My translation; for Tibullus 1.5 see Maltby 2002, 240–261.

Infamem nimio calore Cypron  

ode 3.29, Horace invites Maecenas to a symposium on his estate (probably the Sabinum) and in this context describes the heat of the summer which justifies the consumption of a simple cena in the house of the poet, free from worries concerning political matters (17–24):36 Iam clarus occultum Andromedae pater ostendit ignem, iam Procyon furit et stella vesani Leonis sole dies referente siccos; iam pastor umbras cum grege languido rivumque fessus quaerit et horridi dumeta Silvani caretque ripa vagis taciturna ventis. Now Andromeda’s father is visible, showing clearly the fire that was concealed before, now Procyon is raging, and Leo’s furious star, as the sun brings round the thirsty days. Now the weary shepherd with his lethargic flock makes for the shade and the river and rough Silvanus’ thickets, and the silent bank is untroubled by the wandering breezes.

The heat of July or August, illustrated through the Lion’s rage (19: vesani Leonis; cf. Mart. 9.90.12: iuba saeviet leonis) as well as the motif of wine and the desire for cool water and shade connect Horace’s ode 3.29 and Martial’s epigram 9.90. Moreover, Cyprus is also present in Horace’s poem, this time as a place from where Roman merchants used to buy precious wares; their fear of losing their goods in a sea-storm on their way home stands in contrast to Horace’s own modest way of life (60: ne Cypriae Tyriaeque merces / addant avaro divitias mari, ‘lest the Cyprian and Tyrian goods increase the wealth of the greedy sea’). In the final part of the epigram, Martial addresses Venus as diva Paphi (13) and prays to her for Flaccus’ safe return. This section too seems to be modelled on an Horatian intertext:37 first of all, one may think of the famous προπεμπτικόν in Ode 1.3, where Horace prays for Vergil’s safe sea voyage to Attica.38 In both cases, one poet prays for the safe journey of a fellow poet, and the beginning of Martial’s poem 9.90 with sic might be read as an allusion to Horace’s Carm. 1.3.1–8:  36 I am indebted to Stephen Harrison for drawing my attention to Hor. Carm. 3.29; for this ode see West 2002, 244–259; Harrison 2004, 85–86; Nisbet and Rudd 2004, 345–364. 37 Cf. also Pin. fr. 122.18: ὦ Κύπρου δέσποινα; Ar. Lys. 833–834: ὦ πότνια Κύπρου καὶ Κυθήρων καὶ Πάφου / μεδέουσ᾽; Nisbet and Hubbard 1970, 344–345. 38 For this ode see Nisbet and Hubbard 1970, 40–58; West 1995, 14–19; Harrison 2004, 83–84; Holzberg 2009, 117.

  Margot Neger Sic te diva potens Cypri, sic fratres Helenae, lucida sidera, ventorumque regat pater obstrictis aliis praeter Iapyga, navis, quae tibi creditum debes Vergilium; finibus Atticis reddas incolumem precor et serves animae dimidium meae. May the goddess who rules over Cyprus, and Helen’s brothers, those bright stars, and the lord of the winds, tying up all the others except the Iapyx, guide you, o ship; for you hold Vergil in trust and owe him to me. Be sure to discharge him intact on the shores of Attica, I pray you, and save one who is half my soul.

Whereas Horace prays for the safety of Vergil, Martial asks the diva Paphi for the safe return of his Flaccus by alluding to Horace’s ode partly through verbal imitation (sic — sic; diva — diva; precor — precor), partly through the use of synonyms (Paphi — Cypri; remitte — reddas; inlaesum — incolumem). A prayer to Venus is also the subject of Horace’s short ode 1.30, which starts with O Venus regina Cnidi Paphique (1) and summons the goddess to leave Cyprus and to visit the house of Glycera who is invoking Venus with incense (3: ture…multo).39 Horace’s love for Glycera has already been the topic of Ode 1.19, where Venus is referred to as mater saeva Cupidinum (1) who has left Cyprus (10: Cyprum deseruit) and now prevents Horace from writing epic poetry about the Scythians and the Parthians by arousing his fire for Glycera (5: urit me Glycerae nitor).40 At the end of the poem, Horace has figured out a way to placate the goddess (13–16): hic vivum mihi caespitem, hic verbenas, pueri, ponite turaque bimi cum patera meri: mactata veniet lenior hostia. Please put some fresh-cut turf here, boys, and some greenery here, with incense and a bowl of neat wine that is two years old. She will come with a softer impact if I offer a victim.

 39 For this ode see Nisbet and Hubbard 1970, 343–347; West 1995, 142–145. 40 For Hor. Carm. 1.19 see Nisbet and Hubbard 1970, 238–243; West 1995, 92–95.

Infamem nimio calore Cypron  

Both Horace and Martial offer incense, wine, and a victim (hostia — victima) to Venus — the Augustan Flaccus in order to placate her rage, the Flavian poet in order to bring back his friend Flaccus from her island. Before Martial promises to sacrifice incense, wine and a victima to Venus, he utters the wish that the Martis Kalendae may serve the goddess. Scholars have puzzled over the connection between Venus and the first of March, as her festival was usually celebrated on the first of April. As I would like to demonstrate, three interpretations are possible. First of all, the Kalends of March were also Martial’s birthday, as we learn from epigram 10.24 (1: Natales mihi Martiae Kalendae); thus, the poet promises to henceforth pay homage to Venus on his dies natalis, provided that Flaccus returns home safely. Secondly, the Martiae Kalendae remind us of Venus’ love affair with Mars as narrated in the Odyssey as well as of Mars in the role of the servus amoris as suggested by Ovid (Ars 2.563–590; 563–564: Mars pater, insano Veneris turbatus amore, / de duce terribili factus amator erat, ‘Father Mars, plagued by frenzied love of Venus, from a terrible captain became a lover’).41 According to this interpretation, Flaccus’ safe return from Cyprus would enable Venus to continue enjoying the servitium amoris of Mars. And thirdly, one may also think of the festival of the Matronalia which was celebrated on the Kalends of March by Roman matrons and married couples in honour of Juno Lucina.42 The word order Martis…Kalendae might even allude to the first line of Horace’s ode 3.8 (Martiis caelebs quid agam kalendis, ‘What is a bachelor like myself doing on the first of March?’), where we learn that the Augustan poet on the first of March is celebrating the anniversary of his escape from a falling tree (cf. Carm. 2.13) and invites Maecenas to his symposium.43 Both in Horace’s poem and Martial’s epigram the reference to the Matronalia comes as a surprise to the reader: in Horace’s case, an unmarried poet is preparing a sacrifice during a festival which is usually celebrated by Roman matrons, whereas in Martial’s case the reader is puzzled about the role of Venus in connection with these festivities. Horace wishes that during this symposium ‘all shouting and quarrelling’ may be far away (15–16: procul omnis esto / clamor et ira), and it seems that Martial echoes this wish in 9.90.4, where he envisions his friend’s symposium (exclusis procul omnibus molestis). Regarding a possible link of the Paphian Venus with the Matronalia, Friedlaender (1886) in his commentary reads Marial 9.90.15 as evidence that on the

 41 Cf. Henriksén 2012, 352; translations of Ovid’s Ars amatoria by Mozley/Goold 1979. 42 Cf. Mart. 5.84.10–11; Coleman 2005, 26; Henriksén 2012, 351. 43 For Hor. Carm. 3.8 see West 2002, 80–87; Nisbet and Rudd 2004, 122–132; Mindt 2007, 59– 61; Holzberg 2009, 155.

  Margot Neger first of March there must also have existed a celebration for Venus which is not attested elsewhere. Although this possibility cannot be ruled out,44 I believe that another answer to the question why Martial chose to link Venus to the Matronalia can be found: Martial’s wish that the Matronalia may serve Venus implies that instead of Juno, the matrons will start worshipping Venus on this day, thus giving up their chastity and, consequently, also turning into potential readers of the epigrams. Similar to Ovid, who excludes Roman matrons from his readership of the Ars amatoria (1.31–34: este procul, vittae tenues, insigne pudoris..., ‘Keep far away, ye slender fillets, emblems of modesty’), a work inspired by Venus (7: me Venus artificem tenero praefecit Amori, ‘me hath Venus set over tender Love as master in the art’), Martial too repeatedly warns matrons against reading the epigrams, at least the sexually explicit ones, but nevertheless catches them reading his poems.45 Martial’s epigram on Cyprus does not provide much information about the island, its topography and inhabitants, except that summer used to be hot there and that Paphos was Venus’ cult site. Martial’s epigrammatic προπεμπτικόν for Flaccus in Cyprus can be read as a pastiche of various literary models, especially Horace’s odes, but also other Augustan poets such as Tibullus and Ovid. In epigram 9.90, Martial indirectly associates his friendship with Flaccus with literary circles under Augustus, a connection which is also created more explicitly in other epigrams, as for example in 8.55, where Martial compares his own times with those of Vergil and Maecenas (5: sint Maecenates, non derunt, Flacce, Marones, ‘Let there be Maecenases, Flaccus, and we shall not want for Maros’). Besides Flaccus, Lucius Arruntius Stella too, whom we encounter as Flaccus’ fellow-townsman from Patavium in Book 1 (1.61) and who is praised as an elegist (he composed a poem called Columba) and second Tibullus by Martial, 4.6,

 44 Venus as a goddess linked to marriage appears in Ov. Met. 10.295 in the context of the Pygmalion-story (coniugio, quod fecit, adest dea); also, in the tradition of the epithalamium Venus plays a prominent role: cf. Catul. 61; Mart. 6.21; Stat. Silv. 1.2 (11: ipsa manu nuptam genitrix Aeneia duxit) — in their poems, Martial and Statius celebrate the marriage of Martial’s and Flaccus’ common friend Stella with Violentilla; see Watson 1999. 45 Cf. Mart. 3.68.1–2: Huc est usque tibi scriptus, matrona, libellus. / Cui sint scripta rogas interiora? Mihi (‘Thus far, matron, my little book has been written for you. For whom are the latter parts written, you ask? For me’); 11–12: si bene te novi, longum iam lassa labellum / ponebas, totum nunc studiosa legis (‘If I know you well, you were already weary of the lengthy volume and putting it aside; but now you will read with interest to the end’); cf. 3.86.1–2: ne legeres partem lascivi, casta, libelli / praedixi et monui: tu tamen, ecce, legis (‘I told you beforehand, warned you, virtuous lady, not to read part of my frolicsome little book; nonetheless, look, you are reading it’).

Infamem nimio calore Cypron  

is an important member of Martial’s literary circle. Stella and Flaccus frequently appear together as Martial’s friends and patrons in the epigrams.46 In the poem preceding 9.90, Martial imagines a conversation with Stella during a dinner party (9.89): Lege nimis dura convivam scribere versus cogis, Stella? ‘Licet scribere nempe malos’. That rule of yours, Stella, that your dinner guest must write verses, is too hard. “You can write bad ones, of course.”

The difficult conditions under which the conviva has to write poems are not explained in more detail — probably we have to imagine a composition ex tempore — but we learn that it is also allowed to compose verses of poor quality (versus mali).47 Poem 9.89 opens a series of epigrams which deal with various aspects of the symposium (9.89–91 and 93), and therefore it is tempting to read poem 9.90 as the poem which Martial composed at Stella’s dinner party on their common friend Flaccus in Cyprus. Among the stylistic features of poem 9.90, the accumulation of homeoteleuta is eye-catching: reclinis…rivis (1–2), curva…unda (3), exclusis…molestis (4), uni tibi (7), castissima…puella (8), observes…messes (10–11), precorque Flacce (10), teret crepantis…saeviet leonis (11–12), remitte nostris…remitte votis (13– 14), ture meroque victimaque (16), candidas…aras (17), secta plurima quadra de placenta (18). An exaggerated accumulation of words with the same ending is criticized as a vitium by Quintilian in his discussion of the iunctura (linkage) of a speech (Inst. 9.4.42): Illa quoque vitia sunt eiusdem loci, si cadentia similiter et desinentia et eodem modo declinata multa iunguntur (‘Under the same head comes the fault of having a long series of words with similar cadences, terminations, and inflections’).48 It seems, as with his stylistic choices in epigram 9.90, Martial wanted to suggest that we are now reading the versus mali which he composed at Stella’s request (and at the expense of their ‘buddy’ Flaccus). However, the verses of poem 9.90 are not as bad as Martial tries to make us believe if we consider the allusions to Horace’s odes 1.3, 1.19, 2.3, 3.8 and 3.29 — many of  46 Apart from 1.61.4, cf. 9.55.2; 10.48.5; on a formal level, epigram 9.90 shares many similarities with 9.42, where Martial prays to Apollo that the emperor Domitian may grant the consulship to Stella; both poems are written in hendecasyllables, contain the anaphora of sic and end with Martial’s promise of a sacrifice; for 9.42 see Henriksén 2012, 181–187. 47 In addition to referring to poor quality, the adjective malus could also be understood as ‘abusive’, cf. Hor. S. 2.1.82–84; Henriksén 2012, 345. 48 Translation by Russell 2002.

  Margot Neger them dealing with the symposium — as well as to other Augustan models. Moreover, the return of Flaccus which Martial wishes for in 9.90 could also be interpreted on a metapoetic level as the return of the Augustan Flaccus in Martial’s text — a text which the linear reader of Book 9 can imagine as having been recited at Stella’s cena.49 In addition, with epigram 9.90 we are approaching the end of the book (which contains 103 poems), and thus the motif of the return — or νόστος — might also be read as a signal of closure.50 The juxtaposition of an epigram regarding verses of poor quality with an epigram mentioning Cyprus and invoking Venus leads to the question whether Martial might also have been inspired by Catullus 36 and 95, the first one likewise composed in hendecasyllabi, on the annales Volusi. In the first half of poem 36 (1–10), Catullus addresses Volusius’ cacata charta and reveals that his puella (most probably Lesbia) had vowed to Venus and Cupid that she would burn the worst poet’s work (6–7: electissima pessimi poetae / scripta) if Catullus returned to her, i.e. if she could win back her lover’s favour after he had attacked her with iambics (4: si sibi restitutus essem).51 Similar to Martial’s epigram 9.90, the second half of Catullus’ poem contains a shift of addressee by starting with a prayer to Venus (11: nunc, o caeruleo creata ponto; cf. Mart. 9.90.13: at tu, diva Paphi) and listing the places where the goddess used to be worshipped, among them three locations in Cyprus (12: Idalium; 14: Amathus and Golgoi).52 The city of Paphos, featuring in Martial’s epigram, is conspicuously absent from Catullus’ poem; it seems as if Martial deliberately reduces Catullus’ learned list of Cypriot cult sites to only one example which was probably better known among his contemporaries; this strategy fits well with the aesthetic principle Martial expresses in epigram 2.86.9–10: turpe est difficiles habere nugas / et stultus labor  49 For the recitation of poems in the tradition of Horace during banquets cf. Sidon. Ep. 9.13.2: praeter hoc poscis, ut Horatiana incude formatos Asclepiadeos tibi quospiam, quibus inter bibendum pronuntiandis exerceare, transmittam (‘Besides this, you ask me to send you some Asclepiads shaped on the Horatian anvil, in order that you may be diverted in reciting them over your wine’; translation by Anderson 1965). 50 However, the expectations and hopes connected with someone’s future return from abroad also serve as an introductory motif: in 10.6–7, Martial prays for Trajan’s return from the Rhine, whereas at the beginning of Book 7 (7.1–2; 5–8) he awaits Domitian’s return from his military campaign against the Sarmatians; see Lorenz 2002, 163–166 and 223–225; the sympotic atmosphere created by Martial in epigrams 9.89–91 and 93 might be inspired by the closure of Horace’s Odes 1 with the motif of drinking (1.36–38); see Holzberg 2009, 134. 51 It is tempting to draw a connection between the truces iambi mentioned in 36.5 and the immediately following poem 37; see Thomson 1997, 297. 52 For Catull. 36 see Thomson 1997, 296–300; Wray 2001, 75–87; Harrison and Hogenmüller in this volume.

Infamem nimio calore Cypron  

est ineptiarum (‘it’s demeaning to make difficulties out of trifles, and labor over frivolities is foolish’).53 In c. 95, Catullus praises the future fame of the Zmyrna composed by his friend Cinna which, as he predicts, ‘will be sent far away until the winding waters of the Cypriot river Satrachus’ (Zmyrna cavas Satrachi penitus mittetur ad undas),54 a river which probably appeared also in Cinna’s poem.55 Perhaps the river depicted in Martial’s epigram 9.90 with its curva…unda (3) is supposed to evoke the Satrachus mentioned in Catullus’ (and Cinna’s) poem. If this assumption is correct, then Martial’s friendship with Flaccus would also be modelled on Catullus’ friendship with Cinna, whose literary work is likewise imagined as travelling to Cyprus (mittetur). Unlike Catullus, however, Martial wishes for his friend to return from there (9.90.13–14: remitte…remitte). Neither Catullus nor Martial explicitly draw a connection between Cyprus and literature of inferior quality. Quite the opposite: as we have seen, Cinna’s positively evaluated poem which conforms to Neoteric ideals is envisaged by Catullus as a new ‘best seller’ among readers even as far as Cyprus, whereas the annales Volusi will not get beyond the borders of Italy (95.7: Paduam morientur ad ipsam). The Zmyrna on which Cinna had worked for nine years (1–2: nonam post messem…nonamque edita post hiemem)56 stands in a witty contrast to the versus mali (perhaps the epigram 9.90 as discussed above) which Martial had to compose ex tempore at Stella’s dinner party in 9.89. Furthermore, Catullus frequently expresses his aesthetic ideals with derivatives of Venus’ name, venustas and venustus, which denote a similar quality to the terms urbanitas and urbanus.57 Whereas in Roman epigram Cyprus appears as Venus’ cult site, also notorious for its heat, which also provides a potential readership for Cinna’s Zmyrna, the island is depicted as a place with damaging influence on rhetorical skills in a Greek epigram written by Ammianus. It is striking that once again we encounter a Roman individual named Flaccus who is preparing for a visit to the island. According to Schulte (2004, 12–14), the Greek poet Ammianus might have been a younger contemporary of Martial;58 Ammianus’ satiric epigrams show many

 53 For Martial’s criticism of Callimachean eruditeness in poem 2.86 see Williams 2004, 260– 264; Neger 2012, 85–87; Mindt 2013, 158–159. 54 My translation; for a discussion of the river’s location see Hogenmüller in this volume. 55 See Clausen 1982, 184–186. 56 Cf. Hor. Ars 388: nonumque prematur in annum (‘it shall remain hidden until the ninth year’, my translation). 57 See Wiltshire 1977. 58 For the epigrams of Ammianus see also Nisbet 2003, 134–164.

  Margot Neger parallels with the poems of Martial as well as their common model Lucillius.59 As it seems, Martial in 9.29.11–12 even alludes to AP 11.226 composed by Ammianus.60 Thus, in the same book where Martial mentions Flaccus’ visit in Cyprus, we also encounter an intertextual link with Ammianus who in one of his epigrams likewise presents a Flaccus travelling to the island. In AP 11.146, the Greek poet mocks a rhetor named Flaccus61 who promises to send a large number of solecisms from Cyprus: Ἑπτὰ σολοικισμοὺς Φλάκκῳ τῷ ῥήτορι δῶρον πέμψας, ἀντέλαβον πεντάκι διακοσίους. καὶ «Νῦν μέν» φησίν, «τούτους ἀριθμῷ σοι ἔπεμψα, τοῦ λοιποῦ δὲ μέτρῳ πρὸς Κύπρον ἐρχόμενος.» I sent Flaccus the rhetor a present of seven solecisms and received back five times two hundred. And “Now,” he says, “I send you these solecisms to count, but when I reach Cyprus I’ll present you with some whoppers to measure.”62

The wit of this epigram which summarizes the epistolary correspondence between the poet and Flaccus is based not only on the idea that a visit on Cyprus can ruin one’s ability to speak proper Greek, but also on Flaccus’ misunderstanding of what the terms ἀριθμῷ and μέτρῳ (3–4) actually mean. According to Lynch’s (1953) interpretation of this epigram, Flaccus wanted to say ‘I send you hereby enough solecisms to match those seven (ἀριθμῷ) which you sent me; but when I reach Cyprus I’ll give you full measure (μέτρῳ) — more than the seven I owe’,63 but his correspondent — the poet Ammianus — understands ἀριθμῷ in the sense of ‘for you to count’ and μέτρῳ as ‘for the sake of their great size’.

 59 For Martial and Lucillius see Burnikel 1980; Holzberg 2002, 29–32; Nisbet 2003, 36–81; Neger 2012, 87–92. 60 See Schulte 2004, 40–41; both poems play with the epigraphic formula sit tibi terra levis (‘may dust lie light on you’) when mocking deceased individuals (Philaenis in Martial’s poem, Nearchus in the Greek epigram) and expressing the hope that the dogs will excavate their bones; however, I ask myself whether Ammianus as the supposedly younger poet (in AP 11.180–181 he mentions the famous politician and sophist Antonius Polemon who lived from 88–144 CE) could also have been inspired by Martial’s poem. 61 Besides Flaccus, several other Roman names appear in Ammianus’ epigrams (Marcus in AP 11.230–231, Paulus in AP 11.152, Proclus in AP 11.268, Antonius in AP 11.181); see Nisbet 2003, 161–162 with n. 69. 62 Translation by Paton 1918 with lines 3–4 adapted according to the suggestions made by Lynch 1953. 63 Lynch 1953, 18; for the distinction of the terms ἀριθμητόν and μετρητόν see Arist. Metaph. 5.13, 1020a 8–10; see also Schulte 2004, 28.

Infamem nimio calore Cypron  

Without knowing it, Flaccus the Roman, while attempting to express himself in Greek, has already unintendedly committed solecisms in his message which was supposed to accompany the actual list of intended solecisms. Ammianus’ epigram on Flaccus imitates an epigram by Lucillius (AP 11.148) where, again, a Flaccus is mocked for producing solecisms and barbarisms even when he does not speak (i.e. only through yawning and making gestures with his hands).64 Whereas Lucillius does not mention Cyprus, Ammianus draws a connection between the phenomenon of the solecism and the island which Flaccus is planning to visit; as it seems, Ammianus derives the term σολοικισμός from the town of Soloi in Cyprus rather than from Soloi in Cilicia,65 a place which ancient sources also mention as an origin for the term σολοικίζειν (e.g. Diog. Laert. 1.51).66 We are probably supposed to imagine Flaccus as travelling to Cyprus in order to study the art of producing solecisms, thus serving as a caricature of more successful Romans such as Cicero and Caesar who visited Rhodes in order to bring their rhetorical skills to perfection.67 It is impossible to tell whether the two Flacci in Martial’s and Ammianus’ epigram are one and the same person or not. The characterization of Ammianus’ Flaccus as ῥήτωρ does not find its direct equivalent in Martial’s Flaccus poems, although a hypothetical connection between Flaccus and oratory is established in Mart. 1.76, where Martial advises Flaccus to give up poetry and start practising oratory, a job which promises more financial profit.68 Whereas we can assume that Martial’s friend and patron was a historical individual, Ammianus’ Flaccus, modelled on his namesake in Lucillius’ epigram, seems be the stock character of a Roman who dabbles in Greek rhetoric with little success. Regardless of the identity of their protagonists, the epigrams composed by Martial and Ammianus offer different perspectives on Cyprus in the Imperial era: in Martial’s poems, Cyprus appears as a literary space which is designed through literary memories and repeated reminiscences of sympotic and erotic landscapes familiar from Augustan literature (as well as from Catullus). Instead of revealing historical details about Flaccus’ stay on the island in Paphos, Martial takes the opportunity to create a literary version of his friend’s sojourn in Cyprus by re 64 See Schulte 2004, 26; for the epigrams of Lucillius see the commentary by Floridi 2014. 65 The word order also suggests this connection: σολοικισμούς as the second word in line 1 stands in diametric opposition to Κύπρον as the penultimate word in line 4. 66 See Lochner von Hüttenbach 1976; for Solon as the founder of Soloi in Cyprus cf. Hdt. 5.113.2; Plut. Sol. 26; cf. V. Max. 5.3.ext. 3b. 67 Cf. Plut. Cic. 4; Suet. Jul. 4. 68 Cf. 1.76.12: Romanum propius divitiusque forum est (‘The Roman Forum is closer and wealthier’); for this poem see Howell 1980, 277–280.

  Margot Neger calling models from their common virtual library in which the Augustan Flaccus has a prominent place. In contrast to Martial’s lyric-elegiac Cyprus, a place embedded into the epigrammatic client-patron-discourse, Ammianus uses Cyprus as the target of a grammatical joke, mocking it as a place with a disastrous effect on the visitor’s language skills in Greek. Martial’s poem 9.90 combines elements of the sympotic, erotic and dedicatory tradition, also including some humorous side-swipes, whereas Ammianus’ epigram is clearly indebted to the scopticsatiric tradition. Differently from his Greek colleague, Martial shows no interest in the language spoken in Cyprus. Paphos as cult site of Venus and the centre of Roman administration does not play a role in Ammianus’ poem where instead the town of Soloi is foregrounded through the implicitly suggested connection with the phenomenon of the σολοικισμός. Together, the two roughly contemporary epigrammatists depict very different experiences of Roman visitors on the island: Martial, from the perspective of a Roman client, imagines the pleasures and possible dangers his friend and patron will face during his stay abroad, while Ammianus, probably a Greek from Asia Minor, paints a satiric picture of the study trip to Cyprus which his Roman friend is about to undertake.

Bibliography Adams, J.N. (1982), The Latin Sexual Vocabulary, London. Anderson, W.B. (1965), Sidonius, Letters III–IX, Cambridge, MA/London. Bömer, F. (1980), P. Ovidius Naso, Metamorphosen. Buch X–XI, Heidelberg. Burnikel, W. (1980), Untersuchungen zur Struktur des Witzepigramms bei Lukillios und Martial, Wiesbaden. Cairns, F. (2016), Hellenistic Epigram. Contexts of Exploration, Cambridge. Canobbio, A. (2011), M. Valerii Martialis Epigrammaton liber quintus. Introduzione, edizione critica, traduzione e commento, Naples. Clausen, W. (1982), ‘The New Direction in Poetry’, in Kenney and Clausen 1982, 178–206. Coleman, K. (2005), ‘Martial, Book 6: A Gift for the Matronalia?’, L’Antiquité Classique 48, 23– 35. Dominik, W.J., Newlands, C.E. and Gervais, K., eds. (2015), Brill’s Companion to Statius, Leiden/ Boston. Floridi, L. (2014), Lucillio: Epigrammi, Berlin/New York. Harrison, S. (2004), ‘Lyric Middles: The Turn at the Centre in Horace’s Odes’, in Kyriakidis and De Martino 2004, 81–102. Henriksén, C. (2012), A Commentary on Martial, Epigrams Book 9, Oxford. Holzberg, N. (2002), Martial und das antike Epigramm, Darmstadt. Holzberg, N. (2009), Horaz: Dichter und Werk, Munich. Howell, P. (1980), A Commentary on Book One of the Epigrams of Martial, London.

Infamem nimio calore Cypron  

Kenney, E. and Clausen, W., eds. (1982), The Cambridge History of Classical Literature, Cambridge. Kyriakidis, S. and De Martino, F., eds. (2004), Middles in Latin Poetry, Bari. Lochner von Hüttenbach, F. (1976), ‘Soloi und Soloikismos. Ein Nachprüfen und Überdenken eines antiken Fachausdruckes’, Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 119, 336–345. Lorenz, S. (2002), Erotik und Panegyrik. Martials epigrammatische Kaiser, Tübingen. Lynch, C.A. (1953), ‘Anthologia Palatina XI,146’, Classical Philology 48, 17–19. Maltby, R. (2002), Tibullus: Elegies. Text, Introduction and Commentary, Cambridge. Miller, F.J. (1984), Ovid: Metamorphoses, 2 vols. Revised by G.P. Goold, Cambridge, MA. Mindt, N. (2007), Die meta-sympotischen Oden und Epoden des Horaz, Göttingen. Mindt, N. (2013), Martials ‚epigrammatischer Kanon‘, Munich. Moreno Soldevila, R. (2006), Martial, Book IV. A Commentary, Leiden. Moreno Soldevila, R., Marina Castillo, A. and Fernández Valverde, J. (2019), A Prosopography to Martial’s Epigrams, Berlin/Boston. Mozley, J.H. (1979), Ovid. The Art of Love and Other Poems. Revised by G.P. Goold, Cambridge, MA. Nauta, R. (2002), Poetry for Patrons. Literary Communication in the Age of Domitian, Leiden. Neger, M. (2012), Martials Dichtergedichte. Das Epigramm als Medium der poetischen Selbstreflexion, Tübingen. Nisbet, G. (2003), Greek Epigram in the Roman Empire: Martial’s Forgotten Rivals, Oxford. Nisbet, R.G.M. and Hubbard, M. (1970), A Commentary on Horace: Odes, Book I, Oxford. Nisbet, R.G.M. and Hubbard, M. (1978), A Commentary on Horace: Odes, Book II, Oxford. Nisbet, R.G.M. and Rudd, N. (2004), A Commentary on Horace Odes, Book III, Oxford. Obermayer, H.P. (1998), Martial und der Diskurs über männliche “Homosexualität” in der Literatur der frühen Kaiserzeit, Tübingen. Parker, H.N. (2000), ‘Flaccus’, Classical Quarterly 50, 455–462. Paton, W.R. (1918), The Greek Anthology. Volume IV, Cambridge, MA. Pentzer, M.R. (2019), ‘Horace-ing Around with Martial Book 10’, The Classical Journal 114, 409– 438. Pitcher, R.A. (1984), ‘Flaccus, Friend of Martial’, Latomus 43, 414–423. Pöschl, V. (1994), ‘Die Horazode ‘Aequam memento’ (c. 2,3)’, Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 137, 118–127. Rudd, N. (2004), Horace. Odes and Epodes, Cambridge, MA. Rühl, M. (2015), ‘Creating the Distinguished Addressee: Literary Patronage in the Works of Statius’, in Dominik, Newlands and Gervais 2015, 91–105. Russell, D.A. (2002), Quintilian. The Orator’s Education, Vol. IV: Books 9–10, Cambridge, MA. Schöffel, C. (2002), Martial, Buch 8. Einleitung, Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar, Stuttgart. Schulte, H. (2004), Die Epigramme des Ammianos. Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar, Trier. Shackleton Bailey, D.R. (1993), Martial. Epigrams. Edited and Translated, 3 vols., Cambridge, MA/London. Sherwin-White, A. (1966), The Letters of Pliny. A Historical and Social Commentary, Oxford. Thomson, D.F.S. (1997), Catullus: Edited with a Textual and Interpretative Commentary, Toronto. Watson, P. (1999), ‘Martial on the Wedding of Stella and Violentilla’, Latomus 58, 348–356. West, D.A. (1995), Horace Odes I. Carpe Diem. Text, Translation and Commentary, Oxford. West, D.A. (1998), Horace Odes II: Vatis Amici, Oxford. West, D.A. (2002), Horace Odes III: Dulce Periculum, Oxford.

  Margot Neger White, P. (1972), Aspects of Non-Imperial Patronage in the Works of Statius and Martial, Diss., Harvard University. White, P. (1975), ‘The Friends of Martial, Statius and Pliny, and the Dispersal of Patronage’, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 79, 265–300. Williams, C. (2004), Martial: Epigrams, Book Two. Edited with Introduction, Translation, and Commentary, Oxford. Wiltshire, S.F. (1977), ‘Catullus Venustus’, Classical World 70, 319–326. Wray, D.L. (2001), Catullus and the Poetics of Manhood, Cambridge. Zucker, F. (1928), ‘Plinius epist. VIII 24 — ein Denkmal antiker Humanität’, Philologus 84, 207– 230.

Spyridon Tzounakas

The Digression on Cyprus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae Abstract: In Claudian’s epithalamium for Honorius and Maria, which celebrates the marriage of the emperor to Stilocho’s daughter in 398 CE, Cupid visits Venus’ palace in Cyprus, and a significant part of the poem (lines 49–108) is dedicated to the description of the place. This ecphrasis constitutes a locus amoenus and facilitates Claudian’s intentions on multiple levels by auguring the felicitous marriage of Honorius and Maria and contributing to the laudatory tone of the poem. The allusions to a number of previous texts allow the poet to recall literary predecessors from various genres in order to accomplish his literary aims and promote his political agenda. Special emphasis is given to Vergil’s Eclogues 4, Tibullus’ elegy 1.3 and Lucan’s description of Cleopatra’s palace in the tenth book of his De Bello Civili. Claudian’s description is indicative of the way Cyprus is perceived in the Roman West during Late Antiquity, which seems, in turn, to have influenced later literature and established the image of Cyprus as a land comparable to the campi Elysii.

 Introduction As the goddess of love, it stands to reason that Venus would make a frequent appearance in epithalamia, where she facilitates the author’s intention to wish for a blessed union for the couple and allude to the beauty of the bride. The regularity of the goddess’s appearance, in fact, in the context of wedding poetry seems to be so well established, that it is even a feature of epithalamia of later antiquity, works that were composed for Christian weddings. This is the case of Claudian’s epithalamium for Honorius and Maria (Epithalamium dictum Honorio  This work was co-funded by the European Regional Development Fund and the Republic of Cyprus through the Research and Innovation Foundation (Project: EXCELLENCE/1216/0525). I am grateful to Professors Stephen Harrison, Nicola Lanzarone and Isabella Gualandri for their valuable comments and suggestions on a previous version of this essay; Professor Gualandri was kind enough to send me her publications on Claudian.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-009

  Spyridon Tzounakas Augusto et Mariae),1 which celebrates the marriage of the emperor to Stilicho’s daughter in 398 CE. As a land strongly associated with Venus, Cyprus enjoys a place of significance in Claudian’s poem that we will be examining in this paper. Here, Cupid is shown as visiting Venus’ palace in Cyprus, and a significant part of the 324-line poem (lines 49–108) is dedicated to the description of the place. As I shall argue in this paper, this ecphrasis, which constitutes a locus amoenus, facilitates Claudian’s intentions on multiple levels. On the one hand, the description of the place augurs the felicitous marriage of Honorius and Maria and contributes to the laudatory tone of the poem. On the other hand, this passage, which is an imaginary descriptio and consists of literary topoi, alludes to a number of previous texts and thus allows the poet to recall literary predecessors from various genres in order to promote his political agenda. Among these texts, special emphasis shall be given to Tibullus’ description of the campi Elysii in his elegy 1.3, Vergil’s Eclogues 4 and Georgics 2, Ovid’s Metamorphoses 10, Lucan’s description of Cleopatra’s palace in the tenth book of his De Bello Civili and Statius’ epithalamia and villa poems in the Silvae collection. This description, indicative of the way Cyprus is perceived in the Roman West during Late Antiquity, seems, in turn, to have influenced later literature and established the image of Cyprus as a land comparable to the campi Elysii. Claudian had special personal reasons for wanting to compose the particular epithalamium, as he held an important position as court poet in the Western court of the Roman empire and produced propaganda in favour of Honorius, while Maria was the daughter of general Stilicho, the poet’s patron. Furthermore, it is worth noting that the wedding of the two young people took place just before Honorius and Stilicho took military action against the African king Gildo, who had defected to the Eastern court; within this framework, the composition of the poem seems to also take this fact into consideration.2

 1 Cf. e.g. Cameron 1970, 193–194; Elsner, 2003, 32; Papagiannaki, 2010, 336. For the epithalamium in the Latin poetry of Late Antiquity, see Morelli 1910; Keydell 1962; Pavlovskis 1965; Bertini Conidi 1988, 12–27; Roberts 1989; Horstmann 2004; more broadly for the wedding poetry in the Graeco-Roman world, see Wasdin 2018. 2 For a brief review of the historical background and the political circumstances of the time of this epithalamium, see, for instance, Christiansen 1970, esp. 116; Horstmann 2004, 97–100; Wasdin, 2014, 48. For Claudian as a court poet and for his contribution to Honorius’ propaganda, see especially Cameron 1970.

The Digression on Cyprus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae  

 Content and context of the ecphrasis The poem begins with a reference to the love-stricken Honorius, who is burning with the fire of love and is eager to marry Maria, which is why he addresses her parents, Stilicho and Serena, complaining to his future parents-in-law about the delay of the wedding ceremony. Amor hears his complaints and conveys the news to his mother Venus3 in her palace in Cyprus, at which point the palace is extensively described (49–108). Claudian avoids giving specific details as to the exact geographical location of the palace, mentioning only the rather peculiar detail that it is situated on a remote mountain unreachable by people, casting its shadow over the Ionian Sea, with a view of Egypt. The place is presented as being unaffected by hoar frost, untouched by winds and rain, a place dedicated to luxury and to Venus, enjoying an eternal spring. The top of the mountain extends to a plain and is surrounded by a golden fence,4 a gift of Mulciber’s,5 while everywhere around the land is in effortless bloom. In the shady forest, the birds sing love songs only and each tree feels the love. Here you can also find two springs, one of sweet and one of bitter water, a multitude of Cupids and other deities associated with love, such as Licentia, Irae, Excubiae, Lacrimae, Pallor, Audacia, Metus, Voluptas, Periuria, Iuventas.6 Next, there is an extensive description of Venus’ palace,

 3 Claud. Nupt. 46–48: tali solatur vulnera questu. / risit Amor placidaeque volat trans aequora matri / nuntius et totas iactantior explicat alas (‘With such complaint he assuages the wounds of love. Cupid laughed and speeding across the deep bore the news to his gentle mother, proudly spreading his wings to their full extent’). Throughout this chapter, for the Latin text of Claudian I follow the Teubner edition of Hall 1985; the translations are those of Platnauer 1922 for Loeb, slightly revised. Honorius’ complaints about the delay of the marriage and the presence of Venus in the poem have been interpreted by scholars as an attempt on the part of Claudian to disprove accusations against Stilicho that the latter plotted a marriage of interest between his daughter and the emperor; see Charlet 2000, 175; Horstmann 2004, 119–121; Sánchez-Ostiz 2010, 307; cf. Cameron 1970, 99–100; Garambois-Vasquez 2011, 50. 4 On this fence as a boundary, see Braden 1979, 219–222; Coombe, 2018, 89–91. 5 On a metapoetic level one could compare Vulcan as the builder of Venus’ palace with Claudius Claudianus as the poet of the ecphrasis, creating the palace with words; Vulcan is known as claudus / claudicans (cf. e.g. Cic. N. D. 1.83; Minuc. Oct. 23.5; Serv. A. 8.454; Isidore Etym. 8.11.41), and one might draw a connection with the name of the poet here. 6 For possible models for these personifications, cf. Verg. A. 6.273–281; Ov. Am. 1.2.31–38; Lact. Phoen. 15–20 and see Morelli 1910, 355; Gualandri 1968, 19 n. 5, 24–25 n. 15; Bertini Conidi 1988, 85; Gualandri 2004, 412; Charlet 2000, 177; Visentini 2018, 84–85. As Wasdin 2014, 51 n. 14 notes, these personifications continue the elegiac themes in the first part of the poem.

  Spyridon Tzounakas with special emphasis given to the luxurious construction7 and the variety of aromas that fill the air. The description concludes with the depiction of the goddess sitting on a brilliant throne, combing her hair8 with the help of the Idalian sisters (100–101: sorores … Idaliae), as the Graces are called here,9 and looking at her image reflected throughout the palace as in a mirror: mons latus Ionium Cypri praeruptus obumbrat, invius humano gressu, Phariumque cubile Proteos et septem despectat cornua Nili. hunc neque canentes audent vestire pruinae, hunc venti pulsare timent, hunc laedere nimbi. luxuriae Venerique vacat. pars acrior anni exulat; aeterni patet indulgentia veris. in campum se fundit apex; hunc aurea saepes circuit et fulvo defendit prata metallo. Mulciber, ut perhibent, his oscula coniugis emit moenibus et tales uxorius obtulit arces. intus rura micant, manibus quae subdita nullis perpetuum florent, Zephyro contenta colono, umbrosumque nemus, quo non admittitur ales, ni probet ante suos diva sub iudice cantus: quae placuit, fruitur ramis; quae victa, recedit. vivunt in Venerem frondes omnisque vicissim felix arbor amat: nutant ad mutua palmae foedera, populeo suspirat populus ictu et platani platanis alnoque adsibilat alnus. labuntur gemini fontes, hic dulcis, amarus alter, et infusis corrumpunt mella venenis, unde Cupidineas armari fama sagittas. mille pharetrati ludunt in margine fratres, ore pares, aevo similes, gens mollis Amorum.

50

55

60

65

70

 7 According to Garambois-Vasquez 2011, 49, the ecphrasis of the palace of Venus has an encomiastic aim, that of the praise of the imperial power. 8 On the depiction of Venus styling her hair, see Riboldi 2006, 19–22, who notes (21): “La fretta e la casualità con cui Venere acconcia i capelli ben rende l’idea dell’importanza della missione che si accinge a compiere”. 9 Cf. Patricius, Epithalamium 10, Poetae Latini Minores V p. 422: cum Venus Idaliis comitata sororibus exit and see Bianchini 2004, 143. Claudian uses a similar phrase in his epithalamium for Palladius and Celerina 10: Idaliae … famulae. For the association of Venus with the Graces, see Frings 1975, 158, where some parallels are given; cf. also Hor. Carm. 1.4.5–6, where Venus and the Graces appear together at the start of spring. It is possible that in our poem Claudian chose the adjective Idaliae in order to allude to Catull. 61.16–19, an emblematic epithalamium, where Idalium is referred to.

The Digression on Cyprus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae  

hos Nymphae pariunt, illum Venus aurea solum edidit. ille deos caelumque et sidera cornu temperat et summos dignatur figere reges; hi plebem feriunt. nec cetera numina desunt: hic habitat nullo constricta Licentia nodo et flecti faciles Irae vinoque madentes Excubiae Lacrimaeque rudes et gratus amantum Pallor et in primis titubans Audacia furtis iucundique Metus et non secura Voluptas; et lasciva volant levibus Periuria ventis. quos inter petulans alta cervice Iuventas excludit Senium luco. procul atria divae permutant radios silvaque obstante virescunt. Lemnius haec etiam gemmis extruxit et auro admiscens artem pretio trabibusque zmaragdi supposuit caesas hyacinthi rupe columnas. beryllo paries et iaspide lubrica surgunt limina despectusque solo calcatur achates. in medio glaebis redolentibus area dives praebet odoratas messes: hic mitis amomi, hic casiae matura seges, Panchaeaque turgent cinnama, nec sicco frondescunt vimina costo tardaque sudanti prorepunt balsama ligno. quo postquam delapsus Amor longasque peregit pinna vias, alacer passuque superbior intrat. caesariem tunc forte Venus subnixa corusco fingebat solio. dextra laevaque sorores stabant Idaliae: largos haec nectaris imbres inrigat, haec morsu numerosi dentis eburno multifidum discrimen arat; sed tertia retro dat varios nexus et iusto dividit orbes ordine neglectam partem studiosa relinquens: plus error decuit. speculi nec vultus egebat iudicio. similis tecto monstratur in omni et capitur, quocumque videt.

75

80

85

90

95

100

105

Where Cyprus looks out over the Ionian main a craggy mountain overshadows it; unapproachable by human foot it faces the isle of Pharos, the home of Proteus and the seven mouths of the Nile. The hoar frost dares not clothe its sides, nor the rude winds buffet it nor clouds obscure. It is consecrate to pleasure and to Venus. The year’s less clement seasons are strangers to it, whereover ever brood the blessings of eternal spring. The mountain’s height slopes down into a plain; that a golden hedge encircles, guarding its meadows with yellow metal. This demesne, men say, was the price paid by Mulciber for the kisses of his wife, these towers were the gift of a loving husband. Fair is the enclosed country, ever bright with flowers though touched with no labouring hand, for Zephyr is husbandman enough therefor. Into its shady groves no bird may enter save such as has

  Spyridon Tzounakas first won the goddess’s approval for its song. Those which please her may flit among the branches; they must quit who cannot pass the test. The very leaves live for love and in his season every happy tree experiences love’s power: palm bends down to mate with palm, poplar sighs its passion for poplar, plane whispers to plane, alder to alder. Here spring two fountains, the one of sweet water, the other of bitter, honey is mingled with the first, poison with the second, and in these streams ’tis said that Cupid dips his arrows. A thousand brother Loves with quivers play all around upon the banks, a tender company like to Cupid himself in face and of equal age. The nymphs are their mothers; Cupid is the only child of golden Venus. He with his bow subdues the stars and the gods and heaven, and disdains not to wound mighty kings; of the others the common people is the prey. Other deities, too, are here: Licence bound by no fetters, easily moved Anger, Wakes dripping with wine, inexperienced Tears, Pallor that lovers ever prize, Boldness trembling at his first thefts, happy Fears, unstable Pleasure, and lovers’ Oaths, the sport of every lightest breeze. Amid them all wanton Youth with haughty neck shuts out Age from the grove. Afar shines and glitters the goddess’s many-coloured palace, green gleaming by reason of the encircling grove. Vulcan built this too of precious stones and gold, wedding their costliness to art. Columns cut from rock of hyacinth support emerald beams; the walls are of beryl, the high-builded thresholds of polished jasper, the floor of agate trodden as dirt beneath the foot. In the midst is a courtyard rich with fragrant turf that yields a harvest of perfume; there grows sweet spikenard and ripe cassia, Panchaean cinnamonflowers and sprays of oozy balm, while balsam creeps forth slowly from an exuding tree. Hither Love glided down, winging his way o’er the long journey. Joyfully and with prouder gait than e’er his wont he enters. Venus was seated on her glittering throne, tiring her hair. On her right hand and on her left stood the Idalian sisters. Of these one pours a rich stream of nectar over Venus’ head, another parts her hair with a fine ivory comb. A third, standing behind the goddess, braids her tresses and orders her ringlets in due array, yet carefully leaving a part untended; such negligence becomes her more. Her face did not need a mirror’s verdict; her image is reflected all over the palace and she is charmed wheresoever she looks.

Ensuring that Honorius’ wishes are conveyed to Venus and presenting the goddess’s homeland as a locus amoenus where love rules, Claudian skilfully implies that Honorius’ wishes will be positively received by Venus and that love will prevail in the wedding of the two young people. Furthermore, the ecphrasis in the description of the Cypriot landscape seems to work on a symbolic level, foretelling that Honorius’ and Maria’s marriage will be just as cloudless and strewn with flowers, prosperous, protected from human intervention and filled with love, luxuria and beauty. Thus, this apparent digression does not simply constitute an expression of poetic imagination on the part of Claudian, but also serves the poet’s intention to extend his warmest wishes for happiness to the couple, facilitates the laudatory tone of the epithalamium, and artfully promotes Claudian’s political agenda.

The Digression on Cyprus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae  

 The theme of the Golden Age: Claudian’s allusions to Verg. Ecl. 4 and Tib. 1.3 It is clear that this imaginary descriptio is not geographically accurate and also deviates from the principles of realism.10 Claudian’s digression on Cyprus is loaded with allusions to a variety of earlier literary works, ranging from Homer to poems of the 4th century CE such as the De ave Phoenice attributed to Lactantius.11 As I shall argue in the rest of this paper, these allusions do not only point to the poet’s doctrina, but also reinforce his attempt to present Cyprus as an ideal location, while skilfully serving his broader poetic intentions. Commenting on Claudian’s description of Venus’ garden, which is shown to be enjoying an eternal spring, state of bloom and effortless fruition, unaffected by weather, scholars suggest a number of parallels, such as Hom. Od. 4.566–568; 6.42–45; Lucr. 3.18–24; Verg. G. 2.376–379; A. 4.248–249; Hor. Carm. 1.4.1 ff.; Lact. De ave Phoenice 9–30 and 83–88.12 Some astutely cite the information offered by ancient sources that the temple of Paphian Venus is never wetted by rain.13 Only a few scholars have referred tersely to Vergil’s 4th eclogue,14 a poem that deserves more attention in my view, especially since it is a poem that has often been interpreted as an epithalamium,15 and refers to the birth of a child. As is well known, this messianic eclogue predicts the advent of a Golden Age (aurea saecula), dur 10 See e.g. Coombe 2018, 92; cf., however, Gualandri 2004, 417–421. 11 See e.g. Gualandri 1968, 17–37; Frings 1975, 44–56, 131–161; Gualandri 2004; more recently Visentini 2018, 78–90, who suggests numerous parallels from various poets in the whole episode. According to Riboldi 2006, who examines the role of Venus in Claudian’s two epithalamia for Honorius and Maria and for Palladius and Celerina, the poet can be both dependent and independent of his models, a fact that defines his creative originality. Generally, for Claudian as a poeta doctus, see Cameron 1970, 305–348. 12 See Visentini 2018, 82–85 with a relevant bibliography. 13 See e.g. Frings 1975, 134, who cites E. Bacch. 406 ff., Plin. Nat. 2.210, Tac. Hist. 2.3.2 and Serv. A. 1.415; Gualandri 2004, 419–420 with n. 47. 14 See e.g. Frings 1975, 136. However, scholars have already noticed the influence of Vergil’s bucolic poetry on Claudian’s other wedding poems; see, for instance Fernandelli 2012, who mentioned bucolic influence (esp. from Verg. Ecl. 6) on the Praefatio (carm. 9) to the epithalamium for Honorius and Maria and on the Fescennini (carm. 11–14), or Luceri 2001, Breitenstein 2005, Ramella 2013–14, who highlighted bucolic elements in the epithalamium for Palladius and Celerina. For the influence of Verg. Ecl. 4 on other poems of Claudian, see e.g. Wheeler 2007, esp. 105–121 (on the Panegyricus dictus Probino et Olybrio consulibus); Charlet 2014, 149– 150 (on the Panegyricus de sexto consulatu Honorii Augusti and on the De raptu Proserpinae); cf. also n. 16 below. 15 Cf. e.g. Tarn 1932, 152–160; Clausen 1994, 121–126.

  Spyridon Tzounakas ing which life will be easy due to the end of the need for agriculture, since everything will be produced nullo … cultu (Verg. Ecl. 4.18). Claudian’s description of Venus’ realm in Cyprus, which is “ever bright with flowers though touched with no labouring hand, for Zephyr is husbandman enough therefor” (60–61), corresponds to Vergil’s reference to the untilled earth that shall pour forth its gifts, and consequently also implies the notion of the Golden Age. This idea is further reinforced both by the explicit reference to Venus as Venus aurea in line 74 and by Claudian’s references to the gold that dominates in her realm (56: aurea saepes; 87: auro). The particular allusion to the aurea saecula is especially effective in the framework of Claudian’s political agenda16 and the propaganda of the period. Since Venus, closely associated with the Golden Age, visits Honorius’ court and blesses his wedding,17 it is adroitly suggested that a new Golden Age is about to start in his court, while at the same time a messianic role for the emperor is implicitly predicted. Another interesting case, which has not until now received much attention from scholars, is that of Claudian’s skilful intertextual allusions to Tibullus’ elegy 1.3 and specifically to the passage in which the campi Elysii are described (57–66). Since this is the place where, according to the poet, lovers go, the particular passage is again relevant to epithalamial contexts: Sed me, quod facilis tenero sum semper Amori, Ipsa Venus campos ducet in Elysios. Hic choreae cantusque vigent, passimque vagantes Dulce sonant tenui gutture carmen aves, Fert casiam non culta seges, totosque per agros Floret odoratis terra benigna rosis; Ac iuvenum series teneris inmixta puellis

60

 16 Generally, both Claudian’s interest in the multiple connotations of the aurea aetas for the empire in his poetry, in relation to the underlying aureum saeculum established by Theodosius and continued by Honorius with Stilicho, and the poet’s debt to his predecessors, especially to Vergil, are discussed by Ware 2012, 171–230, without, however, any reference to echoes of this idea in the epithalamium De nuptiis Honorii et Mariae. Cf. also Charlet 2005, who discusses Claudian’s political readings of the theme of the Golden Age in his poetry from 395 to 400, with special emphasis on his Panegyricus de Sexto Consulatu Honorii Augusti; Sánchez-Ostiz 2010, esp. 303–304, where he underlines (304) that the most characteristic elements of the traditional description of the Golden Age appear in Claudian’s panegyrics, invectives, mythological epics and carmina minora, and notes (303): “es importante tener en cuenta que la Edad de oro se halla presente en todo lugar feliz de la poesía de Claudiano e incluso, por oposición o inversión, en los lugares de horror”. 17 For the interesting presentation of Venus in the role of pronuba in Claudian’s epithalamia, see Riboldi 2006, 15–16.

The Digression on Cyprus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae  

Ludit, et adsidue proelia miscet Amor. Illic est, cuicumque rapax mors venit amanti, Et gerit insigni myrtea serta coma.

65

Since, though, I’ve always been a mark for gentle Love, Venus will lead me to Elysian fields. There songs and dances flourish, and from slender throats the restless birds produce a gentle song. Untilled land sprouts with cinnamon, and in the fields the fragrant roses bloom in fertile soil, and lines of youthful men and tender girls cavort, and Love is joining the incessant battle. Lovers for whom rapacious Death has come are there, and sport their special myrtle in their tresses. (trans. Juster and Maltby 2012)

More specifically, Tibullus’ reference to the birds that sing sweetly with their slender throats in the campi Elysii (1.3.59–60) is echoed in Claudian’s lines 62– 63, where it is stated that only birds whose song has been approved by Venus are allowed entry to the forest that surrounds her palace. Tibullus’ reference to the fields that produce cassia without being cultivated and to the land that is fertile and in bloom (1.3.61–62: Fert casiam non culta seges, totosque per agros / floret odoratis terra benigna rosis) is echoed in Claudian’s lines 60–61: intus rura micant, manibus quae subdita nullis / perpetuum florent, Zephyro contenta colono, where it is also mentioned that the fields are permanently in bloom and require no cultivation. Furthermore, it is worth noting that in both descriptions emphasis is given to game-playing, the presence of love and to youth; cf. Tib. 1.3.63–64: ac iuvenum series teneris inmixta puellis / ludit, et adsidue proelia miscet Amor and Claud. 72–73: mille pharetrati ludunt in margine fratres, / ore pares, aevo similes, gens mollis Amorum; 84–85: quos inter petulans alta cervice Iuventas / excludit Senium luco. The similarity of the two descriptions continues with the references to cassia18 and to harvest (Tib. 1.3.61: Fert casiam non culta seges; Claud. 94: hic casiae matura seges), to aromas (Tib. 1.3.62: floret odoratis terra benigna rosis; Claud. 92–93: in medio glaebis redolentibus area dives / praebet odoratas messes), and to Venus herself (Tib. 1.3.58: Ipsa Venus campos ducet in Elysios; Claud. 54; 65; 74; 99). Within this framework, I believe that Claudian’s comment in line 56: in campum se fundit apex, that the top of the mountain extends to a plain, reinforcing the similarities with Tibullus’ campi Elysii, acquires even greater significance. Recalling the particular passage of Tibullus, Claudian succeeds in presenting the realm of Venus in Cyprus as equal  18 It is worth noting that cassia is also mentioned in Sappho fr. 44 (l. 30), which is a (mythical) epithalamium celebrating the wedding of Andromache and Hector. Since Cyprus is mentioned in the first line of the fragment, which is preserved in an Oxyrhynchus papyrus, and Claudian mentions Sappho as an author that Maria ought to read (336), the Sappho-Claudian connection in this poem seems very plausible. I owe this suggestion to Thea Selliaas Thorsen.

  Spyridon Tzounakas to the Elysian Fields, and in doing so he implies the presence of eternal love and happiness in the marriage of Honorius and Maria. No doubt, similar imagery can be found in many other earlier Latin poets with whom Claudian was probably familiar, but the fact that the entire poem begins with the image of Honorius as an elegiac lover who has retired from action (e.g. hunting, military action), is burning with desire and is complaining about not having his love near him,19 makes the possibility of an intentional allusion to an elegiac poem in the ecphrasis of Venus’ residence especially strong. The possibility that the particular elegy of Tibullus’ constitutes one of Claudian’s models is further reinforced at this point if we consider the fact that echoes of the particular elegy are found in other works by Claudian, as e.g. in his De raptu Proserpinae,20 indicating that the late antique poet was familiar with this poem. Moreover, it should not be overlooked that the same elegy also includes a passage (1.3.35–48) on the Golden Age (1.3.35: Saturno … rege), which is contrasted with the Iron Age (1.3.49– 50) Iove sub domino (1.3.49) and corresponds to the passage on the campi Elysii. As a result, by alluding to Tibullus’ elegy 1.3, Claudian further facilitates the association of Honorius’ rule with the Golden Age and at the same time implies that the emperor’s love for Maria will secure for him a place in the campi Elysii. Since, however, this is also the place for the virtuous men and the blessed heroes of Roman history, as we can see in the famous katabasis in Vergil’s Aeneid, it is adroitly suggested that Honorius possesses similar characteristics and fully deserves such a place.

 Claudian’s Venus and Lucan’s Cleopatra With regards to the description of the palace of Venus more specifically, the possible models on which it was based continue to be quite varied, as the particular theme constitutes an old topos.21 The influence of Statius’ epithalamium

 19 Wasdin, 2014, 51–53. 20 For echoes of Tibullus’ elegy 1.3 in Claudian’s De raptu Proserpinae, see Duc 1994, 158; Parkes 2015, 479. 21 This topos is also evident in Claudian’s description of Ceres’ palace at De raptu Proserpinae 1.237 ff., for which see Gruzelier 1988, 60, who notes that this passage “is influenced by the old epic topos of the palace, which goes all the way back to Homer (Alkinoos’ palace, Hom. Od. 7.81ff.) and includes the halls of Aietes (Ap. Rh. 3.215ff.), Latinus (Verg. Aen. 7.170ff.), the Sun (Ov. Met. 2.1ff.), Cleopatra (Luc. 10.111ff.), and Cupid (Apul. Met. 5.1ff.)”. Cf. Visentini 2018, 88– 89.

The Digression on Cyprus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae  

celebrating the marriage of Stella and Violentilla in Silv. 1.2, where Violentilla’s house is described in detail (Silv. 1.2.147–157), is both indisputable and predictable as a result of the generic similarity between the two poems.22 Echoes of Catullus (64.43–49, also in an epithalamial context), Vergil (A. 7.170–191) and Ovid (Met. 2.1–7), where the palaces of Peleus, Latinus and the Sun respectively are described, are also evident.23 I shall focus more on Lucan’s influence, as Claudian’s debt here to Lucan’s description of Cleopatra’s palace in his De Bello Civili (10.107–171)24 has yet to be studied extensively25 or evaluated sufficiently. Both poets describe luxurious palaces with noteworthy similarities in their verbal choices, verifying the developing intertextual connection. Let’s consider, for example, Claudian’s lines 87–91: Lemnius haec etiam gemmis extruxit et auro admiscens artem pretio trabibusque zmaragdi supposuit caesas hyacinthi rupe columnas. beryllo paries et iaspide lubrica surgunt limina despectusque solo calcatur achates.

90

Vulcan built this too of precious stones and gold, wedding their costliness to art. Columns cut from rock of hyacinth support emerald beams; the walls are of beryl, the high-builded thresholds of polished jasper, the floor of agate trodden as dirt beneath the foot.

