Vergil, Philodemus, and the Augustans 9780292798113

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v e rg i l , ph i lo d e m u s , a n d t h e au g u s ta n s

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vergil, philodemus, and the augustans Edited by

d av i d a r m s t ro n g , j e f f r ey f i s h , pat r i c i a a . j o h n s to n , and

m a r i ly n b . s k i n n e r

university of texas press austin

This book has been supported by an endowment dedicated to classics and the ancient world and funded by the Areté Foundation; the Gladys Krieble Delmas Foundation; the Dougherty Foundation; the James R. Dougherty, Jr. Foundation; the Rachael and Ben Vaughan Foundation; and the National Endowment for the Humanities. The endowment has also benefited from gifts by Mark and Jo Ann Finley, Lucy Shoe Meritt, the late Anne Byrd Nalle, and other individual donors. Copyright © 2004 by the University of Texas Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First edition, 2004 Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to Permissions, University of Texas Press, Box 789, Austin, TX 7873-789. The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ansi/niso z39.48-992 (r997) (Permanence of Paper). l i b r a ry o f c o n g r e s s c ata l o g i n g - i n - p u b l i c at i o n d ata Vergil, Philodemus, and the Augustans / edited by David Armstrong . . . [et al.]. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. i s b n 0-292-708-0 (alk. paper) . Philodemus, ca. 0–ca. 40 b.c. 2. Epicurus. 3. Virgil. 4. Rome—Poetry. 5. Latin poetry—History and criticism. I. Armstrong, David, 940– b598.p44 .v47 2004 87—dc22 20030588

To the Memory of

marcello gigante Buccino (Salerno) January 20, 923–Naples, November 23, 200 multis ille bonis flebilis occidit

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contents

Acknowledgments ix

Abbreviations xi

Introduction
david armstrong

i . e a r ly v e rg i l . Vergil’s Farewell to Education (Catalepton 5) and Epicurus’ Letter to Pythocles 25 diskin cl ay 2. Philosophy’s Harbor 37 francesca longo auricchio 3. Vergil’s Epicureanism in His Early Poems 43 régine chambert

i i . Eclogues a n d Georgics 4. Consolation in the Bucolic Mode: The Epicurean Cadence of Vergil’s First Eclogue 63 gregson davis 5. A Secret Garden: Georgics 4.6–48 75 w. r. johnson 6. Vergil in the Shadow of Vesuvius 85 marcello gigante

i i i . t h e Aeneid: t h e e m ot i o n s 7. The Vocabulary of Anger in Philodemus’ De ira and Vergil’s Aeneid
03 giovanni indelli

contents

8. Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of Aeneid 2.567–589: A New Proof of Authenticity from Herculaneum


jeffrey fish 9. Philodemus: Avocatio and the Pathos of Distance in Lucretius and Vergil
39 frederic m. schroeder

i v. t h e Aeneid: pi e t y a n d t h e g o d s 0. Piety in Vergil and Philodemus
59 patricia a. johnston . Vergil’s De pietate: From Ehoiae to Allegory in Vergil, Philodemus, and Ovid
75 dirk obbink 2. Emotions and Immortality in Philodemus On the Gods 3 and the Aeneid 2

michael wigodsky

v. t h e Aeneid: a e s t h e t i c s 3. Carmen inane: Philodemus’ Aesthetics and Vergil’s Artistic Vision 23
marilyn b. skinner 4. Vergil and Music, in Diogenes of Babylon and Philodemus 245 daniel del at tre

v i . ot h e r au g u s ta n p o e ts 5. Horace’s Epistles  and Philodemus 267 david armstrong 6. Varius and Vergil: Two Pupils of Philodemus in Propertius 2.34? 299 francis cairns Bibliography 323 Contributors 343 General Index 347 Index Locorum 357

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ac k n ow l e d g m e n t s

The papers in this volume were first presented at the Symposium Cumanum ‘‘Vergil and Philodemus,’’ held at the Villa Vergiliana in Cuma, Italy, in June 2000. This conference, the first international symposium focusing on the relationship between these two authors, was organized by Patricia A. Johnston and Marilyn B. Skinner with the assistance of the late Marcello Gigante, Professor Emeritus of the University of Naples Federico II, and founder of Chronache Ercolanesi, the journal of the Centro Internazionale per lo Studio dei Papiri Ercolanesi (CISPE). The meeting was sponsored by the Vergilian Society of America, by Brandeis University, and by the Department of Classics and the College of Humanities of the University of Arizona at Tucson. We are grateful to all of these organizations and institutions for their generosity. We also thank the gracious Famiglia Sgariglia for providing both the charming setting and the wonderful meals for this scholarly interchange, and the Biblioteca Nazionale for making the papyri accessible to the conference participants during a visit to the Officina dei Papiri Ercolanesi. Under the guidance of Marcello Gigante’s successor, Francesca Longo Auricchio, the Centro continued to play an important role in bringing this book to completion. Publication of the volume was made possible through the support and assistance of Joanna Hitchcock, Director of the University of Texas Press, who warmly encouraged our proposal. Humanities Editor James Burr offered invaluable advice and support throughout the process of manuscript preparation. We are very grateful for the valuable assistance provided by Managing Editor Carolyn Cates Wylie and for the superb job performed by Sherry Wert in copyediting a very difficult manuscript. Lastly, we deeply appreciate the expertise, painstaking care, and helpful advice of the Press referees. Finally, a special word of thanks to Marilyn Skinner for her efforts to bring this book to press on schedule, and to all our understanding families for their patient and long-suffering support.

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a b b r e v i at i o n s

Abbreviated names of ancient authors and works follow the system used in the Oxford Classical Dictionary, 3d ed. (996). For abbreviated titles of most periodicals and standard reference works, consult L’Année philologique. Those which are formed principally of initial letters are listed below. AJP AncSoc ANRW AntR APAW A&R ARCA ASNP BMCR ClassAnt CErc CJ C&M CP CQ CR CW D-K EGM EMC FHSG

American Journal of Philology Ancient Society Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt Antioch Review Abhandlungen der Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften (Berlin) Atene e Roma ARCA Classical and Medieval Texts, Papers, and Monographs Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa Bryn Mawr Classical Review (http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/bmcr.html) Classical Antiquity Cronache Ercolanesi Classical Journal Classica et Mediaevalia Classical Philology Classical Quarterly Classical Review Classical World H. Diels and W. Kranz, Fragmente der Vorsokratiker, 6th ed. (Berlin, 952) R. L. Fowler, Early Greek Mythography, vol.  (Oxford, 2000) Échos du Monde classique, Classical News and Views W. W. Fortenbaugh, P. M. Huby, R. W. Sharples, and

abbreviations

GB GIF G-P G&R GRBS HSCP ICS JRS KHB L-P MAAR MD MEFR MH M.-W. OCD OCT OLD PVS PP RAAN RCCM R-E RÉA RÉL RFIC RhM SCO SIFC SO TAPA ZPE

D. Gutas, eds., Theophrastus of Eresus, text and trans., 2 vols. (Leiden, 992) Grazer Beiträge Giornale Italiano di Filologia A. S. F. Gow and D. L. Page, The Greek Anthology: Hellenistic Epigrams, 2 vols. (Cambridge, 965) Greece & Rome Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies Harvard Studies in Classical Philology Illinois Classical Studies Journal of Roman Studies A. Kiessling, R. Heinze, and E. Burck, Q. Horatius Flaccus, 8. Aufl., 3 vols. (Berlin-Neuköln, 955–957) E. Lobel and D. L. Page, Poetarum Lesbiorum Fragmenta (Oxford, 955) Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome Materiali e Discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici Mélanges d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’École Française de Rome Museum Helveticum R. Merkelbach and M. L. West, Fragmenta Hesiodea (Oxford, 967) Oxford Classical Dictionary Oxford Classical Texts Oxford Latin Dictionary Proceedings of the Virgil Society La Parola del Passato Rendiconti dell’Accademia di Archeologia, Lettere e Belle Arti di Napoli Rivista di Cultura classica e medioevale Real-Encyclopädie der klassischen Altertumswissenschaft Revue des Études Anciennes Revue des Études Latines Rivista di Filologia e di Istruzione Classica Rheinisches Museum Studi Classici e Orientali Studi Italiani di Filologia Classica Symbolae Osloenses Transactions of the American Philological Association Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

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introduction d av i d a r m s t r o n g

In June 2000, the First International Symposium on Philodemus, Vergil, and the Augustans was held at the Villa Vergiliana in Cuma, Italy, a short distance from the site of the discovery at Herculaneum, from October 752 to August 754, of a large collection of papyrus rolls containing the lost works of Philodemus of Gadara. A number of major Philodemus and Vergil scholars participated in this meeting, which was co-sponsored by the Vergilian Society, Brandeis University, and the Department of Classics and the College of Humanities at the University of Arizona, Tucson. A remarkable degree of consensus on a new perspective concerning the Epicureanism of Vergil and Horace emerged from these presentations, opening doors to a rich new line of investigation and study of these two great literary figures. The essays presented here represent a sizeable portion of the presentations made at that meeting, which, like this volume, focused on Philodemus’ decisive influence on Vergil. From at least the 30s b.c. onward, there had been a consistent biographical tradition linking Vergil and Horace to the Epicurean school at Naples and to Philodemus and his associate Siro.1 Servius’ notes on Vergil’s sixth eclogue allegorize Silenus as Siro, the nymph Aegle as Hedone or pleasure, the Epicurean ideal, and the shepherds as Vergil and his and Horace’s friend, the great literary critic Quintilius Varus.2 Many of his commentary’s notes on the Georgics and Aeneid attribute Vergil’s philosophical training to the Epicureans, though the commentary (which has various layers) generally considers him in later life an eclectic.3 The Catalepton, a much-debated collection that claims to be Vergil’s early shorter poems, contains two, 5 and 8, dedicated to Siro: nos ad beatos vela mittimus portus, magni petentes docta dicta Sironis, vitamque ab omni vindicabimus cura.

david armstrong

We spread our sails for the ports of happiness, seeking a cargo of Siro’s learned sayings, and shall free our life from every care.4 catalepton 5.8–0

villula, quae Sironis eras, et pauper agelle, verum illi domino tu quoque divitiae, me tibi et hos una mecum, quos semper amavi, si quid de patria tristius audivero, commendo, in primisque patrem. tu nunc eris illi Mantua quod fuerat quodque Cremona prius. Little villa, once Siro’s, and you, o tiny field, the true and perfect riches of such a master, I commend myself, and with myself those I’ve long loved (if some news of evil comes from my native city) to you: my father specially: you shall be what Mantua and Cremona were to him before. catalepton 8

If these poems are genuine (and the weight of scholarly opinion is in their favor: but even if they are not, they represent a very early biographical tradition), Vergil was an enthusiastic student of Siro’s at Naples and bought Siro’s villa (after his death?) as a philosophical retreat. Moreover, one of the greatest influences on Vergil’s poetry, Lucretius’ De rerum natura, is a doctrinaire Epicurean poem; Lucretius’ great contemporary Catullus had already been known to have been influenced by at least one of Philodemus’ thirty-four surviving epigrams in the Greek Anthology, Horace by several of them, and Ovid, Propertius, and Tibullus by several also.5 Most important, the Herculaneum papyri themselves turn out to confirm what had been conjectured on good grounds already since Körte 873—that Philodemus dedicated a treatise On Flattery to four patrons at once: Vergil himself; Quintilius Varus; Varius Rufus, the author of the tragedy Thyestes produced by Augustus in 25 b.c.; and Plotius Tucca, who helped Varius edit the Aeneid when Vergil left it incomplete at his death (he is also the addressee of Catalepton ). Another papyrus containing Book 4 of Philodemus’ On Death (P.Herc. 050) shows clearly that that philosophical treatise inspired Varius Rufus’ poem De Morte, which, in turn, was greatly admired and imitated by Vergil.6 For a fuller explanation, see Marcello Gigante’s essay in this book and the details of earlier 2

Introduction

attempts in Gigante 973. Here it is enough to say that he and Mario Capasso (Gigante and Capasso 989) discovered and published a passage of P.Herc. Paris. 2 that had been sent to Paris as a gift to Napoleon in 802 and was returned to Naples to be opened in the mid-980s. In this text at last, all four names appeared clearly and confirmed that three separate times, here and more fragmentarily in P.Herc. 082 and 253, Philodemus in this treatise did indeed make his addressees the four friends, and in the same order of names: Plotius (Tucca), Varius (Rufus), Vergilius (Maro), Quintilius (Varus). All four of these are also mentioned as close friends and fellow workers in literature by Horace throughout his career, and in an early poem, Satire .2, in a book of poems distinctly Epicurean in tone, Horace pointedly praises one of Philodemus’ epigrams as giving far better advice on love than one of Callimachus’ (Sat. .2.05– 22)—a significant declaration, in a book whose literary theory, like so much Augustan poetry, is aggressively ‘‘Callimachean’’ in tone and detail. Here at last was the complete proof that earlier speculations about Philodemus’ friendship with and influence on the major Augustan poets were fully justified. Who was Philodemus? The English reader can nowadays survey what is known about him better and more easily than ever in such recent accounts as Asmis’ 990 ANRW survey of his philosophical writings, Dirk Obbink’s 995 English translation of Marcello Gigante’s excellent Philodemus in Italy, and especially David Sider’s full account of his career, together with a collection of the biographical fragments in Latin and Greek with English translation, in the introduction and appendixes to his The Epigrams of Philodemus (997). Thus, we can be brief here. Philodemus was born at Gadara (c. 0 b.c.), in Palestine, and probably died at Herculaneum (c. 40/35 b.c.). He studied as a young man at Athens with Zeno of Sidon, head of the Epicurean school there and an admired and controversial original thinker who supplemented and changed the school’s thought, especially on mathematics and aesthetics, in places where earlier Epicureans had had little to say, and who was much criticized, according to Philodemus’ accounts of his doctrines, by more conventional Epicureans who disliked innovation. Philodemus himself was in his own words the ‘‘faithful admirer’’ (erastēs) of Zeno while he lived and an ‘‘untiring singer of his praise,’’ his akopiatos hymnētēs, after his death (P.Herc. 005, col. xiv.8–9 Angeli).7 Where we can date the philosophers of other schools whom Philodemus criticizes in his own treatises, they appear to end with Zeno’s contemporaries, like the Stoic Diogenes of Babylon, which means that Philodemus con3

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tents himself mostly with repeating Zeno’s arguments with his own rivals and with earlier philosophers rather than engaging in debate with the philosophers of his own generation. In other words, Philodemus carried on Zeno’s thought and restated it, and (rather than being a great original thinker) probably contributed mostly a change of emphasis toward the subjects that interested him most: ethics, the emotions, aesthetics (including his own practice of poetry and elaborate examinations of Epicurean and other theories of how to read it), and interpersonal therapeutics, of which he gives a long and interesting account, explicitly derived from Zeno, in On Frank Speaking. Philodemus also, like many philosophers before and after him who were more influential as teachers and expositors than as original thinkers, devoted much of his life’s work to the doxography and history of philosophy. He came to Rome after the First Mithridatic War and enjoyed the patronage of L. Calpurnius Piso Caesoninius (cos. 58 b.c.), the fatherin-law of Julius Caesar; in this wealthy nobleman’s villa at Herculaneum were found the famous charred papyrus rolls.8 Along with the Epicurean philosopher Siro, Philodemus had profound influence on a group of brilliant young students of Greek literature and philosophy whose activities were centered at Herculaneum and Naples. These students included Vergil and, as David Armstrong argues briefly here in his essay, probably Horace. But Philodemus also was highly regarded by some of the outstanding intellectuals of the previous generation, for Cicero praises him and Siro as the greatest Epicurean authorities he knew among his contemporaries in Italy (Fin. 2.9) and drew on his writings (probably) for the Epicurean theories criticized in such philosophical writings as De natura deorum. Admiration for Philodemus’ epigrams, which Cicero says was universal (Pis. 70–7), seems to have been shared by Catullus, who wrote the first Latin imitation known to us (3) of the famous ‘‘invitation to a simple dinner’’ epigram to Piso. As Sider (997, following Tait 94) shows, this poem created a ‘‘mini-genre’’ in Latin carried on by, among others, Horace (Carm. .20, 4.2; Ep. .5), Martial (5.78, 0.48), and Juvenal (.56–76):9 Tomorrow, dearest Piso, to his simple home at three p.m. your poetic comrade will drag you, for his annual dinner, the Twentieth; there will be no rich Roman sow’s udders or toasts in expensive Chian, but completely faithful friends and things to hear sweeter than anything in Phaeacia’s land. 4

Introduction

Indeed if you turn a favorable eye on us also, our Twentieth will turn from simple to fine. philodemus epigram 27 sider = g-p 23

By the Twentieth, Philodemus means Epicurus’ birthday; we know from a funeral inscription that one of the freedwomen of Caesar’s wife Calpurnia, Piso’s daughter, named her son (or her owners named him) Eikadion, ‘‘Mr. Twentieth,’’ and also (since she rejoices that he had such excellent friends, and shows no sorrow at his death) that the freedwoman was herself an Epicurean. Calpurnia was also an Epicurean, to judge from the fact that Plutarch says in his famous account of her dream the night before Caesar was killed, which made her try to stop him from going to the Senate, that Caesar was the more disposed to pay attention to her because ‘‘he had never before had to accuse her of any tendency to womanly superstition’’ (Caes. 43).10 Finally, it appears, at least from what is known so far, that Philodemus’ library may have contained copies of Latin poets, for in the Herculaneum library have been deciphered fragments of Ennius and Lucretius, in what look from the few small bits that survive to have been expensive and elaborately produced copies.11 Thus we have at least tenuous links between Lucretius, the great ‘‘fundamentalist’’ Epicurean poet of Rome, as Sedley calls him, whose doctrines, at least in Sedley’s vision, are severely derived from the master himself without reference to later Epicureans and their controversies,12 and the revisionist circle of Philodemus, who has been called a ‘‘Panaetius of the Garden’’ for his and Zeno’s expansions and revisions of Epicurean studies,13 and the poets influenced by his poetry and philosophy, like Vergil and Horace. Many of these links have been known and studied since at least the late nineteenth century. As we saw, even the incomplete texts from P.Herc. 082 and 253, first discussed by Körte (890), suggested that Vergil, Horace, and their circle had been influenced by the Naples and Herculaneum schools. Texts like these had already created an earlier wave of enthusiasm for the theory of an Epicurean connection between Philodemus and Siro and the great Roman poets. This wave of enthusiasm lasted (we may say) from Körte’s days to the 940s, spurred by the series of Teubner texts of Philodemus’ prose published by scholars like Wilke, Sudhaus, Olivieri, and Jensen between the 890s and the 920s—besides the epigrams, for which scholars of that day had Kaibel’s edition of 885, and whose text had always been comparatively unproblematic. This wave of enthusiasm, represented among others by Augusto Ro5

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stagni in Italy and by G. L. Hendrickson, Tenney Frank, Norman De Witt, Agnes Michels, and Jane I. M. Tait in the United States, seems to have come to a temporary halt in the world of Anglo-American scholarship with such works as Tait’s 94 dissertation, ‘‘Philodemus’ Influence on the Latin Poets,’’ and Michels’ short but brilliant article of 944, ‘‘Parrhesia and the Satire of Horace.’’ Rostagni was among the first to appreciate the revolutionary nature of Philodemus’ poetic and aesthetic theories and speculate on their influence on Cicero, Vergil, and Horace in his articles ‘‘Filodemo contra l’estetica classica’’ (Rostagni 923–924) and his commentary on the Ars poetica (Rostagni 930). Hendrickson, a prescient literary critic for his day, whose criticisms of Latin poetry remarkably anticipate modern concerns with genre theory and intertextuality, pointed out in a fine article of 98 significant intertextualities between Horace’s lyric poetry and Philodemus’ epigrams. Tenney Frank in his 922 biography of Vergil argued that behind the Aeneid ’s facade of gods and journeys to the underworld, a poet who had never abandoned his youthful devotion to Epicureanism was easy to discern, prefiguring the work by Gordon Williams and Viviane Mellinghoff-Bourgery discussed in Marcello Gigante’s contribution to this volume. De Witt asserted Horace’s lifelong Epicureanism throughout his works, from the earliest Satires to the latest Epistles. Michels (944) and De Witt (935) both saw the importance of the treatise on Epicurean interpersonal therapy, On Frank Speaking, to the now mild, now astonishingly harsh tone Horace takes to his addressees in both his lyric and his hexameter poems: even the apparent harshness is flattering, for it implies that the addressee is a fellow student and progress-maker in philosophy. Above all, Tait (94) provided the first comprehensive survey of the influence of Philodemus’ epigrams and (more timidly, because of the formidably difficult state of the texts in her day) his prose theories on the Roman poets from Catullus to Ovid and beyond. In the context of the present volume, these scholars can be seen to have made great progress for their time, and many of their conclusions are still important. Our sympathies are especially with Tait, whose work on Philodemus’ influence on the Latin poets had to wait over fifty years for full and generous recognition at last in Sider’s commentary on the epigrams, and, we hope, finds it in the present volume also. But what frustrated the hopes of these scholars was the slowing of work on further editions of Philodemus’ prose. Not unjustifiably. From the 920s onward, fewer and fewer scholars outside Italy worked on the Herculaneum papyri. The Teubner editions, many of them in fact reasonably reliable and making good sense of their difficult texts, were also full of what looked like (and 6

Introduction

too often were) audacious emendations. But as time went on after their publication, the hopes of the scholarly world for more accurate information that could be checked and reliably estimated by the international scholarly community faded. The story of this frustrating period has been well told by Mario Capasso in his succinct and appealing 99 history of Philodemus’ texts and Philodemus studies, Manuale di Papirologia Ercolanese, and little of it needs to be repeated here. Certainly, the few scholars who went against the current and made Philodemus central to their investigation of Augustan poetry and poetics achieved remarkable results. Two familiar examples among the works of Anglo-American scholars are Charles Brink’s researches in volume  of his Horace on Poetry (963) into the influence of Neoptolemus of Parium’s poetic theories, as reported by Philodemus, on Horace’s Ars poetica and other theoretical satires and epistles, and Nathan Greenberg’s pioneering investigation of Philodemus’ own poetic theories in his Harvard dissertation of 955, ‘‘The Poetic Theory of Philodemus,’’ and the brief but influential articles (Greenberg 958, 96) with which he followed it. These at least had the result that Philodemus’ poetic and rhetorical theories were well summarized in outline for English readers in Grube’s The Greek and Latin Critics of 965. But the discouraging climate for such researches is shown by the fact that Greenberg’s dissertation—which will remain fundamental to the study of Philodemus’ poetics, as we now know, even when all the complicated texts involved have been redone, rearranged, and edited as perfectly as they can be—was only made available to the general public in 990. That, not coincidentally, was the year in which several of the authors in this volume—David Armstrong, Michael Wigodsky, and Dirk Obbink—began, after the Christmas 989 American Philological Association meeting in Boston, with their colleagues Richard Janko, David Blank, and James Porter, to plan what became the Philodemus Translation Project, which was funded by the Texts and Translation Division of the National Endowment for the Humanities, an independent federal agency. Eventually its results will encompass all the aesthetic works in new texts, the best that can be made with our new techniques, especially of reordering of fragments and multiple-imaging photography; and wonderful examples of what can and will be achieved are available today in volume  of Dirk Obbink’s Philodemus on Piety (996) and Richard Janko’s new edition of Book  of Philodemus on Poems (2000). This project would never have been possible if not for the work of the one remarkable man who is the fons et origo of modern international studies of the Philodemus library: Marcello Gigante. It was he who, on 7

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succeeding in 964 to the directorship of what became the Centro Internazionale per lo Studio dei Papiri Ercolanesi (CISPE) in Naples, broke down all the barriers to international study of these texts and introduced modern methods—including the first microscopes allowed in their study since their discovery in the eighteenth century—to the Officina dei Papiri in the National Library, and it was he who inspired and began the journal Cronache Ercolanesi (97–), now in its thirtieth year of providing the world with new and reliable texts and studies of the Herculaneum papyri by scholars both Italian and foreign. He also designed and fostered the great series La Scuola di Epicuro, which has now provided seventeen authoritative Herculaneum texts with translation and notes. Since the Philodemus Translation Project began work in Naples in 993, even more exciting results have come about, always with Gigante’s help and encouragement. Richard Janko, Dirk Obbink, and Daniel Delattre have recreated immense masses of text previously scattered across various confusing papyrus numbers and published out of their proper order, by what has come to be called the ‘‘Delattre-Obbink’’ method owing to its nearsimultaneous discovery by these two scholars.14 In the mid-990s the Project presented the Officina with new and more powerful microscopes that increased the accuracy of reading significantly; and just recently—for these workers had only begun photographing in summer 2000 when the Cumae conference presented here was held—researchers from the Institute for the Study and Preservation of Ancient Religious Texts proved the usefulness of the new technique of multi-spectral imaging (MSI) photography in recovering readings even (sometimes) from parts of the papyri where nothing was readable either by the naked eye or by microscope.15 The digital images provided by this technique will soon make it possible to accomplish a good part of the tedious work of reading and editing outside the Officina on computer screens, and will provide international scholars in the future with a means of at least partially reviewing and checking our work electronically, without having to visit Naples. Marcello Gigante’s death in November 200 was a blow to every one of us in the Philodemus Translation Project and to all the authors in this volume, all the more cruel because we had hoped to reward his constant encouragement of research into the papyri and his enthusiastic participation in the Cumae conference with ever more fruitful results. We are happy to dedicate this volume to his memory, as one of a long series of volumes and articles that his enthusiasm and genius have inspired during his more than thirty years as head of the Centro Internazionale per lo Studio dei Papiri Ercolanesi. 8

Introduction

As it is, recent years have seen unparalleled international progress in reading Philodemus; and yet the substance of Philodemus’ thought was already so visible to scholars like Rostagni, De Witt, Michels, or Greenberg that there is surprisingly little about their fundamental insights that needs to be radically altered, rather than refined, supplemented, and confirmed by the new texts. If we review briefly the seven texts most fundamental to the present volume, every one of which is now far better and more reliably known and easier to access than it was when Marcello Gigante began a new era in Philodemus studies in 970, the reason will be obvious. These seven texts are the ‘‘aesthetics’’ complex, On Poetry, On Music, On Rhetoric; the remarkable treatise on Epicurean spiritual direction and psychotherapy, On Frank Speaking; the ethical treatises On Death and On Anger; and the essay in ethical re-interpretation of the Iliad and Odyssey, On the Good King According to Homer. We have far better texts of the works on poetry, music, and rhetoric now than ever before, and more are coming. For Philodemus’ influence on the Augustans, though, the new texts mostly confirm, supplement, and correct what already was known in general by the 960s, or even the 920s. The Epicureans held that the five senses are irrational (aloga) and mechanical but (as far as they go) correct reporters of sense data, and that all correct and incorrect interpretations of these sense data are successes or failures of the rational mind, the logos. Thus Philodemus in On Music is the most hostile of all ancient theorists to the idea that pure music has either intellectual content or emotional and moral influence over the human mind.16 Pure music is not a rational experience, and if there are rational and mathematical theories of its production, these are merely theories of the production of pure sound and can guarantee no specific content, moral or intellectual, and can interest the rational mind only to the extent that they concern the purely artisan question of production and performance. Anything else is an illusion created by the presence of poetic text, which does have rational meaning and can be appreciated by the mind, but which as message can never convey instruction as well as philosophical prose can. As for music, it might excite and move the body, but never the mind. Though Neubecker and Delattre have given us far more reliable texts to work with than we had before, this much was always known, and has been analyzed by such earlier writers as Warren Anderson (966) in ways that were already profitable and reliable, if not completely in detail, certainly in general; and L. P.Wilkinson (932–933) had already seen in the 930s that Horace’s Ars poetica echoes this emphasis on text, not music, as central to poetry’s influence and impact. 9

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On Rhetoric, which reveals Philodemus and Zeno as innovators in the context of their school (for Philodemus says some Epicureans denied that Epicurus had allowed rhetoric to be an art capable of theoretical treatment), again holds that the true function of rhetoric is neither political persuasion nor the rousing of emotion in an audience, as Aristotle and the theorists after him had held, for these can be done by means that have nothing to do with rhetoric.17 The real essence of rhetoric is epideictic, the art of artistic and brilliant prose applied to any subject trivial or important. In other words, the pure intellectual appreciation of beauty in the practice of rhetoric ought to take precedence over its practical political and forensic applications, which are not of its essence. On Poems carries still further this theory of aesthetic and intellectual appreciation as being at the heart of artistic experience. Music is the least intellectual of artistic experiences; rhetoric is more worthy as an art of intellectual pleasure; but the heightened sense of form in its interrelationship with thought and content that makes every poem unique, and not a mere repetition of the same subject or topic as some other poet has already used, and the pleasure of realizing how that interrelationship is achieved, are the essence of what poetry can give, its idion, compared to which any moral, factual, or ethical content it may have is simply irrelevant to judging it good poetry or bad. The true philosopher is not in danger of being ‘‘taught’’ anything wrong by it, for he knows that its excellence, qua poetry, is purely formal and there to be appreciated by study and intellect, and that true teaching is only conveyed by accurate philosophical and scientific prose. But poetry is a legitimate and harmless intellectual pleasure if understood in this way, and each exercise in it by a good poet has the glory of being unique in its impact to such an extent that that impact on the mind, not merely the senses, is altered not only by large but by small changes, such as variant readings, none of which are indifferent to the experience as a whole.18 Thus, even sonic beauty in poetry adds not only to irrational music in the poem but to intellectual meaning.19 The theory is relevant to the formal criticism of Augustan poetry, with its elaborate and highly intentional sonic beauty and its immense command of complicated formal effects small and large, and perhaps we can see its influence especially in poets like Propertius, Ovid, and Tibullus, with their recusationes of epic and politics and their assumption that good Callimachean poetry takes precedence of the political and moral dimensions of discourse. But though it helps with the formal analysis of Vergil and Horace, both poets have moral concerns, not to mention their proclamations of their roles as vates, which the theory does not completely 0

Introduction

address. This is part of the reason why many of our essayists (like Marilyn Skinner) are more ready to see Vergil and Horace as intelligent and combative readers and critics, even of Philodemus’ more liberal and less doctrinaire and technical presentation of Epicureanism and its aesthetic implications, than as simple followers. Here, Philodemus’ concessions to the moral teaching of poetry, especially of what it can make of the ideal statesman and good king, in On the Good King, seem more relevant. Asmis (99) correctly explained that there is no contradiction: Homer said many things rightly about the ‘‘goodness’’ of his better princes, though it was not essential to his poems’ ‘‘goodness’’ that he should have done so, and though it takes a philosopher to explain them correctly, not a poet. It also takes a philosopher to indicate the panoply of rival theories, by Stoics and others, presented and criticized in On Poems, which Richard Janko has brilliantly untangled from the confusion of misarranged fragments and clarified in his new edition of Book . According to most of these, though moral goodness would be preferable to a philosophical reader, the essence of poetry is the formal perfection of its music and sound, which in itself is sufficient to create poetry that is in that one sense ‘‘good,’’ even if its implied ethical teaching is imperfect or bad. The theories of the Aristotelian critic Neoptolemus of Parium, whom Philodemus criticizes in On Poems 5, break the art of poetry down into three main divisions: poiēma (poetry at the level of line-by-line stylistic finish), poiēsis (the larger considerations of subject and form), and poiētēs (the education and training of the poet). Philodemus insists that these are not perfectly separable components, but factors, each of which continually influences the others.20 Both Neoptolemus’ formulation and Philodemus’ objections to it may well have influenced Horace’s Ars poetica. The treatise On Frank Speaking is at last available to English readers in the joint translation published by the Society for Biblical Literature (Konstan et al. 998), and the introductory essay to this translation by Clarence E. Glad can be especially recommended, along with his summary of it in his Paul and Philodemus, which argues that Philodemus’ techniques for confessional therapy and group therapy by ‘‘frank speaking’’ influenced Paul in setting up his early Christian communities.21 Philodemus describes in detail how the Epicurean teacher quasi-medically treats his students, not only with the gentle medicines of such techniques as confessing that he himself has committed the same faults, but with genuinely harsh (sklēron) reproaches that he describes as like strong cathartics, relentlessly applied. These reproaches create the same ‘‘natural’’ and healthy pain that Philodemus ascribes to ‘‘natural’’ anger in On Anger

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and the more natural and sympathetic fear caused by the threat of death in On Death. And they can be helped by the same vivid ( pro ommaton, ‘‘before the eyes’’) and aversive presentation of the bad consequences of the students’ vices. Indeed, the application of these is an implied compliment to the students’ strength of character, for they are not appropriate to beginners or to the weak. Along with Plutarch’s treatise How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend, which shows to what a surprising extent not just philosophical friendship but friendship in general in the ancient world depended on the exchange not only of compliments but also of determined frank criticism, this treatise is a crucial help in understanding the surprising frankness, verging on rudeness, with which writers like Horace and Seneca speak to their addressees. And it is a crucial supplement, for Plutarch’s examples cover the field of ordinary conversation and the expectations that ancient ‘‘friends’’ in everyday life had of each other, but it is only Philodemus among surviving writers who describes fully how the ancient philosophical therapist used frankness, parrhēsia, to achieve spiritual and philosophical progress in his students. Philodemus’ theory of anger in On Anger has been much discussed in recent years because of Giovanni Indelli’s authoritative 988 edition in the Scuola di Epicuro series, but its basic outline was already clear enough from Karl Wilke’s 94 Teubner text. Philodemus supports the use of Stoic diatribe (there is debate nowadays—see the third edition of the Oxford Classical Dictionary s.v. ‘‘Diatribe’’—on whether this was an actual ancient form, but the debate has not yet taken this text into account) for its ‘‘vividness,’’ its quasi-medical and therapeutic use in putting the ugliness of unrestrained anger and particularly the vicious pleasure of revenge pro ommaton, ‘‘before the eyes,’’ and gives a long diatribe of his own in the Stoic manner, in the course of which he rounds on his own pupils and shows the damaging effects of anger on the philosophical student with vivid examples apparently taken from his own school and justified by his own treatise On Frank Speaking, which he explicitly cites in col. xxxvi. He goes on to argue against the Aristotelians that their justification of anger as an emotion appropriate to a wise man, if based on real slight and injustice, does not distinguish between its pain, which is natural and helpful, and its pleasure, which leads to irrational and prolonged obsessions with, and self-damaging projects of, revenge, rather than to the righting of wrongs, the only goal that can justify anger. Natural and good anger is characterized by pain, is short in duration, and is accompanied by little or no pleasure, and the wise man accepts it as he accepts a foul-tasting medicine or the surgeon’s knife, not with pleasure. It is only false and self-indulgent 2