Here the references to the jewels, the gold, the emerald, the jasper and the agate that decorate Venus’ palace recall corresponding references to the same materials in Lucan’s description of Cleopatra’s palace in lines 10.111–126: ipse locus templi, quod vix corruptior aetas extruat, instar erat, laqueataque tecta ferebant divitias crassumque trabes absconderat aurum. nec summis crustata domus sectisque nitebat marmoribus, stabatque sibi non segnis achates

115

 22 Cf. e.g. Pavlovskis 1965, 166–168; Braden 1979, 223; Bertini Conidi 1988, 85–86; Visentini 2018, 88. For a more detailed analysis of the intertextual dialogue between the two works, see Pavarani 2014, esp. 205–225. 23 Cf. Visentini 2018, 88. 24 On Lucan’s description of Cleopatra’s palace in De Bello Civili 10, his models and his departure from the tradition, see recently Lanzarone 2021. 25 A few scholars have simply mentioned that the descriptions of the two palaces share similarities and have supported the idea that the particular passage of Lucan’s was one of Claudian’s models. See e.g. Gualandri 1968, 26; Braden 1979, 223–224; Gualandri 2004, 409 n. 2, 420; Visentini 2018, 88–89. Generally, for Lucan’s influence on Claudian, see recently Berlincourt, Galli Milić and Nelis 2016.

  Spyridon Tzounakas purpureusque lapis, totaque effusus in aula calcabatur onyx; hebenus Meroitica vastos non operit postes sed stat pro robore vili, auxilium, non forma, domus. ebur atria vestit, et suffecta manu foribus testudinis Indae terga sedent, crebro maculas distincta zmaragdo. fulget gemma toris, et iaspide fulva supellex

strata micant, Tyrio cuius pars maxima fuco cocta diu virus non uno duxit aeno, pars auro plumata nitet, pars ignea cocco, ut mos est Phariis miscendi licia telis.

120

122A

125

The place itself was equal to a temple which an age more corrupt would hardly build; the panelled ceilings showed her riches, thick gold concealed the beams. The house shone, not encrusted with veneers of marble on the surface; in its own right, not useless, stood the agate and the purple stone; in all the palace onyx in abundance was trodden on; ebony of Meroë does not veil the door-posts huge but stands in place of ordinary timber, the support, not the adornment, of the house. The halls are clothed by ivory, and Indian tortoise-shells, stained by hand, are inlaid in the doors, their spots embellished with abundant emeralds. Jewels glitter on the couches and the furnishings are tawny with jasper. The coverlets are gleaming: most of them, long steeped in Tyrian dye, took on their stain from more than a single cauldron; some shine embroidered with golden feathers, some blaze with cochineal, following the method of mingling heddles on Pharian looms. (trans. Braund 1992)

Additionally, some further verbal similarities between the two passages reinforce their intertextual connection even more; cf. the words trabibusque and calcatur in Claudian’s lines 88 and 91, which correspond to the words trabes and calcabatur in Lucan’s lines 10.113 and 10.117. Similarly, the references to cinnamon and cardamom found in Cleopatra’s palace in Lucan’s lines 10.164–168: accipiunt sertas nardo florente coronas et numquam fugiente rosa, multumque madenti infudere comae cui nondum evanuit aura cinnamon externa nec perdidit aera terra, advectumque recens vicinae messis amomon.

165

They put on garlands twined with flowering nard and never-failing rose, and on to their dripping locks they poured much cinnamon—whose scent had not yet faded and which had not lost its flavour in a foreign country— and cardamom brought fresh from nearby harvest. (trans. Braund 1992)

The Digression on Cyprus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae  

are echoed in Claudian’s references to the same spices that perfume Venus’ palace in lines 92–96: in medio glaebis redolentibus area dives praebet odoratas messes: hic mitis amomi, hic casiae matura seges, Panchaeaque turgent cinnama, nec sicco frondescunt vimina costo tardaque sudanti prorepunt balsama ligno.

95

In the midst is a courtyard rich with fragrant turf that yields a harvest of perfume; there grows sweet spikenard and ripe cassia, Panchaean cinnamon-flowers and sprays of oozy balm, while balsam creeps forth slowly from an exuding tree.

At this point, however, we should note that Claudian’s passage has also been enriched by Ovid’s lines Met. 10.307–310,26 where the similarities in diction are obvious: sit dives amomo cinnamaque costumque suum sudataque ligno tura ferat floresque alios Panchaia tellus, dum ferat et murram: tanti nova non fuit arbor. Panchaia may enjoy her wealth of mace and cinnamon, her oozing incense and her balsam’s balm, and all her spicy blooms, so long as she grows myrrh as well! That new tree cost too much! (trans. Melville and Kenney 1986)

as well as by Vergil’s lines G. 2.118–119,27 which also bare noteworthy verbal similarities: quid tibi odorato referam sudantia ligno balsamaque et bacas semper frondentis acanthi? What need is there for me—because you know already—to mention fragrant resin exuded by the balsam or the pods of evergreen acacia? (trans. Fallon and Fantham 2006)

As Ovid’s passage comes from the larger section of the Cinyras and Myrrha episode (Met. 10.298–502), by alluding to it Claudian lends a stronger Cypriot feel to the depiction of Venus’ palace on the island. The exotic atmosphere created

 26 For this Ovidian passage as a probable model for Claudian here, see Gualandri 1968, 26; Frings 1975, 154–155; Charlet 1995, 127–128; Visentini 2018, 85 n. 421. 27 For Verg. G. 2.118–119 as one of Claudian’s models here, see Gualandri 1968, 27; Frings 1975, 155–156; Bianchini 2004, 141; Sigayret 2009, 543; Visentini 2018, 85 n. 422.

  Spyridon Tzounakas by the allusion to Ov. Met. 10.307–310,28 is further reinforced by the allusion to Verg. G. 2.118–119, as the passage comes from the larger section containing the description of the plants cultivated in the East juxtaposed with those cultivated in Italy. But let us return to the matter of Lucan’s influence. An additional point that supports the connection between Venus and Cleopatra concerns the hair-dressing of the two persons, as Claudian mentions how during the goddess’s hair-dressing by the Graces part of her hair is left intentionally untended (103–106): sed tertia retro dat varios nexus et iusto dividit orbes ordine neglectam partem studiosa relinquens: plus error decuit.

105

A third, standing behind the goddess, braids her tresses and orders her ringlets in due array, yet carefully leaving a part untended; such negligence becomes her more.

It is worth noting that a similar instance can be found in Lucan’s text regarding Cleopatra, just before the description of her palace, where the epic poet depicts the Egyptian queen approaching Caesar with affected sorrow and intentionally tousled hair (10.82–84):29 quem formae confisa suae Cleopatra sine ullis tristis adit lacrimis, simulatum compta dolorem qua decuit, veluti laceros dispersa capillos Relying on her looks, Cleopatra comes to him, gloomy without tears, adorned with simulated grief as far as was attractive, her hair spread out as if torn (trans. Braund 1992)

This, however, raises the obvious question: why did Claudian choose to base his description of Venus and her palace in Cyprus on the model of Cleopatra and her palace provided by the epic poet of the Neronian period? It is possible that

 28 Cf. Frings 1975, 154–155, who notes that the charm of the exotic is increased by the foreign name Panchaea. 29 The passages on Venus’ and Cleopatra’s intentionally untended hair recall Ov. Ars 3.153– 155 on hair styling: et neglecta decet multas coma; saepe iacere / hesternam credas, illa repexa modo est. / ars casu similis (‘Even neglected hair is becoming to many; often you would think it lay loose from yesterday; this very moment it has been combed afresh. Art counterfeits chance’, trans. Mozley, rev. Goold 1979).

The Digression on Cyprus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae  

Claudian’s purported origin from Alexandria, Egypt,30 played a part. It is also possible that the legendary beauty of the Egyptian queen (cf. e.g. Luc. 10.82: formae confisa suae Cleopatra, ‘relying on her looks, Cleopatra’, trans. Braund 1992) facilitated the connection with the goddess of beauty and love. Furthermore, the famous luxury of the Egyptian palace, clearly mentioned by Lucan (10.109–110: explicuitque suos magno Cleopatra tumultu / nondum translatos Romana in saecula luxus, ‘and with a huge commotion Cleopatra displayed her own extravagance, not yet transferred to Roman generations’, trans. Braund 1992), undoubtedly provided an exceptional model for Claudian in his attempt to describe the luxury of Venus’ palace (cf. 54: luxuriae Venerique vacat). Moreover, it should not be forgotten that Cleopatra was given Cyprus to rule by Julius Caesar and/or by Mark Antony in the 40s and 30s BCE.31 Thus, Claudian’s digression on Venus’ palace in Cyprus, a place strongly associated with the Egyptian queen, could be interpreted as a further attempt on the part of the poet to implicitly link Venus, and through her the bride, with Cleopatra. Still, certain deeper political expediencies should not be ruled out.

 A political interpretation of the digression Honorius’ wedding to Maria takes place at the start of 398 CE, just before the commencement of military operations against the African king Gildo. In her insightful reading of this epithalamium, its short elegiac preface and the four lyric fescennines that accompany it, Katherine Wasdin argues that “both the epithalamium and the fescennines explain how the passive Honorius becomes an active heroic figure by marrying Maria. […] this narrative […] culminates in the final fescennine, in which Claudian depicts Honorius’ imagined conquest of his bride as the final chapter in the development of the emperor as erotic agent. […] this development relates to the political situation at the time of the wedding poems, making Honorius’ exploits in the bedroom a symbol of his potential on the battlefield”.32 She demonstrates that, as Claudian unites military and erotic conquest, Honorius’ physical violent victory over Maria in the fourth fescennine aims at foreshadowing his military victory over Gildo, while it could also be a  30 For arguments in favour of the view that Claudian was of Egyptian origin, see e.g. Mulligan 2007; Gualandri 2013, esp. 115–116; cf. Christiansen and Christiansen 2009, who are more skeptical. 31 See especially Bicknell 1977. 32 Wasdin 2014 (quotation from pp. 48–49).

  Spyridon Tzounakas warning even for Eutropius and Arcadius.33 She underlines the stereotypical feminine image of the East in Roman thought34 and concludes that Claudian’s “innovation can be explained as an inversion of the imported elegiac trope, portraying a royal marriage as a metaphor for war instead of war as a metaphor for sexual conquest. Both Stilicho and Claudian adopted a model of military assimilation, and the forthcoming suppression of Gildo’s rebellion has its counterpart in Honorius’ battle with Maria and the resulting mutual harmony between conqueror and conquered”.35 In this framework, both Maria’s association with Venus on the basis of shared beauty36 and the implicit association of Venus with Lucan’s Cleopatra allow us to take this idea further and to draw a parallel between the sexual submission of the bride and the military surrender of Cleopatra, the African queen, and of the East in general; this, in turn, foreshadows the military surrender of the African king Gildo, repeating the theme of the victory of West over East, as it is expected that Honorius will repeat the African victory of his greatest predecessor as emperor, Augustus. Perhaps it is no coincidence that at the beginning of Claudian’s digression describing Venus’ realm in Cyprus the poet mentions that the mountain on which it stands casts its shadow onto the Ionian  33 Wasdin 2014, 56–63. Generally, for the sexual penetration of a female body as a conventional epic analogy for the conquest of enemy land, cf. Keith 2000, 40; Parkes 2015, 472 with n. 6. 34 Wasdin 2014, 63 n. 70: “This interpretation is helped by the Romans’ association of the East with femininity and weakness (Maria) and the West with virile masculinity (Honorius)”, citing Christiansen 1969, 71–72 and Ware 2012, 67–80. 35 Wasdin 2014, 63. Cf. Garambois-Vasquez 2011, who argues that in Claudian’s epithalamia Venus embodies a power that dominates nature, men and gods and that the poet exploits the notions of harmony and joy in the depiction of the goddess in order to promote his appeal for universal harmony and peace in view of the violent political and military circumstances of the period. More generally, for aspects of the political and religious dimensions of Claudian’s nuptial poems on the occasion of the marriage of Honorius and Maria, see also Gineste 2004, who focuses on the poet’s use of rhetorical topoi in his attempt to present the Western court in consonance with the imperial ideology. The allusions highlighted by Wasdin could also be justified by the military tone expressed by the soldiers’ choir which concludes the poem (295– 341) and which exalts Stilicho. 36 See Coombe, 2018, 171–177, who notes that although Maria is presented by Claudian “as the ideal chaste Roman maiden” (171), “Venus can represent Honorius’ erotic fantasy of Maria as sexual partner, corresponding with his sexual desires for her as depicted by Claudian, but Maria herself must correspond to the ideal Roman wife by day” (176). In my view, the implicit association of Venus with Cleopatra, a queen famous or even notorious for her sexuality, reinforces this interpretation. For a similar close identification between the bride and Venus, cf. Stat. Silv. 1.2, one of Claudian’s main models, where Violentilla replicates Venus, and see Roberts 1989, 324–325.

The Digression on Cyprus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae  

Sea and has a view of Egypt,37 both geographical locations that are closely associated with Cleopatra: the former is linked with Actium, while the latter is linked with the site of Augustus’ second victory over Cleopatra at Alexandria. Furthermore, the fact that the enamoured Honorius is likened to a horse coursing over Pharsalia’s plains38 could be considered to be an additional attempt to allude to Lucan, as the place-name points to the pivotal battle of the civil war described in Lucan’s epic and which, according to certain accounts, was the actual title of the work. Finally, it is worth noting that even the very simile comparing Honorius to a horse was used by Lucan in his description of Julius Caesar,39 Cleopatra’s lover. In this context, Maria could be seen as a good version of Cleopatra, the queen who bewitched Julius Caesar.

 Conclusion Exploiting his talent for landscape description,40 using a number of allusions to various earlier texts from different genres very effectively, and even, perhaps, incorporating Christian influences,41 Claudian depicts Venus’ realm in Cyprus not as a mere locus amoenus, but as a terrestrial paradise fit for gods, a place which served as an ideal model for later writers wanting to depict the idea of

 37 In addition to a political meaning, the view from Venus’ palace could also have a metapoetic meaning; maybe one could interpret the verb despectat in line 51 of the epithalamium as Claudian’s view of the literary past. 38 289–294: nobilis haud aliter sonipes, quem primus amoris / sollicitavit odor, tumidus quatiensque decoras / curvata cervice iubas Pharsalia rura / pervolat et notos hinnitu flagitat amnes / naribus accensis; mulcet fecunda magistros / spes gregis et pulchro gaudent armenta marito (‘Even so the noble steed when first the smell that stirs his passions smites upon him proudly shakes his thick, disordered mane and courses over Pharsalia’s plains. His nostrils are aflame and with a neighing he greets the streams that saw his birth. His masters smile at the hope of their stud’s increase, and the mares take pleasure in their handsome mate’). 39 Luc. 1.291–295: sic postquam fatus, et ipsi / in bellum prono tantum tamen addidit irae / accenditque ducem, quantum clamore iuvatur / Eleus sonipes, quamvis iam carcere clauso / inmineat foribus pronusque repagula laxet (‘By these words he much inflamed his general and increased his indignation, though Caesar anyway was keen for war — as much as the Elean race-horse is aroused by the shouting, and though enclosed in starting-gate he already reaches for the door and pressing forward loosens the bars’, trans. Braund 1992). 40 For Claudian’s “fondness for ecphrasis”, see Braden 1979, 215; cf. Gualandri 1994; Bianchini 2004, 31–41; Sánchez-Ostiz 2010; Ware 2012, 36. 41 Cf. Ware 2012, 230 with n. 81.

  Spyridon Tzounakas paradise in their works.42 At the same time, the rich intertextual dialogue arising from this ecphrasis makes the digression on Cyprus an essential part of the poem and significantly contributes to Claudian’s political agenda. By linking, however indirectly, this land to Honorius, Claudian implicitly reinforces the laudatory tone of his poem by exploiting various themes to the emperor’s credit, such as that of the Golden Age. Thus, he predicts the luxurious flowery life Honorius and Maria will lead together, highlights the divine blessing of the emperor and his supposedly eternal sovereignty, and suggests a parallel between Honorius and Augustus, while all the while artfully serving the political propaganda of the Western court and promoting its imminent military action against the African king Gildo.

Bibliography Berlincourt, V., Galli Milić, L. and Nelis, D., eds. (2016), Lucan and Claudian: Context and Intertext, Heidelberg. Bertini Conidi, R. (1988), Claudio Claudiano: Fescennini e epitalamio per le nozze di Onorio e Maria, Rome. Bianchini, E. (2004), Claudio Claudiano, Epitalami e fescennini, Florence. Bicknell, P.J. (1977), ‘Caesar, Antony, Cleopatra and Cyprus’, Latomus 36, 325–342. Braden, G. (1979), ‘Claudian and his Influence: The Realm of Venus’, Arethusa 12, 203–231. Braund, S.H. (1992), Lucan, Civil War, Translated with an Introduction and Notes, Oxford. Breitenstein, N. (2005), ‘Hymenaeus und die Panflöte - Claudians Epithalamium an Palladius und Celerina (c.m. 25)’, Museum Helveticum 62, 214–222. Calvelli, L. (2009), Cipro e la memoria dell’antico fra Medioevo e Rinascimento: La percezione del passato romano dell’isola nel mondo occidentale, Venice. Cameron, A. (1970), Claudian: Poetry and Propaganda at the Court of Honorius, Oxford. Castagna, L. and Riboldi, C., eds. (2006), Quesiti, temi, testi di poesia tardolatina: Claudiano, Prudenzio, Ilario di Poitiers, Sidonio Apollinare, Draconzio, Aegrituo Perdicae, Venanzio Fortunato, corpus dei Ritmi Latini, Frankfurt am Main. Charlet, J.-L. (1995), ‘Un exemple de la lecture d’Ovide par Claudien: L’Epithalame pour les noces d’Honorius et Marie’, in Gallo and Nicastri 1995, 121–131. Charlet, J.-L. (2000), Claudien, OEuvres, Vol. II, Paris.

 42 In its turn, Claudian’s ecphrasis of Venus’ realm in Cyprus seems to have exercised significant influence on later literature, as scholars have mentioned numerous probable echoes of this passage in many writers, such as Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Poliziano, Torquato Tasso, and Foscolo; see e.g. Braden 1979 and more recently Visentini 2018, 112–135, with a relevant bibliography. For the theme of the palace of Venus in Cyprus as a literary topos at the end of the 15th century, see Calvelli 2009, 271, 282, 291–293, 312.

The Digression on Cyprus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae  

Charlet, J.-L. (2005), ‘L’âge d’or dans la poésie de Claudien’, in Lehmann, Freyburger and Hirstein 2005, 197–208. Charlet, J.-L. (2014), ‘Références allusives dans le panégyrique de Claudien pour le sixième consulat d’Honorius’, Il calamo della memoria 6, 145–153. Christiansen, P.G. (1969), The Use of Images by Claudius Claudianus, The Hague. Christiansen, P.G. (1970), ‘Claudian and the East’, Historia 19, 113–120. Christiansen, P.G. and Christiansen, D. (2009), ‘Claudian: The Last Great Pagan Poet’, L’Antiquité Classique 78, 133–144. Clausen, W. (1994), A Commentary on Virgil, Eclogues, Oxford. Coombe, C. (2018), Claudian the Poet, Cambridge. Criscuolo, U., ed. (2004), Societas studiorum per Salvatore D’Elia, Naples. Duc, T. (1994), Le De raptu Proserpinae de Claudien. Réflexions sur une actualisation de la mythologie, Bern. Elsner, J. (2003), ‘Visualising Women in Late Antique Rome: The Projecta Casket’, in Entwistle 2003, 22–36. Entwistle, C., ed. (2003), Through a Glass Brightly: Studies in Byzantine and Medieval Art and Archaeology Presented to David Buckton, Oxford. Fallon, P. and Fantham, E. (2006), Virgil, Georgics, Translated by P. Fallon, with an Introduction and Notes by E. Fantham, Oxford/New York. Fernandelli, M. (2012), ‘Cultura e significati della praefatio all’Epitalamio per le nozze di Onorio e Maria di Claudiano’, Il calamo della memoria 5, 75–125. Frings, U. (1975), Claudius Claudianus, Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii Augusti: Einleitung und Kommentar, Meisenheim am Glan. Garambois-Vasquez, F. (2011), ‘Claudien et le mythe de Venus: entre ornement poétique et propagande politique’, in Garambois-Vasquez 2011, 45–61. Garambois-Vasquez, F., ed. (2011), Claudien: Mythe, histoire et science, Saint-Étienne. Gineste, M.-F. (2004), ‘Poésie, pouvoir et rhétorique à la fin du 4e siècle après J.-C.: les poèmes nuptiaux de Claudien’, Rhetorica 22, 269–296. Gallo, I. and Nicastri, L., eds. (1995), Aetates Ovidianae. Lettori di Ovidio dall’antichità al rinascimento, Salerno/Naples. Gruzelier, C.E. (1988), ‘Temporal and Timeless in Claudian’s De Raptu Proserpinae’, Greece and Rome 35, 56–72. Gualandri, I. (1968), Aspetti della tecnica compositiva in Claudiano, Milan/Varese. Gualandri, I. (1994), ‘Aspetti dell’ekphrasis in età tardo-antica’, in Testo e immagine nell’Alto Medioevo. Atti della XLI Settimana di Studio del Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo (Spoleto, 15–21 Aprile 1993), vol. I, Spoleto, 301–341. Gualandri, I. (2004), ‘Claudiano, l’isola di Cipro e il palazzo di Venere (Epith. Hon. 49–96)’, in Criscuolo 2004, 409–421. Gualandri, I. (2013), ‘Claudian, from Eastern to Western’, Talanta 15, 115–129. Hall, J.B., ed. (1985), Claudii Claudiani Carmina, Leipzig. Horstmann, S. (2004), Das Epithalamium in der lateinischen Literatur der Spätantike, Munich/ Leipzig. Juster, A.M. and Maltby, R. 2012, Tibullus, Elegies, Translated by A.M. Juster, with an Introduction and Notes by R. Maltby, Oxford/New York. Keith, A. (2000), Engendering Rome: Women in Latin Epic, Cambridge. Keydell, R. (1962), ‘Epithalamium’, Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum 5, 927–943.

  Spyridon Tzounakas Lanzarone, N. (2021), ‘La rappresentazione del palazzo di Cleopatra in Lucano, Bellum civile x’, Maia 73, 318–335. Lehmann, Y., Freyburger, G. and Hirstein, J.S., eds. (2005), Antiquité tardive et humanisme: De Tertullien à Beatus Rhenanus: Mélanges offerts à François Heim à l’occasion de son 70e anniversaire, Turnhout. Luceri, A. (2001), ‘I pastoralia murmura di Imeneo tra idillio ed encomio: per una interpretazione di Claudiano, carm. min. 25 Hall’, Res Publica Litterarum 24, 74–93. Luque, J., Rincón, D. and Velázquez, I., eds. (2010), Dulces Camenae: Poética y poesía Latinas, Jaén/Granada. Melville, A.D. and Kenney, E.J. (1986), Ovid, Metamorphoses, English translation by A.D. Melville, with an Introduction and Notes by E.J. Kenney, Oxford, repr. 2008. Morelli, C. (1910), ‘L’epitalamio nella tarda poesia latina’, Studi italiani di filologia classica 18, 319–432. Mozley, J.H. (21979), Ovid, The Art of Love and Other Poems, with an English Translation, revised by G.P. Goold, Cambridge, MA/London. Mulligan, B. (2007), ‘The Poet from Egypt? Reconsidering Claudian’s Eastern Origin’, Philologus 151, 285–310. Papagiannaki, A. (2010), ‘Aphrodite in Late Antique and Medieval Byzantium’, in Smith and Pickup 2010, 321–346. Parkes, R. (2015), ‘Love or War? Erotic and Martial Poetics in Claudian’s De Raptu Proserpinae’, The Classical Journal 110, 471–492. Pavarani, C. (2014), La memoria di Stazio in Claudiano: Commento intertestuale, Diss., Università degli studi di Milano/Université Sorbonne-Paris IV. Pavlovskis, Z. (1965), ‘Statius and the Late Latin Epithalamia’, Classical Philology 60, 164–177. Platnauer, M. (1922), Claudian, with an English Translation, Vol. I-II, Cambridge, MA/London. Ramella, T. (2013–14), ‘«Imeneo sotto il platano»: un motivo bucolico in Claudiano (carm. min. 25)’, Incontri di filologia classica 13, 123–160. Riboldi, C. (2006), ‘Venere nei carmi nuziali di Claudiano’, in Castagna and Riboldi 2006, 14–35. Roberts, M. (1989), ‘The Use of Myth in Latin Epithalamia from Statius to Venantius Fortunatus’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 119, 321–348. Sánchez-Ostiz, Á. (2010), ‘Antros de horror y lugares de maravilla en la épica de Claudiano’, in Luque, Rincón and Velázquez 2010, 301–312. Scourfield, J.H.D., ed. (2007), Texts and Culture in Late Antiquity: Inheritance, Authority, and Change, Swansea. Sigayret, L. (2009), L’imaginaire de la guerre et de l’amour chez Claudien: Dernier poète de l’Empire romain, Paris. Smith, A.C. and Pickup, S., eds. (2010), Brill’s Companion to Aphrodite, Leiden/Boston. Tarn, W.W. (1932), ‘Alexander Helios and the Golden Age’, The Journal of Roman Studies 22, 135–160. Visentini, E. (2018), Il regno di Venere nell’Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii Augusti: fonti e fortuna, M.A., Università degli Studi di Padova. Ware, C. (2012), Claudian and the Roman Epic Tradition, Cambridge. Wasdin, K. (2014), ‘Honorius Triumphant: Poetry and Politics in Claudian’s Wedding Poems’, Classical Philology 109, 48–65. Wasdin, K. (2018), Eros at Dusk: Ancient Wedding and Love Poetry, Oxford. Wheeler, S.M. (2007), ‘More Roman than the Romans of Rome: Virgilian (Self-)fashioning in Claudian’s Panegyric for the Consuls Olybrius and Probinus’, in Scourfield 2007, 97–134.



Part II: Cyprus after Antiquity

Thea Selliaas Thorsen

Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare: The Significance of Ovid’s Cypriot Metamorphoses

Abstract: This paper claims that Orpheus’ Cypriot tales in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 10 upturn a tradition that before Ovid is marked by strong female voices. Focusing on Orpheus’ tale of Venus and Adonis, the paper traces a tradition back to ancient Mesopotamia, which includes the first known author in the history of humankind, the woman Enheduanna, as well as Sappho and Praxilla of ancient Greece. The paper argues that Ovid’s Orpheus inverts this tradition by introducing strands of misogyny. Yet, while these misogynistic strands might be seen as extending into the later, postclassical tradition, as exemplified by Shakespeare’s poem Venus and Adonis, where the goddess of love seems paradoxically incompetent in her own divine domain, this paper argues that the Ovidian Orpheus’ heterosexual love stories, which include that of Venus and Adonis, encompass at least two levels, one on the surface, which is genderexclusively male and misogynistic, and another, which is profounder, genderinclusive and human, and which dramatizes the dangers of other-hate and selflove in a deeply Ovidian fashion. Throughout the island of Cyprus is key to the argument.

 Introduction If we take as a point of departure the receiving end of the trajectory embedded in the title of this chapter, Shakespeare and his Venus and Adonis (1593), a pressing question emerges against the background of the classical tradition:  I would like to express my gratitude firstly to Spyridon Tzounakas and Stella Alekou for their friendly organization of the original conference on which this volume is based, and for their incisive feedback — along with that of Stephen Harrison — as editors. Next, I would like to thank all the conference participants, especially Bruce Gibson, Stephen Harrison, Boris Hogenmüller and Mireille Issa, for helpful comments of various kinds. Finally, thanks are due to one of my sons, Sondre (9), who in his keen interest in ancient myth helped me coin the subtitle of this chapter.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-010

  Thea Selliaas Thorsen How do we explain that the goddess of love1 in Shakespeare’s poem fails to seduce and possess the object of her desires, Adonis? For that is what happens in Shakespeare’s long poem.2 Contrary to the ancient version of the myth,3 in which the two are lovers until Adonis is accidently killed by a boar, Shakespeare has Venus woo and even force herself upon Adonis (547–582), who in return not only scorns her, but lectures her, the goddess of love, on love (769–810), before he runs off and is eventually killed while hunting. Thus, Venus’ complete powerlessness within her own divine domain is underscored throughout the poem, in which she suffers not from the loss of a lover, as in the ancient tradition, but from a love that is never reciprocated or consummated, and that thus seems strikingly unworthy of the goddess of love herself. In the following I will suggest that an answer to the goddess’ puzzling failure in Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis lies in a very specific contribution to the tradition of the couple, in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 10. I will argue that in this composition Ovid, at least on one level, inverts a tradition that before him had been marked by strong female voices, that this inversion is achieved by introducing strands of misogyny into the central story, and that these misogynistic aspects might be seen to reverberate in Shakespeare’s poem. More precisely, I will contend that all of Orpheus’ heterosexual love stories, of which that of Venus and Adonis is the last, encompass two distinct levels that are of significance for the present argument, one on the surface, which is gender-exclusively male and misogynistic, and another, which is profounder, gender-inclusive and human, and in which the dangers of other-hate and self-love are dramatized in a deeply Ovidian fashion.

 1 This goddess is known both as Aphrodite and Venus in antiquity, but as the Latin name of the deity is most prominent in Ovid’s and Shakespeare’s versions, I will use this throughout this chapter, even in contexts where the version of the goddess is explicitly Greek, except in translations of quotations where her name is given as Aphrodite. 2 See, e.g., Newman 1984, 251, probing the same problem, but with a different approach, with references; cf. Emeljanow 1969 and Bate 1993. 3 Even if Ovid is the only preserved ancient author who outlines the love story of Venus and Adonis in his Metamorphoses (see Bömer 1980, 173), both ancient iconographical material (Atallah 1966, 169) and other poetry, such as Bion’s Lament for Adonis, clearly presuppose an erotic-affectionate relationship between the two before he dies.

Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare  

 Cyprus is key Both levels, I will argue, are also related to Cyprus. For this island is a recurring, significant and increasingly problematic feature in Orpheus’ heterosexual songs in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (10.220–739). Cyprus is evidently present from the outset of this sequence: the Propoetides (Met. 10.220–242), Pygmalion (Met. 10.243–297), Paphos (Met. 10.297), Cinyras and Myrrha (Met. 10.298–502) are all cast as inhabitants of the island. Moreover, as the favourite cult-place of Venus in the ancient Mediterranean, the island is a natural location for the goddess of love, who closes the sequence (Met. 10.503–739).4 Although Venus’ inset song of Atalanta and Hippomenes (Met. 10.560–707), which is the only story among Orpheus’ heterosexual tales that is not framed by a Cypriot setting, as it takes place in Arcadia, the island is nevertheless present in the shape of Venus’ apples, which come from Tamasus, a city in Cyprus (Met. 10.644–645). However, I will argue that it is precisely in this closing story that the reference to Cyprus emerges as undercuttingly problematic. For while Venus is obviously connected to this island, her beloved, Adonis, is not.5 In the following, I will argue that Adonis’ Cypriot setting in Ovid’s Metamorphoses emerges as a pointed variation of the tradition, and that this variation ultimately serves to disclose Orpheus’ manipulation of Venus/venus, that is, both of the goddess and of the phenomenon of love. This manipulation is in line with Orpheus’ initial rejection of omnem … femineam Venerem (Met. 10.79– 80, ‘all of female love’/‘female Venus’) and involves not only the preference for pederasty over heterosexual love, but also, on a deeper level, self-love and other-hate, that is, ultimately, perverted love, or non-love. The nature of this particular kind of love becomes most conspicuous in Orpheus’ heterosexual songs, notably in the form of Pygmalion’s misogyny and Myrrha’s incestuous relationship with her father.6 However, I will argue that when Orpheus tries to ascribe both of these forms of non-love, misogyny and incest, to Venus, who after all is the goddess of love, a tension is created, which arguably cracks open Orpheus’ fiction7 and reveals not only the dynamics of Orpheus’ self-love and other-hate as poet, but also an aspect of the poet behind him — he who was famously said to be nimium amator ingenii sui (Quint. Inst. 10.1.89, ‘too great a lover of his own talent’): Ovid. Thus, under a surface of misogyny and incest, these Cypriot met 4 See Stephen Harrison’s contribution to this volume. 5 For an overview of Venus’ role in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, see Stephens 1958. 6 See Nagle 1983. 7 There is an “idea that Orpheus’ song is a lie”, Fratantuono 2014, 143; cf. Fratantuono 2011, 298.

  Thea Selliaas Thorsen amorphoses arguably dramatize a self-love and other-hate which is dangerously latent not only in all humans, but also, and especially, in artists. These dynamics thus acquire a deeply metapoetic significance as a self-critical awareness of hybris, which opens up further insights into Ovidian poetics, and indeed ‘humanufacture’.8 As the main focus of this chapter is on Orpheus’ story of Venus and Adonis, I will treat Orpheus’ preceding songs, and the singer Orpheus himself, as prefigurations of the same themes that are in play in the Venus and Adonis episode. These themes are, as will be argued, same-sex relations understood as self-love (Orpheus’ pederasty), the love of one’s own creations understood as self-love (Orpheus’ songs) and other-hate (Pygmalion, who creates his statue because he hates women), and incest understood as yet another form of selflove (Myrrha and, as I will argue, Venus).

 Prefigurations: Orpheus, Pygmalion and Myrrha Love can go wrong. Orpheus, with whom I will start this brief introduction to the Venus and Adonis episode, certainly knows this. Hymenaeus, the connecting figure between Book 9 and 10 of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, has just presided over the successful wedding of the initially lesbian couple of Iphis and Ianthe (Met. 9.666–797), when he turns to the nuptial rites of the heterosexual couple of Orpheus and Eurydice, only to find himself in a disturbingly ill-omened setting: the god cannot manage to utter any festive words, there are no happy faces, no good auspices, and when he tries to light his wedding torches, they only pour forth smoke (Met. 10.1–7). Sadly, as we know, exitus auspicio gravior (10.8, ‘the outcome is worse than the beginning’): Eurydice soon dies from a snake-bite, and, desperate with grief, Orpheus descends into the Underworld with the intention of singing her back to life, only to lose her a second time, when he breaks his promise not to turn and look at her before they have reached the upper world (Met. 10.1–185). Orpheus will eventually be reunited with his wife in the Underworld — happily, it seems

 8 This gender-inclusive term is indebted to Alison Sharrock’s landmark article ‘Womanufacture’, of 1991, which looks more at the gender-exclusive poetics in which the creating subject is male and the created object is female, in line with the psychoanalytical entrenchment of the male/female binary; see below, as well as Henderson 2011, 167, on humans in Pliny the Elder’s Historia naturalis.

Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare  

(Met. 11.61–66) — but before that happens, he undergoes a very special process, which starts after he has mourned the loss of Eurydice for three full years: tertius aequoreis inclusum Piscibus annum finierat Titan, omnemque refugerat Orpheus femineam Venerem, seu quod male cesserat illi, sive fidem dederat; multas tamen ardor habebat iungere se vati, multae doluere repulsae. ille etiam Thracum populis fuit auctor amorem in teneros transferre mares citraque iuventam aetatis breve ver et primos carpere flores. Ov. Met. 10.78–85 (Tarrant 2004) Three times had the sun finished the year and come to watery Pisces; and Orpheus had shunned all female love/Venus, whether because of his ill success in love, or whether he had given his troth once for all. Still, many women felt a passion for the bard; many grieved for their love repulsed. He set the example for the people of Thrace of giving his love to tender boys, and enjoying the springtime and first flower of their youth. (trans. Miller, rev. Goold 1984)

In this passage, I would like to draw attention to the term auctor (10.83). Obviously, auctor means ‘origin’ and ‘authority’, that is, of the transfer of Orpheus’ love to tender, i.e., young, males; however, since we are not told of any of Orpheus’ pederastic relationships in the following, but instead they are presented with a string of songs, including those that tell of love for teneros mares, i.e., Ganymede and Hyacinthus (Met. 10.155–219), it is tempting to see a metapoetic dimension in the word auctor in the sense of ‘author’.9 This dimension is remarkably fitting for the figure of Orpheus, who is the proto-singer-songwriter, not least because hate of the other and love of the self is a prominently metapoetic theme in Ovid, as especially Philip Hardie has shown.10 Against this background, I will suggest that Orpheus’ hate of the other is represented by his rejection of female Venus/love, that is, his misogyny,11 while his self-love is represented not only by love of his own sex in the form of pederasty but also by that of his own poetic creations in the form of his songs. And when Orpheus dedicates himself to the love of his own artistic creations, he arguably prefigures, most conspicuously, one of these very creations, namely  9 Cf. e.g. Ep. 7.105, idoneus auctor; cf. Ep. 15.3, auctoris nomina Sapphus, see Knox 1995, 220. 10 Hardie 2002 passim and especially 2004. 11 Cf. nostri … contemptor (Met. 11.7, ‘the one who despises that which is ours’), thus the Maenads, who proceed to murder Orpheus, explained as the “‘Misogynismus’ des Orpheus” by Bömer 1980, 242; see also below.

  Thea Selliaas Thorsen the sculptor Pygmalion, who also, so famously, ‘fell in love with his own creation’ (Met. 10.249: operisque sui concepit amorem). Indeed, Orpheus’ first major heterosexual story, that of Pygmalion, features in a much-researched episode,12 and in the context of this argument I shall limit myself to making only one brief point, namely that his famous misogyny — inasmuch as he is a male figure — is a form of hate of the other. This is prominently illustrated by his hate of the Propoetides, which extends to womankind in general (10.244–245: offensus vitiis, quae plurima menti / femineae natura dedit, ‘offended by the vices which nature gave many of to the female mind’). Similarly, Pygmalion mirrors Orpheus as an illustration of how the hate of the other is frequently paired with the love of the self. At the same time, Pygmalion also varies this kind of self-love, by turning not to younger versions of himself in the form of boys, as Orpheus does, but by creating a fake other, that is, a pretend woman who in fact is derived from his own mind and crafted by his own hands. For while his statue carries all the hallmarks of a woman, she remains his work, opus. The misogynistic dimension of Pygmalion’s possession of his living ivory doll is eminently identified with the process of his ‘womanufacture’ in the landmark article of that title by Alison Sharrock (1991). However, while misogyny is gender-exclusively male, the disorder of hating the other and loving the self may extend to women too, as demonstrated by Myrrha’s incest.13 Notably, the gender-inclusiveness is explicit in Myrrha’s deliberation over the moral challenges involved in her passion, when she envies gentes … / in quibus et nato genetrix et nata parenti / iungitur (Met. 10.331–333, ‘peoples … among whom a mother joins with a son, and a daughter with a father’).14 And, although not always acknowledged as such, Myrrha too becomes one in the string of artistic creators in Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book 10, where Orpheus makes his songs, Pygmalion makes his statue and Myrrha makes her Adonis. And even if giving birth may not be the most obvious way of producing a piece of art, it is precisely as a piece of art that Myrrha’s new-born baby is described:15

 12 See also, in this volume, the contributions of Alekou and Kirstein. 13 Which is, rather painfully and tragically, accompanied by a considerable self-hate, leading to her attempted suicide; see also Kitsou in this volume. 14 For the legal implications of Myrrha’s reflections, see Ziogas 2016. 15 Hardie 2004, 39.

Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare  

… qualia namque corpora nudorum tabula pinguntur Amorum, talis erat; sed, ne faciat discrimina cultus, aut huic adde leves aut illis deme pharetras. Ov. Met. 10.515–518 (Tarrant 2004) … for he looked like one of the naked Loves portrayed on canvas. But, that an ornament may make no distinction, you should either give him a light quiver or take it away from them. (trans. Miller, rev. Goold 1984)

This passage arguably thematizes the same idea which is more famously expressed in the Pygmalion passage through the words ars adeo latet arte sua (Met. 10.252, ‘to that extent does art hide by its own art’). For the flesh and blood baby looks like a painting of naked ‘Loves’ (with a very particular connection with Venus, to which I shall return below), to the extent that he becomes virtually indistinguishable from them.

 Venus: Subtle misogyny and ill-omened incest Misogyny and incest, I will argue, are also important themes in the last of Orpheus’ heterosexual stories, whose protagonist is Venus. To my knowledge, these themes have not been much explored as relevant to this episode in scholarship before, although, importantly, Philip Hardie touches upon one of these themes when he calls the relationship between the two “quasi-incestuous”.16 Because the misogynistic strands might be the least obvious in the story of Venus and Adonis, I will first highlight those aspects, before I then revisit the potentially incestuous dimensions of this story.

. After Enheduanna If Orpheus is a poet with a self-love/other-hate agenda, and if the ‘other’ is represented by omnem … femineam Venerem (see above), then his choice of recasting the story of Venus and Adonis, which so is replete with resonances from the

 16 Hardie 2004, 43. See also Thomas 1998, 102: “… the offspring of Cinyras’ and Myrrha’s union grows to become not merely the love object of Venus, but one which verges on the incestuous” and Fabre-Serris 2005, 32.

  Thea Selliaas Thorsen previous tradition, is particularly apt for a misogynistic twist.17 For, in antiquity, Venus’ love for and loss of Adonis is a pervasive theme within the religious cult of the Adonia and within the literary tradition of poetry, and, notably, within both the religious and the literary strand, which have deep roots in ancient Mesopotamia, the Old Testament and Phoenicia, women appear with striking prominence.18 Recognizing, with Bömer,19 that “[f]ür Ovid ist die Adonis-Geschichte aber kein religionshistorisches, sondern ein poetisches Problem”, I will in the following focus on the literary aspect of the Adonis story. And, in order to stress the remarkable presence of women in this tradition,20 it seems appropriate to start, if only briefly, in ancient Mesopotamia, with Enheduanna, princess of Akkad and high priestess of Ur, who lived in the 23rd century BCE and who is still painfully unknown, despite being the first recorded author in the history of humankind.21 The works which are attributed to her consist of more than forty hymns. Much of this poetry is centred on Inanna, which is the name of the goddess of love in Sumerian, Enheduanna’s language. Moreover, Dumuzi(d)22 is represented as Inanna’s husband and attractive beloved, as here, for example: Your prince, a prowling lion on the steppe, jewel of the Holy Woman who is pure and holy of breast, the lord, husband of pure Inanna, Dumuzi, king of the House of the Holy Area, …. Enheduanna, Temple Hymns 5.1.17 (Halton and Svärd 2018).

 17 I will argue that this is the main reason for its inclusion, as this episode does not really fit Orpheus’ explicit programme, which is to sing of pueros … / dilectos superis inconcessisque puellas / ignibus attonitas meruisse libidine poenam (Met. 10.152–154, ‘boys loved by gods and girls who, struck by the lust of forbidden fires, deserved punishment’); see also below. 18 For Mesopotamia, see Jacobsen 1970, 1985; for the Old Testament, see, e.g., Ezekiel 8:14, mentioning ‘women weeping for Tammuz [i.e., the equivalent of Adonis]’; for Phoenicia, see Antoninus Liberalis, Met. 34, and below. The Greek name Adonis also has a Semitic origin, meaning ‘lord’; see, e.g., Reed 1995, 318 n. 3. 19 Bömer 1980, 171. 20 Even in male-authored texts in the Venus and Adonis traditions, women are prominent, notably in Theocritus’ Idyll 15 and Bion of Smyrna’s Lament for Adonis. 21 Halton and Svärd 2018, 51, with references. 22 This figure’s name is regularly transcribed both with and without a final ‘d’; see, e.g., Halton and Svärd 2018, passim. I therefore adopt both versions of his name by including a final ‘d’ in parentheses.

Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare  

Inanna and Dumuzi(d),23 also known as Ishtar/Astarte and Tammuz, a couple widely attested in highly erotic Mesopotamian literature,24 are extensively recognized, both in ancient sources25 and in scholarship,26 as the equivalent of Venus and Adonis in the Graeco-Roman world.27 And, strikingly, women authors offer a concrete point of contact in this East-and-West/Venus-and-Adonis complex. For in fact, just as Enheduanna is not only the first extant woman author in world history, but also the first extant author, regardless of sex, Sappho, 7th/6th century BCE, is not only the first woman poet to evoke Adonis in the extant literature of antiquity, but the first ancient author ever to do so, as far as we know. As many as three authors, all active around the 2nd century CE, mention Sappho’s songs for Adonis. Hephaestion records that: τῶν δὲ τετραμέτρων (ἀντισπαστικῶν) τὸ μὲν καταληκτικὸν καθαρόν ἐστι τὸ τοιοῦτον· κατθνάσκει, Κυθέρη᾿, ἄβρος Ἄδωνις· τί κε θεῖμεν; καττύπτεσθε, κόραι, καὶ κατερείκεσθε χίτωνας. Hephaestion, Handbook on Metres 10.4 = Sappho fr. 140 Voigt Among antispastic tetrameters the following is the pure form of catalectic line: ‘Splendid Adonis is dying, Cytherea; what shall we do?’ ‘Beat your breasts, girls, and tear your clothes.’ (trans. Campbell 1982, slightly adapted)

Moreover, Pausanias observes that: Σαπφὼ δὲ ἡ Λεσβία … Ἄδωνιν … ᾖσεν (9.29.8 = Sappho fr. 214 Voigt, ‘Sappho of Lesbos … sang of Adonis …’, trans. Campbell 1982). Finally, the grammarian Marius Plotius Sacerdos (The Art of Grammar 3.3, 4.516 Keil) claims that: Adonium dimetrum dactylicum catalecticum a Sappho inventum, unde etiam sapphicum nuncupatur, monoschematistum est: semper enim dactylo et spondeo percutitur: ὦ τὸν Ἄδωνιν = Sappho fr. 168 Voigt

 23 Halton and Svärd 2018, 65, 113. 24 Noted, as Cooper 1989, 88 points out, for sexual recreation rather than procreation. See Wolkstein and Kramer 1983 and Rubio 2001. 25 Cicero, N. D. 3.59.6, Lucian, Syr.D., Jerome, Ep. 38.3. 26 See, e.g., Reed 1995. 27 See, e.g., Marcovich 1996.

  Thea Selliaas Thorsen The adonius or catalectic dactylic dimeter was invented by Sappho, whence it is also known as sapphic; it is monoschematic, being always composed of a dactyl and a spondee: ‘Alas for Adonis.’ (trans. Campbell 1982)

These testimonies and preserved fragments of Sappho are important in the context of this argument, despite the brevity and lateness of their recording, which are some eight hundred years separated from the time when Sappho lived. For the two lines that Hephaestion preserves reveal a dramatization of the imminent death of the ‘splendid Adonis’, ἄβρος Ἄδωνις, while the apostrophes to Venus (Κυθέρη᾿) and the girls (κόραι) suggest a lively, performative setting, readily conjuring up the religious rituals of the Adonia. Moreover, as the metres that are described in Hephaestion’s and Marius Plotius Sacerdos’ handbooks are different, it cannot be ruled out that Sappho composed more than one poem on the theme of Venus and Adonis. Valuable also is a brief extant fragment of the poet Praxilla of Sicyon, who was active about a century later than Sappho. This fragment is preserved by Zenobius (fl. 2nd century CE), in the following passage: Ἠλιθιώτερος τοῦ Πραξίλλης Ἀδώνιδος· ἐπὶ τῶν ἀνοήτων. Πράξιλλα Σικυωνία μελοποιὸς ἐγένετο, ὥς φησι Πολέμων· αὕτη ἡ Πράξιλλα τὸν Ἄδωνιν ἐν τοῖς ὕμνοις εἰσάγει ἐρωτώμενον ὑπὸ τῶν κάτω τί κάλλιστον καταλιπὼν ἐλήλυθεν, ἐκεῖνον δὲ λέγοντα οὕτως· κάλλιστον μὲν ἐγὼ λείπω φάος ἠελίοιο, δεύτερον ἄστρα φαεινὰ σεληναίης τε πρόσωπον ἠδὲ καὶ ὡραίους σικύους καὶ μῆλα καὶ ὄγχνας· εὐηθὴς γάρ τις ἴσως ὁ τῶι ἡλίωι καὶ τῆι σελήνηι τοὺς σικύους καὶ τὰ λοιπὰ συναριθμῶν. Zenobius, Proverbs 4.21 = Praxilla fr. 747, PMG ‘Sillier than Praxilla’s Adonis’: used of stupid people. Praxilla of Sicyon was a lyric poetess, according to Polemon. In her hymn this Praxilla represents Adonis as being asked by those in the underworld what was the most beautiful thing he left behind when he came, and giving as his answer: The most beautiful thing I leave behind is the sun’s light; second, the shining stars and the moon’s face; also ripe cucumbers and apples and pears. For anyone who lists cucumbers and the rest alongside sun and moon can only be regarded as feeble-minded. (trans. Campbell 1982)

Zenobius’ verdict that anyone comparing something as valuable as the sun and the moon to something as trivial as cucumbers and pears must be stupid has

Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare  

sometimes been interpreted as a devaluation of Praxilla.28 However, Zenobius is actually saying that Adonis, not Praxilla, is silly. Thus, Zenobius is in line with Plato’s Socrates, who uses the cultivation of the ‘garden of Adonis’29 as an example of a less worthwhile pursuit: ὁ νοῦν ἔχων γεωργός, ὧν σπερμάτων κήδοιτο καὶ ἔγκαρπα βούλοιτο γενέσθαι, πότερα σπουδῇ ἂν θέρους εἰς Ἀδώνιδος κήπους ἀρῶν χαίροι θεωρῶν καλοὺς ἐν ἡμέραισιν ὀκτὼ γιγνομένους, ἢ ταῦτα μὲν δὴ παιδιᾶς τε καὶ ἑορτῆς χάριν δρῴη ἄν, ὅτε καὶ ποιοῖ· ἐφ᾿ οἷς δὲ ἐσπούδακε, τῇ γεωργικῇ χρώμενος ἂν τέχνῃ, σπείρας εἰς τὸ προσῆκον, ἀγαπῴη ἂν ἐν ὀγδόῳ μηνὶ ὅσα ἔσπειρεν τέλος λαβόντα; Plato, Phaedrus 61B Would a sensible husbandman, who has seeds which he cares for and which he wishes to bear fruit, plant them with serious purpose in the heat of summer in some garden of Adonis, and delight in seeing them appear in beauty in eight days, or would he do that sort of thing, when he did it at all, only in play and for amusement? Would he not, when he was in earnest, follow the rules of husbandry, plant his seeds in fitting ground, and be pleased when those which he had sowed reached their perfection in the eighth month? (trans. Fowler, Lamb, rev. Maitland 1982)

Both Plato’s Socrates and the proverbial tradition Zenobius records appear to disregard the cosmic significance, so deeply appreciated in the Praxillean fragment, of fast-growing — and therefore fast-decaying — plants in the cult of Adonis. In this regard Praxilla’s fragment appears to look back to the Near Eastern legacy. Ηere Dumuzi(d)/Tammuz, whose name suggests ‘the quickener of the young’ or ‘quickener of the child’,30 is prominently linked to the budding exuberance and pleasing sweetness that is represented by the rising sap in plants, the ripening of fruit and the growth of grain, as well as to the kind of ephemerality that is represented by fresh milk, which in Mesopotamian culture had to be enjoyed immediately or else be spoiled. Ιn short, Praxilla’s poem seems to draw on a legacy in which Dumuzi(d)/Tammuz is linked with ‘belovedness’,31 whose ever

 28 E.g., Henderson 2010 and Cazzato 2016. This interpretation of Zenobius’ quotation is often combined with the derogatory remark of Tatian regarding Praxilla: see below. 29 The ‘garden of Adonis’ consists in potted, quickly growing plants that were placed on rooftops in summer by women, who watched the plants first grow and then die in the summer heat, whereupon they would lament the death of the lovely and lively, yet ever so precarious and easily destroyed life of Adonis; cf. Reed 1995, 319. 30 Jacobsen 1970, 1985. 31 Term introduced by Jacobsen 1970, 77.

  Thea Selliaas Thorsen imminent and sometimes realized death and descent to the Underworld, where the fragment of Praxilla places Adonis, is a cause of violent lamentation.32 These elements are preserved in Orpheus’ song about Venus and Adonis, when the latter, on Venus’ request, is transformed into an anemone, the fragility of which is stressed thus: brevis est tamen usus in illo; / namque male haerentem et nimia levitate caducum / excutiunt idem, qui praestant nomina, venti (Met. 10.737– 739, ‘But the use of this plant is short-lived; for the winds, from which it names its name, shake off the flower that barely holds on and too easily falls off’). However, the main focus of Orpheus’ tale is not on the ritual lament of the goddess, where female figures are so central in previous literature, but on how Venus fails entirely. Not only does she go far out of her comfort zone to please Adonis, behaving like her diametrical opposite among goddesses, the chaste and sex-hating Diana: ritu … Dianae (Met. 10.536, ‘in Diana’s fashion’); Venus also makes a considerable effort in warning Adonis against hunting dangerous animals through her inset song, which takes up a full 148 of the total of the episode’s 220 lines. Yet it is all to no avail, as he, in his foolhardiness, immediately disregards her admonitions and is killed, thus sealing the goddess’ failure and powerlessness. In sum, considering the rich female tradition of the Adonia,33 it seems a particularly cunning move to usurp the tale of Venus and Adonis — for the misogy 32 Jacobsen 1970. 33 Curiously, virtually all of that which has been outlined so far in this chapter, appears to have been present in Ovid’s Rome in a strangely concrete way. For here, a statue of Sappho by the Athenian sculptor Silanion (4th cent. BCE) as well as a statue of Praxilla by her co-citizen of Sicyon, the sculptor Lysippus (4th cent. BCE), were put on public display, as is recorded by Tatian (2nd cent. CE) in his Oratio ad Graecos: Πράξιλλαν μὲν γὰρ Λύσιππος ἐχαλκούργησεν (33.8–9, ‘Lysippus made a bronze statue of Praxilla’) and Σιλανίων δὲ Σαπφὼ τὴν ἑταίραν (33.10, ‘Silanion of Sappho the companion’). Moreover, in this work, Tatian claims that: Ταῦτα μὲν οὖν οὐ παρ᾽ ἄλλου μαθὼν ἐξεθέμην … δὲ τῇ Ῥωμαίων ἐνδιατρίψας πόλει καὶ τὰς ἀφ’ ὑμῶν ὡς αὐτοὺς ἀνακομισθείσας ἀνδριάντων ποικιλίας καταμαθών (36.25–37.2, ‘All this I set down not from second-hand knowledge … I spent time in the city of the Romans and got to know the varieties of statues which they brought home with them from you [i.e., the Greeks]’, trans. Whittaker 1982, 65). Due to the identification of some of the statues other than that of Sappho and that of Praxilla, which Tatian also mentions, and which are the same as some recorded by Pliny the Elder, who locates these in the Portico of Pompey (Nat. 7.34), it seems probable that also the other statues that Tatian observed were put on display here, in Rome’s first public park, built during the 50s BCE in commemoration of Pompey the Great’s triple triumph, and were dedicated to the goddess of love, Venus. The 19th century attempt to discredit the credibility of Tatian’s observation regarding these statues (Kalkmann 1887) has been decisively demolished through the discovery of a statue base inscription, retrieved from an area in connection with the complex of the Portico of Pompey, which uniquely matches the identification of Tatian of a portrayed figure and her sculptor; see Coarelli 1971–72, Stewart 1998, Thorsen 2020, in the case of

Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare  

nist Orpheus, nostri (i.e., ‘of womankind’) contemptor (Met. 11.7)34 — and render the goddess impotent. Moreover, I will argue that Orpheus’ process of trapping Venus in her own snares, as it were, starts from the outset of his heterosexual tales, as he subtly suggests the stain of incest for the couple, in a process in which Cyprus plays a key role.

. A Cypriot framing of Venus’ incest The presence of Cyprus emerges as particularly pointed in the Orphic inversion of the story of Venus and Adonis, for Adonis’ parental and geographical origins, plus the extent to which divine intervention and/or incest play a part in his story, vary greatly according to different ancient sources. Keeping the Ovidian version apart, these sources include, from the earliest to the most recent: Apollodorus,35 probably of the 1st or 2nd century CE, paraphrases a work by Hesiod (fl. 750 BCE) that is now identified as a part of the Catalogue of Women (frs. 2.106, 10736), in which Phoenix and Alphesiboea, both of Phoenicia, are presented as the parents of Adonis. Here there is no mention of any divine intervention, or incest. Moreover, Apollodorus also paraphrases a work by the epic poet Panyassis of Halicarnassus37 (5th century BCE), according to which Thias, king of Assyria, is said to have fathered Adonis with his daughter Smyrna, whose lust for Thias is presented as Venus’ punishment for her lack of respect for the goddess. Moving further on in time, Aristophanes’ contemporary the comic playwright Plato, as reported by Athenaeus (10.456b), is the only extant author before Ovid who casts Cinyras both as king of the Cypriots and father of Adonis, in fr. 3 from his play Adonis. Adonis is here reportedly destroyed by the gods Venus and Dionysus, but there is no mention of incest.  Silanion’s statue of the poet Corinna. Intriguingly, Ovid recommends his male (and female, cf. Ars 3.387–388) audience to go to the Portico of Pompey in search of romance: tu modo Pompeia lentus spatiare sub umbra / cum sol Herculei terga leonis adit (Ars 1.67, ‘Only walk leisurely beneath the Pompeian shade, when the sun draws towards the Herculanean lion’s back’). And this recommendation occurs, textually, in close vicinity to the following admonition: nec te praetereat Veneri ploratus Adonis (Ars 1.75, ‘and do not let Adonis, bewailed by Venus, pass you by’). This line from Ovid’s Ars amatoria is famously the first attestation of the Adonia in Rome; see Bömer 1980, 171 with further references. 34 See n. 11 above. 35 The accuracy of this name and the authenticity of this author have been questioned. 36 As recorded by Probus in Verg. Ecl. 10.18 and Apollodorus, Bibl. 3.4. 37 Fr. 28, as recorded by Apollorodus, Bibl. 3.4. In fr. 29 of Panyassis, which is entry ‘η 652’ in Hesychius’ Lexicon, Adonis is said to be ‘of Dawn’: Ἠοίην· / τὸν Ἄδωνιν. Πανύασις.

  Thea Selliaas Thorsen Among the sources datable to the common era, Hyginus (probably 2nd cent. CE) also represents Cinyras as the father of Adonis with his daughter Smyrna (Fab. 58), whose incestuous love for him is in this case cast as the revenge of Venus on his wife, Cenchreis, who claimed to be more beautiful than the goddess. However, Hyginus’ Cinyras is identified as the king not of the Cypriots, but of the Assyrians. Apollodorus himself represents Cinyras as an immigrant to Cyprus, who marries the daughter of Pygmalion, identified as the king of the island; in this version of the myth, there is no incest, and the death of Adonis is said to be brought about by the goddess Diana, whose aggression remains unexplained. Also, Thias is again claimed to be the father both of Smyrna and, by her, of Adonis, in the Metamorphoses (34) of Antoninus Liberalis, an author of uncertain date, but possibly of the 2nd or 3rd century CE.38 Moreover, Antoninus Liberalis claims that Thias is the king of Lebanon in Phoenicia; and indeed, the cult of Adonis is particularly strongly linked to this area, especially through the river which in antiquity was known as ‘Adonis’ river’, and which has its outlet close to the ancient city of Byblos, as described in the work On the Syrian Goddess (8), attributed to Lucian, in the 2nd century CE.39 Thus (still keeping Ovid’s version apart), Adonis’ father is said to be either Phoenix of Phoenicia (Hesiod), Thias of Phoenicia (Antoninus Liberalis), Thias of Assyria (Panyassis), Cinyras of Cyprus (Plato the playwright), Cinyras of Assyria (Hyginus) or Cinyras the immigrant to Cyprus (Apollodorus). Consequently, with the possible addition of Plato the playwright, although this is not certain, due to the scantiness of his preserved fragment, it is only in Ovid’s Metamorhoses that a bloodline is drawn from Pygmalion, through Paphos, Cinyras and Myrrha, to Adonis. This insistence on the Cypriot lineage of Adonis has one important consequence in the context of this argument: it arguably creates not a ‘quasiincestuous’ but an actual incestuous relationship between Venus and Adonis. For it is not Pygmalion himself but Venus who makes his doll come alive. At her festival, Pygmalion prays to have a woman such as his ivory statue (Met. 10.270–271), and even if Pygmalion addresses unspecified gods (di, Met. 10.274), it is Venus who hears him, understands him and grants him his wish:

 38 Celoria 2012, 12. 39 Indeed, the Lebanese river is now known as ‘Abraham’s river’, but it used to be called ‘Adonis’ river’, and still runs red every spring, as duly pointed out by Professor Mireille Issa, a native of Lebanon, during the conference on which this volume is based.

Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare  

sensit, ut ipsa suis aderat Venus aurea festis, vota quid illa velint et, amici numinis omen, flamma ter accensa est apicemque per aera duxit. Ov. Met. 10.277–279 (Tarrant 2004) But golden Venus (for she herself was present at her feast) knew what that prayer meant; and, as an omen of her favouring deity, thrice did the flame burn brightly and leap high in the air. (trans. Miller, rev. Goold 1984)

When the ivory statue subsequently comes to life, she does so with Venus as her divine mother, as it were, and Pygmalion as the goddess’ fathering partner. The misogyny Pygmalion displays towards the Propoetides thus translates into a love of the self, which is also incestuous, inasmuch as Pygmalion is the creator of the statue which, animated by the help of Venus, is his wife. As if to underscore the continually incestuous interaction with Venus, the goddess is also present when their daughter Paphos is conceived: coniugio, quod fecit, adest dea, iamque coactis cornibus in plenum noviens lunaribus orbem illa Paphon genuit, de qua tenet insula nomen. Ov. Met. 10.295–297 (Tarrant 2004) The goddess graced with her presence the marriage she had made; and before the ninth moon had brought her crescent to the full, she gave birth to Paphos, from whom the island takes its name.40 (trans. Miller, rev. Goold 1984)

In fact, the phrase illa Paphon genuit, the most logical subject of which must be Pygmalion’s ivory statue, is somewhat confusing and thus suggestive of the goddess’ influence on the chain of events, as the female figure in the closest vicinity to this phrase is the goddess, which might be a hint at her active contribution to the engendering of the girl. Indeed, in the lineage of Orpheus’ Adonis, incest appears hereditary and accumulative; for while incestuous aspects mingle with many others in the story of Pygmalion and his ivory statue, they concentrate in the story of their greatgranddaughter Myrrha. However, as claimed above, incest also retains an artistic quality even here; and not only that, for the painted ‘Loves’ whom the newborn baby Adonis resembles (see above) are famously the children of Venus. In fact, Adonis can only be distinguished from these by means of an attribute, the  40 On the idea of Paphos as island, not city of Cyprus, cf. Bömer 1980, 110.

  Thea Selliaas Thorsen quiver. Thus, at the same time as Myrrha’s offspring resembles not his mother, but a piece of art, this piece of art also resembles the children of Venus. His looks thus reveal that he is a descendant of the goddess, who, as the divine mother of Pygmalion’s ivory statue, becomes his great-great-great-grandmother. When the two become lovers, their union is therefore incestuous. Thus, Orpheus succeeds in tainting the goddess of love with incest, by carefully drawing a lineage for Adonis which does not resemble any of those outlined in other known sources from antiquity. Cyprus plays a critical role in this operation, as Adonis is less obviously a descendant of Venus in any tradition other than that which is Cypriot and outlined in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. However, this geographical link, which is so important in order for Orpheus to frame Venus as a case of the kind of self-love he too arguably suffers from, is maintained with difficulty. In fact, Orpheus’ fiction appears to break down, while the geography of the other traditions imposes itself on Orpheus’ story of Venus and Adonis, as it were. One instance where the other traditions emerge is when Orpheus, in the fashion of a recusatio, tries to distance himself from the outrageousness of his theme, by congratulating himself for being from Thrace, far removed from Panchaean lands (Met. 10.309), that is Arabia, where he, as if by a slip of the tongue, claims that Myrrha’s nefas took place (Met 10.304–307). This claim, which is in line with existing traditions for Adonis’ origin, yet contradicts Orpheus’ own subsequent story of Myrrha’s nefas, in the sense of incest, which he sets in Cyprus, has caused bewilderment among commentators, but is perhaps best understood as an indication of Orpheus’ not entirely successful manipulation of Adonis’ Cypriot lineage.41 Later, Arabia re-emerges in Orpheus’ narrative, but only after the nefas (cf. Met. 10.352; 404) has taken place, and Myrrha’s father has found out that he has been sleeping with her. For then Myrrha flies from him and Cyprus, passes by the Panchaean fields and ends up in the land of Sheba (Met. 10.477–480). Myrrha, who has already tried to commit suicide once, now begs to be neither dead nor alive, and so numen … aliquod (Met. 10.488, ‘some god’, Venus perhaps?)42 transforms her into a myrrh tree. The tree gives birth to Adonis, the lookalike of art and/or of the son of Venus. Adonis, as beautiful as a baby can be, grows, according to Orpheus, into an even more beautiful man, and catches Venus’ attention in a setting which arguably continues to be geographically challenging, thus:  41 See, e.g., Reed 2013, 234. 42 Cf. Met. 10.277–278, where the numen is Venus’, see above.

Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare  

iam placet et Veneri matrisque ulciscitur ignes. namque pharetratus dum dat puer oscula matri, inscius exstanti destrinxit harundine pectus. laesa manu natum dea reppulit: altius actum vulnus erat specie primoque fefellerat ipsam. capta viri forma non iam Cythereia curat litora, non alto repetit Paphon aequore cinctam piscosamque Cnidon gravidamve Amathunta metallis; abstinet et caelo: caelo praefertur Adonis. Ov. Met. 10.524–532 (Tarrant 2004) … now he is pleasing even to Venus, and avenges his mother’s passion. For while the quiver-carrying boy was kissing his mother, he chanced unwittingly to graze her breast with a projecting arrow. The wounded goddess pushed her son away; but the scratch had gone deeper than it seemed, and she herself was at first deceived. Now, smitten with the man’s beauty, she cares no more for the borders of Cythera, nor does she seek Paphos, girt by the deep sea, nor fish-haunted Cnidos, nor Amathus, rich in precious ores. She stays away even from the skies; Adonis is preferred to heaven. (trans. Miller, rev. Goold 1984)

Firstly, the image of the pharetratus puer (‘boy carrying a quiver’) recalls the description of the new-born baby Adonis, and the difficulty in distinguishing between him and the child of Venus is evocatively recalled not only through the mention of the quiver, but also through the observation of how Venus herself is the first to be deceived by the wound she has received — from whom, one might ask? Was it the one who looked like her son — or was it her son? The transition from the wound dealt by her child to her captivation by Adonis (cf. esp. Met. 10.528–529 above) arguably stresses the confounding resemblance between him and her ‘Love’ and thus begs the question. Next, the more problematic points in this passage concern — once again — geography. Several of the goddess’ cult-places are mentioned, some of relevance to Cyprus (Paphos and Amathus), but as such they do not seem to fit particularly well into the overall Cypriot framework, for these are locations that Venus no longer frequents, according to Orpheus. Yet, Adonis somehow (mysteriously) moves from his birthplace in Arabia and stays with Venus — not in Paphos or Amathus, places she allegedly shuns, but presumably somewhere else.43 And when he finally dies, after having been wounded by a boar’s tusk, he is back in Cyprus again, right? Once more, the geography is bewildering:

 43 On this catalogue, see Harrison in this volume.

  Thea Selliaas Thorsen Illa quidem monuit iunctisque per aera cycnis carpit iter; sed stat monitis contraria virtus. forte suem latebris vestigia certa secuti excivere canes, silvisque exire parantem fixerat obliquo iuvenis Cinyreius ictu: protinus excussit pando venabula rostro sanguine tincta suo trepidumque et tuta petentem trux aper insequitur totosque sub inguine dentes abdidit et fulva moribundum stravit harena. vecta levi curru medias Cytherea per auras Cypron olorinis nondum pervenerat alis: agnovit longe gemitum morientis et albas flexit aves illuc, utque aethere vidit ab alto exanimem inque suo iactantem sanguine corpus, desiluit pariterque sinum pariterque capillos rupit et indignis percussit pectora palmis questa … Ov. Met. 10.708–724 (Tarrant 2004) Thus the goddess warned and through the air, drawn by her swans, she took her way; but the boy’s manly courage would not brook advice. It chanced his hounds, following a wellmarked trail, roused up a wild boar from his hiding-place; and, as he was rushing from the wood, the young grandson of Cinyras pierced him with a glancing blow. Straightway the fierce boar with his curved snout rooted out the spear wet with his blood, and pursued the youth, now full of fear and running for his life; deep in the groin he sank his long tusks, and stretched the dying boy upon the yellow sand. Borne through the middle air by flying swans on her light car, Cytherea had not yet come to Cyprus, when she heard afar the groans of the dying youth and turned her white swans to go to him. And when from the high air she saw him lying lifeless and weltering in his blood, she leaped down, tore both her garments and her hair and beat her breasts with cruel hands and lamented … (trans. Miller, rev. Goold 1984)

Thus, after having warned Adonis through her inset song about Atalanta and Hippomenes, Orpheus tells us that Venus takes off in her car drawn by swans through the air. Immediately, Adonis does the exact opposite of what he has been told by his lover/ancestress. So, if Venus and Adonis were together in Cyprus, before Venus takes off and drives away, how can she not yet have arrived in Cyprus, if she was moving away from the island? Of course, she may have been away for some duration of time, before she then again reapproaches the island, and this is what must be assumed,44 yet this assumption requires a strained interpretation, as the combined information about Venus first taking  44 Cf. Bömer 1980, 229: “Venus hatte sich in X 708f entfernt, jetzt kehrt sie zurück. Wo sie in der Zwischenzeit war, wird nicht gesagt”.

Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare  

off and then not yet having arrived in Cyprus admittedly remains somewhat contradictory. Thus, I will contend, Orpheus’ manipulation of the goddess of love is again revealed as not entirely successful. The fiction cracks open and reveals itself as such.

 Conclusion: Narcissistic reflections There is always a danger of loving oneself too much — especially, if we are to believe the Ovidian legacy, when you are an artist. Philip Hardie, in his monograph Ovid’s Poetics of Illusion (2002), and other works,45 has uncovered the self-critical, almost masochistic, yet stingingly insightful metapoetic layers of the Metamorphoses that deal with (also incestuous themes as a) dramatization of self-love. Naturally, in Hardie’s work, interpretations of such self-love are centred not only on the figures from Book 10 of the Metamorphoses that we have revisited here, but also on the episode of Narcissus and Echo in Book 3.46 Shakespeare’s reception of Ovid in his poem Venus and Adonis arguably supports this interpretation. Indeed, Venus appears to be a natural woman in the most fundamental sense in this poem; here, she represents herself as nature, that is as a ‘park’ in which Adonis may be a deer: ‘Graze on my lips’, she bids him, ‘and if those hills be dry / stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie’ (233–234). But as such, she fails to seduce him. And as such, her powerlessness is arguably amiss; she is, after all, the goddess of love. Curiously within the context of the Shakespearean poem, which is replete with Ovidian echoes (and which is introduced by a couplet from Ovid, Amores 1.15.35–36), the way Shakespeare’s Venus tries to persuade and force herself upon Adonis resembles the way in which Narcissus himself woos his own reflection in the pool in Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book 3. And in fact, Shakespeare’s Venus explicitly compares Adonis to Narcissus, because she interprets his lack of interest in her as too great an interest in himself (161–162). The emergence of Narcissus in the midst of Shakespeare’s poem Venus and Adonis reveals that the reverberation of Orpheus’ misogynistic, incestuous strands that unfold throughout Book 10 of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, crowned by precisely the tale of Venus and Adonis, not only appears to perpetuate a male

 45 Hardie 2004. 46 Hardie 2002, 143–172. On the self-love of the artist regarding Narcissus and Pygmalion, see also Rosati 1983.

  Thea Selliaas Thorsen inversion of the prominence of women in the Adonia tradition in antiquity, but also dramatizes the dangers, for all humans, of loving oneself or one’s own creation too much, through a narcissism which is epitomized by that of the selfobsessed artist. Thus, even if, in the long tradition of Venus and Adonis, Orpheus’ Cypriot metamorphoses mark a turning point where a legacy of strong female voices gives way to one that is misogynistic, and where even the most powerful female being, a goddess, fails, and becomes completely powerless when rejected, as if she were a mortal woman — a truly feminea Venus, as can be observed in Shakespeare’s poem — there still remains an undercurrent even here, which is gender-inclusive and human, and where the dangers of otherhate and self-love are dramatized in a markedly Ovidian fashion. And Cyprus continues to play a role even as the Renaissance poem draws to its close, as the scorned and powerless goddess of love, airborne, takes her ‘course to Paphos, where the [...] queen / Means to immure herself and not be seen’ (1193–1194).

Bibliography Atallah, W. (1966), Adonis dans la littérature et l’art grecs, Paris. Bate, J. (1993), ‘Sexual Perversity in Venus and Adonis’, The Yearbook of English Studies 23, 80–92. Behrens, H., Loding, D. and Roth, M., eds. (1989), DUMU-E2-DUB-BA-A: Studies in Honor of Åke Sjøberg, Philadelphia. Bömer, F., ed. (1980), P. Ovidius Naso. Metamorphosen. Buch X–XI, Heidelberg. Campbell, D.A., ed. (1982), Greek Lyric Poetry, Vol. 1: Sappho and Alcaeus, Cambridge, MA. Campbell, D.A., ed. (1992), Greek Lyric Poetry, Vol. 4: Bacchylides, Corinna and Others, Cambridge, MA. Cazzato, V. (2016), ‘“Glancing Seductively through Windows”: The Look of Praxilla fr. 8 (PMG 754)’, in Cazzato and Lardinois 2016, 185–203. Cazzato, V. and Lardinois, A., eds. (2016), The Look of Lyric: Greek Song and the Visual, Leiden. Celoria, F., ed. (2012), The Metamorphoses of Antoninus Liberalis: A Translation with a Commentary, London. Coarelli, F. (1971–72), ‘Il complesso pompeiano del Campo Marzio e la sua decorazione scultorea’, Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia 44, 99–122. Cooper, J.S. (1989), ‘Enki’s Members: Eros and Irrigation in Sumerian Literature’, in Behrens, Loding and Roth 1989, 87–89. Emeljanow, V. (1969), ‘Ovidian Mannerism: An Analysis of the Venus and Adonis Episode in Met. X.507–738’, Mnemosyne 22, 67–76. Fabre-Serris, J. (2005), ‘Histoires d’inceste et de furor dans les Métamorphoses 9 et dans le chant en catalogue d’Orphée: une réponse d’Ovide au livre 4 des Géorgiques’, Dictynna: Revue de poétique latine 2, http://dictynna.revues.org/125.

Venus and Adonis from Enheduanna to Shakespeare  

Fowler, H.N. and Lamb, W.R.M., eds. (19822), Plato. Euthyphro, Apology, Crito, Phaedo, Phaedrus, Cambridge, MA. Fratantuono, L. (2011), Madness Transformed: A Reading of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Lanham. Fratantuono, L., ed. (2014), Ovid. Metamorphoses X, London. Halton, C. and Svärd, S. (2018), Women’s Writing of Ancient Mesopotamia, Cambridge. Hardie, P. (2002), Ovid’s Poetics of Illusion, Cambridge. Hardie, P. (2004), ‘Approximative Similes in Ovid: Incest and Doubling’, Dictynna: Revue de poétique latine 1, https://journals.openedition.org/dictynna/166. Henderson, J. (2011), ‘The Nature of Man: Pliny, Historia naturalis as Cosmogram’, Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici 66, 139–171. Henderson, W.J. (2010), ‘Family Values in Greek Lyric Poetry’, Acta Patristica et Byzantina 21(2), 74–94. Jacobsen, T. (1970), Towards an Image of Tammuz, Leiden. Jacobsen, T. (1985), ‘The Name Dumuzi’, The Jewish Quarterly Review 76, 41–45. Kalkmann, A. (1887), ‘Tatians Nachrichten über Kunstwerke’, Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 42, 489–524. Knox, P.E., ed. (1995), Ovid: Heroides. Select Epistles, Cambridge. Marcovich, M. (1996), ‘From Ishtar to Aphrodite’, The Journal of Aesthetic Education 30, 43–59. Miller, F.J., ed. (19842), Ovid. Metamorphoses, rev. by G.P. Goold, Cambridge, MA. Nagle, B.R. (1983), ‘Byblis and Myrrha: Two Incest Narratives in the Metamorphoses’, The Classical Journal 78, 301–315. Newman, K. (1984), ‘Myrrha’s Revenge: Ovid and Shakespeare’s Reluctant Adonis’, Illinois Classical Studies 9, 251–265. Page, D., ed. (1962), Poeti Melici Graeci, Oxford. Reed, J.D. (1995), ‘The Sexuality of Adonis’, Classical Antiquity 14, 317–347. Reed, J.D. (2013), Ovidio Metamorfosi, Vol. V: Libri X-XII, translation by G. Chiarini, Rome. Rosati, G. (1983), Narciso e Pigmalione: Illusione e spettacolo nelle Metamorfosi di Ovidio, Florence. Rubio, G. (2001), ‘Review: Inanna and Dumuzi: A Sumerian Love Story, by Yitschak Sefati’, Journal of American Oriental Society 212, 268–274. Sharrock, A.R. (1991), ‘Womanufacture’, The Journal of Roman Studies 81, 36–49. Stephens, W.C. (1958), ‘Cupid and Venus in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’, Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 89, 286–300. Stewart, A. (1998), ‘Nuggets: Mining the Texts Again’, American Journal of Archaeology 102, 271–282. Tarrant, R., ed. (2004), P. Ovidi Nasonis Metamorphoses, Oxford. Thomas, M.D. (1998), ‘Ovid’s Orpheus: Immoral Lovers, Immortal Poets’, Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici 40, 99–109. Thorsen, T.S. (2020), ‘“Divine Corinna”: Pre-Twentieth Century Reception of an Artistic Authority’, https://eugesta-revue.univ-lille.fr/pdf/2020/1.Selliaas_Thorsen_Eugesta_10_2020.pdf. Voigt, E.M., ed. (1971), Sappho et Alcaeus, Amsterdam. Whittaker, M., ed. (1982), Oratio ad Graecos and Fragments, edition and translation, Oxford. Wolkstein, D. and Kramer, S.N. (1983), Inanna: Queen of Heaven and Earth: Her Stories and Hymns from Sumer, London. Ziogas, I. (2016), ‘Orpheus and the Law: The Story of Myrrha in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’, Law in Context 34, 21–41.

Laura Aresi

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers: The Island of Cyprus in Boccaccio’s Decameron (via Ovid’s Metamorphoses) Abstract: This chapter aims to give an overview of the representation of the island of Cyprus in Boccaccio’s Decameron and to explore some possible Ovidian echoes in a selection of novellas of the medieval author. The purpose is to show how deeply the place redefines and shapes the content of the form, since Cyprus appears as the Holy Land of love and can influence the destiny of the characters who live or pass by there. This manifests itself particularly in the stories of Tedaldo’s amor cortese (3.7) and of Cimon (5.1), which is reshaped after the model of the Ovidian ‘Polyphemus in love’ (Met. 13.750–897), as well as in the brief novella of the lady of Gascony (1.10). Lastly, the paper focuses on Alatiel’s story (2.7), in which Cyprus represents the last stage of the protagonist’s wanderings. The incredible metamorphosis the girl undergoes, not by chance, on the island of Cyprus and the canonical happy end of the novella bear traces of two famous Cypriot myths recounted in the Metamorphoses: the story of Pygmalion (Met. 10.243–297) and that of Iphis and Anaxarete (Met. 14.698–761).

 Introduction In Giovanni Boccaccio’s Decameron, the concrete world of the medieval merchants coexists with both the idealized representation of the chivalrous virtues and the massive presence of stories and myths from Greek and Latin classics. This fusion between reality and literary memory has been particularly investigated in connection with the topography of Boccaccio’s stories, in which places resemble real life and convey symbolic values that shape and influence the development of the plot.1 The island of Cyprus seems to be the perfect example  1 Cf. Marcozzi 2010, 116, who remarks that places in the Decameron can be defined as “simboli dell’immaginario che orientano le soluzioni narrative”. Important considerations (still valid today) on the link between topography and narration in Boccaccio are offered by Asor Rosa 1992b, Branca 1992b, and Mazzacurati 1996, 1–36. In more recent years, a lot of work has been done in defining the role of places and voyages in the Mediterranean area and their economy in the structure of the Decameron: of the most important studies, cf. Morosini 2010a and 2010b, 2017 and 2020; Bolpagni 2017. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-011

  Laura Aresi of the fusion between reality and literature, history and ancient myth, that Boccaccio is so masterfully able to bring together in his work. The island thus appears in the Decameron with a twofold connotation. On the one hand, the reader can recognize the features of the Cyprus of the time, a land of passage for merchants, pilgrims and crusaders who were travelling to the Holy Land.2 On the other hand, the mythical Cyprus, the island of Venus,3 is just as important as the historical one, offering the plot a hidden intertextual network that the reader is invited to detect and appreciate for a deeper interpretation of the stories. The most important reservoir of Cypriot love-myths was offered, of course, by Ovid’s Metamorphoses.4 Boccaccio skilfully weaves Ovidian echoes into a lively and realistic narrative, so that the place becomes the trader of intertextual connections and the clue for a wider understanding of the leading role of love in the Decameron. The present study aims to give a brief overview of the stories in which Cyprus is mentioned as the island of pilgrims, merchants, and lovers. The purpose is to show how deeply the place redefines and shapes the content of the form, since Cyprus appears as the Holy Land of love and can influence the destiny of the characters who live or pass by there. This manifests itself particularly in the stories of Tedaldo’s amor cortese (3.7) and of Cimon (5.1), which is reshaped  2 Cf. the report of the cleric Ludolf von Sudheim (Deycks 1851, 34), a contemporary of Boccaccio, who travelled to the Holy Land in 1336 and also spent some time on the island of Cyprus: Item in Cypro sunt ditissimi mercatores et cives, et non est mirandum, quia Cyprus est terra Christianorum ultima, itaque omnia navigia parva et magna et omnia mercimonia, etiam quaecumque sunt et de quacumque parte maria veniunt, semper primum in Cyprum necessario veniunt, quod aliquatenus non possunt praeterire. Etiam omnes peregrinos de quibuscumque mundi partibus ad partes ultramarinos tendentes oportet venire in Cyprum (‘So there are also the richest merchants and citizens in Cyprus, and that should be no surprise, since Cyprus is a land located at the farthest edge of Christendom. For all ships, small and big, and all goods, no matter of what type and where they come from, must first land in Cyprus, which there is no possibility to avoid. Also, all pilgrims from all over the world and heading for overseas regions must come first to Cyprus’). For more on the description of Cyprus in travel literature of the time, cf. Dorninger 2011. 3 Cf. Dorninger 2011, 72: “Even in the fourteenth century, Venus and Pafos, as the place of her veneration in the antiquity, are still vividly present in the consciousness of travelers and inhabitants. Ludolf reports that in former times, nobles, both men and women, came great distances to her place of veneration at Pafos. […] And even in modern times she is not forgotten and is, in some respects, honored, for the church at the edge of the former sanctuary is dedicated to the Panagia Aphroditissa, the holiness of Aphrodite, and young mothers make offerings in front of stone in the wall of the sanctuary”. 4 Cf. also Harrison’s, Kirstein’s, Thorsen’s, Casanova-Robin’s, Alekou’s and Kitsou’s contributions in this volume.

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers  

after the model of the Ovidian ‘Polyphemus in love’ (Met. 13.750–897), as well as in the brief novella of the lady of Gascony, who courageously denounces the rape she suffered on the island (1.10). In the next section, my paper aims to focus on Alatiel’s story (2.7), in which Cyprus represents the last stage of the protagonist’s wanderings. Destined because of her exceptional beauty to be kidnapped by a long series of suitors, Alatiel, daughter of the Sultan of Egypt, submits to her lovers with an amazing docility. Moreover, although she is a captive among foreign peoples whose idiom she does not understand, the girl does not say a word until the end of the story, thus increasing her mysterious identity. Many interpretations have been given of Alatiel’s sexual compliance and her silences, which assume that she represents a woman-object or, more precisely, a woman-statue, a beautiful soulless female body.5 However, no one has noticed the incredible metamorphosis the girl undergoes, not by chance, on the island of Cyprus. This sudden change and the canonical happy end of the novella bear traces of two famous Cypriot myths recounted in the Metamorphoses: the story of Pygmalion (Met. 10.243–297) and that of Iphis and Anaxarete (Met. 14.698–761).

 Love’s pilgrimage: Cyprus as an alternative Holy Land In Boccaccio’s Decameron not all roads lead to Cyprus, but many of them certainly pass through it. In some cases, the island is mentioned briefly as the centre of trade par excellence: for example, in 2.4, in which Cyprus is named between the stops on Landolfo’s business trip, or in 10.9, in which Saladin and his men pretend to be merchants from Cyprus on their way to Paris. In other instances, Cyprus seems to play a particular role in igniting (or re-igniting) an amorous passion, as if the influence of Venus were still present on the island. A good example of this is offered by novella 3.7. Here it is described how Tedaldo, keen to forget his unhappy love for a married woman, goes to Cyprus with a merchant and engages in trade, the classic activity one might decide to

 5 Out of the many studies one can cite, cf. Segre 1974b, Millicent 1979, Benedetti 1992 and Marchesini 1994, who also offers a brief overview of the many interpretations of the novella in the last century. More recently, Pinzuti 2008 strongly reaffirms the thesis of Alatiel’s ‘cosificazione’ (‘reduction to a thing’, the expression is that of Segre 1974b, 152) and provides a critical reconsideration of all studies which tended to see in Alatiel a ‘female heroine’ (119).

  Laura Aresi take on in such a place. One day, however, after hearing someone singing a song which he had written to his beloved, Tedaldo realizes that he cannot renounce his passion and decides to return to Florence (§ 8): Ma avvenne che, udendo egli un dí in Cipri cantare una canzone già da lui stata fatta, nella quale l’amore che alla sua donna portava e ella a lui e il piacere che di lei aveva si raccontava, avvisando questo non dover poter essere che ella dimenticato l’avesse, in tanto disiderio di rivederla s’accese, che, più non potendo soffrir, si dispose a tornare a Firenze. But, chancing one day to hear sing in Cyprus a song that himself had made aforetime and wherein was recounted the love he bore his mistress and she him and the pleasure he had of her, and thinking it could not be she had forgotten him, he flamed up into such a passion of desire to see her again that, unable to endure longer, he resolved to return to Florence.6

It is important here to notice that Tedaldo himself is the author of the song. It sounds strange that a song written in Florence should become so famous that it is also sung so far away as on Cyprus. Yet, this unrealistic detail proves the force of love, which is celebrated in the island of love itself. One could even suppose that the song is the signal sent by the goddess Venus to reward Tedaldo’s loyalty and stop his sorrow. Once in Florence, the young man, who is thought dead, shows up on his beloved’s doorstep, pretending to be a pilgrim friar.7 After having induced her to repent for her past cruelty, he reveals his identity and wins her heart back. Tedaldo then leaves Cyprus as a merchant and returns from Cyprus as a pilgrim, but he is, first and foremost, a passionate lover and a talented one, who is able to write a love song (like a poet) and to play the role of someone else (like an actor). His voyage to the island of Venus makes him not forget but remember what the power of love is: on Cyprus, he awakens to a combative love which is stronger than any conjugal bond and will be destined to triumph.8 The sacred and the profane, as well as the Christian and the pagan, thus merge in the story of Tedaldo as well as in the features of an island that seems to oppose the Holy  6 This and the following translations of the Decameron follow John Paine’s American edition (The Project Gutenberg EBook). 7 On this novel and the ‘duality’ of Tedaldo, who defends the right of extra-conjugal love against Christian beliefs while claiming to be a friar, cf. Franceschetti 1983, Kirkham 1985, Romanelli 2009. 8 His discourse to the beloved is deliberately full of allusions — as convincingly shown by Romanelli 2009 — to Andreas Cappellanus’s De amore, which can be considered the most influential theoretical book about the principles of courtly love (containing many analogies with Ovid’s Ars amatoria).

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers  

Land as the destination of a completely different kind of pilgrimage. Love is the only religion in which Tedaldo believes.9 The link between Cyprus, pilgrimage and love is also present in the first novella with a Cypriot setting in the Decameron, 1.9. The protagonist is a woman from Gascony who is returning from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land (pilgrimage, apart from marriage, was the only proper reason10 a medieval woman could have to travel abroad). After having been shamefully abused in Cyprus, the lady decides to go and complain to the king of the island, not because she hopes to be avenged, but because, having heard of the king’s cowardice, she intends to use her misfortune to criticize his alleged pusillanimous behaviour (§ 6): Signor mio, io non vengo nella tua presenza per vendetta che io attenda della ’ngiuria che m’è stata fatta: ma in sodisfacimento di quella ti priego che tu m’insegni come tu sofferi quelle le quali io intendo che ti son fatte, acciò che, da te apparando, io possa pazientemente la mia comportare, la quale, sallo Iddio, se io farlo potessi, volentieri la ti donerei, poi cosí buono portatore ne se. My lord, I come not into thy presence for any redress that I expect of the wrong that hath been done me; but in satisfaction thereof, I prithee teach me how thou dost to suffer those affronts which I understand are offered unto thyself, so haply I may learn of thee patiently to endure mine own, the which God knoweth, an I might, I would gladly bestow on thee, since thou art so excellent a supporter thereof.

Struck by the woman’s witty rebuke, the king acknowledges his faults and thereafter becomes a strenuous defender of violated rights and justice. This same story is also told in the medieval collection of the Novellino (51), but without any mention of a sexual injury; the text rather speaks generically of an ‘onta’, a ‘villainy’. Yet it is surely remarkable that Boccaccio chose the island of love as the setting for a story of sexual violence, which involved not just a woman but a lady coming back from a pilgrimage in the Holy Land.11 The initial injury suffered by the protagonist is transformed into a story of feminine rebellion, which showcases the ability of words to become an instrument of redemption and justice against abuse. An act of sexual abuse in Venus’ sacred place — Cyprus — is a sacrilege. The goddess does not intervene directly to avenge the honour of her

 9 One may cite Lewis’s canonical definition of the ‘four marks’ of courtly love: Humility, Courtesy, Adultery, and the Religion of Love (Lewis 1936, 2). Of this high specialized, ‘sacred’ love, Tedaldo can be considered the most fervent believer. 10 On Christian women on the road in Medieval times, cf. Giannarelli 1999 and Benvenuti 1999. 11 The differences between the two versions are pointed out in Peters 1997, 763–765.

  Laura Aresi island, nor she could do so, given that in the world of the Decameron there are no pagan divinities at work. Nevertheless, the victim herself — the injured lady — is able to defend her rights (and, indirectly, those of the offended Venus) with the most refined and intelligent weapon that humans have: the art of a good speech. Here again, whereas the woman is a Christian pilgrim, the very centre of her voyage is Cyprus, not the Holy Land. On Venus’ island, by experiencing what amor is not, the reader can deduce that being under the influence of the ancient goddess has something to do with patience, industry and commitment12 (remember Tedaldo), rather than just desire. A blind passion is not completely human, and can even turn into violence or manipulation, as we will see in the following stories. But such degradations of love cannot be admitted to Cyprus.

 Love, civilization and bestiality: Cimon vs. Polyphemus At the very centre of the Decameron — on the fifth day, during which the tales of unfortunate loves with happy endings are recounted — the first novella takes Cyprus again as its setting. Here, the Cypriot Cimon falls in love with a beautiful girl, Iphigenia, seeing her asleep in a green meadow. It is the month of May, the fifth month of the year but above all the month of the blossoming of spring, and Cimon mistakes the girl for a goddess. The narrator of the story is Pamphilus, whose name literally means — at least according to Boccaccio’s bad Greek — ‘universal lover’. He introduces the tale with the following words (§ 2): Per quella [novella] potrete comprendere non solamente il felice fine per lo quale a ragionare incominciamo, ma quanto siano sante, quanto poderose e di quanto ben piene le forze d’Amore. Thereby, beside the happy issue which is to mark this day’s discourses, you may understand how holy, how puissant and how full of all good is the power of Love.

The novella is certainly an excellent example of this conception of love, since the ignorant Cimon, after having met Iphigenia, turns over a new leaf and transforms himself into the best-dressed, most cultured and refined gentleman in Cyprus (§§ 17–19):  12 On the connection between love and industry in Boccaccio, cf. Ellero 2017, 53–57.

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers  

Egli primieramente richiese il padre che il facesse andare di vestimenti e d’ogni altra cosa ornato come i fratelli di lui andavano […] In assai brieve spazio di tempo non solamente le prime lettere apparò ma valorosissimo tra’ filosofanti divenne. E appresso a questo, essendo di tutto ciò cagione l’amore il quale a Efigenia portava, non solamente la rozza voce e rustica in convenevole e cittadina ridusse, ma di canto divenne maestro e di suono. In the first place he besought his father that he would cause him go bedecked with clothes and every other thing, even as his brothers. […] Then, he, in a very brief space of time, not only learned the first [elements of] letters, but became very eminent among the students of philosophy, and after (the love which he bore Iphigenia being the cause of all this) he not only reduced his rude and rustical manner of speech to seemliness and civility, but became a past master of song and sound.

Once again, and even in a more evident way than in Tedaldo’s story, the selfimprovement of Cimon shows that love is envisioned by Boccaccio, according to the ideology of the amor cortese, as the key to a process of civilization.13 This seems to correspond with Ovid’s theories about the power of love in the Fasti,14 which are also exemplified in the Metamorphoses by the extraordinary cura placendi of the rude Polyphemus, who has fallen in love with the nymph Galatea (Met. 13.764–767): Iamque tibi formae, iamque est tibi cura placendi, iam rigidos pectis rastris, Polypheme, capillos, iam libet hirsutam tibi falce recidere barbam et spectare feros in aqua et conponere vultus. And now, Polyphemus you become careful of your appearance now anxious to please; now with a rake you comb your shaggy locks and now it is your pleasure to cut your rough

 13 On the relationship between Cimon’s story and the theories of the amor cortese, cf. Branca 1956, 112–119; Scaglione 1963, 80–85, 191; Biagini, Lapini and Tortorizio 1973; Pastore 1977; Marcus 1980; Pace 2016. 14 Cf. Ov. Fast. 4.107–114: Prima feros habitus homini detraxit: ab illa [scil. vis veneris/voluptatis] / venerunt cultus mundaque cura sui, / primus amans carmen vigilatum nocte negata / dicitur ad clausas concinuisse fores, / eloquiumque fuit duram exorare puellam, / proque sua causa quisque disertus erat. / Mille per hanc artes motae; studioque placendi, / quae latuere prius, multa reperta ferunt (‘That force first stripped man of his savage garb; from it he learned decent attire and personal cleanliness. A lover was the first, they say, to serenade by night the mistress who denied him entrance, while he sang at her barred door, and to win the heart of a coy maid was eloquence indeed; every man then pleaded his own cause. The goddess has been the mother of a thousand arts; the wish to please has given birth to many inventions that were unknown before’). The translation is by Frazer (revised by Goold) 1989.

  Laura Aresi beard with a reaping-hook, gazing at your rude features in some clear pool and composing their expression.15

Following another of Boccaccio’s many mysterious etymologies, Cimon is a nickname which in the dialect of the island should mean ‘great beast’,16 and Polyphemus is without doubt a great beast. The new Cimon, who has learned to sweeten his rustic voice and to play and sing, is reminiscent of the new Polyphemus described by Ovid playing a bagpipe and singing a love-song to his beloved.17 In addition to this, Pamphilus’ prefatory words about the force of love recall those which are used by Galatea herself to introduce the story of Polyphemus’ love for her (Met. 13.758–763): Pro! Quanta potentia regni est, Venus alma, tui! nempe ille inmitis et ipsis horrendus silvis et visus ab hospite nullo inpune et magni cum dis contemptor Olympi, quid sit amor, sentit validaque cupidine captus uritur oblitus pecorum antrorumque suorum. Oh mother Venus, how mighty is thy sway! Behold, that savage creature, whom the very woods shudder to look upon, whom no stranger has ever seen save to his own hurt, who despises great Olympus and its gods, he feels the power of love and burns with mighty desire, forgetful of his flocks and of his caves.

Eros is the most natural of forces, and yet it enables human beings to escape from their original state of nature and to reveal their full potential. The advance from brutality to civilization started by love, however, can be interrupted and reversed as soon as obstacles stand in the way of love itself. Iphigenia, in fact, has already been promised in marriage to another man and boards ship to travel to the groom’s island. Cimon does not hesitate to kidnap her and become a murderer (§§ 28–29):

 15 This and the following translations are by Miller (revised by Goold) 1984. 16 Cf. Branca 1992a, 594–595 n. 12: “Forse derivò da un χίμων supposto dalla stessa radice di χιμᾶρος capro, e di fatti più avanti, 23, si dice che Cimone era un «montone»; oppure da κῆμος museruola; o anche da un passo di Valerio Massimo, VI 9 ext.3, a proposito del saggio Cimone, figlio di Milziade, «Cimonis vero incunabula opinione stultitiae fuerunt referta» (Rohde): anche Plutarco: Cimone giovane era «simile … al suo avo omonimo, che per la sua dappocaggine era stato soprannominato Coalemo, cioè balordo» (Cimone, 4)”. 17 On this bucolic Polyphemus, cf. Farrell 1992.

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers  

Fiero come un leone […], sopra la nave de’ rodiani saltò, quasi tutti per niente gli avesse; e spronandolo amore, con maravigliosa forza fra’ nemici con un coltello in man si mise e or questo e or quello ferendo quasi pecore gli abbattea, Bold as a lion, he leapt on board their ship, […], as if he held them all for nought, and Love spurring him, he fell upon his enemies with marvellous might, cutlass in hand, striking now this one and now that and hewing them down like sheep.

The Ovidian myth of Polyphemus and Galatea once again provides a good comparison, since the personal improvements of the Cyclops are likewise destined not to be rewarded. The two plots are extremely similar. Galatea is in love with another boy, Acis, whom Polyphemus kills just as easily as Cimon murders his adversaries. In the passage just quoted, the allusion to Polyphemus seems to be confirmed by the comparison with the lion that slaughters its victims. The same image, referring to Polyphemus, is already in Hom. Od. 9.292, but it is likely that Boccaccio encountered it in Ovid (Met. 14.205–209): vidi bina meorum ter quater adfligi sociorum corpora terrae, cum super ipse iacens hirsuti more leonis visceraque et carnes cumque albis ossa medullis semianimesque artus avidam condebat in alvum. I saw him catch up two of my friends at once and dash them trice and again upon the ground; and when, crouching like a shaggy lion over them, he filled his greedy maw with their vitals and their flesh, their bones full of white marrow, and their limbs still warm with life.

In this passage Ovid is retelling the well-known episode in the Odyssey of the encounter between Odysseus and the Cyclops, but he places it chronologically after the episode of the unhappy love for Galatea: if the nymph had returned Polyphemus’ love, not only her suitor’s life but also those of other innocent men could have been saved.18 In any case, Galatea manages to escape Polyphemus’ advances, and the sea, which is an enemy to Iphigenia, a weak girl kidnapped from her suitor, is her potent ally. On the other hand, the poor Iphigenia — whose destiny as a victim seems to be inscribed in the very name she has been given — has no hope. Her reactions to the events are briefly reported (uninterrupted weeping), her point of view in the narration is never displayed, and she is repeatedly men-

 18 On this aspect, cf. Labate 2012 and Aresi 2013.

  Laura Aresi tioned as Cimon’s quarry.19 The formal happy ending of the story is only so according to Cimon’s perspective:20 eventually, the man returns in triumph to Cyprus with the woman and marries her. Is this a satisfying ending? Is Cimon’s example really a positive one? How quickly can love, that powerful engine of civilization, turn into violence, brutality and war? In contrast to the generally positive presentation of the story given by critics, it is also necessary to consider — as pointed out in the last decades21 — its disturbing development, the ambiguities of which are highlighted by the parallel with the Ovidian model. In both episodes, the reader may feel as if he/she has been mocked: how can one praise the power of civilizing eros, if eros itself proves to be a mechanism of abuse, violence, and death? The contradiction is one and the same in Ovid and Boccaccio, and can be brought to light, but certainly not solved. And yet, the medieval author manages to displace the rise and (moral) fall of Cimon to different settings, so as to leave Cyprus untouched by every contamination. The positive beginning (the good effects of being in love) no less than the positive end (marriage) of the story are set on Cyprus, while everything happening in between — Iphigenia’s kidnapping, fights and murders — takes place elsewhere: on the high seas, or in other lands. The dark side of Cimon’s love does not affect Venus’ island. To conclude this section, the analogies between the plots of the myth of Polyphemus and Galatea and the story of Cimon lead to the hypothesis of an Ovidian subtext in the novella. The myth of Polyphemus and Galatea is set on Sicily (because of obvious reasons) and not on Cyprus, but it is Cyprus which represents the most suitable place for an exemplary story about one’s emergence from the bestial state sub specie amoris. Boccaccio here does better than Ovid, choosing the ideal and fitting location for such a significant tale. The best way to display quanta potentia regni est Venus alma, tui is to have as a setting the regnum Veneris itself, Cyprus. In this way, Boccaccio shows that there is a perfect correspondence between theory (the power of love in improving human beings), exemplum (the tale narrated to prove this assumption) and the setting of the exemplum itself (Cyprus as the island of love). Such correspondences also relate to the architecture of the Decameron itself. The bubonic plague, which  19 Cf. 5.1, §§ 35, 57, 58, 70. The last mention is particularly relevant, because we are in the happy end of the novel: ‘lieti [Cimon and another man, who similarly raped her beloved] della loro rapina goderono’ (‘they gave themselves up to the glad enjoyment of their purchase’). 20 As stated by Fleming 1993, for most tales of the fifth day of the Decameron, a happy or successful ending is defined “according to the perceived interests and perspectives of the male characters in the stories” (30). 21 Cf. Toscano 1988, Cozzarelli 2004, Morosini 2017, 79–83.

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers  

devasted the city of Florence in 1348, frames the beginning and the end of the Decameron. Between the consequences of the terrible Black Death, there is also reference to the lack of humanity and the social disruption that plunged man back into a feral state; pestilence is conceived as the opposite of love. Instead, in the middle of the work — with the story of Cimon and his amazing improvement — there is the island of love and harmony, Cyprus. This environment is, in turn, another frame for a story of violence, sorrow and disorder. Eros and Thanatos cannot but coexist, as proved by the oldest story of Western literature, the Trojan War, which Iphigenia, with her name, tragically recalls. Nevertheless, Cyprus, in opposition to Florence, the wasted land, plagued by the pest, represents a utopia, a luminous hope, a sacred place for all those who believe in love. It is the Holy Land, indeed.

 From stone to woman: Alatiel vs. Galatea and Anaxarete In the story of Alatiel, one of the longest and best-known novellas of the entire Decameron, the role of Ovid’s Metamorphoses in underlining Cyprus’ status as central to Boccaccio’s view about love becomes evident. In this novella Cyprus emerges as the place in which two myths of love and metamorphosis, which were already set by Ovid on the island of Venus, are staged within a precise social, political and economic milieu,22 and are recast in new and significant forms. This is, briefly put, the plot of the story, which is again narrated by Pamphilus. Alatiel, the beautiful daughter of the Sultan of Egypt who is betrothed to the King of the Algarve (present-day southern Portugal), is shipwrecked after a storm in Majorca and saved by a local gentleman, who tricks her into bed. Alatiel’s destiny seems to be to arouse the desires of anyone who sees her: within the space of four years, she becomes the concubine of at least eight different men, each of whom, in order to obtain the girl, is ready (in the best of cases) to kidnap her, and (in the worst of cases) to kill his predecessor. During all these misfortunes, which gradually take on the form of a journey23 across the Mediter-

 22 On this, cf. Budini Gattai 2010. 23 There is an immense bibliography on the significance of this journey. Out of the most important studies, cf. Segre 1974b, Almansi 1980b, Asor Rosa 1992b, Bolduc 1996, Bolpagni 2017,

  Laura Aresi ranean from west (Majorca) to east (Cyprus),24 the girl has not only lost her previous identity but also seems unable to re-claim it. The total lack of verbal communication25 between her and her captors, who do not understand her language, is repeatedly emphasized.26 Concerning this, the synthesis offered by Pamphilus during his narration is highly significant, as he points out that the girl lived for some years as if she were deaf and dumb (‘quasi di sorda e di mutola’). This aspect is also worthy of attention for its unlikeliness: it seems implausible that the girl does not acquire at least some basic words of other languages or that nobody makes the effort to teach her. In other similar stories — involving women who find themselves alone and far away from their home, normally in some Eastern Mediterranean country — it is pointed out that the protagonists quickly learn the idiom of the land they are in.27 In the case of Alatiel, surprisingly enough, the only possible communication left is body language. Thus, each time that the girl cries and despairs after she has fallen into the hands of a new suitor, she is consoled by the caresses of her lover at the time, to whom she yields with incredible submission and, at the same time, supreme indifference. No wonder, then, that she is often referred to as a ‘beautiful thing’, a ‘maravigliosa cosa’,28 an irresistible object which no  185–210. Cf. also Kinoshita and Jacobs 2007 for a geographical and historical reconstruction of the voyage. 24 Tateo 1992, 20 pointed out that the two islands are often cited as stereotypical landmarks for East and West in the Mediterranean geography, cf. for example Dante, Inferno 26.82–84. 25 Cf. Segre 1974b and Almansi 1980b, Morosini 2020, 207–216. 26 § 22 ‘Lei intender non poteva né ella lui, e così non poter sapere chi ella fosse’ (‘He could not understand her nor she him and so he might not learn who she was’); § 41 ‘con dolci parole e con promesse grandissime, quantunque lei poco intendesse’ (‘soft words and very good promises, whereof she understood but’); § 46 ‘non potendo altramenti saper chi ella fosse’ (‘Unable otherwise to learn who she was’); § 50 ‘non si poté di ragionar con lei prender piacere, per ciò che essa poco o niente di quella lingua intendeva’ (‘They might not have the pleasure of conversing with her, for that she understood little or nothing of their language’). 27 Cf. 2.9, § 49 (Zinevra ‘già ottimamente la lingua sapeva’, ‘who was by this well versed in the language of the country’) and 5.2, § 26 (Gostanza ‘in poco spazio di tempo […] il lor linguaggio apparò’, ‘nor was it long before, with their teaching, she learnt their language’). On the comparison between Alatiel and these two women see Morosini 2010a, 12–17, Bolpagni 2016a and 2016b. 28 Cf. Segre 1974b, 152–153. These are the main occurrences: § 50 ‘Ciascun lei sì come maravigliosa cosa guardava’ (‘Each contented himself with gazing upon her, as upon a marvel’) and ‘Il quale appena seco poteva credere lei essere cosa mortale’ (‘He could scarce bring himself to believe that she was a mortal creature’); § 51 ‘Sì bella cosa avendo al suo piacere’ (‘Having so fair a creature at his pleasure’); § 67 ‘La cominciò a riguardare pieno di maraviglia, seco affermando mai sì bella cosa non aver veduto e che certo per iscusato si doveva avere il duca e

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers  

man hesitates to make his own, and whose identity no one cares to discover, but whom everyone is happy to display as a work of art. Yet each exposure to the public triggers a new desire and a new transfer of ownership. This cycle, which seems to have no end, is eventually broken when the sixth of Alatiel’s lovers dies in battle. During his absence, the girl had been entrusted to one of his servants. He falls fatally in love with Alatiel too, but he is the first person who knows the girl’s language, and so the first person whom Alatiel can talk to. Unfortunately, the man is old and near death. As he leaves his possessions and his woman to a dear friend, Alatiel weeps warm tears and swears to the dying lover that she will not forget him. This, however, does not happen. For even with the new guardian, who is a merchant, the girl begins a liaison and decides to settle with him on Cyprus in the city of Paphos. Thus, the island of Cyprus makes its first appearance in the final stage in the protagonist’s wanderings, as the first place which Alatiel chooses to live in (§ 87): [Il mercatante] domandò la bella donna quello che far volesse, con ciò che fosse cosa che a lui convenisse in Cipri tornare. La donna rispose che con lui, se gli piacesse, volentieri se ne andrebbe. [The merchant] asked the fair lady what she had a mind to do, for that it behoved him to return to Cyprus. She answered that, if it pleased him, she would gladly go with him.

However, even in this case we cannot define the relationship with the merchant as a true love-story, given that the girl does not fail to take the first opportunity which she has to go home. This turning point occurs when a former servant of her father, Antigonus, sees her one day by chance through the window of her house (§ 91): Il quale, passando un giorno davanti alla casa dove la bella donna dimorava, essendo il cipriano mercatante andato con sua mercatantía in Erminia, gli venne per ventura ad una finestra della casa di lei questa donna veduta; la qual, per ciò che bellissima era, fisa cominciò a riguardare, e cominciò seco stesso a ricordarsi di doverla avere altra volta veduta, ma il dove in niuna maniera ricordarsi poteva. Chancing one day to pass by the house where the fair lady dwelt with the merchant, who was then gone with his merchandise into Armenia, he espied her at a window and seeing

 qualunque altro che per avere una sì bella cosa facesse tradimento o altra disonesta cosa’ (‘He fell a gazing upon her, full of wonderment, avouching in himself that he had never seen aught so lovely and that certes the duke must needs be held excused, ay, and whatsoever other, to have so fair a creature, should do treason or other foul thing’).

  Laura Aresi her very beautiful, fell to gazing fixedly upon her and presently began to recollect that he must have seen her otherwhere, but where he could on no wise call to mind.

Her beauty makes him gaze fixedly upon her and he begins to recollect that he must have seen her somewhere else, but he cannot remember where. Alatiel, by contrast, no sooner sets eyes on Antigonus than she remembers that she has seen him at Alexandria in her father’s service (§§ 92–93): La bella donna, la quale lungamente trastullo della fortuna era stata, appressandosi il termine nel quale i suoi mali dovevano aver fine, come ella Antigono vide, cosí si ricordò di lui in Alessandria ne’ servigi del padre in non piccolo stato aver veduto; per la qual cosa subita speranza prendendo di dover potere ancora nello stato real ritornare per lo colui consiglio, non sentendovi il mercatante suo, come piú tosto poté, si fece chiamare Antigono. Il quale a lei venuto ella vergognosamente domandò se egli Antigono di Famagosta fosse, sí come ella credeva. As for the lady, who had long been the sport of fortune, but the term of whose ills was now drawing near, she no sooner set eyes on Antigonus than she remembered to have seen him at Alexandria in no mean station in her father’s service; wherefore, conceiving a sudden hope of yet by his aid regaining her royal estate, and knowing her merchant to be abroad, she let call him to her as quickliest she might and asked him, blushing, an he were not, as she supposed, Antigonus of Famagusta.

She calls him to her as quickly as she can, but nonetheless fears that her chequered past will now prevent her from returning to her father; hence, if her initial shame is the sign of her uneasiness, her tears point to the pain felt by the young woman who looks at her past and realizes her status as a victim. After being reassured by the man, she decides not to hide herself any longer and asks for Antigonus’ help to become again the girl she previously was (§§ 99–100):29 A me parve, come io ti vidi, vedere il padre mio: e da quello amore e da quella tenerezza, che io a lui tenuta sono di portare, mossa, potendomiti celare, mi ti feci palese. E di poche persone sarebbe potuto addivenire d’aver vedute, delle quali io tanto contenta fossi, quanto sono d’aver te innanzi a alcuno altro veduto e riconosciuto; e per ciò quello che nella mia malvagia fortuna ho sempre tenuto nascoso, a te sì come a padre paleserò. Se  29 On this, cf. Morosini 2010a, 23–26, 2017, 73–74, 2020, 188–192. Morosini notes that Alatiel, despite all her wanderings, is not a ‘feminine Ulysses’, but a Penelope who was obliged to move, and whose only desire is to remove what she experienced on the sea. Her figure is more reminiscent of Helen than of Ulysses. Women travelling in the Mediterranean are a “paradox […]: they are statically mobile since they must be taken by others into a foreign space in a condition of ‘apparent movement’ while they remain encased in their domestic space” (Morosini 2017, 73). For men, the sea is the symbol of movement, action, and adventure, while, for women, it is a sign of immobility, passivity, and grief.

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers  

vedi, poi che udito l’avrai, da potermi in alcun modo nel mio pristino stato tornare, priegoti l’adoperi; se nol vedi, ti priego che mai ad alcuna persona dichi d’avermi veduta o di me avere alcuna cosa sentita. When I beheld thee, meseemed I saw my father, and moved by that love and tenderness, which I am bounden to bear him, I discovered myself to thee, having it in my power to conceal myself from thee, and few persons could it have befallen me to look upon in whom I could have been so well-pleased as I am to have seen and known thee before any other; wherefore that which in my ill fortune I have still kept hidden, to thee, as to a father, I will discover. If, after thou hast heard it, thou see any means of restoring me to my pristine estate, prithee use it; but, if thou see none, I beseech thee never tell any that thou hast seen me or heard aught of me.

This is the only passage in the novella which directly expresses the point of view of Alatiel on her own story. The girl reveals that concealing her identity was part of a defensive strategy and unveils her desire to return to what she calls her ‘pristino stato’. Then, she tells the man everything which has happened to her during those years, not omitting anything. Unfortunately, we cannot read any word of Alatiel’s re-telling of her own misfortunes. But we have the reaction of Antigonus, who is the first listener of the story and the primary internal reader of the novella. It is thus significant that he started weeping for pity (§ 101, ‘pietosamente a piagnere cominciò’), since this represents a very different reaction from the ill-conceived envy of the women of the brigata for Alatiel’s adventures when the story reaches its end.30 Pamphilus’ recasting of the story as an exciting discovery of the joys of love is evidently not Alatiel’s point of view. We have seen a similar discrepancy between internal and external points of view in Cimon’s novella, in which Iphigenia’s tragedy stands in tension with the formal happy end of the narrative. After having heard her story, Antigonus appears to be very sympathetic towards the girl. Not only does he succeed, through the help of the king of Cyprus, in having Alatiel happily returned to Alexandria, but he also suggests to her the report which she should deliver to the Sultan when asked to explain what has happened to her in all those years (§ 102, ‘ordinatamente ciò che da far fosse le dimostrò’, ‘he showed her in order that which was to be done’). The girl easily learns the instructions received, showing herself to be a very skilled pupil. The

 30 2.8 § 2: ‘Sospirato fu molto dalle donne per li vari casi della bella donna: ma chi sa che cagione moveva que’ sospiri? Forse v’eran di quelle che non meno per vaghezza di cosí spesse nozze che per pietá di colei sospiravano’ (‘The ladies sighed amain over the fortunes of the fair Saracen; but who knoweth what gave rise to those sighs? Maybe there were some of them who sighed no less for envy of such frequent nuptials than for pity of Alatiel’).

  Laura Aresi readers are informed about this rearranged version of the facts from Alatiel herself, once she has been welcomed by the Sultan. This turns out to be the new plot of her story: after the shipwreck, Alatiel was a guest in a convent of nuns, to whom she affirmed that she was the daughter of a nobleman from Cyprus, out of fear of saying that she was a Muslim. Strangely enough, the girl’s avatar is able to communicate with the nuns and she learns their language (§ 110, ‘e già alquanta avendo della loro lingua apparata’, ‘after I had learned somewhat of their language’). What was stressed many times as a stumbling block thus becomes an easy obstacle to overcome in the alternative world Alatiel lives in here. It is also confirmed that her stubborn unwillingness to speak was a choice,31 as if Alatiel’s robbers could have her body, but not her soul, not her identity. Continuing the fake story, when a group of pilgrims made a stop at the convent on their way to the Holy Land, the girl was escorted by them to Cyprus, where she happened to meet Antigonus. The beginning and the end of the story match the truth, whereas, in the middle phase, the tale is filled with names of places and saints that are not only fictitious but also hide obscene double meanings (‘San Cresci in Val Cava’, ‘Saint Waxeth-in-Deepdene’),32 which the Sultan evidently does not grasp. On the contrary, the naive father hastens to hand over the girl to her betrothed, the King of the Algarve, believing her to be a virgin. He accepts her as his wife in the same happy ignorance. The end of the story says more than many words (§ 122): [Alatiel], che con otto uomini forse diecemilia volte giaciuta era, allato a lui si coricò per pulcella, e fecegliele credere che cosí fosse, e reina con lui lietamente poi piú tempo visse. E per ciò si disse: ‘Bocca basciata non perde ventura, anzi rinnuova come fa la luna’. [Alatiel] who had lain with eight men belike ten thousand times, was put to bed to him for a maid and making him believe that she was so, lived happily with him as his queen awhile after; wherefore it was said, ‘Lips for kissing forfeit no favour; nay, they renew as the moon doth ever’.

Until today, no one seems to have noticed the importance of Cyprus itself for bringing about the novella’s canonical happy end. It is on Cyprus, thanks to a  31 Cf. Ellero 2017, who notes how Alatiel, already after the shipwreck, proves to make use of her native talent to fight against the bad fortune, and Petriccione 2020, 43–46. 32 On this alternative route, cf. Picone 2008, 152, who underlines the presence of a comic parody of the Christian pilgrimage, and Bolpagni 2016a and 2016b, who speaks of a ‘controviaggio’. The false route is paradoxically presented, in an ironical spirit, as the likely one because of its conformity to moral standards.

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers  

furtive gaze through an open window, that Alatiel’s metamorphosis from a statue to a woman takes place. In Alatiel’s alternative version of her adventures, Cyprus itself also undergoes a complete overhaul, which is nevertheless in keeping with its profile: there the girl came to the island not as a merchant’s lover, but in the retinue of pious pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land. The sacred and profane history of Cyprus thus come together again at the novella’s end. But what about the mythical history of the island? It is well known that Boccaccio was a great reader of Ovid, and it has already been shown that in novella 5.8 there are strong links to Ovid’s story of Pomona and Vertumnus.33 Just as the god Vertumnus tells Pomona the tragic story of the Cypriot Iphis and Anaxarete, in order to win the goddess’ love by intimidating her, so the young Nastagio degli Onesti in Decameron 5.8 (§§ 32– 43) takes advantage of a similar terrible exemplum — the infernal punishment of a girl being hunted every Friday in the woods around Ravenna for the misery she had inflicted on her admirer — to win the love of the cruel woman with whom he is unhappily in love. In the Commedia delle ninfe fiorentine (26–27), Boccaccio also recalls the myth of Pomona and Vertumnus. Here, a nymph from Cyprus, who is in the service of Pomona, sings the goddess’ praises and tells the story of her own love for a handsome Cypriot boy. The plot serves as a deliberate re-arrangement of the story of Iphis and Anaxarete, with the genders being reversed and a happy ending being established. But Boccaccio was also familiar with other Cypriot stories, and above all with the episode of Pygmalion and Galatea. The myth of the Cypriot artist is reported in the Genealogie deorum gentilium (2.49), an encyclopaedic compilation of family relationships from the classical pantheons of Ancient Greece and Rome. This work, which was written in Latin, was requested by the King of Cyprus, Hugh IV of Lusignan (1295–1359), a man of great learning, to whom the Genealogie is dedicated. The King of Naples, with whom Boccaccio became acquainted in his youthful years at his court, was related to the rulers of Cyprus. This also explains Boccaccio’s own particular interest in the island and the flattering image of the royal family which appears in the novella of Alatiel. It might seem surprising that the island of love is precisely the place in which the girl’s erotic adventures end. We have just seen that on Cyprus Alatiel completes the process of regaining her identity, since she is again able to communicate in her own language and decide on her future. However, critics have not considered the importance of the scene in which the girl recognizes Antigonus, and, in particular, the significance of the act of seeing him from the win 33 Cf. Segre 1979b. For further references, cf. Baricci 2015, 440, n. 15.