Introduction

anger and pleasure in revenge, which Philodemus calls thymos, ‘‘rage,’’ and not orgē, ‘‘anger,’’ that is to be condemned as damaging to the wise man’s soul. The underlying implication, in terms of Epicureanism, is that the pleasure of anger is a perfect instance of untrustworthy ‘‘kinetic’’ pleasure, not the ‘‘katastematic’’ or static and contemplative pleasures appropriate to the sage, and self-prolonging; the pain of anger can be accepted as natural and helpful, and moreover is self-limiting, for by Epicurean theory no one can be naturally eager to prolong pain. We see in the present volume, especially in Fish’s, Indelli’s, and Armstrong’s essays, the relevance of this text to Vergil and Horace: Horace explicitly recommends, not abstinence from anger, but brief and moderate anger as an ethical ideal, and indeed ascribes it to himself as a virtue at Ep. .20.25 (see Armstrong’s piece in this volume). In Vergil’s case, On Anger has become central to the debate since Galinsky’s (988) and Erler’s (992b) crucial essays: these authors, like Indelli and Fish in this volume, see that treatise as crucial to the morality of the Aeneid and the understanding of its often-repeated key words furor and ira, and Philodemus’ theory as a basis for the understanding of the difference between Turnus’ rash pleasure in anger and Aeneas’ reluctant acceptance of it as a motivation for war and punishment. In On Death, a text not yet available in full to the international scholarly community (for the 925 edition with notes and translation in Dutch by Taco Kuiper has never gained the general circulation it merited, and Gigante [983b] has given only a reliable text and translation into Italian of its fragmentary opening columns and its splendid peroration), Philodemus achieves rhetorical heights most unusual for him. Most of his philosophical treatises are composed in a far looser style than his surviving poems, and some of them, as John Procopé (993) has recently complained about On Anger, strike readers used to the elaborate formalities, the antithesis and parallelism, of most classical Greek prose, as unrestrained improvisations. The importance of On Death is that—unlike Lucretius’ stern diatribe at the end of Book 3 of De rerum natura—Philodemus treats many of the objections and fears raised by the prospect of death as unavoidable and deserving sympathy, even tears: the fear and frustration of dying young, of dying far from friends or one’s native land, as he implies he must himself do, and especially of leaving one’s friends and family unprotected and exposed to dangers from which one can no longer defend them, which in a memorable phrase he says ‘‘rouses flowing tears most of all in the most intelligent.’’ Not only does he treat these fears as natural, like the pain of anger, he evidently feels that the beneficence of 3

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nature gives them to us to keep us living, and that it is unavoidable that they frustrate us and hurt us when this end can no longer be achieved. They can only be overcome by sympathetic therapy, or better, as the great peroration of the treatise instructs, by a perpetual, intense, almost religious contemplation of the facts of our mortality, which he thinks can make death in the end neither a surprise nor a terror when it finally arrives, whenever and however it does arrive. Philodemus thus, without ever yielding any more than Epicurus himself does to the weakness of hope for survival after death, gives an encouragement and an example to the more philosophical Augustans, like Varius in his De morte and Vergil and Horace, to treat death with genuine poetic pathos and sympathy rather than with the cold philosophical detachment Lucretius tried to inculcate.22 This will not have been the least of his good influences as a ‘‘liberal’’ instead of a ‘‘fundamentalist’’ Epicurean on his poetic students. Far from recommending the stiff, unemotional tranquility of Stoic sages like the Cato of Lucan’s Pharsalia, Philodemus’ teaching gave them space for emotion in poetry by treating the ‘‘bite,’’ as he calls it (dēgma, nyxis), of anger, of rebuke and shame from ‘‘frank speaking,’’ and even of the fear of death, as natural, inevitable, and even, within limits, healthy human feelings. On the Good King According to Homer, which gives according to its conclusion the aphormai for the epanorthōsis of reading Homer (col. xliii), the ‘‘starting points’’ for a ‘‘morally improving reading,’’ which in Philodemus’ poetic theory would be like the allegorical readings by which the Stoics moralized mythology, is addressed to Piso, perhaps as a young man, looking for such hints for moral improvement from literature as are given in Plutarch’s ‘‘How a Young Man Should Read Poetry.’’ The essay, without in any way going back on Philodemus’ general theory that it is indifferent to our appreciation of Homer as a great poet whether the paraphrasable content of his teaching is morally beneficial or not, finds that in many, though not all, points it is. And the perpetual references to the less ‘‘improving’’ biographies of actual Hellenistic princes in comparison to the behavior of Homer’s heroes seem intended to show that indeed, to a certain extent, the Iliad and Odyssey, philosophically understood, can provide better models of princely behavior than actual history. The results of Tiziano Dorandi’s pioneering edition (982) of this text (which, as readers of this volume will see, is being redone by Jeffrey Fish with the help of improved techniques in repositioning detached fragments, and images from the Institute for the Study and Preservation of Ancient Religious Texts) have been very helpful, but already in 965 Oswyn Murray 4

Introduction

was able to see its relevance to the reges, the princely class of the late Roman Republic, to which Piso belonged. Not only that, Elizabeth Asmis and Marcello Gigante, as explained by David Armstrong in this volume, have seen that Horace explicitly and extensively refers to this treatise in Epistle .2 and elsewhere in the first book of Epistles (perhaps as a covert way of presenting himself to his public as an appreciative ‘‘old boy’’ of the Herculaneum school along with his friends Vergil, Quintilius,Varius, and Plotius). Furthermore, the treatise contrasts negative examples of anger and extravagance, like Achilles and Paris, to positive examples of calmness, firmness, and nonvengeful anger, like Odysseus. Thus it supplements and reinforces the very texts from On Anger that have led Galinsky (988) and Erler (992b) to their analysis of Aeneas’ ira as more praiseworthy, in Epicurean terms, than Turnus’.23 On the basis of these and other treatises from the Herculaneum library, our contributors have been able to approach Vergil’s three great works, and also, if less globally, Horace, Propertius, and Ovid, from a remarkable number of viewpoints in discussing the influence of Philodemus and Epicureanism on their poetry. In our first section, ‘‘Early Vergil,’’ Diskin Clay argues for the authenticity of Catalepton 5, because of the use in it of a pattern of imagery drawn at once from Odyssey 2, the episode of the Sirens, and from Epicurus’ adjunction to flee paideia as Odysseus fled from the Sirens. He shows that this imagery was common to Diogenes of Oenoanda and Philodemus and generally recognized in discussions of the Epicurean attitude to literature, and that the poem therefore reflects an intimate acquaintance with Epicurean literary conversation not likely to have been accessible to a mere imitator. In a similar vein, Francesca Longo Auricchio points out that the imagery of fleeing from the study of rhetoric to the calm harbor of philosophy—though in other contexts ancient authors use the ‘‘calm harbor’’ in many different ways—is common and distinctive both to Philodemus’ Rhetoric and to Catalepton 5. More ambitiously, Régine Chambert draws out similarly distinctive Epicurean touches in the Culex, analyzing it for hints of its author’s philosophical school in the wake of Mellinghoff-Bourgery’s (990) survey of Epicureanism in Vergil’s three great works. A touch of intertextual influence similar to those argued for by Clay and Longo is found by Gregson Davis in his study of the first eclogue, which leads off the second section of this volume. We know that one of Philodemus’ great contributions to Latin poetry was the ‘‘invitation to a simple feast,’’ implying both Epicurean restraint and plain-living friendship. Pointing out supporting evidence for Epicurean points of view in 5

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other eclogues, Davis analyzes not only the epigram Sider 27, quoted above in this introduction, but also Sider 29, where the invitation to a simple feast is connected with consolation for loss. He draws the conclusion that Tityrus’ invitation to Meliboeus at .79–83 to console himself with a simple dinner before going into exile belongs firmly in the ‘‘minigenre’’ of such invitation poems founded by Philodemus, as Sider (997: 53) calls it, along with Catullus 3, Horace Carm. 2.20, and others. W. R. Johnson reflects on the meaning of the famous and enigmatic passage in the fourth Georgic in which Vergil wishes he had had time to write more about gardens—an Epicurean watchword—and praises the simple life of the senex Corycius in his garden at Tarentum as a reflection on the tension between Vergil’s Epicurean education and his role as an Augustan poet. Marcello Gigante, who is inclined to date Vergil’s serious study of Epicureanism after the Eclogues and before the Georgics and Horace’s first book of Satires, discusses various possibilities of Epicurean and specifically Philodemean references in the Georgics and gives a comprehensive review of previous attempts to deal with the role the poet’s Epicureanism may or may not have played in the Aeneid. Our next group of studies concerns the Aeneid. It may seem that this is a more problematic field in which to discuss Vergil’s Epicureanism: Cicero had objected that the school’s disdain for political involvement and its bare acknowledgment of the virtues as subordinate and facultative to philosophical pleasure rendered it unable to explain such phenomena as the sacrifices of pleasure to duty, without which Roman history was unthinkable. Vergil’s hero is the incarnation of self-sacrifice to the purposes of history. The Epicureans believed neither in the afterlife nor in gods acting in the world and in history, yet Vergil’s epic has both a whole book depicting the underworld and gods that act throughout to impel the development of Roman history and the Roman empire. And still, there have never been lacking critics who did not hesitate to take these elements in the Aeneid as somehow noncontradictive to the feelings of an essentially Epicurean poet. For them, Vergil shared the general skepticism of the Roman world of his day about the gods and the afterlife and used these elements as poetic allegories validated by epic convention, and the story of Aeneas is well enough justified as a subject for an Epicurean poet by the concessions the school made to the necessity of there being ‘‘good kings’’ and good Roman aristocrats, like those in Philodemus’ treatise. An important contribution to the analysis of ira in the Aeneid has been made in recent years by the articles of Galinsky (988, 994) and Erler (992b) in our bibliography, which demonstrate that in terms of the defi 6

Introduction

nitions laid down by Philodemus in On Anger, Aeneas’ brief and painfilled outbursts of anger, which motivate him to remove causes of offense without seeking joy in revenge, belong to the category of justified ‘‘natural anger,’’ while Turnus’ immature anger and rejoicing in revenge are a textbook case of Philodemus’ contention that the empty joy of anger and revenge recoils on and destroys the person who unwarily welcomes them into his soul. Giovanni Indelli argues that Aeneas’ anger is indeed the physikē orgē that Philodemus praises and Turnus’ furor the kenē orgē Philodemus condemns. Jeffrey Fish takes the discussion a significant stage further. Starting from new readings in On the Good King that suggest that Philodemus understood Odysseus to have undergone a moral correction in payment for the pleasure of his anger in gloating over Polyphemus, he argues that, during much of Book 2, Aeneas is filled with what Philodemus would call ‘‘empty’’ emotion, culminating in the Helen Episode, where he displays a self-destructive and pointless desire for the pleasure of vengeance. His mother’s therapeutic rebuke, which conforms to Philodemus’ instructions on curing anger given in On Frank Speaking, returns him to a sense of his destiny and his self-interest.With these Philodemean ideas, which Vergil is much likelier to have understood than any possible imitator, underlying the Helen Episode, we can argue strongly for its authenticity—an argument very much like Clay’s, Longo’s, and Davis’, but on a larger scale. Frederic Schroeder analyzes the use of ‘‘distancing’’ as a consolatory or calming topic in Philodemus and Lucretius, the avocatio by which we soften the immediacy of suffering by placing it in a larger context of time and space, as the source of some famous passages in the Aeneid that ‘‘distance’’ Aeneas from the sufferings of Troy or the reader from those of Dido. Three essays that consider Epicurean ‘‘piety’’ and Vergil’s gods radically attack the problem of Vergilian theology. Patricia Johnston brings into relief the selflessness of Aeneas’ piety, which is like that which Philodemus and the Epicureans recommended and without Lucretius’ polemical hostility to ordinary religious observance, conjuring up a hero who might indeed, as an enigmatic text in the Aeneid that Dirk Obbink treats more explicitly puts it, be said ‘‘to excel both men and gods in piety’’ (Aen. 2.839). More radically still, Obbink’s essay argues that Vergil’s gods explain themselves away as paradoxes when Jupiter utters this challenging line—just as the gods of Camoens’ Lusiads reveal themselves at the end of that epic as allegories and not gods. From the first questioning at Aeneid . whether ‘‘such angers can be found in the gods’ souls,’’ Vergil’s divinities have been problematized for the reader, because Epicurus had said 7

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firmly that they are free of such passions; the passage at 2.830–839 asserting both that they do experience anger and that men can excel them in piety makes them deconstruct themselves. Obbink then goes on to a discussion of Philodemus’, Apollodorus’, Vergil’s, and Ovid’s interest in catalogues of the gods’ destructive passions, especially in the case of their love affairs, as proof that mythology is not so much truth as allegory or poetic ornament. With different arguments, the same point of view is reinforced in Michael Wigodsky’s contribution. Unlike Obbink,Wigodsky maintains that the tranquil and noninterfering Epicurean gods, so utterly unlike Vergil’s, were believed by Epicurus and Philodemus to have actual objective existence as finite beings in real space and real time. Marilyn Skinner, by contrast—but by no means total contrast, for what we are seeing is a series of reflections on Vergil’s independence of mind in taking up (especially in the Aeneid) subjects whose relevance to an Epicurean poet his brilliant teacher Philodemus might have regarded with alarm—shows that Philodemus’ theory of poetry, namely his contention that its essence is interpenetrating perfection of thought and form and that its moral teaching and emotional impact, for good or ill, is a separate question indifferent to its essence and best argued by philosophers, cannot well have satisfied Vergil, if we understand correctly the various passages in the Aeneid in which the ability of art to portray and console is brought out. Daniel Delattre, in a survey of Vergil’s musical imagery underpinned by his own arduous and pioneering work in restoring the fragments of On Music to a coherence and order they have never had before, evolves from all these details an argument that Vergil seems, even more than Horace, to have agreed with Philodemus that music has only the influence on the mind and understanding that the power of the poetic text can give it. Our final pair of essays treats Philodemus’ influence on Horace and Propertius. David Armstrong finds the influence of both Epicurus and Philodemus, especially in On Anger, On the Good King, On Frank Speaking, and On Death, to be highlighted at key and significant points in Horace’s first book of Epistles in a way that undercuts his proclaimed ‘‘eclecticism’’ in philosophy and makes him really more inclined to favor the opinions of the ‘‘eclectic’’ Epicurean Philodemus, who in a surprising number of instances agrees with the other schools in every way that seems to him not to threaten his basic loyalty to Epicurean dogma. Francis Cairns detects Varius under the name ‘‘Lynceus’’ in Propertius 2.34, as well as Epicurean thought in the poem itself, and argues that Propertius was eager to insinuate himself into the friendship of Vergil’s circle by praising two members of the famous foursome, Vergil, Varius, Plotius, 8

Introduction

and Varus, now certainly known to us as Philodemus’ addressees from the Herculaneum papyri mentioned above. We find, then, that accounting for Philodemus’ influence on Vergil and the Augustans can lead us very far in discovering in the Augustan poets references and intertextualities with the Campanian school of Epicureans and their liberality toward theories of poetic and musical aesthetics and toward the validity of at least some kinds of human emotion. The gods of the Aeneid, in particular, and its version of the afterlife in Hades and Elysium, may be a more subtle and challenging version of philosophical allegory than even a Lucretius permits himself in dealing with the gods and afterworld of traditional belief and earlier poetry. If Vergil allows himself an apparatus of gods to account for the inevitability of Rome and its empire in history, does not even Lucretius open his poem with two quintessentially Roman gods and pray for the peace of Rome so his poem may have leisure to work itself out? And, most of all, is not Philodemus’ account, in both On Anger and On the Good King, of the pain and brief duration of virtuous anger as opposed to the obsessiveness and selfdestructiveness of the desire for revenge the most apposite way to explain Vergil’s portrayal of Aeneas’ ira and Turnus’ furor? Has not Vergil reread his Homer in the light of Philodemus’ moral lecture on him and appropriated Philodemus’ way of dealing with regal anger almost to the letter? But (to end on a more questioning note) Horace’s references to On the Good King may be relatively unproblematic: he recommends the technique of epanorthōsis, or morally improving reading, without irony: Achilles’ anger is, according to both Horace (Epist. .2) and Philodemus, intended as an aversive example, Odysseus’ as positive. But if Vergil was influenced by Philodemus’ On Anger and On the Good King in his portraits of Aeneas and Turnus, does this solve the problem? Or does it, challengingly and creatively, raise further problems still? Have we found a ‘‘figure in the carpet,’’ to use Henry James’ phrase, that allows us to resolve all the challenging questions that the Aeneid raises about Romanism, duty, war, and conquest? Our essayists give different answers, mostly negative, and we agree. One question, for example, that has gone so far undiscussed in the literature is why, if Aeneas is an ‘‘ideal’’ hero in Epicurean terms, that profound inner happiness, toward whose creation, Epicureanism firmly held, the only real use of the virtues tends,24 seems so resoundingly absent from his character. In an Epicurean writer, if Vergil was one, or even a writer reacting to Epicurean doctrine as an important influence, as he most certainly was, that cannot be trivial. Politics, as Philodemus says flatly in On Rhetoric, is the great enemy of friendship,25 9

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and for an Epicurean that means it is an enemy of happiness, the highest good, since happiness is unattainable in life without friendship. One of the finest essays on the Aeneid of recent times, Denis Feeney’s ‘‘The Taciturnity of Aeneas’’ (983), studies the relative isolation of the characters in Vergil’s epic, their curious failure to form those lasting and consoling friendships which are so crucial a theme to convinced Epicureans like Philodemus and Horace—all the more striking since these are to be found in abundance even among the primitive, unphilosophical warriors and their families in Vergil’s Homeric models. ‘‘In the private realm,’’ Feeney notes, ‘‘[Aeneas] is the poem’s most consistent and prominent paradigm of the weak and insubstantial nature of human interchange; in the public realm, he is increasingly successful through the course of the poem as the leader of the Trojan enterprise, whether as diplomat or general . . . free from the manipulation and distortion which controls the words of the other outstanding orators of the poem.’’ And he quotes D. J. Stewart’s ‘‘Mortality, Morality and the Public Life: Aeneas the Politician’’: All those flat, dull speeches of encouragement . . . are the politician’s special burden. He must pretend to enthusiasms he does not feel, repress emotions he does feel, and generally behave not as a free individual but as the incorporation of a society’s needs, a trust-officer for other people’s future.

Where indeed are all those faithful and intimate friends (except perhaps for the famously faceless fidus Achates) that Aeneas should have in abundance, if his character were anything like Philodemus’ ideal? As for happiness, Aeneas himself summarizes his experience by telling his son Ascanius at the end of the poem (2.435–436) that he can learn virtue and the spirit of hard work from his father but good fortune—and, he implies, happiness—from others: disce, puer, virtutem ex me verumque laborem, fortunam ex aliis.

In On the Good King, Philodemus himself is working somewhat against the grain: Epicurus had pointed out (and so had he) that political life is not the life of happiness, but they both admitted that responsibilities undertaken have to be fulfilled as well as they can, even if they go against the great central project of personal happiness. Thus, with no desire whatever to be a king, a grandee, or the center of a patronage network himself, Philodemus nonetheless shows Piso that Homer offers positive and negative examples for making the most of such a life better than does the 20

Introduction

study of real history. However ‘‘virtuous’’ Aeneas’ anger may be in terms of Philodemus’ theory,Vergil’s Aeneas seems to express still deeper problems that the poet has with the public and political and military dimension of life and its impact on a hero’s character, friendships, and happiness; and this is only one of many reasons, as this volume shows, why to acknowledge the deep impact Philodemus’ and Epicurus’ and Lucretius’ thought had on Vergil throughout his creative life is not to arrive at any simple interpretation or closure-achieving solution, but only at further challenge.

notes . For what can be known about Siro, cf. Gigante 990b and the RE article of 927 by von Arnim and Kroll. I would especially like to thank Bernd Seidensticker for helpful criticism of this introduction and my article on Horace later in this volume. 2. Servius on Ecl. 6.3. Cf. on Aen. 6.264: ‘‘Knowing that there are many possible opinions on the gods’ government of the world, he most prudently confines himself to generalities, though for the most part he follows Siro, his teacher in Epicureanism, a sect we know investigates the surfaces of things but does not go into them deeply.’’ 3. Especially interesting is Servius on G. 4.29: ‘‘He simply reports the philosophers’ doctrines; for surely he need not be considered an Epicurean just because with poetic freedom he says ‘At that time sweet Parthenope [Naples] nourished me—Vergil—flourishing in the studies of inglorious ease’ [G. 4.564–565],’’ which shows that some layers of the commentary know the tradition about Vergil’s Epicureanism and some do not, this particular layer seemingly arguing only from the text of the Georgics itself. 4. Translations are my own. 5. A handy guide to these interactions can now be found in the Index locorum to Sider 997. Most of these had already been studied by Tait (94). 6. Gigante 983d: 5–234 (editions of the opening and concluding columns of On Death), 983e (= 984: 67–78), 99; Gigante and Capasso 989. On Philodemus in Campania, see Gigante 995 and 999. 7. On this relationship, see Obbink 996: 7–8 and, e.g., on lines 402–42, 58. 8. On the villa itself, see Conticello 987 and De Simone 987. 9. Sider 997: 53. 0. The epitaph of Eikadion and the passage in Plutarch are discussed in Armstrong 993: 92 n. 32 as evidence of Calpurnia and her freedwoman’s adherence to Epicurean views under Philodemus’ and Piso’s influence. . Kleve 989, 990. 2. Sedley 998. 3. Erler 992a. 2

david armstrong 4. For this method and its ramifications, see Obbink 996: 37–72 and passim, and Janko 2000: 86–9. 5. For an account of these techniques, see Booras and Seely 999. 6. For On Music we have the superlative edition and translation into German of the readable and orderly columnar parts by Neubecker 986, and, as a first view of what an edition of the reordered separate fragments would look like, Delattre 989. 7. The complicated bibliography of this text and its permutations since Sudhaus’ edition of 892–896 is given in Obbink 995b: 276–278; there is still no possibility of a reliable English translation to replace Hubbell’s (920), which is no longer helpful to the general reader, until the Philodemus Translation Project has completed its new texts. The summary of it in the Philodemus chapter of Grube 965, however, is still valuable. 8. For this complicated text, we have now Mangoni 993, of which see the translation by Armstrong in Obbink 995b, the articles by Armstrong, Porter, and others in the same volume, and at last Janko 2000, a massive re-edition and rearrangement of what had been the most difficult and misnumbered collection of fragments in all the Herculaneum papyri, which will spur a complete re-evaluation of Philodemus’ and his opponents’ poetic doctrines at once: but the simple outline I have given is secure. 9. For an analysis of P.Herc. 676 in these terms, see Armstrong 200. 20. See the investigation of possible relations between Philodemus’ and Neoptolemus’ theories and Horace’s Ars poetica in Armstrong 993. 2. Glad 995 and 998. 22. For a qualification of this view of Lucretius, however, see Fish 998: 00– 0. 23. For this treatise we have, besides Dorandi’s 982 edition in the Scuola di Epicuro series, the excellent articles of Murray 965 and 984, and especially the detailed discussion with good English translation by Asmis 99. The relevance of Philodemus’ theory of the good prince to Aeneas has been well discussed in Cairns 989. 24. ‘‘The kalon and the virtues and suchlike things are to be valued if they give us pleasure, but if they do not, must be bade farewell.’’ 25. Philodemus On Rhetoric 2.59 Sudhaus.

22

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v e r g i l ’ s fa r e w e l l t o e d u c at i o n (Catalepton 5) a n d e p i c u r u s ’ letter to pythocles d i s k i n c l ay

epicurus to pythocles The focus 1 of this brief contribution to ‘‘Vergilio minore’’ and—more remotely—to an evaluation of the relation between Vergil and his older contemporary Philodemus of Gadara is the connection between a wellknown poem of the Vergilian Appendix (Catalepton 5)2 and a letter of Epicurus to Pythocles of Lampsacus. Epicurus addressed his letter to Pythocles, but we only possess Vergil’s reply to it.3 We have just the single sentence of Epicurus’ stern and notorious injunction to the young Pythocles: παιδείαν δὲ πᾶσαν, μακάριε, φεῦγε τἀκάτιον ἀράμενος.4 Epicurus’ exhortation to Pythocles to hoist sail and evade the Siren song of all forms of traditional education finds its delicate and ironic response in the opening of Catalepton 5: Ite hinc inanes, ite, rhetorum ampullae, inflata rhoezo non Achaico verba. Leave us, leave now, jugs filled with the hollow bombast of the orators, words swollen with a droning that is hardly Achaean.5

And Epicurus’ allusion to the Odyssey and the song of the Sirens clearly present in τἀκάτιον ἀράμενος finds its response in the conclusion of this short poem (lines 8–0): nos ad beatos vela mittimus portus magni petentes docta dicta Sironis, vitamque ab omni vindicabimus cura. We are setting sail for the harbors of the Blest on our way to the learned precepts of great Siro; we will free our life of every care.

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It is no surprise that Epicurus’ exhortation to his young friend betrays clear signs of an immersion in traditional culture, for he is unmistakably evoking the episode in the Odyssey where Odysseus describes in the court of Alcinous how he sailed past the island of the Sirens and, bound to the mast of his ship, listened to their enchanting song, but escaped their allurement (Odyssey 2.39–54 and 58–200).6 The conceit as applied to philosophy is not novel with Epicurus; we find it twice in Plato.7 Epicurus’ image of hoisting the sails of one’s light boat to escape the deadly enchantment of the Sirens finds its clear echo in Vergil’s: nos ad beatos vela mittimus portus / magni petentes docta dicta Sironis (8–9). But Vergil gently rebuffs Epicurus’ injunction to Pythocles, even as he speaks of the simple and serene life he will find with the Epicurean Siro 8 and invites his Latin Camenae to revisit his poetry—sed pudenter et raro (‘‘but discreetly, rarely’’). Epicurus’ letter to Pythocles—or perhaps only a single sentence from it—was well known in antiquity. Diogenes Laertius cites it in his life of Epicurus; Quintilian knew it; Plutarch alludes to it and, alert as ever, picks up its allusion to the Odyssey; and Heraclitus of the Homeric Problems (perhaps of the first century a.d.) seems to have known it. It is possible that Philodemus, who quotes so many letters of Epicurus, knew it too and adapted it in an invitation poem addressed to Piso. But Vergil is the first—and the first and only poet—to recognize Epicurus’ letter and to respond to its stern injunction. After Vergil’s seemingly unrecognized allusion in Catalepton 5, the first significant reference to Epicurus’ letter comes from Plutarch and his short essay on the role of poetry in the education of the young. In response to Socrates’ exile of Poetry from his ideal city, Plutarch asks if the ears of the young should be filled with hard and unyielding wax as they hoist sail in their Epicurean ship and skirt the Siren song of Poetry (‘‘How the Young Should Be Exposed to Poetry,’’ Mor. 5D):

Πότερον οὖν τῶν νέων ὥσπερ τῶν Ἰθακησίων σκληρῷ τινι τὰ ὦτα καὶ ἀτέγκτῳ κηρῷ καταπλάσσοντες ἀναγκάζωμεν αὐτοὺς τὸ Ἐπικούρειον ἀκάτιον ἀραμένους ποιητικὴν φεύγειν καὶ παρεξελαύνειν; I ask, shall we block the ears of the young with hard and unyielding wax, as did the sailors from Ithaca, and compel them to hoist sail on their small craft and avoid poetry by giving it a wide berth?

In this embellishment of a simple question, Plutarch reveals his own literary culture. He does the same as he recalls the Odyssean allusion of Epi26

Vergil’s Farewell to Education and Epicurus’ Letter to Pythocles

curus’ letter to Pythocles in his tract against Epicurus’ conception of happiness. Here he seems to indicate that this letter was directed not only to a single Epicurean but to an Epicurean community (‘‘Against Epicurus’ Conception of Happiness,’’ Mor. 2.094D).9 Plutarch had been speaking of intellectual pleasures:10

ταύτας μέντοι τὰς τηλικαύτας καὶ τοσαύτας ἡδονὰς ὥσπερ ἀεννάους ἐκτρέποντες οὗτοι καὶ ἀποστρέφοντες οὐκ ἐῶσι γεύεσθαι τοὺς πλησιαζόντας αὐτοῖς, ἀλλὰ τοὺς μὲν ἐπαραμένους τὰ ἀκάτια φεύγειν ἀπ’ αὐτῶν κελεύουσιν. Πυθοκλέους δὲ πάντες καὶ πᾶσαι δέονται δι’ Ἐπικούρου καὶ ἀντιβολοῦσιν ὅπως οὐ ζηλώσει τὴν ἐλευθέριον καλουμένην παιδείαν. The Epicureans divert [their followers] from the ever-flowing course of pleasures such as these and so great as these and direct them to other channels. They will not permit those of their followers who approach these pleasures to taste them, but rather they admonish some of them to hoist the sail of their small craft and flee from them. And for Epicurus’ sake, all Epicureans, male and female, beg and beseech Pythocles not to pursue what is known as liberal education.

Quintilian recalls the letter and emphasizes Epicurus’ injunction to avoid every form of education ‘‘at full sail’’ (Inst. 2.2.24): in primis nos Epicurus a se ipse dimittit, qui fugere omnem disciplinam navigatione quam velocissima iubet. As it has filtered down to Quintilian, Epicurus’ allusion to the Odyssey and the song of the Sirens is lost, and the rhetorical element of traditional education gains in prominence. There is possibly one other engagement with Epicurus’ injunction to Pythocles. It could be that in his defense of Homer made by attacking Plato and Epicurus, Heraclitus the allegorist has Epicurus’ apotropaic injunction to Pythocles in mind. He dismisses Epicurus as tending the gardens of low pleasure and ‘‘purifying himself from the pollution of all poetry as if it were a lure made up of myths’’ (ἅπασαν ὁμοῦ ποιητικὴν ὥσπερ ὀλέθριον δέλεαρ ἀφοσιούμενος).11 As he closes his treatise with a renewed attack on Plato and Epicurus, Heraclitus dismisses Epicurus as the ‘‘Phaeacian philosopher’’ (Φαίαξ φιλόσοφος), who stole his conception of pleasure from Alcinous’ words in praise of the civilized pleasures of the bath and banquet in Odyssey 9.– (Homeric Problems 79.2).12 As we shall discover, the comparison of Epicurean philosopher and Phaeacian is not offensive to the Epicurean.

27

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vergil’s reply to epicurus Epicurus’ injunction to the young Pythocles is, then, recognized by Plutarch, Quintilian, and perhaps by Heraclitus. Vergil’s own response is more complex, since, in dismissing the Siren song of his Latin Camenae, he is also saying farewell to four of his young companions elegantly addicted to the hollow droning of the rhetorical schools and perhaps the school of Epidius in Rome.13 In some ways his brusque dismissal of his friends has its parallel in Antipater of Thessalonica’s dismissal of poetasters of his age for the pleasure of celebrating the birthdays of real poets like Homer and Archilochus.14 Ite hinc inanes, ite, rhetorum ampullae, inflata rhoezo non Achaico verba; et vos, Selique Tarquitique Varroque, scholasticorum natio madens pingui, ite hinc, inane cymbalon iuventutis; tuque, o mearum cura, Sexte, curarum, vale, Sabine; iam valete, formosi. Nos ad beatos vela mittimus portus magni petentes docta dicta Sironis,15 vitamque ab omni vindicabimus cura.

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Ite hinc, Camenae, vos quoque ite iam sane, dulces Camenae (nam fatebimur verum, dulces fuistis), et tamen meas chartas revisitote, sed prudenter et raro. Leave us, leave now, jugs filled with the hollow bombast of the orators, words swollen with a droning that is hardly Achaean; and you, Selius, Tarquitius, Varro, leave us, a tribe sleeked with the pomade of the schools. Leave us, hollow cymbals of the young. I bid farewell to you, too, Sextus Sabinus, favored of my favorites, Handsome young men, farewell. We are setting sail for the harbors of the Blest on our way to the learned precepts of great Siro; we will free our life of every care. 28

5

Vergil’s Farewell to Education and Epicurus’ Letter to Pythocles

Leave us too, Roman Muses. I am serious, leave! —sweet Muses—to tell the truth, you were once sweet. Even so return and visit my scrolls, but discreetly, rarely.

Selius, Tarquitius (Priscus?), (Marcus Terentius) Varro, and Sextus Sabinus he calls scholastici; the bombast they learn in the schools of rhetoric, inanes ampullae, inflata verba, inane cymbalon iuventutis (–5). (The parallels with Catalepton 2 are striking.) Latent under the implied injunction (directed to himself in response to Epicurus’ injunction to Pythocles) nos ad beatos vela mittimus portus / magni petentes docti dicta Sironis (8–9) is Vergil’s recognition of the text that Epicurus alluded to in his letter to Pythocles. The ‘‘blessed harbors’’ of Epicurean philosophy is a theme that resounds in the library of Philodemus located above the harbor of Herculaneum.16 That poetry was Epicurus’ main target is clear from Vergil’s dismissal of the Latin Camenae, who were, he must confess, once dear to him. His dismissal of the Muses parallels his farewell to and dismissal of his four friends (ite hinc of lines  and 5): Ite hinc, Camenae, vos quoque ite iam sane, dulces Camenae (nam fatebimur verum, dulces fuistis).

But Vergil, who would at the end of his life make a final voyage to Athens and its philosophical schools, cannot yet abandon poetry entirely; he responds to Epicurus in a poem and looks to a future not only in the company of ‘‘great Siro’’ in the Bay of Naples, but the Muses, who will return to him in his philosophical seclusion: prudenter et raro.17 Vergil repeats himself in the Georgics as he invokes the sweet Latin Camenae who have now become Greek Musae: me vero primum dulces ante omnia Musae, / quarum sacra fero ingenti percussus amore, / accipiant (2.475–477: ‘‘In truth, the Muses were from the beginning sweet above all else. Struck by overpowering love for them, I bear their sacred symbols. Let them accept me now . . .’’). In doing so he establishes a subtle contrast between himself and an earlier philosophical poet by evoking Lucretius, even as he describes his own poetic vocation in Lucretian language (cf. De rerum natura 2.924–925). It has been thought that Vergil’s decision to leave the rhetorical schools of Rome for the villula of Siro and the harbors of the Bay of Naples (and perhaps Pausilypon)18 was prompted by his contact with the poem of Lucretius.19 But Vergil’s response is not to Lucretius’ De rerum natura; it is to a stern prose letter of Epicurus. 29

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apotropaic protreptics One wonders what Epicurus’ full letter was like. There are, I think, some suggestive hints in Philodemus that Epicurus presented his own philosophy as a kind of enchantment more powerful than the song of the Sirens. The rhetoric of his letter to Pythocles shows a pattern detectable in other letters: an apotropaic opening and protreptic close. The fact that Epicurus rejected traditional education and the role of poetry in it should not surprise us. Heraclitus the allegorist pairs Plato and Epicurus as the enemies of poetry.20 It should come as no surprise either that Epicurus presented his philosophy as the form of philosophical education destined to fill the gap left by the rejection of poetry; Plato had done the same.21 The genius of this apotropaic rhetoric is that it becomes protreptic.22 We can see the apotropaic protreptic in the harsh language that Philosophia directs to the Siren Muses of Poetry in Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy (..39–4 Tester): sed abite potius Sirenes usque in exitium dulces meisque eum Musis curandum sanandumque relinquite (‘‘But rather depart, Sirens, who are sweet to the point of death, and leave him to be cured by my Muses’’).23 The Sirens leave Boethius in the good care of the Muse of Philosophy. We know from one of the fragments of Diogenes of Oenoanda (which perhaps preserves a letter of Epicurus to Hermarchus) that Epicurus urged an associate to veer from the speeches of the rhetoricians to join ‘‘our gathering’’ and listen to ‘‘our doctrines’’ (fr. 27 Smith):24 [τῆς ἀλλο]-

τριότητος οἶξαι τὰ[ς εἰς] τὸ συνελθὸν ἡμῶν [συν]παθεῖς εἰσόδους, v καὶ τῶν ῥητορικῶν ἀποκάμψεις λόγων ὅπως ἀκούσῃς τι τῶν ἡμῖν ἀρεσκόντων. v ἔνθεν σε καὶ κατελπίζομεν τὴν ταχίστην τὰς φιλοσοφίας κρούσειν θύ | ρας. . . .