  Laura Aresi dow. In the myth of Iphis and Anaxarete, Iphis had stood in vain in front of the cruel maiden’s door, begging her to come out and see him. Faced with her cruelty, Iphis’ choice to commit suicide reveals a last and desperate hope (Met. 14.724–728): Non tamen ante tui curam excessisse memento quam vitam geminaque simul mihi luce carendum. Nec tibi fama mei ventura est nuntia leti: ipse ego, ne dubites, adero praesensque videbor, corpore ut exanimi crudelia lumina pascas. But remember that my love for you ended only with my life and that I must suffer the loss of two lights at once. And it will be no mere rumour that comes to announce my death to you; I shall myself be there, be well assured, and that, too, in visible presence, that you may feast your cruel eyes upon my lifeless body.

To be looked at when dead, where it had not been possible to be looked at when alive: this is the boy’s extreme wish before he takes the decision to kill himself.34 His vow is fulfilled. The proud Anaxarete looks out of the window to look at Iphis’ corpse on the day of his funeral, but she becomes forever fixed in that belated glance. The metamorphosis into stone freezes the pitiless girl in the only act that could have saved her and Iphis, if only she had done it earlier (Met. 14.751–758): Mota tamen «Videamus» ait «miserabile funus» et patulis iniit tectum sublime fenestris vixque bene inpositum lecto prospexerat Iphin: deriguere oculi, calidusque e corpore sanguis inducto pallore fugit, conataque retro ferre pedes haesit, conata avertere vultus hoc quoque non potuit, paulatimque occupat artus, quod fuit in duro iam pridem pectore, saxum. Yet, moved by the sound [by piety?], she said: ‘Let us go see this tearful funeral’. And she went into her high dwelling with its wide-open windows. Scarce had she gained a good look at Iphis lying there upon the bier, when her eyes stiffened at the sight and the warm blood fled from her pale body. She tried to step back from the window, but she stuck fast in her place. She tried to turn her face away, but this also she could not do; and gradually that stony nature took possession of her body which had been in her heart so long.

 34 For a broader interpretation of this episode, cf. Aresi 2017, 140–143 and 170–195.

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers  

The girl, as hard as a stone in heart, is turned into a stone forever — the metaphor of the dura puella becoming her metamorphosis35 — but she is also punished by Venus at the only moment in which she makes a movement, not exactly of love, but of human compassion. Much has been written on the gaze as the origin of love; one may mention only Maurizio Bettini’s important pages in Il ritratto dell’amante36 for an influential anthropological analysis of this gesture. The gaze, however, is not only the vehicle of love, but also the most important instrument which people have to reveal one’s presence and recognize the identity of another person. This is highlighted by the story of Pygmalion and Galatea, which is cited by many scholars as a mirror-case to that of Iphis and Anaxarete (Met. 10.290–294): Tum vero Paphius plenissima concipit heros verba, quibus Veneri grates agat, oraque tandem ore suo non falsa premit, dataque oscula virgo sensit et erubuit timidumque ad lumina lumen attollens pariter cum caelo vidit amantem. Then did the Paphian hero pour out copious thanks to Venus, and again pressed with his lips real lips at last. The maiden felt the kisses, blushed and, lifting her timid eyes up to light, she saw the sky and her lover at the same time.

In this connection, it is no coincidence that the first act which makes Galatea’s passage to the world of humans clear is, alongside her involuntary blushing reaction (sensit et erubuit), the conscious raising of her eyes (lumen attollens). This shows how Galatea’s first glance at Pygmalion (vidit amantem) is not love (yet), but the action by which she realizes that she is alive and not alone. By an artful reversal, Anaxarete’s final glance at Iphis is correspondingly the final act in which she is aware of both her lover and herself before her metamorphosis. In both moments, the act of seeing involves a movement of the body. This movement is shy and quite imperceptible in the case of Galatea, but more conspicuous in the case of Anaxarete. The act of leaning out of the window is not without significance either, but becomes the aition of the cult of the so-called Venus prospiciens. Vertumnus, at the end of his story, states that not only would a statue of the maiden be preserved in Salamis, but there would be a temple dedicated to the so-called Aphrodite Παρακύπτουσα (Met. 14.759–761). This

 35 On the Ovidian tendency to make flesh of metaphors, cf. Pianezzola 1999 and, more recently, Aresi 2021, 223–224. 36 Bettini 1992 (in particular, on Iphis and Anaxarete, 170–176).

  Laura Aresi information, although not found in Antoninus Liberalis37 (the only ancient source that, together with Ovid, tells us the whole story of the two Cypriot young people), is testified to by Plutarch. By showing how Eros promptly takes vengeance of the unjustly offended lovers, he briefly mentions the case of the Παρακύπτουσα of Cyprus and adds the almost identical case of the Cretan Gorgon (Plut. Mor. 766C–D). This suggests that Anaxarete’s punishment should be understood as an intervention that mirrors Pygmalion’s reward. Interestingly, however, in De mulieribus claris Boccaccio marks the parallelism between the Cypriot Venus and a particular Roman Venus, Venus Verticordia (§ 7): Nec solum apud Paphos, vetustissimum Cypriorum oppidum, thure solo placata est — nam mortuam et incestuosam feminam eo delectari existimabant odore que vivens in prostibulorum volutabatur spurcitie — verum et apud nationes reliquas et Romanos, qui templum ei sub titulo Veneris genetricis et Verticordie aliisque insignibus olim struxere. She was honoured with incense not only in Paphos, an ancient city of the Cypriots, who thought that after death this sinful woman would love the scent of the filthy brothels she had wallowed in during her lifetime. She was honoured as well by other people, including the Romans, who in olden times erected a temple to her under the name of Venus Genetrix, Venus Verticordia, and other titles.38

The goddess was so named — according to Ovid — for her capacity to change hearts (vertere cordia) from lust to chastity (Fast. 4.157–160). The rites in honour of the goddess’ statue, which are described in Fast. 4.135–138, are very similar to the amorous attention paid by Pygmalion to Galatea’s statue in Met. 10.260– 269. From this we may assume that the task of this Venus was to encourage puellae to love in the appropriate way: not too much nor too little. In this connection, together with Anaxarete, the link with the Propoetides, whose story we read in the Metamorphoses immediately before that of Pygmalion, seems also worthy of brief mention. These Cypriot women, who dared to deny the divinity  37 Ant. Lib. 39 (Hermesianax, fr. 4 Powell). 38 In the same passage of De mulieribus claris, we also find a rationalizing explanation of the origin of the cult of the goddess. According to Boccaccio, Venus was simply a beautiful woman, who was thereby attributed divine birth: a sort of ‘proto-Elena’, or, if you will, a ‘proto-Alatiel’. As for the incense burnt according to her rites, he states that this sign must have alluded to the incense used by this ‘incestuous woman’ to cover the stench of the brothels where she lived. This far-from-pleasant description of Venus and her island is quite the opposite of the central role which the goddess and Cyprus play in the construction of love’s ideology in the Decameron. This dichotomy between the laic, open-minded and pre-humanist Boccaccio of the novellas written in volgare and the Christian, conservative and sometime even misogynist one of the Latin prose is, however, not too surprising for Boccaccio’s scholars.

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers  

of Venus, were condemned by the goddess to sell their bodies and turned into the world’s first prostitutes. In doing so, the Propoetides lost their sense of shame (pudor) to such an extent that they were finally turned into stone (Met. 10.238–242). It was their shameful example that made Pygmalion create an ideal woman in the form of a statue. In this way, the analogy with the Roman Verticordia is stressed, whose cult was founded precisely to curb the libido of Roman matronae. But to return to Boccaccio’s novella for a final comparison: Alatiel, like Anaxarete, glances at Antigonus through a window and she recognizes him. Immediately after this (compare ‘come ella Antigono vide’ with vixque bene prospexerat Iphin and with lumen attollens pariter cum caelo vidit amantem), her metamorphosis from statue to woman begins, in a process that is opposite to Anaxarete’s transformation and identical to Galatea’s (compare ‘vergognosamente’ with erubuit, but also with mota, pallor, saxum in Anaxarete’s metamorphosis). The meaning of each narrative pattern changes radically. For the first time in the novella, the gaze does not ignite the spark of desire, but is rather the instrument of Alatiel’s agnitio. The moment of recognition between Alatiel and Antigonus is not aimed at sexual complicity, but is the start of an incredible partnership. Surprisingly enough, Antigonus teaches Alatiel the art of lying, proving to be the girl’s true Pygmalion, the one who shows her how words can be more powerful than reality, because they have the power to reshape it.39 Even before George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion, Boccaccio seems to perceive the potential of Pygmalion’s myth if it is transferred from the bodily to the mental sphere. The metamorphosis that the Cypriot myths undergo in Boccaccio’s hands is therefore surprising. Through the lens of the mythical tradition, the depiction of the female figure is reversed. The new Galatea is not the one who yields — and in the right measure — to the rights of love, maintaining a proper balance between the opposite extremes of the Propoetides on the one hand and Anaxarete on the other. Galatea, on the contrary, is the one who, beset by the blows of fortune, knows when it is better for her to be silent, playing the part of a statue, and when it is the right moment to speak again, asking for help and learning eagerly all the useful lessons her master can teach her. Alatiel, like the lady of Gascony, manages to survive a long series of abuses and is able to take her destiny into her own hands, even though, paradoxically, this brings her back into  39 Cf. Segre 1974b, 155 (“le sue parole — e quelle del complice Antigono — evocano ed impongono una realtà più dignitosa e grata di quella fattuale, la quale viene nullificata”) and Mazzacurati 1996, 49 (“la parola […] copre e cancella l’azione”).

  Laura Aresi the bosom of the patriarchal tradition.40 By complying with her father’s wishes and an arranged marriage, this girl presents an excellent example of the success of marital duties as sponsored by Venus Verticordia. The lascivious Alatiel comes back to purity, yes; but she chooses to follow that path herself.

 Conclusion The purpose of the present study was to investigate the role played by Cyprus as a sort of Holy Land of secular love, the ideal place for staging stories which represent Boccaccio’s ideal of amor cortese. It was the authority of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, which had chosen Cyprus as a setting for memorable love myths, which allowed Boccaccio to select the island for such an important task. Ovid had already defined love as the engine of progress and human civilization, but he had also shown how eros can become a blind and destructive force. Following his example, Boccaccio chooses Cyprus as the right place to put into practice, as in a laboratory, the effective functioning of his theory of love (Tedaldo, Cimon in the first phase of his story), but also, conversely, its dysfunction (Cimon in the second phase of his story, the violence suffered by the lady of Gascony). Love in its highest form does not — or should not — end in the blind drive of desire, but should refine intelligence and knowledge, and be characterized by dedication and respect for the beloved. The only case that fully reflects this ideal is that of Tedaldo. In the other cases, women remain merely objects of blind passion or even brutal violence. Nevertheless, the majority of these women (the lady of Gascony, Alatiel) are given the opportunity to claim their dignity and regain possession of their own destiny after the abuse they suffered: their act of self-determination is really — and in a new and surprisingly modern way which re-shapes the mythical tradition — a metamorphosis from object/statue to woman. Significantly, all this happens on Cyprus, as if the island were the place of reparation and redemption, the place where the ancient Venus still seems to reign, rewarding faithful hearts and punishing those who have outraged her.

 40 On this aspect, cf. Taylor 2001, who sees a parallel between Alatiel and the brigata of the Decameron in the final decision to come back home. Further considerations on the parallelism between Alatiel and the women of the brigata are found in Marchesini 1994.

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers  

Bibliography Almansi, G. (1980a), L’estetica dell’osceno, Turin. Almansi, G. (1980b), ‘Tre letture boccaccesche: Alatiel’, in Almansi 1980a, 82–131. Alvarez Morán, M.C. and Iglesias Montiel, R.M., eds. (2012), Y el mito se hizo poesía, Madrid. Aresi, L. (2013), ‘Vicende e intrecci del mito in terra d’Italia: Scilla, Glauco e Circe nelle Metamorfosi di Ovidio’, Prometheus 39, 137–164. Aresi, L. (2017), Nel giardino di Pomona. Le Metamorfosi di Ovidio e l’invenzione di una mitologia in terra d’Italia, Heidelberg. Aresi, L. (2021), ‘Metamorphose: Kontinuität und Wandel’, in Möller 2021, 223–227. Asor Rosa, A., ed. (1992a), Letteratura Italiana Einaudi. Le Opere, I, Turin. Asor Rosa, A. (1992b), ‘Decameron di Giovanni Boccaccio’, in Asor Rosa 1992a, 473–591. Baricci, F. (2015), ‘Dal Serventese del dio d’Amore a Nastagio degli Onesti. La punizione dell’amore negato nel Medioevo romanzo’, in Marchiaro and Zamponi 2015, 437–451. Benedetti, L. (1992), ‘I silenzi di Alatiel’, Quaderni di italianistica 13, 245–255. Benvenuti, A. (1999), ‘Donne sulla strada: l’itineranza religiosa femminile nel Medioevo’, in Silvestre and Valeri 1999, 78–86. Bettini, M. (1992), Il ritratto dell’amante, Turin. Biagini, L., Lapini, L. and Tortorizio, M.B. (1973), ‘Sulla Giornata Va Del Decameron’, Studi Sul Boccaccio 7, 159–177. Binni, W. et al., eds. (1977), Letteratura e critica. Studi in onore di Natalino Sapegno, V, Rome. Bolduc, M. (1996), ‘Les réflects du voyage dans le Décameron: Madame Béritole (II, 6) et Alatiel (II,7) et le Vatican ms Palatinus lat. 1989’, in Buschinger and Spiewok 1996, 15–27. Bolpagni, M. (2016a), ‘Viaggio e controviaggio: per una nuova Alatiel (Decameron II 7)’, Letteratura italiana antica: rivista annuale di testi e studi 17, 147–162. Bolpagni, M. (2016b), ‘Iter gratia itineris: il valore delle peripezie mediterranee nel Decameron’, in Carrascón and Simbolotti 2016, 268–284. Bolpagni, M. (2017), La geografia del Decameron, Novate Milanese. Branca, V. (1956), Boccaccio medioevale, Florence. Branca, V., ed. (1983), Boccaccio e dintorni, Florence. Branca, V., ed. (1992a), G. Boccaccio, Decameron, Turin. Branca, V. (1992b), ‘Una chiave di lettura per il Decameron’, in Branca 1992a, VII–XXXIX. Budini Gattai, N. (2010), ‘La percezione del mondo greco del XIV secolo tra incomprensioni culturali e topoi letterari’, in Morosini 2010b, 103–131. Buschinger, D. and Spiewok, W., eds. (1996), Die geographie in der Mittelalterlichen Epik. La Geographie dans les textes narratifs medievaux. Actes du colloque du Centre d’études médiévales de l’Université de Picardie Jules Verne, Saint-Valery-sur-Somme, 28–31 mars 1996, Greifswald. Carrascón, G. and Simbolotti, C., eds. (2016), I novellieri italiani e la loro presenza nella cultura europea: rizomi e palinsesti internazionali, Turin. Cozzarelli, J.M. (2004), ‘Love and Destruction in the Decameron: Cimone and Calandrino’, Forum Italicum: A Journal of Italian Studies 38, 338–363. Deycks, F., ed. (1851), L. von Sudheim, De Itinere Terrae sanctae liber. Nach alten Handschriften berichtigt, Stuttgart. Dorninger, M.E. (2011), ‘The Island of Cyprus in Travel Literature of the Fourteenth Century’, in Grafetstätter, Hartmann and Ogier 2011, 67–82.

  Laura Aresi Ellero, M.P. (2017), ‘Per un lessico dell’industria. Osservazioni sulla seconda e sulla terza giornata del Decameron’, Lettere Italiane 69, 34–58. Farrell, J. (1992), ‘Dialogue of Genres in Ovid’s “Lovesong of Polyphemus” (Metamorphoses 13.719–897)’, American Journal of Philology 113, 235–268. Fleming, R. (1993), ‘Happy Endings? Resisting Women and the Economy of Love in Day Five of Boccaccio’s Decameron’, Italica 70, 30–45. Franceschetti, A. (1983), ‘Dall’amore cortese all’adulterio tranquillo: Lettura della novella di Tedaldo degli Elisei’, in Branca 1983, 147–160. Frazer, J.G. (19892), Ovid in six volumes, V. Fasti, revised by G.P. Goold, Cambridge, MA/ London. Frosini, G., ed. (2020), Intorno a Boccaccio / Boccaccio e dintorni 2019. Atti del Seminario internazionale di studi (Certaldo Alta, Casa di Giovanni Boccaccio, 12–13 settembre 2019), Florence. Gensini, S., et al., eds. (1992), Europa e Mediterraneo tra Medioevo e prima età moderna: l’osservatorio italiano, Pisa. Grafetstätter, A., Hartmann, S. and Ogier, J., eds. (2011), Islands and Cities in Medieval Myth, Literature and History, Frankfurt am Main. Giannarelli, E. (1999), ‘Il pellegrinaggio al femminile nel cristianesimo antico, fra polemica e esemplarità’, in Silvestre and Valeri 1999, 50–63. Kinoshita, S. and Jacobs, J. (2007), ‘Ports of Call: Boccaccio’s Alatiel in the Medieval Mediterranean’, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 37, 163–195. Kirkham, V. (1985), ‘An Allegorically Tempered Decameron’, Italica 62, 1–23. Labate, M. (2012), ‘Polifemo in Ovidio: il difficile cammino della civiltà’, in Alvarez Morán and Iglesias Montiel 2012, 229–245. Lewis, C.S. (1936), The Allegory of Love: A Study in Medieval Tradition, Oxford. Marchesini, M. (1994), ‘Le ragioni di Alatiel (Decameron II.7)’, Studi sul Boccaccio 22, 257–276. Marchiaro, M. and Zamponi, S., eds. (2015), Boccaccio letterato. Atti del convegno internazionale Firenze - Certaldo, 10–12 ottobre 2013, Florence. Marcozzi, L. (2010), ‘Raccontare il viaggio: tra itineraria ultramarina e dimensione dell’immaginario’, in Morosini 2010b, 159–177. Marcus, M. (1980), ‘The Sweet New Style Reconsidered: A Gloss on the Tale of Cimone’, Italian Quarterly 81, 5–16. Miller, F.J. (19842), Ovid in six volumes, IV. Metamorphoses, in two volumes, II, Books IX–XV, revised by G.P. Goold, Cambridge, MA/London. Millicent, M. (1979), ‘Seduction by Silence: A Gloss on the Tales of Masetto (Decameron III, 1) and Alatiel (Decameron II, 7)’, Philological Quarterly 58, 1–15. Möller, M., ed. (2021), Ovid- Handbuch. Leben — Werk — Wirkung, Berlin. Morosini, R. (2010a), ‘Penelopi in viaggio “fuori rotta” nel Decameron e altrove. “Metamorfosi” e scambi nel Mediterraneo medievale’, Californian Italian Studies 1, 1–33. Morosini, R., ed. (2010b), Boccaccio geografo. Un viaggio nel Mediterraneo tra le città, i giardini e... il ‘mondo’ di Giovanni Boccaccio, Florence. Morosini, R. (2017), ‘What a Difference a Sea Makes in the Decameron. The Mediterranean, a Structural Space of the Novella’, Quaderni d’Italianistica 38, 65–111. Morosini, R. (2020), Il mare salato. Il Mediterraneo di Dante, Petrarca e Boccaccio, Rome. Pace, M. (2016), ‘L’amore di Cimone. Tradizione medica e memoria cavalcantiana in Decameron V 1’, Studi sul Boccaccio 4, 251–276. Pastore, R. (1977), ‘Sacralità dell’erotismo e funzionalità narrativa nella V giornata del Decameron’, in Binni et al. 1977, 59–79.

Pilgrims, Merchants and Lovers  

Peters, E. (1997), ‘Henry II of Cyprus, Rex inutilis: A Footnote to Decameron 1.9’, Speculum 72, 763–775. Petriccione, M. (2020), ‘Il fantasma di Alatiel: desiderio, parola e memoria in Decameron II 7’, in Frosini 2020, 37–51. Pianezzola, E., ed. (1999a), Ovidio. Modelli retorici e forma narrativa, Bologna. Pianezzola, E. (1999b), ‘La metamorfosi ovidiana come metafora narrativa’, in Pianezzola 1999a, 29–42. Picone, M. (2008), Boccaccio e la codificazione della novella. Letture del Decameron, Ravenna. Pinzuti, E. (2008), ‘La novella di Alatiel. Esempi di critica di “genere”’, Filologia e critica 33, 110–119. Romanelli, C. (2009), ‘La novella di Tedaldo degli Elisei e la revitalizzazione della precettistica medievale nel Decameron’, Carte italiane 5, 1–22. Scaglione, A. D. (1963), Nature and Love in the Middle Ages, Berkeley. Segre, C., ed. (1974a), Le strutture e il tempo. Narrazione, poesia, modelli, Turin. Segre, C. (1974b), ‘Comicità strutturale nella novella di Alatiel’, in Segre 1974a, 145–159. Segre, C., ed. (1979a), Semiotica filologica. Testo e modelli culturali, Turin. Segre, C. (1979b), ‘La novella di Nastagio degli Onesti (Dec. V VIII): i due tempi della visione’, in Segre 1979a, 87–96. Silvestre, M.L. and Valeri, A., eds. (1999), Donne in viaggio. Viaggio religioso, politico, metaforico, Rome/Bari. Tateo, F. (1992), ‘Gli stereotipi letterari’, in Gensini et al. 1992, 13–34. Taylor, M. (2001), ‘The fortunes of Alatiel: A reading of Decameron 2,7’, Forum Italicum: A Journal of Italian Studies 35, 318–331. Toscano, A. (1988), ‘Cimone’s Metamorphosis’, Italian Quarterly 29, 25–36.

Hélène Casanova-Robin

Venus of Paphos in the Latin Poetry of the Quattrocento Abstract: The study aims to show the presence of the Venus of Paphos in 15th century Latin poetry in Italy: beyond the traditional poetics of love, the figure irrigates a field of reflection extended to cosmogonic and astronomical questions. The emphasis placed on the Cypriot identity of the goddess makes the figure more complex and invests it with philosophical echoes. A few examples of poetic pieces are examined: they bear witness to the re-elaboration carried out by these humanist poets who mixed Latin sources and Greek texts: the generative and harmonising function of the goddess is highlighted, alongside the sensuality aroused, and Venus of Paphos is given even more prominence in the poetry of the Neapolitan humanist Giovanni Pontano.

 Introduction The Humanists demonstrate a strong interest in the island of Cyprus, which they aim to link to its ancient past.1 As early as the 14th century, the development of historical geography helped raise interest in the exploration of this territory under the lens of its ancient literary heritage, rich in fables and cultural production. In this context, the goddess Venus remains one of the most emblematic figures of Cyprus and the literature makes more frequent reference to Paphos (her birthplace, according to Greek tradition) than it does to the city of Amathus. In the 14th century, Boccaccio dedicated to Hugh IV of Lusignan, King of Jerusalem and of Cyprus (1324–1359), his ample Genealogy of the Pagan Gods, a critically important text in the mythographic tradition.2 Throughout this immense work, the author maintains a regular dialogue with the sovereign and mentions the island of Venus on numerous occasions. He opens Book 4 by evoking sailing around Paphos, a device that works as a metaphor for his approach toward the subject that he develops in the following chapters, in which he ex-

 1 See e.g. Richard 1962, Calvelli 2009. 2 Boccaccio, Genealogy of the Pagan Gods (Solomon 2011). For the chronology of Boccaccio’s Genealogy, his address and his original methodology, see Maréchaux 2010, 2013 and 2016. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-012

  Hélène Casanova-Robin pounds upon the genealogy of the Titans and the first heroes to struggle with the Olympian gods: Fluctuabar adhuc, splendide Princeps, circa Paphum oppidum tuum, Veneris infauste describens illecebras, cum ecce, quasi Eoli carcere fracto, omnes in pelagus prodeuntes sevire venti ceperunt. I was still navigating the waters surrounding your town of Paphos, splendid Prince, and describing Venus’ baleful enticements, when, behold, as if Aeolus’ prison had broken open, all the winds flew forth onto the sea and began to grow angry.

Paphos appears here as an essential place, rich with the memory of ancient conflicts, and with an ambiguity that corresponds to that of Venus evoked by the author in a preceding chapter. It is of a double nature: heavenly (οὐρανία) and earthly (πάνδημος).3 Nevertheless, Boccaccio remains ambivalent on the subject of the goddess of Paphos. Indeed, in addition to his mythographic harvest, he represents her in a pejorative manner in Famous Women 7, retaining an euhemeristic interpretation, even if he does recognize her illuminating beauty that he compares to a star in an allusion to astronomical science.4 In short, he relegates the Venus of Paphos to her role in instigating bad morals — referring to the practice of the so-called ‘sacred’ prostitution linked to the cult of the goddess, a phenomenon described by Herodotus and by the Latin authors of Late Antiquity — all the while attributing to her the honour of incense and the origins of the cult of Venus Genetrix. On the other hand, in his Latin poetic writings (Bucolicum Carmen 1.105), Boccaccio is drawn to the theme of love and mentions the ‘myrtles of Paphos’ in a context of seduction, underlining the symbolic value of this vegetable motif. Evidently and quite naturally, it is in the poetry of the Humanists that the Venus of Paphos occupies such a predominant place — rich in literary heritage, but refashioned to shine anew. The Cypriot Aphrodite has benefited from recent work shining light on the diversity of her cult and its continuities, but also on the varied literary sources that have forged her image. Exploring the early cult of Aphrodite and the way in which she was celebrated in Ancient Greece, Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge has shown the intimate links drawn in Cyprus between Aphrodite and gardens, and how Paphos, one of the most ancient sanctuaries of the goddess, included a

 3 Boccaccio’s Genealogy (Solomon 2011) 3.22–23. 4 Boccaccio’s Famous Women: Brown 2001.

Venus of Paphos in the Latin Poetry of the Quattrocento  

place named ‘sacred garden’ linked to her cult.5 Indeed, one recalls that in his Theogony 192 ff. Hesiod describes flowers springing up under the footsteps of Aphrodite as soon as she arrives in Paphos and departs from the waves of the sea, expressing the generative strength of the love goddess. Pirenne-Delforge defines Aphrodite as a “Cypriot par excellence”, in accordance with her Greek epithet Κυπρογενής, and underlines the unique character of this divinity “geographically defined from her emergence” on which Hesiod conferred so much attention.6 In a complementary work,7 Gabriella Pironti analyzed under an anthropological and poetic lens the traits of the goddess in ancient Greek literature (Pironti 2007): she underlines the terms in which the fecundity of the goddess was expressed, alongside the associated ambiguities. These lines of study tend to considerably renew the ways in which the representations of the goddess of love and beauty are most often portrayed, and most importantly for us here, the ways in which the representations of the Humanists are portrayed. The poets and thinkers of the 15th century that evoke the Venus of Paphos certainly did not neglect the complexity of the figure — one forged by the intersection of traits belonging to the Aphrodite of Hesiod and Homer along with closely-related features of the Latin Venus, a figure shaped over time from Lucretius to Ovid, from Cicero to Virgil, from Horace to Martial, only to be revised yet again in the following centuries. Ancient Latin literature is replete with references to the Cypriot identity of Venus8 and in particular, her links to Paphos, underlined by the recurring epithet Paphia.9 Paphos, where one of her main sanctuaries was located, often becomes a metonym for the island of Cyprus. In Latin poetry, the first allusions to Paphos appear in Virgil, with references to myrtles as Paphiae, plants dear to Venus that are associated with that place (G. 2.64) and that carry with them an entire vocabulary of sensuality linked with incense (A. 1.415). In the poem De rosis nascentibus, which appears in the Appendix Vergiliana and was known by the Humanists as a Virgilian work, the Venus of Paphos is depicted as unifying her two functions.10 She is both divinity and planet (21–22): Communis Paphie dea sideris et dea floris Praecipit unius muricis esse habitum.

 5 Pirenne-Delforge 1994, 56. 6 Pirenne-Delforge 1994, 279–281. 7 Pironti 2007. 8 See Harrison in this volume. 9 Also in the Appendix Vergiliana; cf. Catalepton 14.2. 10 See Iodice 2002, IX–XXXIII.

  Hélène Casanova-Robin The goddess of Paphos, common to the star and the flower, prescribed that the rose should take on only the colour of the mulberry tree.

Borrowed from Hesiod, the motif of sea waves appears again in another poem of the Appendix Vergiliana (Aetna 594) and in Latin texts of the imperial period (Seneca, Statius, Martial)11 to illustrate the goddess’s fertile attributes, depicted as vectors of harmony. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses 10.297, Paphos, by way of a metonymy, becomes the name of the entire island dedicated to Venus whose founding eponymous hero is born from Pygmalion and his love for a humanized statue (thanks to Venus), before becoming the father of Cinyras. The aetiology established in this case differs from that offered by Cicero in De natura deorum 3.23.59 which links one of the Venuses transmitted by the Greek tradition to the island of Cyprus by way of the goddess’s line of descent, as the offspring of Syria and a certain Cypros. Equipped with Greek heritage, the Latin poets recomposed the divinity of Aphrodite by retaining certain features and by integrating them into a use of language that was itself reinvigorated by the image of Venus developed by Lucretius in the first century BCE. Indeed, following traits drawn by Hesiod, the Epicurean poet shaped a figure that would incarnate for him the creator principle of nature (cf. e.g. the proem of the De rerum natura) — the essential dynamic voluptas, generative and world-ordering, separated from a religious dimension and carrying with it Epicurean axiology, guarantor of the world’s reasoned evolution and of the thinker’s wisdom.12 Nevertheless, in a Romanizing and doctrinal view of the goddess, Lucretius emphasizes her universal symbolic functions and does not mention her Cypriot origins. Leading the world through her grace (lepor) and through her vital momentum, the Lucretian Venus still definitively leaves a mark on the Latin tradition, regardless of subsequent poets’ degree of affinity with Epicureanism. It is thus a complex and renewed Venus who takes her place in Latin poetry — this is the one the 15th century Humanists would go on to privilege, exploring her Cypriot identity under the prism of the creator symbolism developed by the Epicurean poet and by the Greek tradition that they examined with interest. Driven by the rediscovery of numerous Greek texts, notably those of Hesiod and the so-called Homeric Hymns,13 which were read in addition to the work of  11 Cf. e.g. Luc. 8.458; Sen. Oed. 537 c; Sen. Ep. 91.9.4; Sen. Nat. 6.26.4.4; Stat. Theb. 4.300; 5.61; 7.186; Silv. 1.2.101; 1.2.159; 3.4.82 and 88; 5.4.8; Mart. 8.28.13; 9.90.13; Sil. 7.457. 12 See Gigandet 1998. 13 The editio princeps of the Homeric Hymns was published in Florence in 1488 by Demetrius Chalcocondyles, but a large number of manuscripts had been circulating for several years.

Venus of Paphos in the Latin Poetry of the Quattrocento  

Lucretius, the figure of Venus acquired an unprecedented complexity in 15th century Italy, sparking an undeniable fascination that can be seen through poetic production, philosophical texts and contemporary works of art.14 Among this multiplicity of references, the Cypriot Venus stands out, forged by Aphrodite Urania (Ἀφροδίτη Οὐρανία) with her eastern origins known by Greek historians and often associated with Paphos, one of her most ancient sanctuaries.15 Works highlight her sensual potential linked to fertility, with references to flora or to Paphian balm, but even beyond that, they describe her with a cosmogonic or astral vocabulary, borrowing from a syncretic mix between the Greek philosophical tradition and astronomical science. In the short space of this study, I examine several poetic texts while giving particular attention to these latter qualities linked to the goddess of Paphos, which seems to me to merit a specific interest, given that she subsumes several traditions: Eastern, Greek, Ancient Latin and Medieval. *** We know the success in the 15th century encountered by the theme of the birth of Venus and the debates over her two faces: Οὐρανία and Πάνδημος. These appeared in literature and in the figurative arts and opened themselves up to all sorts of philosophical interpretation, notably in the Florentine cultural circle and in Neo-Platonic hermeneutics.16 In these cases, the goddess is most frequently depicted in accordance with her heavenly dimension, without being explicitly attached to Cyprus or to Paphos. Nevertheless, poets of this era enjoyed mixing in a series of vegetable motifs linked to the symbolism of love — for instance, myrtles and roses — thereby reactivating the Cypriot origin of their Venus. These depictions were often associated with liquid, whether it be the sea or the ‘water of Acidalia’,17 both of which expressed the fertile properties of the goddess in the form of a dynamic liquid. While one recognizes formulations borrowed from their predecessors and from ancient models, one also discovers

 14 Rotondi Secchi Tarugi 1993 wrote a very interesting study here, mainly focused on the Platonic heritage in the Florentine area. 15 In Herodotus’ books evidently and others authors, because ancient sources are numerous, in various literary forms and from different periods: Bion, Moschus, Pliny the Elder, Heliodorus, Achilles Tatius, Lucian (Dea Syria), Nonnus of Panopolis, Macrobius…. 16 See Ficino’s commentary on Plato’s Symposium (Laurens 2002). 17 Cf. e.g. Galassio, Theseis 2.284; Strozzi, Borsias 6.132; Pontano, Urania 1.191; 3.347; 5.306; 5.429; 5.451; 5.704; Pontano, De Hesperidum hortis 2.162; Pontano, Eclogae 1.1.10; 1.1.12; Pontano, De amore coniugali 3.4.1.35; 3.4.1.39; Pontano, De tumulis 2.24.1.5; 2.24.1.6; Pontano, Eridanus 1.3.60; 1.6.1; 2.4.16; 2.21.11; Verino, Flammetta 1.4.13.

  Hélène Casanova-Robin in these verses — in particular among the authors of the Neapolitan Academy — remarkable attention focussed on the goddess’s Paphian identity. Driven by contemporary interest in Cyprus, Paphos was the subject of deep interrogation among the Humanists, echoing the ancients while reviving their oriental syncretism and adding an interest in the cycles of nature and in the heavens.

 Venus of Paphos: paradigm of a pacifying sensuality As one might expect, Venus of Paphos appears, alongside geographic references to Paphos and Cythera, as a goddess of love. She signifies intense passion, and poets invoke her as a representative paradigm for the expression of love, while other writings that reference her, in addition to showing a talent for imitation, aimed to fuel debates around Eros.18 Cristoforo Landino (1424–1498), holder of the chair of rhetoric and poetry in Florence and an attentive commentator on poetry from Antiquity, evokes her in these terms in the first book of his work Xandra (1.23.21): Ah quotiens Paphon, quotiens sua regna Cythera Deseruit flammis iam calefacta novis! Et modo Panchaeis demens errabat in agris, Cerneret ut vultus, pulcher Adoni tuos; Ah, how often did she desert Paphos, how often Cythera, Her own kingdom, heated again with new-made flames! At one moment she wandered witless in the meadows of Panchaea, To see your face, O lovely Adonis!19

The piece is addressed to Bartolomeo Scala (1430–1497), an intellectual and excellent Hellenist, a top-notch statesman and an author of historical and philosophical works in addition to some poetry.20 Landino appears here to respond to the condemnations of love and its disorders expressed by his interlocutor (in some of his Apologi, in particular), justifying, for his part, the peremptory char 18 See, with Ficino, op. cit., Bartolomeo Sacchi (Il Platina), Dialogus contra Amores (1481), Petrus Haedus (Pietro Edo, or Cavretto), Anterotica (1492). 19 Landino, Poems, translated by Chatfield 2008, 40–41; I have modified the translation of the last quoted line. 20 For B. Scala, see Brown 1979 and 1997.

Venus of Paphos in the Latin Poetry of the Quattrocento  

acter of the passion of love, illustrated so well by the Cypriot goddess who deserts her places of worship out of love for Adonis. One recognizes here the Ovidian influence of Metamorphoses 10.530 when the goddess of Paphos is evoked (non alto repetit Paphon aequore). One also admires the concision of the formulation that brings together the fire and water motifs linked to the madness of love as well as the allusion to the incense of Panchaia (Met. 10.309), mentioned by Ovid as he prepared to recount the story of Myrrha. By evoking certain places and certain smells, the author sets Venus against the background of the eastern origins of the myth.21 We see her characterized similarly in the poetry of the Salernitan Gabriele Altilio (1440–1501). In the first lines of this piece in lyric Aeolic verse, which recalls the Greek poetry of Sappho or Alcaeus, he offers a remarkably Hellenistic representation of the goddess, linking her back to her island of origin and to her beloved sanctuary of Paphos (Carmina 5.1–14): Mater alma cupidinum O Paphi domina et Cypri Aequorumque minantium, Dulcis o hominum gestatrix Coelitum decus omnium. Ipsa tu dea cum advenis Suave olentis odoribus Veris omnia reficis, Tum virens nemus explicat Hinc et hinc patulas comas, Grata tum Zephirus tepens Arva floribus obtegit, Lacteis quoque frugibus Spargitur genetrix humus.22

5

10

Mother nurturing of love O sovereign of Paphos and Cyprus And the menacing waves O you who bear men Glory of all celestial divinities When you arrive, goddess Under the fragrance of your delicate smell You renew everything, spring-like The verdant woods deploy Here and there their wide foliage  21 Cf. Thorsen in this volume. 22 Ed. Lamattina 1978. The translation is mine.

  Hélène Casanova-Robin Then Zephyrus in his dry breath Pleasantly covers the fields of flowers Fruits of milky sweetness are spread too Across the nourishing land.

Here, Altilio links the fertility of Venus to her cosmogonic dimension using the theme of smell, a catalyzer of ‘vital humours’ promised by the goddess and mediated by blasts of air provided by Zephyrus. The reinvigorated flower fields echo the description of Hesiod who painted a picture of grass growing on Cypriot soil under the footsteps of Aphrodite (Theogony 194–195); one can also identify the influence of the beginning of Lucretius’ De rerum natura in the pacifying quality of the goddess ‘leading men over menacing waters’. Nevertheless, the details reveal a Greek foundation: the explicit ties to Cyprus intensify the image of the Ἀφροδίτη Οὐρανία ‘in her gardens’ that was known to the Hellenic cults practiced in Cyprus, also explained by Pausanias and Pliny the Elder.23 The attention given to smell also seems to recall the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, where Paphos is portrayed as the spot of a ‘fragrant’ (59: θυώδη) temple and all of Cyprus is known as ‘fragrant’ (66: εὐώδεα Κύπρον). Zephyrus here accompanies the flowering of the fields, in support of Venus. In Homeric Hymns 6.3 it is he who drives the goddess, at her birth, to the island of Cyprus. The Paphian identity of the goddess emphasized here is the product of the re-reading of Greek sources brought together to strengthen the Latin tradition. In this way, the poets are renewing traditional models.

 Venus of Paphos in Italian soil: Genius loci in the poetry of Giovanni Pontano But it is Giovanni Pontano (1429–1503), the immensely productive Humanist and statesman whose central role in the Neapolitan intellectual scene no longer needs to be demonstrated,24 who depicts the Venus of Paphos with the most poetic richness and semantic complexity. He builds Venus into an essential figure of his poetic work, regularly depicting her as the foundational principle

 23 Plin. Nat. 36.16; Pirenne-Delforge 1994, 43, 62. 24 For G. Pontano, see numerous studies by Monti Sabia, Tateo, Germano, Iacono, CasanovaRobin. Some of them, concerning specially the texts studied here, are cited in the bibliography at the end of this study.

Venus of Paphos in the Latin Poetry of the Quattrocento  

of the world and of all human activity.25 He establishes her as a divinity protective of harmonious conjugal love — celebrated on numerous occasions — up until his final poem, the De Hortis Hesperidum, in which Venus presides over the practice of horticulture exercised by a married couple.26 One can thus observe the link established between a sensual conjugal happiness and the fertility of the garden conceived by the pair.27 Venus remains omnipresent too, of course, in the representation of the poet’s passion for his lover Stella of Ferrara, developed in the elegiac collection Eridanus: implementing a refined poetics of love, Pontano exploits here the semantics of the star, contained in the very name of the puella, going so far as to superimpose the beloved onto the goddess, and to fuse them in a single star.28 In one of the opening poems of the Eridanus (1.3), Venus sleeps in the woods of Paphos, next to a murmuring wave (9–10: Paphi in luco, rivi crepitantis ad undam / dormieram), but shortly thereafter, she appears on the soil of Ferrara. Following Ovid, who demonstrated the capacity of Venus to move from one land to another,29 Pontano recounts in poem 1.6 the goddess’s migration to the banks of the Eridanus, the territory of Stella, to set her fires and to inspire a kind of joint poetics of water and fire:30 Fontis Acidalii laticem Venus aurea liquit Et Paphias myrtos Idaliumque nemus, Eridanus dominae tantum placet. (1–3) Golden Venus leaves the water of the Acidalian Fountain And Paphos’ myrtles and Idalian grove, Eridanus pleases his mistress so much.

Then, with a mirror-like effect, in elegy 1.18, Stella becomes a double of Venus, and their homeland, celestial and terrestrial, is one and the same:  25 Casanova-Robin 2018b and 2020a. 26 Shared horticulture, but presented as a memory, here, the wife having died some years ago. Nevertheless, the memory remains: it is also an illustration of a cycle of nature, where, again, the role of Venus, as Pontano also describes it in relation to Adonis, is symbolic of the seasons. The De Hortis Hesperidum is a poem where a large place is reserved for an original rewriting of the Adonis myth. See Caruso 2013, 6–20; Iacono 2015; Casanova-Robin 2010, 2011 and 2018c. 27 Casanova-Robin 2016, 595. 28 G. Pontano, L’Éridan/Eridanus, edited, introduced and commented by Casanova-Robin 2018a. 29 Ov. Met. 10.529–541. 30 The motif of the migration of the goddess to the Italian land is perhaps inspired by Horace’s Carmina 1.30.

  Hélène Casanova-Robin Stella, tibi coelum patria est, hinc clara refulges. Si tibi terra domus sit, domus Assyria est; Assyrio etenim spirat tibi pectus odores, Assyrio mollis stillat ab ore liquor. Sin quia Deliciae et Veneres blandique Lepores Tecum habitent, patrii sit tibi terra lares, Ipsa domus patriique lares sit Cyprus, et una Sit Veneri, atque eadem sit tibi, Stella, domus. Stella, the sky is your homeland, from there, you shine, brilliant. If your home is earthly, Assyria is your home; Because your breast exhales Assyrian fragrances, Sweet liquor drips from your Assyrian mouth. But if Delight, Sensuality and Delightful Charms Dwell by your side, let the earth be your ancestral Lares, Let Cyprus be your home and your ancestral Lares, And may have you one home, Venus and Stella.31

The ambrosia remains produced by Venus in Cyprus, in the poem Eridanus 2.19.25–26, but it inundates the entire world, as the poet blends the attributes of the goddess and the stars:32 Laeta canunt cygni, fundit Venus aurea rorem, Ambrosiae Cyprius stillat ab axe liquor. The swans sing happily, golden Venus spreads her dew, From the sky drips ambrosia, Cyprian liquid.33

The Humanist amplifies this double status of Venus, as he pursues his exploration of the theme of the divine protector in the Neapolitan land. In the poetry of Pontano, the Cypriot divinity conserves her unique attributes and stays sometimes in Ferrara, but also emigrates to Baiae on occasion, where she lays the foundations for her incitement of pleasure, spreading her myrtles, smiles and voluptuous promise. On this final point, Pontano certainly recalls Martial,34 particularly within his collection of lyrical verse Hendecasylla-

 31 The translation is mine. On the body and the senses in Pontano’s poetry, see CasanovaRobin 2013. 32 See e.g. De rosis nascentibus 21–22, in the Appendix Vergiliana. 33 The translation is mine. 34 Mart. 11.80.1–2: Litus beatae Veneris aureum Baias, / Baias superbae blanda dona Naturae.

Venus of Paphos in the Latin Poetry of the Quattrocento  

bi siue Baiarum Libri,35 developed under the sign of Venus. Far from discrediting the waters of Baiae, he exalts them, precisely in the name of the Paphian goddess’s restorative powers. The city of water becomes an eminently ‘Venusian’ location, as the goddess assures the full recovery of soul and body in the wholesome waves36 and in the peace that she brings to the place (Hendec. 2.15.3–8): Baias nam Veneres Cypro relicta, Relictis Charites procul Cytheris, Desertis Paphiae Uriis uetustis Migrarunt, Amor et migrauit una Et blandus Iocus et tener Cupido Altrixque et iuuenum et senum Voluptas. Because the Venuses left Cyprus to go to Baiae, The Charites have abandoned Cythera in the distance, Leaving the ancient Urii of the Paphian lady They moved to Baiae, Amor moved in with them And delightful Iocus and lovely Cupido too, And Voluptas that feeds young and old people.37

In these verses, the goddess is attached to her different ancient places of worship — following the model of Augustan poets38 — but it is her Paphian origin that appears as a critically important aetiological element. Indeed, the Humanist emphasizes her Cypriot traits, retaining from Paphos the stimulating fragrances that accentuate the goddess’s eastern aspects with references to Syrian smells that his wife Adriana exhales in this same collection.39 Here, the Paphian Venus is not only a source of inspiration for erotic sweetness, but also the one who evokes the world of the Orient in Campania, presiding like a star over this zone of the Mediterranean and exercising her dynamism over the places she visits.40 In Hendec. 2.22, the Charites (Pontano preferred the Greek name of the Graces, which is revealing about the sources he used) come to invite young men and young women to their song: they are quickly joined by myrtle and by the ‘choir of the Paphian lady’ (3–5: Paphiae … choros). Here the poet reconstitutes  35 Published post mortem auctoris in 1505, with different titles (Hendecasyllaborum Libri duo siue Baiorum Libri; Baiae; Ed. Monti Sabia 1978; Dennis 2006; Tateo 2018). 36 Pontano seems to reply to Ovid’s Ars Amatoria 1.255 ff. 37 The translation is mine. 38 On the Augustan model, see Harrison in this volume. 39 Hendec. 1.13.37–38: spirabas Cyprios tuosque odores, / stillabas Syrium et tuum liquorem. 40 See Urania 5.

  Hélène Casanova-Robin the famous garden of Venus where we find Libertas and Amor personified and presiding, alongside the goddess, over sensual baths, before Voluptas41 is introduced and the union of bodies achieved (8). Fairly long, this poem also evokes roses, various floral smells, and the liquor of ambrosia flowing over bodies (34 ff.) as well as the fragrances of Assyria (51) in a representation of sensuality that builds to a crescendo where Cyprus becomes the cradle of a ritualized fertility spread by Venus, universal mother to all (59–60: Vobis lectulus has rosas parabit / Spirans Assyriam simul Cyprumque).

 Principle of harmony between sky and land: Venus of Paphos in astrological poetry Despite the poetic virtuosity of Pontano, the references to Paphos in the Hendecasyllabi siue Baiarum Libri, in the Eridanus, and even in the Lyra, remain relatively expected. But they reach an entirely different level in his Urania, a cosmological poem in which the Venus of Paphos occupies a preeminent place, conceived, under the influence of Lucretius, according to her foundational role in nature, but also as a planet exercising considerable power over the terrestrial and celestial universe.42 The originality of Pontano’s astrological poetry resides in this subtle superimposing of myth onto the description of celestial bodies: the planets, like the constellations tied to them, possess the powers of the mythological divinities for which they are named. A form of porosity between science and mythopoetic creation is maintained throughout.43 As early as the first book of Urania, the poet invokes Venus as the source of order in the world who presides over the conception of everything. Her home in the heavens resembles Paphos to which she remains attached. The location is mentioned, even before it is characterized as the residence of the goddess, as felix regio mundique beatior ora (1.177–210), benefitting from an eternal spring and sparking ardent desires, linked naturally to love and pleasure. Here Voluptas and Lascivia reign, in the middle of playful nymphs and seductively singing

 41 For similar personifications, cf. the description of the garden of Venus in Claudian’s Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae 78–85: see Tzounakas in this volume. 42 Soldati 1902; Weh 2017; Casanova-Robin 2018d and 2020; Haskell 2018; Hübner 2014; Rinaldi 2004; Tateo 1960 and 1995; Trinkaus 1985. 43 Casanova-Robin 2018d and 2020.

Venus of Paphos in the Latin Poetry of the Quattrocento  

Camenae who lead cohorts of young people dedicated to voluptuousness (1.185 ff.). In these features, one recognizes the effects of the goddess’s power, on the flowered territory and in the indolent sensuality of the location, gentle and heart-stirring. After a long description filled with expressive images, a few verses highlight the traditional features of the goddess, among which the ‘swans of Paphos’ (1.211–212) figure prominently. It is here that Venus places her star (Urania 1.215–217): His Cytherea suum posuit pulcherrima sidus, Quo terraeque fretumque et magnus concipit aer, Et dulcis in corde agitant animantia motus. It’s there that the beautiful Cytherea installed her star, Under the power of which the land, sea and vast air conceive And where sweet movements agitate the living in their heart.44

The poet thus introduces a mirror-like relationship between the sky and earth: Paphos, and more broadly, Cyprus, find themselves under the protection of their native goddess, and the powers of Venus explain the qualities of the location and the surrounding atmosphere. The aetiology is expressed here under the veil of myth — it remains nevertheless supported by the configuration of the celestial bodies, responding to the author’s goal of constructing a terrestrial chorography linked to the stars. This point culminates in the fifth book of the poem, where the tutelary function of Venus on the island of Cyprus is confirmed and explains the depiction of Paphos, in particular (cf. Urania 5.412–500). But it is at the moment when the universe becomes animated, under the impetus of primitive forces (including, most importantly, those of Venus), that her Cypriot origins are accentuated even further. The poet proceeds by crafting scenes that show the goddess in action, equipped with her recognizable attributes. But even more, he exploits the alliance between the physical and the ethical to show the role of Venus — planet and goddess, one and the same — in the cosmogonic process linked to the birth of emotion. The planet’s role in the cosmos is preeminent, explained by images of the birds of Paphos, considered by the ancients to be intermediaries between gods and men. They pull the chariot of the goddess-planet and are newly defined according to their Cypriot origin (1.211–214):

 44 All the translation of the Urania in this chapter are mine.

  Hélène Casanova-Robin Has oras atque haec Gnidiae loca laeta volucres Pervolitant circum, et Paphii vectantur olores, Numinis idalii currumque rotasque volantes Qui subeunt, mollique ferunt per inania lapsu. These territories and these joyous places, the birds of Cnidos fly Around and the swans of Paphos are drawn to them Those who support the chariot of flying wheels of the goddess of Idalium, and who transport her, in a supple gliding, through the empty spaces.

Naturally, the generative power of Venus also has an effect on light (1.218–220), a reference to the Homeric epithet of Aphrodite (‘golden’), transposed into Latin by Virgil45 (aurea): Ipsa refulgentis auro interplexa capillos Aurorae e thalamis radiorumque aemula solis Lucem aperit, reseratque diem mortalibus almum. She herself, her brilliant hair mixed with gold, From the bedchamber of Aurora and rivalling the rays of the sun She reveals the light, and she unveils the day nurturing for mortals.

The myth of Aurora and Tithonus, introduced here, develops the figurative dimension of the text. Through a delightful use of the supernatural, it also presents a background motif of love, prolonging the thematic strand developed earlier. But an entirely unprecedented mythological episode is developed in the third book of the same poem, Urania. It follows a description of the constellations and the moral predispositions that each of them possesses. While describing the sign of Pisces, which governs the zone where Cyprus is located, according to ancient chorography, the poet gives a predominant role to the Venus of Paphos and to the links she maintains with the island of her birth.46 In a scene that does not borrow from any preceding models — to my knowledge — each of the fish takes turns speaking in a diptych rich with ancient echoes. One recounts the birth of Venus and her arrival in Paphos, the other describes her love affair with Adonis. Here are the initial lines of the passage:

 45 Verg. A. 10.16. 46 See in particular the treatise composed by Pontano De rebus coelestibus; at the end of the fifth book, he recalls which area depends on the sign of Pisces; see also Nuovo 2003.

Venus of Paphos in the Latin Poetry of the Quattrocento  

“Tempore quo genita es et conchaque imposta nitenti, Nos Paphon et carae provectam ad litora Cypri Detulimus, salsos et iuncti enavimus amnes Coerula verrentes sinuatis aequora caudis. Interea nos ipsa manu mulcere, iugalesque Appellare tuos, nobis et amaracon ipsa Porrigere et blandum ambrosiae instillare liquorem. Quin etiam mutis voces et verba dedisti Reddere, et ingentem fando lenire laborem. Ipsa loquebaris. Tumidi subsidere montes, A tergo spirare aurae atque impellere fluctus. Crispabat tibi tum molles levis aura capillos; Illi perque humeros volitant perque ora recurrunt; Colligis ipsa levi digito, ad frontemque reponis. Tum passim laeti ex oculis spirantur honores, Scintillantque genis ignes, tremulumque per aequor Irradiat niveo fusus de pectore candor, Coerulaque undifluae ludunt sub stagna papillae.

295

300

305

At the time when you were born and placed upon a shining shell We bore you all the way, carried to Paphos, to the shores of your dear Cyprus; Swimming in unison through the salted swells, Sweeping the blue waters with our curved tails. Meanwhile you caressed us with your hand, you called us 295 Your yoke-team, you offered us marjoram in person And you dripped into us the sweet liquor of ambrosia. You gave us mute creatures utterance and the capacity to speak words in reply And to make our immense labour easier by speech. You spoke. The sea inflated into mountains then collapsed, 300 The winds blew behind and pushed the waves. Then a light breeze curled your supple hair That fluttered on your shoulders and your face; You delicately brought the strands together on your forehead. Then a radiant beauty spread from your eyes, 305 Fire scintillated on your cheeks and over the rippling wave, The brightness flowing from your snow-white chest twinkled. Your wave-wet breasts sported over the blue sea.

The re-arrangement in a narrative and descriptive form of Venus’ powers clearly helps to forward the didactic goals of the poem. Nevertheless, one also recognizes in it, situated precisely in Paphos, the alliance of generative elements, thanks to the unifying power of the divinity. As in the Homeric Hymn to Aphro-

  Hélène Casanova-Robin dite, Hesiod evoked Aphrodite’s actions affecting the primordial mixis,47 a form of impetus toward the other that is produced in the macrocosm as well as in the microcosm. Empedocles theorized it with the concept of φιλότης. One recognizes it here among the features of a sensual portrait painted of the goddess; the Humanist chooses to divulge the concrete action sparked by Venus, suggesting, through his use of descriptive terms, the influence of her generative faculties over the world, issued from the seas. We find among their products the air, along with breathing, water and fire, as described by Hesiod and later by Aristotle.48 The bubbling effervescence described by the Greek authors reappears here with the effect of scintillation (scintillant, then tremulum aequor), materialized in the anthropomorphic image of the divinity with her breasts that are ‘wet’ and dripping (undifluae), but also melted into the waves ‘over the blue sea’ (caerulea sub stagna). Venus emerges from the swell, as the goddess emerged from the sea-foam at her birth according to the Greek texts. Her ties to the liquid element also confirm her generative power and the fluid is itself added to the universal breath that she spreads, confirming her natural ties to Zephyrus. Indeed, a little further on in the text, Venus is evoked by the epithet Zephyritida (Urania 3.421), an epithet that by all accounts appears only once in Latin Antiquity, in Catullus (66.57), who also used it to refer to Venus ‘linked to Zephyrus’, in a somewhat obscure passage of his c. 66 where he describes the catasterism of the Coma Berenices constellation. The use of such a word links this passage of the Urania to those verses in which Catullus evokes the role of Venus in the deification of the constellation; moreover, Venus is designated as an Egyptian divinity in this poem of Catullus, an interpretative thread that the Humanist also retains throughout his astrological poem, alongside the Cypriot one. The similarities between the texts are all the more clear when, shortly thereafter, the goddess of Paphos is depicted as sparking the catasterism of Pisces. The wind here is no longer simply carrying the goddess to the island of Cyprus—it is rather a consubstantial element of her power. Pontano describes the principles of the essence of the Cypriot divinity, in all her complexity, by means of a fable that he invents, drawing on a unique blend of a dense poetic and philosophical tradition. The Humanist has chosen to unite eastern, Greek and Latin traditions, illustrating the generative function played by the goddess, as well as her sensuality and her harmonious power over the universe. Using the mirror established

 47 See the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite and the rich study by Pironti 2007. 48 See Aristotle’s On the generation of animals 2.2, 736a, who refers to the role of Aphrodite’s foam in the mixis, then ἀφρός, the foam fish. On this text, see also Pironti 2007, 165.

Venus of Paphos in the Latin Poetry of the Quattrocento  

between the celestial and terrestrial worlds, he highlights the qualities of Venus and their links to Cyprus.

 Conclusion I began this study with Boccaccio and his Genealogy of the Gods, concluding with Pontano and his astrological poem. If, on first glance, there exist few points in common between Pontano’s representation of the Venus of Paphos — intensified by the use of a multitude of literary and philosophical sources — and the very distanced, if not pejorative, view outlined by Boccaccio, it nevertheless appears that Pontano took inspiration from his predecessor’s method. In his Genealogy, Boccaccio aimed to reveal what the poetic veil of myth covered, to show what was hidden under the ‘bark’ by means of hermeneutics designed to reveal the strata of knowledge assembled over the centuries.49 In an inverse sense but following the same principle, one might say that Pontano reconstructs through his mythological process the ‘bark’ itself, foundational to poetic writing and which covers, in reality, a profound and complex body of knowledge produced from a range of erudite readings. Well beyond a simple reprise of poetic epithets known from the ancient corpus, the Venus of Paphos that he depicts and whose contours I have merely tried to sketch, speaks to a masterly work. This presentation of the goddess assembles features that highlight the complexity of her cult along with elements borrowed from cosmogonic theories developed by ancient Greek thinkers and revisited by later philosophers, all of it mixed together through an astrological representation. Thus, by establishing a critically important link between human civilization and celestial power, this admirable Humanist illustrates, with talent and luminosity, the exceptional powers of the territory of Cyprus — a land that the figure of Venus radiantly subsumes.

 49 See Maréchaux 2010, 2013 and 2016.

  Hélène Casanova-Robin

Bibliography Editions: Brown, A. (1997), Bartolomeo Scala, Humanistic and Political Writings, Tempe, AZ. Brown, V. (2001), Giovanni Boccaccio, Famous Women, edited and translated, Cambridge, MA/ London. Casanova-Robin, H. (2018a), Giovanni Pontano, Eridanus/L’Éridan, étude introductive, texte latin, traduction et commentaire, Paris. Chatfield, M. (2008), Cristoforo Landino, Poems, Cambridge, MA/London. Dennis, R.G. (2006), Giovanni Gioviano Pontano, Baiae, Cambridge, MA. Iodice, M.-G. (2002), Appendix Vergiliana, Milan. Lamattina, G. (1978), Gabriele Altilio, Carmina, Salerno. Laurens, P. (2002), Marsile Ficin, Commentaire sur le Banquet de Platon. De l’amour. Paris. Monti Sabia, L. (1978), Ioannis Ioviani Pontani, Hendecasyllaborum Libri, Naples. Œschger, J. (1948), I.I. Pontani Carmina, Bari. Soldati, B. (1902), I.I. Pontani Carmina, Florence. Solomon, J. (2011), Boccaccio, Genealogy of the Pagan Gods, Cambridge, MA/London. Weh, D. (2017), Giovanni Pontanos Urania Buch I, Wiesbaden.

Other works: Alcina, J.F., Dillon, J. & Ludwig, W., eds. (1998), Acta Conventus Neolatini Bariensis, Tempe, AZ. Andrioli Nemola, P., Casale, O.S. and Viti, P, eds. (2004), Gli umanisti e le terme, Lecce/Santa Cesarea Terme. Auger, D. & Delattre, C., ed. (2010), Mythos/Fictio. Mythe et fiction, Paris. Ballestra-Puech, S., ed. (2018), Lectures de Lucrèce, Geneva. Boehm, I., Ferrary, J.-L. and Franchet d’Espèrey, S., eds. (2016), L’homme et ses Passions, Paris. Brown, A. (1979), Bartolomeo Scala, 1430–1497, Chancellor of Florence, The Humanist as Bureaucrat, Princeton, N.J. Calvelli, L. (2009), Cipro e la memoria dell’antico fra Medioevo e Rinascimento. La percezione del passato romano dell’isola nel mondo occidentale, Venice. Caruso, C. (2013), Adonis. The Myth of the Dying God in Italian Renaissance, London/New Delhi/New York. Casanova-Robin, H. (2010), ‘Lauri este memores. Mémoire de l’épouse défunte dans la Deuxième Églogue de Pontano. Réflexions pour une poétique mnémonique’, in CasanovaRobin & Galand 2010, 327–359. Casanova-Robin, H. (2011), ‘Des métamorphoses végétales dans les poésies de Pontano: Mirabilia et lieux de mémoire’, in Leroux 2011, 247–268. Casanova-Robin, H. (2013), ‘Le corps et les sens dans l’Eridanus de G. Pontano’, in Puccini 2013, 251–271.

Venus of Paphos in the Latin Poetry of the Quattrocento  

Casanova-Robin, H. (2016), ‘Deux variations sur l’eroticon pathéma dans la poésie néo-latine du Quattrocento: Landino, Xandra, I, 14 et Pontano, Hendecasyllabi I, 13’, in Boehm, Ferrary and Franchet d’Espèrey 2016, 585–599. Casanova-Robin, H. (2018b), ‘Pontano lecteur de Lucrèce: volupté poétique et savoir philosophique’, in Ballestra-Puech 2018, 79–102. Casanova-Robin, H. (2018c), ‘D’Adriana à Ariadna: la représentation mythologique de l’épouse dans l’œuvre poétique de Giovanni Pontano’, in Tradição e transformação: a herança latina no Renascimento, Sao Paulo, 149–192. Casanova-Robin, H. (2018d), ‘La poetica dei quattro elementi da Ovidio a Giovanni Pontano’, Aevum antiquum 18, 125–139. Casanova-Robin, H. (2020), ‘Vénus alma mater en terre napolitaine? sur quelques réminiscences lucrétiennes dans la poésie de Pontano’, in Germano & Deramaix 2020, 177–200. Casanova-Robin, H. and Galand, P., eds. (2010), Écritures latines de la mémoire de l’Antiquité au XVIe siècle, Paris. Casanova-Robin, H., Gambino Longo, S. and La Brasca, F., eds. (2016), Boccace humaniste latin, Paris. Coppini, D. (2004), ‘Baianum Veneres colunt recessum’: bagni, amore, mito, senilità e spettacolo negli Hendecasyllabi del Pontano’, in Andrioli Nemola, Casale and Viti 2004, 243– 262. De Nichilo, M., Distaso, G. and Iurilli, A., eds. (2003), Confini dell’Umanesimo letterario. Studi in onore di F. Tateo, Rome. Dooley, B., ed. (2014), A Companion to Astrology in the Renaissance, Leiden. Gallo, I. & Nicastri, L., ed. (1995), Aetates ovidianae. Lettori di Ovidio dall’Antichità al Rinascimento, Naples. Germano, G. (2020), ‘Figurazioni del nudo tra mitologia e realismo nella poesia erotica in distici elegiaci di Giovanni Pontano’, in Polara 2020, 429–441. Germano, G. & Deramaix, M., eds. (2020), Dulcis alebat Parthenope. Memorie dell’antico e forme del moderno all’ombra dell’Accademia pontaniana, Naples. Gigandet, A. (1998), Fama deum. Lucrèce et les raisons du mythe, Paris. Haskell, Y. (1998) ‘Renaissance Latin Didactic Poetry on the Stars: Wonder, Myth and Science’, Renaissance Studies 12, 495–522. Hübner, W. (2014), ‘The Culture of Astrology from Ancient to Renaissance’, in Dooley 2014, 17– 58. Iacono, A. (2011), ‘Dedica, cronologia e struttura degli Hendecasyllaborum Libri di Giovanni Pontano’, Studi Rinascimentali 9, 11–35. Iacono, A. (2015), ‘Il De Hortis Hesperidum di Giovanni Pontano: tra innovazioni umanistiche e tradizione classica’, Spolia, Journal of Medieval Studies 1, 1–51. Leroux, V., ed. (2011), La mythologie classique dans la littérature néo-latine, Clermont-Ferrand. Maréchaux, P. (2010), ‘Inventio allegorica’, in Auger & Delattre 2010, 451–461. Maréchaux, P. (2013), ‘De l’arbre à l’écorce. L’Odyssée herméneutique de la Genealogia deorum gentilium de Boccace’, in Pigeaud 2013, 171–211 Maréchaux, P. (2016), ‘Mythologie et mythographie dans la Généalogie des dieux païens de Boccace. Les contradictions de l’herméneutique et de la poétique’, in Casanova-Robin, Gambino Longo and La Brasca 2016, 215–249. Nuovo, I. (1998), ‘Mito e Natura nel De Hortis Hesperidum di Giovanni Pontano’, in Alcina, Dillon & Ludwig 1998, 453–460. Nuovo, I. (2003), ‘La corografia astronomica nel quinto libro dell’Urania di Giovanni Pontano’,

  Hélène Casanova-Robin in De Nichilo, Distaso and Iurilli 2003, 989–1012. Pigeaud, J., ed. (2013), L’arbre ou la Raison des arbres. XVIIe entretiens de la Garenne Lemot, Rennes. Pirenne-Delforge, V. (1994), L’Aphrodite grecque, Athens/Liège. Pironti, G. (2007), Entre ciel et guerre. Figures d’Aphrodite en Grèce ancienne, Liège. Polara, G., ed. (2020), Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci, Studi in onore di Arturo De Vivo, Naples. Puccini, G., ed. (2013), Le débat des cinq sens, de l'Antiquité à nos jours, Bordeaux. Richard, J. (1962), Chypre sous les Lusignans: documents chypriotes des archives du Vatican (XIVe et XVe siècles), Paris. Rinaldi, M. (2004), ‘Un sodalizio poetico-astrologico nella Napoli del Quattrocento: Lorenzo Bonincontri e Giovanni Pontano’, MHNH. Revista internacional de investigación sobre magia y astrología antiguas 4, 221–244. Rotondi Secchi Tarugi, L. (1993), ‘La ripresa del mito di Venere nel ‘400’, in Rotondi Secchi Tarugi 1993, 409–427. Rotondi Secchi Tarugi, L., ed. (1993), Il mito nel Rinascimento, Milan. Tateo, F. (1960), Astrologia e moralità in Giovanni Pontano, Bari. Tateo, F. (1995), ‘Ovidio nell’Urania di Pontano’, in Gallo & Nicastri 1995, 279–291. Tateo, F. (2018), Pontano poeta. Carmi scelti e frammenti con traduzione italiana, Foggia. Trinkaus, C. (1985), ‘The Astrological Cosmos and Rhetorical Culture of Giovanni Pontano’, Renaissance Quarterly 38, 446–472.

Stella Alekou

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women: The Cypriot Exemplum Against the Background of the Statue (R)evolution Abstract: This chapter focuses on the mythological account of Cypriot Pygmalion and his statue, to investigate the literary evolution of the myth in British literary works, and to present the role of the statue motif in the literary representation of the female exemplum. Section I sheds light on the petrification motif in Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book 10, in order to identify the narrative correspondences between the Cypriot myths delivered by Orpheus in the Underworld. Sections II and III examine the reprise of Pygmalion’s myth in English Later Medieval and Renaissance literature and, in particular, in the works of Gower, Caxton, Pettie, Marston and Morris, to identify the religious and socio-cultural shifts in the statue’s undergone transformation. Section IV discusses the adaption of the Ovidian myth into a modern setting in Carol Ann Duffy’s “Pygmalion’s Bride”, a poem which acts as a literary response to the statue’s timeless submission to gender stereotypes. This study is completed with a re-investigation of Pygmalion’s account in the Metamorphoses, to shed light on the intersection of Ovidian sexuality and geography as one that coincides with the historical annexation of the Cypriot landscape.

 Introduction Even though Ovid’s work never ceased to intrigue its readers, Ovidian poetry occupied a special position in the Late Middle Ages1 and, particularly, the Renaissance, a time when the ancient Graeco-Roman literary texts were revitalized and put to the service of pedagogical ends in humanist education, to act as prototypes of moral examples and rhetorical models for educational practice.2  This work was co-funded by the European Regional Development Fund and the Republic of Cyprus through the Research and Innovation Foundation (Project: EXCELLENCE/1216/0525). I am grateful to Prof. Tzounakas and Prof. Harrison for their invaluable feedback and comments.  1 See Clark, Coulson and McKinley 2011. 2 On humanist education see Witt 1982; Grafton and Jardine 1982; Boutcher 2000, 27. On rhetoric in the Renaissance see Rigolot 1982, 25. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-013

  Stella Alekou The Ovidian corpus appears to be central to humanist education and the Renaissance practice of imitation.3 Ovid’s myths become subject to unbridled interpretations of the time, many of which touch on the quite complex ‘Ovidian geography’, reintroduced as ‘writing of nationhood’, complicated and often subverted by Renaissance writers. Such is the case of the 16th century translation of the Metamorphoses by Arthur Golding, who, according to Stanivukovic, “substitutes English equivalents for the landscape, characters, and ideas of the Latin original”.4 Renaissance writers reinvent Ovid: they treat his myths as representative of their own nationhood, and turn the Ovidian love stories into a domestic repository of themes and characters.5 However, geography is not the only aspect of Ovid’s poetry that undergoes transformation. What is often presented in scholarship as the precursor to the Renaissance revisionism of Ovid is the widespread medieval tradition of ‘Ovide moralisé’, a tradition which transforms Ovidian poetry into Christian moralized tales.6 Ovidian narratives grow to become vehicles for constructing new discourses, including that of sexuality. The roots of the Renaissance ideas are identified in the Christian concept of ‘sexual renunciation’,7 an idea that is often challenged in Ovidian discourse.8 In ‘reinventing’ Ovid, writers in the Late Middle Ages and Renaissance focus instead on the illustration of ethical exempla, which suit the tastes of a culture that informs the language of misogyny.9 Following the feminist movements of the 19th century and women’s battles against economic oppression, sexual violence and racism, breaking through the patriarchal foundations of social structures,10 the Ovidian mythos is once again challenged and revisited in the 20th century. Gender exemplarity is subjected to transformation, and modern authors respond to the Christian adaptions of Ovidian sexuality by rejecting the well-established moral standards of the ‘good woman’ syndrome; they focus on  3 On mimēsis in the Renaissance see Hutson 2006. On Ovid’s popularity in the Renaissance see Scollen 1967, 20–31; Van Orden 2001, 818; White 2009, 17; Brown 2010, 184. 4 Stanivukovic 2001b, 5. See also Lyne 2001, 27–79. 5 The French literature of the Renaissance presents multiple examples of such re-writing and appropriation of Ovidian poetry. See Binard’s Les regrets d’Ovide and Marie-Catherine de Villedieu’s Les Exilés de la cour d’Auguste, and a discussion in Taylor 2017, 47 and 49–63 respectively. 6 On ‘Ovide moralisé’ see Delany 1968; Lord 1975; Minnis 1979; Blumenfeld-Kosinski 1996; Mora, Possamaï-Pérez, Städtler and Trachsler 2011; Cavagna, Gaggero and Greub 2014; Possamaï-Pérez 2018. 7 Brown 1988. 8 On sexuality in Ovid see Sharrock 2002. 9 Rogers 1966, 53–54; Gilmore 2001, 205–206. 10 On feminism in the 20th century see Smith 1990, with focus on the British context.

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

Ovidian post-modernism instead, to shed light on the ambiguity of meaning through time arbitrariness and border permeability, transition, transgression and subversion.11 This study will focus on the literary reconstruction of the female exemplum and the evolution of the statue motif, to present critically the shifts that take place from the ancient mythos to its creative reception in later periods. Pygmalion’s erotic involvement with his sculpture (Met. 10.243–297) serves as a starting point, as it presents a number of motifs to which early modern and modern authors respond in sophisticated and experimental narratives. The statue is intrinsically associated not only with immobility, but also with sexual substitutes for, and metaliterary embodiments of, poetry, as Michalopoulos notes, and becomes, for this reason also, a persistent theme across time as well as genres.12 In examining the evolution and multiple facets of the Cypriot exemplum in different time periods and generic frames, I will study some well-established gender stereotypes through the Ovidian lens, and I will discuss the contribution of Ovidian women to the evolution of female exemplarity. I will demonstrate, finally, that the ancient Cypriot paradigm of the ‘perfect wife’ was transformed from Ovid to Gower, Caxton, Pettie, Marston, Morris and Duffy, and grew to become a symbol of subversion of traditional stereotypes symptomatic of a society in crisis.

 The Cypriot landscape of sexuality: Metamorphoses Book 10 Book 10 is the first extensive Latin literary source on Cypriot mythology: the book includes five stories associated with Cyprus. The Amathusian Cerastes (10.220–237) and Propoetides (10.238–242), who display impiety that results in divine punishment, and the taboo relationship between two of Pygmalion’s relatives, the Paphian king Cinyras and his daughter, Myrrha (10.298–502), and Venus’ erotic desire for Adonis (10.503–559), frame the well-known account of Pygmalion and his statue (10.243–297).13 All the Cypriot stories are delivered by Orpheus, who mourns in the Underworld the loss of his beloved Eurydice (10.1– 85). Τhe dynamic relationship between the dead and the living that emerges in  11 On Ovid in contemporary poetry see Brown 2014. 12 Michalopoulos 2022. Cf. James 2011. 13 On Ovid’s Cypriot mythology see Petrides 2011.

  Stella Alekou the Orpheus account, particularly explored in the Cypriot myths, reveals the blurring of temporal borders between the past (death) and the present (life).14 The image of death is prominent in all the Cypriot tales. It first appears in the myth of the Cerastes (10.220–237), punished for having offered human sacrifices at the temple of Jupiter Hospes and transformed by Venus into young bulls (10.237). The definition of the particular name of Cerastes activates a preview of their transformation as men wearing horns and foreshadows their eventual destiny as sacrificial animals:15 exilio poenam potius gens inpia pendat vel nece vel siquid medium est mortisque fugaeque. idque quid esse potest, nisi versae poena figurae?’ dum dubitat, quo mutet eos, ad cornua vultum flexit et admonita est haec illis posse relinqui grandiaque in torvos transformat membra iuvencos. (Ov. Met. 10.232–237) Rather let this impious race pay the penalty by exile or by death, or by some punishment midway betwixt death and exile. And what other can that be than the penalty of a changed form? While she hesitates to what she shall change them, her eyes fall upon their horns, and she reminds herself that these can still be left to them. And so she changes their big bodies into savage bulls.16

What follows is, in the narrative of the Propoetides, another facet of death, that emerges not as the cause of punitive transformation but as its aftermath. The Cypriot women who deny Venus’ divinity are transformed into prostitutes, become emotionally hardened (10.241) and eventually take the shape of actual stones (10.242). In a subverted allusion to the account of Deucalion, the first artist to appear in the epos, and Pyrrha (1.313–415), a story in which creation derives from the tossing of stones,17 in the account of the Propoetides, transformation into stone leads to death:18

 14 On the subject of death in Latin literature see Dufallo 2007, 123–127; Grebe 2010, 491–509; Elsner and Huskinson 2011; Frangoulidis and Harrison 2018. 15 On the definition of the name in question see Anderson 1972, 493. 16 For the Latin text and the English translation I use Miller’s 1984 Loeb edition, revised by Goold. 17 On the story of Deucalion and Pyrrha see Barkan 1981, 639–667, who presents the son of Prometheus as “the exemplary sculptor of statues that come to life” (642). On the creation of mankind in the epos see Wheeler 2000 33–34. 18 On the Ovidian myth of the Propoetides see Tzounakas forthcoming b.

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

“Sunt tamen obscenae Venerem Propoetides ausae esse negare deam; pro quo sua numinis ira corpora cum fama primae vulgasse feruntur, utque pudor cessit, sanguisque induruit oris, in rigidum parvo silicem discrimine versae. (Ov. Met. 10.238–242) “But the foul Propoetides dared to deny the divinity of Venus. In consequence of this, through the wrath of the goddess they are said to have been the first to prostitute their bodies and their fame; and as their shame vanished and the blood of their faces hardened, they were turned with but small change to hard stones.

The Propoetides exemplum is further employed in Pygmalion’s account, which includes the petrification motif through the description of the statue (10.247– 248),19 as well as that of sacrifice, during the festival held for Venus (10.271– 273), alluding to the story of the Cerastes (cornibus 10.271).20 However, Pygmalion’s account seems to lead to life nonetheless, as suggested by the basic storyline, according to which the Paphian sculptor, having witnessed the Propoetides’ sexual promiscuity (10.244), a flaw he attributes to their female nature (10.244–245: menti / femineae natura dedit), choses celibacy (10.245–246) and creates instead a sculpture which is then transformed into a real woman: “Quas quia Pygmalion aevum per crimen agentis viderat, offensus vitiis, quae plurima menti femineae natura dedit, sine coniuge caelebs vivebat thalamique diu consorte carebat. interea niveum mira feliciter arte sculpsit ebur formamque dedit, qua femina nasci nulla potest, operisque sui concepit amorem. virginis est verae facies, quam vivere credas, et, si non obstet reverentia, velle moveri: (Ov. Met. 10.243–251) “Pygmalion had seen these women spending their lives in shame, and, disgusted with the faults which in such full measure nature had given the female mind, he lived unmarried and long was without a partner of his couch. Meanwhile, with wondrous art he successfully carves a figure out of snowy ivory, giving it a beauty more perfect than that of any woman ever born. And with his own work he falls in love. The face is that of a real maiden, whom you would think living and desirous of being moved, if modesty did not prevent.

 19 On the image of petrification in Ovid see Barolsky 2005. 20 On sacrifice in Ovid see Feldherr 1997; Green 2008.

  Stella Alekou The statue-woman is characterized by reverentia (251), namely, sexual modesty, a term that further alludes to the Roman personification of Reverentia, who acts as a door-keeper and protects the puella from the erotic desire of the amator.21 If the polysemy of the term points to the power-play between victim and victimizer, it additionally sheds light on the statue’s life-like image, one that creates the “perfect illusion”,22 an invoked measure of artistic value, also implied in verae … credas (250), that may foreshadow the transformation of the sculpture into a real woman. This interpretation is confirmed through the resonance of the given verses with those describing another real-like image in the epic, that of the verus taurus, namely Zeus transformed into a bull to rape Europa in Arachne’s tapestry, where the narrator notes, in a quite similar (and perhaps similarly ironic) wording, vera putares (6.104): Maeonis elusam designat imagine tauri Europam: verum taurum, freta vera putares; (Ov. Met. 6.103–104) Arachne pictures Europa cheated by the disguise of the bull: a real bull and real waves you would think them.

The trompe-l’œil technique,23 marked in both passages with hyperbaton, activates intratextual correspondences between different accounts and books in the epic, that create a poetic network of allusions identifiable by the ideal reader.24 This technique is, however, further put into use in the doubling of transformed images, namely, the sculpture and the living being, to confirm the ambiguous depiction of the Ovidian transformation in question.25 The use of the term similis in the sculptor’s request, during his participation in religious rites (10.270 ff.), for a wife that resembles the statue is part of the artist’s rhetorical strategy as well as the poet’s, and a quite successful one, as it strengthens the links with previously narrated tales in the epic also through the use of rhetorical devices, such as the repetition of the term eburnea: ‘si, di, dare cuncta potestis, / sit coniunx, opto,’ non ausus ‘eburnea virgo’ / dicere, Pygmalion ‘similis mea’ dixit  21 Cf. Ov. Fast. 5.23. 22 See Vincent 1994, 374, n. 23. See also Hardie 2002, 174 on pictorial illusionism in Ovid’s work and Salzman-Mitchell 2005, 133 on falsehood in this passage. Cf. Johnson 2008, 85 on verisimilitude in the specific account. 23 On this particular technique see D’Ortange Mastai 1976. 24 On intratextual correspondences within the epos see Tsitsiou-Chelidoni 2003, 156–157 and 160–163. 25 On ambiguity in Ovid’s Metamorphoses see Kirstein 2021 and Alekou 2021.

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

‘eburnae.’ ‘If ye, O gods, can give all things, I pray to have as wife—’ he did not dare add ‘my ivory maid,’ but said, ‘one like my ivory maid.’ (10.274–276).26 The similarity between what is real and what is unreal reflects the process of poetic simulation, “the primary means by which one can gain any type of subjective knowledge from a literary narrative”,27 but also acts as a concealing mechanism for the mythological hero. In fact, the wedding ceremony which follows the statue’s metamorphosis (10.295–297) legitimates an act that would otherwise be perceived as impious, that of making love to a statue (10.254–258).28 The double perspective is therefore not only allusive to but also suggestive of a context beyond the mythological borders of the account, as it extends to moral, religious and legal matters that concern Ovid’s contemporaries.

 Renegotiations of Ovidian (a)mores in the Late Middle Ages How did the spread of Christianity coincide with the popularity of the Metamorphoses, so that stories like the Cypriot accounts could fit in the ethical frame of the Late Middle Ages? Which adjustments were needed for the myths endorsed by images of sexuality and death to be embraced by the writers and the readers of the early modern era? In their role as medieval clerics, Christian authors reshape the text to warn the reading public against the consequences of irrational passion — in the case of the Pygmalion account, idolatry.29 As in the Christian versions of the myth, such as those of Clement of Alexandria and Arnobius, who condemn idolatry, the 14th century Confessio Amantis, written by John Gower (circa 1386–90), makes the artist a remorseful believer, warning for the perils of worshiping a statue:30

 26 Ovid’s identification with the artist, whether the spider weaving her quite provocative tapestry or the sculptor crafting his ‘perfect’ statue, has already been discussed by scholars; therefore, the intriguing echoes between the two narratives will not be thoroughly discussed in this study. See, for example, Norton 2013, 182 and 218. 27 On simulation in literary narrative see Stroud 2008, 20. 28 On agalmatophilia in Latin literature see Michalopoulos 2022. 29 See also Barchiesi 2009, 42–43, who explains that “Christian culture has to decide what to do with the Roman heritage: the creation of a category of ‘Roman exempla’ entails acceptance of a tradition that is already loaded with baggage”. 30 For Gower’s text I follow Peck 2013.

  Stella Alekou For with a goodly lok sche smyleth, So that thurgh pure impression Of his ymaginacion With al the herte of his corage His love upon this faire ymage He sette, and hire of love preide; Bot sche no word ageinward seide. Gower, CA 4.388–394

John Gower’s Confessio Amantis is one of the author’s three major works, which include Mirour de l’Omme and Vox Clamantis.31 In Confessio Amantis, which, as indicated in the prologue, is composed at the request of Richard II (24), Gower explores the image of multiple statues to represent the Ovidian notion of being stranded between the world of the living and the world of the dead, in a sympathetic retelling of the Ovidian myth, in which torment leads to penance:32 And thus himself he gan tormente With such desese of loves peine, That no man mihte him more peine. Bot how it were, of his penance He made such continuance Fro dai to nyht, and preith so longe, That his preiere is underfonge, Which Venus of hire grace herde; Gower, CA 4.412–419

Gower’s Confessio Amantis acts as a marriage manual, in which Ovid’s work is explored as an exemplum and reshaped into a moral lesson on the definition of ‘love with marriage potential’.33 Even though Yeager states that Richard II is the king who is intended as the poem’s primary audience,34 Ferster, who follows Middleton, presents this work as public poetry that may instruct the king but also engages a wider public.35 Whether intentionally or not, Pygmalion’s myth  31 On Gower’s work see Pearsall 1966 and 2004. 32 Brown 1982, 29–32 argues that Gower’s Pygmalion is presented as more verbally aggressive compared to Ovid’s sculptor and less preoccupied by the act of transformation. On Gower and Ovid see Wells 1961, 9–10. See also Harbert 1988, 83–98; Rytting 2002, 113–126; BullónFernández 2009, 363–380; Carlson 2014, 933–935. On Caxton’s reception of Ovid’s version see Kaplan 1950. On matters of cultural and sexual politics of Ovidian reception in the period under examination see chapter 6 in Oakley-Brown 2006. 33 Rytting 2002. 34 Yeager 1990, 268. 35 Ferster 1996, 180–181; Middleton 1978.

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

becomes in Gower’s version part of a treatise that also serves as a social commentary, to inspire further readings of the tale. In fact, this particular version of Pygmalion’s story is reshaped by William Caxton (1422–91). After completing printing Gower’s edition, Caxton, known to be the first English printer and publisher, writes (in prose and accompanied by commentaries) the Six Books of Metamorphoses (c. 1480), a work that is the first English translation of the Ovidian epic. In Caxton’s version, the interaction between the world of the living with the world of the dead extends to that of the upper-class man and lowerclass woman. As noted by Miles, “Caxton’s commentary on Pygmalion anticipates later readings of the story as a fable about social class”.36 Indeed, Caxton compares Pygmalion to a nobleman who could act as a ‘teacher’ to his poor servant girl and transform her into a lady: some great lord [that] might have maid or servant in his house which was poor, naked and could no good, but she was gent and of fair form, but she was dry and lean as an image. This rich man, that saw her fair, clothed, nourished and taught her so much that she was well indoctrined. And when he saw her drawn good manners, he loved her so much, that it pleased him to espouse her and take her to his wife …37

The renegotiation of the myth reveals the relationship between the ‘powerful’ lord and the ‘powerless’ servant whom the former manages to control. The Pygmalion story acquires thus a new meaning: what grows to become an account that reflects the social structures of the author’s era acts as a source of inspiration for other versions to come, in which the artist is also depicted as the ‘teacher’.38 The evolution of the statue reveals therefore another aspect of the socio-political perspective of the myth, to further shed light on the ambiguous relationship between liberating art and controlling pedagogy. What seems quite appealing is that this association takes us back to the Ovidian ‘Minerva and Arachne’ conflict in Book 6, that acts as an eerie omen for Ovid’s fate.39 Book 6 addresses the issue of the ambivalent relation between art and political power as well as autodidactism, patronage and censorship (23–24: […] scires a Pallade doctam. / quod tamen ipsa negat […], ‘You might know that Pallas had taught her. Yet she denied it’).40 The “indoctrinated” statue was taught by its master  36 Miles 1999, 352–353. 37 For the cited text see Hibbert’s edition (1819) 11. 38 See for example Morris’s version, discussed in the following pages. 39 See Harries 1990. 40 On the relationship between art and political power see Rosati 1999, 250. On autodidactism in Arachne’s myth see Salzman-Mitchell 2005 135. On patronage in Ovid see Syme 1997, 94–113 and Dufallo 2013, 165.

  Stella Alekou “good manners”, in the way Pallas attempted to indoctrinate Arachne on many occasions how to behave: first as an old lady (26), later on through the four corners on her tapestry showing moral transgressors punished by gods (83– 100), and, finally, through multiple punishments inflicted on the spider-to-be, including that of transformation (130–145). Caxton’s Pygmalionian story shows that even though the myth loses for a while its Cypriot setting, it surely does not let go of its Ovidian veil. Such is also the case of Pygmalion’s Friend and his Image (1576) written by George Pettie in a collection entitled Petite Palace of Pettie his Pleasure,41 in which the story is reintroduced and adapted to a new cultural environment, that of the Italian region of Piedmont. Pettie, an English writer of the Elizabethan era (c. 1548–89), composes twelve love stories and directs them to a female audience.42 In this version, Pygmalion appears as noble and well-educated, handsome and courageous, in line with the male exemplum of the time, but, as in the Ovidian source, he is also a misogynist, presumably due to female betrayal and sexual promiscuity. His idolatrous desire for the statue acquires distinct Christian connotations but reveals, still, its Ovidian inspiration. The intersection of Ovidian and Christian ethics is evident in a passage in which the causes of Pygmalion’s desire for the statue are listed: A monstrous miracle no doubt, and rather to be wondered at than credited. And yet I have heard of some that have been so possessed with melancholy passions, that they have thought themselves to be made of glass, and if they had gone in any street, they would not come near any wall or house, for fear of breaking themselves; and so it may be that this Pygmalion thought himself some stone, and knowing that like agree best with their like, he thought he could make no better a match than to match himself to a stone. Or it may be that he was one of those whom after the general flood (as Ovid reporteth) Deucalion and his wife Pyrrha made by casting stones at their backs, and then no marvel though he bare marvellous affection to stones, being made of stones. Or whether his religion were to love images, I know not; neither is there more to be marvelled at in him, than an infinite number that live at this day which love images right well, and verily persuade themselves that images have power to pray for them and help them to heaven. Or whether it proceeded of this, that everyone is lightly in love with that which is his own, I know not. George Pettie, Pygmalion’s Friend and his Image 243

The passage cited above sheds light on the various interpretations of the Pygmalion myth, starting with the stone motif in the employment of the ‘alike attract alike’ argument, and extending its mythological associations with the

 41 Pettie 1585. 42 Miles 1999, 354.

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

Deucalion and Pyrrha account (Met. 1.313–415), which are then followed by the religious connotations of the statue. Even though the Christian Pygmalion loves an image that may bear special powers, an act that points to idolatry, the final possibility (everyone is lightly in love with that which is his own) redirects us to the very first argument: in showing the various facets of the statue motif, in a text that mirrors words and sounds,43 Pettie does not fail to acknowledge the account’s mythological background, pointing to the creator’s love for his own creation as an extension of one’s self — in the Ovidian context, the Narcissus effect, introduced in Book 3 (402–510).

 Statue transmutations in Renaissance Literature In the 16th century, an interesting shift in the representation of the female exemplum in literature takes place, starting with the sculpture’s fictional creator, who is no longer depicted as a remorseful Christian. In John Marston’s The Metamorphosis of Pigmalion’s Image (1598),44 the myth is resituated in its original geographical context to allude to its literary origins, but the Cypriot landscape is inhabited by a quasi-pornographic account, marked by intense male violence45 and female silence, ‘echoing’ Ovid’s creation. The associations with Ovid’s version of the account are made quite explicit in “The Argument of the Poem”, as well as in the repetition of the term ‘metamorphosis’:46 Pygmalion, whose chaste mind all the beauties in Cyprus could not ensnare, yet, at the length having carved in ivory an excellent proportion of a beauteous woman, was so deeply enamoured on his own workmanship that he would oftentimes lay the image in bed with him, and fondly use such petitions and dalliance as if it had been a breathing creature. But in the end, finding his fond dotage, and yet persevering in his ardent affection, made his devout prayers to Venus, that she would vouchsafe to inspire life into his love, and then join them both together in marriage. Whereupon Venus, graciously condescending to his earnest suit, the maid (by the power of her deity) was metamorphosed into a living woman. And after, Pygmalion (being in Cyprus) begat a son of her, which was called Paphus; whereupon that island Cyprus, in honour of Venus, was after, and is now, called by the inhabitants, Paphos. John Marston, The Metamorphosis of Pigmalion’s Image, “The Argument of the Poem”  43 Note the reiteration of the word “stone” and the alliteration of ‘p’ and ‘r’. 44 On the reception of Ovid in Marston’s work see Hernández Santano 2002; Enterline 2004. 45 Hernández Santano 2002, 261. 46 On Marston’s poem I follow Marston 1598.

  Stella Alekou Enterline, in The Rhetoric of the Body from Ovid to Shakespeare, argues that “Marston named his Ovidian narrative The Metamorphosis of Pigmalions Image in order to ring satiric changes on ‘image’ as a word that can mean statue and reflection as well as poetic trope”.47 The multiple interpretations of the word “image” are further attested in Marston’s ambiguous employment of exempla. Marston parodies the Petrarchan model of the chaste woman,48 but also alludes to Ovid’s love troubles, discussed in the Amores, in describing Pygmalion’s predicament (stanza 12): But when the fair proportion of her thigh Began appear, “O Ovid!” would he cry, “Did e’en Corinna show such ivory When she appeared in Venus livery!” And thus enamour’d dotes on his own art Which he did work, to work his pleasing smart.

70

The rhetorical exemplum of the perfect woman serves as a platform for literary criticism that combines mythological and historical paradigms, rendering the exemplum’s particular meaning (“Eigenbedeutung”) subject to various interpretations.49 If the image — of the chaste woman and of exemplary poetry — is unreachable, unearthly and unrealistic, it is because it is obsolete. The successful identification of the image as both a statue and a trope is genuinely Ovidian, but in Marston’s case, the context changes: Marston objectifies women and presents them as both senseless and mute, to reflect the socio-cultural battle of the Inns of Court.50 Addressed to the poet’s contemporaries, Pygmalion’s misogyny in the text informs the narrator’s discourse and may suggest that the primary audience is not the statue, nor Ovid, despite the intriguing apostrophes to both of them, but the “gaping” and “itching” ears of Marston’s male readers (stanza 38), his colleagues at the Inns of Court.51

 47 Enterline 2004, 65. 48 It has been argued that the aim of this poem is to parody the love poetry of Marston’s contemporaries, namely, the Petrarchan sonnet. See Marston, Satire 6.6–8: Yet deem’st that in sad seriousness I write / Such nasty stuff as is Pygmalion? / Such maggot-tainted, lewd corruption! Cf. Marston, Satire 6.23–26: Hence, thou misjudging censor: know I wrote / Those idle rhymes to note the odious spot / And blemish that deforms the lineaments / Of modern poesy’s habiliments. See Hernández Santano 2002, 266. 49 On Eigenbedeutung as “the meaning that quoted history has in itself” see Lausberg 1973, 421. 50 Enterline 2004, 144. 51 Enterline 2004, 136.

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

As the statue exemplum continues to develop and adapt to new sociocultural landscapes, while maintaining its Cypriot background nonetheless, it gradually stops being mute. It all starts with William Morris’s “Pygmalion and the Image”, in The Earthly Paradise,52 a collaborative project by William Morris and painter Edward Burne-Jones that was never fully completed but highlighted the multiple meanings of image in the given myth.53 The Cypriot landscape remerges in this text (At Amathus, that from the southern side / Of Cyprus looks across the Syrian sea) to host the girl that can speak (stanza 71) mainly to repeat what Venus had taught her, in a mirroring of words:54 “Listen, these words the Dread One bade me say That was with me e’en now, Pygmalion, My new-made soul I give to thee to-day, Come, feel the sweet breath that thy prayer has won, And lay thine hand this heaving breast upon! Come, love, and walk with me between the trees, And feel the freshness of the evening breeze. […] “Ah, thou art wise to know what this may mean! Sweet seem the words to me, and needs must I Speak all the lesson of the lovely Queen; But this I know, I would we were more nigh, I have not heard thy voice but in the cry Thou utteredst then, when thou believedst gone The marvel of thine hands, the maid of stone.” Stanzas 72 and 74

The artistic expression performs a genuine dialogue with its creator as its mirror image, to further expose art’s dependence on official myth-making and tutelage. Even though the metamorphosis empowers the woman with a voice, in Morris’s version as in the Latin original, the goddess’ presence serves to fulfil male desire. Interestingly, in this male-dominated literary tale, when the woman learns how to speak, she admits not being wise, at stanza 82 (“My sweet,” she said, “as yet I am not wise, / Or stored with words, aright the tale to tell”). The implicitly stated need for a male teacher reveals the ambiguous relationship between the powerless student and the powerful instructor, one that will gradually lead to

 52 See Harrison 2015. 53 On this subject see Danahay 1994, 47; Yeates 2018. 54 On Morris’s poem I follow Russell’s text 1903.

  Stella Alekou the transformation of the uneducated girl into a learned and emancipated woman in versions to come.55 Notwithstanding the remarkable shift that takes place in the Renaissance, it is noteworthy that the image of the statue-speaking-in-vain is not unfamiliar to the Ovidian reader. Heroides 10 is a case in point, as the petrified, statue-like Ariadne is depicted as identical to rock (aut mare prospiciens in saxo frigida sedi, / quamque lapis sedes, tam lapis ipsa fui, ‘or, looking out upon the sea, I have sat all chilled upon the rock, as much a stone myself as was the stone I sat upon’, 10.49–50) begging for her lover’s return, but what returns to her is her echoed voice (reddebant nomen, 10.22). The petrification motif, found in Ovid’s Catullan intertext, through an ecphrasis in which the theme of marriage is again key to the narrative plot, is explored in the Ovidian versions of both accounts within an ecphrasis. The woman-turned-into-stone appears in reverse in the Pygmalion account as the stone is turned into a woman, but the landscape is, in some versions of the stories, the same. According to Plutarch, Theseus abandoned Ariadne at Amathus on Cyprus, where she died giving birth to her child and was buried in a sacred tomb (τὸν γὰρ Θησέα φησὶν ὑπὸ χειμῶνος εἰς Κύπρον ἐξενεχθέντα καὶ τὴν ᾿Αριάδνην ἔγκυον ἔχοντα, φαύλως δὲ διακειμένην ὑπὸ τοῦ σάλου καὶ δυσφοροῦσαν, ἐκβιβάσαι μόνην, ‘He says that Theseus, driven out of his course by a storm to Cyprus, and having with him Ariadne, who was big with child and in sore sickness and distress from the tossing of the sea, set her on shore alone’).56 Ariadne was since then honoured in Cyprus as AphroditeAriadne.57 This ancient cult is not irrelevant to the birthplace story of Venus.58 A large rock, accompanied by smaller rocks, located west of St. Nicholas of the Cats and southeast of Paphos and identified as ‘Petra’, namely, stone (“Aphrodite’s Rock”)59 is the location designated as the birthplace of Venus. Cyprus appears to have given shelter to a number of stone-related myths, as stone is one of its raw materials as well as its cult-materials: Ovid’s Venus-myths in the Metamorphoses maintain associations with their geopolitical environment, even though buried underneath quite a few literary layers, and fused with intertextual and intratextual correspondences.

 55 Particularly evident in the productions of My Fair Lady (1964) and Educating Rita (1983). 56 See Plutarch, Life of Theseus (20.3–5), who cites the text, today lost, of Paeon, an Amathusian mythographer. 57 On the grove of Aphrodite-Ariadne see Cueva 1996. 58 On cult stones and the cult of Aphrodite in Ancient Cyprus see Crooks 2012. 59 Benigni 2013, 10. See also Tacitus, Hist. 2.3.2, on the description of the statue of Venus in Paphos, where the form of the statue resembles a cone instead of a human being.

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

 A modern poetic reply to Renaissance Ovidianism As Michelis and Rowland state, Ovid’s tales have often no self-enclosed openings and endings; they instead “wind one continuous thread in which everything is connected, one story merging immediately into the next […]. Thus there is always ‘more’”.60 The Renaissance revision of Ovid motivates authors of the early modern era to respond to ‘unfinished’ narratives in the epic, to resolve their ambiguities and to provide answers to long-lasting debates that complicate their interpretation. Paradoxically, in the reception of the Pygmalion account in Renaissance British poetry, despite all attempts to provide the Ovidian version with a new context, the statue remains more or less silent and passive — even in the cases in which the power of speech is inherited by the statue along with its transformation into a human being, the woman’s capacity to employ her voice remains at the service and disposal of male bias. It is not until the end of the 20th century that a poem written in English revisits Ovid’s myth on Pygmalion’s statue to empower it with a liberating voice: in The World’s Wife, “Pygmalion’s Bride”, written by Carol Ann Duffy, plays the role reply-literature played in the Renaissance,61 as Duffy provides a poetic testimony notionally written by the sculpture itself:62 Cold, I was, like snow, like ivory. I thought “He will not touch me”, but he did. He kissed my stone-cool lips. I lay still as though I’d died.

As described by Satterfield, “[f]using formal ingenuity and social concern in insightful, exuberant dramatic monologues, Duffy explores contemporary and historical scenes from surprising and unexpected viewpoints”.63 As Duffy presents the story from the perspective of the silenced ‘other’, the poem of “Pygmalion’s Bride” acts as a platform for sociopolitical criticism: the account is narrat 60 Michelis and Rowland 2003, 48. 61 On reply-literature in the Renaissance see White 2009, 189. 62 The World’s Wife is a collection of poems written by Carol Ann Duffy and published in the UK in 1999 and in the US in 2000. The collection focuses on women and addresses matters of gender in religious, mythological and historical contexts. 63 Satterfield 2001, 123.

  Stella Alekou ed in a monologue that serves as an ‘ideal vehicle’ for the most immediate dramatic perspective of a statue turned into a woman whose opinions, desires, hopes and fears had until then always been silenced or ignored.64 The statue is given a voice on matters of love and sex, to subvert the classical tradition of the prototype story narrated and edited by a male poet:65 He brought me presents, polished pebbles, little bells. I didn’t blink, was dumb. He brought me pearls and necklaces and rings. He called them girly things. He ran his clammy hands along my limbs.

Duffy takes the clichéd roles women were expected to play in antiquity, but acts as a time-traveller and a shape-shifter, to present a set of long-lasting restrictions as a “snare” in which women appear as “entangled”.66 The incorporation of an ancient myth into a modern setting shows the transformation of the ill treatment women continue to endure. Pygmalion’s wife writes in the first person to expose an intimate perception of the statue’s Ovidian experience, in a confessional text that is marked with straightforward echoes of the Latin source. Wise-cracking and blunt, the text acts as an internal commentary on the original account that explicitly reveals what appears implicitly stated in the Ovidian text. By referring to the snow-like ivory statue (niveum 10.247), to which the artist talks, gives kisses (oscula dat 10.256), offers presents (munera fert 10.260) including pebbles (lapillos 10.260), jewellery (monilia 10.264, redimicula 10.265), and flowers (flores 10.261) that she herself identifies as “girly things” (modo grata puellis 10.259), Duffy reveals her source. Ovid’s account acts for the modern poem as a direct literary exemplum: saepe manus operi temptantes admovet, an sit corpus an illud ebur, nec adhuc ebur esse fatetur. oscula dat reddique putat loquiturque tenetque et credit tactis digitos insidere membris et metuit, pressos veniat ne livor in artus, et modo blanditias adhibet, modo grata puellis munera fert illi conchas teretesque lapillos et parvas volucres et flores mille colorum  64 Gerry and Croft 2006. 65 See a discussion in Michelis and Rowland 2003, 57. 66 Hudson 2007.

255

260

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

liliaque pictasque pilas et ab arbore lapsas Heliadum lacrimas; ornat quoque vestibus artus, dat digitis gemmas, dat longa monilia collo, aure leves bacae, redimicula pectore pendent: 265 (Ov. Met. 10.254–265) Often he lifts his hands to the work to try whether it be flesh or ivory; nor does he yet confess it to be ivory. He kisses it and thinks his kisses are returned. He speaks to it, grasps it and seems to feel his fingers sink into the limbs when he touches them; and then he fears lest he leave marks of bruises on them. Now he addresses it with fond words of love, now brings it gifts pleasing to girls, shells and smooth pebbles, little birds and many-hued flowers, and lilies and coloured balls, with tears of the Heliades that drop down from the trees. He drapes its limbs also with robes, puts gemmed rings upon its fingers and a long necklace around its neck; pearls hang from the ears and chains adorn the breast.

In interpreting the Ovidian exemplum, sculpturing the ivory becomes in Duffy’s work a rape scene in which the victim cannot react, but instead addresses the agonies expressed by the Ovidian Pygmalion, and states, with a very powerful asyndeton that she did not bruise: she showed no scratch, no scrape, no scar:67 He ran his clammy hands along my limbs. I didn’t shrink, played statue, shtum. He let his fingers sink into my flesh, he squeezed, he pressed. I would not bruise. He looked for marks, for purple hearts, for inky stars, for smudgy clues. His nails were claws. I showed no scratch, no scrape, no scar.

Despite the fact that this multi-layered visualization of sexual violence is taken almost verbatim from the Ovidian text to describe the intrusive touching of the hands, the invasive pressing of the fingers and the potential bruising, the Pygmalion affair is still perceived, in all its brutality, as a (one-sided) ‘love-story’,68 whereas the existing scholarship often fails to include it among the many rape accounts in the epic.69 If the Ovidian text appears rather enigmatic as to the statue’s perception of the sculptor’s actions, it sheds further light on the victim-

 67 Cf. Apollo’s handling of the metamorphosed Daphne in Ov. Met. 1.553–556. 68 See, for example, McDowall 2013, 16. 69 On Ovidian rapes see Curran 1978; Murgatroyd 2000.

  Stella Alekou ization and objectification of the female creature by power. In the modern exposure of Pygmalion’s behaviour as attempted rape, Duffy’s statue, however, is reintroduced as an Arachnean story-weaver. She too revisits the Ovidian myth only to present its cruel reality, and to show in wise-cracking and blunt words that the “love” of the statue constitutes a moral, legal and political violation which leads to its transformation: So I changed tack, grew warm, like candle wax, kissed back, was soft, was pliable, began to moan, got hot, got wild, arched, coiled, writhed, begged for his child, and at the climax screamed my head off all an act. ut rediit, simulacra suae petit ille puellae incumbensque toro dedit oscula: visa tepere est; admovet os iterum, manibus quoque pectora temptat: temptatum mollescit ebur positoque rigore subsidit digitis ceditque, ut Hymettia sole cera remollescit tractataque pollice multas flectitur in facies ipsoque fit utilis usu. (Ov. Met. 10.280–286) When he returned he sought the image of his maid, and bending over the couch he kissed her. She seemed warm to his touch. Again he kissed her, and with his hands also he touched her breast. The ivory grew soft to his touch and, its hardness vanishing, gave and yielded beneath his fingers, as Hymettian wax grows soft under the sun and, moulded by the thumb, is easily shaped to many forms and becomes usable through use itself.

In employing different rhyming techniques (end-rhymes, off-rhymes, hidden rhymes as well as half-rhymes),70 Duffy creates a ring composition of some sort, in which the “change of tack” is echoed as “all an act” to mirror performativity. The change of direction insinuated in the use of the nautical expression “change of tack”, an idiom that came into use in the 1700s, points to the female statue considering a different approach to an endeavour that proved to be un-

 70 On Duffy’s rhyming techniques see Jeanette 2015.

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

successful.71 The modern Galatea transforms herself and does not rely on divine power, but the transformation of the statue into a living being proves to be unreal as soon as it is completed. The statue exposes in this way transformation as a forced albeit self-initiated submission to the invasive practices of the dominant power that penetrates the subject’s body.72 The meaning of the term “act” in the passage above, in a prominent position within the poem, may be subject to multiple interpretations and allusive to various contexts. Whether a deed or a pretence, it may be viewed as a theatrical or a rhetorical act, therefore, a part of a performance, or allusive to a religious or a legal act, ‘an act of God’, a force majeure, relating, thus, to the Ovidian account in which Venus as dea ex machina appears as responsible for the statue’s transformation. Notwithstanding the multiple meanings of the term “act”, whether religious, legal or theatrical,73 the change in the course of action insinuates a differentiation from the prototype model. It has been reported that, raised Catholic in Scotland, in using the voices of outsiders, Duffy, a confessed atheist, dresses her poems with religious terms.74 The capitalization of “He” at the beginning of the poem and its reiteration at an emphatic position at the very beginning of the following lines reveals Galatea’s perception of her creator as superior and powerful, whereas her state of immobility (I lay still / as though I’d died; I didn’t blink, / was dumb; I didn’t shrink, / played statue, shtum) is further underlined through its opposition to the constant movement that alludes to the behaviour of predators: tactile and visual imagery is activated to identify Pygmalion as a large dangerous animal (He thumbed my marbled eyes; His nails were claws). The dramatic interpretation of Duffy’s poem in various short films reveals the art of adaption in the poem itself.75 It is noteworthy that the statue-woman’s written communication includes only one verse, at the very end of the poem, that is presumably expressed orally, “all an act”, and in this one verse the verb is absent. Duffy’s statue uses the  71 In sailing, the expression changing tack concerns the positioning of the bow of the boat in order for the wind direction to change from one side to the other, to propel the boat. In the Cambridge Dictionary, “to change your tack” means to try a different method to deal with the same problem. 72 On the invasive practices of courtroom procedures see Ziogas 2018, 87. 73 The term “act” may also bear sexual connotations, as a sexual act, namely, a sexual intercourse, but also legal connotations, alluding to a legal transaction. 74 Michelis and Rowland 2003, 140; Anderson 2005. 75 See, for example, “Pygmalion’s Bride”, a poetry film by Chen Yujie and Pedro Bakker (2016).

  Stella Alekou power of female voice once, to reveal the performative nature of the transformation of a lifeless image into a woman, in order to reject the fictitious constructions of gender stereotypes previously established as reflecting reality. The materialization of the female parts (stone-cool lips; marbled eyes; stone-deaf ears, to name a few) reveals the fragmentary nature of a corpse-like statue made of different kinds of stone, ivory and marble,76 and redirects the reader to the fragmentary description of Ovid’s statue, as narrated by Orpheus in the Underworld. Interestingly, Eurydice, Orpheus’ ‘silenced muse’, is also given voice in Duffy’s collection of poems, in a myth initially presented from Orpheus’ perspective as a great ‘love story’. If the statue is part of an Ovidian set of tales which are interwoven with each other as embedded underneath the male perspective, in Duffy’s collection the statue myth manages to show the struggle of the female poet “with words that essentially reflect the patriarchal culture which shaped them”.77 Despite the fact that the title of the collection refers “to a commonplace expression (‘the world and his wife’) which seems to show women as only tangentially related to the world they live in”,78 the modern recreation of the female statue reveals a transformation of the silenced ‘other’ into a powerful whistle-blower on a male-dominated literary world in which women are still being violently mistreated and misrepresented.

 The politics of sexuality in Ovid’s Cypriot landscape In resituating the Ovidian statue back into its original literary setting, we are also called to identify the geographical landscape hosting the Pygmalion story, as well as its relevance to the textual space that takes over the narrative. What follows the Pygmalion myth in Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book 10 is the narrative of the Cypriot Cinyras (298–355), the story of Cyprus’ famous king associated with the cult of Aphrodite.79 The name “Cinyras” appears previously in the epic in Book 6, as part of one of the four corners in Minerva’s tapestry, and as part of a myth of an unknown origin (70–102). It has often been stated that no infor-

 76 See Salzman-Mitchell 2005, 297–298 on marble as a heavy type of stone that is common material for statues. 77 Winterson 2015. 78 Hudson 2007. 79 See a discussion in Hill 2010, 69–70; cf. also Kitsou in this volume.

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

mation can be provided on this particular account that completes the set of paradigmatic corners portraying divine punishments for the hubristic behaviour of human beings.80 Even though little is known of the stories of the ‘fabled transgressors’ in the four Minervan corners, it seems reasonable to suggest that the reader would have associated Cinyras’ participation in the tapestry of the offensa Minerva in Book 6 (24) with the presence of Cypriot Cinyras following the account of the offensus Pygmalion in Book 10 (244). Does the punitive transformation of the Propoetides who had offended the goddess reflect the paradigmatic punishments in Minerva’s tapestry? It has been argued that the aim of the four corners in Minerva’s art-work is to set the borders of the Roman empire.81 As Dufallo notes, in commenting on the main figures of the four myths in the goddess’ artwork, the victims are, with one exception, non-Greek, “suggesting a divine authority reaching beyond territorial boundaries to master the edges of the known world”. Minerva’s tapestry constitutes the embodiment of this world, to establish the horizons of Roman imperium in the Ovidian era.82 The geographical reading of this account makes sense if we extend it to the Arachnean tapestry. The story of the transgressive Easterner, Cinyras, is the last part of Minerva’s work and what follows is the story of the Phoenician Europa, the only non-Greek maiden of the Arachnean ecphrasis (103). The echoes between Books 6 and 10 may therefore suggest that the geographical and literary itineraries implicitly, albeit consistently, coincide. If the illustration of sexual violence as a result of deceptive transformation is the main theme of Arachne’s tapestry, similarly, a careful reading of Pygmalion’s account may suggest that the crafting of the muted female creature alludes to women’s forced submission to power. Examined through this lens, the statue myth places Pygmalion, offensus in the Minervan fashion, on the side of the rulers. Whether the Cypriot statue plays the role of violently captured prey, pointing to the power relationships between Cyprus and the Roman empire, remains to be demonstrated. However, the vocabulary employed in the description of the act of sculpture may translate an aggressive military mission aimed at the annexation of a land, particularly with the use of verbs that show forward movement as well as opposition, and nouns that show the dividing of property (agentis 243, offensus 244, consorte 244, obstet 251, moveri 251, adpellatque 268).

 80 Janan 2009, 109. 81 Dufallo 2013, 167. 82 “Minerva’s illustrations, however arcane to us, are in their way familiar stories to an Augustan audience”, argues Dufallo 2013, 167.

  Stella Alekou Does the self-authorizing performance of power over the sculpture act as an allegory for the Augustan regime, one that punishes outsiders for the quest for self-distinction? If so, Cyprus would be a case in point. In 58 BCE the Romans ‘abruptly annex’ Cyprus, ruled by Ptolemy, brother of Ptolemy XII Auletes of Egypt, and Cato is sent to the island as proconsul.83 Ptolemy rejects the offer of high priesthood, commits suicide and is buried in the famous so-called royal tombs. When Cyprus is joined to the province of Cilicia Cato sells off the royal possessions and takes 7000 talents back to Rome.84 Cyprus’ Hellenistic treasures, marks of the island’s past identity, are appropriated, but what seems an alternative motive behind this annexation is the fact that this relatively wealthy island, with mineral resources and a well-developed trading network, is strategically placed in relation to Egypt and the Levant, including the lairs of pirates in Cilicia.85 According to Cicero, the manner by which Cyprus passed under Roman suzerainty was highly irregular if not actually illegal:86 Cato’s annexation did not reflect the traditional ties between Rome and the island, an approach that may be associated with problematic Roman behaviour, in terms of both internal and external politics.87 Whether we accept that the Ovidian Pygmalion’s sexual lasciviousness translates the Virgilian Pygmalion’s financial greed,88 another element pointing to a political reading of the sexual landscape in the statue account, it remains unclear whether the politics of rape extend to the illegal character of Rome’s expansive invasions, to further activate a commentary on its unethical motives for Cyprus’ annexation. It appears, nonetheless, necessary to further investigate the possibility that in bringing the statue to life, Ovid highlights the blurring of borders in the duality of life and death not only of the mythological heroes but of the Imperium Romanum as well, as Cyprus is among the most recent acts of Roman expansion. The ecphrasis would have served its purpose, as one of the perspectives that it is meant to illuminate, in defining its capacity to deliver a message, is that of the borderlines and formation of a body.89

 83 Rundell 1979, 315; Seager 2014, 229; Calvelli 2020. 84 Badian 1965, 112. 85 Zarecki 2012, 48. 86 Dom. 20; Sest. 57, 59. 87 Oost 1955. On Cicero’s stance towards the annexation of Cyprus see Tzounakas forthcoming c. 88 Verg. A. 4.20–22. 89 On ecphrasis in ancient literature, see Squire 2015.

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

 Concluding remarks Michael Hofmann and James Lasdun argue in After Ovid that Ovid’s renewed appeal is associated with the fact that the poet’s stories offer “a mythical key to most of the more extreme forms of human behavior, especially ones we think of as peculiarly modern: sexual harassment, rape, incest, seduction, suicide, war […] form the bulk of the themes”.90 Duffy’s speaking statue, in all its Ovidianism, not only exposes some of the extreme forms of human behaviour, listed by scholars, but further exposes the social constructs of gender conflict, in providing an internal testimony by the victim. Duffy’s Ovidian poem rejects the validity of forced consent as a result of female silence, in the way Ovid exposes in his text the ‘marry-your-rapist’ law, where “a man can escape criminal prosecution if he marries the woman or girl he has raped”, a law that is still in force in twenty countries in the 21st century, according to a recent UNFPA State of World Population report.91 If the claim of consent loses its strength as a defence for rape after the enactments of the Augustan laws,92 in light of Augustus’ social legislation reforms in the authorities’ alleged efforts to regulate marriage and control adultery, it is not until 326 CE that the Emperor Constantine issues a strongly worded edict violently attacking the practice of abduction marriage and bride theft, that included rape,93 whereas rape victims are even today punished for adultery in many countries of the world.94 By directing the reader towards the poem’s ancient source, Duffy’s work exposes these extreme forms of human behaviour which continue to be veiled, legalized and idealized, and serves as a morally warning prequel to the official outcome of the Ovidian account. The study of Pygmalion’s statue in Ovid, Gower, Caxton, Pettie, Marston, Morris and Duffy shows how the myths on Cyprus in the Metamorphoses initiated a myth-remaking and a historicized re-enactment in the centuries that followed. In a disturbing yet transparent manifestation of its evolution, from Ovid’s epic to Duffy’s “Pygmalion’s Bride”, the Cypriot exemplum survived through time, to express the revolt of the female statue against impossible standards of what constitutes ‘a good wife’. The later Medieval and Renaissance writing of nationhood grew to become a rewriting of womanhood, whereas the ancient  90 Hofmann and Lasdun 1996, xi. 91 UNFPA State of World Population report, My body is my own: Claiming the right to autonomy and self-determination 2021. 92 Nguyen 2006. 93 Evans-Grubbs 1989. 94 Ilkkaracan 2016, 26.

  Stella Alekou foundation of the myth gave rise to further refashioning of Ovid’s Cypriot sexual landscape in modern poetry, that continues to advocate the carving out of new identities and new ideologies concerning what it means ‘to be a woman’. In this new era in which the transformational “act” of the statue (in Duffy’s words, “all an act”) proves convincingly to have always been fundamentally political, the ancient immobilized sculpture, paradoxically, still inspires change.

Bibliography Alekou, A. (2021), ‘Underneath the Arachnean and Minervan Veil of Ambiguity: Cultural and Political Simulatio in Ovidian Ecphrasis’, in Vöhler, Fuhrer and Frangoulidis 2021, 175–191. Anderson, H. (2005). ‘Christmas Carol’, The Guardian, 3 December 2005. Anderson, W.S. (1972), Ovid’s Metamorphoses Books 6–10. Edited, with Introduction and Commentary, Norman. Andres, S. and Donnelly, B., eds. (2018), Poetry in Pre-Raphaelite Paintings: Transcending Boundaries, Bern. Badian, E. (1965), ‘M. Porcius Cato and the Annexation and Early Administration of Cyprus’, The Journal of Roman Studies 55, 110–121. Baker, C. et al., eds. (2018), Ovide Moralisé, Livre I, Paris. Barchiesi, A. (2009), ‘Exemplarity: Between Practice and Text’, in Maes, Papy and Verbaal 2009, 41–62. Barkan, L. (1981), ‘“Living Sculptures”: Ovid, Michelangelo, and The Winter’s Tale’, ELH 48.4, 639–667. Barolsky, P. (2005), ‘Ovid, Bernini, and the Art of Petrification’, Arion 13, 149–162. Beidler, P.G., ed. (1982), John Gower’s Literary Transformations in the Confessio Amantis: Original Articles and Translations, Washington, D.C. Blumenfeld-Kosinski, R. (1996), ‘The Scandal of Pasiphae: Narration and Interpretation in the Ovide moralisé’, Modern Philology, 93.3, 307–326. Boutcher, W. (2000), ‘Who Taught Thee Rhetoricke to Deceive a Maid? Christopher Marlowe’s Hero and Leander, Juan Boscán’s Leandro, and Renaissance Vernacular Humanism’, Comparative Literature 52, 11–52. Brown, C.J. (2010), The Queen’s Library: Image-Making at the Court of Anne of Brittany, 1477– 1514 (Material Texts), Philadelphia/Oxford. Brown, C.K. (1982), ‘The Tale of Pygmalion (CA, IV, 371–436)’, in Beidler 1982, 29–32. Brown, P. (1988), The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity, New York. Brown, S.A. (2014), ‘Contemporary Poetry. After After Ovid’, in Miller and Newlands 2014, 436– 453. Bullón-Fernández, M. (2009), ‘Gower and Ovid: Pygmalion and the (Dis)illusion of the Word’, in Galloway and Yeager 2009, 363–380. Calvelli, L. (2020), Il tesoro di Cipro: Clodio, Catone e la conquista romana dell’isola, Venice. Carlson, D.R. (2014), ‘Gower Agonistes and Chaucer on Ovid (and Virgil)’, The Modern Language Review 109, 931–952.