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Smith translates and supplements: ‘‘[At present you reject our philosophy, but later perhaps you will wish, when your hostility has been banished,] to open the congenial entrances to our community, and you will turn away from the speeches of the rhetoricians, in order that you might hear some30

Vergil’s Farewell to Education and Epicurus’ Letter to Pythocles

thing of our tenets. After that we confidently hope that you too will knock very soon at the doors of philosophy. . . .’’ 25 We come in the fullness of time to Philodemus, who might have recognized Epicurus’ letter to Pythocles. In the newly published fragments of his On Flattery, he addresses Vergil, along with the friends who were to become the editors of his Aeneid, Plotius Tucca and Varius Rufus, in the company of Quintilius Varus.26 In the fragments of this treatise first published by Tristano Gargiulo,27 Philodemus asserts that against the enchantment of the flatterer, the Siren song of the true friend and philosopher has its countervailing charm—a charm not even the mythical Sirens can match (On Flattery 2.2–7 Gargiuolo):

ὁ δὲ σοφὸς ὅμοιον μ[ὲν] οὐδὲν προσοίσεται κόλα[κι], παρέξει δέ τισιν ὑπονοίαν [ὡς] ἔστι τοιοῦτος, ὅτι κη[λεῖ φρέ ]νας οὕτως ὃν τρόπον οὐδ’ α[ἱ μυθι-] καὶ Σειρῆνες.

5

The philosopher has nothing in common with the flatterer, but he can produce in some the suspicion that he is such a person, because he enchants people’s minds, in a manner that not even the mythical Sirens can match. In one of his epigrams—his invitation poem to Piso 28—Philodemus

promises conversation ‘‘much sweeter than that to be found in the land of the Phaeacians,’’ should Piso turn his eyes to Philodemus and his Epicurean companions (Anth. Pal. .44):29

αὔριον εἰς λιτήν σε καλιάδα, φίλτατε Πείσων, ἐξ ἐνάτης ἕλκει μουσοφιλὴς ἕταρος εἰκάδα δειπνίζων ἐνιαύσιον· εἰ δ’ ἀπολείψεις οὔθατα καὶ Βρομίου Χιογενῆ πρόποσιν, ἀλλ’ ἑτάρους ὄψει παναληθέας, ἀλλ’ ἐπακούσῃ Φαιήκων γαίης πουλὺ μελιχότερα. ἤν δέ ποτε στρέψῃς καὶ ἐς ἡμέας ὄμματα, Πείσων, ἄξομεν ἐκ λιτῆς εἰκάδα πιοτέρην. Tomorrow, friend Piso, your musical comrade drags you to his modest digs at three in the afternoon, feeding you at your annual visit to the Twentieth. If you will miss udders 3

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and the Bromian wine mis en bouteilles in Chios, yet you will see faithful comrades, yet you will hear things far sweeter than the land of the Phaeacians. And if you ever turn an eye to us, Piso, instead of a modest feast we shall lead a richer one. trans. david sider

By conversation sweeter than that to be heard on the land of the Phaeacians, Philodemus must have had in mind the brief recitations of Demodocus in the court of Alcinous; but he also had in mind the recitation of Odysseus’ wanderings by Odysseus himself.30 As we have seen, there is something Epicurean about Odysseus and his praise of the sensuous pleasures of life. And there is something Phaeacian about Epicurus.31 In its rhetoric, this invitation poem recalls the language of Epicurus’ letter to Hermarchus: ‘‘If you ever turn your eyes to us’’ recalls ‘‘if you turn away from the speeches of the rhetoricians’’; ‘‘you will hear things far sweeter than the land of the Phaeacians’’ echoes ‘‘you will hear the tenets of our philosophy.’’ The promise of true companions and talk sweeter than the tales with which Odysseus entertained the court of the Phaeacians does not itself constitute an allusion to Epicurus’ letter to Pythocles, but it shows the same tactic we have conjectured for this letter and have seen in what I take to be Epicurus’ letter to Hermarchus: the dismissal of traditional forms of education, both poetry and rhetoric, leaves open the space to be occupied by Epicurean philosophy. The genius of Vergil’s short choliambic poem is that it conforms to the apotropaic protreptic we find in Epicurus, yet veers back to the enchantment of the Sirens in its concluding lines: et tamen meas chartas revisitote, sed prudenter et raro.

epilogue Epicurus’ letter to Pythocles did not receive much attention south of Pausilypon, Parthenope, and Herculaneum. In the late first century a.d., after the villa and library of Lucius Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus had been overwhelmed by the eruption of Vesuvius, the local aristocrat, Pollius Felix, practiced his Epicurean philosophy in his magnificent villa at Surrentum (Sorrento). We know of his cultured pursuits from Statius and the poem of the Silvae he devoted to him. In his exemplary (and profoundly for32

Vergil’s Farewell to Education and Epicurus’ Letter to Pythocles

gotten) career as an orator and poet, Pollius blissfully ignored Epicurus’ advice to Pythocles, as had Vergil—and Lucretius—long before him. But Surrentum was, after all, named after the Sirens (Est inter notos Sirenum muros . . . , ‘‘There is among the well-known walls of the Sirens . . . ,’’ Statius Silv. 2.2.).32 Here Pollius composed poetry and read and blissfully ignored the injunction of Epicurus to steer clear of the enchantments of poetry and rhetoric (Silv. 2.2.2–3): hic ubi Pierias exercet Pollius artes seu volvit monitus, quos dat Gargettius auctor. Here where Pollius practices the arts of the Muses of Pieria, or unrolls the admonitions given by the author of Gargettus.

His poetry was so attractive that it even drew the local Siren of Surrentum down from her seaside cliffs to his villa (Silv. 2.2.5–6): hinc levis e scopulis meliora ad carmina Siren advolat. The Siren flies lightly from the cliffs to hear better songs.

Like the Epicurean conversations heard to the north at Herculaneum, Pollius’ songs were sweeter than even the songs of the Sirens, no mean compliment.33

notes . As often, I owe thanks to Lawrence Richardson, Jr., as I set foot on Italian soil, or soil on the Italian peninsula that was once Greek. 2. I do not enter into the controversy concerning the authorship of the poems of the Appendix Vergiliana beyond noting the extreme skepticism of D. and P. Fowler (996: 603), ‘‘If any of the poems in the Appendix Vergiliana are genuine (which is unlikely) . . . ,’’ and the ardent faith of Rostagni (96), a faith shared by Salvatore for the fourteen poems of the Catalepton (995: 27–52). Boyancé (958: 226) has called Catalepton 5 ‘‘the most precious document for Vergil’s Epicureanism.’’ 3. It has not been obvious to commentators on the poem that Vergil has this letter of Epicurus in mind. One can consult Birt 90, Westendorp Boerma 949, Johannes and Maria Götte 977, and Salvatore et al. 997 without finding a citation of Epicurus’ letter. Schmid (924: 33–34) glances at the letter—along with the other evidence for Epicurus’ apparent hostility to rhetoric (frs. 227–230 in Usener). 33

diskin clay 4. Diog. Laert. 0.6; fr. 63 Us.; [89] in Arrighetti 973. A close parallel to Epicurus’ admonition to Pythocles occurs in his letter to Apelles: Μακαρίζω σε, ὦ Ἀπελλῆ, ὅτι καθαρὸς πάσης παιδείας ἐπὶ φιλοσοφίαν ὥρμησας, ‘‘Apelles, I count you blessed because, pure of all traditional education, you have set out on the road to philosophy,’’ Athenaeus 2.588A (fr. 7 Us., [38] Arrighetti 973; cf. Lucian Piscator 29). 5. Translations are my own, except as noted. The text used for the Catalepton is Clausen et al. 966; for the Georgics, Mynors 969. 6. In still another letter, perhaps to friends in Lampsacus, Epicurus evokes Odysseus’ description of his shipwreck off Scheria and his near escape from death at the straits of Messina (and Scylla and Charybdis), fr. 72 in Smith 993; for the Homeric allusions, see D. Clay 973. The many and varied references to the Homeric Sirens in Greek and Latin literature are presented by Kaiser 964: – 36. 7. Alcibiades uses it in the Symposium (26a) to describe the enchantment of Socrates, and Socrates uses it in the Phaedrus (259a) to describe the appeal of the music of the cicadas at high noon in the Attic countryside. 8. Siro is mentioned again in Catalepton 8. His name occurs significantly in P.Herc. 32 in connection with Naples (a text discussed by Rostagni 96: 73). Wilhelm Crönert gathered the scant testimonia for his activities in Campania (906: 25–27), as has Gigante 990b. 9. Epicurus’ letter to Idomeneus was directed both to Idomeneus and to the Epicureans of Lampsacus, κοινῇ καὶ ἰδίᾳ [59], Arrighetti 973; cf. Ep. Pyth. 85. The phrase πάντες καὶ πᾶσαι has its significant parallel in Plutarch’s antiEpicurean tract, ‘‘Live unknown’’: μηδὲ διάπεμπε βίβλους πᾶσι καὶ πάσαις, ‘‘And do not send your books to all men and women included,’’ Mor. 3.29A. 0. I reproduce the text of Einarson and De Lacy (967). . Homeric Problems 4.2 Buffière. 2. Conveniently, Heraclitus cites only lines 6–7 and , thus omitting Odysseus’ description of the pleasures of poetry. On this, Asmis 995a: 6–7 is very perceptive. 3. The rhetorical background of the language of –7 is well set out by Westendorp Boerma 949: 06–4 and by Johannes and Maria Götte 977: 623–627. Rostagni (96: 42) makes the common suggestion that the school of Vergil’s scholastici is that of Epidius in Rome. 4. Anth. Pal. .20:

Φεύγεθ’, ὅσοι λόκκας ἢ λοφνίδας ἢ καμασῆνας ᾄδετε, ποιητῶν φῦλον ἀκανθολόγων, οἵ τ’ ἐπέων κόσμον λελυγισμένον ἀσκήσαντες κρήνης ἐξ ἰερῆς πίνετε λιτὸν ὕδωρ. σήμερον Ἀρχιλόχοιο καὶ ἄρσενος ἦμαρ Ὁμήρου σπένδομεν· ὁ κρητὴρ οὐ δέχεθ’ ὑδροπότας. 34

Vergil’s Farewell to Education and Epicurus’ Letter to Pythocles Leave us now, poets who chant of raiment, of brands, of creatures of the undefiled, tribe of poets who gather the sharp acanthus. You reduce your epic Muse to a thin waif. You can drink plain water from the sacred spring. Today, we celebrate the birthday of Archilochus and manly Homer. Our mixing bowl is not for those who drink only water. 5. Is it possible, as Francis Newton and Andrea Purvis have suggested to me independently, to hear Sirenum in the name Sironis? I now think so. Sirenes can be heard in the name Surrentum (Statius Silv. 2.2.); see below. 6. This is made abundantly clear in Longo Auricchio’s contribution to this volume, based on the language of P.Herc. 463 (for which see her edition [982: 67–83] of the fragments of a book of Philodemus’ Rhetoric in P.Herc. 463 [fr. 3]; also Sbordone 977: 696). 7. Sider (995: 38) has connected Catalepton 5 with Philodemus ep. 7 (Anth. Pal. .4 = 4 in Gigante 988; 4 in Sider 997). As Sider would recognize, it is the Vergilian deviation that is striking; both poems are farewells to the Muse, but Philodemus wrote his at the age of nearly thirty-seven, and he is acquiring a new and more philosophical Muse in Xanthippe; the young Vergil had no intention in this short choliambic poem of putting the koronis on his career as a poet. 8. That Vergil has Pausilypon in mind is suggested by his translation of the Greek place-name in vitamque ab omni vindicabimus cura (0); cf. Gigante 984: 4 and n. 8. P.Herc. 35 (Gigante 990b: 78–80 and T 5 in Sider 997) puts Siro and Philodemus in Naples. The memory of Vergil haunted the villa of P. Vedius Pollio on the promontory of Pausilypon (Posillipo), where local tradition identified the ‘‘Scoglio di Virgilio’’ and the ‘‘Scuola di Virgilio’’ (Günther 93: 40–44 and 55–58, Building XXX). De Witt 922 surveys the Epicurean presence in the area of the Bay of Naples in the age of Vergil. 9. This is the reading Rostagni (96: 50) gives the evidence of the poem (‘‘Certamente Lucrezio!’’), as Frank had already (922: 47). 20. Homeric Problems 4 and 76–79 Buffière. 2. Nietzsche (Die Geburt der Tragödie §4, in Schlechta 966: 80) recognized this when he described the Platonic dialogue as the raft on which the poetry of the polis took refuge as it was shipwrecked against the rock of Plato’s apparent hostility to poetry. The truth of Nietzsche’s conceit is documented in, among others, D. Clay 2000: 42–49. 22. This tactic is recognized by Asmis 995a: 22–24. 23. The allusion to Catalepton 5 (and G. 2.475–476) is caught by Westendorp Boerma (949: 9) and Salvatore et al. (997: 27), among others; cf. especially Alfonsi 94: 256–257. 24. The doubts over the identity of the addressee of this are taken up in Smith 993: 559–560. The letter is now properly included as fr. 53 in Longo Auricchio 988.

35

diskin clay 25. Smith 993: 45. 26. P.Herc. Paris. 2, published by Gigante and Capasso 989. 27. Gargiulo 98: 03–27; cf. Longo Auricchio 986: 79–9. 28. Discussed by Davis in this volume. 29. 8 in Gigante 988; 27 in Sider 997. 30. The so-called Ἀλκινόου ἀπολογία, Plato Rep. 0.64B. Alcinous compares the narrative skill of Odysseus to that of a poet (ἀοιδός), Od. .368. Pucci (following Karl Meuli) gives a congenial interpretation of the Sirens’ description of Odysseus as πολύαινος (Od. 2.84); he is ‘‘skilled in telling stories’’ (998: –2). 3. In addition to note 2 above, see Kaiser 964: 220–22. 32. Strabo 5.4.8 (247c) mentions a temple of the Sirens in the area of Surrentum and a cape called Seirenoussai, as well as the islands of the Sirens off Capri; cf. .2.2 (22c) and Stephanus of Byzantium Ethnika s.v. Σειρήνουσσαι. Pollius Felix and his villas at Surrentum and Pausilypon are documented by D’Arms 970, Catalogue II.34. 33. Sophocles’ patron god, Dionysus, called him a ‘‘new Siren’’ (Paus. .2.), and Socrates was referred to as Plato’s ‘‘Siren’’ (Ath. 4.636a); cf. Symp. 26a.

36

chapter 2

p h i l o s o p h y’s h a r b o r f r a n c e s c a l o n g o au r i c c h i o

P.Herc. 463 is a scorza, that is, the upper, outer part of a papyrus roll that was extracted and set aside for the moment (possibly already at an early date) so that one could advance with Piaggio’s machine more smoothly and quickly in unrolling the inner part of the volumen, the so-called midollo. This scorza, numbered 463, was opened later by scraping away the various strata, a procedure that is well known and common to many of the Herculaneum papyri; its text has survived only in hand drawings up to the final layer, the most external, which is the only one surviving. Today, therefore, we have at our disposal for this portion of the roll the Neapolitan drawings and also a very small piece of the original (whose text does not seem to correspond to any of the facsimiles). With certainty, G. Cavallo classifies the handwriting with those belonging to Group Q. (The Herculaneum handwritings have been subdivided into sixteen groups, marked with the letters of the alphabet, along with another series of handwritings, grouped under the rubric ‘‘various,’’ that are not included in the preceding categories.) It was written by Anonymous XXVII. (Thirty-four scribes have been identified at Herculaneum.) It is the same writing as in P.Herc. 22, 232, 245, and 423. This last fragment contains the first part of the fourth book of the Rhetoric of Philodemus.1 Because of their paleographic similarity to P.Herc. 423 and some correspondences in the content, P.Herc. 22, 232, 245, and 463 have been assigned by T. Dorandi to the fourth book of Philodemus’ Rhetoric, in a study dedicated to its reconstruction.2 They would have constituted the outer part of the original roll, of which P.Herc. 423 represents the midollo, the final part, the inner part of the volumen. P.Herc. 463 consists of sixteen fragments, more or less incomplete, which I have studied and edited.3 Fragment 3 presents the well-known contrast between participation in public life, represented by an Apollo-

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phanes, perhaps the Stoic, and the blessed isolation of the contemplative life in a secure harbor, far from the tumult of political struggle. Here is the text of the fragment: . . . . .]ε καὶ πρὸς τῆς | [αὐτῆς] ἐμπνευσθέντες | [ἀνα]φωνῆς, οἱ μὲν ὥσ | τε θαυμαστῶς προβῆ | 5[ναι] τὴν Ἀπολλοφάνους | [ἐπὶ] τοῦ βήματος τύρ | [β]ην ἐζήλωσαν, οἱ δὲ | καὶ καταπλεύσαντες | εἰς τὸν λιμένα καὶ παρα | 10{φα} σχόντες ἐλπίδας ὡς | αὐτοὺς ‘‘οὐδ’ ἂν τὸ σεμ[νὸν] | πῦρ εἰργάθοι Διὸς τὸ | μὴ οὐ κατ’ ἄκρων περ | γάμων ἑ[λ]εῖν’’ τὸν εὐ | 15δαίμονα ⌈β ⌉ίον, εἴθ’ ὕστ[ε]| ρον ἀντ[εμπ]νευ`σ´θέντες | [ - - 2 [αὐτῆς] Asmis 3 [ἀνα]φωνῆς Gigante 6 τύρ | [β]ην Gigante Gargiulo, τύρ | [σ]ιν Usener 2 πῦρ γ’ εἰργάθοι Gaines, per litteras 5 διον N 7sq. [ - - - οτησαπο | N, ἐφήπτοντ]ο τῆς ἀπο | [νίας Gigante. . . . And inspired before the same loud clamor, some will strive with the effort of Apollophanes to advance wonderfully to the podium, but others, having landed in [philosophy’s] harbor and with hopes offered them that ‘‘not even the venerable flame of Zeus would be able to prevent them taking from the highest point of the citadel’’ a life that is happy, afterwards, in spite of opposing winds. . . .

The text of the first two lines is not clear: the one secure word is the participle ἐμπνευσθέντες. The verb ἐμπνέω does not seem to recur in the Epicurean texts and is used in epic and tragic poetry. Perhaps Philodemus says that philosophy acts as an inspiration for those to whom it is addressed, but can produce diverse intentions in those who cultivate it, in the sense that some people are impelled to the glory and fame of a public life through the practice of rhetoric, while others are driven toward the peace of pure speculation. The Apollophanes mentioned here seems to be identified with the Stoic philosopher, as I have attempted to show elsewhere.4 The same thinker was named in col. xviii.4 of P.Herc. 9, which, although also deprived of subscriptio, is considered to be from a book of Philodemus on sense perception and recently has been re-edited by A. Monet.5 Moreover, it seems that Philodemus refuted a doctrine of Apollophanes the Stoic in col. vii of the fourth book of De morte (P.Herc. 050), as Gigante has proposed.6 It is therefore not surprising that Philodemus presents a Stoic as the model of engagement in public life through the practice of rhetoric (τὴν | Ἀπολλοφάνους [ἐπὶ ] τοῦ βήματος τύρ | [ β ]ην ἐζήλωσαν). I note that, in fr. 9 of the same P.Herc. 463, Philodemus reports the statements of some 38

Philosophy’s Harbor

adversaries: according to them, the hostility of the Garden to rhetoric is due to the principle that the philosopher must not participate in public life and that the polemics of Epicurus against Nausiphanes originated in this argument. Some people, therefore, following the footsteps of Apollophanes, dedicate themselves to forensic practice, while others—and these are the Epicureans—sail into the harbor of philosophy and allow one to hope with the aid of speculation that nothing, not even Zeus’ lightning-bolt, will be able to impede the pursuit of happiness. In lines –4 Philodemus quotes verses 75–76 of the Phoenissai of Euripides, without variations, but with some adaptation to the context in line 75: the replacement of μηδ’ with οὐδ’, the optative εἰργάθοι in place of εἰργαθεῖν, and the omission of νιν.7 In line 2, after πῦρ, is a sign that perhaps indicates these differences.8 We are at that point in the tragedy in which Capaneus tries to climb the walls of Thebes on a ladder, proceeding from level to level, under a shower of blows from which he protects himself, covered by his shield. Having reached the top of the wall, when he is standing there about to step over it, Zeus strikes him with his lightning-bolt; he drops from the walls, and his body falls in flames to the ground. For Philodemus, the power of Euripides’ imagery serves to show the liberating power of Epicurus’ message. With the support of philosophy, the difficulty encountered in the spiritual process of eliminating anguish and turmoil and pursuing serenity of spirit will have been overcome and, unlike Capaneus, man will succeed in attaining the loftiest point of the citadel, the ἄκρα πέργαμα, happiness. The text then becomes fragmentary again. Only the participle ἀντ[εμπ]νευ`σ´θέντες, lines 5–6, is sufficiently certain. Previously I accepted a suggestion of Gigante that definitely would be suitable to the context: to supply in line 6, at the base of the letters present in the Neapolitan drawing, [ἐφήπτοντ]ο τῆς ἀπο | [νίας; but then I reflected on the fact that in line 6, on the two last letters π ο, there seemed to be two short dashes, which usually indicate scribal expunction. The Euripidean quotation is preceded by the metaphor of the harbor, which is well suited to a context of such solemn tone and further embellished by other literary associations. The λιμήν as refuge is a common motif in ancient and modern literature. In the Supplices (47), Aeschylus uses the term in the extended sense of ‘‘escape’’ or ‘‘remedy’’ (κοὐδαμοῦ λιμὴν κακῶν), and the man who surmounts anxiety (μόχθων) is compared to someone fleeing a storm and finding harbor by Euripides in the Bacchae (902–904). In the Andromache, Peleus comforts the wife of 39

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Hector: χείματος γὰρ ἀγρίου | τυχοῦσα λιμένας ἦλθες εἰς εὐηνέμους (‘‘After being buffeted in a savage storm, you have arrived in calm harbors,’’ 748–749). But more often the word ‘‘harbor’’ is applied figuratively in various ways. In the Andromache and the Medea, it is used to describe one of the dramatic characters: Hermione sees in Orestes a refuge from a metaphoric storm (χείματος λιμήν, Andr. 89–892); to Medea, Aegeus appears to be the refuge she has sought (οὗτος γὰρ ἁνὴρ . . . λιμὴν πέφανται τῶν ἐμῶν βουλευμάτων, Med. 768–769). In Empedocles, friends are reliable harbors for guests (ξείνων αἰδοῖοι λιμένες, Katharmoi fr. 2, 4–7 D-K), while, according to Sophocles, friendship is an unreliable harbor for the greater part of mankind: ἄπιστός ἐσθ’ ἑταιρείας λιμήν (Aj. 683). Critias sees in sleep the harbor of labors, τῶν καμάτων λιμένα (fr. 6, 0–2 D-K), while the metaphor of death as a harbor is common in Greek and Latin poets and writers of prose: Sophocles (Ant. 286: δυσκάθαρτος Ἅιδου λιμήν), Sotades (fr. 3 Powell: πάντων ὁ λιμὴν τῶν μερόπων ὁ θάνατός ἐστιν), Leonidas (Anth. Pal. 7.452.2: κοινὸς πᾶσι λιμὴν Ἅιδης), Plutarch (De tranq. anim. 476a: ἐγγὺς ὁ λιμὴν καὶ πάρεστιν ἀπονήξασθαι τοῦ σώματος ὥσπερ ἐφολκίου μὴ στέγοντος), Seneca (Ad Polybium de consolatione 9: in hoc tam procelloso et in omnes tempestates exposito mari navigantibus, nullus portus nisi mortis est), Favorinus (De exilio col. 25, 26: [εἰς τὸν] λιμένα ἄκλυστον εὐδαιμονίας). As Grilli has shown,9 the concept was not shared by Epicurus, who considered old age as a secure harbor: ὁ δὲ γέρων καθάπερ ἐν λιμένι τῷ γήρᾳ καθώρμικεν (Sent. Vat. 7.2–3). Old age and death are a harbor for Cicero: quae quidem [maturitas] mihi tam iucunda est ut, quo propius ad mortem accedam, quasi terram videre videar aliquandoque in portum ex longa navigatione esse venturus (Sen. 9.7).10 But to Cicero, otium and studium are the preferred harbor,11 as they also will later be for Seneca.12 Specifically, in a letter to Curius,13 Cicero says that he would not have been capable of enduring events if there had not been a refuge for him in the harbor of philosophy: nisi me in philosophiae portum contulissem. This phrase written by the great lawyer leads us back to the text of Philodemus, where the harbor of philosophy is contrasted with the podium of the speaker. Philodemus’ words anticipate some autobiographical verses in the Appendix Vergiliana. In the wellknown Catalepton 5.8–0, Vergil recalls how in 45 b.c. he quit the school of the rhetorician Epidius and transferred to Naples to study at the school of the Epicurean Siro, realizing ‘‘the first change of his life, not definitive, but decisive’’:14 40

Philosophy’s Harbor

nos ad beatos vela mittimus portus magni petentes docta dicta Sironis vitamque ab omni vindicabimus cura.

It is worth citing the fine words of Gigante’s commentary on this passage in his edition of Siro’s fragments: The blood of the poet now beats in unison with the image of the harbor of happiness: reality and metaphor. The harbor is Naples, the retreat, the quietus secessus, where his ship of genius and desire points, and the beatitudo is the doctrine of the master Epicurean, who will redeem his life from errors and from suffering. If in the aroused fantasy of the poet, the harbor of Naples becomes a myriad of beati portus, the maker/author of the new hope of liberation is one single man who in his lonely, simple, and generous grandeur stands out against the turmoil of false teachers. Perhaps the poet recalled such a passage from the Ciceronian Hortensius, as L. Alfonsi liked to believe, but it is certain that as the ῥοῖζος, the harsh phonic sound, recurs in a papyrus of the Poetica like the λιμήν, the hope for a εὐδαίμων βίος appears again in a papyrus of the Rhetorica of Philodemus.15

Just as dulcis Parthenope offered Vergil the beatitudo of the Epicurean message by way of Siro’s lectures, so the γλυκερὴ ᾐὼν Πειραέως presented to Philodemus, at the end of his voyage from Syria, the doctrines of the Epicurean Garden through the teaching of Zeno of Sidon:16 Vergil and Philodemus, as the Herculaneum papyri, in particular the recently unrolled and edited P.Herc. Paris. 2,17 have revealed, were friends in adulthood who would seem to have shared some stages of a spiritual journey in their youth.

notes . Cavallo 983: 22, 232, 245. 2. Dorandi 990b: 82–83. 3. See Longo Auricchio 982 for the description of the papyrus and the bibliography. 4. Longo 966. 5. Monet 996: 59–60, 05. 6. Gigante 983b: 49. 7. The verses are also cited by Philodemus in the second part of the work De pietate, P.Herc. 609 col. i (27, p. 48 Gomperz, Leipzig 866) = p. 97 Schober (CErc 8 [998]), cf. Luppe 985: 88 and 986b: 99. I am grateful to D. Obbink for these references. 4

francesca longo auricchio 8. According to R. Gaines, who is editing the fourth book of the Rhetorica, it may be a question of a ‘‘γ.’’ 9. Grilli 953: 74. The student is referred to the Letter to Menoeceus 26, where verse 427 of Theognis is quoted. 0. Cf. also Brut. 2.8; De or. .60; Tusc. .49. . Cf. Inv. rhet. .3; Att. 4.6.2; Fam. 5.5.3, 9.6.4. In the orations, the harbor is sometimes representative of exile (Caecin. 00: exsilium enim non supplicium est, sed perfugium portusque supplici), sometimes the generic refuge from the storms of life (Mur. 4; Clu. 7; Sest. 99; in Phil. 2.7, optimus est portus poenitenti, mutatio consili ). 2. De brevitate vitae 8.; Ep. 9.–2. 3. Fam. 7.30. 4. Gigante 990b: 89. In Gigante’s edition, the poetry is fr. 6. Cf. also Gigante 99: 88–90. The linkage with P.Herc. 463 was emphasized by Sbordone 997: 696. 5. Gigante 990a: 90. 6. Anth. Pal. 6.349 = G-P 9 = 6 Gigante 988. Cf. Gigante 990a: 68; Longo Auricchio 999: 04. 7. Gigante and Capasso 989.

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chapter 3

vergil’s epicureanism i n h i s e a r ly p o e m s r é g i n e c h a m b e rt

When Vergil wrote his first poems, gathered in the Appendix Vergiliana —for it now seems difficult to contest the authenticity of at least some of these poems—he was undoubtedly under a double influence: that of Alexandrianism, transmitted by the poetae novi, a new school of poetry led by Catullus, during his stay in Rome, and that of Epicureanism. He had come to know the latter through the reading of Lucretius and the teaching of Campanian philosophers, especially Philodemus and his friend and disciple Siro, with whom Vergil studied in the Garden of Naples. It is fairly easy to detect the mark of Epicureanism in the pessimistic depiction of passions, especially of the passion of love, that the young poet gives, as well as in the extensive celebration of pastoral otium portrayed in the Culex. This poem reveals its Alexandrian influence in the importance of its mythological and supernatural elements, but there are also elements that agree with the theology of Philodemus. These include a parodic and subversive vision of the underworld, as well as some representations that tend to minimize the role of the gods or to challenge some religious or divinatory rites. These elements confirm Epicurean influence in these early poems, where Vergil manages to combine the Alexandrian heritage and his philosophical preoccupations, his search for rationality and a poetical language.

presenting the appendix vergiliana: vergil at siro’s school The early poems of Vergil are gathered in a volume called the Appendix Vergiliana, that is to say, a ‘‘supplement’’ to the works of Vergil. Though their authenticity is not contested by ancient authors like Lucan, Statius, or Martial, nor by the manuscripts, it has been strongly questioned in modern times, from the end of the eighteenth century and chiefly during

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the nineteenth century, when hypercritical positions gained special credibility. The problem has generated intense debate. The phrase ‘‘the enigma of the Appendix Vergiliana’’ has even been used.1 On each side, the arguments have been diverse and, at times, contradictory: marked similarities or differences with other works of Vergil, and refusal to consider as ‘‘Vergilian’’ works that do not correspond to the established image of the poet. In spite of doubts still expressed by a few critics,2 Vergil’s authorship of at least some of the poems in the Appendix is nowadays generally no longer contested.3 This is especially true of the Culex—‘‘The Gnat’’ or ‘‘The Mosquito’’—an epyllion more than 400 lines long, and also of a collection of short epigrams called the Catalepton. I base my study here mainly on these poems. It is hard to date these works with precision. It is thought that several poems of the Appendix Vergiliana were written between 45 and 42 b.c., when Vergil was associated with the Garden of Naples, the seat of Campanian Epicureanism, where he followed the teaching of Siro: at that time, then, he was strongly immersed in Epicurean doctrine.4 In his commentary on the works of Vergil, Servius twice alludes to the time spent by the poet at Siro’s school in Naples. That the poet belonged to the Campanian circle of Siro and Philodemus has recently been confirmed by a fragment of a papyrus discovered at Herculaneum.5 Siro gave his lectures at Pausilypon,6 on a little estate by the Bay of Naples. At his death, in 42, Vergil seems to have inherited it,7 as implied by the eighth epigram of the Catalepton, which furnishes additional proof of the close links between the poet and the Epicurean philosopher: Villula, quae Sironis eras, et pauper agelle, verum illi domino tu quoque divitiae, me tibi et hos una mecum, quos semper amavi, si quid de patria tristius audiero, commendo, in primisque patrem. tu nunc eris illi, Mantua quod fuerat quodque Cremona prius.8 O little villa, that once wast Siro’s, and thou, poor tiny farm—yet to such an owner even thou wert wealth—to thee, if aught more sad I hear about our home-land, I entrust myself, and, along with me, those whom I have ever loved, my father first and foremost. Thou shalt now be to him what Mantua and what Cremona had been aforetime.

The concern expressed in this poem, whose ‘‘softly melancholic musicality’’ A. Salvatore observes,9 can be dated to the years 42–4, a period 44

Vergil’s Epicureanism in His Early Poems

when land near Mantua was being confiscated for war veterans, and when Vergil’s family property was eventually taken away from him.10 As for Siro, he was one of the great figures of Campanian Epicureanism; his name is mentioned several times in the works of Philodemus, with whom he had a close relationship.11 He headed one of the several Epicurean schools grouped around Philodemus in the region of Naples—at Cuma, Pozzuoli, or Herculaneum, for instance. The fifth epigram of the Catalepton, whose theme is, so to speak, a temporary farewell to poetry, reveals the conflict in Vergil’s mind as he chooses to renounce the Muses in order to devote his time to philosophy.12 Lines 8 through 4 express his ambivalence: nos ad beatos vela mittimus portus magni petentes docta dicta Sironis, vitamque ab omni vindicabimus cura. ite hinc, Camenae, vos quoque ite iam sane, dulces Camenae (nam fatebimur verum, dulces fuistis); et tamen meas chartas revisitote, sed pudenter et raro. We are spreading our sails for blissful havens, in quest of great Siro’s wise words, and from all care will redeem our life. Get ye hence, ye Muses! Yea, away now even with you, ye sweet Muses! For the truth we must avow—ye have been sweet. And yet, come ye back to my pages, though with modesty and but seldom!

In addition to spending some crucial years at Siro’s side, Vergil had probably read the De rerum natura, written in 53–52. The influence of Lucretius can be found in this passage: lines 8–0 are an echo of De rerum natura 5.–2 and 3 (doctis . . . dictis).13 Neither Vergil’s presence at Siro’s school nor his reading of Lucretius can be disputed; moreover, all those years of retreat and learning in his twenties were certainly decisive and undoubtedly left an enduring imprint on his personality and work.14 Besides the ‘‘autobiographical’’ testimonies and the personal confidences that we can find in these first literary productions of the young Vergil, deeper study of the Appendix Vergiliana gives us additional evidence for the impact of his stay at Siro’s Garden, revealing Epicurean elements in their poetic manifestations. He also would have been indebted to the poetae novi, with whose poetry he came into contact while in Rome,15 shortly before the years spent in Campania at Siro’s side. The initial poetic efforts of Vergil have indeed been shaped by Alexandrianism. We have to consider the problems raised by the double influence of Alexandrianism 45

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and Epicureanism in order to understand how Vergil managed to combine these two cultural movements, in spite of their sometimes contradictory demands, and how he finally managed to reconcile philosophy and poetry. There are two thematic areas in which the influence of Epicurean philosophy is most clearly expressed: first, in young Vergil’s portrayals of happiness and of passions, and then in the way in which his poetry deals with metaphysical questions—the role of the gods, for instance, and the notions of chance and providence. These are the two points I shall develop in this study.

happiness and passions: the praise of pastoral otium Young Vergil’s visions of happiness and of passions are especially well expressed in the Culex, even if they are not the main theme of this long epyllion, which is both a pastoral and a parody of epic.16 The poem is about a shepherd who, while asleep at midday after driving his goats under the shade of a sacred grove, is about to be attacked by an enormous snake surging up from the nearby marshes. He is awakened and saved by a mosquito’s sting. But before killing the snake, the shepherd swats the mosquito. During the night, the mosquito appears to him in a dream: in a burlesque of a catabasis, the mosquito describes the underworld and then blames the shepherd for his ingratitude. In the morning, the shepherd wakes up and, tormented by remorse, builds the mosquito a tomb and writes an epitaph. With descriptions and digressions, the narrative refers to numerous legends illustrating the agony of love, mainly when the mosquito, relating his journey to the underworld, lists the heroes and heroines that he meets.17 After brief mentions of figures (such as Medea, Philomela, and Procne, Pandion’s daughters) who personify the folly of passion and are paying for their crimes in Tartarus—which, of course, is in complete opposition to the Epicurean and Lucretian questioning of infernal punishments—he gives a lengthy description of Eurydice, one of the virtuous heroines, whose tragic destiny is recounted from lines 268 to 295. The story of Eurydice reconciles the elegiac and the romantic tendencies characteristic of Alexandrian literature (for which it is a favorite subject) with the pessimistic vision of love that Lucretius advocates.18 Even if the poet yields to the marvelous and, possibly influenced by Orphism, devotes a few lines (278–285) to Orpheus’ ability to charm nature, even re46

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ferring to his halting of Luna’s chariot, it is the theme of the love between Orpheus and Eurydice that is most important.19 The Culex focuses upon the meeting of the two lovers in the underworld and the fatal imprudence of Orpheus that once again separates them. Instead of stressing the quasidivine superiority of Orpheus, the poem underlines his guilt. The excesses of passion are condemned once and for all (268–269): quid misera Eurydice tanto maerore recessit / poenaque respectus et nunc manet Orpheos in te? 20 To the confusion and torment of love, the Culex opposes the simple happiness of the shepherd in nature. Otium in the countryside is celebrated in nearly forty lines: in this passage, where love as a passion is not mentioned, it is greed, the love of wealth and luxury, that appears as the main obstacle to the peace of the soul (Culex 58–7): o bona pastoris (si quis non pauperis usum mente prius docta fastidiat et probet illis somnia luxuriae spretis) incognita curis quae lacerant avidas inimico pectore mentes. si non Assyrio fuerint bis lota colore Attalicis opibus data vellera, si nitor auri sub laqueare domus animum non angit avarum picturaeque decus, lapidum nec fulgor in ulla cognitus utilitate manet, nec pocula gratum Alconis referent Boethique toreuma, nec Indi conchea baca maris pretio est, at pectore puro saepe super tenero prosternit gramine corpus, florida cum tellus, gemmantis picta per herbas, vere notat dulci distincta coloribus arva.

60

65

70

O the blessings of the shepherd—if one would not, with mind already schooled, disdain the poor man’s ways, and in scorn of them give approval to dreams of wealth—blessings those cares know not, that rend greedy hearts within warring breasts! What though fleeces, twice dipped in Assyrian dye, be not bought for wealth of Attalus, though gleam of gold beneath the fretted ceiling of a house, and brilliancy of painting, move not a greedy soul, though flashing gems be never deemed to have aught of worth, though goblets of Alcon and reliefs of Boëthus bring no joy, and the Indian Ocean’s pearls be of no esteem; yet, with heart free from guile, upon the soft sward he oft outstretches his frame, while blossoming earth, painted with jewelled grasses, in sweet spring marks the fields, picked out with varied hues.

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We find in these lines, within the idyllic and pastoral landscape of Alexandrian poetry,21 the usual elements of rustic otium in accordance with the Epicurean ideal: poverty, the appeal of the locus amoenus (greenery, shade, springs, vales, and caves), the splendor of the landscape that surpasses the chimera of luxury (somnia luxuriae), the satisfaction of natural needs that exclude ambition and war, a simple and humble piety—such are the indispensable conditions for sweet repose (dulcis . . . requies) and the pura voluptas (89). In a highly meticulous analysis where he considers both form and content,22 Salvatore demonstrates how this passage is reminiscent of, first, the proemium of Book 2 of the De rerum natura, and second, the wellknown passage in the Georgics on the happiness of country people (2.458– 540). While emphasizing the influence of Lucretius, Salvatore also points out marked differences: a moral rather than a philosophical intent in the Culex, which, like the Georgics, provides only an indirect reference to Epicurean doctrine,23 and the presence of a still-ornamental religiosity, which subsequently, in the Georgics, gains a deeper value and meaning. Salvatore rejects the idea of imitation and even more of forgery. Instead, he speaks of ‘‘an artistic and spiritual evolution’’ linked to Vergil’s encounter with the Lucretian model and considers the praise of rustic otium in the Culex a prefiguration of that in the Georgics, an indication that these themes, already present in the mind of the young Vergil, have acquired, with time, greater depth.24 I am personally much more convinced by Salvatore’s fine analysis than by the ‘‘demonstration’’ of D. O. Ross, Jr.25 Ross considers the whole poem a parody of neoteric technique and refuses to see in the praise of otium anything other than forty lines of ‘‘edifying reflection,’’ a mass of ‘‘vapid clichés,’’ a digression that ‘‘has been stitched onto the fabric of the poem’’; the only objective argument he gives is that the passage is introduced by ‘‘a certain amount of fanfare’’ (o bona pastoris . . . , 58). I could answer that the same ‘‘amount of fanfare’’ can be found both in Lucretius (2.: Suaue, mari magno . . .) and in Vergil (Georgics 2.458: o fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint / agricolas . . . ). Moreover, Ross himself recognizes that it can be difficult to distinguish what is parodic from what is not, and that in dealing with the concept of parody, ‘‘a great deal depends on subjective reading.’’ I could then submit that the Culex is neither ‘‘an impossibly bad poem’’ nor ‘‘a splendid parody,’’ but rather the work of a precocious genius who has not yet mastered the easy skills of maturity; in spite of undeniable parodic elements, the poem bears the mark of strong influences that are to be found, with unavoidable changes, in Vergil’s major works. 48

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For the present investigation, what must be stressed in this passage are the Epicurean connotations of the vocabulary: for instance, the use of the adjective purus in combination with the word mens (80), a phrase related to the language in line 59, mente prius docta, which clearly alludes to Epicurean teaching (‘‘If our spirit, enlightened by the doctrine . . .’’). Purus is also used with pectus (68) and with voluptas (89). Epicurean nuances are also found in the adjective dulcis, very often used in the Appendix Vergiliana,26 coupled with vere in line 7 (vere dulci, ‘‘in sweet spring’’) and with requies in line 89. We can also find laetus (72), beatus (79), gratus (76 and 94), and iucundus (93). The lexicon of calm and rest is also present: requies (89, 92), otium (73), somnus (93), the adjective placidus juxtaposed with securus (97), liber and simplex together in line 90. In opposition to these words we find the vocabulary of anguish and torment, with derogatory overtones: the verb angere in line 64, cura in lines 60, 90, and 9, close to tristia bella (8), funesta . . . certamina (82), the adjectives avidus or avarus (6, 69, 8), the noun invidia in line 73. To the deceitful glitter of wealth (luxuria, 60; opibus and nitor auri, 63; [picturaeque] decus, [lapidum] fulgor in line 65; pretio, 68; spoliis . . . fulgentibus in line 83, divite in 95), are opposed the gleaming beauty of nature and its lavishness: gemmantis (picta), 70; pollentem (sibi), 74; fecunda (Pales), 77; lucens in line 79.27 The mark of Epicurean sensuality also appears in the faculty to enjoy the pleasures of nature and the sensitivity to the physical well-being it gives. This harmony with a landscape that provides all that man may wish for is quite in accordance with the hedonistic tendencies that seem to characterize Campanian Epicureanism. The eulogy of rural otium is rounded off in this poem by some brief evocations of the shepherd’s rest: in lines 57–60, which speak of the ‘‘gentle sleep’’ (mitem . . . soporem), the ‘‘carefree slumber’’ (securo . . . somno), and the ‘‘sweet restfulness’’ (dulcem . . . quietem) that descend upon him when he is about to be attacked by the snake; in lines 206– 209, when, at night, the mosquito appears in his dreams;28 and, finally, in lines 20–25, when the apparition, the effigies of the mosquito, addresses him, contrasting its sad fate with the earthly happiness of the shepherd that it considers more enviable than Elysian bliss (on which it does not linger): ‘‘quis,’’ inquit, ‘‘meritis ad quae delatus acerbas cogor adire vices! tua dum mihi carior ipsa vita fuit vita, rapior per inania ventis. tu lentus refoves iucunda membra quiete, 49

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ereptus taetris e cladibus; at mea manes viscera Lethaeas cogunt transnare per undas.’’ ‘‘What deserts are mine,’’ he cries, ‘‘and what ills am I wafted, who am called to face a bitter requital? While thy life was dearer to me than life itself, I am swept by the winds through empty space. Thou, at thine ease, in sweet repose refreshest thy limbs, thou that wast snatched from a hideous death; but my remains the Shades compel to pass o’er Lethe’s waters.’’

Such is the poetry of rest and peace that we find in the Culex and, in a more solemn style, in the Aeneid. There sleep becomes a true cosmic force that brings down the exhausted warrior,29 having nothing to do with the sweet nonchalance of the bucolic rest that Campanian Epicureanism advocates. What emerges from the preceding analyses is, in spite of the presence of other influences, the conformity of themes in most of the poems of the Appendix to Epicurean doctrine. If Vergil’s judgment of passions, and especially of the passion of love, essentially reflects Lucretius’ pessimism, ideas concerning the proper form of happiness and the pleasures of nature are more in agreement with Campanian Epicureanism and the teachings of Philodemus and Siro. I next explore whether the same agreement is found in the area of metaphysics, in the attitudes expressed about such notions as providence, chance, the role of the gods, and the question of evil, death, and the next world.

poetry and metaphysics If the Culex bears the mark of Epicurean rationalism, it nevertheless also often refers to mythology, fables, and gods. Its great number of marvelous, supernatural elements generally reflects the influence of Alexandrianism. Examples of these are the many myths to which it alludes, most prominently in descriptions such as that of the sacred wood where the shepherd leads his goats at midday: the story of Agave, victim of Dionysus; that of Phaethon’s sisters, the Heliades, transformed into poplar trees; or yet another story of metamorphosis, the myth of Demophoon (07–33). In addition, mythology is often used for decorative purposes, to embellish a description of where and when the event takes place. In that case, the marvelous is naturalistic without having any religious overtone; it is a simple device to express time or place poetically. An instance of this is the reference to cosmic gods to establish the time when the shepherd takes his goats out of the pen to graze on the mountain side (42–44): 50

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igneus aetherias iam sol penetrabat in arces candidaque aurato quatiebat lumina curru, crinibus et roseis tenebras Aurora fugarat. The fiery sun had now made his way unto heaven’s heights, and from gilded car was scattering his gleaming rays, the Dawn with roseate locks had routed darkness.

The landscape is also peopled with an array of rustic mythical figures, Satyrs, Dryads, and Naiads, as in lines 94–97, which bring the eulogy of rustic bliss we examined above to a close. Divine patrons of poetry are also invoked, for example, at the beginning of the Culex (–9): Phoebus, the sister Naiads, the Muses. This catalogue concludes with Pales, an old goddess of Latium 30 to whom Vergil was very attached because she protected not only flocks but also poets, and through this double function united the pastoral and the poetic worlds (Culex 20–23): et tu, sancta Pales, ad quam ventura recurrunt agrestum bona fetura—sit cura tenentis aerios nemorum cultus siluasque virentes: te cultrice vagus saltus feror inter et antra. Thou too, holy Pales, to whom, as they appear, the blessings of husbandmen return with increase, be thine the care of him who keeps the lofty forest-homes and woodlands green; whilst thou dost tend them, freely I roam among the glades and caves.

I must stress that there is no contradiction between this respect for traditional religion and Epicureanism, since what Epicurus as well as Philodemus rejects is deisidaimonia, that is to say a false conception of the gods leading to fear and bringing unhappiness to man by plunging him into everlasting anguish. Epicurean attitudes toward religion do not prohibit conformity with custom in performing rites and religious practices.31 Far less in keeping with Epicurean orthodoxy seems to be the long passage of over 80 lines in the Culex narrating the catabasis, the journey the mosquito takes through the underworld (202–384). This passage introduces legendary damned figures suffering eternal tortures in Tartarus, then presents a catalogue of virtuous heroines, characters from epic mythology, and great names from Roman history who enjoy the blessings of Elysium. Although there are some similarities in vocabulary, phraseology, and themes between this episode and Book 3 of Lucretius’ De rerum natura,32 it is particularly difficult to reconcile the catabasis of the Culex with Lucretius’ attack upon the belief in a legendary underworld, where he as5

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serts that we suffer true punishments in our own lifetimes, and that, for the guilty, life upon earth is Acherusia, truly infernal. Furthermore, Philodemus violently dismisses the ‘‘judging-gods’’ of Hades,33 because imagination, mythoeides,34 can, even through parody, cause anguish and a regression into deisidaimonia. We can instead trace the influence of Orphic eschatology or Plato’s dialogues in the importance given to the tribunal of the underworld in front of which the insect is summoned to appear: he must obey Minos’ sentence to find his place in the realm of the dead and, perhaps, join the dwelling of the just (372–377): illi laude sua vigeant: ego Ditis opacos cogor adire lacus viduos, a, lumine Phoebi et vastum Phlegethonta pati, quo, maxime Minos, conscelerata pia discernis vincula sede. ergo iam causam mortis, iam dicere vitae verberibus saevae cogunt ab iudice Poenae. Let them live in their renown: but I am forced to pass to those shadowy pools of Dis, that are alas! bereft of the light of Phoebus, and to suffer waste Phlegethon, whereby, O mighty Minos, thou partest the prisonhouse of the wicked from the abode of the righteous! So before the judge the cruel Fiends with scourges force me to plead my cause.

We can, however, question the reality of the portrayal of the underworld presented by the mosquito—the whole episode is part of a dream, that of a sleeping shepherd who sees the effigy of the insect, his image or his ghost (206–209, quoted above). The part played by fancy is important and removes some of the solemn quality of this underworld, which, consequently, cannot really be taken seriously. Finally, the mosquito questions the infernal order because of the injustice he feels: he who helped the shepherd escape the monstrous snake (20–25, quoted above) sees the chthonian animal as soon as he reaches the underworld, when he meets Tisiphone and Cerberus. His good deed is not properly rewarded: fit poena merenti (‘‘Punishment falls to the deserving,’’ 229). Using the motif of ingratitude, the Culex also raises, in a playful manner, the issue of unrewarded generosity, of the suffering of the just; this theme of injustice offers a rationale for the long narrative of the insect’s journey through the underworld. The last problem raised by this passage is that of the burial place.When he wakes up, the shepherd hastens to give the mosquito last honors by building a small circular tumulus that he protects with stones (394–398). Many critics assert that this is the desire of the insect longing for rest in 52

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the other world, and that it explains his apparition in the dream of the sleeping shepherd. But in its appeal to the gratitude of the shepherd, the mosquito never actually speaks of its burial place. This is the most explicit passage on this subject: poena sit exitium, modo sit dum grata voluntas. / existat par officium (‘‘Let the punishment be death; only let there be a grateful heart, let an equal service be rendered!’’ 230–23). Despite the repetition of the word officium in the epitaph, which seems to be an echo of the mosquito’s request, we can first of all see, in what the shepherd does, an act of gratitude, a mark of his fides as an answer to the pietas or to the philēia of the insect (43–44): Parve cvlex pecvdvm cvstos tibi tale merenti fvneris officivm vitae pro mvnere reddit. Little Gnat, to thee, so well deserving, the guardian of the flocks pays this service of death in return for the boon of life.

It is nowhere said clearly that the tomb will provide any rest for the mosquito’s soul in Hades. The Aeneid testifies to the same uncertainty: the death of Palinurus seems all the more cruel because Aeneas’ faithful helmsman will not be given last honors (5.870–87); at other times, Aeneas considers a tomb a vain gesture (0.827–828). Similarly, when Turnus gives Pallas the favor of burial, it is obviously as an honor and a consolation, not, in Mellinghoff-Bourgerie’s wording, as ‘‘the all important rite that decides the eternal happiness or sorrow of a soul.’’ 35 These incidents in the Aeneid hint at an attitude that not only reflects that of the Epicurean circles but also manifests a skepticism, quite common at that time, about the meaningfulness of burial rites (cf. Catullus 0). Finally, we may wonder if any concordance between Epicurean dogma and the ideas contained in the poem emerges on the questions of chance and providence, of the exact role played by the gods in determining the fate of man. In fact, although Vergil makes concessions to the poetic requirements of the genre, the gods are almost excluded from the course of events in the Culex. Far from highlighting the role of the gods, some parts of the narrative introduce notions such as chance, fors or casus,36 or even state a number of causes that leave room for free interpretation. An example of this is when the shepherd, awakened by the mosquito’s sting, manages to kill the snake with a branch (93–95): qui casus sociarit opem numenve deorum prodere sit dubium, valuit sed vincere talis horrida squamosi volventia membra draconis. 53

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What chance gave him aid, or what spirit divine, it were hard to tell, but such as he was, he availed to worst the scaly serpent’s dreadful writhing limbs.

The alternative construction casus . . . numenve deorum permits several interpretations and thus maintains doubt and preserves a metaphysical uncertainty. Divine interference is not totally rejected—even if what the shepherd himself did is stressed, thus giving scope in the action to human freedom.37 That double interpretation leaves room for ambiguity, a practice uncommon in epic, especially in the Homeric model, and reflects the plurality of explanations admitted by the Epicureans, for whom the rest of the soul is paramount. Other passages in the Culex completely exclude the supernatural and insist on the role of chance. For instance, the apparition of the snake disturbs the sleep of the shepherd, who, stratus humi dulcem capiebat corde quietem, / ni Fors incertos iussisset ducere casus (‘‘prone upon the ground, was enjoying to the full sweet restfulness—had not Fortune bade him draw uncertain lots,’’ 6–62). Here divine will does not intervene at all, which is in agreement with an Epicurean interpretation of this important problem. Evil cannot be ascribed to indifferent distant gods. It is due to chance, a permanent and unmovable principle to which man is subject, but which he can combat through endurance, audacity, or intelligence; it is nothing more than a casus, as Mellinghoff-Bourgerie properly analyzes it.38 Similarly, the intervention of the mosquito is not presented as providential; its saving sting is prompted by its natural generosity, a solidarity imposed by the Epicurean philēia.39 This can be understood from the words uttered by the mosquito when it speaks to the shepherd in his dream (227–229): . . . instantia vidi alterius, sine respectu mea fata relinquens, ad pariles agor eventus. I saw the fate that threatened another; mine own I left without regard, and now am driven to a doom like unto his.

The gods allow evil to happen 40 and, although nature is good, it is not providential. So the mosquito, ‘‘a tiny nursling of the damp’’ ( parvulus . . . umoris . . . alumnus, 83), seems to embody, with its feeble weapons (telo naturae . . . levi, ‘‘the light dart Nature had furnished,’’ 86), the forces of life as opposed to those of destruction represented by the snake, the chthonian animal—the phrase telo naturae applied to him matching the 54

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arma . . . naturae (78) of the snake. This is in keeping with the principle of isonomia that maintains, for the Epicureans, a constant balance between good and evil: death opposes life, as night opposes day, those rival principles alternately taking the advantage.41 So it seems that, in spite of the confusion that leads to the intervention of either the gods or the fates—the fata that are not necessarily in agreement with the gods’ will—or even the introduction of notions such as fors, fortuna, and casus, words often used as synonyms to refer to chance, there is scope in the Culex for freedom and human responsibility. Even with the weight of contingency, it is possible to have some slight control over the course of events.

conclusion As this study shows, there is an undeniable Epicurean influence on the poems of Vergil’s youth. Whether we consider the pessimism in the depiction of the passion of love or the philosophical tendency in the field of metaphysics and religion, the mark of the Garden, the impact of Lucretius as well as the teachings of Siro and Philodemus, is prominent, even if we must also take into account the stimulus of other philosophical and religious trends of which we can detect traces, such as Orphism and Pythagorism. On the one hand, Campanian Epicureanism was open to the theories of other schools; on the other hand, Vergil himself shows some degree of independence in respect to dogmas 42 and integrates different influences into his poetical works. It is also fair to give a place to Alexandrianism and the poetae novi, with whom Vergil had, at that time, very close links. Alexandrianism and Epicureanism are not necessarily opposed: on the part of the neoteric poets, there is a certain critical distance from mythology; on Vergil’s side, the sometimes parodic use he makes of it leads him in the Culex to contest the infernal legends or to reduce the importance of the divine. This permits an association between poetry and philosophy, and between both the inheritance of the Homeric and the Alexandrian traditions and ideological struggle. Finally, the delight in rural otium and the physical presence of nature unites Campanian Epicureanism with the deepest tendencies of Vergil’s sensitivity. In spite of his farewell to the Muses in the Catalepton, Vergil, overcoming his dilemma, manages to link philosophical preoccupations and literary constraints, the demands of rationality and the idiom of poetry.43 55

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notes . See Westendorp Boerma 97. 2. Lyne (978: 48) tentatively dates the Ciris as post-Statian on the grounds that it contains direct imitations of Lucan, Statius, and Silius Italicus. Ross (975) claims that the Culex and Moretum are ‘‘post-Augustan’’ parodies, and Tarrant (992: 333) says that the attribution of the Copa to Vergil ‘‘has long been abandoned.’’ 3. Salvatore 994. 4. See Gigante 984: 4–5. 5. For the initial publication of the text of P.Herc. Paris. 2 frr. 278b and 279a, where Philodemus names Vergil as one of four addressees of a philosophic treatise, consult Gigante and Capasso 989; see further Gigante 990b and 993: 68– 70. Cf. André 969: 500–50. 6. Derived from the Greek Pausilypon, meaning ‘‘end of sorrow.’’ 7. Cf. Gell. NA 6.20. Whether he inherited or bought it, Vergil owned Siro’s villa and prepared it as a place of retreat for himself and for his parents. Furthermore, it is in Campania, maybe at Siro’s villa, that he wished to be buried. See Rostagni 96: 0– and 74–75. 8. I follow the Oxford Classical Text of the Appendix Vergiliana, with further consideration of Salvatore et al. (997). Translations are those of Fairclough in the Loeb Classical Library (98). To my knowledge, no more recent English translation of the whole work is available, and there is also none in French. For a recent bibliography, see Richmond 98. Quotations from other Latin authors are drawn from the texts of the Collection des Universités de France, Les Belles Lettres (Collection Budé), Paris, and translations of those passages from the Loeb Classical Library. I am presently editing and translating into French the complete text of the Appendix Vergiliana for the Belles Lettres (C.U.F.), the first publication of these poems to appear in this collection. 9. Salvatore 994: 38–39. 0. This confiscation is referred to more violently in the Dirae, where Vergil wishes those lands would become barren or be destroyed by fire or water rather than yield their fruit to new masters. However, a few modern scholars think that the dispossession is a fabrication; for a justification of its historical authenticity, see Salvatore 994: 287–303. . Cicero Fin. 2.9 mentions both of them together, praising them as familiares nostros, cum optimos viros, tum homines doctissimos (‘‘My acquaintances, not only outstanding men but also most erudite human beings’’). On the links between Siro and Philodemus, see Gigante 984: 74–75. 2. Recent scholarship, focused upon Philodemus, who was himself a poet, has questioned whether the Epicureans of Campania really considered poetry and philosophy hostile to each other. See the various essays in Obbink 995b; an overview is provided by Clay (ch. ). Other instances of the theme of the farewell 56

Vergil’s Epicureanism in His Early Poems to poetry in favor of philosophy are Horace Epist. . and Cicero Hortensius fr. 9 M. For commentary on these lines, see Salvatore 963: 37–39 and Rostagni 96: 4–43. 3. I detect similar Lucretian influence in the other poems of the Appendix, as well as in Vergil’s later works (Chambert forthcoming). On the precise place of Lucretius in the Garden of Naples, see the contributions of Gigante and others in Monet forthcoming. Cf. Kleve 989 and Romano 995. 4. See Rostagni 96: 35, 5–54, and 72–80. 5. For more precise discussion of this influence, see Thill 979: 39–3 and 355–369; also Williams 968. 6. On the date, the authenticity, and the importance of this poem, see Rostagni 96: 7–93. 7. See ibid.: 95–39. 8. De rerum natura 4.058–09. 9. As in the Georgics (4..45–526) and in Ovid (Met. 0.–85). 20. ‘‘Why, poor Eurydice, hast thou withdrawn in such sorrow? And why even now waits upon thee punishment for that backward look of Orpheus?’’ 2. Salvatore (994: 28) calls attention to ‘‘l’atmosfera prevalentemente idillica del Culex—che sembra preludere alle Bucoliche.’’ On this agreement of the landscape with the Epicurean ideal, see Gigante 984: 9 and 45–48. 22. ‘‘Tra Lucrezio e Virgilio,’’ in Salvatore 995: 257–285. See also Rostagni 96: 60–66. 23. ‘‘Si direbbe che, piu che a un fine filosofico, l’autore del Culex miri ad un fine morale; questo elemento a sembra che sia da lui accentuato’’ (Salvatore 994: 264). 24. ‘‘Ci sembra infatti quei motivi, già esistenti, in parte, nell’animo giovanile di Virgilio, abbiano acquistato, col passare del tempo, una dimensione piu ampia e profonda; ci pare, cioè, che si possa parlare di un’evoluzione spirituale e artistica avvenuta nell’animo di uno stesso poeta, che dopo la prima suggestione del modello lucreziano prese coscienza della propria posizione nei confronti di quel modello’’ (ibid.: 285). 25. Ross 975. 26. Dulcis occurs thirty-one times (see Morgenroth and Najok 992). 27. Culex 72–97: atque illum calamo laetum recinente palustri otiaque invidia degentem et fraude remota pollentemque sibi viridi cum palmite lucens Tmolia pampineo subter coma velat amictu. illi sunt gratae rorantes lacte capellae et nemus et fecunda Pales et vallibus intus semper opaca novis manantia fontibus antra. quis magis optato queat esse beatior aevo

57

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régine chambert quam qui mente procul pura sensuque probando non avidas agnovit opes nec tristia bella nec funesta timent validae certamina classis nec, spoliis dum sancta deum fulgentibus ornet templa vel evectus finem transcendat habendi, adversum saevis ultro caput hostibus offert? ille falce deus colitur non arte politus, ille colit lucos, illi Panchaia tura floribus agrestes herbae variantibus adsunt, illi dulcis adest requies et pura voluptas, libera, simplicibus curis: huic imminet, omnis derigit huc sensus, haec cura est subdita cordi, quolibet ut requie victu contentus abundet iucundoque liget languentia corpora somno. o pecudes, o Panes et o gratissima tempe fontis Hamadryadum, quarum non divite cultu aemulus Ascraeo pastor sibi quisque poetae securam placido traducit pectore vitam.

80

85

90

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And lo! as he delights in the mere’s resounding reeds, and takes his ease apart from envy and deceit, and is strong in his own strength, the leafage of Tmolus and the sheen of green boughs enwraps him beneath a cloak of vines. His are pleasing goats that drip their milky dew, his the woodland and fruitful Pales, and, deep within the vales, shaded grottoes ever trickling with fresh springs.Who in a happier age could be more blest than he who, dwelling afar, with pure soul and feelings well tested knows not the greed of wealth, and fears not grim wars or the fatal conflicts of a mighty fleet, nor yet, if so he may but adorn the gods’ holy temples with gleaming spoils, or high uplifted may surpass the limits of wealth, willfully risks his life, confronting savage foes? He reverences a god shaped by pruning-knife, not by artist’s skill; he reverences the groves; for him the grasses of the fields, mottled with flowers, yield Panchaean incense; his are sweet repose and unsullied pleasure, free, with simple cares. This is his goal, towards this he directs every sense; this is the thought lurking within his heart, that, content with any fare, he may be rich in repose, and in pleasant sleep may enchain his weary frame. O flocks, O Pans, O vales of Hamadryads, delightful in your springs, in those humble worship the shepherds, vying each for himself with the bard of Ascra, spend with tranquil hearts a carefree life. 28. Culex 206–209: cuius ut intravit levior per corpora somnus languidaque effuso requierunt membra sopore,

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Vergil’s Epicureanism in His Early Poems effigies ad eum culicis devenit et illi tristis ab eventu cecinit convicia mortis. Soon as gentle sleep passed over his body and his listless limbs, steeped in slumber, sank to rest, there descended upon him the spectre of the Gnat and sang him reproachful strains by reason of his sad death. 29. On the poetry of rest, see André 969: 54–56. 30. See Bailey 935, especially ch. 2, ‘‘The Old Italian Religion: Deities and Cults,’’ in which he stresses the link between Vergil’s love for the Italian countryside and ‘‘his affectionate devotion to the old animistic religion of the Italians’’ (29). 3. Festugière 946: ch. 4, ‘‘La religion d’Épicure,’’ 87–92. See further Warren, who argues that Epicurean doctrine ‘‘engages us in a pious ritual correctly and without anxiety,’’ and that ‘‘this new piety which honors the gods because of their paradigmatic tranquility rather than out of some desire to win the god’s favour or avoid their wrath has a positive result’’ (2000: 260). 32. See Rostagni 96: 55–59. 33. De dis , col. xvii.9ff. See Festugière 946: 8–82. 34. On these aesthetic questions mainly concerned with the incompatibility between poetry and Epicurean philosophy, see Giuffrida 94: 57ff.; Bignone 973; also Tescari 935; and several contributions to Giannantoni and Gigante 993; see also Gale 994: 4–8. 35. Mellinghoff-Bourgerie 990: 47. 36. Culex 6–62. 37. The same ambiguity, the same set of alternatives can be seen in another passage of the Culex. During the catabasis, the tempest that engulfed the Greek fleet on its return from Troy is recalled: the poet does not take sides but leaves the reader free to choose between divine intervention, seu caelesti fato (‘‘the fate of heaven’’), and rational causality, seu sideris ortu (‘‘some rising star,’’ 347). Cf. Aen. 9.2: si quis in adversum rapiat casusve deusve (‘‘If some god or chance sweep me to disaster’’). The same expression, casusve deusve, is repeated in 2.320–322, when Aeneas is wounded by an arrow. 38. Mellinghoff-Bourgerie 990: 37. Bailey (935: 235) defines the casus as an ‘‘impersonal and a religious principle that pursues Aeneas.’’ See also Champeaux’s analysis (987: 64–202) of the use of Fors, Fortuna, or Fors Fortuna. 39. On this point, see Oroz-Reta 969. 40. We can detect, in this interpretation, an echo of the criticism of providence as developed by the neo-Epicureans within the framework of the antiStoic controversy: the civil wars had shaken the optimism of the Stoics, and the question of evil was at the center of the debates in the schools of Naples and Herculaneum. 4. This principle is explained by Lucretius at De rerum natura 3.569–580. 42. On Vergil’s independence, see Gigante 984: 2 and Rostagni 96: 58. 59

régine chambert 43. This article is an adaptation of a contribution to the ‘‘Centre d’Études sur la Philosophie hellénistique et romaine,’’ delivered on June 5, 999, at the Université Paris XII-Créteil. I would like to thank Professor J. M. André and Professor C. Lévy (Paris IV-Sorbonne) for their advice and suggestions, D. A. Rousseau for the English translation, and Professor P. A. Johnston (Brandeis University), who agreed to read over the English version of the essay.

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c o n s o l at i o n i n t h e b u c o l i c mode: the epicurean cadence of vergil’s first eclogue g r e g s o n d av i s

The opening poem of Vergil’s Eclogue-book draws to a close in a passage in which a fortunate poet-shepherd, Tityrus, invites his unfortunate friend, Meliboeus, to a rustic meal at his humble cottage. This essay seeks to adumbrate a rhetorical, as well as a philosophical, context for the invitation. I hope to show, in brief compass, that the rhetorical substructure of the eclogue rests on a foundation of consolatory motifs, and, more specifically, that Tityrus’ closing gesture of hospitality imparts a distinctly Epicurean cadence to his consolation—a cadence that resonates with certain ‘‘invitation’’ epigrams of the philosopher-poet Philodemus. Before focusing on the closure of the eclogue, a few preliminary observations on the thematics of consolation in the Bucolics as a whole are in order. The discourse of loss and consolation constitutes a veritable leitmotif of Vergil’s Bucolics. A few key examples will suffice as cursory illustration of this observation. First, Eclogue 2 features a lovesick shepherd-singer, Corydon, who utters a plaintive monologue about his ill-starred love for the handsome Alexis. Toward the end of his effusive querela, the embedded speaker poignantly raises the question of limit (modus) (line 68: quis enim modus adsit amori?), which is essential to the discourse of consolation. In Corydon’s case, it is the dolor of unfulfilled erotic desire that is represented as excessive, but eventually he consoles himself with the reflection that he is bound to find another lover to replace the cold Alexis. Second, in the course of the fifth eclogue, the poets, Menalcas and Mopsus, exchange songs that extol the deceased Daphnis in terms of a major consolatory topos: the immortality conferred by poetry. Third, the dialogue between Lycidas and Moeris in Eclogue 9 foregrounds the role of poetry and memory in compensating for the extreme loss of dispossession. Fourth, the Gallus of the tenth eclogue, who is the representative par excellence of

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erotic elegy, notoriously attempts, without success, to find solace for his painful love experience in the ‘‘other’’ genre of bucolic, which he is made to idealize beyond recognition. The love-elegist eventually relinquishes his fond illusion of finding an exterior source of consolation. In the light of this broad recurrent concern with consolation and its limits, Vergil’s introduction of major consolatory motifs in Eclogue  is clearly meant to be programmatic with respect to the entire collection of eclogues. In the context of the organization of Eclogue , the lineaments of a consolatory strategy are transparent. Consolatory poetry takes extreme loss as its necessary point of departure. The offered solace is an antidote to misfortune, which, of course, may take a variety of forms (death, dispossession, erotic deprivation, etc.). In this sense, Eclogue  builds its argument on the overwhelming loss incurred by Meliboeus: a brutal dispossession that drives him to despair and exile. This ‘‘dark background’’ of deprivation and grief is etched against the antithetical felicity of Tityrus. It is worth emphasizing, however, that Vergil blurs the dichotomy between the two figures’ experience of felicity and infelicity in ways that are commonly overlooked by the scholarly commentators; for in the course of Tityrus’ account of his eudaimonia, we learn that his bliss is recent and discontinuous. At the diachronic level, it becomes apparent that the fortunatus senex, Tityrus, has undergone radical vicissitudes in the past (negative experiences in love and in his social and economic condition, such as impecuniousness and lack of libertas [cf. lines 30–35]). His own account of his fortunes places his current felicity in proper perspective as contingent and entirely beholden to an unnamed deus (a point to which I shall return below). Tityrus’ vocatio ad cenam,1 then, has the primary rhetorical function of consoling Meliboeus for his acute loss. The latter is portrayed as suffering great emotional tumult as he apostrophizes his sad flock and bitterly renounces his bucolic way of life. It is against this background of despair in the face of extreme misfortune that Tityrus extends his invitation (Eclogue .79–83): hic tamen hanc mecum poteras requiescere noctem fronde super viridi: sunt nobis mitia poma, castaneae molles et pressi copia lactis, et iam summa procul villarum culmina fumant, maioresque cadunt altis de montibus umbrae.2 Here at least you could rest 3 tonight with me on a green couch of leaves: we have ripe apples, 64

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soft chestnuts, and lots of freshly pressed cheese. Already the rooftops of the farmhouses are smoking, and the shadows that fall from the high mountains are growing longer.