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

Cavagna, M., Gaggero, M. and Greub, Y. (2014), ‘Prolégomènes à une nouvelle édition de l’Ovide moralisé’, Romania 132, 176–213. Clark, J.G., Coulson, F.T. and McKinley, K.L., eds. (2011), Ovid in the Middle Ages, Cambridge. Crooks, S. (2012), ‘Cult Stones of Ancient Cyprus’, Journal of Prehistoric Religion 23, 25–44. Cueva, E.P. (1996), ‘Plutarch’s Ariadne in Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe’, American Journal of Philology 117, 473–484. Curran, L.C. (1978), ‘Rape and Rape Victims in the Metamorphoses’, Arethusa 11, 213–241. D’Ortange Mastai, M.-L. (1976), Illusion in Art: Trompe-l’Oeil: A History of Pictorial Illusionism, Norwalk, CT. Danahay, M.A. (1994), ‘Mirrors of Masculine Desire: Narcissus and Pygmalion in Victorian Representation’, Victorian Poetry 32, 35–54. Delany, S. (1968), ‘Chaucer’s House of Fame and the Ovide moralisé’, Comparative Literature 20, 254–265. Dolin, K., ed. (2018), Law and Literature, Cambridge. Dufallo, B. (2007), The Ghosts of the Past: Latin Literature, the Dead, and Rome’s Transition to a Principate, Columbus, OH. Dufallo, B. (2013), The Captor’s Image: Greek Culture in Roman Ecphrasis, Oxford. Echard, S., ed. (2004), A Companion to Gower, Cambridge. Elsner, J. and Huskinson, J., eds. (2011), Life, Death and Representation: Some New Work on Roman Sarcophagi, Berlin. Enterline, L. (2004), The Rhetoric of the Body from Ovid to Shakespeare, Cambridge. Evans-Grubbs, E. (1989), ‘Abduction Marriage in Antiquity: A Law of Constantine (CTh IX 24.1) and its Social Context’, The Journal of Roman Studies 79, 59–83. Feldherr, A. (2010), Playing Gods: Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the Politics of Fiction, Princeton. Ferster, J. (1996), Fictions of Advice. The Literature and Politics of Counsel in Late Medieval England, Philadelphia. Frangoulidis, S.A. and Harrison, S.J., eds. (2018), Life, Love and Death in Latin Poetry: Studies in Honor of Theodore D. Papanghelis, Berlin/Boston. Galloway, A. and Yeager, R.F., eds. (2009), Through A Classical Eye: Transcultural & Transhistorical Visions in Medieval English, Italian, and Latin Literature in Honour of Winthrop Wetherbee, Toronto/Buffalo/London. Gerry, S. and Croft, J., eds. (2006), Our House: The Representation of Domestic Space in Modern Culture, Amsterdam/New York. Gilmore, D.D. (2009), Misogyny: The Male Malady, Philadelphia. Grafton, A.T. and Jardine, L. (1982), ‘Humanism and the School of Guarino: A Problem of Evaluation’, Past & Present 96, 51–80. Grebe, S. (2010), ‘Why Did Ovid Associate His Exile with a Living Death?’, Classical World 103, 491–509. Green, S. (2008), ‘Save our Cows? Augustan Discourse and Animal Sacrifice in Ovid’s Fasti’, Greece & Rome, Second Series, 39–54. Harbert, B. (1988), ‘Lessons from the Great Clerk: Ovid and John Gower’, in Martindale 1988, 83–98. Hardie, P. (2002), Ovid’s Poetics of Illusion, Cambridge. Hardie, P., ed. (2006), The Cambridge Companion to Ovid, Cambridge. Hardie, P., Barchiesi, A. and Hinds, S., eds. (1999), Ovidian Transformations: Essays on the Metamorphoses and its Reception, Cambridge.

  Stella Alekou Harries, B. (1990), ‘The Spinner and the Poet: Arachne in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’, Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 36, New Series, 64–82. Harrison, S.J. (2015), ‘William Morris’, in Vance and Wallace 2015, 559–578. Hernández Santano, S. (2002), ‘Marston’s The Metamorphosis of Pygmalion’s Image: The Ovidian Myth Revisited’, Sociedad Hispano-Portuguesa de Estudios Renacentistas Ingleses 12, 259–268. Hibbert, G., ed. (1819), Six Books of Metamorphoseos, in whyche ben conteyned The Fables of Ovyde. Translated out of Frenssh into Englysshe by William Caxton, London. Hill, G. (1949), A History of Cyprus, Vol. 1, Cambridge. Hofmann, M. and Lasdun, J., eds. (1994), After Ovid. New Metamorphoses, London. Hudson, L. (2007), ‘“An Axe to a Willow to See how it Wept”: The Creative Use of Cliche and the Commonplace in Carol Ann Duffy’s The World’s Wife is analysed by Libby Hudson’, The English Review 18, 38. Hutson, L. (2006), ‘Forensic Aspects of Renaissance Mimēsis’, Representations 94.1, 80–109. Ilkkaracan, P. (2016), Deconstructing Sexuality in the Middle East: Challenges and Discourses, New York. James, P. (2011), Ovid’s Myth of Pygmalion on Screen: In Pursuit of the Perfect Woman, London. Janan, M. (2009), Reflections in a Serpent’s Eye: Thebes in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Oxford/New York. Johnson, P.J. (2008), Ovid Before Exile. Art and Punishment in the Metamorphoses, Madison. Kaplan, M. (1950), Ovid and Fifteenth Century English Literature with Especial Reference to Caxton’s Translation, New York. Kirstein, R. (2021), ‘Half Heroes? Ambiguity in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’, in Vöhler, Fuhrer and Frangoulidis 2021, 157–173. Lausberg, H. (1960), Handbuch der literarischen Rhetorik: Eine Grundlegung der Literaturwissenschaft, Stuttgart. Lord, C. (1975), ‘Three Manuscripts of the Ovide moralisé’, Art Bulletin 57, 161–175. Lyne, R. (2001), Ovid’s Changing Worlds: English Metamorphoses 1567–1632, Oxford. Maes, Y., Papy, J. and Verbaal, W., eds. (2009), Latinitas Perennis, Vol. II: Appropriation and Latin Literature, Leiden/Boston. Marston, J. (1598), The Metamorphosis of Pigmalions Image. And Certaine Satyres, London. Martindale, C., ed. (1988), Ovid Renewed: Ovidian Influences on Literature and Art from the Middle Ages to the Twentieth Century, Cambridge. McDowall, S.A. (2013), Beauty and the Beast: An Essay in Evolutionary Aesthetic, Cambridge. Meier Tetlow, E. (2004), Women, Crime, and Punishment in Ancient Law and Society, Vol. 1: The Ancient Near East (Continuum), New York. Michael, V. (1994), ‘Between Ovid and Barthes: Ekphrasis, Orality, Textuality in Ovid’s Arachne’, Arethusa 27, 361–386. Michalopoulos, H. (2022), ‘Having Sex with Statues: Agalmatophilia in Latin Literature’, in Serafim, Kazantzidis and Demetriou 2022. Michelis, A. and Rowland, A., eds. (2003), The Poetry of Carol Ann Duffy: Choosing Tough Words, Manchester/New York. Middleton, A. (1978), ‘The Idea of Public Poetry in the Reign of Richard II’, Speculum 5, 94–114. Miles, G., ed. (1999), Classical Mythology in English Literature. A Critical Anthology, London. Miller, F.J., ed. (19842), Ovid. Metamorphoses, rev. by G.P. Goold, Cambridge, MA, repr. 2005. Miller, J.F. and Newlands, C.E., eds. (2014), A Handbook to the Reception of Ovid, Malden, MA. Minnis, A.J. (1979), ‘A Note on Chaucer and the Ovide moralisé’, Medium Ævum 48, 254–257.

Ovid’s ‘Good’ Women  

Mora, F., Possamaï-Pérez, M., Städtler, T. and Trachsler, R. (2011), ‘“Ab ovoˮ. Les manuscrits de l’“Ovide Moraliséˮ: naissance et survie d’un texte’, Romance Philology 65, 121–142. Murgatroyd, P. (2000), ‘Plotting in Ovidian Rape Narratives’, Eranos 98, 75–92. Nguyen, N.L. (2006), ‘Roman Rape: An Overview of Roman Rape Laws from the Republican Period to Justinian’s Reign’, Michigan Journal of Gender & Law 13, 75–112. Norton, L. (2013), Aspects of Ecphrastic Technique in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Newcastle upon Tyne. Oakley-Brown, L. (2006), Ovid and the Cultural Politics of Translation in Early Modern England, Aldershot. Oost, S.I. (1955), ‘Cato Uticensis and the Annexation of Cyprus’, Classical Philology 50, 98–112. Pearsall, D. (1966), ‘Gower’s Narrative Art’, PMLA 81.7, 475–84. Pearsall, D. (2004), ‘The Manuscripts and Illustrations of Gower’s Works’, in Echard 2004, 73–79. Peck, R.A., ed. (2013), John Gower: Confessio Amantis. Vol. 2. With Latin translations by Andrew Galloway, Michigan. Petrides, A. (2011), “Οι ‘Κυπριακές Ιστορίες” στις Μεταµορφώσεις του Οβιδίου (Μετ. 10.220– 502)’, Κυπριακαί Σπουδαί 75, 101–114. Pettie, G. (1585), A Petite Palace of Pettie his Pleasure. Conteyning many pretie Histories, by him set foorth in comely colours, and most delyghtfully discoursed, London. Possamaï-Pérez, M. 2018, ‘“Étude littéraire”, Introduction’, in Baker et al. 2018, 221–232. Rigolot, F. (1982), La texte de la Renaissance des Rhétoriques à Montaigne, Droz. Rogers, K.M. (1966), The Troublesome Helpmate: A History of Misogyny in Literature, Seattle. Rosati, G. (1999), ‘Form in Motion: Weaving the Text in the Metamorphoses’, in Hardie, Barchiesi and Hinds 1999, 240–253. Rundell, W.M.F. (1979), ‘Cicero and Clodius: The Question of Credibility’, Historia 28, 301–328. Russell, R.H. (1903), Pygmalion and the Image by William Morris. Illustrated with Pictures by Sir Edward Burne-Jones, New York. Rytting, J.R. (2002), ‘In Search of the Perfect Spouse: John Gower’s Confessio Amantis as a Marriage Manual’, Dalhousie Review 82, 113–126. Salzman-Mitchell, P.B. (2005), A Web of Fantasies: Gaze, Image and Gender in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Columbus. Satterfield, J. (2001), ‘Reviewed Work: The World's Wife by Carol Ann Duffy’, The Antioch Review 59, 123–124. Scollen, C.M. (1967), The Birth of the Elegy in France, 1500–1550, Geneva. Seager, R. (2014), ‘The (Re/De)Construction Of Clodius in Cicero’s Speeches’, The Classical Quarterly 64, 226–240. Serafim, A., Kazantzidis, G. and Demetriou, K., eds. (2022), Sex and the Ancient City: Aspects of Sexuality in Greco-Roman Antiquity, Berlin. Sharrock, A. (2006), ‘Gender and Sexuality’, in Hardie 2006, 95–107. Squire, M. (2015), ‘Ecphrasis: Visual and Verbal Interactions in Ancient Greek and Latin Literature’, in Oxford Handbooks Online in Classical Studies https://www.oxfordhandbooks.com/view/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780199935390.001.0001/ oxfordhb-9780199935390-e-58. Stanivukovic, G.V., ed. (2001a), Ovid and the Renaissance Body, Toronto. Stanivukovic, G.V. (2001b), ‘Introduction: Ovid and the Renaissance Body’, in Stanivukovic 2001a, 3–18. Stroud, S.R. (2008), ‘Simulation, Subjective Knowledge, and the Cognitive Value of Literary Narrative’, Journal of Aesthetic Education 42, 19–41.

  Stella Alekou Syme, R. (1997), History in Ovid, Oxford. Taylor, H. (2017), The Lives of Ovid in Seventeenth-Century French Culture, Oxford. Tsitsiou-Chelidoni, Chr. (2003), Ovid. Metamorphosen, Buch VIII. Narrative Technik und literarischer Kontext, Frankfurt am Main. Tzounakas, S., ed. (forthcoming a), The Reception of Ancient Cyprus in Roman Sources and Beyond, Rome. Tzounakas, S. (forthcoming b), ‘Prostitution in Ancient Cyprus, the Myth of Propoetides in Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the Perpetuation of a Stereotype’, in Tzounakas forthcoming a. Tzounakas, S. (forthcoming c), ‘The Roman Conquest of Cyprus in the Rhetorical Strategies of Cicero’s De domo sua and Pro Sestio’, in Tzounakas forthcoming a. Van Orden, K. (2001), ‘Female Complaintes: Laments of Venus, Queens, and City Women in Late Sixteenth-Century France’, Renaissance Quarterly 54, 801–845. Vance, N. and Wallace, J., eds. (2015), The Oxford History of Classical Reception in English Literature, Volume 4: 1790–1880, Oxford. Vincent, M. (1994), ‘Between Ovid and Barthes: Ekphrasis, Orality, Textuality in Ovid’s “Arachne”’, Arethusa 27, 361–386. Vöhler, M., Fuhrer, Th. and Frangoulidis, S., eds. (2021), Strategies of Ambiguity in Ancient Literature, Berlin/Boston. Wells, W. (1961), ‘Gower and Caxton’, South Atlantic Bulletin 27, 9–10. Wheeler, S.M. (2000), Narrative Dynamics in the Metamorphoses, Tübingen. White, P. (2009), Renaissance Postscripts: Responding to Ovid’s Heroides in Sixteenth-Century France, Columbus. Wickert, M. (1953), Studien zu John Gower, Cologne. Winterson, J. (2015), ‘Jeanette Winterson on the Poetry of Carol Ann Duffy – of course it’s Political’, The Guardian, 17 January 2015. Witt, R. (1982), ‘Medieval Ars Dictaminis and the Beginnings of Humanism: A New Construction of the Problem’, Renaissance Quarterly 35, 1–35. Yeager, R.F. (1990), John Gower’s Poetic: The Search for a New Arion, Cambridge. Yeates, A. (2018), ‘Poetic Narrative in William Morris’ and Edward Burne-Jones’ Pygmalion Project’, in Andres and Donnelly 2018, 107–120. Zarecki, J. (2012), ‘The Cypriot Exemption from Evocatio and the Character of Cicero’s Proconsulship’, Greece & Rome, Second Series, 59, 46–55. Ziogas I. (2018), ‘Law and Literature in the Ancient World: The Case of Phryne’, in Dolin 2018, 79–93.

Stamatia Kitsou

Osmosis between High Genres: Ovid’s Tragic Formation of Myrrha’s Tale (Met. 10.298–502) and its Reception in Alfieri’s Homonymous Tragedy Abstract: The crux of the tenth book of the Ovidian Metamorphoses is predicated on four mythological narratives with a Cypriot setting and Cypriot protagonists, which are presented as part of Orpheus’ song. The third story revolves around Myrrha and her incestuous love of her father Cinyras. Ovidian scholarship has drawn sufficient attention to the matter of incest, particularly to its ethical and religious facets, and the subsequent transformation of Myrrha into a tree as punishment for her inappropriate desires. My discussion will focus on how Myrrha’s transformation enables Ovid to proceed to the transformation of the genre itself and the formation of a tragic story. In this regard, the Metamorphoses is reaffirmed as a work concerned as much with stories of transformation as the transformation of stories. A second but equally important strand of my discussion will focus on Ovidian Myrrha’s reception in Alfieri’s homonymous tragedy, more specifically on the extent to which the Italian tragedian relied on Ovid’s account and the divergences that result to the portrayal of a preRomantic Myrrha.

 Introduction The argument, in the Aristotelian sense of the term,1 of Ovid’s Myrrha (Met. 10.298–502)2 is the following: a young girl falls in love with her father. She is thrown into turmoil as a result of the overpowering desire she has for him. Because of assistance she received, she satisfies her amorous desire although her father is unaware of her identity. Once the latter discovers it, he attempts to kill  This work was co-funded by the European Regional Development Fund and the Republic of Cyprus through the Research and Innovation Foundation (Project: EXCELLENCE/1216/0525).  1 Arist. Poet. 17, 1455a 34–1455b 2. 2 The Latin text and the English translations throughout this chapter are quoted from Miller 1958. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-014

  Stamatia Kitsou her. She escapes to a foreign country and, after being transformed into a tree as a punishment for her illicit liaison, gives birth to a child. This is the narrative outline which Ovid skilfully extended and formed by adopting and modifying tragic structural patterns and devices from his sources, mainly the Hippolytus of Euripides.3 Thus I argue that these motifs have not been amalgamated for the sake of variety; the epic narrative operates duly as a host-text4 for the presentation of various signifiers / parameters of genuinely dramatic character ranging from the manipulation of space and time, dramatic irony, pathos and monologues to the dramatic character’s ethos. This generic osmosis thrives throughout the song of Orpheus and constitutes an organizing principle which is fundamental to the hermeneutic approach of the poem and its later ‘transformation’ into an original tragic play, Alfieri’s Mirra.

 Generic interaction between Epic and Tragedy: The Ovidian Myrrha Orpheus, the Ovidian narrator throughout Book 10,5 in his preamble to the story of Cinyras and Myrrha, after a short genealogical reference — which operates as a transition from Pygmalion’s story — warns his audience of the potential corrupting impact of his song,6 assures it of the punishment of the offence and indicates allusively the resolution of the story (Met. 10.310): tanti nova non fuit arbor. A new tree was not worth so great a price.

 3 On Ovid’s debt to Euripides’ Hippolytus for the formation of Myrrha’s story see Otis 1970, 227; Anderson 1972, 501. On the existence of a, now lost, Hellenistic tragedy named Cinyras see Tsavli 2009, 239 and on mimic performances relied on this drama see Sutton 1986, 63–64. Furthermore, on Ovid’s relation with the genre of tragedy throughout his poetic career see Curley 2013; on tragedy’s influence upon his elegiac work see Filippi 2015, 196–215 and on Metamorphoses see Keith 2002, 235–269. For a discussion on the performability of Ovid’s epic and the theatricality of his oeuvre see Gildenhard and Zissos 2007, 4–5 and Jouteur 2009 respectively. 4 For the terms ‘host’ and ‘guest’ in this generic sense see Harrison 2007, 1–33. 5 On Orpheus as a narrator see Barchiesi 2006, 284–294; for a discussion on the role of the narrator in Ovid’s Metamorphoses see Curley 2013, 127–128. 6 On Orpheus’ attitude towards Myrrha and her passion see Anderson 1972, 503 ad Met. 10.304–307; Nagle 1983, 306.

Osmosis between High Genres  

In this light, Orpheus’ introduction alludes to tragic prologues and their function as preparatory parts that lay out the story so far, the crucial and prominent elements, and predispose the spectators / readers for further actions; the information he provides is aptly attuned to the logical organization and the semantic unity of the whole. The narrator establishes from the incipit the key motif of the plot by subtly emphasizing the amor / scelus antithetical scheme which traverses the whole story and constitutes a dramaturgically functional element. Simultaneously he merely implies Myrrha’s crime and does not refer explicitly to it (Met. 10.314–315): scelus est odisse parentem, hic amor est odio maius scelus. It is a crime to hate one’s father, but such love as this is a greater crime than hate.

In this regard, Orpheus creates an atmosphere of suspense and agony through innuendos and hints; this is even more reinforced by the fact that the protagonists of the story are relatives. According to Aristotle, kinship between characters is a fulcrum for the development of the dramatic plot, a fundamental prerequirement for arousing pity and fear, and consequently similar subjects should be the desideratum of any dramatist.7 Subsequently, the narrator apostrophizes Myrrha directly and exhorts her not to pick for her husband the one of her many suitors she must avoid (Met. 10.317–318): ex omnibus unum elige, Myrrha, virum, dum ne sit in omnibus unus. Out of them all choose one for your husband, Myrrha, only let not one be among them all.

The address provides a layer of directness and vividness and paves the ground for a smooth segue to Myrrha’s internal monologue,8 to a stream of consciousness in terms of modernism, where her amorous desire comes into an acute conflict with her modesty, and a daunting negotiation between passion and reality begins. In this regard, Myrrha’s introspection encompasses, enriches and amplifies the amor / scelus dichotomy found in Orpheus’ introductory part, and presents her inner turmoil refracted through argumentation, ranging in a spec 7 Arist. Poet. 14, 1453b 12–22. 8 For the purpose of the Ovidian monologue and its equivalence to tragic rheseis see Curley 2013, 175–176; on the function of monologues in the Metamorphoses see Auhagen 1999, 123– 130.

  Stamatia Kitsou trum from rejections of previous thoughts to withdrawals, admissions and retreats again.9 More specifically, Myrrha appears from the outset to be fully conscious10 and aware of the nefarious quality of her passion as she invokes gods, pietas and the rights of parents to assist her to avoid the crime (321–322). Soon she resorts to contradictory statements and attempts to justify her love of her father mainly by inserting a new antithetical scheme reliant on the terms of nature and human society; the deconstruction of human prejudices through a sharp distinction between the freedom of animals to mate unhindered and the restrictions imposed by human laws (329–331), and a hypothesis which results in the establishment of a paradox (337–340) are reminiscent of a rhetorical treatment with Euripidean nuances.11 Most importantly, they testify to Myrrha’s self-consciousness, since, although she quickly moves from the sphere of reality to the realm of her passionate impulses, she does not blur the boundaries between them and thus maintains her self-knowledge to a considerably high degree. In nuce her thought process and emotional oscillation range from disapproval of her incestuous love to doubt and admission of her passion and then, again, to rebukes to herself for her nefarious desires.12 On the other hand, Myrrha’s soliloquy does not reside in a singular category, according to the typology of monologic forms,13 since, with regard to thematic and style, it conflates a lyrical / confessional quality with a contemplative one. Hence, with respect to dramaturgical function, the lines attributed to Myrrha in the frame of her soliloquy contribute, as usually in the strictly codified ancient theatre, to the general perspective of the work, aim at dramatic causality and are adequately attuned to Οrpheus’ attempt to create tension and suspense through the explicit passage of time. Myrrha’s last reference to her father, in the context of her wish that he had had the same passion (Met. 10.355 ‘…et o vellem similis furor esset in illo!’, ‘…and oh, how I wish a like passion were in him!’), operates as a transition to the narration of a brief episode fully abun-

 9 This is typical of such monologues in the Metamorphoses: cf. Medea in Book 7, Althaea in Book 8. For an analysis of Myrrha’s passion from a psychoanalytical point of view see Spenztou 2019, 426–429. 10 Typical of such monologues in the Metamorphoses: cf. Medea in Book 7, Althaea in Book 8. 11 Petrides 2011, 109; furthermore, on the legal terminology and the rhetoric formation of Myrrha’s soliloquy see Ziogas 2016, 24–41. 12 Cf. the case of Medea in Book 7 and Althaea in Book 8, both of whom similarly end up doing the wicked action. 13 On the various functionalities of the monologic form see Phister 1991, 55–61.

Osmosis between High Genres  

dant with dramatic irony.14 The narrator profits ingeniously from Myrrha’s last word regarding Cinyras and narrows the focus to accommodate a conversation between Myrrha and her father which increases the former’s emotional load, triggers her distraction and consequently thickens the plot. Most importantly, Orpheus’ passage to another scene gives the impression of a temporal continuum and cohesion, and of facts that take place causally, logically and psychologically connected and justified. So, when her father insists that she choose a husband from the group of the suitors — an appeal which repeats Orpheus’ prompt and advice, and thus thematically continues the main issue of his introductory part — Myrrha reacts with tears and Cinyras misinterprets them as signs of maiden modesty (Met. 10.361 virginei Cinyras haec credens esse timoris, ‘Cinyras attributing this to maidenly alarm’). In his following question about the sort of man she wants, she replies in a way (Met. 10.364 similem tibi, ‘One like you’) that favours one more misinterpretation from Cinyras’ part, who praises her as modest. This encounter constitutes a deciding factor, since Myrrha realizes deeply and in a painful way that behind her praised modesty there hides a nefarious passion and utter shame,15 and that her emotional exhaustion is without end. Thus, Orpheus quickly moves to another episode set in the middle of the night, when she attempts to hang herself and addresses her last words to Cinyras; by coincidence, her nurse awakes and rushes to rescue her. Myrrha’s decision to commit suicide has a twofold justification and explanation, an emotional and a logical one: her inner distraction and suffering are endless, since she realizes that her passion is hideous and sinful, totally incompatible with the familial bond. Notwithstanding, her plan is aborted by her nurse, who acts as a dea ex machina — a plot device used masterfully by Euripides — introduced into the situation suddenly and unexpectedly. The nurse’s presence, apart from the contribution to the depiction of a moving scene and full of emotion, is decisive for the advance of the plot, and the mimetic narrative provides the illusion that everything happens in front of the reader: direct speech and dramatic irony prevail and contribute artfully to the increase of dramatic tension, since Myrrha reveals the reason for her suicide attempt only after her nurse’s insistence on discovering the truth and mainly after her fre-

 14 For an analysis of the dramatic irony and suspense in Orpheus’ narrative see Anderson 1972, 507 ad Met. 10.359–360; 509 ad Met. 10.400–401; 513 ad Met. 10.456–459; Nagle 1983, 311–313. 15 On the female shame as one of the main reasons for the Ovidian women’s choice to commit suicide see Hill 2004, 121–143.

  Stamatia Kitsou quent references to Myrrha’s father.16 The process reminds us of the role of Phaedra’s nurse and Hippolytus’ name as a key factor for the revelation of the truth,17 though Myrrha’s nurse refers to Cinyras as a means to encourage and reinforce the girl psychologically and not as a threat.18 The nurse’s attitude makes her intersect at certain points with her Euripidean counterpart, Phaedra’s nurse, yet surpasses the latter in terms of immorality and involvement, as she will wittingly abet Myrrha’s passion and orchestrate the whole situation, plan the details and almost push Myrrha into Cinyras’ bedroom. From this point of view, her intervention constitutes a critical key factor: she is not merely a functional character but one with dramatic substance; her ethos and actions ultimately drive the plot and procure an ending. The upcoming festival in honour of Ceres and the obligatory sexual abstinence of married women, Myrrha’s mother included, give the opportunity to the nurse to implement her plan;19 on the one hand Cinyras’ propensity to drink and his licentious, carnal desires and salacious nature, and on the other, the nurse’s cunning and seductive description of the beauty of a young girl who is in love with him, are two decisive factors that seal the assignation and favour the evolution on the level of the plot. After the encounter of the nurse and Cinyras, the narrator presents quickly the former’s return home to prompt Myrrha to proceed to satisfy her desire. Within the context of three lines (443–445) he condenses Myrrha’s disarray and mixed emotions, and in line 446 he starts to describe their way to Cinyras’ bedroom. In this regard everything seems to take place in a direct manner, as if each scene emanates from the previous one and favours the next according to what is plausible. Οrpheus’ description20 of their approach to Cinyras appeals as much to the visual (448–450 … fugit aurea caelo / luna, tegunt nigrae latitantia sidera nubes; / nox caret igne suo, ‘the golden moon fled from the sky; black clouds hid the skulking stars; night was without her usual fires’) as to the aural (452–453 ter omen / funereus bubo letali carmine fecit, ‘thrice did the funeral screech-owl warn her by his uncanny cry’), increases dramatic tension by narrowing the focus absolutely to Myrrha’s horror and physical symptoms (457– 461), and gives the impression of hic and nunc (456–457 iam … iamque … iam).  16 On the “tricolonic structure” of the episode see Nagle 1983, 311. 17 E. Hipp. 309–314. 18 See Anderson 1972, 509 ad Met. 10.400–401. 19 For the sharp contrast implied between Cenchreis’ ritual sexual abstinence and Myrrha’s sinful sexual passion see Lowrie 1993, 51–52; see also O’ Bryhim 2008, 190 on Myrrha’s perception of her incestuous act as a marriage. 20 On Ovid’s descriptive art and its connection to spectacularity see Rosati 1983, 152; see also Curley 2013, 128.

Osmosis between High Genres  

The meticulous exposition of Myrrha’s reluctance constitutes the focal point of the story, since, when her dilemma (pietas vs scelus) is abolished and her choice is made, her subsequent praxis defines her participation in happiness or the opposite. Ultimately, Myrrha committed incest, the liaison continued for some more nights and, most importantly, led to a pregnancy. Once her father discovered her identity, he tried to kill her. She escaped to Arabia, where she was transformed into a tree, as a punishment, and gave birth to a boy, Adonis. Cinyras is usually considered as unwitting, innocent and deceived by the nurse and his daughter,21 and partially this is true. On the other hand, in his attitude lurks the potential for a different treatment: his tendency to drink, his licentiousness, the fact that he grows curious to learn about his lover’s identity only at a late stage — apart from facilitating the nurse’s and Myrrha’s plan — embed a somewhat comic element22 in his portrayal and reaction to this dreadful situation, redolent of the Euripidean manipulation of critical phases of the plot.23 In contrast, Myrrha was fully and constantly aware of her guilt and took responsibility. Her self-consciousness and moral awareness led her to ask for a punishment that results in neither life nor death. She underwent a metamorphosis equivalent to a state of limbo: a situation between life and death, and a lack of an ability to speak, yet not of one to feel.24 Transformed into a myrrh tree, she is deprived of her human form, but the tears (the myrrh resin) are a constant reminder of it. This kind of transformation, unique in the ensemble of the Ovidian Metamorphoses, establishes one more parallel with the tragic genre, reminding us of the situation of the Sophoclean Αntigone (Ant. 850–851):25 ἰὼ δύστανος, βροτοῖς οὔτε νεκροῖς κυροῦσα μέτοικος οὐ ζῶσιν, οὐ θανοῦσιν. Ah, unfortunate that I am neither living among those who are alive, nor dwelling as a corpse among corpses, having no home with either the living or the dead.26

 21 See Anderson 1972, 512 ad Met. 10.437–440 and 513 ad Met. 10.462–464. 22 Drunkenness and sexual intercourse, frequently in the context of a religious festivity, are a recurrent motif in New Comedy; cf. the case in Menander’s Epitrepontes. On the triptych food– wine–sex, as one of the main thematic axes of Middle Comedy see Papachrysostomou 2011, 95. 23 See Petrides 2011, 111. 24 See also Veres 2019, 89–90. 25 Cf. Berno 2018, 90–91 and 77–97 for further analysis of the analogies between the Senecan Oedipus’ and Ovidian Myrrha’s punishment. 26 Transl. by Gibbons and Segal 2003, 92.

  Stamatia Kitsou

 From Epic to Tragedy – Slices from the banquet of Ovid: Classical models and pre-Romantic sensitivity in Alfieri’s Mirra From the standpoint of genre, and slightly paraphrasing Aeschylus, the Ovidian epic becomes the banquet from which tragedians take slices and functions as the incubator for various ingenious revivals of myths. In this regard, the Ovidian Myrrha’s tragic story inspired, amongst others,27 Vittorio Alfieri, a truly leading figure in Italian literature and theatre of the 18th century, to compose the only known tragedy with Mirra as a protagonist.28 Alfieri detected in Ovid’s treatment this tragic quality. As he points out in his Vita:29 “Mi capitò alle mani nelle Metamorfosi di Ovidio quella caldissima e veramente divina allocuzione di Mirra alla di lei nutrice, la quale mi fece prorompere in lagrime, e quasi un subitaneo lampo mi destò l’idea di porla in tragedia; e mi parve che toccantissima ed originalissima tragedia potrebbe riuscire […]. In somma l’ideai a bella prima, ch’ ella dovesse nella mia tragedia operare quelle cose stesse, ch’ ella in Ovidio descrive; ma operarle tacendole”.

Alfieri’s reception of the Ovidian Myrrha reveals itself as functional and aimed at satisfying the poet’s main purposes, ranging in spectrum from strictly dramaturgical, to largely literary, ideological30 and even profoundly intimate, since it seems to project his own inner tragedy onto Mirra’s devastating passion.31 In

 27 The reception and treatment of Myrrha’s tragic story — from Dante’s Inferno to Ted Hughes’s “Tales from Ovid” — varies according to the political, social, religious and literary aims of each poet / writer. In Alfieri, its reception, except from political and largely ideological connotations or projections of personal passions, alludes to a sharp distinction between Enlightenment’s ‘reason’ and Romanticism’s unlimited stream of emotion; see indicatively Fido 2008, 393–394; Streifer 2013, 7. 28 The Italian text throughout is quoted from Di Benedetto 1997. 29 The text is quoted according to Ferrero and Rettori 2013, 298–299. 30 On Alfieri’s intention to elevate the status of Italian tragedy and through this genre to struggle against various forms of tyranny see Basilone 1956, 49; Gerato 1981, 91–94 and 98; Camerino 1999, 28. 31 Especially the formation of Mirra’s persona, including her obsessed insistence in concealing the truth, is considered to be a unique case in the ensemble of Alfieri’s literary production, almost identical to his own inner conflicts, passions and constant sorrow; see Maselli 2000, 107–108.

Osmosis between High Genres  

this regard, he drew the main idea from the Ovidian source — drawing on some hundred lines — and by freely elaborating functional elements that serve the dramatic situation and proceeding to purposeful appropriations and deliberate alterations, he formed an original drama. One might say that, in the terms of Eco,32 it is a case where the intentio auctoris and the intentio operis coincide harmoniously. The story is in brief the following:33 Mirra, the daughter of King Ciniro of Cyprus and his wife Cecri, is engaged to Pereo, heir to the throne of Epirus. The wedding day has arrived, but Mirra appears physically and psychologically exhausted. Her family members make frustrated attempts to discover the cause of her distraught mental state and strange conduct, but she resorts either to silence or to fictitious explanations. During the wedding ceremony, Mirra suddenly releases her suppressed emotional burden and, in a state of delirium, admits that she is possessed by the Furies. Pereo, in extreme despair, rushes off and ends his life.34 When Ciniro learns about Pereo’s death, he demands explanations from Mirra. The latter, after being pressed and threatened, reveals the cause of her distress: her incestuous passion for her father. Forthwith she commits suicide, feeling dishonoured and defeated by the confession of her tortuous secret. Alfieri’s dramaturgical organization and treatment observes strictly the Aristotelian classical trinity of unity of time, place and action, and on the other hand the Senecan division into five acts and emphasis on passionate soliloquies. The plot is linear and simple, without reversals and recognitions, but with artful escalations and de-escalations of tension that culminate in the fifth act. As Alfieri admits in his Vita,35 one of his most difficult and crucial dramaturgical tasks was to maintain dramatic tension throughout the five acts of the drama as a product of Mirra’s psychological fluctuations and not of a complex plot. Additionally, he intended for the spectator to realize gradually the cause of the disordered impulses of the protagonist. In this decision resides one of his most important deviations, from a dramaturgical point of view, from his source of inspiration: the fact that during the first four acts Alfieri does not drop the slightest hint with regard to Mirra’s true passion, her morally transgressive love for her father. This will be revealed only at the end of Act 5; yet he emphasizes

 32 See Eco 1990, 50–51. 33 Dramatis personae: Ciniro, Cecri, Mirra, Pereo, Euriclea, Chorus, Priests, People. 34 It seems that his name follows the nomen-omen principles, as it alludes to the Latin verb pereo (‘I die’) and corresponds to Pereo’s dramatic role. 35 See Ferrero and Rettori 2013, 299.

  Stamatia Kitsou her excruciating inner distraction by amplifying the circle of the drama’s characters by adding her mother and her betrothed. On the other hand, this distinctive differentiation on dramaturgical grounds seems to abide by his primary intention to extoll Mirra’s virtue, through her silence and refusal to speak, and release her from suspicions of guilt, through her tortuous and incessant inner battle, by attributing the blame to a superior force: Mirra does not try to rationalize her incestuous love, nor does she dare to admit it to herself, unlike her Ovidian counterpart; she is the victim of an uncontrolled and extremely hostile divine force, which undermines her inner balance and deconstructs her physically and emotionally. In contrast, in Euripides’ Hippolytus Venus is indisputably accountable for Phaedra’s illicit urges of desire, and in the Ovidian account the blame is somehow shared between the Furies and Myrrha. It seems that Alfieri intends to present the tragedy of an unquestionably innocent and pure character, who finds herself incompatible with the various external frames of reference and the limits they impose on moral, religious, and social grounds; thus the external tyrannical force remains indefinable and is indifferently referred to as Venus or Furies or celestial rage. On the other hand, it has been aptly argued that the activity of this indefinite deity is the product, or better the projection, of Mirra’s inherent sorrow and sadness; it is a sadness attributed to inner conflicts as a result of incompatibility with the external world and shared by the tragedian, who seems to be Romantic by nature and projects through Mirra’s tragic history the tragedy of his own existence.36 Scene 1 of Act 1 opens with an emotionally moving and dramatically intense encounter between Mirra’s nurse and mother, just before the intended wedding. The marriage — an Alfierian invention in its entirety — functions as a means for Mirra to avoid her tortuous passion, as she will leave Cyprus and live in Epirus with her husband. Alfieri builds an atmosphere of anxiety and turmoil, as Mirra appears in the middle of Act 2. Up to this point the spectators / readers form an impression of the main protagonist absolutely through the other dramatic characters. More specifically, Mirra’s unaccountable and inexplicable misery, often evinced by tears, insomnia, extreme physical weakness, and her vacillating conduct constitute the central topic of discussion for her family members. In this regard, Alfieri does not form the other dramatic characters as self-reliant and self-standing, since Mirra’s symptoms, and primarily their immense love for her, dictate and direct their attitude towards her, mainly increasing their pain and sense of insufficiency and impotence to help her effectively. In this context

 36 Maselli 2000, 85, 107–108.

Osmosis between High Genres  

the role of the nurse, Euriclea, is harmoniously attuned to the other characters’ attempts to delve into Mirra’s disarray. The nurse’s name invokes Odysseus’ nurse and, as well as an indicator of Alfieri’s classical education and display of erudition, constitutes an intentional choice regarding the moral status and the similarities (and deviations) of character between these two women. Euriclea expresses genuine sentiments of anguish and distress, yet does not exhibit the Ovidian nurse’s skill in cunning, concealing the truth and orchestration of a plan. She limits herself to unfruitful attempts to understand Mirra’s perplexed emotions, by tenderly and discreetly approaching her,37 struggling to end her suffering through prayers to Venus and revealing discussions with Cecri. It is noteworthy that, when Euriclea finds herself shocked by Mirra’s obsession with death, she expresses her intention to resort to the royal couple (2.4.319 “Ai genitor il tutto / corro a narrar….”) as a means to prompt them to intervene; thus, she avoids acting of her own volition, and her need to show compassion does not encourage arbitrary acts. It is in the same context and according to the same dramaturgical intention that Alfieri portrays Ciniro: although he is a King, he behaves solely as a father, disowning his officia. From this point of view Ciniro deviates from the Ovidian king in the sense that he is presented in the intensity of his paternal love, without the concerns of a monarch or the flaws of human weakness. This kinship (father-daughter), from which his immense love emerges, is intensely underlined by him, when Mirra calls him ‘signor’ and avoids referring to their biological connection (3.2.60 “Tu mal cominci: a te non sono / signor; padre son io: puoi tu chiamarmi / con altro nome, o figlia?”). The attitude and approach of each of Mirra’s family members makes her inner torment drastically worse, as she tries to avoid confessing the truth. Their inquiring attempts, focused on the deciphering of her symptoms, and their insistence on detecting the causal factors of her crisis, intensify her disorder yet constitute a dramaturgically functional element that develops the plot by provoking her emotional outburst in Act 4 and the revelation of the truth in Act 5. Up until then she resorts mainly to isolation and silence (2.2.130 “Disdegno e morte il tuo silenzio spira”) or, in some instances, to misinformation, fictitious explanations and false pretences.38 Whereas the Ovidian Myrrha disguises herself and pretends to be someone else in order to access Cinyras and fulfil her  37 Especially Euriclea’s correlation of Mirra’s symptoms with love (2.4.248–251) reminds us of the Ovidian nurse’s intuition (Met. 10.405–413). 38 E.g. 2.2.170–183; 3.2.174–203; for a different consideration and the characterization of Mirra’s silence as premeditated and calculated see Frankel 1977, 35–55.

  Stamatia Kitsou feverish yearning, Alfieri’s Mirra constantly dissimulates and submerges her real self so as to avoid the crime, even verbally; whereas the Ovidian Myrrha expects a mutual passion from her father and appears delighted when he kisses and touches her tenderly, the Alfierian Mirra avoids even meeting him physically, for fear that conflicting identities will lead to the revelation of her impure love. In this light, the crucial divergence regarding the main dramatic character lies in the fact that Alfieri’s protagonist makes tremendous efforts and succeeds to a considerable extent in not revealing the cause of her anguish and consequently not committing incest. Alfieri cushions the lurid nature of the Ovidian account and the revulsion it triggered,39 and extolls Myrrha’s virtue through her incessant resistance to her true feelings and her inner thoughts. In this regard, even her isolation does not operate as a solution (2.3.128–129 “né un istante, / Io rimaner vo’ sola con me stessa…”) and she constantly desires her death.40 Apart from her obsession with the end of her life as an end to her wretchedness, Μirra’s fragile existence and physical appearance allude to death, at least from her nurse’s and her mother’s descriptions.41 Mirra’s ineffable melancholy is the focal point of the tragedy and resides undoubtedly in her dualistic existence.42 On psychological grounds, her duality entails fatally a double identity for her mother too, since, in Mirra’s eyes, Cecri is both a mother and a rival.43 Consequently, her bond with her mother seems less strong, tender and intimate compared to her relationship with her nurse, to whom, even though she does not reveal the truth, at least she feels comfortable to express her agony and fears. Only in Act 4 (scene 7), after the interruption of the ceremony, does Mirra’s true self come forth, predominate and finally control her emotional and verbal expression, as she accuses her mother directly and presents her as responsible for her wretchedness. In this poignant and emotionally moving scene, Cecri, frustrated, makes un unfruitful, desperate attempt to discover the reason for Mirra’s disorder and recent delirium, and promises to support her effectively. Under this perspective she proposes the ‘reshaping’ of their relationship and the establishment of a strong sisterly bond of togetherness; getting carried away intuitively in a play of identities, by virtue of Mirra’s  39 According to Ferrero and Rettori 2013, 298, Alfieri’s decision not to include incest in his drama is not a moralizing Christian belief but stems from his dramaturgical position that incestuous love is not a subject appropriate for the genre of tragedy. 40 E.g. 1.1.84; 2.4.243–247; 4.7.275–276. 41 E.g. 1.1.7–10; 1.1.12–18. 42 See Boni 2009, 17; on the “melancholic ethos of the romantic conscience” see Polychronakis 2007, 23. 43 See e.g. Laggini Fiore 2012, 160.

Osmosis between High Genres  

duality, she seeks to change intentionally and with full consciousness her identity and become a devoted sister (4.7.266 “Più suora, a te, che madre”). The closeness and proximity implied triggers Mirra’s reaction, since Cecri, independently of her role regarding Mirra, will always retain the title of Ciniro’s wife.44 Dramatic tension reaches its climax in the last Act, in which Mirra, after her father’s threats and because of the impending danger of an emotional distancing between them, reveals her secret –in a manner redolent of the Ovidian Myrrha’s response but with different intentions– by emphasizing the role of her mother as a spouse (5.2.82–83 “Oh madre mia felice! … almen concesso / a lei sará … di morire … al tuo fianco”). The revelation, a crucial deviation from the Ovidian source, amounts to death, an equally strong decline from the Ovidian treatment: seizing her father’s sword she inflicts a mortal wound upon herself.45 Her mother and nurse enter the stage and learn the dreadful truth from the bewildered Ciniro, who prevents Cecri from approaching Mirra. Only her nurse stands by her side, to whom Mirra addresses her last words: her lament that Euriclea had not given her a sword in time so that her death would have been honoured (5.4.220 “io moriva … innocente; … empia … ora … muojo”).46 Mirra’s destiny seems to be solitude. Thus, her death is as lonely as her life was. Through this poignant scene Alfieri seems to underlie her excellence and superiority, since her last words testify once again to her main concern: the preservation of her honesty. Mirra’s suicide is intensely foreshadowed, throughout the play, by recurrent and extensive references to death or death-oriented descriptions. Yet the revelation of the truth is partially unexpected, mainly by virtue of her insistent and incessant attempt to hide the secret, and partially anticipated by her reaction to Cecri’s approach; Pereo’s death jolted Ciniro — as Mirra’s emotional explosion and interruption of the matrimonial ceremony mobilized Cecri — and a rigorous inquiry is consequently expected with regard to what is probable, absolutely  44 Mirra is constantly, and painfully, aware of her duality and the sin implied; in this sense, she perceives reality in a distorted manner thinking that her mother’s love has decreased (4.7.45–46 “se l’ombra / pur ti riman per me d’amore”). Even more important is the fact that, after her outburst in Act 4 and the realization of her almost revelation, she resorts to explanations in metaphysical terms to justify the manifestation of her hatred (4.7.92–94). 45 Racine’s Phèdre is considered to have been Alfieri’s model with regard to Mirra’s death immediately after the confession of her incestuous desire, see Fido 2008, 390; on Racine’s Phaedra’s inner torment and silence see Barthes 1963, 115–116. 46 Cf. Racine’s Phaedra’s lament to Oenone (3.3.837–838 “Je mourais ce matin digne d’être pleurée; / j’ ai suivi tes conseils, je meurs déshonorée”) and the scheme dignity vs dishonour.

  Stamatia Kitsou justified and supported from a logical and emotional point of view. For Mirra, the verbal revelation of her impure love is equivalent to its practical implementation and as such brings about her biological end. In this regard, her death, though a desideratum, is not absolutely virtuous, as a result of the fact that it did not come in time and the confession led to the loss of innocence; yet it is not entirely impious and annihilating either, since she attained “a catharsis of authenticity and thus of self-identification”.47 Alfieri’s treatment proves Mirra to be a bearer of the predominant features of the Romantic hero / heroine: melancholic by experiencing a morally transgressive, forbidden erotic love, tortured by her dualistic existence and the incompatibility with the normative values, she dies the way the majority of the Romantics die: alone, from unattainable love, at an inconvenient time, still not without “a sense of victory”.48 Through this prism Alfieri can be considered as a Romantic avant la lettre49 and surely as one of Ovid’s most perspicacious readers.

 Conclusion This piece has argued that Myrrha’s transformation enabled Ovid to proceed to the transformation of the epic text and the formation of a story encoded as a tragedy; this is spotted by Alfieri, who uses the dramatic elements in Ovid, probably drawn from a lost Greek drama, to create a new drama of his own. In this regard, the Metamorphoses is reaffirmed as a work indicative of Ovid’s generic novelty, his tendency to thematize and expose, perpetuate and enrich generic crossing, further adding to the generic polyphony evidenced throughout his poetic corpus.50 On the other hand, this synergy inspired Alfieri to compose an original tragedy and reaffirmed the capacity of myth to be transformed and refracted through the dramatist’s aspirations on the literary and ideological level. Thus, Alfieri’s Mirra features distinct classical, and neo-classical, elements combined with a pre-Romantic ethos.

 47 Sreifer 2013, 4; see also Whalley 1997, 100 for the catharsis as a “purifying process” related not only to the audience but also to the dramatic persons. 48 Garber 1967, 322. 49 See Fido 2008, 393–396. 50 See Holzberg 2002, especially 1–20.

Osmosis between High Genres  

Bibliography Anderson, W.S., ed. (1972), Ovid’s Metamorphoses: Books 6–10, Norman, OK. Auhagen, U. (1999), Der Monolog bei Ovid, Tübingen. Barchiesi, A. (2006), ‘Voices and Narrative ‘Instances’ in the Metamorphoses’, in Knox 2006, 274–319. Barthes, R. (1963), Sur Racine, Paris. Basilone, G. (1956), Guida allo studio dell’opera letteraria di Vittorio Alfieri, Naples. Baxter, J. and Atherton, P., eds. (1997), Aristotle’s Poetics, Montreal/Kingston/London/Buffalo. Berno, F.R. (2018), ‘Edipo e Mirra fra la terra e il cielo. Colpa e punizione nell’ Oedipus senecano e nel raccontoovidiano di Mirra’, in Casamento 2018, 77–97. Boni, F. (2009), ‘In cerca del doppio: cinque personaggi alfieriani tra scissione e proiezione’, Romanica Cracoviensiana 9, 11–19. Boyd, B.W., ed. (2002), Brill’s Companion to Ovid, Leiden. Brand, P. and Pertile, L., eds. (2008), The Cambridge History of Italian Literature, Cambridge. Camerino, G.A. (1999), Alfieri e il linguaggio della tragedia, Naples. Casamento, A., ed. (2018), Scritti in onore di Gianna Petrone, Palermo. Curley, D. (2013), Tragedy in Ovid. Theater, Metatheater, and the Transformation of a Genre, Cambridge. Di Benedetto, A. (1977), ‘Vittorio Alfieri. Opere. Tomo I (testo e commento)’, in Ricciardi 1977, 449–1089. Eco, U. (1990), The Limits of Interpretation, Bloomington/Indianapolis. Ferrero, G.G. and Rettori. M., eds. (2013), Vittorio Alfieri. Vita – Rime – Satire, Turin. Fido, F. (2008), ‘Alfieri and Pre-Romanticism’, in Brand and Pertile 2008, 387–395. Filippi, M. (2015), ‘The Reception of Latin Archaic Tragedy in Ovid’s Elegy’, in Harrison 2015, 196–215. Frankel, M. (1977), ‘Non silenzio ma rivelazione calcolata’, Ithaca 54, 35–55. Garber, F. (1967), ‘Self, Society, Value, and the Romantic Hero’, Comparative Literature 19, 321– 333. Gibbons, R. and Segal, C. (2003), Sophocles, Antigone, Oxford/New York. Gerato, E.G. (1981), ‘The Artist in his Creation’, Rocky Mountain Review of Language and Literature 34, 91–98. Gildenhard, I. and Zissos, A. (2007), ‘Barbarian Variations: Tereus, Procne and Philomela in Ovid (Met. 6.412–674) and Beyond’, Dictynna 4, 1–25. Harrison, G.W.M., ed. (2015), Brill’s Companion to Roman Tragedy, Leiden/Boston. Harrison, S.J. (2007), Generic Enrichment in Vergil and Horace, New York. Hill, T.D. (2004), Ambitiosa Mors: Suicide and Self in Roman Thought and Literature, New York/ London. Holzberg, N. (2002), Ovid: The Poet and His Work, translated from the German by G.M. Goshgarian, Ithaca. Jouteur, I., ed. (2009), La théâtralité de l’œuvre ovidienne, Paris. Keith, A.M. (2002), ‘Sources and Genres in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 1–5’, in Boyd 2002, 235– 269. Knox, P.E., ed. (2006), Oxford Readings in Ovid, Oxford, Laggini Fiore, S. (2012), The Heroic Female: Redefining the Role of the Heroine in the Tragedies of Vittorio Alfieri, Newcastle.

  Stamatia Kitsou Lowrie, M. (1993), ‘Myrrha’s Second Taboo, Ovid’s Metamorphoses 10.467–68’, Classical Philology 88, 50–52. Maselli, G. (2000), ‘Amore indicibile: uso e riuso di un modulo narrativo in Euripide, Ovidio e Alfieri’, Aufidus: Rivista di Scienza e Didattica della Culura Classica 42, 85–108. Miller, F.J., ed. and trans. (1958), Ovid II, Metamorphoses IX–XV, London/Cambridge, MA. Nagle, B.R. (1983), ‘Two Incest Narratives in the Metamorphoses’, The Classical Journal 78, 301–315. O’ Bryhim, S. (2008), ‘Myrrha’s ‘Wedding’ (Ov. Met. 10. 446–70)’, The Classical Quarterly 58, 190–195. Otis, B. (1970), Ovid as an Epic Poet, 2nd rev. ed., Cambridge. Papachrysostomou, A. (2011), ‘Καλειδοσκόπιο στη Μέση Κωμωδία: Η Νομοτέλεια της Αλλαγής στο Δράμα’, in Pappas and Markantonatos 2011, 90–102. Pappas, Th. and Markantonatos, A., eds. (2011), Αττική Κωμωδία: Πρόσωπα και Προσεγγίσεις, Athens. Petrides, Α. (2011), ‘Οι “Κυπριακές Ιστορίες” στις Μεταµορφώσεις του Οβιδίου (Μετ. 10.220– 502)’, Κυπριακαί Σπουδαί 75, 101–114. Phister, M. (1991), The Theory and Analysis of Drama, 2nd ed., transl. J. Halliday, Cambridge. Polychronakis, D. (2007), Όψεις της Ρομαντικής Ειρωνείας. Schiller – Schlegel – Hoffmann – Baudelaire, Athens. Ricciardi, R., ed. (1977), La Letteratura Italiana. Storia e Testi, Milan/Naples. Rosati, G. (1983), Narciso e Pigmalione: illusione e spettacolo nelle Metamorfosi di Ovidio, Florence. Spentzou, E. (2019), ‘Orpheus, Byblis, Myrrha: Towards a Matrixial Ethics of Encounter in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’, International Journal of the Classical Tradition 26, 417–432. Streifer, M. (2013), ‘Affirming Life Through Death: Female Subjectivity in the Tragedies of Vittorio Alfieri and Gabriele D’Annunzio’, La Fusta, Rutgers Journal of Italian Literature and Culture 21, 1–26. Sutton, D.F. (1986), Seneca on the Stage, Leiden. Tsavli, E. (2009), Κινύρας. Μελέτη στον αρχαίο κυπριακό μύθο, Diss., University of Athens. Veres, O. (2019), ‘Spaces in Between in the Myth of Myrrha: A Metamorphosis into Tree’, Acta Universitatis Sapientiae, Philologica 11, 83–92. Whalley, G. (1997), ‘Translation and Commentary’, in Baxter and Atherton 1997, 43–139. Ziogas, I. (2016), ‘Orpheus and the Law: The Story of Myrrha in Ovid’s Metamorphoses’, Law in Context 34, 24–41.

Bruce Gibson

Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire: Western Travellers to Cyprus in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries Abstract: This chapter examines the representation of Cyprus in the writings of western travellers in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Cyprus’ classical heritage plays a key role in the encounter between western visitors and the island, and provides a means of mediating both the post-classical and the Ottoman histories of Cyprus. While medieval and Venetian Cyprus can be presented as an extension to the classical past, the capture of Famagusta in 1571 which marked the decisive onset of Ottoman rule is regularly highlighted as a moment of brutal rupture from the glories of the island’s past. Reflections on the traditional associations of the island with Aphrodite as goddess of love give way to a new kind of desire: disappointment at the state of Cyprus under Ottoman rule is reshaped into an appreciation of Cyprus as a place offering the potential for successful European colonization. Travel to the island and exploration of its antiquities over these two centuries thus not only contributes to knowledge, but plays a part in expanding imperial horizons as well.

 Introduction This chapter does not seek to offer exhaustive coverage of travel to Cyprus in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries: such a project would require much more space than a single chapter.1 Instead it seeks to show certain links and continuities in the experience of British and French travel writing, and also to suggest that approaches to Cyprus in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries present a conceptual geography of Cyprus which looks back to ancient geographical approaches to the island. The chapter will also consider how classical and postclassical pasts are treated in travel writing from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, before closing with some perspectives from the nineteenth century

 1 Useful resources on travel to Cyprus and to the east more widely in the period include Hachicho 1964, Bonato 2012, 2013. I am indebted to Spyridon Tzounakas and Stephen Harrison for their invaluable comments on this chapter and also to Violaine Chauvet, Charles Forsdick, Thomas Harrison and Fiona Hobden. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-015

  Bruce Gibson which point to the interconnections between ideas of ancient Cyprus, antiquarian travel and contemporary western political interests in Cyprus. At the outset, it is worth noting that travel to Cyprus is not something which involved uniform, homogeneous experiences or even similar motivations for all those who went there. Travel in the east for the sake of travel can certainly be documented: a classic example is Richard Pococke’s A Description of the East, and Some other Countries (Vol. 1 1743, Vol. 2 1745), which includes consideration of Cyprus.2 Nevertheless, some ‘travellers’ will have had postings to the east, such as Alexander Drummond, author of Travels through different cities of Germany, Italy, Greece, and several parts of Asia, as far as the banks of the Euphrates: in a series of letters. Containing, an account of what is most remarkable in their present state, as well as in their monuments of antiquity (1754), which recounts its author’s various visits to Cyprus between 1745 and 1750 before being appointed as the British consul in Aleppo in 1751, having been vice-consul in Alexandretta (Iskenderun) from 1747.3 There were also travellers who passed through Cyprus after journeying in the opposite direction from points further east,4 especially in the light of growing British presence in India, such as Bartholomew Plaisted, author of A Journal from Calcutta in Bengal, by Sea to Busserah etc. (1758), whose journey to Cyprus followed on a desert crossing from the east to Aleppo; compare the similar route taken by Samuel Evers, author of A Journal kept on a Journey from Bassora to Bagdad, through the Little-Desert, to Aleppo, Cyprus, Rhodes, Zante, Corfu, and Otrante, in the year 1779 by a Gentleman (1784). In terms of routes taken to Cyprus, we can note western waypoints such as Marseilles, where Plaisted refers to weekly voyages to Cyprus,5 or Rhodes as the point of approach taken by Alphonse de Lamartine in 1832;6 to the east, we find connections from Cyprus to Alexandretta (Iskenderun) or to Latakia or Beirut, though other destinations such as Sidon (Saida) are also mentioned. And travel to Egypt was also a possibility, as occurs with Pococke in 1738.7 We can also note that the formats of these works are not uniform: the  2 On Pococke’s career, see Finnegan 2019, 71–85; on his travels, see Finnegan 2019, 181–269; for his letters from the East, see Finnegan 2021. 3 On Drummond’s career, see van den Boogert 2007, Starkey 2018, 35–38; on his Travels, see della Dora 2019, 135–139. 4 For travel in Mesopotamia in the period, see Ooghe 2007. 5 Plaisted 1758, 218. 6 Lamartine, 1913–14, 1.121. For the context for Lamartine’s travels in the East in 1832–1833, see Fortescue 1983, 71–74. 7 Latakia: Perry 1743, 143, Plaisted 1758, 196, 218, Evers 1784, 112–114; Beirut: Lamartine 1913– 14, 1.129; Saide (Sidon): Bramsen 1818, 1.299; Alexandretta (Iskenderun): Plaisted 1758, 218;

Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire  

epistolary framing of travel that we find in the letters of Drummond can also be found for instance in the collection of letters that make up the two volumes of John Bramsen’s Letters of a Prussian Traveller (1818).