Tityrus’ gesture of hospitality toward a friend in the throes of despair and disarray is very much in the spirit of Epicurus’ teaching, as we can glean from a fragmentary passage from a Herculaneum papyrus (P.Herc. 232 fr. 8, col. i):

δ[ι]ὰ ταράχους μ[οχ]θοῦσι τὰς π[ερὶ τῶν ἀρίστων καὶ μακαρισ[τοτά]των φύσεω[ν] ἐνν[οίας. [κα]λεῖν εὐωχ[εῖσ]θαι αὐτούς τε κα[θ]ὼς καὶ τ[οὺς] ἄλλους [. . .]. . . . as concerns those who experience turmoil and difficulty in their conceptions of natures that are best and most blessed. [But Epicurus says] that he invites these very people to join in a feast, just as he invites others. . . .4

A basic question at issue in this passage is the appropriateness of extending an invitation to an Epicurean Freundesmahl to persons in distress or turmoil; the particular type of turmoil, in this case, concerns the difficulty of forming correct conceptions of the blessed gods. The master’s position as conveyed here is that participation in a joint feast is no less salutary in instances where the invitees are experiencing turmoil and distress. Vergil’s Meliboeus, we recall, is experiencing not only the acute distress occasioned by his dispossession, but also some bemusement concerning the nature of the deus who has apparently succored his friend during a period of misfortune. In consonance with Epicurean precept, Tityrus thoughtfully offers his disconsolate friend the prospect of a modest repast whose ingredients include ripe apples, soft chestnuts, and fresh cheese.5 The details of the menu resonate with nontrivial Epicurean notions regarding the philosophical benefits of habitually plain fare. In the letter to Menoeceus—to cite a prominent example—the master succinctly explains the ethical significance of the simple meal:

οἱ τε λιτοὶ χυλοὶ ἴσην πολυτελεῖ διαίτηι τὴν ἡδονὴν ἐπιφέρουσιν, ὅταν ἅπαν τὸ ἀλγοῦν κατ’ ἔνδειαν ἐξαιρεθῆι· καὶ μᾶζα καὶ ὕδωρ τὴν ἀκροτάτην ἀποδίδωσιν ἡδονήν, ἐπειδὰν ἐνδέων τις αὐτὰ προσενέγκηται. τὸ συνεθίζειν οὖν ἐν ταῖς ἁπλαῖς καὶ οὐ πολυτελέσι διαίταις καὶ ὑγιείας ἐστὶ συμπληρωτικὸν καὶ πρὸς 65

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τὰς ἀναγκαίας τοῦ βίου χρήσεις ἄοκνον ποιεῖ τὸν ἄνθρωπον καὶ τοῖς πολυτελέσιν ἐκ διαλειμμάτων προσερχομένοις κρεῖττον ἡμᾶς διατίθησι καὶ πρὸς τὴν τύχην ἀφόβους παρασκευάζει.6 For plain sauces, moreover, impart a pleasure equal to that derived from sumptuous habits of diet, if once the pain due to need is removed; and bread and water give the greatest pleasure when one who is in need partakes of them. To become accustomed therefore to a plain, and not sumptuous, diet gives us health in abundance, and makes one prepared for life’s necessary undertakings; it also makes us better prepared for the enjoyment of luxuries if indeed from time to time they chance to come our way, and renders us fearless in the face of fortune.

The late Marcello Gigante has discussed the concept of plainness (λιτότης) in opposition to luxuriousness (πολυτέλεια) in connection with this passage of the letter.7 Crucial to Epicurus’ teachings on the subject is the function of the meal as a mental fortification against the vagaries of fortune (τύχη) and a bulwark against fear. In view of Meliboeus’ state of agitation over his misfortune, Tityrus’ proffered fare has an authentic Epicurean role to play as antidote to vicissitude. Meliboeus is being subtly encouraged to distance himself from his plight, at least for the compass of the night, by sharing a modest feast with his friend. As we know from the literature of consolation, from Homer’s Iliad onward, the participation in the feast signals a recommitment to life, especially in situations of extreme distress.8 Vestiges of the Epicurean version of this attitude may be detected in the text of Philodemus’ De pietate, which I cite in the authoritative edition of Obbink:9

ἐπὶ τὸν τε]θλιμμένον δεῖπν]ον, αὐτόν τε δεῖν τ]αύτην ἄγειν τὴν ταῖς] εἰκάσι διαφόροις εἰλ]απινα[σ]ταῖς, τῶν κατὰ] τὴν οἰκίαν ὅλως ὁσί ]αν ἐπιλαμπρυνάντω]ν, καὶ καλέσαντα πάντ]ας εὐωχῆσαι. . . . at a meager dinner, and that it was necessary for him to celebrate this feast of the Twentieth for distinguished revelers, while those in the house decorated it most piously, and after making invitations to host a feast for all of them. 66

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In his extensive commentary on this passage (29.8–82), Obbink provides copious documentation of the school’s adherence to the principle of the ‘‘meager repast.’’ 10 Cogent parallels for the idea of the plain feast as prophylactic against the pain occasioned by infelicitous events are to be found in several wellknown epigrams of Philodemus. In this regard, the subtle argument of Anth. Pal. 9.42 (Gigante 23; Sider 29) repays a brief analysis.11 —ἤδη καὶ ῥόδον ἐστὶ καὶ ἀκμάζων ἐρέβινθος καὶ καυλοὶ κράμβης, Σώσυλε, πρωτοτόμου

καὶ μαίνη σαλαγεῦσα καὶ ἀρτιπαγὴς ἁλίτυρος καὶ θριδάκων οὔλων ἀφροφυῆ πέταλα· ἡμεῖς δ’ οὔτ’ ἀκτῆς ἐπιβαίνομεν οὔτ’ ἐν ἀπόψει γινόμεθ’ ὡς αἰεί, Σώσυλε, τὸ πρότερον. —καὶ μὴν Ἀντιγένης καὶ Βάκχιος ἐχθὲς ἔπαιζον, νῦν δ’ αὐτοὺς θάψαι σήμερον ἐκφέρομεν. [Philodemus] Already the rose and chickpea and first-cut cabbage-stalks are at their peak, Sosylos, and there are sautéed sprats and fresh cheese curds and tender curly lettuce leaves. But we neither go on the shore nor are we on the promontory, Sosylos, as we always used to. [Sosylos] Indeed, Antigenes and Bakkhios were playing yesterday, but today we carry them out for burial.

In his detailed description of the potential menu for a modest δεῖπνον in the first two couplets, the speaker underscores in the word ἀκμάζων (line ) that the time is ripe, if not overdue, for a feast.12 The temporal adverb ἤδη that opens the epigram flags the appropriateness of the moment, and the very act of spelling out the delectable menu is tantamount to an injunction not to defer the enjoyment of the season’s fruits. The initial reference to the rose, as Sider elaborates in his commentary (ad loc.), intimates a symposium (its bloom may furnish wreaths, mark the season as late spring, and, simultaneously, function as a symbol of the ephemeral). Particularly noteworthy for our purposes is the presence on the menu of freshly made cheese (line 3: ἀρτιπαγὴς ἁλίτυρος), which tantalizingly recalls Vergil’s pressi copia lactis.13 All the other items on the menu are clearly in stringent conformity with the Epicurean ideal of λιτότης (chickpeas, cabbage, sprats, lettuce). 67

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The second half of the epigram takes a turn that is consistent with the symbolic import of the projected feast, for the speaker here expresses chagrin at the lack of the appropriate Epicurean response to the message of the season. With the adversative δέ highlighting the plural subject, ἡμεῖς (5), we learn forcefully and abruptly that there has been a lapse from the customary banqueting activities of the group. Given the centrality of seasonal feasts among followers of the cult, the hiatus is glaring, and a restoration of the norm is obviously desirable if the followers are to be consistent in their practice. The seriousness of the lapse is emphasized by the negative disjunctives (οὔτε . . . οὔτε) that frame the neglected feasts.14 The closing distich provides the reason for the lapse: the recent demise of two beloved companions, Antigenes and Bacchios. Whether or not we accept the attractive suggestion of Sider that the last two lines are to be ascribed to the addressee, Sosylos, the motif of death is all of a piece with the ‘‘dark background’’ that, as we have seen, is rhetorically pertinent to the topic of the banquet.15 Philodemus’ novel strategy here is to place the motif of vicissitude—the dark side of Tyche—at the end rather than at the inception of the epigram, but the effect of the inversion on the Epicurean subtext is no less powerful. The poem carries an oblique reminder to Sosylos that the plain, but delightful, feast is indeed not to be deferred, but rather consummated, precisely in the context of the loss of close friends. The death of the two hetairoi, painful as it is, is to be put in the broader perspective of the ephemerality of human life (‘‘here today, gone tomorrow’’ is the generic sentiment that underlies the speaker’s observation that they played yesterday but are buried today). In its deeper structure, then, Philodemus’ indirect sponsorship of the gastronomic response to Tyche is akin to Vergil’s gesture of bucolic consolation. Philodemus’ famous invitation to Piso (Sider 27) has been the subject of several penetrating studies by noted scholars of Epicureanism:

αὔριον εἰς λιτήν σε καλιάδα, φίλτατε Πείσων, ἐξ ἐνάτης ἕλκει μουσοφιλὴς ἕταρος εἰκάδα δειπνίζων ἐνιαύσιον· εἰ δ’ ἀπολείψεις οὔθατα καὶ Βρομίου Χιογενῆ πρόποσιν, ἀλλ’ ἑτάρους ὄψει παναληθέας, ἀλλ’ ἐπακούσηι Φαιήκων γαίης πουλὺ μελιχρότερα. ἢν δέ ποτε στρέψηις καὶ ἐς ἡμέας ὄμματα, Πείσων, ἄξομεν ἐκ λιτῆς εἰκάδα πιοτέρην. Tomorrow, friend Piso, your musical comrade drags you to his modest digs at three in the afternoon, 68

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feeding you at your annual visit to the Twentieth. If you will miss udders and Bromian wine mis en bouteille in Chios, yet you will see faithful comrades, yet you will hear things far sweeter than the land of the Phaeacians. And if you ever turn an eye to us too, Piso, instead of a modest feast we shall lead a richer one.

The epigram does not have a consolatory agenda—unless it be the humorous one of ‘‘consoling’’ the rich patron for having to forgo sumptuous fare and vintage wines! My pretext in putting it on the table at this juncture is to impart further nuance to the discussion on the self-reflexive dimension of the modest banquet. Gigante has drawn attention to the thematic implication of the poet’s ring-compositional use of the keyword λιτός.16 Though the adjective in the opening line modifies καλιάδα (hut), it becomes apparent as the epigram progresses that plainness applies to the fare itself no less than the venue (lines 3–4, for instance, imply the presence of inexpensive food and drink in lieu of gourmet sow’s udders and Chian wine). The co-presence of poetry is indirectly but unmistakably conjured up at several points in the poem’s evolution, and it is this pattern of selfreferentiality that I hope to trace briefly in what remains. Since the speaker conspicuously labels himself as μουσοφιλής (2), we are meant to infer that poetry, no less than philosophical conversation, will be an essential ingredient of the symposium. Recent scholarship on the Epicurean attitude to poetry has helped to clarify the complex issue of the degree of compatibility between the pursuit of philosophy on the one hand, and aesthetic pleasure on the other—a compatibility reflected in Philodemus’ own literary praxis and theoretical outlook.17 In regard to the argument of the epigram, the verb ἕλκει (2) has elicited a welter of interpretations, to which I now propose to add yet another. There may be, I suggest, a connotation of the magical power of song to ‘‘draw’’ (ἕλκειν) the hearer, as in Pindar’s use of the word in the fourth Nemean (33–35):18

τὰ μακρὰ δ’ ἐξενέπειν ἐρύκει με τεθμός ὧραί τ’ ἐπειγόμεναι· ἴυγγι δ’ ἕλκομαι ἦτορ νεομηνίᾳ θιγέμεν.19 But the law of song keeps me from telling the long tale, and the pressing hours; and by a love charm I am drawn in my heart to touch upon the new-moon festival. 69

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Poetic performance at the projected symposium is even more exquisitely evoked in what I would describe as the ‘‘apologetic’’ rhetoric that suffuses the latter half of the epigram. In the intergeneric badinage that we have come to associate with the poetics of disavowal, epic poetry is represented by Homer’s Odyssey, which functions as a foil to the kind of plain epigram exemplified by the poem in progress. Philodemus’ verse will be no less pleasing—in fact, it will be even more so (πουλὺ μελιχρότερα)—for being modest in its generic register. The verb ἐπακούσηι (5) clinches the idea of lyric performance in the setting of the promised feast. This important dimension of the invitation sheds light on the meaning of the metaphor in the penultimate line, in which Piso is imagined as ‘‘turning his eyes’’ on the poet. The patron’s gaze is, I submit, comparable to that ascribed to the Muses in Horace’s Carmina 4.3 (Quem tu Melpomene semel ): Quem tu, Melpomene, semel nascentem placido lumine videris, illum non labor Isthmius clarabit pugilem. That person whom you, Melpomene, have once looked upon at birth with favoring gaze shall not gain renown for his boxing exploits at the Isthmian games.

In the sequel we learn that the favoring gaze of the Muse has bestowed on Horace the blessing of poetic skill, which will eventually make him preeminent in the genre of lyric (Aeolio carmine nobilem, 2). In the context of the Philodemus epigram, what the μουσοφιλὴς ἕταρος desires is none other than Piso’s pleasure in his host’s poetic endeavors, as conveyed in his approving gaze.20 The patron’s beneficent sanction will, in turn, ‘‘enrich’’ the slim banquet—a closing trope that boldly annexes the Phaeacian luxury previously disavowed in a trumping move familiar to students of generic apologies.21 Does the Epicurean coda of Vergil’s first eclogue contain a similarly nuanced reference to poetic performance? The answer is embedded in the situation of Tityrus as Vergil presents it with unforgettable vowel music at the commencement of Eclogue .–5: Tityre, tu patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi silvestrem tenui musam meditaris avena: nos patriae finis et dulcia linquimus arva.

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nos patriam fugimus: tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra formosam resonare doces Amaryllida silvas. Tityrus, while you are reclining under the shelter of a spreading beech and rehearsing woodland music on a slender oaten pipe, we are leaving behind the borders and sweet fields of our homeland. We are fleeing from our homeland: you, Tityrus, relaxing in the shade, are teaching the woods to re-echo the tune ‘‘Fair Amaryllis.’’

The world of Tityrus is, at bottom, the world of poetic performance, emblematized in the umbra that is the generative locus of bucolic composition. It is this comfortable (and comforting) umbra—not the ominous dark of some commentators’ imaginings—to which the fortunate singer invites his sad friend.22 The two companions will share the bucolic niche fronde super viridi, and together partake of a simple and eminently portable meal of apples, chestnuts, and cheese.We are entitled to assume that an important element in the impromptu event is the soothing power of song played on the pipe of Tityrus, the tenuis avena of the opening lines. We recall that in the plaintive climax of his last speech, Meliboeus had declared his intent to renounce song altogether (carmina nulla canam, 77). At Tityrus’ behest, he is now implicitly being invited to share also in the pleasures of poetic exchange that accompany the bucolic feast, however lowly. The Epicurean cadence of the poem, as I have dubbed it, is no sudden tangent to the argument, but is carefully foreshadowed—to borrow Vergil’s umbra trope—in earlier portions of the eclogue. I conclude with mention of a salient motif that links Tityrus’ discourse to orthodox Epicurean attitudes—the genesis of his devotion to his deus. The god to whom Tityrus passionately proclaims his pietas is the recently divinized iuvenis whose beneficence toward him has made possible his otium (Eclogue .6–0): O Meliboee, deus nobis haec otia fecit. namque erit ille mihi semper deus, illius aram saepe tener nostris ab ovilibus imbuet agnus. ille meas errare boves, ut cernis, et ipsum ludere quae vellem calamo permisit agresti. O Meliboeus, it is a god who has created this leisure for me. For he shall always be a god for me; his altar will always be stained with the blood of a tender lamb from my sheepfold. He has granted my cows

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permission to roam, as you see, and me to play whatsoever I wish on my rustic reed.

These lines contain an obvious echo of the Lucretian deification of Epicurus at De rerum natura 5.7–8: namque si, ut ipsa petit maiestas cognita rerum dicendum est, deus ille fuit, deus, inclute Memmi.23 For if we are to speak in accordance with the majesty of the truth that has been revealed to us, then he was a god, yes a god, noble Memmius.

Vergil exploits the very same intertextual resonance in Eclogue 5.64, in the passage in which Mopsus professes to his companion, Menalcas, his profound admiration for the deified Daphnis (deus, deus ille, Menalca). Commentators routinely note the echo in the fifth (though not the first) eclogue, but generally fail to discuss its repercussions on Vergil’s philosophical subtext. In addition to the Epicurean tenor—here mediated by Lucretian diction—we may observe that Tityrus’ later account of his pilgrimage to Rome and recognition there of the praesens divus, as well as his oath of adherence to his cult, are very much in tune with Epicurus’ views on the subject of divinization of mortal benefactors (Eclogue .40–43): quid facerem? neque servitio me exire licebat nec tam praesentis alibi cognoscere divos. hic illum vidi iuvenem, Meliboee, quotannis bis senos cui nostra dies altaria fumant. What was I to do? For nowhere else could I gain permission to escape from my servitude or have such audience with gods. It was here I saw that young god, Meliboeus, for whom twice six days a year my altar smokes.

The connection between Tityrus’ testimonial and the Euhemeristic theories traceable in Philodemus’ De pietate needs no special pleading.24 As the shadows (umbrae) fall in the last line of the eclogue, the poem achieves its perfect Epicurean cadence.

notes . See Du Quesnay 98: 90–97 for a specification of the conventional topoi that define this minor subgenre. 2. Citations of the text of Vergil’s Eclogues are from the OCT edition of 72

Consolation in the Bucolic Mode Mynors 969. Unless otherwise noted, English translations of Latin and Greek texts are mine. 3. Poteras requiescere is literally translated ‘‘you might have rested’’; my translation reflects the ‘‘illocutionary force’’ of the sentence, which, in Page’s apt description, amounts to ‘‘a polite form of invitation’’ (Page 965: ad loc.). 4. I reproduce the text and translation from Clay 998: 80–8. For a different reconstruction of the text that introduces the possibility of a negative formulation of the opening sentence, see the commentary of Obbink 996: 423 ad 88–89. 5. Or ‘‘milk,’’ depending on how one interprets the phrase pressi lactis. Du Quesnay 98: 93–94 discusses the pros and cons. Commentators egregiously err, in my view, when they attribute indifference to Tityrus. Coleman, for instance, writes: ‘‘Tityrus’ callousness finally melts and his belated offer of hospitality brings Meliboeus at least temporary securitas’’ (Coleman 977: ad loc.). 6. Epistula ad Menoeceum 30–3. The letter is cited in the edition of Arrighetti 960. 7. Gigante 987: 3–4. 8. The locus classicus is the meal shared between Achilles and Priam at a juncture of extreme distress for the Trojan monarch (Iliad 24.599–627). 9. Text and translation by Obbink 996: 62–63. 0. Philodemus’ phrase is τε]θλιμμένον δεῖπν]ον, where δεῖπν]ον is Diel’s highly plausible reconstruction (see Obbink 996: ad loc.). . The epigrams of Philodemus are cited in the text and translation of Sider 997. 2. The concept of ἀκμή is often virtually synonymous with καιρός. 3. See reference in note  above (Du Quesnay). If there were a provable case for intertextuality here (Philodemus/Vergil), this would favor the denotation ‘‘cheese’’ as opposed to ‘‘milk.’’ 4. The disjunctives frame a ‘‘universalizing doublet’’ or merism, involving land and sea (ἀκτή is metonymically linked to sea), thus conveying the completeness of the hiatus in conduct on the part of habitual symposiasts. 5. See Davis 99: 46–60 on the conventional role of the death motif in the rhetoric of the convivial (and fundamentally Epicurean) lyric of Vergil’s close friend, Horace. 6. Gigante 987. 7. See the essays in Obbink 995b. 8. Text and translation are cited in the Loeb edition of Race 997. 9. Cf. Theocritus 2.7. 20. See the protasis of line 7. ἢν δέ is equivalent to Horace’s quodsi in the climax of Carm. ., an ode that compliments the literary taste of his patron, Maecenas. 2. Davis 99: 30–36. 22. Du Quesnay (98: 95) correctly reads the umbra of the end as resonating with the opening lines: tu Tityre lentus in umbra. 73

gregson davis 23. The text of Lucretius cited is the OCT of Bailey 922. 24. See, e.g., Clay 998: 00–02; Fauth 973. Tityrus’ regular sacrifices to his newly recognized deus have an intriguing parallel in the monthly festivals and sacrifices in honor of Epicurus (especially if, as seems cogent, we understand ‘‘twelve days a year’’ to signify ‘‘monthly’’). For this astute observation I wish to thank my colleague, Diskin Clay.

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a s e c r e t g a r d e n : Georgics 4.6–48 w. r . j o h n s o n

My purpose in this essay is to examine one facet of Vergil’s links with the Epicurean worldview: specifically, I am interested in what appears to be his version of self-sufficiency or ‘‘the hidden life,’’ and how it relates to Epicurean ethics. In order to get to the perspective I need on this question, taking what may seem the long way round, I begin with a passage from one of Leopardi’s drollest dialogues,1 the one in which an Icelander, as he wanders about in the interior of Africa, chances upon what he at first takes to be an apparition, a vast female ‘‘seated on the ground, her bust erect and her back and her elbow resting against a mountain’’ (982: 85). The apparition asks the human who he is and what he is doing in the middle of nowhere. When he tells her that he is a desperate fugitive who left his native Iceland in the hopes of escaping Nature, the apparition responds: ‘‘So flees the squirrel from the rattlesnake until he finally falls into its jaws. I am she from whom you’re fleeing’’ (Io sono quella che tu fuggi). The Icelander’s peculiar ambition excites Nature’s curiosity, and when she asks him what it was that impelled him to try to escape her, she launches him into a long description—it is in fact a sort of querulous tirade—of his futile travels and the despair that shaped them. Early on in his life he had begun to notice the sufferings that human beings inflict on one another, and, having precociously fastened his gaze on the vanity of human wishes, he ‘‘abandoned all other desires and resolved to lead an obscure and quiet life, without bothering anyone, without trying to advance myself in any way, without competing with anyone for any good in the world . . . without hoping for any kind of pleasure— which is something that’s denied to human kind’’ (87). In short, he did not set for himself ‘‘any other goal than to stay away from suffering.’’ So far so good. But quickly even this minimalist dream had been shattered. Not harming others turned out to be no guarantee that others would cease

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from trying to harm him. Thus he freed himself from human aggression by abandoning society and retreating into solitude. But he came to find that the hermit’s life in his native land was impossible: too cold in the long harsh winters, too hot in the summers; neither inside his house nor out in the open air could he save himself from perpetual discomfort. He also worried about storms on land and sea and about the eruption of volcanoes. Focused solely on keeping hold of his peace and quiet, he began to notice that his lack of ordinary communal worries magnified these dangers: ‘‘When I found that the more I withdrew,’’ he says, ‘‘and almost contracted myself, as it were, within myself so as not to be disturbed or to harm anything in the world, the less could I avoid being troubled and tormented by other things, I began to change regions and climates’’ (this, it should be noted, against the express advice of Horatius Flaccus) ‘‘to see if there was any part of earth where, offending no one, I might escape being offended and where, not enjoying pleasure, I might escape suffering’’ (89). By this point in his declamation, as he starts listing and indeed wallowing in the various ways in which his perpetual geographical cure failed to meet his expectations, he has revealed himself as a sort of Jansenist Epicurean. Searching for the lathe biōsas and the ataraxia it confers on those who attain it, he finds only, in every locale he visits, all over the planet, more torments, more griefs, more disappointments. Wherever he goes, something threatens not just his psychic balance but his very existence. So pervasive, so ubiquitous are these dangers, some of them mighty, some of them minuscule, that this failed Epicurean finds himself appealing to the authority of the Stoic Seneca whom ‘‘the infinite number of daily dangers’’ has prompted to admit, rather melodramatically, that he ‘‘could not find any cure for fear other than the fact that everything is to be feared’’ (9– 93; the allusion is to Sen. Q Nat. 4.6). ‘‘I can’t remember spending,’’ says the Icelander, ‘‘one single day of my life without suffering, whereas I cannot even count the days that I have passed without the shadow of pleasure (senza pure un’ombra di godimento). . . . I realize that suffering is as much our inevitable fate as is lack of pleasure, and that it is as impossible to lead a quiet life of any kind as it is to lead a restless one without misery; thus,’’ he says to Nature, ‘‘I am bound to conclude that you are a manifest enemy of men, and of the other animals, and of all your own creatures’’ (93– 95). He is just getting started on the miseries of old age, which, decades after his travels started, he is beginning to experience, but Nature, now speaking in a style that reminds us of her Lucretian incarnation, interrupts him: ‘‘Do you think by any chance that the world was made for you 76

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alone?’’ She goes on to point out that little in her repertoire was devised with the happiness or unhappiness of humankind in her mind. ‘‘When I harm you in any way and with whatever means, I don’t notice it (io non me n’avvego) except very rarely’’ (95–96). She doesn’t usually know whether she helps or pleasures men. Even if she should chance, one day, to wipe out the human species, the event might pass her by unglimpsed. This outrages the Icelander. He didn’t ask to be born. She invited him into existence. ‘‘You have placed me here with your own hands and of your own will and without my knowledge and in such a way that I could neither resist nor oppose it. Then it’s your duty, if not to keep me happy and satisfied in this kingdom of yours, at least to see to it that I am not tormented and tortured (tribolato e straziato) and that living in it is not harmful to me’’ (97–99). In saying these things, he tells her, he is speaking not only for himself but also for all other living creatures. His argument fails to persuade her. She answers in her purest Lucretian voice: ‘‘Evidently you have not considered that in this universal life is a perpetual cycle of production and destruction—both functions being so closely bound together that one is continuously working toward the other, thus bringing about the conservation of the world, which, if either one of them were to cease, would likewise dissolve. Therefore, were anything free from suffering, it would be harmful to the world’’ (99). ‘‘This is just what philosophers say,’’ cries the exasperated and blasphemous Epicurean, with a glance perhaps at Rome’s prime Epicurean. He then challenges Nature to tell him what no philosopher can: ‘‘Who finds any pleasure or advantage in this most miserable life of the universe, which is preserved by means of the suffering and death of the very things that compose it?’’ At this point the dialogue is suddenly broken off when two ancient and ravenous lions pounce on the Icelander and extract from him enough nourishment to get them through their day. But, in another version, while the Icelander is still speaking, ‘‘an extremely fierce wind arose, threw him to the ground, and raised over him a majestic mausoleum of sand, under which, perfectly desiccated and turned into a beautiful mummy, he was later discovered by some travelers and placed in a museum in a European city’’ (99). I describe at length Leopardi’s distillation of hedonistic nihilism because I want to use it to lay out a spectrum of Epicurean hedonism, one on which I can try to locate a place in which Vergil’s Corycian gardener might reasonably feel comfortable. What I hope to show is this: if Leopardi’s crazed Icelander is the bad antithesis of Epicurus’ ideal hedonist, Vergil’s solitary gardener would likely take up a position somewhere be77

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tween them. Not in the middle (as an incarnation of some golden mean), but much closer than some of his readers would want to put him to Leopardi’s vociferous straw man. In this schema, it would be, I claim, the good hedonist whom Lucretius sketches in Books 4 and 5 of De rerum natura who comes closer to the middle than does the Corycian gardener, though the Lucretian hedonist-farmer is, in fact, even closer to Epicurus himself or to Philodemus than he is to my spectrum’s center. What guides my interest in examining a hedonistic spectrum in this regard is Nietzsche’s intuition that both ‘‘the disease of thinking in essences’’ and the fallacy of thinking in opposites are in some degree diminished when essences are, in the normal deconstructionary way, broken down into the opposites that compose them, and then, in turn, the opposites are gradually effaced when they are dissolved into the gradations that can be distinguished and marked off between them.2 In this instance: the Icelander’s obsession with being safe at all costs is set against Epicurus’ insistence that we should avoid pain, not as an end in itself, not for the sake of fulfilling some illusory hope of becoming painless and remaining painfree, but for the sake of being able to enjoy reasonable pleasure reasonably; the mere absence of pain would, from this perspective, betoken mere existence of a peculiar, almost inorganic or unconscious kind; the aim of living is to enjoy the life. It is this distinction between the Icelander’s ideal of vana voluptas (empty pleasure, painless existence) and Epicurus’ ideal of conscious enjoyment of being in this world that defines the limits of this spectrum and the gradations that constitute its actualities, its real-life instances. There are various styles of interpreting Vergil’s gardener, and the role he plays in the structure or, perhaps better put, the harmonics, of Book 4 and of the Georgics as a whole. Let me be as frank as I can. I have always admired the passage, but I am now at a particular stage of life that permits me to observe that some of my younger selves have idolized this passage outrageously. Nevertheless, the passage seems still to me now—as it has since I first began to read it—incomparable: like the poem of which it is a part—but is it a necessary part or a rift, a caprice, a compulsive gesture?—it skirts as close to perfection as verse can come, it offers a short, sharp glimpse of a visionary moment, it is gorgeous on its surfaces, beneath which its depths look as calm as they are profound. It represents, furthermore, both musically and visually, a vividly condensed and unforgettable picture of ataraxia. This is—these wonderful verses can persuade us—the Epicurean sage in his proper landscape, caught at the exact moment of the strange inactive action that best characterizes him. He is truly 78

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independent, he is utterly in balance both with the world outside him and with the world within him, he lacks nothing because he desires nothing that he does not have, because he needs nothing, having only what he needs. That is how some of my younger selves read the passage (and so found it possible to harmonize it with the rest of Book 4 and with the poem entire and all of its iridescently dialectical patternings). I can still see what the selves of my salad days saw or thought they saw in the Corycian, and I am not in the mood to rebuke them for what now seem to me their misreadings. The Corycian has indeed all that he needs and only what he needs. But—as Perkell has demonstrated, to my taste, conclusively—he seems to need beauty as much as he needs food and exercise and mere purposive existence; more particularly he needs to create beauty, to make beauty.3 He is, in short, this paragon of ataraxia, something of a poet. Nothing wrong with that. Epicurus may not have needed poetry, but, infamously, Lucretius did, and (as Nietzsche loves to remind us) so do most of us. That the Corycian is a poet is no black mark against him, then. What troubles the waters here is that he is a poet disguised as an Epicurean imperturbable, who is in turn disguised as a simple farmer. Farmers have of course been poets—Hesiod springs to mind, so does Bobbie Burns, so does Robert Frost. But this group of farmer-poets is remarkable not so much for its show of ataraxia as for its penchant for discontent, for pushing aside the curtain to reveal what the works and days on the farm are really like. It may be argued that Vergil has himself shown the dark side of georgicism throughout his poem. My answer to that objection is that he has shown the dark side in order to foil the brighter side, he has offered the harshness of farm life as part of a dialectical pattern that will also reveal its nobility, its morality, its beauty (even as he conceals the fact that, in his time, the Roman farmer, like his American counterpart today, was a vanishing breed). But more important for my immediate purpose, he has effaced, as best he could, his earlier, unluckier farmers with this splendid image of the ideal farmer: a farmer who is in fact not a farmer at all but an Epicurean poet, sitting in his villa (shall we say) imagining a gentleman on vacation in the countryside, one who putters in his lovely, secluded garden, a poet and a gentleman imagining ataraxia in a very pure and very beautiful form, one that will balance perhaps (the wavering Epicurean poet hopes) the complex and crucial movement he’s about to embark on, the one in which he will be evoking the strangely industrious ataraxia of the hive, of the city of the bees who are engaged in making other kinds of 79

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beauty, other kinds of pleasure, even as they find pure contentment and spiritual peace in their dutiful and endless toil.4 In a perceptive celebration of the Corycian, Jenny Strauss Clay defines him in this way: ‘‘Obscure and isolated from political and social organization, the old man who tends his garden presents that aspect of human nature which is strictly private and individual and whose highest embodiment is the poet or perhaps the sage’’;5 as a poetic incarnation of humankind’s ‘‘cultivation of the arts for the sake of the beautiful,’’ the Corycian ‘‘transcends both instinct and utility and forms an essential impulse of the human heart’’ (989: 89). In so doing, he and his moment in the poem serve to ‘‘counterpoint and balance’’ (95) the powerful, almost irresistible drives toward civic unity, to collective industry, to conformity, and to imperial imperative that the bees embody so forcefully. The farmer has his own wonderful hives, of course, but that small irony hardly troubles the harmonious antinomy that Clay designs; he possesses some hives, some bees are contained in his world, but he is not a part of the gigantic world empire that they and their hives symbolize in the poem’s elaborate closure. In the purity of his unique freedom he can, in Clay’s view, provide both the dialectical momentum and the balancing counterpoint that Vergil needs for his vision of the new order: ego/nos, otium/negotium, libertas/officium, ars/necessitas. Clay’s reading of the Old Man in his garden provides us with a persuasive version of the poem, one in which he is crucial to the poem’s closure, yet he performs this service without losing any of his own significance, without yielding up the autonomy for which he seems to stand. Here, a poetic or artistic ‘‘life lived in hiding’’ illumines what is lacking in the bees even as their social energies—both bees and farmer in Clay’s readings are aspects of the Platonic-Stoic World Spirit (90)—illumine what deficiencies might lurk in an artistic autonomy that could otherwise degenerate into narcissism. All very well. But what does this reading skim and skip? A quarter-century ago, at a bimillennial conference on the Georgics held in Naples (November 7–9, 975), Antonio La Penna, wearing his best kid gloves, chided Klingner and other neoclassicists who followed him for their habit of trying to disguise what seemed to him the self-contradictions of the Georgics by emphasizing Vergil’s passion for form, structure, and harmony.6 His own task, said La Penna, was to dig up and to uncover the poem’s ‘‘hiatuses’’ and so reveal their fecundity. The flowers of poetry, he reminded his audience, have their roots in dirt. He was less interested, he said, in the harmony of poems than in their colors and in their juice. What is missing in Clay’s reading and in other readings like it that aim 80

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at discovering the Corycian’s harmonies is what is missing, apparently, from his life. He is, manifestly—all the signals point to it—an Epicurean. But apart from needing beauty too much, his autonomy is suspiciously extreme. He has, in short, no friends. Though he has none of the Icelander’s anxieties, like the Icelander, he is alone. If troubles come, he has no one to help him or comfort him; in better times, he has no one to help or comfort, and he has no one with whom he can share what delights him. His art, the beauty he creates, is for his eyes only, and for that reason it is in some degree sterile, however vital his garden, however luxuriant its growth. Only a single line, 46, points to sharers in the beautiful sufficiencies of his life and work: iamque ministrantem platanum potantibus umbras. C. Day Lewis misrenders this as ‘‘the plane that already offered a pleasant shade for drinking,’’ but L. P. Wilkinson extends the connotation of potantibus perhaps a bit too far in a Horatian direction (see Carm. 2..3–7): ‘‘And planes already / providing welcome shade for drinking parties.’’ Perhaps, once in a while, someone else, a thirsty wayfarer maybe, happens to join the Corycian for a cup of wine under the plane tree, out of the summer’s heat, but it is hard to imagine this reclusive fellow organizing convivia. Moreover, of the mirth of Horace’s Epicurean party animals or even of Lucretius’ staider picnickers,7 there is no trace in what we see of the Corycian. And of Epicurus’ own exaltation in friendship, ‘‘the greatest possession in the blessedness of life,’’ the ‘‘immortal good’’ that ‘‘dances round the world announcing to all that we should wake up and felicitate one another’’ 8 and that ‘‘without friendship we are quite unable to secure a joy in life which is steady and lasting’’ 9—of Epicurean Friendship, a dancing herald spreading the great good news that we are not alone—of that central and essential element of the Epicurean value system, there is but the slightest glint in this Epicurean garden. Vergil apologizes, in a strange praeteritio, for including the passage, and apologizes again, at its end, for having included it. So why did he? It is too frail—he must see that—to countervail the victorious bees who will dominate the rest of the poem. If it were left out or lost, Book 4 might have a slightly different feel, but its major themes and the force and intricacies of its resonance would be utterly intact. So, why did he put or leave it in? Why did he write it at all? One cooperates in the reproduction of a poem by reading it, by receiving it, by responding to it, by bringing to it what one is. I cannot fathom Vergil’s intentions here; I can only examine my multiple responses to the Corycian and speculate about what they might mean. If I may venture yet another guess about the meaning 8

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of Vergil’s lonely artist, is it this: the Epicurean in this passage shows a sort of splendid failure of nerve. Vergil wants to say ‘‘Yes’’ to the renewal of the empire as he wants to say ‘‘Yes’’—Cisalpine though he is—to the Romanization of Italy; Epicurean though he is, he also wants to say ‘‘Yes’’ to the Platonic-Stoic World Spirit that may be thought to be underwriting Rome’s renewal and its final naturalization of all Italy, and after that of all the world. But much of him, and maybe the deepest part of him, does not want those things very eagerly. The core of this passage (and of this poem?) is frightened by and wants an alternative to world-historical events and what they produce. It wants a refuge from history, from its grandeurs and its nightmares. Very briefly and poignantly, the passage represents what such a refuge might be. The place where the Corycian grows his flowers and his humble food is one in which an Epicurean poem and its poet could find ataraxia. But in this place of refuge one forgets—wants not to remember?—that Epicurus, and then Lucretius, and then Philodemus, and now Horace had, all of them, found that you could have a garden inside a city, even inside a cosmopolis and its empire, that you could be part of the process and not part of it, that you could, indeed that you must, emigrate internally and lay out your garden in that invisible here-but-also-elsewhere. What you could not have, what Vergil and his poem try to imagine so fervently because they are so divided, so distracted by their conflicts and their importunate either-ors and all-or-nothings, is a safe place to be sure, a garden, but a garden without friends.10 But, says Epicurus—for whom, admittedly, separating himself from the City was easier than it could ever be for any Roman, even for Lucretius—never, says Epicurus, the wise man never gives up a friend.

notes . Leopardi 982: 84–99. 2. Nietzsche 986: 327. 3. Perkell 989: 30–38. 4. For the ambiguous symbolism of the bees and their hive, see Johnson 984: 6–20. 5. Clay 989: 90. The Corycian’s aberration from the patterns established by the poem’s other pictures of agrarian life is denied by Cramer (998: 228–23); the old farmer’s marked individuality and the blurred verisimilitude that evokes him are succinctly described by Thomas in his commentary on the passage (988, 2:67). 6. La Penna 977: 66. 82

A Secret Garden 7. See Johnson 2000: 45–46, 67–68. 8. Long and Sedley 987, :26. 9. Ibid.: 32. 0. The conflicts and uncertainties in question are carefully sifted by Gale 2000: 80–85.