 Writing Cyprus In terms of conceptual geography, something which is very much bound up with the island’s classical past, we find Cyprus presented both as something ‘eastern’, but also as a place which has the familiarity of the classical about it.8 Thus Pococke’s two-volume work on his travels presents Cyprus in Volume 2 Part 1, alongside accounts of Palestine, Syria, Mesopotamia and Kandia (Crete); Volume 1 deals with Egypt, while Volume 2 Part 2 provides ‘Observations on the Islands of the Archipelago, Asia Minor, Thrace, Greece, and some other Parts of Europe’. Sometimes Cyprus finds itself associated with the islands of the Aegean, often referred to in this period as the ‘Archipelago’ (French L’Archipel);9 sometimes it is differentiated from the Greek islands to the west. Yet, in spite of the ‘eastern’ aspect of Cyprus, its classical past also points to the more familiar values of western civilization: thus Bramsen presents Cyprus as a waypoint which brought him back to the customary practice of agriculture, figured as something very much to be expected in the European world (Bramsen 1818, 1.312): It was here, for the first time since I quitted Europe, that I saw a plough drawn by oxen, and in the use of it the Grecian peasant appeared tolerably expert.  Tripoli: Pococke 1745, 209, Drummond 1754, 132; for Pococke’s departure from Cyprus for Egypt in December 1738, see Finnegan 2021, 288–289. 8 For Cyprus and Orientalism, see e.g. Serghidou 2001, 21; Philippou 2013, 2014; Nunziata 2020, 49–99. Aymes 2014, 93–134 is an important discussion of concepts of ‘European’ and ‘Levantine’ in the Ottoman period with a focus on patterns of landholdings of ‘Europeans’ in Cyprus. The dedicatory epistle to the Sultan of Turkey in Paridant-Van der Cammen 1874 refers to the island as one of the most suitable places ‘pour l’établissement des relations commerciales entre l’Orient et l’Occident’. For the continuing evocation of Cyprus in terms of Occident and Orient in academic contexts, note e.g. the 1994 conference held in Nicosia on ‘Chypre hier et aujourd'hui entre Orient et Occident’; see also Kearns 2018 on the liminality of Cyprus in ancient texts and its crossover into modern understandings of the island. 9 Dapper 1703, the translation into French of the Flemish original of Olfert Dapper (1636–1689) published in 1688, is the classic account of the Archipel, and very influential on later writers; compare, for instance, Chateaubriand 1828, 261: ‘On peut voir dans l’Archipel de Dapper toute l’histoire de Chypre…’.

  Bruce Gibson Here the association of civilization with the practice of agriculture is itself a classical trope that goes back to Homer, and indeed to a Homeric travelogue, Odysseus’ narration within Books 9–12 of the Odyssey, where his ethnography of the lawless Cyclopes highlights their separation from the conventions of human civilization in terms of their lack of agriculture, and specifically ploughing (Od. 9.108). An influential ancient treatment of Cyprus is that of the geographer Stra10 bo. In Book 14, Strabo offers an account of the island, combining aspects both of its history and its geography.11 Rather than cite the entire text in full, I offer a short summary of the contents of this passage (Strabo 14.6): Surrounding seas Dimensions and physical geography Circumnavigation of the island Fertility and produce of Cyprus Cyprus’ history from before the Ptolemies down to the onset of Roman rule

As can be seen, Strabo’s interest combines a focus on aspects of the physical geography of the island, such as its setting in the wider context of the surrounding seas and how one might circumnavigate the island, drawing on the periplus tradition,12 with content that is much more clearly, in our terms, human geography, as well as historical information on the island down to the author’s own time.13 This approach to Cyprus, which combines an interest in the physical nature of the island and its setting with a more extensive ethnographic and historical focus, is in effect paradigmatic for many responses to the island in travel writing during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.  10 On this passage from Strabo, see Kearns 2018, 55–58; see also Bekker-Nielsen 1999, 2014. See also the rather briefer account of the island in Plin. Nat. 5.129–130. 11 Pothecary 2017, 203 discusses the positioning of the account of Cyprus within the larger structures of Strabo’s treatment of Asia, noting how the opening of Book 15 reminds the reader that the first section on Asia has just been concluded, in a glance back to the distinction Strabo makes between parts of Asia lying on either side of the east-west course of the Taurus mountains (Strabo 11.1). 12 On the periplus tradition of linear geography, see e.g. Clarke 1999, 37–39 and 197–210, 2017, 48–49 (with a particular focus on Strabo), Rood 2011 (on Arrian). For mapping of Cyprus, see e.g. della Dora 2019. For a similar approach to the dimensions and circumference of Cyprus, see Drummond 1754, 133. 13 The combination of historical and geographical content should not be seen as surprising, notwithstanding the frequent tendency for modern academic institutions to create structural divisions between geography and history: see e.g. Withers 2009 and also Clarke 1999 on the place of geography in Hellenistic historiography.

Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire  

A good example of this kind of deployment of material can be found in Pococke’s A Description of the East, where Book 3 deals with Cyprus. Pococke arranges his material in six chapters, the first five of which are focused on particular locations in the island, before the sixth chapter moves away from physical place to wider reflection on the island and its character and inhabitants:14 Tab. 1: The Third Book. Of the island of Cyprus CHAP. I

Of Cyprus in general; of Limesol, Amathus, Larnica, and the antient Citium.

CHAP. II

Of Famagusta, and the antient Salamis.

CHAP. III

Of Carpasy, and some other places in the eastern part of Cyprus.

CHAP. IV

Of Nicosia, Gerines, Lapta, and Soli.

CHAP. V

Of Arsinoe, Paphos, and Curium.

CHAP. VI

Of the natural history, natives, custom, trade, and government of Cyprus.15

We see here the kind of arrangement of content we find in Strabo, whom Pococke cites in footnotes at the very beginning of Book 3 alongside Pliny the Elder,16 where material on various places in due course gives way to more general human geography, ethnography and history. Furthermore, Pococke’s opening brief summary of the political history of Cyprus, which he gives in Chapter 1, provides an account of the succession of different peoples ruling the island, very similar to Strabo’s method of enumerating the sequence of political change:

 14 For this arrangement of chapters, see the table of contents in Pococke 1745, ix; on Book 3’s coverage of Cyprus, see brief remarks in Finnegan 2019, 237–238, and see also Pococke’s letters from Cyprus to Jeremiah Milles in Finnegan 2021, 388–411. 15 The topics covered in this section include climate, soil (and rocks and minerals), rivers and waters, plants, animals and snakes, trade, the inhabitants and the government of the island. For the interest in the island’s fauna, compare e.g. the extensive discussion of the island’s tarantula in Drummond 1754, 158–161. Drummond is also one of a number of writers to show an interest in the presence of locusts on the island: see e.g. Drummond 1754, 143, 261, Bramsen 1818, 1.309–310, with the exhaustive study of Jennings 1988 on the depredations of locusts in Cyprus from the medieval period down to the twentieth century. 16 Pococke 1745, 210.

  Bruce Gibson Strabo 14.6.6 Now in the earlier times the several cities of the Cyprians were under the rule of tyrants, but from the time the Ptolemaic kings became established as lords of Egypt Cyprus too came into their power, the Romans often co-operating with them. But when the last Ptolemy that reigned, the brother of the father of Cleopatra, the queen in my time, was decreed to be both disagreeable and ungrateful to his benefactors, he was deposed, and the Romans took possession of the island; and it has become a praetorian province by itself. The chief cause of the ruin of the king was Publius Claudius Pulcher; for the latter, having fallen into the hands of the bands of pirates, the Cilicians then being at the height of their power, and, being asked for a ransom, sent a message to the king, begging him to send and rescue him. The king indeed sent a ransom, but so utterly small that the pirates disdained to take it and sent it back again, but released him without ransom. Having safely escaped, he remembered the favour of both; and, when he became tribune of the people, he was so powerful that he had Marcus Cato sent to take Cyprus away from its possessor. Now the king killed himself beforehand, but Cato went over and took Cyprus and disposed of the king's property and carried the money to the Roman treasury. From that time the island became a province, just as it is now — a praetorian province. During a short intervening time Antony gave it over to Cleopatra and her sister Arsinoê, but when he was overthrown his whole organization was overthrown with him.17

Pococke 1745, 210–211 Cyprus was antiently divided into many small kingdoms,18 and was conquered successively by the Ægyptians, Phoenicians, Cyrus king of Persia, and Alexander the great; it fell to the lot of the successors the kings of Ægypt, afterwards was subdued by the Romans, became subject to the Greek emperors, and, whilst it was under them, was laid waste by the Arabs. In one thousand one hundred ninety one, Richard the first king of England, conquered it, and gave it to Guy Lusignan king of Jerusalem; and his family continued to govern it until the year fourteen hundred twenty three, when it was taken by a sultan of Ægypt, who permitted their own king to reign over them, on his paying him a certain tribute. In one thousand four hundred seventy three, one of the kings left this island to the republick of Venice, who enjoyed it, paying the tribute to Ægypt, until it was taken from them in one thousand five hundred and seventy under sultan Selim, and it has ever since remained in subjection to the Ottoman port [Porte].

The vicissitudes of the post-classical history of Cyprus, and its ancient associations with poetry and cult contribute strongly to eighteenth- and nineteenthcentury responses to the island. Gibbon’s brief reference to the visit of the Eng-

 17 Translation cited (with very minor changes) from Jones 1929, 382–385. 18 Cf. Pococke’s letter to Jeremiah Milles of 11/22 November 1738, which begins with the nine kingdoms of Cyprus: Finnegan 2021, 389.

Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire  

lish king Richard I, and the bestowal of the kingdom on Guy de Lusignan, is a good example of this kind of approach to Cyprus: The Island of Cyprus, whose name excites the ideas of elegance and pleasure, was usurped by his namesake, a Comnenian prince; and by a strange concatenation of events, the sword of our English Richard bestowed that kingdom on the house of Lusignan, a rich compensation for the loss of Jerusalem. (Gibbon, ch. 60)19

The ‘strange concatenation of events’ that Gibbon refers to in this passage is a way of eliding the intermediate stage between Richard I’s defeat of Isaac Comnenus and the granting of the realm of Cyprus to Guy de Lusignan, the former King of Jerusalem, when Richard sold the island to the Templars: following a revolt, the island was returned to him and he then bestowed it on de Lusignan.20 And whereas Gibbon refers to the ‘strange concatenation of events’, Pococke’s account is even more abbreviated, with no hint at the intermediate stage of Templar control of the island.

 Histories of Cyprus In one sense the linear narrative of Cyprus’ history offered by Pococke presents a chain of events following on from classical antiquity to the current state of the island under Ottoman rule. This is similar to Strabo’s approach of recording political change down to the era of Antony (and therefore Augustus). With the post-classical past of Cyprus, however, we find approaches that emphasize a sense of loss and ending occasioned by the Ottoman acquisition of power in the island with the fall of Famagusta in 1571. Cyprus is associated with the classical past of myth, history and poetry, but is also a place which is now sundered from the evocative glories of its antiquities. The French poet Alphonse de Lamartine (1913–14, 1.122) encapsulates this sense of a divide from the past in his description of his brief stay of two days on the island in 1832: Deux jours passés à Chypre; charme du repos après une longue navigation; — soins de l’hospitalité la plus inattendue et la plus aimable; voilà l’état de mon esprit à Chypre; mais c’est tout. Ce pays, qu’on m’avait vanté comme une oasis des îles de la Méditerranée, ressemble entièrement à toutes les îles pelées, ternes, nues de l’Archipel; — c’est la carcasse d’une de ces îles enchantées où l’antiquité avait placé la scène de ses cultes les plus poé-

 19 Gibbon 2013, 6.375. 20 On these events, see e.g. Coureas 2013, 198–199.

  Bruce Gibson tiques. Il est vrai que, pressé d’arriver en Asie, je n’ai visité que de l’œil les scènes éloignées et pittoresques dont cette île est, dit-on, remplie; à mon retour, je dois y faire un séjour d’un mois, et parcourir en détail les montagnes de Chypre.

Although the hospitality of Cyprus found favour with Lamartine, the prevailing image is instead of disappointment and imagery of decline, even of death, as Cyprus is compared to the lacklustre islands of the Archipelago, the Ottoman Aegean, and said to be ‘the carcass of one of those enchanted islands where antiquity had set the scene for its most poetic cults’.21 The landscape, it is true, is something where Lamartine concedes that there may be qualities that he did not have time for, as he was only able to cast a glance at its beauty: ‘je n’ai visité que de l’œil les scènes éloignées et pittoresques dont cette île est, dit-on, remplie’, where one can note the distancing effect of ‘dit-on’, ‘it is said’,22 implying that even that hasty glance over the landscape of Cyprus was perhaps no more than a glance at texts about the island,23 rather than the landscape itself.24

 21 For the poetics of disappointment in Chateaubriand’s encounter with the Greek past and present in his Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem, see Amelinckx 1977; cf. Costadura 2017, 394–395. For disappointment as a feature of travel writing linked to the onset of organized tourism, see e.g. Singer 2022. For disillusion and imagery of death and decay in western responses to Greek landscapes, see also Matalas 2021. 22 For a similarly distanced usage of ‘dit-on’, compare the account of the interior landscape of Cyprus in Nerval 1867, 430, who was not permitted to land at Larnaca on his way to Constantinople: ‘Les côtes sont arides comme dans tout l’archipel; c'est, dit-on, dans l’intérieur de cette île que l'on retrouve seulement les vastes prairies, les bois touffus et les forêts ombreuses consacrées jadis à la déesse de Paphos. Les ruines du temple existent encore, et le village qui les entoure est la résidence d’un évêque’. 23 For a remarkably transparent example of one traveller drawing directly on a predecessor, see the extensive section of Plaisted 1758, 124–139 openly drawn from Drummond’s account (124): ‘But perhaps the Reader will not be displeased if I give him a more accurate Account of this Island from Mr. Drummond, who made the Tour of it about a Dozen Years ago’. For the wider phenomenon of the intertextuality of travel and ‘second journeys’, see Lindgren Leavenworth 2020. 24 For this kind of contrast between the contemporary geography of Cyprus and the imagined landscape of earlier periods, compare e.g. Dapper 1703, 26 (on Mount Olympus): ‘Toute la montagne étant par ce moien cultivée à la reserve de quelques endroits ombragez de bocages, & arrosée de plusieurs belles sources qui en couloient, c’étoit sans contredit le plus-agréable & le plus-charmant séjour de toute l’île; ce qui invitoit les habitants à y venir passer l’été, pour y prendre les divertissements de la campagne. Mais depuis que les Turcs s’en font rendus les maîtres, ils en ont fait un désert, en aiant chassé les Moines & démoli tous les cloîtres, à la reserve d’un apellé Ste. Anne; de sorte que la plus-grande partie en est à présent inculte’; Drummond 1754, 255: ‘But I find it impossible to reconcile the ancient geography with what I saw, and what I may reasonably suppose from appearances and the traditions of the country.

Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire  

And this is not just the great disappointment of the French romantic poet: we can also find this response to Cyprus in a quite different text, with Charles Perry’s narrative of his travels in Europe and the East during 1739–1742 offering only a few lines on his visit to Cyprus, in spite of its past glories:25 This Island, though much famed in ancient History, affords at present no great Curiosity or Entertainment. Therefore we contented ourselves to take Things upon the Report of its Inhabitants, only visiting Famagusta, its principal Fortress; and Nicosia, its capital City. But as a particular Detail of these Places, and the Other Places and Things we were informed of by the Report of People, would at best be a dry, unentertaining Subject; so we pass them over in Silence, and hasten to our Account of Egypt; which will be the chief Subject of the ensuing Part.

For Perry, Cyprus is no more than an unexciting interlude before travel in Egypt, with every location save Nicosia and Famagusta being taken ‘upon the Report of its Inhabitants’, so that even for the traveller who has reached Cyprus its antiquities can be taken literally or metaphorically as read. A different take on the transition from antiquity to what followed in Cyprus’ history is however offered by Chateaubriand:26 Il vaut mieux, pour l’île de Chypre, s’en tenir à la poésie qu’à l’histoire, à moins qu’on ne prenne plaisir à se rappeler une des plus criantes injustices des Romains et une expédition honteuse de Caton. Mais c’est une singulière chose à se représenter que les temples d’Amathonte et d’Idalie convertis en donjons dans le moyen âge. Un gentilhomme français était roi de Paphos, et des barons couverts de leurs hoquetons étaient cantonnés dans les sanctuaires de Cupidon et des Grâces.  Piscopi is a beautiful large village, resembling those of Great Britain; the adjacent grounds are watered by an aquæduct from the river …’. Note how the beauty of the village of Piscopi has to be envisaged in terms of the beauty of a British village. Cf. Sir Garnet Wolseley’s journal entry of 23 July 1878 (Cavendish 1991, 10), commenting on Cyprus that ‘Once this land was covered with crops of wheat, barley, tobacco etc. etc. It was a great garden but now year by year less land is cultivated and commerce dwindles away’. Likewise on 30 July 1878, Wolseley comments that ‘Where are the forests we thought Cyprus was covered with? This is in everyone’s mouth, yet no one can give a very satisfactory answer. Like everything else made in this country, a splendid one in ancient times, the forests have disappeared under the influence, the blighting influence, of the Turk. We saw, here and there, a few mulberry trees, but even the silk worm has ceased to be propagated in any large number of late years through the oppression of the tax-payer’. There are also, however, more idealized responses to the landscape of Cyprus, recalling the classical past: see Serghidou 2001, 27–30. 25 Perry 1743, 143. On Charles Perry, see further Hachicho 1964, 38–39, Finnegan 2019, 65–70, 143–180. 26 Chateaubriand 1828, 261. On Chateaubriand’s Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem, first published in 1811, see e.g. Amelinckx 1977, Costadura 2017.

  Bruce Gibson The recommendation here from Chateaubriand, who simply sailed past the island on his way to Syria in September 1806, is that one must concentrate on the island in terms of its poetry. The evocation of the discreditable episode of Cato’s acquisition of the island for Rome in 58 BCE 27 is perhaps a classical parallel for the Ottoman capture of the island culminating in the fall of Famagusta in 1571. But in fact Chateaubriand’s perspective is as much concerned with Cyprus’ history as it is with references to classical poetry, hence the image of Amathus and Idalium being turned into medieval keeps and barons wearing vestments in the land of Cupid and the Graces. In this sense there is a kind of strange continuity, with even the Latin presence in the island after the establishment of the Lusignan monarchy providing a link to the earlier classical past. In some of these texts about Cyprus one might talk of a kind of long antiquity, with the Byzantine past, rarely discussed as it is, and the period of Frankish rule that followed under the Lusignans seen as interconnected pasts, with the emblematic moment of rupture being represented by the fall of Famagusta in 1571. We have already commented on how Pococke’s account of the succession of rule in Cyprus is continued on the Strabonian model to include the Byzantines and the rule of the Lusignans, before the presence of the Venetians finally gave way to the Turks. This sense of continuity from antiquity into later periods is also borne out in the approaches to the post-classical past through an interest in inscriptions, even though they were sometimes damaged or otherwise difficult to read. From ancient literature, we can compare for instance examples such as Polybius 3.22 on his autopsy of the very early inscriptions in Rome attesting Rome’s first treaty with Carthage, or Pausanias 5.17.6 noting the difficulty of reading the writing inscribed on the Chest of Cypselus at Olympia.28 Drummond, for instance, attempts to record an inscription in Old French, even though he acknowledges that he is unable to understand it (Fig. 1):

 27 For Cato and Cyprus, cf. Drummond 1754, 133–134. 28 On Polybius’ treatment of the treaties with Carthage, see now Wiater 2018, esp. 151–162. On the use of inscriptions in Pausanias, see e.g. Zizza 2006, esp. 170–215 on the chest of Cypselus, Tzifopoulos 2013 with further bibliography.

Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire  

Fig. 1: Drummond 1754, 272.

One might similarly compare the Latin inscription at Sancta Nappa recorded and depicted by Drummond (1754, 275–276), to which appeal is made as evidence for the presence of a ‘Roman convent’. Drummond is not the only writer to record inscriptions: compare, for example, the ‘Inscriptiones Citienses’ from Citium recorded by Pococke (1745, 212 and Plate XXXIII), who believed that they were written in Phoenician; though only one of these inscriptions survives, they would play a key role in Barthélemy’s decipherment of Phoenician and in the study of Semitic epigraphy.29 Alexander Drummond (1754, 133–135), like Pococke, follows Strabo’s model in giving a list of the island’s rulers down to the Turks. For Drummond, the fall of Famagusta in 1571, the last place to hold out against the Turks, is seen as a kind of watershed, even though the Venetian presence already attested criminality and failure of leadership (Drummond 1754, 134). Drummond concentrates extensively on the fall of the city, though it was ‘gloriously defended by Bragandino and Baglione’ (Drummond 1754, 135), before giving a detailed account of the torture and death of Bragandino.30 Drummond moves to reflect on the general condition of Cyprus at the time of his own visit: for Drummond, there is no significant political history in Cyprus between the fall of Famagusta in 1571 and his own time. Instead, his visit allows him to reflect on the debilitating effects of Ottoman rule in general terms (Drummond 1754, 136):

 29 See Swinton 1750 and Barthélemy 1764, 421–427 for engagement with Pococke’s Citium inscriptions. Cf. Pococke’s recording of the inscriptions in Greek and Latin on the colossus of Memnon at Thebes (1743, 101–102, with Plates XXXVIII and XXXIX), and see further Rosenmeyer 2018, 1–3. For a recent discussion of the Phoenician language in Cyprus, see Steele 2013, 173–234. 30 On the fall of Famagusta, and the flaying of Marcantonio Bragadin, see now DeVries 2017. The siege of Famagusta has continued to be a powerful point of reference: see e.g. Semola 1996 on the unpublished Bragandino of the Veronese poet Aleardo Aleardi, Cangiano 2015 on novels dealing with the siege by Emilio Salgari (1905) and by the Wu Ming collective (2009).

  Bruce Gibson At present, the country of Cyprus is in the same situation with all other places subject to the sway of the grand signior: all industry is discouraged; and, generally speaking, no more ground is cultivated than what yields an easy subsistence to the farmer; for every person who is known to have saved money, may lay his account with being stripped by those in power: for this reason, abundance of wealth is hoarded up through the whole Ottoman empire; though these concealments are chiefly owing to the constitution of their police, in consequence of which the sultan is heir to all his subjects, whatever number of children they may leave. True it is, this disposition seldom extends to the poor; but all those who have been employed, or die in offices of state, feel the weight of it. Their effects are immediately seized, and their children obliged to the sovereign’s bounty for what they are allowed to retain.31

Elsewhere, Drummond highlights the contrast between Turkish rule in the east and the achievements of the societies who had gone before them (Drummond 1754, 140): It is equally astonishing and lamentable to see the ignorance that prevails in those countries, where arts and sciences once flourished to such perfection; and from whence the seeds of learning were scattered through the European world. I believe, I may venture to affirm, that there is not one ingenious artist, or one person who can be deemed a man of learning, in the whole Ottoman empire.

Similarly, Drummond’s reflections on the ruined state of the fortifications of Nicosia allows him to offer a more general observation on the effects of Turkish rule (Drummond 1754, 172–173): The city [Nicosia] was well fortified by the Venetians, according to the manner of those times; but all is gone to ruin through the supine negligence and blind security of the Turks.

Thirty years later, the publication of Samuel Evers’s narrative of his travels from India back to the Near East included his visit to Cyprus. Evers, too, highlights the fall of Famagusta as heralding a moment of catastrophe whose effects ex 31 For Drummond’s comments in this passage on the economic consequences of Turkish rule, cf. his observations on bribery, taxation and corruption: Drummond 1754, 147–149. This types of criticism of Turkish rule appears over a century later at the inception of the British protectorate: in the House of Lords on 23 July 1878, the Earl of Camperdown would comment that the ‘[Turkish] administration of that island had been distinguished for corruption, rapacity, and, he might say, almost all the faults of which an Administration was capable’ (Hansard, 243, col. 18); cf. Sir Garnet Wolseley’s journal entry of 23 July 1878, on his first visit to Famagusta (Cavendish 1991, 10): ‘There is an air of decay about the place that tells one that it is an apanage of Turkey’s Sultan. Wherever one goes here is the same: the face of the island is stamped with the relics of a past prosperity that has been destroyed by the Moslems’.

Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire  

tended into his own time; once again, we find a traveller commenting on the state of a city’s fortifications under Ottoman rule (Evers 1784, 115):32 About sun-set we anchored off the town of Famagusta, formerly the capital of this island, when the Venetians had the possession of it, at which period it was a most beautiful flourishing city, and remarkable for its stately cathedral church, which at present is made use of as a Turkish mosque. The fortifications were certainly very strong and extensive, and maintained a siege of six months before the town surrendered to the Turks, who although it capitulated with the honours of war, cruelly caused the governor to be flead alive, and put the rest of the inhabitants to the sword. This beautiful place, once so much admired, is now entirely neglected; its stately edifices are all in ruins, and inhabited by Greeks.

The closing sentence from this quotation from Evers draws attention to a western hostility not just to the Turkish presence in the island, but to a disdain for the Greek inhabitants as well. Thus Drummond (1754, 140), commenting on Larnica (Larnaca) notes that ‘Here the Greeks have three mean churches, as, generally, all their places of worship are’;33 the same writer also perhaps gives away his approach to travel when he remarks that much of the island does not even merit being visited (Drummond 1754, 139–140): As this is all I have to say about Famagusta, you will readily own it was not worth the fatigue I underwent in going to see it; and, as I am well informed there is not the least vestige of antiquity in the island, in all probability I shall not make many excursions though I would willingly see Paphos, on account of the character it bore in former times.

The view of Cyprus as dislocated from the glories of its ancient past is responsible not just for the disappointment,34 whether tempered with nostalgia or not,

 32 For an overview of Famagusta in the Ottoman period, see now Uluca Tümer 2019. Note that a traveller’s interest in fortifications could be seen as evidence of a desire to spy: see Drummond 1754, 280 for hostile reactions from the local population to his making notes and sketches and looking at his compass, leading to an erroneous belief that Drummond’s party were Venetian spies. 33 Cf. Gaudry 1861, 217: ‘Les Grecs sont moins honnêtes que les Turcs, mais plus intelligens et plus hospitaliers pour les chrétiens’. For negative views of post-classical Greece and Greeks more broadly, compare Gibbon’s famous assessment (ch. 48) of the Byzantine empire (Gibbon 2013, 5.170): ‘But the subjects of the Byzantine empire, who assume and dishonour the names both of Greeks and Romans, present a dead uniformity of abject vices, which are neither softened by the weakness of humanity, nor animated by the vigour of memorable crimes’. 34 Compare also Drummond 1754, 250: ‘as one can scarce believe, that a country, once so abounding, should now be so barren of antiquities’; Gaudry 1861, 212: ‘De nos jours, elle

  Bruce Gibson that we find in some of these accounts of the island, but also for something else, the sense that Cyprus might have something to offer as a territorial acquisition. It might seem that the British takeover of the island in 1878 comes out of the blue, but there are in fact striking threads of western imperial desire apparent as early as the eighteenth century in relation to the island.

 Desiring Cyprus In the opening paragraph of his 1861 report of a geological expedition to Cyprus in 1853, the French geologist Albert Gaudry comments surprisingly not on the lustrous qualities of the island’s minerals, but on Cyprus’ association with love and pleasure:35 Elle [Chypre] passa longtemps pour une des contrées les plus riches de l'ancien monde; ce fut la terre des amours, le rendez-vous des voluptés.

The second part of this sentence might easily seem more at home in the evocations of ‘Luxe, calme et volupté’ that one might find in nineteenth-century poetry such as Charles Baudelaire’s Les fleurs du mal, whose first edition was published in 1857. And indeed there is a longstanding tradition of travellers’ interest in Aphrodite and Venus and reacting to the women of Cyprus either with desire or with censure, or both.36 The juxtaposition of sensuality and mineral wealth that we see in Gaudry even finds a precedent from the mid-eighteenth century in Plaisted’s comments on the women of Cyprus, who are compared to alabaster in contrast with the women of Bengal who are compared to porphyry (Plaisted 1758, 139): There is as much Difference in the Complexion of the Ladies, and those of Bengal, who were lately conversant with us, as between Alabaster and Porphyry, which you will say  [Chypre] languit, humiliée sous le despotisme musulman: Paphos, Amathonte, Idalie, ne vivent plus que dans les souvenirs’. 35 Gaudry 1861, 212; on Gaudry, see further Bonato 2013, 249. 36 See e.g. Pococke 1745, 232: ‘The women are little superior to their ancestors with regard to their virtues; and as they go unveiled, so they expose themselves in a manner that in these parts is looked on as very indecent’; Drummond 1754, 143–144, e.g. ‘The Greek women are, by some, thought beautiful, though they do not please my taste: but all agree that they inherit the libertinism of their ancestors’ (143), Bramsen 1818, 1.304–305. See also e.g. Serghidou 2001, 24–31 on Aphrodite as a feature of nineteenth century responses to Cyprus; Karayanni 2014; Nunziata 2020, 49–99.

Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire  

was a great Temptation for one in my Situation —, especially as I could not help revolving in my Mind the various Scenes of Pleasure which the Historians tell us were acted in this Island.

In this passage, it is precisely classical texts about Cyprus and its associations with Aphrodite which inspire the writer’s desire (‘I could not help revolving in my Mind the various Scenes of Pleasure which the Historians tell us were acted in this Island’). Against this background, it is less surprising that travel writers should also have mused on the desirability of Cyprus as a possible overseas possession. Plaisted’s contemporary Drummond reflects on the island as follows (1754, 133): … and, though there is not (properly speaking) a river in the whole island, I am fully persuaded, that, if it were in the hands of the English or Dutch, they would make such advantageous use of the springs, rivulets, and winter rains, that it would, in a little time, become the garden of the east, and exhibit beautiful plantations for the shelter of the cattle and ground.

The island which Drummond sees as not meriting any effort in planning excursions assumes quite a different character when seen through a more imperial lens, a lens which also has the potential to render the island more beautiful. Drummond’s strictures against the harmful economic effects of Turkish rule that we have already noted assume a less altruistic guise here, when Drummond reflects on how Cyprus might overcome even its lack of rivers if transformed as a result of becoming a possession ‘in the hands of the English or Dutch’.37 Beauty is also to the fore in Lamartine’s comments on the potential value of Cyprus as a colony in his Voyage en Orient (1913–14, 1.123): L’île est fertile dans toutes ses parties: oranges, olives, raisins, figues, vignes, cotons, tout y réussit, même la canne à sucre. Cette terre de promission, ce beau royaume pour un chevalier des croisades ou pour un compagnon de Bonaparte, nourrissait autrefois jusqu’à deux millions d’hommes; il n’y reste que trente mille habitants grecs et quelques Turcs. Rien ne serait plus aisé que de s’emparer de cette souveraineté; un aventurier y réussirait sans peine avec une poignée de soldats et quelques millions de piastres; cela en vaudrait la peine, s’il y avait chance de la conserver. Mais l’Europe, qui a tant besoin de colonies, s’oppose à ce qu’on lui en fasse; la jalousie des puissances viendrait au secours des Turcs, sèmerait la discorde dans la nouvelle conquête, et le conquérant aurait le sort du roi Théodore. — Quel dommage ! c’est un beau rêve; et huit jours le changeraient en réalité.

 37 On Cyprus and its place in western imperial space, see further Varnava 2009, 45–64.

  Bruce Gibson Here the poetic description of Cyprus’ fertility and of the plants which can grow in its soil, even sugar-cane, goes alongside a sense of the potential of what Cyprus might be like as a colony in European hands. The Frankish presence of the Lusignans here is combined with a reference to a more recent presence in the eastern Mediterranean, Napoleon’s campaigns in Egypt. There is also a sense that the island could support a much larger population than the ‘thirty thousand Greeks and some Turks’ that are dismissively mentioned here. The panache of European conquest is also evoked by the observation that the island could be taken by an adventurer in but a few days, if only the powers of Europe would set aside their jealousies.38 European conquest is here given a romantic framing as a ‘beautiful dream’, which could be turned into reality in eight days. The traveller’s gaze here is now not just excited or disappointed by the physical and human condition of the island; this is a gaze of covetousness, of colonial desire. The wider context for Lamartine’s remarks on this romantic vision of how Cyprus might be transformed if it were to become a colony is of course Lamartine’s own activity as a politician. In his speech of 8 January 1834 to the Chamber of Deputies, Lamartine famously lamented the ruinous state of the Ottoman empire,39 and indeed would comment on Cyprus in terms very similar to those that we have seen used in the Voyage en Orient, emphasizing here too the depopulated and lamentable condition of the island: 40  38 The enigmatic reference to king Theodore is in fact to Theodor von Neuhoff, a German adventurer who briefly seized power in Corsica and declared himself king in 1736 before being driven from power to debt and eventual death in London: for a biography, see Gasper 2012. For the idea that Cyprus could be taken militarily from the Turks without any great trouble, cf. Cotovicus [Johann van Kootwyck] 1619, 1.16 (p. 107), who also notes that the envy and discord of Christian powers would hinder any move against the Turks, with Tzounakas 2022; see also Bonato 2019, 234–235 with n. 35 on the 1867 consular correspondence of the French consul Tiburce Colonna Ceccaldi. 39 See e.g. Lamartine 1840, 26: ‘Au milieu de cette ruine, de cette désolation qu'ils ont faite et qu'ils refont sans cesse, quelques milliers de Turcs par provinces, tous concentrés dans les villes, assoupis, découragés, ne travaillant jamais, vivant misérablement de spoliations légales sur le travail des races chrétiennes et laborieuses, voilà les habitants, voilà les maîtres de cet empire. Et cet empire, Messieurs, vaut à lui seul l'Europe entière; son ciel est plus beau, sa terre plus fertile, ses ports plus vastes et plus sûrs, ses productions plus précieuses et plus variées; il contient 60,000 lieues carrées’. 40 Lamartine 1840, 27. For the motif of depopulation (itself a moralizing trope of decline with classical precedents such as Plb. 36.17.5–11, Luc. 1.24–32 and a later afterlife in texts such as Montesquieu’s Lettres persanes, on which topic see Young 1975) as a means of criticizing Turkish rule in Cyprus, compare e.g. Cotovicus 1619, 1.16 (p. 106), Dapper 1703, 27–28, Gaudry 1861, 212: ‘une île aujourd’hui presque déserte, autrefois fameuse’, 215: ‘Chypre, qui a renfermé, dit-

Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire  

Chypre est encore aux Turcs, mais cette possession de 80 lieues de long sur 20 et 25 de large, toute cultivable, toute fertile en productions des tropiques, ne nourrit plus qu'une population de 25 à 30,000 Grecs cypriotes gouvernés par quelques centaines de Turcs; des soulèvements y éclatent fréquemment, et rien ne l’empêche de proclamer son indépendance que le manque de garantie pour la conserver.

For Lamartine, the solution to the Ottoman decline is one of a general protectorate being instituted by the European powers, rather than conquest by force of arms.41 Later in the century, a text by a Belgian, Edmond Paridant-Van der Cammen, promotes a similar message with regard to what should be done with Cyprus in his Étude sur l’île de Chypre considérée au point de vue d’une colonisation européenne (1874). The dedication of the book to the Sultan of Turkey points to this text being designed to persuade the Turks to allow Europeans to exercise all kinds of economic influence within the island but with the Turks being permitted to retain their sovereignty. In effect we are dealing with a kind of informal imperialism here. Strikingly, the book is divided into three sections: one dealing with the history of the island going back to antiquity, an account of the island’s geology and minerals,42 and a final section on the agriculture, industry, trade and government of Cyprus. We are not so very far here from the way in which material is arranged in the descriptions of Cyprus that we find in Strabo or, for  on, près de trois millions d’habitants, n’en possède pas deux cent mille aujourd’hui’, or the Earl of Camperdown in the House of Lords on 23 July 1878, commenting as follows (Hansard, 243, col. 18): ‘He believed at one time the population amounted to 1,000,000 souls; but under the benefits of Turkish rule, they had dwindled away to 150,000 or 250,000 persons—he was not sure which’. 41 Lamartine 1840, 31–35. A feature of this passage is Lamartine’s evocation of the Roman empire as a basis on which to imagine future European influence in the east: cf. e.g. Lamartine 1840, 31: ‘L’Europe fera ce qui fut fait jadis! ce qu’avait réalisé dans un autre esprit de conquête cet empire romain qu’elle remplace aujourd'hui. Elle refera l’orbis romanus, ce monde romain dont elle retrouve les traces dans toutes les ruines de ces cités romaines qui s’élevèrent autrefois sur tous les rivages de l’Asie mineure. Elle réformera ce monde ancien, cette domination universelle, non plus par la force des armes et par une ambition de gloire stérile, mais par la seule et naturelle prédominance de ses lumières et par un esprit de générosité et de philantropie’. Compare Lamartine’s advocacy of similar more indirect methods for French rule as opposed to military conquest in his speech ‘Sur la colonisation d’Alger’ of 11 June 1836, again evoking the orbis romanus: Lamartine 1864, 284. For the wider intellectual context for French advocates of more informal means of imperialism in the nineteenth century, see e.g. Todd 2015. 42 Paridant-Van der Cammen 1874, 23–24 gives a list of authorities for the mineral wealth of Cyprus going from antiquity up to 1844; cf. Gaudry 1861. For mining as a metaphor for the acquisition of knowledge and its acquisition, and its link to exploration and empire, see Harrison 2013, 225–226.

  Bruce Gibson that matter, in Pococke. Cataloguing the island’s features as a traveller turns out to be rather similar to the process of enumerating the assets which might exist within a potential colonial possession.43

 Epilogue: Sir Garnet Wolseley and Cyprus, 1878 By way of conclusion, the final traveller which this chapter will refer to is not an advocate for empire, but one of its direct agents. Sir Garnet Wolseley, noted Victorian military man,44 was the first High Commissioner and GovernorGeneral of Cyprus after the ‘Cyprus Convention’ of 4 June 1878 and the British occupation of the island that followed, with the first troops arriving in July of the same year.45 Wolseley’s journal records his experiences when placed in command of the island.46 A brief excerpt from November 1878 refers to his visit to the ruined city of Famagusta and the wider geopolitical context:47 [Saturday, 2nd November] 
However every excuse must be made for them as they [the minsters] are most anxious about the present crisis and anxious to get back to their colleagues as quickly as possible, having seen Cyprus, and so enabled to speak authorititively48 [sic] about it in the House. They are also very keen about Famagusta as a coaling station since they have heard it is really capable of being converted into a good harbour: They have also some little game in Egypt, perhaps to exchange Cyprus for Port Said, giving Cyprus to France to quiet the susceptibilities of that thin skinned nation …

 43 Cf. Harrison 2019 on the relationship between ancient Greek ethnography and the institution of slavery. 44 Kochanski 1991 is a major biography of Wolseley. 45 On the initial British military presence in 1878, see Harfield 1978, 160–162; for the wider context of the Cyprus convention and the imposition of the British protectorate, see e.g. Varnava 2005, 2009, 65–92, 2019, 167–178 (on Famagusta in the period prior to World War I), Hook 2015, with Edbury 2001 on changing British perceptions of Cyprus over the course of the nineteenth century; on Wolseley’s tenure as High Commissioner, see also Kochanski 1991, 91–95. See also Philippou 2013, Papaioannou 2014, Karayanni 2014, 126–128 on the photographs of John Thomson, published with a dedication to Sir Garnet Wolseley as Through Cyprus with the Camera in the Autumn of 1878 in 2 vols. (London 1879); for an overview of Thomson’s life and work, see White 1985. 46 See Preston 1967, Cavendish 1991. For Wolseley’s hatred of foreigners, see e.g. Cavendish 1991, 49 (the journal entry for 16 August 1878). 47 Cavendish 1991, 120–124; cf. Preston 1967, 13–14. Compare also Cavendish 1991, 10 on Wolseley’s first visit to Famagusta on 23 July 1878, and see n. 31 above. 48 This orthography is that attested by Preston 1967, 13.

Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire  

[Sunday, 3rd November]
 Started in the Himalaya at daybreak for Famagusta reaching it in about four hours. Captain Millard R.N. who has been for some time surveying the harbour came on board & took us in inside the reef which protects the outer anchorage. We were the first large ship I presume that ever anchored there. We drew twenty one feet and we had only about three or four feet of water under the keel. We found Hornby in the Helicon at anchor there when we arrived. The whole party went ashore & round the city of ruins inspecting its old churches in the remains of which there are still some very good frescoes to be seen. We steamed away in the evening just as it grew dark for Kyrenia, having considerable difficulty in turning round owing to the great length of our ship which was so near the bottom that she would not steer well. Inglis & his servants look washed out with fever, a fact that everyone remarked. The place is, without doubt most unhealthy, and even when the harbor is dredged out, and the marsh drained, if the latter be possible, I don’t think it will ever be a healthy locality: this is a serious matter to be considered before any large sums are expended on the place. It certainly would make a good coaling station for a fleet watching the Northern end of the Suez Canal. [Monday, 4th November]
 In the afternoon we had a conference: Stanley, Smith, Hornby & self about Famagusta: it was pronounced by Hornby to be well suited as a coaling station for a fleet watching Port Said or Alexandria.

This account of a weekend in November 1878 encapsulates well the crossover between travel and imperial power. The dangers that fever and climate were felt to pose to western travellers is something which we find in the tradition of travel to the island, for instance in the writings of Evers and Bramsen.49 But Wolseley’s reference to the unhealthy environment offered by Famagusta has a more contemporary resonance as well, since his comments on the insalubrious nature of Famagusta should be seen in the light of the crisis over ill health amongst British troops deployed in the island that had unfolded since August 1878. As Andrekos Varnava has shown, this became an area of public concern in Britain, reflected for instance in the long article of Archibald Forbes on ‘The Fiasco of Cyprus’ published in the monthly issue of The Nineteenth Century in October 1878.50

 49 Evers 1784, 117–119, Bramsen 1818, 1.304, noting that ‘Larnaca, or Larnec, is the most healthy port of the island. Baffa [Paphos], Famagusta, and Nicosia, are highly dangerous to the European, who is very likely to find his grave there if he visits during the sickly season, which is from June to October’. 50 Varnava 2005, 176–178; Forbes 1878. See also Edbury 2001, 17–18 on debates in the House of Lords in July 1878 and concern about whether the Government was in fact possessed of adequate knowledge of conditions in Cyprus.

  Bruce Gibson The account of Wolseley and his party’s visit to Famagusta on the Sunday (3 November 1878) can of course be seen as participating in the tradition of travellers’ visits to Famagusta itself; the exploration of the ruins and the inspection of old frescoes can be aligned with what was now a long-standing history of interest in the island’s various antiquities.51 There is, however, an imperial context here, since the weekend’s sightseeing on the Sunday is set alongside the surveying of the city’s harbour by an officer of the Royal Navy.52 Indeed, the visit to the ruins of the city is framed in Wolseley’s journal by much higher political concerns around the desirability of making Famagusta a coal station, especially in view of its strategic value in relation to Egypt. There is even the suggestion here that the whole of Cyprus itself might be something that could be transferred over to France as part of ‘some little game in Egypt’, perhaps in exchange for control of Port Said. This detail is a telling pointer to the ephemeral nature of the traveller’s gaze; there is always some other project or prospect that lies ahead, and indeed Sir Garnet Wolseley would be sent from Cyprus to South Africa in response to the outbreak of the Zulu War in 1879. Wolseley may seem somewhat removed both from earlier travellers to Cyprus from earlier in the eighteenth and nineteenth century, yet even his visit participates in the complex traditions of western interest in Cyprus and its antiquities during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, where travel and antiquarianism easily crossed over into a distinctly imperial focus on the island’s present and future possibilities.

 51 For nineteenth- and early twentieth-century responses to the Gothic ruins of Famagusta, see Bonato 2015. 52 For early British military studies of the harbour in the period immediately after the Cyprus Convention, see Tozan 2019, 239 and n. 2. A parliamentary question on 17 February 1879 (Hansard, 243, col. 1306) requested information on the surveying of the ‘roads and harbour of Famagusta’. After he had succeeded Disraeli as Prime Minister in April 1880, Gladstone was asked about improvements to the harbour at Famagusta (Hansard, 261, col. 212–213, 24 May 1881). Note that awareness of the value of Famagusta’s harbour has a long tradition: see e.g. Dapper 1703, 29–30, Finnegan 2021, 283 (Pococke’s letter to his mother of 7/18 December 1738) and Bonato 2019, 223–236 on interest in the harbour on the part of French consuls resident in the island. Wolseley’s comments on the need for dredging of the harbour are echoed in some of the contemporary political discourse: in the House of Lords debate of 23 July 1878 the Earl of Camperdown had expressed concern ‘that England would have to incur very heavy expenditure for the digging out of harbours at Famagousta and elsewhere’ (Hansard, 243, col. 21). The condition of Famagusta’s harbour would remain a concern with work being undertaken for expansion and improvements in the period down to the First World War: see further Varnava 2009, 132–144, Tozan 2019, 240–244, 255–256.

Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire  

Bibliography Almagor, E. and Skinner, J., eds. (2013), Ancient Ethnography: New Approaches, London. Amelinckx, F.C. (1977), ‘L’Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem ou la poétique de la désillusion’, Nineteenth-Century French Studies 5, 196–205. Aymes, M. (2014), A Provincial History of the Ottoman Empire: Cyprus and the Eastern Mediterranean in the Nineteenth Century, Abingdon/New York. Bekker-Nielsen, T. (1999), ‘Strabo and Ptolemy on the Geography of Western Cyprus’, Symbolae Osloenses 74, 151–162. Bekker-Nielsen, T. (2014), ‘A Note on Strabo, Geography 14.6’, Orbis Terrarum 12, 27–32. Bonato, L. (2012), ‘Chypre, Cyprus, Zypern, Cipro, Cypern, Κύπρος… Les voyageurs européens à Chypre au XIXe siècle’, Cahiers du Centre d’Études Chypriotes 42, 25–86. Bonato, L. (2013), ‘Voyageurs français dans l’île de Chypre dans la XIXe siècle’, Thetis 20, 246– 262. Bonato, L. (2015), ‘Charles Diehl and Famagusta: From the Discovery of the City to the Theatre Critic’, in Walsh 2015, 134–166. Bonato, L. (2019), ‘The Harbor of Famagusta during the Ottoman Period in French Travelogues and Consular Archives’, in Walsh 2019, 218–238. Cangiano, M. (2015), ‘Again at the Walls of Famagusta. Emilio Salgari versus Wu Ming: Reshaping a Historical Event’, Italica 92, 625–640. Cavendish, A. (1991), Cyprus 1878. The Journal of Sir Garnet Wolseley, Nicosia. Chatzipanagioti-Sangmeister, J., Roussou-Sinclair, M. and Tzounakas, S., eds. (2022), Textualising the Experience – Digitalising the Text: Cyprus through Travel Literature (15th-18th c.). Proceedings of the 4th International Conference of the Sylvia Ioannou Foundation, University of Cyprus, February 6 – 8, 2019, Athens. Clarke, K. (1999), Between Geography and History: Hellenistic Constructions of the Roman World, Oxford. Clarke, K. (2017), ‘Strabo’s Mediterranean’, in Dueck 2017, 47–59. Cotovicus, I. (1619), Itinerarium Hierosolymitanum et Syriacum, Antwerp. Costadura, E. (2017), ‘La relecture sur place dans l’Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem’, Revue de l’histoire littéraire de la France 117, 389–404. Coureas, N. (2013), ‘The Conquest of Cyprus during the Third Crusade According to Greek Chronicles from Cyprus’, The Medieval Chronicle 8, 193–204. della Dora, V. (2019), ‘From Book to Map: Power, Portability and Performance in an Eighteenthcentury Anonymous French Traveller’s Map of Cyprus’, in Doukellis 2019, 131–175. DeVries, K. (2017), ‘A Tale of Venetian Skin: The Flaying of Marcantonio Bragadin’, in Tracy 2017, 51–70. Doukellis, P.N. (2019), Mediterranean Cartographic Stories: Seventeenth- and Eighteenthcentury Masterpieces from the Sylvia Ioannou Foundation Collection, Athens. Dueck, D., ed. (2017), The Routledge Companion to Strabo, Abingdon/New York. Edbury, P.W. (2001), ‘Cyprus in the 19th Century: Perceptions and Politics’, in Tatton-Brown 2001, 13–20. Finnegan, R. (2019), English Explorers in the East (1738–45): The Travels of Thomas Shaw, Charles Perry and Richard Pococke, Leiden. Finnegan, R. (2021), Richard Pococke’s Letters from the East (1737–1740), Leiden. Fortescue, W. (1983), Alphonse de Lamartine. A Political Biography, London/Canberra/New York.

  Bruce Gibson Gasper, J. (2012), Theodore von Heuhoff, King of Corsica: The Man Behind the Legend, Lanham, MD. Hachicho, M.A. (1964), ‘English Travel Books about the Arab Near East in the Eighteenth Century’, Die Welt des Islam 9, 1–206. Harfield, A.G. (1978), ‘British Military Presence in Cyprus in the 19th Century’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research 56, 160–170. Harrison, T.E.H. (2013), ‘Exploring Virgin Fields: Henry and George Rawlinson on Ancient and Modern Orient’, in Almagor and Skinner 2013, 223–255. Harrison, T.E.H. (2019), ‘Classical Greek Ethnography and the Slave Trade’, Classical Antiquity 38, 36–57. Hook, G.D. (2015), Protectorate Cyprus: British Imperial Power Before World War I, London. Jennings, R.C. (1988), ‘The Locust Problem in Cyprus’, Bulletin of the School of African and Oriental Studies 51, 279–313. Jones, H.L., tr. (1929), Strabo. Geography. Books 13–14, Cambridge, MA. Karayanni, S. (2014), ‘En-Gendering Cypriots: From Colonial Landscapes to Postcolonial Identities’, in Wells, Stylianou-Lambert and Philippou 2014, 123–142. Kearns, C. (2018), ‘Cyprus in the Surging Sea: Spatial Imaginations of the Eastern Mediterranean’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 148, 45–74. Kochanski. H. (1999), Sir Garnet Wolseley. Victorian Hero, London/Rio Grande, OH. Liddel, P. and Low, P., eds. (2013), Inscriptions and their Uses in Greek and Latin Literature, Oxford. Lindgren Leavenworth, M. (2020), ‘Footsteps’, in Pettinger and Youngs 2020, 86–98. Matalas, P. (2021), ‘Europeans in the Greek Landscape: Idealization, Appropriation, Disillusionment’, in Vöhler, Alekou and Pechlivanos 2021, 195–209. Miltsios, N. and Tamiolaki, M., eds. (2018), Polybius and his Legacy, Berlin. Nunziata, D. (2020), Colonial and Postcolonial Cyprus: Transportal Literatures of Empire, Nationalism, and Sectarianism, Cham. Ooghe, B. (2007), ‘The Rediscovery of Babylonia: European Travellers and the Development of Knowledge on Lower Mesopotamia, Sixteenth to Early Nineteenth Century’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 17, 231–252. Papaioannou, H. (2014), ‘John Thomas: Through Cyprus with a Camera, Between Beautiful and Bountiful Nature’, in Wells, Stylianou-Lambert and Philippou 2014, 13–27. Pettinger, A. and Youngs, T., eds. (2020), Routledge Research Companion to Travel Writing, Abingdon/New York. Philippou, N. (2013), ‘Between East and West: John Thomson in Cyprus’, Cyprus Review 25, 111– 131. Philippou, N. (2014), ‘The National Geographic and Half Oriental Cyprus’, in Wells, StylianouLambert and Philippou 2014, 28–52. Pothecary, S. (2017), ‘Signposts and Sub-Divisions: Hidden Pointers in Strabo’s Narrative’, in Dueck 2017, 195–206. Preston, A.W. (1967) ‘Sir Garnet Wolseley and the Cyprus Expedition, 1878’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research 45, 4–16. Rood, T. (2011), ‘Black Sea Variations: Arrian’s Periplus’, Cambridge Classical Journal 57, 137– 163. Rosenmeyer, P.A. (2018), The Language of Ruins: Greek and Latin Inscriptions on the Memnon Colossus, Oxford.

Travel, Classical Traditions and Empire  

Semola, G. (1996), ‘Cyprus in Italy. Late Romanticism: The Case of Bragadino and Aleardi’, in Chypre hier et aujourd’hui entre Orient et Occident. Actes du colloque tenu à Nicosie, 1994, Université de Chypre et Université Lumière Lyon 2, Lyon, 145–153. Serghidou, A. (2001), ‘Imaginary Cyprus. Revisiting the Past and Redefining the Ancient Landscape’, in Tatton-Brown 2001, 21–31. Singer, R. (2022), ‘“The Devil may take Snowdon”, or: Inscribing Touristic Disappointment in Victorian Visitors’ Books’, Studies in Travel Writing, DOI: 10.1080/13645145.2022.2063102. Starkey, J. (2018), The Scottish Enlightenment Abroad: The Russells of Braidshaw in Aleppo and on the Coast of Coromandel, Leiden. Steele, P.M. (2013), A Linguistic History of Ancient Cyprus: The Non-Greek Languages, and their Relations with Greek, c. 1600–300 BC, Cambridge. Tatton-Brown, V., ed. (2001), Cyprus in the 19th Century AD: Fact, Fancy and Fiction, Oxford. Todd, D. (2015), ‘Transnational Projects of Empire in France, c. 1815 – c. 1870’, Modern Intellectual History 12, 265–293. Tozan, A. (2019), ‘The Development of Famagusta Harbor during the British Colonial Period (1878–1960)’, in Walsh 2019, 239–263. Tracy, L., ed. (2017), Flaying in the Pre-Modern World: Practice and Representation, Cambridge. Tzifopoulos, Y.Z. (2013), ‘Inscriptions as Literature in Pausanias’ Exegesis of Greece’, in Liddel and Low 2013, 149–165. Tzounakas, S. (2022), ‘The Ottoman Occupation of Cyprus in Johann van Kootwyck’s Itinerarium Hierosolymitanum et Syriacum’, in Chatzipanagioti-Sangmeister, Roussou-Sinclair and Tzounakas 2022, forthcoming. Uluca Tümer, E. (2019), ‘The Transformation of Famagusta after the Siege in 1571’, in Walsh 2019, 103–132. van den Boogert, M.H., ed. (2007a), Ottoman Izmir. Studies in Honour of Alexander H. de Groot, Leiden. van den Boogert, M.H. (2007b), ‘Freemasonry in Eighteenth Century Izmir? A Critical Analysis of Alexander Drummond’s Travels’, in van den Boogert 2007a, 103–121. Varnava, A. (2005), ‘Punch and the British Occupation of Cyprus in 1878’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 29, 167–186. Varnava, A. (2009), British Imperialism in Cyprus, 1878–1915: The Inconsequential Possession, Manchester/New York. Varnava, A. (2015), ‘Famagusta during the Great War: From Backwater to Bustling’, in Walsh (2015), 167–209. Vöhler, M., Alekou, S. and Pechlivanos, M., eds. (2021), Concepts and Functions of Philhellenism: Aspects of a Transcultural Movement, Berlin/Boston. Walsh, M.J.K., ed. (2015), City of Empires: Ottoman and British Famagusta, Newcastle upon Tyne. Walsh, M.J.K., ed. (2019), Famagusta Maritima. Mariners, Merchants, Pilgrims and Mercenaries, Leiden. Wells, L., Stylianou-Lambert, T. and Philippou, N., eds. (2014), Photography and Cyprus: Time, Place and Identity, London/New York. Wiater, N. (2018), ‘Documents and Narrative: Reading the Roman-Carthaginian Treaties in Polybius’ Histories’, in Miltsios and Tamiolaki 2018, 131–165. White, S. (1985), John Thomson. Life and Photographs. The Orient. Street Life in London. Through Cyprus with the Camera, London.

  Bruce Gibson Withers, C.W.J. (2009), ‘Place and the “Spatial Turn” in Geography and History’, Journal of the History of Ideas 70, 637–658. Young, D.B. (1975), ‘Libertarian Demography: Montesquieu’s Essay on Depopulation in the Lettres persanes’, Journal of the History of Ideas 36, 669–682. Zizza, C. (2006), Le inscrizioni nella Periegesi di Pausani, Pisa.

Eighteenth and nineteenth century texts referred to: Barthélemy, J.-J. (1764), ‘Réflexions sur quelques monumens phéniciens et sur les alphabets qui en résultent’, Mémoires de littérature de l’Académie royale des inscriptions et belleslettres 30, 405–427. Bramsen, J. (1818), Letters of a Prussian Traveller, 2 vols., London. Chateaubriand, F.-R. de (1828, repr. 1975), Œuvres complètes de Chateaubriand, Tome 5. Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem, Paris. Dapper, O. (1703), Description des isles de l’Archipel, Amsterdam. Drummond, A. (1754), Travels through different Cities of Germany, Italy, Greece, and Several Parts of Asia, as far as the Banks of the Euphrates, in a Series of Letters, London. Evers, S. (1784), A Journal kept on a Journey from Bassora to Bagdad, through the Little-Desert, to Aleppo, Cyprus, Rhodes, Zante, Corfu, and Otrante, in the year 1779 by a Gentleman, Horsham. Forbes, A. (1878), ‘The Fiasco of Cyprus’, The Nineteenth Century: a monthly review 4(20), 609– 626. Gaudry, A. (1861), ‘Chypre: souvenirs d’une mission scientifique’, Revue des Deux Mondes, Seconde Période 36(1), 212–237. Gibbon, E., ed. J.B. Bury (2013 [1776–89]), The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, 7 vols., Cambridge. Lamartine, A. de (1840), Vues, discours et articles sur la question de l’Orient, Paris. Lamartine, A. de (1864), La France parlementaire (1834–51). Œuvres oratoires et écrits politiques, Paris. Lamartine, A. de (1913–14 [1835]), Voyage en Orient, 2 vols., Paris. Nerval, G. de (1867 [1851]), Voyage en Orient, Paris. Paridant-Van der Cammen, E. (1874), Étude sur l’île de Chypre considérée au point de vue d’une colonisation européene, Aarschot. Perry, C. (1743), A View of the Levant: Particularly of Syria, Constantinople, Egypt, and Greece, London. Plaisted, B. (1758), A Journal from Calcutta in Bengal, by Sea, to Busserah: From thence Across the Great Desart to Aleppo: And from thence to Marseille, and thro’ France to England. In the Year MDCCL, London. Pococke, R. (1743), A Description of the East and Some other Countries. Volume the First. Observations on Egypt, London. Pococke, R. (1745), A Description of the East and Some other Countries. Vol. II. Part I. Observations on Palæstine or the Holy Land, Syria, Mesopotamia, Cyprus, and Candia, London. Swinton, J. (1750), Inscriptiones Citieæ, sive in binas inscriptiones Phœnicias inter rudera Citii nuper repertas conjecturae, Oxford.

List of Contributors Stella Alekou is an Assistant Professor of Latin Literature in the Department of Philology at the University of Ioannina (Greece). She was previously employed in two research projects on aspects of reception at the University of Cyprus (Excellence Hubs, RESTART 2016–2020 and A.G. Leventis Foundation, 2014–2016). She also worked at the University of the West of England (Faculty of Law, 2015–2019), and the University of Central Lancashire–CY (Department of Law, 2012–2015). She studied in Cyprus (University of Cyprus, BA), Scotland (University of Glasgow, MPhil) and France (Paris IV-Sorbonne, PhD). She is the author of Médée et la rhétorique de la mémoire au féminin (Ovide, «Héroïde» XII), Approches littéraires, L’Harmattan, 2018, and co-editor, with M. Vöhler and M. Pechlivanos, of Concepts and Functions of Philhellenism: Aspects of a Transcultural Movement, De Gruyter, 2021. Her research focuses on law and gender in Ovidian poetry. Theodore Antoniadis studied Classics at Aristotle University of Thessaloniki (BA: 1994–1999, PhD: 2001–2007) and at the University of Toronto in Canada (MA: 1999–2000). He has published various articles on the impact of Latin love elegy and Senecan tragedy on Flavian epic in leading international journals and peer-reviewed conference proceedings, while his current research focuses primarily on Silius Italicus’ Punica. In 2018 he was appointed Assistant Professor of Latin at Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. Laura Aresi is currently research fellow at the University of Florence. After her PhD at the University of Florence/Heidelberg, she published her book Nel giardino di Pomona. Le Metamorfosi di Ovidio e l’invenzione di una mitologia in terra d’Italia (Winter, 2017). At the University of Florence, she has held two research grants: the first on the representation of spaces between Greece and Italy in Augustan epic and the second on Augustan poetry in Petronius’ Bellum Civile. Her main research areas and publication fields are intertextuality in Petronius’ Satyricon and in Augustan poetry (Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Vergil’s Aeneid). She is a member of the Réseau Poésie augustéenne and has delivered papers in international conferences (such as the Symposium Cumanum “Vergil and the Feminine”, 2019). She has also dealt with the reception of Ovid in modern literature in projects such as Ovid-Handbuch. Leben – Werk – Wirkung (2021). Hélène Casanova-Robin is Full Professor of Latin at Sorbonne Université and senior member of the Institut Universitaire de France (2020–2025). She studies Latin poetry in Classical Antiquity and in the era of Humanism; poetics, myth and reception; didactic poetry; and the construction of knowledge in Antiquity and the Renaissance. She is the author or editor of 14 books (studies on Ovid, Vergil, Giovanni Pontano, Classical or Humanistic themes…) and numerous papers on classic poetry and reception. She is the director of a research team at Sorbonne Université «Rome et ses renaissances», since 2013. She is the director of three scientific collections at Sorbonne Université Presses, Classiques-Garnier and Les Belles Lettres. Bruce Gibson is Professor of Latin at the University of Liverpool. His publications include a text, commentary and translation of Statius, Silvae 5 (Oxford, 2006), Polybius and his World: Essays in Memory of Frank Walbank (co-edited with Thomas Harrison, Oxford, 2013), and Pliny the

  List of Contributors Younger in Late Antiquity (Arethusa 46.2, 2013, co-edited with Roger Rees), as well as articles and chapters on a wide range of Latin texts in prose and verse. He is currently writing a commentary on Pliny’s Panegyricus. Stephen Harrison is a Senior Research Fellow of Corpus Christi College, Oxford and Professor of Latin Literature in the University of Oxford. He is author and/or editor of many books on Latin literature and its modern reception, including recently a monograph on Victorian Horace: Classics and Class (Bloomsbury, 2017) and co-edited collections on Seamus Heaney and the Classics (Oxford University Press, 2019) and Cupid and Psyche: The Reception of Apuleius’ Love Story since 1600 (De Gruyter, 2020). Amongst his current projects are the use of classics by the English First World War poets Rupert Brooke and Charles Sorley, and the neo-Latin poetry of George Buchanan and Maffeo Barberini (Pope Urban VIII). Boris Hogenmüller studied Classics and History at the University of Würzburg from 1999 to 2004 and received his PhD in 2008. He is a Lecturer in Classics, and a Fellow of the Institute of Classics in the University of Frankfurt. His research focuses on Latin literature (Catullus and Pliny the Younger), as well as on Greek literature of the Late Antiquity (Julian the Apostate). His main interest lies in the different kinds of intertextuality. He is author of various articles on Catullus, Pliny the Younger, Julian the Apostate and the neo-Latin author Melchor Cano. Richard Jenkyns is Emeritus Professor of the Classical Tradition, University of Oxford, and Emeritus Fellow of Lady Margaret Hall. He has published ten books, including The Victorians and Ancient Greece (1980), Virgil’s Experience (1998), God, Space and City in the Roman Imagination (2013), and Classical Literature (2015). Robert Kirstein is Professor of Latin at the Institute of Classics of Tübingen University. He studied in Bonn, Münster, and Oxford and is a former Feodor-Lynen-Fellow of the Alexander von Humboldt-Stiftung. His main research areas include Greek and Latin poetry, especially Hellenistic poetry, the literature of the Augustan Age, Ovid, the history of classical scholarship in the 19th and early 20th century, and the field of narratology and literary theory. Stamatia Kitsou is a Special Scientist in the Department of Classics and Philosophy of the University of Cyprus. She studied Classics at the Universities of Patras and Crete, and earned a doctorate from the University of Patras for a thesis on the bucolic paraclausithyra and their relation to the genre of Mime. Her research interests focus on reception studies and on the literature of the Hellenistic and Imperial period. Margot Neger completed her studies in Classics at the University of Graz, Austria, and gained her PhD in 2011 from the University of Munich and her habilitation in 2019 from the University of Salzburg. Today she is Assistant Professor of Latin at the University of Cyprus where she was appointed in 2019. Among her main research interests are the literature of the Imperial age, Roman epistolography, ancient epigrammatic poetry, late antique literature and the interaction of genres. She has published books on Martial (Martials Dichtergedichte. Das Epigramm als Medium der poetischen Selbstreflexion, Tübingen, 2012) and on Pliny the Younger (Epistolare Narrationen. Studien zur Erzähltechnik des jüngeren Plinius, Tübingen, 2021).

List of Contributors  

Costas Panayotakis is Professor of Latin at the University of Glasgow. He researches on fragmentary Roman comic drama (mime and Atellane comedy) and Latin fiction, and is author of Theatrum Arbitri: Theatrical Elements in the Satyrica of Petronius (Leiden, 1995) and Decimus Laberius: The Fragments (Cambridge, 2010). He is currently preparing critical editions (with facing translation and commentary) of the fragments of Atellane comedy, the sayings (sententiae) associated with the mimographer Publilius, and the part of Petronius’ Satyricon conventionally known as ‘Dinner at Trimalchio’s’. Thea Selliaas Thorsen is a Professor of Classics at the NTNU, Trondheim, Norway. She has published on Greek and Latin literature and is the author of Ovid’s Early Poetry (Cambridge University Press, 2014), and co-editor of and contributor to Greek and Latin Love: The Poetic Connection (De Gruyter, 2021), Roman Receptions of Sappho (Oxford University Press, 2019) and Dynamics of Ancient Prose (De Gruyter, 2018). She has edited and contributed to The Cambridge Companion to Latin Love Elegy (2013), and edited Greek and Roman Games in the Computer Age (Akademika Publishing, 2012). She became the first person to have published translations of all of Ovid’s love elegies into Norwegian (Gyldendal, 2001–2009), in verse. Spyridon Tzounakas is Associate Professor of Latin Literature at the University of Cyprus, where he is currently Deputy Dean of the Faculty of Letters. His main research and publications focus on Roman satire (especially Persius), Roman epistolography (especially Pliny the Younger), Roman epic (especially Lucan and Valerius Flaccus), Roman elegy (especially Tibullus), Cicero’s orations, and Roman intertextuality. He has published many articles in international refereed journals and collective volumes, has edited a book on praises of Roman leaders, and completed a book on Persius’ Satires. He is currently working on a volume on Pliny the Younger’s intertextuality and on a project on the geopoetics of the early Imperial period.

General Index Actium 147 Adonis 6, 28–29, 34, 41–42, 55–56, 60, 61, 113, 153–172, 206–207, 209, 214, 223, 255 – Adonia 55, 160, 162, 164–165, 171–172 Aeneas 1, 4, 39, 65–66, 69, 77–78, 80– 83, 103, 107 Africa 18, 35, 66, 132, 145–146, 148, 284 Ajax 23, 65, 66–76, 104 Alatiel (character in Boccaccio) 7, 175, 177, 185–192, 195–196 Alcaeus 207 Aldegati, Marcantonio 45, 48 Alexandria / Alexandrian 34, 35, 49, 52, 58, 69, 145, 147, 188, 189, 227 Alfieri, Vittorio 6, 8, 249–250, 256–262 – Mirra 8, 249–250, 256–262 – Vita 256, 257 Alphesiboea of Phoenicia 165 Altilio, Gabriele 207–208 Amathus 4, 35, 36–37, 40–48, 53–56, 61–62, 124, 169, 201, 223, 234, 269, 273–274, 277–278 Ammianus (epigrammatist) 5, 111, 125– 128 Anaxarete 175, 177, 191–195 Antoninus Liberalis 166, 194 Antony, Mark 145, 271 Aphrodite see Venus Apollodorus (mythographer) 165–166 Apollodorus (comic playwright) 19 Apuleius 33, 43–44 Arabia 168, 169, 255 Arachne 88, 94, 226, 229–230, 238, 241 Arcadia / Arcadian 66, 155 Arcadius 146 aretalogy 3, 4, 33 Ariadne 55, 62–63, 104, 234 Assyria 6, 165, 166, 212 Astarte see Ishtar Atalanta 92, 98, 113, 155, 170 Athenaeus 19, 165

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-017

Augustus / Augustan 57, 65, 66, 77, 82, 83, 88, 111, 116, 118, 121, 122, 124, 127, 128, 146, 147, 148, 211, 242, 243, 271 aurea saecula see Golden Age Aurora 214 Baiae 22, 210–211 balance 5, 9, 82–83, 87–99, 195, 258 Bion of Smyrna 154, 160, 205 Boccaccio, Giovanni 6, 7, 33, 44, 45, 46, 49, 175–196, 201–202, 217 – Decameron 7, 175–196 body 5, 23, 74, 87, 90–92, 95, 190, 192– 193, 195, 210, 211, 212, 239, 242, 243 – female 108, 146, 177 – lanuage 186 Bragadin, Marcantonio 275 Bramsen, John 267–268, 283 Britain 109–110, 273, 283 – British literature and the myth of Pygmalion 221–244 – British travel writing 265–284 Byblos 166 Caesar, Julius 35, 57, 127, 144, 145, 147 campi Elysii 6, 131, 132, 138–140 Catalepton 33, 42–43, 46 catalogues 21–22, 33–49, 55, 103, 169, 281–282 Cato the Younger 59, 242, 274 Catullus 4, 33, 35–49, 51–63, 108–109, 124–125, 127, 134, 141, 216, 234 Caxton, William 221, 223, 228, 229–230, 243 Cerastes 5, 6, 223, 224, 225 Chateaubriand, François-René de 272, 273–274 Chytri 35, 37, 40 Cicero 20, 35, 51, 52, 57, 76–77, 79, 83, 109–110, 118, 127, 203, 204, 242 – as governor of Cyprus 35 Cilicia 35, 127, 242 Cimon (character in Boccaccio) 175, 176– 177, 180–185, 189, 196 Cinna, Gaius Helvius 52, 57–61, 125 – Zmyrna 52, 57–61, 125

  General Index Cinyras 5, 7–8, 28, 55, 58, 61, 143–144, 155, 159, 165–166, 204, 223, 240–241, 249–262 Citium / Kition 35, 109, 269, 275 Claudian 6, 105, 131–148, 212 Cleopatra VII 35, 131, 132, 140–147 colonization 83, 265, 279–282 comedy / comic 3–4, 13–30, 34, 36, 116, 165–166, 190, 255 – fabula palliata 3–4, 13–30, 36 Comnenus, Isaac 271 Crete 18, 21–23, 104, 194, 267 Cupid 6, 39, 43, 56, 120, 124, 131, 132, 133, 140, 273–274 cura placendi 181 Cyprus passim – as an intercultural bridge 1, 2, 9, 153– 172 – as an outlier 1, 5, 9, 103–110 – as Aphrodite’s / Venus’ birthplace 1, 13, 28–30, 104, 201, 203, 208, 214, 234 – as the island / Holy Land of love 8, 19, 175, 176, 177–180, 184, 185, 191, 196, 265 – Cyprus Convention (1878) 282–284 – Roman annexation of 13–14, 19–20, 35, 221, 241–242, 274 Cythera 34, 39–49, 107, 112–113, 206 da Vinci, Leonardo 6 – Notebooks on Cerastes 6 Dapper, Olfert 267 Delia 118 Dellius, Quintus 115–116 Diana 164, 166 Dido 39, 65, 66, 77–78, 81 Diomedes 66, 82–83, 104 Dionysus 165 Drummond, Alexander 266, 267, 269, 272, 274–278, 279 Duffy, Carol Ann 6, 7, 221, 223, 235–240, 243–244 Dumuzi(d) 160–161, 163–164 dura puella (topos) 193 ecphrasis 6, 131, 132, 133–136, 140, 147– 148, 234, 241, 242

Egypt 1, 35, 49, 74, 75, 89, 105, 117, 133, 144, 145, 147, 177, 185, 216, 242, 266, 267, 273, 280, 284 Ennius 4, 13, 15–18, 23, 26 epithalamium 6, 122, 131–148 Euripides 67, 73–76, 107, 250, 252, 253– 255, 258 Eurydice 156–157, 223, 240 Eutropius 146 Evander 66, 103 Evers, Samuel 266, 276–277, 283 excess 87, 97–99 exile 4, 20–24, 67, 72–73, 74, 76–79, 83 Famagusta 265, 269, 271, 273, 274, 275– 277, 282–284 female exemplum 221, 223, 231 Ferrara 209–210 Fescennini 137, 145–146 fever 283 Flaccus (Martial’s patron) 5, 111–125, 126, 127–128 Flaccus (rhetor) 5, 111, 125–128 Florence 178, 184–185, 204, 206 focalization 5, 87, 89, 94–99 foundation myth 4, 23, 39–40, 55, 61, 65–66, 75, 77, 78, 81–82, 83, 127, 204 Gallo, Egidio 48–49 Ganymede 28, 92, 157 Gaudry, Albert 278 genre 2, 3, 6, 7–8, 26, 27, 51, 78, 83, 131, 132, 147, 223, 249–262 – intergeneric itinerary 3 – intergeneric renegotiations 9 – generic crossing 262 – generic frames 223 – generic interaction 250–255 – generic novelty 262 – generic osmosis 249–262 – generic pluralism 78 – generic polyphony 262 – generic rules 83 – generic similarity 141 geography 1, 4, 5, 8–9, 13–15, 18, 19, 21, 22, 23, 27, 28, 35, 37, 40, 55, 105, 107, 111, 133, 137, 146–147, 165, 168–169, 186, 201, 203, 206, 221–222, 231, 240, 241, 265, 267–269, 272–273

General Index  

Gibbon, Edward 270–271, 277 Gildo 132, 145–148 Glycera 38, 120 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 6 – Pygmalion 6 Golden Age 82, 137–140, 148 Golgoi 34, 35, 36–37, 45, 48, 53–54, 56, 61, 124 Gower, John 221, 223, 227–229, 243 Graces 134, 144, 211, 273–274 Helen 72, 73–76, 77, 104, 188 hendecasyllables 52, 123, 124 Hephaestion 161–162 Hephaestus see Vulcan Herodotus 40, 202, 205 Hesiod 29, 165, 166, 203–205, 208, 215– 216 Hippomenes 113, 155, 170 Holy Land (Palestine) 7, 176, 178–179, 180, 190, 191, 267, see also Cyprus as the island / Holy Land of love Homer 34, 44, 67–69, 70, 80–82, 103, 104, 108, 137, 140, 203, 214, 268 – Homeric Hymns 34, 40, 49, 204–205, 208 – – Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite 39, 105, 106, 208, 215–216 – Iliad 67–69, 70, 72, 82, 104, 108 – Odyssey 5, 34, 39–40, 80–82, 103, 104–106, 107–108, 121, 183, 268 Honorius 6, 131–140, 145–148 Horace 4, 13, 27, 38–39, 41, 42, 47, 48, 49, 65, 78–84, 105, 111, 115–116, 118– 124, 203, 209 Hortensius, Quintus 58–59 human trafficking 8, 24 Hyacinthus 92, 157 Hyginus 166 Ianthe 156 Idalium / Idalion 34–48, 53–55, 60, 61, 124, 134, 209, 214, 273–274, 277–278 – Idalian sisters 134 Idomeneus 104 illegitimacy 67, 69–74, 76, 83 immigration 65–66, 166 imperialism 265, 278, 279, 281, 283–284

Imperium Romanum / Roman empire 33, 49, 111, 132, 138, 241, 242, 281 – imperial ideology 146 – Imperial period 29, 76, 77, 127, 204 – imperial power 134 Inanna 160–161 incest 8, 28, 58, 60, 92, 155–156, 158, 159–172, 194, 243, 249, 252, 254, 255, 257, 258, 260, 261 inscriptions 164–165, 274–275 – ‘Inscriptiones Citienses’ 275 intertextuality 4, 5, 7, 9, 23, 33, 51, 52, 79–80, 115, 119, 126, 138, 141–142, 148, 176, 234, 272 Ionian Sea 104, 133, 146–147 Iphis 93, 156, 175, 177, 191–193 Iron Age 140 irony 54, 56–57, 71, 190, 226, 250, 252– 254 Ishtar 161 Jerusalem 9, 201, 271 Kalends of March 121 Kition / Citium 35, 109, 269, 275 Lamartine, Alphonse de 266, 271–273, 279–281 Landino, Cristoforo 206–207 Larnaca 56, 269, 272, 277, 283 Late Antiquity 1, 3, 6, 19–20, 40, 131, 132, 140, 202 Lebanon 166 lepor 204 Livy 66, 111–112 locus amoenus 6, 111, 114, 116, 131, 132, 136, 147 love 4, 8, 13, 18, 19, 20–24, 28–30, 36, 38, 39, 41, 51, 53–54, 56, 58, 60, 66, 88–89, 92, 96, 98, 108, 111, 113–122, 124, 133–136, 138–140, 145, 147, 153– 172, 175–196, 201–214, 222, 223, 227– 238, 240, 249–262, 278, see also Venus / Aphrodite as goddess of love – as human civilization 180–185, 196, 217 – as (sexual) desire 140, 146, 154, 180– 185, 187, 195–196, 212–213, 223, 226, 230, 234, 249, 251–252, 254, 258, 261

  General Index – as theory of amor cortese 175, 176, 181, 196 – homoerotic 113–114, 116–117, 156, 157 – incestuous see incest – pederasty 155–157, see also puer cinaedus and puer delicatus – self-love 153, 154–159, 167, 168, 171– 172 Lucan 131, 132, 140–147 Lucian 29–30, 166, 205 Lucillius (epigrammatist) 125–126, 127 Lucretius 203, 204–205, 208, 212 Lusignan, House of 271, 274, 280 – Guy de 270–271 – Hugh IV of 191, 201 luxuria / luxury 14, 21–22, 23, 133–134, 136, 141–142, 145, 148 Lycophron 34 Maecenas 119, 121, 122 Maria (wife of Honorius) 6, 131–140, 145– 148 marriage 6, 14, 18, 24, 28, 29, 57, 121, 122, 131–132, 133, 136, 140–141, 145– 146, 166, 167, 177, 179, 182, 184, 196, 209, 228, 234, 243, 254, 258 – ‘marry-your-rapist’ law 243 Mars 121 Marston, John 221, 223, 231–232, 243 Martial 5, 111–128, 203, 204, 210–211 Marullo, Michele 33, 44, 47–48 Matronalia 121–122 Medieval period see Middle Ages metaphor 23, 54, 82, 88, 90, 95, 118, 146, 193, 201–202, 273, 281 Middle Ages 7, 37, 40, 175–196, 205, 221–222, 227–231, 243–244, 265, 269, 274 minerals 242, 269, 278, 281 Minerva 229–230, 240–241 misogynism 107, 153, 154–160, 167, 171– 172, 194, 222, 230, 232 Morris, William 221, 223, 229, 233–234, 243 Mulciber see Vulcan Myrrha 7–8, 28, 58, 60, 92, 117, 118, 143, 155, 156, 158–159, 165, 166, 167–168, 207, 223, 249–262

Naldi, Naldo 44, 46 Narcissus 89, 98, 171–172, 231 – narcissism 171–172, 231 Neo-Latin poetry of the Italian Renaissance 4, 33, 40, 44–49, 201–217 Neo-Platonic hermeneutics 205 neoteric poetry 36, 51, 52, 55, 56–57, 60– 63, 125 Nicosia 269, 273, 276, 283 Nonnus of Panopolis 60, 205 νόστος 124 Nostoi 67 opera (and Cyprus) 14–15 Orientalism 267 Orpheus 5, 87, 88, 92, 95–97, 153, 154, 155–160, 164–165, 167–172, 221, 223– 224, 240, 249, 250–252, 253 other-hate 153–156, 159–160 Ottoman empire 8, 265, 267, 270, 271– 272, 274, 275–278, 280–281 Ovid 4–5, 6–8, 33, 34, 40, 41–42, 43–44, 45, 47, 49, 58, 66, 87–99, 103, 104, 108–109, 113, 117, 121, 122, 132, 141, 143–144, 153–172, 175–185, 191–196, 203, 204, 207, 209, 211, 221–244, 249– 262 Paeon of Amathus 62, 234 Palaepaphos 35, 43, 49, 117 Panchaea 143–144, 168, 206–207 Panyassis of Halicarnassus 165, 166 Paphos (city) 7, 18, 28, 34–49, 55, 56, 94, 106, 107–108, 111, 114, 119–122, 124, 127–128, 137, 167, 169, 172, 187, 194, 201–217, 223, 225, 234, 269, 272, 273, 277–278, 283 Paphos (Pygmalion’s child) 109, 155, 166, 167, 204, 231 Paridant-Van der Cammen, Edmond 267, 281–282 Patavium 111–112, 122 Pausanias 161, 208, 274 Peloponnese 9, 39, 66, 104 periplus 268 Perisauli, Fabiano 46–47 Perry, Charles 273 Pettie, George 221, 223, 230–231, 243 Pharsalia’s plains 147

General Index  

Phoenicia 66, 105, 160, 165, 166, 241, 275 Phoenix of Phoenicia 165, 166 Plaisted, Bartholomew 266, 272, 278– 279 Plato (comic playwright) 165, 166 – Adonis 165 Plato (philosopher) 163 Plautus 4, 13, 14, 15, 16, 18–24, 26, 28– 30, 36 – Mercator 20–24, 27, 36 Pliny the Elder 15, 35, 43, 156, 164, 205, 208, 269 Pliny the Younger 112, 118 Pococke, Richard 266–267, 269–271, 274, 275, 278, 281–282, 284 Polybius 274 Polyphemus 175, 176–177, 180–185 Pontano, Giovanni 6, 44, 45–46, 201, 208–217 Praxilla 153, 162–164 Priscus, Terentius 112–113 propemptikon / προπεμπτικόν 58, 114, 119, 122 Propoetides 5, 92, 95, 117, 155, 158, 167, 194–195, 223–225, 241 prostitution (in Cyprus) 17–18, 24–27, 92, 117, 194–195, 202, 224–225 puer cinaedus 113–114, 116–117, see also pederasty puer delicatus 117, see also pederasty Pygmalion (Cypriot king and sculptor) 5, 7, 14, 28, 87–99, 103, 104, 108–109, 117, 122, 155, 156, 157–159, 166–168, 171, 175, 177, 191, 193–195, 204, 221– 244, 250 Pygmalion (king of Tyre) 66 Quattrocento 201–217, see also Renaissance recusatio 83, 168 refugee 9, 39, 65–66, 77–78, 82 rehabilitation 65, 76–82 Renaissance 4, 7, 33, 44–49, 172, 221– 222, 231–235, 243–244, see also Quattrocento rhetoric 5, 65, 72, 79, 111, 125–128, 146, 206, 221, 226–227, 232, 239, 252

Rhodes 16, 127, 266 Richard I, King of England 270–271 Richard II, King of England 228 ritual 1, 3, 5, 49, 55, 162, 164, 212, 254 Rome 4, 16, 65, 66, 111, 117, 164–165, 191, 242, 274, see also Imperium Romanum ruins 276–277, 280–281, 282–284 sacrifice 53, 57, 61, 62, 108, 114, 121, 123, 224–225 Salamis, in Cyprus 4, 23, 34, 35, 48–49, 65–84, 193–194, 269 sanctuaries 4, 33–49, 55, 62, 176, 202– 203, 205, 207 Sannazaro, Jacopo 47 Sappho 6, 34, 38, 52, 139, 153, 161–162, 164, 207 Satrachus (river) 58–61, 125 Serena 133 sex / sexuality 4, 13, 14–15, 20–30, 112, 116–118, 122, 145–146, 153–159, 161, 164, 165, 177, 179, 195, 221, 222, 223– 227, 228, 230, 236–237, 239, 240–244, 254, 255 Shakespeare, William 6, 14–15, 153–154, 171–172 – Venus and Adonis 153–154, 171–172 Sicily 34, 43, 48, 80, 112–113, 184 silence 9, 112, 177, 195, 231, 235–236, 240, 243, 257, 258, 259, 261 Smyrna see Myrrha Socrates 163 solecism / σολοικισμός 5, 111, 126–128 Soloi 35, 127, 128, 269 Sophocles 67, 69–73, 76, 255 Statius 4, 33, 42–43, 46, 112, 122, 132, 140–141, 204 statue 5, 6, 37, 87–89, 92–99, 108–109, 156, 158, 164–165, 166–168, 177, 191, 193, 194–196, 204, 221–244 Stella, L. Arruntius 111–112, 114, 122– 124, 125, 140–141 Stella of Ferrara 209–210 Stilicho 6, 132, 133, 138, 146 Stoic / Stoicism 76, 79, 83, 109 Strabo 35, 37, 268–271, 274, 275, 281 Strozzi, Tito Vespasiano 45, 46 symmetry 5, 87–88, 91–94, 96, 98–99

  General Index symposium 38, 79–80, 114, 115–116, 119, 121, 123–124 Syria 9, 204, 211, 267, 274 Tammuz see Dumuzi(d) Tedaldo (character in Boccaccio) 175, 176, 177–180, 181, 196 Terence 4, 13, 16–20, 24–27, 36 – Adelphoe 24–27, 36 – Eunuchus 16–17 Teucer 4, 23–24, 65–84 Theocritus 34, 37, 43, 56, 160 Theodosius 138 Thias of Assyria 165–166 Thias of Phoenicia 166 Tiber (river) 103 Tibullus 118, 122, 131, 132, 138–140 Tithonus 214 tragedy / tragic 5, 7–8, 14–15, 18–19, 23–24, 34, 56, 62, 65, 69–76, 81, 106– 107, 158, 185, 189, 191, 249–262 travel 4, 7, 8, 19, 22, 34, 39, 65, 104, 105, 119, 125, 126, 127, 175, 176, 178, 179, 180, 182, 185–186, 188, 265–284 Trojan War 23, 65, 66, 73, 75, 77, 81, 82, 105, 185 Turpilius 4, 13, 19–20 – Paedium 19–20 Venetians 33, 44, 49, 265, 274, 275, 276–277 Venus / Aphrodite 1, 4, 5, 6, 7, 13, 17–18, 19, 21, 24, 26–27, 28–30, 33–49, 53– 57, 60–61, 92, 93, 94, 98, 103–109, 111, 113, 114, 117, 118, 119–122, 124, 125, 128, 131–148, 153–172, 176, 177, 178, 179–180, 184, 185, 193–196, 201–217, 223, 224–225, 228, 233, 234, 239, 240, 258, 259, 265, 278–279 – Aphrodite Παρακύπτουσα 193–194 – as goddess of love 6, 18, 21–22, 56, 57, 60, 92, 131, 153, 154, 155, 164, 168, 171, 172, 203, 206, 209, 265

– as Kypris 5, 18, 19, 34, 106–107 – as pronuba 138 – aurea 45, 46, 93, 108, 138, 167, 209, 210, 214 – cult / worship of in Cyprus 1, 4, 5, 6, 13, 17–18, 21, 33–49, 54–57, 60, 61, 92, 93, 108–109, 117, 122, 124, 125, 128, 155, 160, 169, 176, 179, 193–194, 202–204, 205, 206–207, 208, 211, 217, 225, 234, 240 – Genetrix 194, 202 – myth of birth of 1, 13, 28–30, 54, 55, 104, 201, 203, 205, 208, 214, 216, 234 – myth of Venus / Aphrodite and Adonis 6, 28–29, 41–42, 55–56, 60, 113, 153– 172, 206–207, 209, 214, 223 – οὐρανία 202, 205, 208 – πάνδημος 202, 205 – Prospiciens 34, 49, 193 – sanctuary of Aphrodite-Ariadne 55, 62, 234 – Verticordia 194–196 Vergil 5, 33, 39–40, 41, 42, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 65–66, 77–78, 81, 82–83, 103–104, 105–106, 107–108, 109, 119– 120, 122, 131, 132, 137–138, 140, 141, 143, 203, 214, 242 voluptas 133, 204, 210–213, 278 Volusius 4, 36, 51–62, 124–125 voyage see travel Vulcan 105, 133 wedding 109, 131–132, 133, 136, 137, 138, 139, 145, 156, 227, 257, 258 Wolseley, Sir Garnet 273, 276, 282–284 women 6, 17–18, 20–27, 62, 89, 153– 172, 176, 179, 186, 188, 189, 194–195, 196, 211, 221–244, 253, 254, 278–279 Zeno of Citium 109 Zenobius 16, 162–163

Index Locorum Aeschylus Incertarum fabularum fragmenta fr. 402a Radt 34 Salaminiae frs. 216–220 Radt 73 n. 24 Aetna 594

204

Alcman fr. 55 PMG

34

Aldegati, Marcantonio Elegiae 2.77–78 45 Alexis Cyprius frs. 125–127 Kassel–Austin Alfieri, Vittorio Mirra 1.1.7–10 1.1.12–18 1.1.84 2.2.130 2.2.170–183 2.3.128–129 2.4.243–247 2.4.248–251 2.4.319 3.2.60 3.2.174–203 4.7.45–46 4.7.92–94 4.7.266 4.7.275–276 5.2.82–83 5.4.220 Altilio, Gabriele Carmina 5.1–14

Ammianus AP 11.146 AP 11.146.1 AP 11.146.3–4 AP 11.146.4 AP 11.152 AP 11.180–181 AP 11.181 AP 11.226 AP 11.230–231 AP 11.268

5, 111, 126 127 n. 65 126 127 n. 65 126 n. 61 126 n. 60 126 n. 61 126 126 n. 61 126 n. 61

Antoninus Liberalis Metamorphoses 34 160 n. 18, 166 39 194 n. 37

19

260 n. 41 260 n. 41 260 n. 40 259 259 n. 38 260 260 n. 40 259 n. 37 259 259 259 n. 38 261 n. 44 261 n. 44 261 260 n. 40 261 261

207–208

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110984309-018

Apicius 9.10.1 9.77

59 n. 39 59 n. 35

Apollodorus Bibliotheca 3.4

165 n. 36 and n. 37

Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 3.215 ff. 140 n. 21 Appian Bella civilia 2.20.147

57

Apuleius Metamorphoses 4.29 5.1 ff.

43 140 n. 21

Aristophanes Lysistrata 833 833–834

34, 40, 113 n. 12 34 n. 3, 47, 119 n. 37

  Index Locorum Aristotle De generatione animalium 2.2, 736a 216 n. 48 Metaphysica 5.13, 1020a 8–10 126 n. 63 Poetica 14, 1453b 12–22 251 n. 7 17, 1455a 34–1455b 2 249 n. 1 Athenaeus 10.456b 12.516a–b

165 117 n. 24

Boccaccio, Giovanni Buccolicum Carmen 1.104–106 44 1.105 202 Commedia delle ninfe fiorentine 26–27 191 De mulieribus claris 7 194, 202 Decameron 1.9 179 1.9.6 179 1.10 175, 177 2.4 177 2.7 175, 177 2.7.22 186 n. 26 2.7.41 186 n. 26 2.7.46 186 n. 26 2.7.50 186 n. 26, 186 n. 28 2.7.51 186 n. 28 2.7.67 186–187 n. 28 2.7.87 187 2.7.91 187–188 2.7.92–93 188 2.7.99–100 188–189 2.7.101 189 2.7.102 189 2.7.110 190 2.7.122 190 2.8.2 189 n. 30 2.9.49 186 n. 27 3.7 175, 176, 177 3.7.8 178 5.1 175, 176 5.1.2 180

5.1.17–19 180–181 5.1.28–29 182–183 5.1.35 184 5.1.57 184 5.1.58 184 5.1.70 184 5.2.26 186 n. 27 5.8 191 5.8.32–43 191 10.9 177 Genealogie deorum gentilium libri 2.49 191 3.22–23 202 n. 3 4 Prohemium 202 Boito, Arrigo Otello 1.5

14 n. 3

Bramsen, John Letters of a Prussian Traveller 1.299 266 n. 7 1.304 283 n. 49 1.304–305 278 n. 36 1.309–310 269 n. 15 1.312 267 Callimachus Epigrammata fr. 25 Pfeiffer fr. 398 Pfeiffer Hymn to Apollo 108–112

52 59 n. 38 60 n. 40

Cassius Dio 44.50

57

Catalepton 14 14.2

42 43, 204 n. 9

Catalogus Codicum Astrologorum Graecorum 1.173 Cumont 29 n. 34

Index Locorum  

Catullus 3 3.1 10.29–30 11.11–12 14 35 36

36.1–10 36.4 36.5 36.6–7 36.11 36.11–14 36.11–17 36.12 36.12–14 36.13 36.13–14 36.14 36.17 37 40 44 49 51 61 61.16–19 63 64 64.5 64.43–49 64.52–54 64.96 64.384–386 64.407–408 65 66 66.57 68 70 95 95.1–2 95.5

56 56 58 109 n. 31 52 52 36, 37, 42, 45, 48, 52, 53–54, 56, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 124 n. 52, 125 124 124 124 n. 51 124 124 48 36 37, 48, 124 42 37, 38, 42 41 37, 48, 124 61 n. 47 124 n. 51 56 52 57 52 122 n. 44 134 n. 9 36 36, 62 37 141 62 37, 45, 48 109 n. 26 109 n. 26 52 n. 4 216 216 52 n. 4 52 52, 53 n. 9, 57, 58, 59, 61, 62, 125 125 59 n. 34

95.7 109.3

125 56

Chateaubriand, François-René de Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem 261 267 n. 9, 273 with n. 26 Cicero De domo sua 20 242 n. 86 De natura deorum 1.83 133 n. 5 1.119 17 3.23.59 204 3.59.6 161 n. 25 Epistulae ad Atticum 7.2.1 51 n. 1 Epistulae ad familiares 7.16.1 110 n. 33 8.2.1 76 n. 32 13.48 118 n. 33 15.4.15 20 n. 16 Epistulae ad Quintum fratrem 1.1 118 n.33 Orator ad M. Brutum 161 51 n. 1 Pro Sestio 57 242 n. 86 59 242 n. 86 Tusculanae disputationes 5.37.108 76 Claudianus De raptu Proserpinae 1.237 ff. 140 n. 21 Epithalamium de nuptiis Honorii et Mariae 46–48 133 n. 3 49–108 131, 132, 133, 134–136 51 147 n. 37 54 139, 145 56 138, 139 60–61 138, 139 62–63 139 65 139 72–73 139 74 138, 139

  Index Locorum Drummond, Alexander Travels through different Cities of Germany, Italy, Greece etc. 132 267 n. 7 133 268 n. 12, 279 133–135 275 134 275 135 275 136 275–276 139–140 277 140 276, 277 143 269 n. 15, 278 n. 36 143–144 278 n. 36 147–149 276 n. 31 158–161 269 n. 15 172–173 276 250 277 n. 34 255 272–273 n. 24 261 269 n. 15 272 275 275–276 275 280 277 n. 32

78–85 212 n. 41 84–85 139 87 138 87–91 141 88 142 91 142 92–93 139 92–96 143 94 139 99 139 100–101 134 103–106 144 289–294 147 n. 38 336 139 n. 18 Epithalamium dictum Palladio u. c. tribuno et notario et Celerinae 10 134 n. 9 Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum VI 1492 114 n. 18 Dante Alighieri Inferno 26.82–84

Duffy, Carol Ann The World’s Wife “Pygmalion’s Bride” 235, 236, 237, 238

186 n. 24

Dapper, Olfert Description des isles de l’Archipel 26 272 n. 24 27–28 280 n. 40 29–30 284 n. 52

Enheduanna Temple Hymns 5.1.17

De rosis nascentibus 21–22 203–204, 210 n. 32 Diogenes Laertius 1.51

127

Dionysius Halicarnassensis Antiquitates Romanae 1.50.2 39 n. 15 1.61 67 n. 3 Donatus Commentum Terentii Adelphoe 230 (p. 51 Wessner)

27

160

Ennius Euhemerus 10 Goldberg and Manuwald 17 Sota 4 Goldberg and Manuwald 15 Varia 142–145 Vahlen 117 n. 24 Euripides Bacchae 402–406 406 ff. Helena 17–21 42–48 52–64

34 137 n. 13 74 74 n. 27 74

Index Locorum  

66–67 72–77 81 90 91 92 94 143–150 144 148–149 151 157 162–163 256–259 698–699 855–856 1450 1666–1677 Hippolytus 2 309–314

74 74 74 73 73 73 73 75 75 76, 81 75 75 74 74 75 n. 30 75 n. 30 75 n. 30 75 n. 30 107 with n. 13 254 n. 17

Evers, Samuel A Journal kept on a Journey from Bassora to Bagdad etc. 112–114 266 n. 7 115 277 117–119 283 n. 49 Firmicus Maternus De errore profanarum religionum 10 117 n. 24 Galassio Vicentino Theseis 2.284 207 n. 17 Gallo, Egidio De viridario Augustini Chigii vera libellus 4.192–197 48–49 4.194 49 Gaudry, Albert Chypre: souvenirs d’une mission scientifique 212 277–278 n. 34, 278 with n. 35, 280 n. 40

215 217

280–281 n. 40 277 n. 33

Gibbon, Edward The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire ch. 48 (p. 5.170) 277 n. 33 ch. 60 (p. 6.375) 271 with n. 19 Gower, John Confessio Amantis Prologue 24 228 4.388–394 228 4.412–419 228 Hansard – UK Parliament 243, col. 18, 23 July 1878

276 n. 31, 281 n. 40 243, col. 21, 23 July 1878 284 n. 52 243, col. 1306, 17 February 1879 284 n. 52 261, col. 212–213, 24 May 1881 284 n. 52 Hermesianax fr. 4 Powell

194 n. 37

Herodotus 1.105.3 5.108–115 5.113.2

40 75 n. 28 127 n. 66

Hesiod Catalogus mulierum fr. 2.106 165 fr. 2.107 165 Theogonia 192 ff. 203 194–195 208 198 39 n. 15 Homer Iliad 2.804 2.867 4.437–438 5.311–343 5.431–451 7.222

104 n. 3 104 n. 3 104 n. 3 82 n. 50 82 n. 50 68 n. 8

  Index Locorum 8.226–334 8.265–272 8.266–272 8.267–270 8.271 8.272 8.273–277 8.280–285 8.282 8.283 8.284 11.223 11.385–390 11.527 11.545 12.349–350 12.364–412 13.313–314 13.466 14.404 15.432 15.442–444 15.442–483 15.478–483 20.291–340 23.859–869 Odyssey 1.435 4.83–85 4.566–568 6.42–45 7.81 ff. 8.215–228 8.288 8.361–366 8.362–363 9.81 9.108 9.292 12.208 12.208–212 12.211–212 12.291–293 12.293 17.442 18.193

67 n. 5 67 n. 6 67–68, 70 68 68 68 67 68–69 69 69 69 69 n. 11 68 n. 7 68 n. 8 68 n. 8 67 n. 6 67 n. 6 67 n. 5 68 n. 8 68 n. 8 44 n. 23 67 n. 6 67 67 n. 6 82 n. 50 67 n. 5 69 n. 11 105 with n. 9 137 137 140 n. 21 68 n. 7 40 105–106 with n. 10 34 44 n. 23 268 183 81 80–81 81 82 81 105 with n. 8 40

Homeric Hymns 5.6 5.58–59 5.58–66 5.59 5.66 5.292 6.2 6.3 10.1 10.4 Horace Ars poetica 388 Carmina 1.1.13–14 1.3 1.3.1 1.3.1–8 1.4 1.4.1 ff. 1.4.5–6 1.7 1.7.1–9 1.7.10–14 1.7.17–19 1.7.18 1.7.21–32 1.7.22–23 1.7.24 1.7.25–32 1.7.26 1.7.27 1.7.28–29 1.7.30–31 1.7.31 1.7.31–32 1.7.32 1.19 1.19.1 1.19.5 1.19.10 1.19.13–16 1.30 1.30.1 1.30.1–4

40 34 106 n. 11 208 208 105 with n. 7 34 208 40, 113 n. 12 34, 49 n. 27

125 n. 56 27 119, 123 27, 105 with n. 6 119–120 116 n. 21 137 134 n. 9 4, 65, 78 79 79 79 79 n. 43 79 79 n. 43 79 n. 43 80 81 81, 82 81 81 79 n. 43 80 81 120, 123 120 120 120 120 120, 209 n. 30 48, 120 38

Index Locorum  

1.30.3 1.36 1.36–38 2.3 2.3.1–16 2.3.6–7 2.3.8 2.3.12 2.3.13 2.3.14 2.3.17–28 3.8 3.8.1 3.8.15–16 3.28 3.28.13–14 3.28.13–15 3.29 3.29.17–24 3.29.19 3.29.60 3.30 4.9.11 Epodi 15.12 Saturae 2.1.82–84

120 113 n. 10 124 n. 50 115, 116, 121, 123 115 116 116 116 116 116 116 121 with n. 43, 123 121 121 38 41, 42, 48 38 119 with n. 36, 123 119 119 119 48 118 n. 31 116 123 n. 47

Hyginus Fabulae 58

166

Isidorus Etymologiae 8.11.41

133 n. 5

Iustinus Epitome 18.5

117 n. 24

Jerome Epistulae 38.3

161 n. 25

Juvenal 3.1–5 4.40

22 37 n. 11

Lactantius De ave Phoenice 9–30 137 15–20 133 n. 6 83–88 137 Divinae institutiones 1.17.9 17 Lamartine, Alphonse de La France parlementaire (1834–51). Œuvres oratoires et écrits politiques 284 281 n. 41 Voyage en Orient 1.121 266 n. 6 1.122 271–272 1.123 279 1.129 266 n. 7 Vues, discours et articles sur la question de l’Orient 26 280 n. 39 27 280–281 n. 40 31 281 n. 41 31–35 281 n. 41 Landino, Cristoforo Xandra 1.23.21 206 Laus Pisonis 91

46 n. 25

Lucan De Bello Civili 1.24–32 1.291–295 8.458 10.82 10.82–84 10.107–171 10.109–110 10.111 ff. 10.111–126 10.113 10.117 10.164–168

280 n. 40 147 n. 39 204 n. 11 145 144 141 145 140 n. 21 141–142 142 142 142

  Index Locorum Lucian De saltatione 37 De dea Syria 8

29 166

[Lucian] Amores 13–17

37 n. 11

Lucillius AP 11.148

127

Lucretius 3.18–24

137

Lycophron Alexandra 589

34

Marston, John Satire 6.6–8 232 n. 48 6.23–26 232 n. 48 The Metamorphosis of Pigmalion’s Image Stanza 12 232 Stanza 38 232 “The Argument of the Poem” 231 Martial 1.57 1.59 1.61 1.61.3 1.61.4 1.76 1.76.12 1.98 1.107.4 2.86 2.86.9–10 3.2.3–4 3.68.1–2 3.68.11–12 4.6 4.42 4.42.3

112 n. 5 112 n. 5 111, 112 n. 5, 122 111 123 n. 46 112 n. 5, 127 127 n. 68 112 n. 5 111 n. 2 125 n. 53 124–125 59 n. 35 122 n. 45 122 n. 45 122 112 n. 5, 117 117

4.42.4 4.42.5 4.42.11–12 4.42.14 4.42.14–16 4.42.16 4.49 4.86.8 5.84.10–11 6.21 6.61.8 7.1–2 7.5–8 7.82 7.87 8.18.5 8.28.13 8.45 8.45.5–8 8.45.7–8 8.55 8.55.5 9.29.11–12 9.33 9.42 9.55 9.55.2 9.89 9.89–91 9.90

9.90.1–2 9.90.1–6 9.90.1–8 9.90.1–12 9.90.3 9.90.4 9.90.7 9.90.7–8 9.90.8 9.90.9 9.90.9–12 9.90.10 9.90.10–11 9.90.11–12 9.90.12

117 n. 26 117 117 117 117 117 112 n. 5 59 n. 35 121 n. 42 122 n. 44 59 n. 35 124 n. 50 124 n. 50 112 n. 5 112 n. 5 111 n. 2 204 n. 11 111, 112 with n. 5, 113 112–113 111 112 n. 5, 122 122 126 112 n. 5 114, 123 n. 46 112 n. 4 and n. 5 123 n. 46 123, 125 123, 124 n. 50 111, 112 n. 5, 113–114, 115, 117, 119, 123 with n. 46, 124, 125, 128 123 116 114 111 123, 125 116, 121, 123 116, 117, 123 116, 118 116, 123 118 114 116, 123 123 118, 123 118, 119

Index Locorum  

9.90.13 9.90.13–14 9.90.13–18 9.90.15 9.90.16 9.90.17 9.90.18 9.93 10.6–7 10.24 10.24.1 10.48 10.48.5 11.27 11.80 11.80.1–2 11.95 11.98 11.100 11.101 12.2[3] 12.3.1 12.74

119, 124, 204 n. 11 123, 125 111, 114 121 123 123 123 123, 124 n. 50 124 n. 50 121 121 112 n. 5 123 n. 46 112 n. 5 112 n. 5 210 n. 34 112 n. 5 112 n. 5 112 n. 5 112 n. 5 114 111 n. 2 112 n. 5

Marullo, Michele Epigrammata 2.31.5–11 2.31.10 Hymni Naturales 2.7.59

47 48 48

Minucius Felix Octavius 23.5

133 n. 5

Morris, William The Earthly Paradise “Pygmalion and the Image” stanza 71 233 stanza 72 233 stanza 74 233 stanza 82 233 Naldi, Naldo Epigrammaton liber 189.11–14 46

Nerval, Gérard de Voyage en Orient 430

272 n. 22

Nonnus Dionysiaca 13.420 13.458–460

60 60

Novellino 51

179

Old Testament Ezekiel 8:14

160 n. 18

Ovid Amores 1.2.31–38 133 n. 6 1.15.35–36 170 2.17.1–4 41 Ars amatoria 1.7 122 1.31–34 122 1.67 165 n. 33 1.75 165 n. 33 1.255 ff. 211 n. 36 2.563–564 21 2.563–590 121 3.153–155 144 n. 29 3.181 44 3.387–388 165 n. 33 Epistulae (Heroides) 7.105 157 n. 9 10 234 10.22 234 10.49–50 234 12.1–2 78 n. 37 12.13 78 n. 37 15.3 157 n. 9 15.12 118 n. 31 Fasti 4.107–114 181 n. 14 4.135–138 194 4.157–160 194 5.23 226 n. 21 Metamorphoses 1.313–415 224, 231

  Index Locorum 1.553–556 2.1 ff. 2.1–7 3.402–510 6.23–24 6.24 6.26 6.70–102 6.83–100 6.103 6.103–104 6.104 6.130–145 8.404–868 8.856 9.666–797 10.1–7 10.1–85 10.1–185 10.8 10.78–85 10.79–80 10.83 10.152–154 10.152b–154 10.155–219 10.220–237 10.220–242 10.220–739 10.232–237 10.237 10.238–242 10.238–502 10.241 10.242 10.243 10.243–251 10.243–297 10.244 10.244–245 10.244–247 10.245–246 10.247 10.247–248 10.248 10.249 10.250

237 n. 67 140 n. 21 141 231 229 241 230 240 230 241 226 226 230 93 n. 23 42 93, 156 156 223 156 156 157 155 157 160 n. 17 88 157 223, 224 117 n. 24, 155 155 224 224 195, 223, 225 117 224 224 241 225 87, 155, 175, 177, 223 225, 241 95, 158, 225 108 n. 23 225 95, 236 225 95 158 95, 226

10.251 10.252 10.252–253 10.253 10.254–258 10.254–265 10.256 10.259 10.260 10.260–269 10.261 10.264 10.265 10.266 10.268 10.270 10.270 ff. 10.270–271 10.271 10.271–273 10.274 10.274–276 10.277 10.277–278 10.277–279 10.280 10.280–286 10.280–289 10.287 10.290–294 10.295 10.295–297 10.297 10.298–355 10.298–502 10.304–307 10.307–310 10.309 10.310 10.314–315 10.317–318 10.321–322 10.329–331 10.331–333

226, 241 159 95 95 227 236–237 236 236 236 194 236 236 236 88, 95 95, 241 92, 94 226 108 n. 24, 166 225 225 166 227 93 n. 21, 108 with n. 25 168 n. 42 167 95 238 108 n. 23 95 193 109 n. 27, 122 n. 44 167, 227 92–93, 109 n. 28, 155, 204 240 7–8, 118 n. 31, 143, 155, 223, 249 168 143, 144 168, 207 250 251 251 252 252 158

Index Locorum  

10.337–340 10.352 10.355 10.361 10.364 10.404 10.405–413 10.443–445 10.446 10.448–450 10.452–453 10.456–457 10.457–461 10.477–480 10.488 10.503–559 10.503–739 10.515–518 10.524–532 10.528–529 10.529–531 10.529–532 10.529–541 10.530 10.530–531 10.531 10.536 10.560–707 10.644–645 10.708–724 10.717–718 10.718 10.737–739 11.7 11.61–66 11.83–193 13.151–158 13.750–897 13.758–763 13.764–767 14.205–209 14.698–761 14.724–728 14.751–758 14.759–761 14.760–761

252 168 252 253 253 168 259 n. 37 254 254 254 254 254 254 168 168 223 155 159 169 169 43 41 209 n. 29 41, 207 47 45, 47 164 155 155 170 113 42 164 165, 157 n. 11 157 93 67 n. 2 175, 177 182 181–182 183 175, 177 192 192 34 n. 2, 193 49

Tristia 2.435

58 n. 28

Pacuvius Tragoedia incerta fr. 92 Klotz

76

Panyassis fr. 28 Bernabé fr. 29 Bernabé

165 n. 37 165 n. 37

Paridant-Van der Cammen, Edmond Étude sur l’île de Chypre considérée au point de vue d’une colonisation européenne Dedicatory epistle 267 n. 8, 281 23–24 281 n. 42 Parthenius Narrationum amatoriarum libellus 26 67 n. 2 Patricius Epithalamium Auspici et Aellae 10 134 n. 9 Pausanias 5.17.6

274

Perisauli, Faustino De triumpho stultitiae 3.456–460 46 3.458 47 3.460 47 Perry, Charles A View of the Levant etc. 143 266 n. 7, 273 with n. 25 Pettie, George Pygmalion’s Friend and his Image 243 230 Pindar fr. 122.18 Maehler

119 n. 37

  Index Locorum Nemean Odes 4.46–48

67 with n. 4

Plaisted, Bartholomew A Journal from Calcutta in Bengal, by Sea to Busserah etc. 124–139 272 n. 23 139 278–279 196 266 n. 7 218 266 n. 5 and 7 Plato Phaedrus 61B

163

Plato Comicus Adonis fr. 3 Kassel–Austin 165 Plautus Menaechmi 143–144 Mercator 357–358 644 644–647 645–647 646 646–647 647 648 830–841 931 931–939 932 933 Poenulus 339–340 Rudens 704 Pliny the Elder Naturalis historia 2.210 3.119 5.129–130 5.130

28 23–24 21 20–21 21 21, 22, 23 23 21, 22 20, 21 23 22 22–23 22 23 24 n. 25 29

137 n. 13 59 n. 35 268 n. 10 35

7.34 28.266 36.16 36.20

164 n. 33 15 n. 4 208 n. 23 37 n. 11

Pliny the Younger Epistulae 5.2 8.24

112 with n. 4 118 n. 33

Plutarch Moralia Amatorius 20, 766C–D 194 Quomodo adulator ab amico internoscatur 13, 57A 16 Vitae Parallelae Brutus 20 57 Cicero 4 127 n. 67 Solon 26 127 n. 66 Theseus 20.3–5 55 n. 20, 62 n. 48, 234 n. 56 Pococke, Richard A Description of the East, and Some other Countries 1.101–102, with Plates XXXVIII and XXXIX 275 n. 29 2.ix 269 n. 14 2.209 267 n. 7 2.210 269 n. 16 2.210–211 270 2.212 and Plate XXXIII 275 2.232 278 n. 36 Polybius 2.16.11 3.22 36.17.5–11

59 n. 35 274 280 n. 40

Pomponius Mela 2.103

49

Index Locorum  

Pontano, Giovanni De amore coniugali 3.4.1.35 207 n. 17 3.4.1.39 207 n. 17 De Hesperidum hortis 2.162 207 n. 17 De tumulis 2.24.1.5 207 n. 17 2.24.1.6 207 n. 17 Eclogae 1.1.10 207 n. 17 1.1.12 207 n. 17 Eridanus 1.3.9–10 209 1.3.60 207 n. 17 1.6.1 207 n. 17 1.6.1–3 45, 209 1.18 209–210 2.4.16 207 n. 17 2.19.25–26 210 2.21.11 207 n. 17 Hendecasyllabi sive Baiarum libri 1.13.37–38 211 n. 39 2.15.3–8 211 2.22 211 2.22.3–5 211 2.22.8 212 2.22.34 ff. 212 2.22.51 212 2.22.59–60 212 Urania 1.177–210 212 1.185 ff. 213 1.191 207 n. 17 1.211–212 213 1.211–214 213–214 1.215–217 213 1.218–220 214 3.291–308 215 3.347 207 n. 17 3.421 216 5.306 207 n. 17 5.412–500 213 5.429 207 n. 17 5.451 207 n. 17 5.704 207 n. 17

Posidippus Epigrammaticus AP 12.131.1 39 n. 15, 113 n. 12 ? Περὶ Κνίδου fr. 147 A/B Austin–Bastianini 37 n. 11 Praxilla fr. 747 PMG

162

Probus Commentarius in Vergilii Eclogas et Georgica Ecl. 10.18 165 n. 36 Propertius 1.12.17

118 n. 31

Quintilian Institutio oratoria 9.4.42 10.1.88 10.1.89

123 99 155

Racine, Jean-Baptiste Phèdre 3.3.837–838 261 n. 46 Sannazaro, Jacopo Salices 1–3 47 Sappho fr. 1 Voigt fr. 31 Voigt fr. 44.30 Voigt fr. 83 Voigt fr. 140 Voigt fr. 168 Voigt fr. 214 Voigt

38 52 139 n. 18 34 161 161–162 161

Scholia A ad Homeri Iliadem 8.284 Erbse 69 n. 10 Seneca the Younger Epistulae 28.4 76 n. 33 91.9.4 204 n. 11

  Index Locorum Oedipus 537 c 204 n. 11 Quaestiones naturales 6.26.4.4 204 n. 11 Servius Commentarius in Vergilii Aeneidem 1.720 46 n. 24 1.415 137 n. 13 1.619–621 77 n. 35 8.454 133 n. 5 Shakespeare, William The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice 2.3.53–54 15 n. 3 2.3.55 15 n. 3 2.3.57 15 n. 3 Venus and Adonis 161–162 170 233–234 171 547–582 154 769–810 154 1193–1194 172 Sidonius Apollinaris Epistulae 9.13.2 124 n. 49 Silius Italicus Punica 7.457

204 n. 11

Sophocles Ajax 433–440 440 462–467 562–564 900–902 944–945 1006–1007 1006–1016 1008–1021 1021–1023 1118–1119 1120 1228

67 n. 2 72 n. 19 72 n. 19 70 72 n. 20 72 n. 20 72 n. 19 71 72 n. 20 72 n. 20 72 70 70

1229–1230 1231 1235 1263 1264–1265 1290–1298 1311–1312 1346–1421 Antigone 850–851 Philoctetes 1057 Teucer frs. 576–579 Radt Statius Silvae 1.2 1.2.11 1.2.101 1.2.147–157 1.2.158–160 1.2.159 3.4.82 3.4.88 5.4.8 Thebais 4.300 5.61 5.61–64 7.186 Strabo 11.1 14.6 14.6.3 14.6.6

70 70 70 70 72 72 n. 22 72 n. 22 73 255 67 n. 5 73 n. 24

122 n. 44, 141, 146 n. 36 122 n. 44 204 n. 11 141 42–43 204 n. 11 204 n. 11 204 n. 11 204 n. 11 204 n. 11 204 n. 11 43 204 n. 11

268 n. 11 268 35 n. 6 270

Strozzi, Tito Vespasiano Borsias 2.25–26 45 6.132 207 n. 17

Index Locorum  

Suetonius Divus Iulius 4 85

127 n. 67 57

Tacitus Historiae 2.3.2

137 n. 13, 234 n. 59

Tatianus Oratio ad Graecos 33.8–9 33.10 36.25–37.2

164 n. 33 164 n. 33 164 n. 33

Terence Adelphoe 215–235 Eunuchus 420–430 803 Theocritus Idylls 15

25–26 16 20

15.100 15.100–101

37, 56 n. 22, 160 n. 20 37 34, 43

Thucydides 1.112.2–4

75 n. 28

Tibullus 1.2.9 1.3 1.3.35 1.3.35–48 1.3.49 1.3.49–50 1.3.57–66 1.3.58 1.3.59–60 1.3.61 1.3.61–62 1.3.62 1.3.63–64

117 n. 29 131, 132, 137, 140 140 140 140 140 138–139 139 139 139 139 139 139

1.5 1.5.21–22

118 118

[Tibullus] 3.19.5–6

117 n. 29

Turpilius Paedium fr. 152 Ribbeck3

19 with n. 13

Valerius Maximus 5.3.ext. 3b 9.9.1

127 n. 66 57

Valgius fr. 3 Morel

59 n. 35

Varro De lingua Latina 7.3 De re rustica 1.48.2

23 17

Velleius Paterculus 1.1 77 n. 34 Vergil Aeneid 1.2 1.180–197 1.198 1.198–207 1.208–209 1.242–249 1.257 1.320 1.327–329 1.337 1.404 1.415 1.415–417 1.619 1.619–626 1.625 1.625–626 1.627–630 1.680

66 80 81 80 82 66 n. 1 107 n. 15 107 n. 18 107 n. 17 107 n. 18 107 n. 18 203 107–108 with n. 19 78 77 78 78 77 with n. 36 44

  Index Locorum 1.680–681 1.680–682 1.681 3.104–110 3.495–497 4.20–22 4.248–249 5.759–760 6.273–281 7.170 ff. 7.170–191 8.333 10.16 10.51 10.51–52 10.51–53 11.225–274 11.252–254 11.292–293 11.457 Eclogues 1.66 4 4.18 6

47, 48 39, 45 42 67 n. 3 82 n. 49 242 n. 88 137 43 133 n. 6 140 n. 21 141 66 214 n. 45 40 n. 16, 47 43, 47, 48 40, 44 83 n. 51 82 n. 50 82 n. 50 59 n. 35 109 n. 32 131, 132, 137 138 137 n. 14

10.18 Georgics 2.64 2.118–119 2.376–379

165. n. 36 44, 203 143 with n. 27, 144 137

Verino, Ugolino Flammetta 1.4.13

207 n. 17

Wolseley, Sir Garnet The Journal of Sir Garnet Wolseley journal entry of 23 July 1878 (Cavendish) 273 n. 24, 276 n. 31, 282 n. 47 30 July 1878 (Cavendish) 273 n. 24 16 August 1878 (Cavendish) 282 n. 46 2 November 1878 (Cavendish) 282 3 November 1878 (Cavendish) 283 4 November 1878 (Cavendish) 283 Zenobius 2.82 Buhler

16