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v e r g i l i n t h e s h a d ow o f vesuvius marcello gigante

vergil and philodemus Our testimonies from Herculaneum to Vergil’s association with Philodemus are far more secure today than they once were.1 The Fors Fortuna that guides the labors of papyrologists has helped us prove with much greater certainty that Vergil frequented the school at Herculaneum. What until a few years ago was only a clever conjecture has become a splendid reality. In the last decade of the nineteenth century, in a brief but pregnant article, analyzing a fragment of P.Herc. 082 on envy (fr. 2), one of those lost and surviving only in the disegni, Alfred Körte pointed out that Philodemus must be addressing four Romans: and along with the two names of L. Varius Rufus and Quintilius Varus, which can be read, he conjectured the name of Vergil, the vocative Ouergilie, from the two letters ΟΥ in the papyrus, and also that of Horace.2 These conjectures were accepted by Crönert, though Crönert read the passage somewhat differently.3 Now Körte also emended a passage in another Herculaneum papyrus, 253, on avarice ( philargyria), col. vii, also lost and surviving only in disegni. He found the three sole surviving letters ΤΙΕ in line 4 and made them into the vocative Horatie, followed by the vocative of the name Varius, and in line 5 suggested the reading Kointilie. To these three names (but the conjecture about Horace has been proved incorrect, as I will mention in a moment, because the three letters must actually be part of the vocative Plotie), Philippson in 9 added that of Vergil, supplying kai Ouergilie between Ouarie and kai Kointilie.4 H. Diels and C. Jensen did not accept Horatie, however, and Philippson himself later came to prefer Plotie. In 988, in a fragment of a Herculaneum papyrus brought back at my suggestion from the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, P.Herc. Paris. 2, piece 279a, we were able to read in their entirety the names of Vergil and his

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friends Plotius (Tucca), Varius (Rufus), and Quintilius (Varus): at last we had the first full proof of the name of Vergil in Greek and the confirmation of his presence in Philodemus’ circle at Herculaneum, along with the definitive exclusion of Horace (who nonetheless was an assiduous student of Philodemus’ writings) from the group of addressees. The fragment is from the final column of a book probably devoted to slander as a particular aspect of adulation (kolakeia), which as we know was a theme treated often by Philodemus in his monumental work, Peripatetic in structure, On Vices and Their Opposing Virtues. Philodemus is arguing against the dissident Epicurean Nicasicrates, head of the Epicurean school at Rhodes, as he does also in P.Herc. 457, where he explains the ‘‘correct’’ Epicurean view of adulation and its implications in social and political life. In the new text, Paris. 2, Philodemus, concluding a long analysis of calumny, characterizes flatterer-slanderers ‘‘who venture out against doctors who do not suspect they are being attacked, sail out against them secretly and nonetheless expect not to remain unobserved,’’ at least as M. Capasso and I (989) restore the passage, or perhaps ‘‘where they expect not to remain unobserved,’’ as V. Di Benedetto (990) suggests. Just after this, and marked by a paragraphos, the conclusion is addressed to Vergil and his friends:

ταῦτα μὲν οὖν ἡμῖν ὑπέρ τε τούτων καὶ καθόλου τῶν διαβολῶν ἀρέσκει λέγειν ὦ Πλώτιε καὶ Οὐάριε καὶ Οὐεργίλιε καὶ Κοιντίλιε· νῦν δὲ πρὸς Νικασικράτην. . . .

20

And that, in conclusion, is what it pleases us to say about these folk and in general about slanders, O Plotius and Varius and Vergil and Quintilius; and now, against Nicasicrates. . . .

With this new and indisputable testimony we are now able to list at least three themes Philodemus discussed with his Roman addressees: here, slander; in P.Herc. 082, envy; and in P.Herc. 253, avarice; for we now know the same group was addressed in the text Körte tried to reconstruct so long ago. These moral themes, so familiar in cynic diatribe, might seem more relevant to Horace’s Satires and Epistles, which often discuss the passions, vices, and virtues of the human soul. On the other hand, violence in political quarrels, shameless ambitions, and the cruelty of political rivalry at 86

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Rome are not themes that left the author of the Georgics and the Aeneid indifferent. We would have expected Philodemus to use Vergil and his friends, the poet L. Varius Rufus and the literary critics Plotius Tucca and Quintilius Varus, as interlocutors for his discussions of poetics, given that in the Herculaneum library we have found at least five books of an On Poems. But the fact is clear: the philosophoi homiliai, the conversations, addressed to them, were on complex ethical topics instead, perhaps not unrelated to the stormy political situation of the contemporary Roman Republic. The three passages that now identify Philodemus’ addressees make it necessary to look more closely at the traces of Epicureanism—not just Philodemean traces, Lucretian ones also—in the Georgics and the Aeneid as well as in the fragments of Varius. I shall discuss the question of Epicureanism in the Eclogues below. First of all, we must answer the question: In what years was Philodemus addressing himself to Vergil and his friends? Here we may take Horace into consideration, for though Philodemus never mentions him in the texts read so far, Horace, as a primary independent witness of the early Augustan era, is a help to us in locating these Herculaneum discussions with what chronological precision we can. In the famous fifth satire of the first book, the Journey to Brundisium, Horace names Vergil and his friends in the same order we find in Philodemus (Plotius, Varius, Vergil). The first book was published in 35 b.c., and the Journey took place in 37. From the hillside in Posillipo where he had inherited the small villa and garden of Siro,Vergil and his friends come to Sinuessa to join Horace on the road to Brindisi. In lines 39–44 he praises the affection and close friendship of men so bound to each other: postera lux oritur multo gratissima: namque Plotius et Varius Sinuessae Vergiliusque occurrunt, animae quales neque candidiores terra tulit neque quis me sit devinctior alter. o qui complexus et gaudia quanta fuerunt! nil ego contulerim iucundo sanus amico.5 The following day starts as the best yet by far, for Plotius, and Varius, and Vergil meet me at Sinuessa, spirits than whom the earth has borne none purer, nor than whom I have a more devoted friend. Oh what embraces, and what great enjoyments were there! There is nothing I can compare, while of sane mind, to a faithful friend.

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It is obvious that the order of names is the same in Horace and Philodemus. So in Satire .0.8, where he declares his dependence on the favorable judgment and the praise of a longer list of personages, Horace keeps the same order but inserts the name of Maecenas in the series: Plotius et Varius Maecenas Vergiliusque, and then names other friends, Valgius the elegiac poet, Octavius the historian, Aristius Fuscus and the two brothers, both poets, the Visci, just as Philodemus puts after the three the name of Quintilius Varus. It seems to me that with a large margin of probability we may believe that Philodemus, well known to Horace, who quotes one of his epigrams in the thorny and complicated second satire of this first book on problems of love and lust, in turn reproduces the Horatian sequence Plotius et Varius . . . Vergiliusque created by metrical necessity and completes it with Kointilios, influenced by the line in the Journey to Brundisium. I am sure Philodemus read Horace’s satires and wrote the books dedicated to Vergil and his friends after 35 and before 24 b.c., that is to say, between the publication of the first book of satires and before the death of Quintilius Varus. Vergil, who never repaid Horace’s friendship by using his name in his own verses, was less likely still to bother mentioning Philodemus, but we can attempt to trace Epicureanism in the works of his maturity. I think, for example, that I can show in a passage of Georgics 2 (27–225), at the end of a section of the arvorum ingenia, the natures and kinds of fields, an allusion to Herculaneum. The poet describes the Campanian land, exhaling its light mist, green with herbs, full of elms interwoven with vines, rich in oil, propitious to keeping farm animals and to cultivation. Between rich Capua and desolate Acerra, flooded and ruined by the river Clanius, Vergil mentions the ‘‘country near the mountain range of Vesuvius’’: quae tenuem exhalat nebulam fumosque volucris et bibit umorem et cum vult ex se ipsa remittit quaeque suo semper viridi se gramine vestit nec scabie et salsa laedit robigine ferrum, illa tibi laetis intexet vitibus ulmos, illa ferax oleo est, illam experiere colendo et facilem pecori et patientem vomeris unci. talem dives arat Capua et vicina Vesaevo ora iugo et vacuis Clanius non aequus Acerris. That land, that exhales a thin mist and fleeting smokes, and drinks in water and gives it back up from itself whenever it likes, and clothes itself ever in its own grasses and never ruins metal with scaling and salt 88

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rust, that land weaves for you rich vines in the elms, that land is rich in oil, and when you till it, you will find it generous to the flocks and easy to the sharp plough; such land rich Capua tills and the coast round the range of Vesuvius and Clanius, so cruel to empty Acerra.

The passage has posed hermeneutic problems, and not only to modern scholars. Already Pliny the Elder (HN 7.25) disputed Vergil’s opinion: it is not true in fact, wrote the severe natural historian, that the black earth of Campania is always good for vines, and neither is the land that exhales light mists. Another learned ancient dwelt on our text, opening a question both textual and hermeneutic. Aulus Gellius (6.20) tells us he read in a commentary on Vergil that the original version of 223–224 was talem dives arat Capua et vicina Vesaevo Nola iugo. . . .

He claims that later Vergil asked the Nolans to bring irrigation to his neighboring farm, but the Nolans did not perform the favor the poet asked of them, and so, offended, he took their name out of his poem, putting ora in its place. Gellius says he is not concerned to find out if the story is true or false, but has no doubt that the reading ora sounds more pleasing and musical, more euphonic: ea res verane an falsa sit, non laboro, quin tamen melius suaviusque ad aures sit ‘‘ora’’ quam ‘‘Nola,’’ dubium id non est. And in fact Gellius argues that the hiatus between the last syllable of Vesaevo and the first syllable of ora is musical and pleasant: a hiatus that sounds sweet, and does not come about by chance, because the like can be found in Homer (Od. .596) and also in a poem of Catullus (27.4, ebrioso acino ebriosioris). Pontanus, in his dialogue Actius (507), accepted Gellius’ arguments. Another humanist, Sannazzaro, in an elegy published in 535, accepted as true the story of Nola’s quarrel with Vergil. Comparetti (872, 2:52f.) thought that in Gellius’ mention of a farm of Vergil’s at Nola there was ‘‘a precedent’’ for the legend ‘‘that places Virgil’s wondrous garden not far from Nola, near Avella on the slopes of Monte Vergine,’’ but Pasquali (937: 282–295, cf. Comparetti-Pasquali 937, :xxv) replied that Gellius himself doubted the story of the villa at Nola and the dispute over irrigation. Giosué Carducci, in the Pietole lecture of November 884, alluded to ‘‘the splendors of Pausilipo and Baiae and the farm at Nola.’’ In the twentieth century, discussion of the Gellian passage continued, but no one tried to identify the country near Vesuvius that Vergil de89

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scribes. Norman De Witt (922) accepted the story of the dispute between Vergil and Nola and the deletion of the city’s name from the Georgics. Nola and Naples were rivals from of old, and, he argued, because he was adopted by Naples and given the name Parthenias, the poet incurred the enmity of the Nolans. De Witt argued also that the property in Nola was more likely an ‘‘investment’’ than a dwelling place. Of course I cannot follow De Witt in his naive faith in the biographical tradition and his own ingenuity. In archaeological scholarship, Amedeo Maiuri (939) held that it favored the Gellian tradition that Nola built an aqueduct in 29–26, so that the magistrates’ refusal could have had some factual basis. But then, in his Passeggiate Campane (957), he reverted to treating the story as a mere legend—yet he believed in Vergil’s ownership of property at Nola and thought the poet lived there ‘‘georgicamente.’’ (Cf. also Hermann 956: 240.) Herescu (960: 03), though he accepted Gellius’ defense of ora, thought it a ‘‘variant d’auteur.’’ Wilkinson (969: 24 and 272) thought that Vergil indeed had a farm at Nola, and lived there now and then, and that the rich country around Capua he mentions brought his own farm to mind. But Barchiesi (979) demonstrated convincingly the absurdity of the story from the scholia on Aeneid 7.740 and made it clear that the Gellian story is fictional and without value for the history of Vergil’s text. The anecdote is ‘‘una testimonianza estrema su una certa maniera di leggere i poeti, che cerca tenacemente nelle loro pagine la trasparenza del vissuto.’’ Taking the reading vicina Vesaevo / ora iugo as both the true and the original text (for ora, cf. Georgics 2.33, 3.5, 4.23), we find ourselves asking for the first time to what place Vergil might refer. The words have been given very different translations: ‘‘le piagge sotto al monte Vesuvio’’ (G. Albini), ‘‘la piaggia vicina al monte Vesèvo’’ (G. Lipparini, 929), ‘‘le spiagge vicine all’ ardente Vesèvo’’ (P. Parrella, 932), ‘‘la contrée voisine du mont Vésuve’’ (S. de Saint Denis, 956), ‘‘I lidi al Vesuvio / vicini’’ (E. Cetrangolo, 966), ‘‘les bords voisins du mont Vésuve’’ (M. Rat, 967), ‘‘the slopes of Mount Vesuvius’’ (K. R. MacKenzie, 969), ‘‘i paesi promissimi alle falde / del Vesuvio’’ (R. Gherardini, 974), ‘‘la contrada vicina al monte Vesuvio’’ (A. Barchiesi, 980), ‘‘delle pianure vicine al Vesuvio’’ (M. Ramous, 982), to give a partial selection: beach, beaches, shores, countrysides, country, and so on. I would argue that the styleme vicina Vesaevo ora iugo is a periphrasis, or better, a ‘‘kenning’’ for a locality that cannot be named in hexameter verse. Considering the work of Ingrid Waern (95), R. Kassel (975), and W. Kroll (924), I have noted that the periphrasis is between two 90

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cities explicitly named, Capua and Acerra, as is also the river Clanius. For such a mixture of names and periphrases, cf. Georgics .4–7, 8–20, 277– 280; we see it used also with plants (e.g., .74–76, 9–20). Periphrasis by itself is common enough in the Georgics (.222, 33, 500; 2.20, 320, 423, 465, 536; 3.; 4.25–26, 60). In my opinion it is a periphrasis for Herculaneum, Herculanum, Herculanense oppidum, Herculanense litus (cf. also Sisenna fr. 53, oppidum . . . propter mare infra Vesuvium conlocatum). The fertility of the coast at Herculaneum is mentioned by numerous witnesses, Seneca, Tacitus, and also Pliny the Elder, who mentions the extraordinary amoenitas of the Campaniae ora (HN 3.40) and Florus (epitome ..6), who calls Campania the most beautiful region of the world. And the name Herculaneum cannot be used in hexameter verse, nor can its related adjectives. It must be paraphrased (e.g., Ov. Met. 5.72, Herculeam . . . urbem, Mart. 4.44.6, hic locus Herculeo nomine clarus erat). Thus, I think, between rich Capua and desolate Acerra Vergil has placed fertile and healthy Herculaneum, vicina Vesaevo ora iugo. Vergil thus will have mentioned Herculaneum after all, in whose secessus he was joining, or had joined, in the discussions on the tranquility of the soul, just as Philodemus dictated several times over the name of his great guest to his scribes. Among the incipits of Philodemus’ epigrams written in Italy, revealed to us in 987 by Peter Parsons as POxy. 3724, notable for their manifesting both Roman content and occasional Latinisms, are two that might pertain to Naples and Vergil. In one, col. iv.4 Parthenopes ana, Philodemus, I think, calls Vergil the ‘‘lord of Parthenope,’’ as Naples is called in Vergilian manner. In the second, iv.5 Parthenopes p[oli], he refers to Naples— and perhaps even to the Georgics (4.564: me dulcis alebat / Parthenope). That Ouergilios whom we met in his prose books is evoked here in that ‘‘Parthenopean’’ ambiance where the Georgics were born, and perhaps we can find another Philodemean influence in it, a trace of that so-called Economicus (col. xxiii.ff ) that painted for us the life of the wise man far from ambition, dedicated to the shaping of his own soul. I feel that it is above all in the Georgics that we find Epicureanism. In the creative experience of the Georgics, we think first of its nexus with Lucretius’ De rerum natura. Vergil and the Epicureans have in common their love of the countryside. Epicurus (570 Us.; Diog. Laert. 0.20a) says that the wise man will secure for himself some possessions, in thinking for the future, and will love the countryside. This of course does not explicitly affirm any idyllic aspect of the countryside, but praises it as a means of life. The conception of it that unites its aspect as retreat, secessus, the Vergilian ignobile otium, and as source of harvest and crops, we find in Philodemus 9

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(Economicus 23.9ff.): ‘‘To own land worked by others is proper for the wise man, for working the fields with one’s own hands brings painful troubles. The wise man, by using land worked by others, avoids intercourse with people that will bring him many problems, but instead secures a peaceful way of life (diagogē epiterpes) and a leisurely retreat for friendship (meta philōn anacharōsis euscholos).’’ Philodemus goes on to picture the life of the wise man dedicated to philosophy with conversations neither tumultuous nor quarrelsome: profit and the conservation of one’s earnings are important, more important is the moderation of desire and fear. He will be a good procurer and economist of his means of life, and will succeed in eliminating as far as possible competition for goods unworthy of acquisition, while banishing the fear of things unworthy to be feared. The care of one’s lands, agroi, is worthwhile, but more precious is care for one’s friends, an infallible treasure to protect one against Fortune. Vergil almost certainly knew this Philodemean treatise, whether he read it or attended the lectures of the Epicurean circle in the belvedere of the Villa dei Papiri. The fact that the Stoics also considered the wise man a lover of the countryside and gave it a role as a help in conquering the practical difficulties of life does not diminish the role the Epicurean view of it may have had in Vergil, as chiming with his natural feeling for the countryside as a landowner himself. The Georgics comprise more than mere sympathy for the hard labor and anxieties of farm workers. Vergil looks with sympathy indeed at farm workers, of whom he makes himself the teacher and bard (.4), and he expresses his solidarity with the improbus labor and the poverty and hardships of the stubborn farm workers (.46–47, 60). But there is also the sense of the divinity of the countryside (.68), from which the bulls and the ploughmen draw together their means of life (.20ff.). In many places Vergil speaks directly to the agricolae (or agricola) and makes himself one with them, shares their experience. Yet they not only have a harsh destiny of labor, but also are happy in their ignorance of civil discord, and they draw from the earth, together with their living, a secure quiet free from treachery. I believe that the Vergilian vision of the countryside is finally in consonance with the Epicurean vision, though this consonance does not imply rigid adhesion to a philosophic system or passive reception of a system of precepts. In a famous passage, 2.483ff., Vergil pictures himself living in the countryside without glory, near the rivers that irrigate the valleys, enjoying the woods and running waters. It is not so much, as Klingner (956) thought, that the contadino is a wise man in parvo; I rather think Vergil felt 92

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that humanity of the Italian countryside in which individual destiny realizes itself in the discovery of nature and the riches of the land. As Rudolph Borchardt wrote suggestively (939: 304), ‘‘The land the poet pretends to teach one to cultivate is . . . the lost earth of a displaced son of the ancient farming world, who speaks for all the others, for his people and his nation and his epoch.’’ Other scholars have indicated better than I can the Epicureanism in Vergil’s feeling for friendship and solidarity, in the contrast between the otium of the countryside and the negotia of politicians, in his joy in the tranquil life, far from civil strife, in his contemplation of nature. Scholars of the later twentieth century (Alfonsi 959, Boyancé 960, Perret 959, La Penna 977) have brought out the Epicureanism latent in Vergil, especially in the Georgics. In a survey of Vergil and Epicureanism, Oroz-Reta (969) emphasized as Epicurean elements in Vergil love for the delicate things in life, faith in the possibility of tranquility of spirit, contemplation of nature, the notion of human progress. A great voice in mid-twentieth-century criticism cannot be omitted here: Luigi Castiglioni (947: 90), in his subtle investigation of Hesiodic influence in the Georgics, commented, The poet’s religiosity, his philosophy, certainly take their part, but without dogmatism, without systems: the religion and philosophy of a poet immersed in his contemplation of his world, part himself of that world, in whom the spectacle of nature working and life developing around him, provoke such intense feelings that now he wishes to penetrate the secrets of the universe (2.475ff.), and find there profound peace of spirit, now to find a quiet full of soul in the blessedness of a simple faith, that perhaps he saw in the unlettered life of the fields, far from the city’s tumult, but still more imagined, placing that life in a portrait entirely ideal (2.493ff.).

In fact, the struggle to liberate Vergil from the esprit de système was the particular achievement of La Penna, who in many an article, especially his ‘‘Senex Corycius’’ (977: 37–66), undertook to vindicate Vergil’s poetic freedom and complexity of inspiration. La Penna, in his elaborate analysis of the excursus in the Georgics—not separate pieces, but coherent with the rest of the work and vibrant with personal touches that I would compare to the choruses of Attic tragedy—has well pointed out the Lucretian echoes both uncritical and critical and the Epicurean motifs Vergil uses. Apropos of the excursus in the first book on the origin of artes from usus, La Penna observed (39) that ‘‘Epicurean doctrine loses its impiety, sub93

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sumed in a providentialistic philosophy: at the origins of humanity is the age of Saturn, not the animal state of Epicurus’ theory’’; he added, ‘‘no one will expect philosophic rigor from Vergil, and even if one sets himself on such a task, he ought to treat with indulgence the fact that in any philosophy providence can be more easily loved or accepted than rationally demonstrated.’’ La Penna has well emphasized the motif of the eternal labor of man against malign nature, but with equal emphasis he has described the motif of the happiness of country life, where the farmers are made to resemble Epicurean wise men. In the famous finale of the second book, ‘‘the felicity of the agricola realizes the Epicurean ideal of ataraxia, emphasizing the sense of autarkeia it gives, and at the same time it carries on the motif of the felicity of the golden age’’ (48). He called this ideal ‘‘idillico-epicureo’’ and spoke of the ‘‘bisogno tenace, ineliminabile del rifugio nel porto epicureo’’ (50). In his treatment of Georgics 4, where we no longer have labor improbus, durus, but play, lusus, La Penna paid particular attention to the interlude of the old man of Corycus, 6–48, whose labor is for a liberty founded on strict autarkeia, which makes him the equal of a monarch. La Penna underlined the difficulty of attributing this autarkeia to Epicureanism or to Stoicism: ‘‘Liberty and autarkeia are not values particular to any one Hellenistic philosophy, but common to them all: the differences consist in the paths by which one realizes them’’ (60). Further, he emphasized the ‘‘ideological thread that unites Hesiodic farm-laborer, Euripidean autourgos, and the senex Corycius,’’ and did not neglect the importance of the social problems of the Augustan Age for a complete account of the passage. And yet still he brought out an Epicurean trait, the absence of all ambition: the old man of Corycus ‘‘is inglorius, as the poet himself wishes to be in his dreamed-of Arcadian solitudes (2.486), as is the colonus of the great finale excursus of book 2, as is the Epicurean sage.’’ Barchiesi also pointed out the impossibility of defining with clear outlines the senex Corycius; though in his commentary on the Georgics he was not insensible to ‘‘Epicurean attitudes’’ or the model of ‘‘Epicurean wisdom,’’ he wrote: ‘‘The old man is an idealized figure, yet his life is no idyll; it is influenced by philosophical theories of autarkeia, self-sufficiency, yet incarnates no precise speculative course. . . . The example of the old man is concrete and practical in real-world terms, not abstractly philosophical or utopian’’ (980: 77). I also think we should avoid extreme solutions, on the one side coming from a desire to fix Vergil stably within Epicureanism, even the early Ver94

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gil (as did Brisson 966, who was corrected by La Penna 968), and on the other denying any trace of the Epicurean system, ignoring the biographical tradition, and remaining insensitive to the poet’s own words (as did H. Naumann 975 and 978). If we listen to the poet’s voice, it is easy to infer that, though immersed in the travail of the history and culture of his times, and in Greek culture especially (see Michel 970),Vergil is resistant to imprisonment in any preconceived scholastic formula.

the early vergil: epicureanism in the eclogues? In the case of the early Vergil, I find myself in agreement with such scholars as Perret (97), and in disagreement with the position of other essays in this volume, Gregson Davis’ for example, or Régine Chambert’s, as well as with such well-known efforts as Traina 965 and Spoerri 969, 970a, and 970b. On the basis of two youthful poems of Vergil, Catalepton 5 and 8, there came to be a hypothesis found in his scholiasts and commentators that the Silenus of the sixth eclogue was a mask for the philosophus Siron, the poet’s magister Epicureus, and that the shepherds Chromis and Mnasyllus were Vergil and Varus, and Aegle voluptas, the hēdonē of Epicurean doctrine. I am firmly convinced that, at least in this case, there is no reason to take Servius seriously in his philosophizing and allegorizing. In the 940s, the Eclogues were sometimes interpreted as Epicurean poetry. Rostagni felt no hesitation in writing that the Eclogues are ‘‘the translation into poetic language, into fantastic imagery, of the most authentic precepts of the Epicurean school’’ (933: 365) and that ‘‘Epicurean philosophy suggested to Vergil . . . the most delicate flower of his poesy, the Eclogues, which are, or are meant to be, the oasis of peace, the tranquil harbor, the safe haven’’ (375). But P. Grimal (978: 56) took Rostagni’s thesis to its most extreme consequences: Tityrus is nothing more or less than the Wise Man of Lucretius, and the first eclogue ‘‘remains . . . the most finished serious poem ever to express a profound sense of Epicurean happiness, of communion with a beneficent Nature, a tranquil rediscovery of the pure pleasure of being and living without fear, of being freed from desire and from hope.’’ Grimal, devoted as he was to tracing the ‘‘lyric movement’’ of the Eclogues, does not balk at speaking of ‘‘a philosophy which enlarges itself into poetry.’’ And yet I believe that the fable convenue of the Eclogues as Epicureanism dressed up in poetry has by now been exorcised, I might almost say, forever. Vergil’s involvement with Philodemus and the Epicureans of Naples 95

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in my opinion is clearly proven in the thirties of the last century b.c., not earlier.

the aeneid and epicureanism I start from an article of Barchiesi’s (978). Here, after a close analysis of Aeneid 2.869–886, the form of these lines, their content, and the use of tragic motifs in Juturna’s rhesis, Barchiesi succeeded in demonstrating a Philodemean matrix for the motif of ‘‘infelicità immortale,’’ thus confirming the importance of detailed studies, yet rejecting the forced ideological stance of such articles as Tenney Frank’s (920). In a passage of De pietate that so far we can read only in the edition of Gomperz, the Homeric conception by which men and gods are alike in their weakness and suffering is criticized, and the Epicureans praised for defending the doctrine of the divine as blessed, incorruptible, and above all passionless. Barchiesi has well shown in Juturna’s monologue, more dramatic than epic, the influence of Epicureanism’s radical criticism of the religious world of Homeric tradition.6 In 990, in the Collection Latomus, there appeared Viviane Mellinghoff-Bourgerie’s Les incertitudes de Virgile: Contributions épicuriennes à la théologie de l’Énéide. This stimulating book holds that Vergil’s Epicureanism was life-long, not limited to the period of the Eclogues and Georgics. Mellinghoff-Bourgerie brings out the contribution of Epicurus’ religious thought, especially in her analysis of the theophanies of the Aeneid, to the ‘‘polysematism’’ of the epic, to its profound discourse on the role of the divinities and on the awareness of phenomena that escape us in ordinary experience, to the poem’s theological polyphony. She begins with a reconstruction of the Epicurean milieu of Vergil’s youth, to show that the poet ‘‘seems always to have remained faithful to his felix contubernium,’’ starting with the exaltation of Epicurean otium in the Eclogues, going on to the semantic borrowings from Lucretius in the Georgics, and to the Aeneid, where there remain scientific axioms borrowed from Epicureanism, their metaphysical preoccupations, the problem of worldly and of spiritual life, the search for a model in which heroism does not cause a crisis in a character’s humanity, the sensitivity to man’s destiny and mortality. It would take me too long to summarize the content of the chapters that make up the book: ‘‘Religious Scepticism in the Aeneid,’’ ‘‘The Futility of Divination,’’ ‘‘The Fallibility of Providence,’’ ‘‘The Crisis of Traditional Religious Ideas,’’ ‘‘The Allegorical Myth of the Descent to the Underworld,’’ ‘‘The Unreality of Contact with the Shades.’’ I limit my96

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self to pointing out as a general tendency Mellinghoff-Bourgerie’s emphasis on the uncertainties, on the absence of dogmatism in Vergil’s vision of the world. The Aeneid is certainly an epic poem, but no less a work that manifests dissatisfaction with traditional religion and is of a strongly philosophical character. Well aware of the risks of transforming a great poet into a mere follower of a philosophical school, she refuses to fit Vergil into any facile schematism. Vergil, ‘‘the new Homer, gave the Romans a work that represented the sum of their own human, moral and religious experience, including in his work the findings of Hellenistic philosophy’’ (990: 228). Aeneas, his hero, represents the ideal of the wise man: ‘‘He presents himself not only as a leader of men, a good father, a good son,’’ but ‘‘unites especially in the twelfth book the qualities a philosopher expected of a wise man’’ (ibid.). He incarnates the ideal Philodemus’ Epicurean philosophy had presented both in On the Good King According to Homer and in Book 4 of On Death. Aeneas, Mellinghoff-Bourgerie holds, is a hero of the interior life, and thus represents Vergil’s own ideal: for Vergil, philosophical meditation is higher even than poetry (230). In pointing out the Epicurean elements in the Aeneid, MellinghoffBourgerie has made use of Philodemean texts that were certainly familiar to Vergil, besides the usual Lucretian passages. One might hesitate over the characterization of Dido and Anna as Epicureans (56), yet her arguments ought to leave no commentator on Vergil unimpressed. Of special importance is an article by M. Erler (992b). Erler, after a thorough survey of scholarly thought on philosophical influence in the Aeneid, interprets the motif of anger as shown by Turnus and Aeneas in the light not of Stoic doctrine (as does Lyne 983), nor of Aristotle and the Peripatos, but of Philodemus’ On Anger. Erler sees in Turnus the paradigm of immoderate anger, and thus of the negative side of the pathos, in Aeneas the paradigm of Epicurean natural anger, physikē orgē, which is not a vice but a virtue. If for Turnus anger results in war and vengeance, for Aeneas it is a necessity of his interior disposition. He is a positive hero and realizes the Epicurean ideal of the wise man: Epicureanism offers Vergil a means to condemn the anger of Turnus and justify that of Aeneas. Turnus’ anger is folly, insanity, but Aeneas’ accords with his pietas. Not only is On Anger a model for Vergil, but also On the Good King According to Homer, in which Philodemus interprets Homer as a preceptor of the good life and delineates the portrait of the good king. ‘‘Vergil’s effort at motivating the anger of Aeneas morally manifestly belongs to a broader context of moral interpretation of Homeric models,’’ notes Erler (992b: 23). The Philodemean conception is developed in the little trea97

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tise On the Good King and is presupposed by Vergil. Erler accepts the interpretation of the work that I published some years ago as a protreptic treatise and emphasizes Vergil’s debt as a reader of Homer to the methods Philodemus suggested. If my interpretation was limited to the Horatian echoes of this Epicurean message, Erler has the credit of showing how Vergil shared the anti-warlike vision of the epic hero, as we find it in On the Good King, and the different view of anger that emerges from On Anger: Vergil owes Philodemus not only his analysis of anger but his approach to epic. Erler emphasizes that no one wants to imprison in philosophical concepts the invention and inspiration of a poet; Vergil, however, even when, as in his vision of history and of a life dominated by gods, he distances himself from Epicureanism, never renounces the profound truths of Epicurean teaching: ‘‘Whatever there is of Epicureanism in the Aeneid neither makes the poem an Epicurean epic nor its author an Epicurean’’ (25). Vergil kept his spiritual freedom, and used with discretion a Philodemean model whose vitality is shown also by Seneca. The debate on the end of the Aeneid—the duel of Aeneas and Turnus, the pitiless slaying of Turnus—has been especially lively in recent years. Karl Galinsky, who, in his 988 article, anticipated Erler’s study, in a following article (994) explains Aeneas’ conduct in Erler’s manner, that is, with the Epicurean theory of the appropriateness of anger to right conduct. More successful has been a Peripatetic view that explains Aeneas’ ira against Turnus as the mean of this dread pathos (Thornton 976: 59– 63; E. Henry 989: 89–9; Cairns 989: 82–84). Putnam (990) argues against interpreting Aeneas’ anger in Epicurean terms. Another dissent from Erler’s theory has been registered by D. P. Fowler (997). Fowler does not think Aeneas’ anger can be explained by philosophical texts, but only by literary models; and in any case, he thinks, anger in the Aeneid is a negative value, and influenced by Stoic theories, though the Aeneid does not follow Chrysippus either.Vergil holds, according to Fowler, that emotions must be controlled even when they cannot be controlled. Aeneas’ final act is not an isolated piece of irrationality in him (Aen. 2.407f., 594f., 776f.; 0.83, etc.), and its irrationality is of the same type that affects other characters (Coroebus, 2.407f.; Nisus, 9.424–426; Lausus, 0.8; the Trojans, 2.42f., 244f.; the Latins vs. Latinus, 7.594–596, 599–600; the Trojans and Rutulians alike accused of irrationality by Aeneas, 2.33–35). Wright (997) holds that the vision of anger in Vergil is Peripatetic rather than Stoic, even if Vergil makes no direct use of Aristotelian and Peripatetic texts: still, she understands the cognitive theory of anger and portrays Aeneas and Turnus in Aristotelian terms. Her conclusion, how98

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ever, is somewhat unexciting: though one cannot cite a specific text from which his vision of anger is derived, ‘‘Vergil is sensible of the special status that this emotion has in philosophical tradition and makes use of the opportunities Aristotle established for analyzing the physiological and cognitive aspects of anger.’’ A possible conclusion: the centrality of Epicurean theory to Vergilian anger is entirely plausible, yet it does not take precedence over the fascinating and extraordinary poetic vision, which is what really gives us pleasure and makes us think; we should remember that the metron of poetry and its criticism is always poetry itself.

notes . Translator’s note: Marcello Gigante’s death in November 200, sadly, prevented me from quite finishing my correspondence with him about my translation of this piece. I had already decided that we would follow his convention of leaving what would normally be footnotes in the text. At one point, where Gigante had given exempli gratia ten different translations in various languages of the phrase vicina Vesaevo / ora iugo in the Georgics, I have (after checking them, of course) left the reader to take these on trust without adding full references or burdening the bibliography with the book titles.—David Armstrong 2. Körte 890. The texts being discussed may all be found in Sider 997: 9–2. 3. The whole progress of scholarly debate on the readings before P.Herc. Paris. 2 made the true readings clear is summarized by me with full references in Gigante 973. 4. Philippson 9; cf. Gigante 973. 5. The text used for Horace is KHB; for Vergil, Mynors 969. 6. Obbink 2002 is a more extensive study of the lament of Juturna in the light of passages from Philodemus’ De pietate.

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t h e vo c a b u l a ry o f a n g e r i n p h i l o d e m u s ’ De ira a n d v e r g i l ’ s Aeneid g i ova n n i i n d e l l i

An examination of the choice of words used by Philodemus and Vergil to designate anger shows a strong connection between their respective notions of anger. This permits clarification of what have long seemed, even among the ancients, to be contradictions in the character of Aeneas. One significant problem that arises for a reader of Philodemus’ treatise De ira, preserved in about two-thirds of P.Herc. 82,1 is the employment of different terms to designate the various degrees of the emotion that we generically call ‘‘anger.’’ The concept of ‘‘anger,’’ in all its variations, is expressed in Greek in many ways,2 almost all present in Philodemus. With aganaktēsis (‘‘irritation’’), cholos/akracholia or akrocholia (‘‘bitter anger, passion’’), thymos (‘‘rage’’), menos (‘‘fury’’), and orgē (‘‘wrath/ire’’), anger is designated as a manifestation of the natural disposition of the man. With pikria (‘‘bitterness’’) and chalepotēs (‘‘harshness’’), one refers to anger as an impulse or painful feeling of the human soul. Mēnis or ‘‘wrath,’’ finally, is the fury that abides permanently in the soul. This range of meanings is difficult to express in English, since many of these terms overlap, depending on the context. The two semantic groups most often used by Philodemus in De ira are orgē and thymos and their derivatives. The words of the first group recur frequently, above all in the concluding section of the work (cols. xxxiv–l), in which Philodemus sets forth the Epicurean point of view on the subject and counters the assertions of some opponents (from the same Epicurean school?), shedding better light on certain expressions of the master. Anger, when it is physikē orgē, that is, an emotion that springs up for a legitimate reason and is bracheia kai mē syntonos (‘‘brief and not impetuous’’), is a pathos (‘‘emotion’’) to which even the wise man can be subject (cols. xli.30–3, xlvi.–3, xlvii.36–37, xlix.9–22); in this sense one is able

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to understand why the sophoi (‘‘wise men’’) who reproach their disciples frequently and intensely in order to correct them, and those who challenge the errors in argumentation of some philosophers, speaking with frankness, are considered irate (col. xxxv.7–37). This kind of anger is justified and thus acceptable, and certainly is not being confused with orgilotēs, a permanent character trait, which already in Aristotle (Eth. Nic. 2.7.08a.4–) was the excess of orgē. The wise man, who is by nature aorgētos (‘‘incapable of orgē ’’), is able only to give, for a brief time, the impression of an enraged man, that is, of one predisposed to fall prey to that feeling, but will never be genuinely orgilos, ‘‘prone to orgē ’’ (De ira col. xxxiv.7–38). In fact, Philodemus adds (col. xxxvi.7–28) that more than others, certain wise men present the image of being prone to orgē (orgiloi), in whom a natural disposition to anger is to a great extent inborn, as we said earlier, or who are more liable to freedom of speech for the motives that we listed in the treatise On Freedom of Speech, or such attitudes are to a great extent joined together in them.

With orgē, Philodemus designates the true and proper feeling of anger, without further specifications.When it is caused (as happens in the greater part of the cases) by particular actions or behaviors, when, that is, it is not kenē orgē (‘‘empty orgē ’’), it need not, for the Epicureans, be repressed, because it is considered something natural and rationally controllable, in contrast to thymos, characterized by a fundamental irrationality, since the latter is the product of instinct and not of logismos (‘‘calculation’’). Thymos, instead, is for Philodemus a swift and unpremeditated anger, the impulsive disturbance of the inner spirit, which is not a tendency, a line of conduct, but something that overwhelms us. It has unpleasant consequences, because it drives us to actions that recoil against the one who commits them, like starting a fight with someone much stronger (col. xii.22–25), in the way that those prone to anger cause harm to themselves instead of to those whom they wish to harm, and for that reason they become furious all over again (col. xiii.9). As a matter of fact, thymos warps the mind to such an extent that ‘‘it makes one throw away just the things for which the enraged man has the most powerful longing’’ (col. xv.7– 20)3 and makes him voluntarily lose not a little (col. xxiii.23–25): ou gar eai diak[ri]nein ho thymos (‘‘For thymos does not allow one to make distinctions,’’ col. xii.25–26). Fundamentally, thymos and orgē are not equivalent, and we often find united words from the two semantic groups that are distinguished in such a manner. There are cases, nevertheless, in which thymos seems to be 04

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almost a synonym of orgē, as for example where it is emphasized that for angry men nothing is a source of pleasure (col. xxv.22–34): ‘‘Not even a spectacle is agreeable to them, on account of orgē (dia tēn orgēn), nor a bath, nor a banquet, nor a journey with anybody, nor what else appears to be delightful, absolutely nothing, but all [is unwelcome to them], because there are interspersed for them bursts of irritation on account of a sign, a whisper, a smile, from the remembrance of the things by which they were made angry (ethymothēsan) by someone.’’ When he summarizes the opinion of the Peripatetics about the indispensability of anger, Philodemus says (col. xxx.5–38) that for them it is not possible to fight choris orgēs (‘‘without orgē ’’) nor to be daring and capable of avenging oneself on one’s enemies, and they ‘‘believe that reasonable determination and that kind of irrational fervor in some is the thymos of which we are speaking. And they fail to see that it is possible to fight, struggle, and overwhelm fiercely without orgē.’’ Further on, Philodemus returns to Antipater of Tarsus to support his own rejection of the Peripatetic thesis and asserts (cols. xxxiii.34–xxxiv.6) that the Stoic philosopher denies that thymos serves to defend oneself from fierce beasts or that it is necessary in battle, taking as examples the teachers of swordplay who shout to their pupils not to become angry (mē thymou). Still, he does not exclude the possibility of punishment, provided it happens choris orgēs. That in common linguistic usage there exists no substantial difference between the two semantic groups should be borne in mind to understand the subtle discussion with which Philodemus concludes his book, because his adversaries, actually playing on the dual meanings, the general one and the restricted one, have attempted to distort the thinking of Epicurus. Philodemus explicitly states (cols. xliii.4–xliv.8) that ‘‘one will say that the wise man is also prone to thymos, in relation to the more general linguistic usage with which we are accustomed to use this word, that is, as an equivalent of orgē, while we would not be able to say it absolutely, in the sense of intensity in relation to the size or of impetus toward something, as toward a pleasure.’’ And a little later he adds (cols. xliv.4–xlv.5) that ‘‘our teachers also think that the wise man encounters thymos not according to this extended sense [that is, as the equivalent of Italian furore] but according to that more common [that is, ira].’’ Even for the Epicureans, then, the difference was quite clear—underscored by Philodemus in col. xlv.33– 37—between orgē, natural anger, springing from motives that are justified, moderate in its duration and its intensity, and thymos (which Philodemus seems also to call kenē orgē ), blind and uncontrolled rage, to which the 05

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wise man certainly is unable to fall prey.When Epicurus, Metrodorus, and Hermarchus spoke of the thymos of the wise man, they always intended it in the commonly accepted meaning of ‘‘brief and barely intense anger.’’ It seems evident to me that, in the passages in which he uses thymos and thymousthai, Philodemus wishes to specify exactly the type of pathos—absolutely negative and always to be rejected—aroused in definite situations and differentiate it from orgē, a feeling that is welcomed, although with some limitations, because, in certain of its characteristics, it is something intrinsic to the nature of a human being. Aganaktēsis, for Philodemus, is the indignation that is felt in the face of behavior that is viewed as a fault or in confrontations with anyone who acts in a manner that opposes himself to human opinion (col. xlvi.3–35). Akracholia is a paroxysm of anger at its highest pitch of intensity; it is the peak of the feelings of aversion that the behavior of the sophos (badly interpreted) provokes, and even surges into hatred (cols. xxxv.7–xxxvi.3). Pikria, a pathos to which the wise man is not able to fall prey, is exasperation, painful irritation that manifests itself in violent action: in fact, the one who is seized by pikria is subject to disturbances and torments and even, because of the impossibility of taking revenge, is spurred on to kill himself (col. xxvi.3–33; the context, however, is full of gaps). Mēnis is a lasting anger felt toward anyone for a just reason, or what appears so; it is characteristic of the gods, but also of a being not divine, like Achilles, and it is just this famous mēnis (only in this instance is such a word used) that Philodemus mentions in De ira (col. xxix.23–24) to throw into relief the painful consequences it is able to call forth, bringing in the example of the Achaeans so greatly harmed by their hero’s resentment. I think one may conclude that Philodemus is conscious of the exact semantic value of the terms he uses and that he chooses them thoughtfully, according to the situations he intends to portray. Even if, for some of them, we are not able to have the support of clear and extensive contexts, the scientific accuracy, so to speak, with which Philodemus opts time after time for one or the other term seems to me unquestionable. To sum up, shades of meaning, sometimes delicate, correspond to the range of words being used, and we do not find them acting as simple stylistic variations. As Erler notes, ‘‘Not erroneously has the Aeneid been called a ‘poem of pathē,’ among which the wrath of the hero takes on a particular significance’’ (992b: 03). At least up until the publication of Michael Putnam’s The Poetry of the Aeneid (965), Aeneas was seen by the vast majority of critics as a positive hero whose distinctive trait is pietas. Nevertheless, the fact that he is seized by attacks of anger, the last of which leads him to 06

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kill Turnus, has disconcerted many readers, even in antiquity. Explanation has been sought by recalling Vergil’s model, the Iliad, whose heroes have orgē, anger, among their characteristics; but investigators have also looked beyond literary models in privileging the Stoic doctrine of the pathē.4 Others have turned to the Peripatetic metriopatheia.5 Although far less attention has been devoted to Epicureanism, it is, as various scholars have pointed out in recent years, precisely the Epicurean conception of anger (that is, the admissibility of an anger natural, justified, and not of long duration) that perhaps best explains the pathology of Aeneas’ anger.6 In any case, one does not forget that, even if the Epicurean influence on the concept of anger Vergil possesses is undeniable, one need not overvalue the philosophical background relative to the poetic representation. I shall try to show with a very incomplete analysis that Vergil, who, like Philodemus, uses many terms to express ‘‘anger,’’ has also behaved in the same way as the Epicurean in his choice of words, diversifying them not out of a mere liking for variatio but to indicate gradations and different strengths of a concept fundamentally the same, chiefly by using distinct words, or, if the words are identical, with distinct significations, depending on whether he is dealing with the anger of Aeneas or of Turnus.7 According to Rieks, in the Aeneid, Vergil uses forty-five Zornbegriffe in 42 passages. Ira is a word often employed to define the state of mind of Juno, right from the opening of the poem, when Vergil says that Aeneas went wandering over land and sea memorem Iunonis ob iram (‘‘on account of the mindful ira of Juno,’’ .4).8 Insofar as it occurs at such an important point in a prologue intended to mirror those of the Homeric epics, this use of ira seems almost equivalent to mēnis. As regards human beings, other than Dido—who, grieved at the abandonment of Aeneas, magnoque irarum fluctuat aestu (‘‘tosses on a great surge of irae,’’ 4.532, cf. 4.564) —and Queen Amata, quam super adventu Teucrum Turnique hymaeneis / feminae ardentem curaeque iraeque coquebant (‘‘whom, enraged over the coming of the Trojans and the nuptials of Turnus, feminine cares and irae were tormenting,’’ 7.344–345), only Aeneas and Turnus are seized by this pathos more than once. Already during the last night of Troy, Aeneas snatches up his weapons without knowing clearly what he is doing, because furor iraque mentem / praecipitat (‘‘madness and ira drive my mind headlong,’’ 2.36–37); and he wishes to rush against Helen, at the sight of whom exarsere ignes animo; subit ira cadentem / ulcisci patriam et sceleratas sumere poenas (‘‘fires burned in my soul; ira for avenging my falling homeland and reaping an atrocious penalty surges up,’’ 2.575–576).9 In Book 0 we read that, facing the confident Lausus, who has come to assist 07

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his father Mezentius, saevae iamque altius irae / Dardanio surgunt ductori (‘‘cruel and still deeper irae surge up in the Dardanian leader,’’ 83–84). But Book 2 is above all that of the anger of Aeneas: he puts on his armor et se suscitat ira (‘‘and rouses himself to action by means of anger,’’ 08) as he prepares for the final duel with Turnus. He becomes angry (tum vero adsurgunt irae, 494) when Messapus strikes his helmet with a lance, reacts by wreaking slaughter on his enemies, and ‘‘looses all the reins of his irae’’ (irarumque omnis effundit habenas, 499). On a par with Turnus, he is the prey of anger in the midst of fighting between the opposing ranks: nunc, nunc / fluctuat ira intus (‘‘Now, now roils the wrath [ira] within him,’’ 526–527). Finally, seeing the baldric of Pallas on Turnus’ shoulder, furiis accensus et ira / terribilis (‘‘inflamed by madness and terrible in his wrath,’’ 946–947), he rejects the act of pity that he was on the point of performing, that of sparing the Rutulian, and kills him. As we see, it is a pathos almost always motivated (a couple of times ira and furor or furia are united), which seems to correspond to Philodemus’ orgē. In the case of Turnus, on the other hand, ira more than once designates a pathos that seems to me much closer to thymos. Already in Book 7, following the intervention of Allecto, who atro / lumine fumantis fixit sub pectore taedas (‘‘planted beneath his breast torches smoking with murky light,’’ 456–457), in Turnus saevit amor ferri et scelerata insania belli, / ira super (‘‘love of the sword seethes and wicked craze for war, rage in addition,’’ 46–462), and the poet compares him to water that boils in a bubbling kettle. In Book 9 Turnus, described as immani concitus ira (‘‘stirred up by enormous rage,’’ 694), is compared to a starving wolf who approaches a sheepfold (haud aliter Rutulo muros et castra tuenti / ignescunt irae, duris dolor ossibus ardet, ‘‘Just so does rage burst into flame for the Rutulian as he gazes on walls and encampment, harsh pain burns in his bones,’’ 65–66), and to a fierce lion pursued by hunters who is forced to withdraw but does not turn his back (haud aliter retro dubius vestigia Turnus / improperata refert, et mens exaestuat ira, ‘‘Just so Turnus, hesitating, retraces his steps slowly, and his mind is in a turmoil with rage,’’ 797–798). In Book 2 Turnus is compared to a bull (0–04): his agitur furiis, totoque ardentis ab ore scintillae absistunt, oculis micat acribus ignis, mugitus veluti cum prima in proelia taurus terrificos ciet atque irasci in cornua temptat. He is driven by this madness, and burning sparks leap from his whole face, fire shines from his dark eyes, as when a bull at the beginning 08

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of a fight produces terrifying bellows or tries to vent his rage through his horns.

Ira is therefore, for the most part, a bestial rage, similar to insania (‘‘madness’’). Dido above all is seized by furor. As for the two protagonists of the second half of the poem, Aeneas is definitely furens in Book 0, where he is compared to torrential water or a black whirlwind when he slaughters his enemies following the slaying of Pallas (604), and then, as I have already noted, he is furiis accensus in addition to ira terribilis at the sight of the baldric of Pallas worn by Turnus (2.946–947). In my opinion, we are in the presence of violent bursts of rage produced by an extremely intense pain, the death of young Pallas. Turnus, on the other hand, is more often characterized by furor. The news that the Rutulians, who had made a foray into the Trojan camp, had been killed or put to flight is brought ductori Turno diversa in parte furenti / turbantique viros (‘‘to Turnus the commander raging extensively and throwing the soldiers into confusion,’’ 9.69–692). After the slaying of Pandarus and Bitias, with the Trojans fleeing and frightened, he could have inflicted the decisive blow on their troops by entering the enemy camp, sed furor ardentem caedisque insana cupido 10 / egit in adversos (‘‘but rage and crazed passion for slaughter drove him blazing against the enemy,’’ 9.760–76). After the clash with Drances, who favors peace with the Trojans, cingitur ipse furens certatim in proelia Turnus (‘‘Turnus himself, raging, arms himself competitively for battle,’’ .486) and goes to the final combat furens (.90). Hence he asks his sister: hunc . . . sine me furere ante furorem (‘‘Allow me to rage this rage before the end,’’ 2.680). Finally, the words accendo, incendo, ardeo, and fervidus are frequently used by Vergil. Aeneas, after the killing of Pallas, latum . . . per agmen / ardens limitem agit ferro (‘‘throughout the host cuts a broad swathe with his sword, aflame,’’ 0.53–54), and, reminding Turnus that he is killing him to avenge Pallas, ferrum adverso sub pectore condit / fervidus (‘‘impassioned, buries his sword beneath the opposing breast,’’ 2.950–95). Turnus instead, as we have seen, is ardens because of furor and caedis insana cupido (9.760–76). His violentia (‘‘violence, aggressiveness’’)11 exarsit at the words of Drances (.376). Amata, terrified by the risk of a new battle, ardentem generum moritura tenebat (‘‘was holding her inflamed sonin-law, determined to die,’’ 2.55). At the sight of Aeneas injured, Turnus subita spe fervidus ardet (‘‘burns, aflame with sudden hope,’’ 2.325). In conclusion, it seems to me that one can say that Vergil, by using a 09

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full range of words—in my eyes they are limited, I repeat, to a selection that I nonetheless consider significant—not only intentionally differentiates various aspects of pathos but characterizes the figures in his poem by employing carefully weighted terms to indicate their states of mind. Alternatively, when Vergil uses the same word (ira, furor, etc.), he alludes to various characters, making us infer different nuances from the context. In this way, I believe, one can agree with those who have seen in Philodemus’ concept of anger as presented in the De ira exemplars for the anger of Vergil’s Aeneas (Philodemus’ physikē orgē ) and for that of Turnus (Philodemus’ thymos or kenē orgē ).

notes . I have edited the text, with translation and commentary, as the fifth volume of the series ‘‘La Scuola di Epicuro,’’ a collection of texts from Herculaneum produced under the direction of M. Gigante (Indelli 988). 2. Cf. Schmidt 879: 55–572. 3. This assertion is illustrated with the amusing story of the Phoenician merchant whose philochrēmatia (‘‘love of money’’) is overcome by anger, making him throw into the sea all his money because he has not succeeded in finding one small lost coin (col. xv.2–30). 4. So, most recently, Putnam 990 and Gill 997. 5. See, most recently, Wright 997. 6. Galinsky 988 and 994; Rieks 989: 38–39; Erler 992a and 992b. 7. Fowler (997) maintains that the anger of Aeneas is not Epicurean in appearance nor, in general, explicable by resorting to philosophic texts. 8. All citations from the Aeneid are from Mynors 969. Translations are my own. 9. Venus, immediately afterward (2.594), asks Aeneas: nate, quis indomitas tantus dolor excitat iras? (‘‘Son, what great pain arouses uncontrollable wrath?’’). For discussion of the episode, see Fish in this volume. 0. The motif of insania recurs. . Turnus alone is characterized by violentia. Earlier Aeneas, in the course of pressing for an alliance with Tarcho, king of the Etruscans, violenta pectora Turni / edocet (‘‘instructs him about Turnus’ violent disposition,’’ 0.5–52); then, at the beginning of Book 2, he moves to the attack like a lion wounded by hunters, haud secus accenso gliscit violentia Turno (‘‘just so does violence swell up in kindled Turnus,’’ 9).

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anger, philodemus’ good king, and the helen episode of Aeneid 2.567–589: a new proof of authenticit y from hercul aneum jeffrey fish In spite of how prominently kingship figures in the Aeneid, and how widely diffused kingship literature was in the ancient world, the Aeneid has only recently been analyzed in terms of kingship theory. There is a good reason for this. Most kingship literature perished (including Aristotle’s own treatise on the subject), and what did survive has on the whole remained inaccessible and unfamiliar to Vergilians. It was therefore to largely unexplored territory that Francis Cairns came in his 989 book, Virgil’s Augustan Epic, in which he showed how the important figures in the Aeneid, primarily Aeneas, Dido, and Turnus, are shaped by theoretical conceptions of what the good king (and his opposite) are like as found in ancient kingship literature. One text that Cairns used with profit was Philodemus’ treatise On the Good King According to Homer, and the timing could not have been better. In the same year, or just shortly before, Vergil’s name was found as an addressee for one of Philodemus’ treatises, securing a connection between Philodemus and Vergil that had long been supposed, but that most had simply ignored.1 For all the difficulties and hazards involved in studying the Herculaneum papyri, Vergilians would have to take them into account. In fact, the papyri had not gone totally unnoticed by Vergilian scholars. Karl Galinsky had argued that Aeneas’ anger is compatible both with the type of anger Philodemus permits the wise man in his treatise On Anger and also with certain Aristotelian conceptions of anger.2 Michael Erler took this a step further by arguing that Philodemus’ theory of anger in fact provided Vergil with a theoretical framework on which to organize the idea of anger in his Aeneid.3 On the basis of my new reconstruction of column xxxvi of On the Good King, I intend here to incorporate Erler’s thesis on Aeneas’ anger, with some modifications, into Cairns’ broader thesis of Aeneas becoming a good king over the course of the poem. The

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implications for the Helen Episode of Aeneid Book 2 will become clear as I proceed. By transposing fragments that had adhered to incorrect layers of the papyrus when it was unrolled, I have been able to restore much of column xxxvi of On the Good King that was previously illegible, including two previously unseen Homeric quotations.4 Many of the letters I print below physically exist on another part of the papyrus, but were originally located where I have placed them.5 It can now be seen that this column is almost certainly not a series of instances of hybris, as was previously thought,6 but is primarily concerned with how the good king should respond to the hybris of others. The top half of the column is devoted to a very critical view of Hector, who, according to Philodemus, responded incorrectly to the insolence of Achilles and was hubristic even in his thinking about the gods. The bottom half of the column is devoted to the character of Odysseus. Philodemus discusses two incidents in Odysseus’ career: first, his encounter with Polyphemus (4–24 and probably further), and second, his restraining the nurse Eurycleia from crying out in joy over the corpses of the slain suitors (28–32). It is Philodemus’ presentation of these last two events that I wish to examine, along with their relationship to the Aeneid and its conception of anger and retribution. Line 4 begins a genealogical boast, probably referring to Polyphemus, though this is not certain and not vital for my argument: καί πού | [φησι τῶ]ν κρειτ τόνων τις | [εἶ ]ναι τε κα[ὶ] γ[έ ]νος ἕλκειν (4–6: ‘‘And suppose someone claims to be a child of the Great Ones and to draw his lineage from them’’). The subject of the next clause, at any rate, is Odysseus, who is referred to as ὁ [τυ]φλώσας in line 9:

ἐφ]ρενοῦτ[ο δὲ κ]αθάπερ ἔνι|[οι] καὶ [τῶ]ν ὕστερ [ο]ν μοναρχ[η|σάν]των  ὁ [τυ]φλώσας τὸν | ‘‘⌊οὐ⌋ γὰρ Κύκλ ⌊ωπες Διὸ⌋ς αἰ | γ⌊ι⌋όχου ἀλ έγουσ⌊ιν οὐδ⌋ὲ | θ⌊εῶ⌋ν ἄλλ [ω]ν ἐπ ⌊ε⌋ὶ ἦ πο |⌊λὺ φ⌋έρτεροί ἐσμ εν’’ φλ υ α ρ [ή | σα]ντα. col. xxxvi.7–24

And yet even the one who blinded the one who foolishly said, ‘‘For the Cyclopes are not heedful of Zeus nor the other gods, since we are far better’’ (Od. 9.275–276), was corrected, just as also 7 some monarchs later in history [were corrected].

Odysseus is referred to as the one who blinded Polyphemus, who had boasted that the Cyclopes take no heed of Zeus since they are better than

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he. In spite of the hybris of Polyphemus, Odysseus underwent correction (ἐφ]ρενοῦτ[ο) for his incorrect response to that hybris.8 Odysseus’ correction is compared with the correction of later kings (7–9), which is not surprising here since it is a common feature of On the Good King to compare Homer’s kings to later kings, especially Hellenistic ones.9 When we reach legible text again in col. xxxvi.28, we find Odysseus restraining Eurycleia from shouting for joy over the corpses of the justly avenged suitors. Here my text is mostly the same as Dorandi’s: , καὶ οὐκ ἐ]ῶν ἐπολο λύ ζειν | [τοῖ ]ς ἐνδίκ ως τετιμω|[ρη]μένοις  ἐπιφωνῶν | ὡς ‘‘οὐχ ὁσίη φθιμένοισιν | ἐπ’ ἀνδράσιν εὐχετάασθαι.’’ col. xxxvi.28–32

Not allowing (her) to shout for joy even over those justly avenged, and exclaiming that ‘‘it is not piety to glory over slain men’’ (Od. 22.42).

It seems, then, that Philodemus is contrasting Odysseus’ earlier behavior with the Cyclops to his later behavior after the death of the suitors. It is notable that the Odyssey scholia here do not come near the sophistication of the conception that Philodemus sets forth. According to Murray, who is followed by Dorandi (both of them, I should note, were working with much less text in the column), Philodemus must be pointing out the contradiction in Odysseus’ behavior, and showing that the last quotation about it being impious to glory over slain men represents Homer’s opinion, not Odysseus’.10 Not so. We now know that Elizabeth Asmis’ suggestion was nearer the mark, that ‘‘Philodemus perhaps also has Homer correct Odysseus’ vindictiveness toward the blinded Cyclops.’’ 11 Indeed, on the basis of these new readings, one could take Asmis’ suggestion a step further and propose that, according to Philodemus, Homer shows Odysseus’ vindictiveness as having to undergo correction in general.12 If I have reconstructed the text correctly, Philodemus believed that Odysseus undergoes a kind of moral correction; and this is not a trivial discovery for the history of the interpretation of ancient epic, especially given the now-proven association of Philodemus and Vergil. New readings in On the Good King have shown that Philodemus viewed the Telemachy as the education of Telemachus.13 If he were to stay in Ithaca, Telemachus would remain as ‘‘one who has neither seen nor heard of many things and has had no experience of free speech with equals (παρρησίας ἄπειρον ἰσηγόρου) and is for the most part even uneducated’’

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(col. xxiii.5–9). It is for this reason that he needs to get away to Pylos and Sparta, ‘‘where he was to associate with such great people’’ (3–32). The education that Odysseus undergoes is of a more chastening kind, but it is nonetheless an education. What was it that Philodemus found fault with about Odysseus’ behavior in the Cyclopeia? Presumably he told us in the lacuna from lines 24– 27. I do not think that it was the blinding, or at any rate only the blinding. We can suppose that he would have thought that to be just behavior, since he explicitly goes on to say that the suitors were justly avenged (29–30). And Odysseus and his men had to get out of the cave somehow. What Philodemus would have taken issue with is illuminated in his treatise On Anger. In that treatise, Philodemus presents an Epicurean theory of anger and retribution, which probably he or his teacher Zeno developed on the basis of Epicurean teaching, but as an original theory of his own. Here I can only highlight some basic aspects of this theory.14 Unlike the Stoics, who believed that one should never capitulate to anger (nor to any other passion), the Epicureans believed that there was a perfectly legitimate and natural kind of anger to which even the wise can become subject. Unlike the Aristotelians (who also believed that the wise man would get angry), the Epicureans felt that a wise person, when subject to anger, will not conceive of punishment as a source of pleasure.15 Nor will the wise consider punishment as a good in itself (On Anger, col. xliv.5–35): But in that sense in which the word θυμός indicates what is intense in its greatness, or an impulse [to punish] as if to something enjoyable, we certainly could not say this. For he [sc. the wise man] neither falls into such intense emotions as these (because that is madness, because that lust for punishment in oneself is full of countless additional evils, and is something we must entirely refuse as the greatest of evil things), nor is impelled to punishment as to something enjoyable— because it has nothing pleasurable to offer him—but approaches it as something most necessary and most unpleasurable, as he would the drinking of apsinthion or the doctor’s knife. For the merciless man is, as Homer says, ‘‘tribeless and lawless’’ and genuinely ‘‘in love with war’’ [Iliad 9.63–64] and vengeance on mankind, but the wise man is most merciful and most reasonable. And the person who lusts for punishment is so disposed to vengeance as if it were something to be chosen for its own sake, even if he is choosing to sink himself along with his victim, but it is insanity even to imagine the wise man as disposed to 4

Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of the Aeneid

checking someone’s insolence as if it were anything of the sort [i.e., pleasurable].16

Only the pain of anger is legitimate, and the pleasure of revenge is always a bad emotion, for it always carries one away to actions that are damaging to oneself, and never to good. And if only the pain of anger is legitimate, the anger itself will be short-lived, since one naturally seeks the avoidance of pain. From the passage above, we can see an obvious connection between Philodemus’ two treatises On Anger and On the Good King. Both find fault with men who love strife and war, and both cite Iliad 9.63–64, Nestor’s opinion that a lover of war is ‘‘friendless, lawless, and homeless,’’ to illustrate Homer’s own morally correct opinion at this point.17 On Anger spells out a theory of punishment more specifically, and on the basis of the passage given above, it seems reasonable to suppose that Philodemus must have faulted Odysseus for gratuitously indulging in the pleasure of his vengeance when he declares with unwarranted confidence and arrogance that Poseidon will not heal the Cyclops (Od. 9.523–525) and when, despite the warning of his men, ‘‘with angered heart’’ (κεκοτηότι θυμῷ) he reveals his name to the Cyclops (502–505), a revelation that almost leads to his and his men’s destruction.18 One of several aspects of On Anger that Erler and Galinsky found useful in evaluating Vergil’s treatment of the emotions is this thesis that anger and retribution should be devoid of any lasting pleasure, and it is this thesis I wish to focus upon now.19 Mezentius, who is justifiably classified by Cairns as the worst king in the Aeneid,20 displays the most sinister pleasure when he exacts vengeance. After he has mortally wounded Orodes, and after his companions have sung the joyful paean (laetum paeana, 0.738), Orodes warns Mezentius that he will not long rejoice (nec longum laetabere, 740). Mezentius’ wrath is accompanied by a smile as he dispatches Orodes (742–744): ad quem subridens mixta Mezentius ira: / ‘‘nunc morere. ast de me divum pater atque hominum rex / viderit’’ (‘‘Smiling at him amid his wrath, Mezentius said, ‘Now die; but let the father of the gods and the king of men see to me!’ ’’).21 So the worst king in the Aeneid is characterized here by gratuitous pleasure in his anger. Turnus is also marked by a pleasure that combines with violence and anger in ways characteristic of the fool in Philodemus’ On Anger. His triumph over Pallas is a prime example of this (0.500–502): quo nunc Turnus ovat spolio gaudetque potitus. / nescia mens hominum fati sortisque futurae / et servare modum rebus sublata secundis! (‘‘This was the spoil in which Tur 5

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nus now exulted and he gloried in the taking of it. The mind of man has no knowledge of what Fate holds in store, and observes no limit when fortune raises him up’’ [trans. D. West 990]). Turnus’ error here is similar to Odysseus’. His violent pleasure and his failure to keep to reasonable limits, servare modum, blinds him to the fact that by putting on the belt he is, just precisely, sinking himself along with his own victim Pallas— as if Vergil were versifying Philodemus’ theory almost literally, that such pleasure inevitably leads to harm.22 The much-discussed lion simile at the beginning of Book 2 is also important in this regard. There we find Turnus seething with violent rage as he beholds the setback of the Latins. In this state he is compared to a lion (3–9): ultro implacabilis ardet attollitque animos. poenorum qualis in arvis saucius ille gravi venantum vulnere pectus tum demum mouet arma leo, gaudetque comantis excutiens cervice toros fixumque latronis impavidus frangit telum et fremit ore cruento: haud secus accenso gliscit violentia Turno. He burned with implacable rage and his courage rose within him. Just as a lion in the fields round Carthage, who does not move into battle till he has received a great wound in the chest from the hunters, and then revels in it, shaking out the thick mane on his neck; fearlessly he snaps off the shaft left in his body by the ruffian who threw it, and opens his gory jaws to roar—just so did the violent passion rise in Turnus. trans. d. west 990

Remarkably, this simile, which describes the burning rage of Turnus, says nothing of an angry lion, whereas the two Iliadic similes that serve as the primary models for Vergil in this passage (5.36–42, 20.64–74) compare angered warriors, Diomedes and Achilles, to angered lions. Critics have drawn attention to the fact that while the lion to which Achilles is compared is wounded, Achilles himself is not, and so the wound has a more direct application to Turnus, who has suffered a defeat and must come through on his promises.23 Vergil has made another alteration to his Homeric models that is surely more extraordinary. The lion to which raging Turnus is likened, though deeply wounded (saucius), is rejoicing ( gaudet). This is a strange way to depict someone who is enraged at suffering a grave setback. Vergil borrows the rejoicing lion from either Iliad 3.23–28 6

Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of the Aeneid

or 2.4–48, neither of which describes an angered warrior. These passages describe warriors optimistic in moments of success, although in each one of these rejoicing-lion similes, the lion (not the warrior) is struggling. The rejoicing of these lions shows that they are undaunted, and this is part of what Vergil must want to illustrate in Turnus, who is impavidus (8). But, by using a rejoicing lion to describe Turnus’ rage, Vergil shows that Turnus is given to pleasurable anger, which, as Philodemus would have it, always blinds one to better judgment and inevitably results in harm to oneself and one’s own.24 And so we can anticipate what immediately follows upon the description of Turnus’ pleasurable anger. He scorns King Latinus’ reasonable and moderating advice, which does not assuage his fury in the least: haudquaquam dictis violentia Turni / flectitur; exsuperat magis aegrescitque medendo (‘‘These words had no effect on Turnus. The violence of his fury mounted. The healing only heightened the fever,’’ 45– 46, trans. D. West 990). With medendo the poet calls to mind the perspective of Hellenistic philosophy that treating the passions is analogous to treating the body.25 We are to understand Latinus’ speech to Turnus as a failed attempt to cure him of his rage. Why does it only succeed in further aggravating Turnus’ violentia? His young age is certainly a factor in his emotional makeup, for, as David Armstrong has noted, ‘‘stable emotions are not expected by ancient ethicians of the young.’’ 26 Or one could simply say that Turnus must have a bad constitution and consequently incurably bad anger,27 for he is incited to rage by a goddess, and the manner in which a deity relates to a mortal was often seen in ancient Homeric criticism as an indication of the character of the individual.28 Allecto does not try to enrage Aeneas.29 But if Turnus has a disposition to unnatural anger, why is it that he first refuses Allecto rather than capitulating immediately (7.435–444)? 30 On the other hand, in Amata we find someone truly disposed to rage, for whereas Allecto first tries to tempt Turnus and fails, she simply thrusts a snake immediately into the breast of Amata (347–348). Turnus’ disposition may play something of a role in explaining the nature of his response to Latinus’ speech, but it is not, I think, the decisive factor. Any Hellenistic philosopher who read Latinus’ speech, certainly Philodemus, would have given him failing marks as an anger therapist. He gives no examples of the perils of his anger, indeed, no reproach of his rage at all. Latinus rather pays Turnus a compliment for his turbulent emotions: feroci / virtute exsuperas (2.9–20)! 31 Equally ineffective is Amata’s speech (54–63), which mentions the potential harm to her, but does not correlate this harm with Turnus’ rage.What Turnus needed, Philodemus would say, was 7

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a kind of harsh philosophical therapy that ‘‘puts the consequent evils before one’s eyes’’ (τὰ παρακολουθοῦντα κακὰ τιθέναι πρὸ ὀμμάτων, On Anger col. i.2–24).32 The enraged person must vividly perceive the evils that accompany anger: And as for emotions in our soul that are consequent upon our own entertainment of false opinion—some (bad for us) in kind, some by their intensity—the chief cause of their dismissal lies in our perceiving their intensity and the mass of evils they contain and bring along with them. on anger col. vi.3–22

But nowhere does Turnus find a therapeutic reproach of his anger. The closest he comes to enjoying therapeutic parrēsia lies in the speech of Drances at .343–375. Drances even professes to offer parrēsia if Turnus will accept it, using the Latin translation of the term: det libertatem fandi (346). He tells Turnus to pity his own people and to set aside his passions ( pone animos, 365–367). But this parrēsia is a pretense, and much of his speech is calculated to provoke and shame Turnus, whom he hates, rather than to calm his emotions.33 In his treatise On Frank Speaking ( parrēsia), Philodemus warns of those who ‘‘further inflame’’ others (cf. exarsit, .377) when they correct them, not deeply caring for the person they are correcting (fr. 44). He also refers to those irritated at others speaking frankly, ‘‘because they are not speaking from their whole soul, but just trying to coin an impression that they are true lovers of frank speaking (φιλοπαρρησιάσται)’’ (col. xvib.–6).34 Erler and Galinsky treat in detail other aspects of Turnus’ anger that I need only mention briefly here. His anger is directly linked to the loss of his honor, as with Homer’s heroes.35 Vergil makes it plain that his battle rage harms not only his own allies but himself, a sure sign, according to Philodemus, of improper anger.36 In fact, the Homeric topos ‘‘such and such would have happened if this or that god had not intervened’’ is replaced by ‘‘the Trojans would have lost, were it not for the anger of Turnus.’’ 37 His lust for battle is characterized as insania.38 How does this compare with Aeneas? I begin my discussion with material primarily from the later part of the poem. For Aeneas, wars are horrida bella (6.86), and the thought of war with the Latins disturbs him (8.29). Unlike Homer’s heroes and unlike Turnus, he does not even seek glory on his own initiative, but must be spurred on to do so.39 It cannot be denied that Aeneas says and does many cruel and terrible things, especially immediately following the death of Pallas (0.50–605).40 He 8

Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of the Aeneid

sacrifices hostages to atone for the death of Pallas (0.55–520) and taunts the dead with words patterned after Achilles’ own cruel taunts (557–560, 599–600). He refuses suppliants (52–536, 595–60). He rages ‘‘like rushing water or a black tempest’’ (torrentis aquae vel turbinis atri / more furens, 603–604). Even here, though, the nature of his anger remains different from Turnus’ in not being detrimental to himself or to his own, and not connected with pleasure. There are moments in which Aeneas experiences brief pleasure in his struggles against Turnus and Mezentius, but, unlike them, this pleasure is clearly not an integral part of his anger, if indeed it is a part of his anger at all. Arguably it is not. At 2.09 Aeneas ‘‘stirs himself with wrath’’ (se suscitat ira), ‘‘rejoicing ( gaudens) that the war is settled by the compact offered,’’ where he clearly is not rejoicing in anger per se, but rather in the chance to bring the conflict to a close. At 2.700 he is ‘‘exultant with joy’’ (laetitia exultans) that he will face Turnus in a duel. Here also the joy Aeneas experiences, which is not connected with anger, arguably shows his responsibility and goodness, since he hoped for a single combat with Turnus in order to avoid damage to the Latins and Trojans en masse. He is momentarily laetus at drawing blood from Mezentius (0.787), a moment that should surely be granted to him in slaying a contemptor deorum.41 These instances hardly make him a man characterized by battle joy.42 What is remarkable is that Aeneas is not laetus more often in such instances.43 More compelling, however, is the fact that there is not a scene (nor even a simile) devoted to revealing pleasurable anger and retribution in Aeneas, as there is with both Mezentius and Turnus, as I have shown. In fact, we find just the opposite in his slaying of Lausus. The scene is explicitly intended by Vergil to contrast with Turnus’ slaying of Pallas,44 and in place of Turnus’ exultation and delight, Aeneas feels considerable empathy (0.823–824): ingemuit miserans graviter dextramque tetendit, / et mentem patriae subiit pietatis imago (‘‘He groaned deeply in pity, and there entered into his heart his own devotion for his father’’). Aeneas does not boast over the corpse, which would have been a standard Homeric element. He feels pity rather than pleasure. He consoles rather than taunts (825–830). Can we imagine Achilles or Turnus playing this role on the battlefield? It is true that there are special causes for Aeneas’ compassion toward Lausus, namely the devotion he showed in trying to save his father’s life. Nevertheless, these special circumstances do not take away from the fact that Aeneas’ pity is intended to contrast with Turnus’ pleasurable exultation over the dead Pallas. It reveals a capacity not to triumph, a quality that Turnus shows no sign of possessing. It also pre 9

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pares us for the end of the poem, to know that Aeneas will not indulge in pleasurable vengeance there either. It was not with pleasure that Aeneas watched the conflict begin, foreseeing the losses ahead even for the enemy: heu quantae miseris caedes Laurentibus instant! / quas poenas mihi, Turne, dabis! (‘‘Alas! What slaughter awaits the unhappy Laurentines! What a punishment you will suffer from me, Turnus!’’ 8.537–538). There is no indication that the conflict is concluded with different emotions. But there is one place, a critical one, where Aeneas intends to take revenge pleasurably, and that is in the scene where he contemplates killing Helen (2.567–587). iamque adeo super unus eram, cum limina Vestae servantem et tacitam secreta in sede latentem Tyndarida aspicio; dant claram incendia lucem erranti passimque oculos per cuncta ferenti. illa sibi infestos eversa ob Pergama Teucros et Danaum poenam et deserti coniugis iras praemetuens, Troiae et patriae communis Erinys, abdiderat sese atque aris invisa sedebat. exarsere ignes animo; subit ira cadentem ulcisci patriam et sceleratas sumere poenas. scilicet haec Spartam incolumis patriasque Mycenas aspiciet, partoque ibit regina triumpho? coniugiumque domumque patris natosque videbit Iliadum turba et Phrygiis comitata ministris? occiderit ferro Priamus? Troia arserit igni? Dardanium totiens sudarit sanguine litus? non ita. namque etsi nullum memorabile nomen feminea in poena est, habet haec victoria laudem; exstinxisse nefas tamen et sumpsisse merentis laudabor poenas, animumque explesse iuvabit ultricis flamae 45 et cineres satiasse meorum.

570

575

580

585

Now that I was alone, I caught sight of Helen keeping watch on the doors of the temple of Vesta where she was staying quietly in hiding. The fires gave a bright light and I was gazing all around me wherever I went. This Helen, this Fury sent to be the scourge both of Troy and of her native Greece, was afraid of the Trojans, who hated her for the overthrow of their city. She was afraid the Greeks would punish her and afraid of the wrath of the husband she had deserted, so, hated by all, she had gone into hiding and was sitting there at the altar. The passion 20

Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of the Aeneid

flared in my heart and I longed in my anger to avenge my country even as it fell and to exact the penalty for her crimes. ‘‘So this woman will live to set eyes on Sparta and her native Mycenae again, and walk as queen in the triumph she has won? Will she see her husband, her father’s home and her children and be attended by women of Troy and Phrygian slaves, while Priam lies dead by the sword, Troy has been put to the flames and the shores of the land of Dardanus have sweated so much blood? This will not be. Although there is no fame worth remembering to be won by punishing a woman and such a victory wins no praise, nevertheless I shall win praise for blotting out this evil and exacting a punishment which is richly deserved. I shall also take pleasure in feeding the flames of vengeance and appeasing the ashes of my people.’’ trans. d. west 990

Here is the centerpiece of my argument: if Aeneas’ anger is rightly interpreted as modeled after that in Philodemus’ treatise (and there is reason to believe that only in Philodemus’ school, even among the Epicureans, was any theory of anger like this taught),46 can this scene be anything but integral to the poem, instead of the falsification by an imitator that many scholars have thought it? 47 Aeneas could not be a more perfect example here of how the fool behaves in Philodemus’ treatise. It might be one thing to experience a flash of pleasure from success in the heat of battle, but quite another to plan to engage in retaliation for the pleasure it will bring. Again, compare On Anger col. xlii.20–29: And desiring punishment as if it were an enjoyable thing, which is entailed by great anger, is the folly of those who think it a great good, and who turn to it as to a thing in itself worthy of pursuing, and who believe they cannot chastise others in any other way.

This precisely describes Aeneas here. Killing Helen will indeed be an enjoyable thing, and, in his mind, worthy in itself of pursuing. He is not in control of himself, as he himself notes ( furiata mente ferebar, ‘‘I was transported with my mind enraged,’’ 588). His mother interrupts his fog of confused anger and brings clarity, pura luce, to his mind (595–599): nate, quis indomitas tantus dolor excitat iras? quid furis? aut quonam nostri tibi cura recessit? non prius aspicies ubi fessum aetate parentem liqueris Anchisen, superet coniunxne Creusa Ascaniusque puer? 2

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My son, what resentment so stirs such indomitable rage? Why are you raging? Or at least where has your care for the rest of us gone? Will you not first see where you left your father, Anchises, worn out with age, and whether your wife Creusa and the boy Ascanius survive?

Venus rebukes Aeneas for his anger, showing him that it runs counter to the best interest of both himself and those whom he loves. What about his father, his wife, and his son? This part of her response almost versifies Philodemus’ treatise (col. xv.5–9): ‘‘Such ecstasy this passion creates that it makes the angry man throw away the very things he most dreadfully desired.’’ In Aeneas’ case, the things he should most desire. Further, from col. xiv.7–29: And certainly this evil passion is yet more prodigal than erotic desire, and beginning from the smallest beginnings, makes one run one’s own ship aground to the uttermost. It inspires one to commit sacrilege, insulting the priests, and outraging suppliants, and sparing not even the divine things themselves and going mad over many things of such a kind.

‘‘Things of such a kind’’ would certainly include killing a daughter of Zeus in the temple of Hestia. While retaliation is justifiable for an Epicurean if it serves as a means for securing the safety of oneself or one’s own,48 Aeneas’ retribution might well have accomplished precisely the opposite. Aside from pleasure, the other motive that drives Aeneas to kill Helen is the glory he imagines he will receive (laudabor, 586). This may be the single place in the epic where Aeneas actually seeks glory of his own accord, perhaps yet another defect in him that must be corrected by his mother’s vivid therapeia. Aeneas wants pleasurable vengeance on an enemy who, like Odysseus’ enemy, is the offspring of an immortal. Like Odysseus, Aeneas has higher things to do, and his incorrect and unnatural anger threatens to interfere with his mission. Odysseus nearly lost his own life and his men because of the way he behaved with Polyphemus, and so could Aeneas. And reaching his destination with no companions, as Odysseus did, will not suffice for Aeneas. On Anger speaks more of the scope of the potential harm that incorrect anger holds (col. xxix.20–29): And there occur often many misfortunes both to friends and to other people who belong to us, sometimes also to fatherlands and to kingdoms, not only of old when that ‘‘wrath’’ ‘‘gave the Achaeans a myriad pangs’’ but every day, and nearly (as Democritus says) ‘‘as many evils as one 22

Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of the Aeneid

could conceive in wit’’ [B 43 D-K] all come about through excessive anger.

In fact, Aeneas’ attempt to kill Helen is the last of a series of foolish actions that he undertook the night Troy was falling. He candidly presents himself to Dido as having been so tightly in the grip of bad emotions that he could hardly think straight. The ghost of Hector entrusted him with the gods of Troy, inaugurating Aeneas’ kingly role, and instructed him to take them, flee the city, and found a new one elsewhere (2.289– 295). But, as Cairns notes, Aeneas does not at first understand his kingly role (989: 39). Hardly has Hector vanished when we find Aeneas instead motivated by ira and furor, immediately forgetting both his new city and the gods, and wishing to die in arms instead (36–37). He encounters Panthus, the priest of Apollo, who tells him that all is lost for Troy, which should have reminded him of Hector’s orders, but it does not.When comrades fall in with him, he urges them to rush into the midst of arms and die (353). Aeneas’ speech adds fury to their courage (355), and they set out like ravening wolves, whom the stomach’s rage (rabies ventris) has driven forth blindly. What seems to have been a clever plan in donning Greek armor achieves only mixed results, for, while enabling them to slay many Greeks, it adds further to the confusion and results in the death of many of their own (40–42, 429–430).When Aeneas witnesses the slaughter of Priam, he is at last reminded of his own father, and consequently of his wife and son (560–563). But yet again, he is immediately distracted, this time by the sight of Helen, and seems utterly to forget about them, deviating into an illusion of joyful inglorious vengeance that could wreck all these plans, take him away from the defense of his own family, and compromise his own survival and theirs. He is so frenzied that he is on the verge of committing a crime as great as the sacrilege he was just witnessing. In fact, the whole affair from the moment Aeneas wakes, with few exceptions, is clouded by confusion, much of which is directly linked to the fury of Aeneas and of those he is with. Aeneas seems intent to communicate that there is little or no ratio in armis (‘‘rational planning in warfare’’), not just because the situation was one to produce panic and chaos, but because he responded to events with blind rage. His anger is self-destructive, tainted with pleasure, and connected with the pursuit of glory. In other words, his rage is much like the rage of Turnus. Aeneas is reminded again of his kingly mission, this time by his mother, who corrects this particular moral defect of Aeneas’ before it is realized. The new king must be saved from defective ira here, just as he must be saved from amor in Book 4.49 23

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Aeneas will be subject to anger many times in the rest of the epic, but that anger will never again distract him from his vocation as it threatened to here, nor will he pursue vengeance again as something pleasurable in itself. Odysseus’ fit of anger resulted in his return to Ithaca being delayed for another ten years. Aeneas’ wanderings are not to be the result of a moral error; fate and destiny must be their cause. Aeneas presents himself to Dido as a brave warrior, but also as a man in the grip of emotions dangerous to himself and his family. Four times he is reminded to snap out of his rage and think on other things.50 What is it about this fourth warning that shakes him back to sanity? Quite obviously, his mother’s awesome presence is far more arresting than the other warnings and helps to bring clarity to his mind. E. L. Harrison suggested that it was the appeal to pietas toward his family that gave Venus success while Hector’s appeal failed.51 And yet Aeneas had been reminded of the same thing shortly before this at 560–563, but to little apparent effect. What I wish to emphasize is the nature of Venus’ rebuke. Only here in the Aeneid does someone intervene to check the improper anger of another in the manner of which a philosopher like Philodemus would approve, pointing out the improper anger and its perilous consequences to the enraged one.52 Part of the vividness of Venus’ rebuke lies in its sarcasm. ‘‘Will you not first see where you left your father’’ implies ‘‘before you do something else.’’ If the Helen Episode is genuine, the implication is something like, ‘‘Will you not first see to the safety of your family . . . before you kill a woman at an altar?’’ More importantly,Venus’ rebuke sets the potential harm of his anger vividly before his eyes. This therapeutic parrēsia draws Aeneas away from the very Turnus-like anger he has manifested in Book 2. Aeneas does not reply to his mother to make this encounter a true conversation because he does not need to. He understands perfectly well.53 It has been suggested, as I mentioned earlier, that the fact that Allecto incites Turnus to rage but not Aeneas indicates a difference in their dispositions. And yet after Aeneas hears the words of Panthus, he recalls his reaction: talibus Othryadae dictis et numine divum / in flammas et in arma feror (‘‘By the words of Panthus and the influence of the gods I am driven into fighting and into the flames,’’ 336–337).What numen divum is this by which Aeneas is driven to ignore the commands of Hector’s ghost and to engage in the same self-destructive behavior to which his rage drives him elsewhere in Book 2? In retrospect, Aeneas believed that some hostile divine will influenced his behavior, which would seem to provide yet one more similarity between his anger and the divinely inspired anger of Tur 24

Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of the Aeneid

nus.54 If so, the supposed difference between their dispositions may not be so great after all. What Aeneas gets that Turnus does not is the right kind of therapeia to cure his unnatural anger.55 I hope it is clear that I am not advocating some sort of full-blown scheme of character transformation in which Aeneas undergoes almost a kind of conversion.56 I am suggesting, however, that Aeneas learns from his mother’s rebuke and applies the wisdom he learned. I have proven, as I mentioned above, that Philodemus believed that the Telemachy was about the education of Telemachus. He also seems to have understood Odysseus to have undergone correction with regard to his treatment of an avenged enemy and says that was why Odysseus behaved differently when he avenged himself on the suitors. For those open to the possibility that Aeneas might undergo any sort of correction, it is in the Helen Episode that we find Aeneas at his low point.57 It is no wonder, then, that opponents of any change in Aeneas are eager to see the Helen Episode banished into the realm of the spurious.58 It is this question of authenticity to which I now turn. It is well known that the Helen Episode is problematic for several reasons, chief of which is the fact that it is not found in the best manuscripts that we possess of the Aeneid but comes from Servius, who says that though written by Vergil, it was excised by Varius and Tucca.59 Without the lines, there is a lacuna. The list of scholars who believe that the passage is not Vergilian is as long as those who believe it is.60 Defenders of authenticity claim that that passage shows clear signs of not having received Vergil’s final touch, and that Vergil himself probably indicated that the passage was provisional, one of what he is said (Donat. Vit.Verg. 24) to have called ‘‘props’’ (tibicines) left there ‘‘until the genuine columns arrived’’ (donec solidae columnae advenirent). For instance, there seem to be three different sketches for things to do with the word poena— sceleratas sumere poenas, feminea in poena, merentis . . . poenas—in only ten lines.61 The poet would have cleared up the contradiction between the Helen Episode and 6.509–529, where Helen is in Deiphobus’ house, and an interpolator, especially such a skilled one, would have avoided such a contradiction anyway. Opponents of authenticity insist that, in the mind of the interpolator, the passage was complete, but fault the style, meter, and vocabulary of the passage as reflective of a faker.62 On one hand it is not Vergilian enough;63 on the other it is too Vergilian.64 The interpolator is a ‘‘super-Virgil.’’ 65 Norden’s condemnation of the verses for their meter was shown to be methodologically unsound.66 Austin provided viable parallels for almost 25

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every supposed anomaly in the passage.67 Thomas Berres’ recent (992) monograph, the most thorough investigation of the passage to date, shows that the Helen Episode has more connections to the rest of the Aeneid than has been supposed. But the knife cuts both ways. Opponents will respond that the interpolator had an even more remarkable knowledge of the poem than was thought. A fresh approach to the question of authenticity was recently taken by Gian Biagio Conte, who noted that the Helen and Venus episodes, taken together, form a single narrative theme: vendetta followed by divine intervention. The same narrative structure, he shows, is found in Iliad .88– 20.68 Agamemnon outrages Achilles and awakens a longing for revenge in him. Grief comes upon Achilles, and he is divided as to whether he should draw his sword and kill Agamemnon or check his wrath. Then, ‘‘while he pondered this in his mind and heart, and was drawing his great sword from its sheath, Athena came from heaven’’ (ἧος ὃ ταῦθ’ ὥρμαινε κατὰ φρένα καὶ κατὰ θυμόν, | ἕλκετο δ’ ἐκ κολεοῖο μέγα ξίφος, ἦλθε δ’ Ἀθήνη | οὐρανόθεν, 93–95). Aeneas, like Achilles, is also undecided between two courses of action. ‘‘I was tossing about such thoughts, and was transported with my mind enraged when . . . Venus came before me’’ (2.588–590). Talia iactabam in the Helen passage, as Conte notes, is a perfect rendering of ταῦθ’ ὥρμαινε.69 More important, the structure is the same in both scenes. A hero’s fury is kindled, his rage seems to have won the upper hand of his indecision, but the goddess appears at just the right moment to moderate his rage (202). A similar pattern, unobserved by Conte, is narrated in Iliad 9.458–459, where Phoenix contemplates killing his father, who has called down curses upon him:70 τὸν μὲν ἐγὼ βούλευσα κατακτάμεν ὀξέϊ χαλκῷ | ἀλλά τις ἀθανάτων παῦσεν χόλον, ‘‘Then I took it into my mind to cut him down with the sharp bronze, but some one of the immortals checked my anger.’’ The textual history of those lines is similar to that of the Helen Episode. They also are not found in the manuscripts, papyri, or scholia of the Iliad but rather only in Plutarch, who tells us that Aristarchus excised them because he was shocked or frightened by them (Mor. 26f ). So the thought of Phoenix killing his father offended some ancient readers, just as did Aeneas’ contemplating the murder of Helen—though in both cases, as with Achilles and Agamemnon, an immortal intervened and the murder did not happen. Did interpolators in antiquity insert verses about people wanting to kill someone they should not (e.g., a philos or a woman) but then being restrained by a god, or did critics offended by such passages remove them from texts, or both? The Homeric vulgate in Vergil’s day may well have included the 26

Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of the Aeneid

lines.71 In any case, we see that the Helen Episode and the consequent encounter with Venus combine to form an epic narrative structure.72 The end of the Odyssey presents a similar pattern, where Odysseus is stopped by Zeus from killing the fathers of the suitors and rebuked further by Athena.73 How strange if Vergil had only composed half of the structure, the intervention of the god to check the hero! The first half of the structure could stand alone, the hero contemplating slaying someone without the intervention of a god, as with Odysseus contemplating slaying the suitors at Od. 20.–8 and then restraining himself,74 but the second half cannot stand without the first. To this basic narrative structure, which he borrowed from Homeric epic, Vergil adds dramatic elements. The Helen Episode, as was seen long ago, borrows from a scene in Euripides’ Orestes, where Orestes and Pylades contemplate killing Helen (32–45).75 If we drew the sword upon a woman of greater chastity, the murder would be infamous; but, as it is, she will be punished for the sake of all Hellas, whose fathers she slew, whose children she destroyed, and made widows out of brides. There will be shouts of joy, and they will kindle the altars of the gods, invoking on our heads many blessings, because we shed a wicked woman’s blood. After killing her, you will not be called ‘‘the matricide,’’ but, resigning that title, you will succeed to a better, and be called the slayer of Helen the murderess. It can never, never be right that Menelaus should prosper, and your father, your sister and you should die, and your mother. trans. loeb

There, too, a god intervenes: Apollo, who cuts short their attempt to kill Helen. Vergil’s verbal borrowings are obvious. But notice the difference between the passages.Vergil has reworked the Orestes passage, focusing on the emotions of Aeneas, on the nature of his anger, and this is the kind of interest in the emotions that Vergil shows elsewhere in the Aeneid. Euripides seems quite uninterested in this here. The shout for triumph will come from others (ὀλολυγμὸς ἔσται, 37), not from Orestes himself. It is clear, on the other hand, that the pleasure of vengeance will be Aeneas’ (586– 587). He has worked himself up to such a pitch of anger that he is not in control of himself, furiata mente ferebar (‘‘I was transported with my mind enraged,’’ 588). The passage has become a case study in anger, and as I have shown, it patterns itself remarkably after Philodemus’ treatise. It is already formidable for those who deny that the episode is authen 27

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tic to have to imagine an interpolator so intimately intertexting with all these subtle epic and tragic Greek texts. But now to add to this that the supposed interpolator was able to so perfectly pattern the passage after the principles of Vergil’s teacher in his treatise On Anger makes the speculation of an interpolator even less probable. If Vergil did not write these lines, how could something that so fits Philodemus’ doctrine have gotten there? How could it be that the passage chimes in so perfectly with the idea that the vengeance pursued for pleasure always leads to unworthy objects and damages one’s true interests, so that Venus has to purify his mind with the pura luce, the clear light, of duty to family and the awful truth of Troy’s fate? If it is true that the emotions figure so importantly in the Aeneid (and who could dispute that?), and also true that Aeneas progressively becomes more like a good king (a controversial but viable position), then what more effective scene could Vergil have written to show his hero faltering in the first stages of his kingship? Aeneas contemplates committing a grave moral error far beneath him, but is saved from the error by being lent the clear vision of his goddess mother. If Vergil himself did not leave indications that the scene was provisional and therefore omitted from Varius’ edition,76 then it could have been eliminated later (though not much later) from part of the tradition from which our manuscripts descended. The reason it would have been excised is clear. Anyone who has the viewpoint that Aeneas represents the ideal Augustan hero, but who doesn’t see Aeneas as a hero who undergoes correction, will have thought him in these lines beneath the dignity of Augustus’ ancestor and prototype, and will have been scandalized by them, as Heinze was: I am convinced that Virgil could never have allowed his pious hero to think even for a fleeting moment of killing a defenseless woman (it is not as if she were Camilla, exulting in battle), above all when it is a woman who has sought protection at the altar. How could such an idea be consistent with the deep revulsion with which he has just narrated the violation of the sanctity of an altar? And this time it is at the altar of Vesta, that is, of the very goddess who had been entrusted to Aeneas’ protection together with the Penates.77

Varius and Tucca, students of Philodemus, would have been the last to be scandalized by the lines, but Goold has given many convincing proofs that Servius frequently invokes the name of Varius and Tucca without authority,78 so they need not have been the culprits.We are told in the Donatus Life (Vit.Verg. 33) that Vergil held private readings of his poetry to find 28

Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of the Aeneid

others’ opinions on passages he was unsure about. Perhaps he was thought too daring in representing Aeneas, even at the beginning of his kingly career, so nearly befooled by his own anger before the sight of Helen, like Odysseus taunting the Cyclops. In any case, the lines were there to read in Lucan’s day.79 If Philodemus believed that Odysseus, in payment for the cheap pleasure of his anger in gloating over Polyphemus, was corrected by the opposition of Poseidon and all the troubles that proceeded from that, then he believed that anger was of central importance not only to the Iliad (clearly the case) but also to the Odyssey. The damaging consequences of Achilles’ anger are spelled out clearly in the prologue of the Iliad and at 8.08– , where Achilles says that anger (χόλος) is far sweeter than honey. The anger of Odysseus is not usually given such interpretative importance, although Philodemus seems to have thought it should be. If Vergil shared this view, then the Helen Episode is all the more important, for it is there that Aeneas is confronted by his mother for behaving like his Homeric forebears in indulging in the pleasure of anger. It is as though she tells him that he is not to be like Achilles and Odysseus, whose anger and pursuit of glory brought such harm both to themselves and to their companions. He must leave such things behind in order to go on to accomplish what they did not. In the Iliad passage that served as a model for Vergil, it was Athena who intervened. In the Orestes passage, it was Apollo. Both are gods of wisdom and restraint. In the Phoenix passage, it was ‘‘one of the immortals,’’ certainly a god of prudence. It may be significant that this task of intervention was transferred to Venus. It was not Thetis, Achilles’ goddess mother, who stepped in to check the rage of Achilles. But in the Aeneid, Venus steps in for these gods of wisdom and restraint, Venus, the hero of Lucretius’ poem. I have argued that the Helen Episode and Venus’ rebuke, taken together, reflect Philodemus’ depiction of the fool’s anger and how a wise teacher chastises such anger, and that such correspondence must result from the intentions of Vergil rather than of an interpolator. Venus’ therapy works, and whatever imperfections remain in Aeneas, the nature of his anger is not the same after his encounter. It seems strange for a god in the poem to take on the role of an Epicurean sage, when it is the gods themselves in the Aeneid who often stand more in need of philosophical therapy than the human characters. But here an Epicurean Venus has stepped in to become the great directress of the future of Rome and of the ancestor of Vergil’s patron Augustus.80

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notes . Gigante and Capasso 989: 3–6. A fine summary of the evidence for Philodemus’ relationship with Vergil and other Augustan poets may be found in Sider 997: 2–24. 2. Galinsky 988. Galinsky 994 makes further comparisons between On Anger and the Aeneid. 3. Erler 992b. Harris (200: 27–28 n. 6) too hastily suggests that Erler argues for an Epicurean Vergil, when in fact Erler makes his opinion clear that ‘‘Epicurean elements in the Aeneid do not yet make the epic into an Epicurean poem, nor the author into an Epicurean’’ (25). 4. The most recent edition of On the Good King (P.Herc. 507) is Dorandi 982. Asmis 99 contains an English translation of Dorandi’s text, along with insightful commentary and discussion of Epicurean poetic theory. Oswyn Murray’s groundbreaking article (965) is still very useful. 5. The fragments I have transposed to this column are located on columns xxxiv and xxxv. The principle behind moving the fragments is explained in Nardelli 973. The use of a digital measuring device enabled me to transpose many more fragments than I would have been able to otherwise. These new readings build upon the improvements made by Dorandi (982) over the text of Olivieri (909). 6. Murray 965: 77. 7. Nothing survives in the papyrus for καί in line 8, and the pencil drawing made of the papyrus shortly after it was unrolled in 808 reads χη. I owe the suggestion καί to David Armstrong. Errors of this kind are fairly frequent in the disegni. Olivieri’s supplement ἐν Ἰ | [θά]κη[ι only requires correcting one letter of the disegno, but one has difficulty imagining what monarchy or a monarch (or monarchs) in Ithaca has to do with what seems to precede or follow. I also owe δέ in line 8 to Armstrong. All other supplements not found in Dorandi’s text are mine. 8. φρενόω ‘‘to chastise’’ or ‘‘to correct’’ is primarily found in tragedy, occurring in all three tragedians, but it is also a prose word, used twice by Xenophon (Mem. 4..5, 2.6.) and once elsewhere by Philodemus in P.Herc. 47 On Frank Speaking (παρρησία), col. xiib.4–5, though perhaps in a quotation. 9. E.g., ‘‘the father of the last Nikomedes’’ (col. xxii.34–35). In col. xxxvii.–5, Demetrius Poliorcetes is compared to Paris. 0. Murray 965: 7; Dorandi 982: 92–93. . Asmis 99: 43. 2. One could wish, however, to know how Philodemus interpreted the end of the Odyssey. When Odysseus and his men would have killed all the fathers of the slain suitors, Athena intercedes and tells them to stop the fighting in order to settle things without bloodshed (24.527–532). Fear falls upon them, but Odysseus disobeys the goddess and rushes ahead, at which point Zeus intervenes with 30

Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of the Aeneid a threatening thunderbolt and Athena rebukes Odysseus (533–544). Did Philodemus consider that a momentary relapse on Odysseus’ part? At least he is happy to obey the goddess’ final admonition (545). If perhaps Philodemus held the view that 23.296 was the real end of the Odyssey, he nevertheless felt free to quote from that portion of the Odyssey a few times in his works (for the citations, see Dorandi 978). 3. For the text of this reconstruction and its importance, see Fish 999. A somewhat improved text of the column can be found in Fish 2002: 92–93. Previously the idea could only be attributed to Porphyry (at schol. Od. .93, 284). It probably goes back much earlier than Philodemus. 4. See Procopé 993 for an in-depth analysis of the treatise. For a general account of the emotions in all the Hellenistic philosophical schools, see Sorabji 2000. Harris 200 offers a useful survey of ancient attitudes toward anger. 5. Philodemus accuses certain Peripatetics of claiming that avenging one’s enemies was a thing ‘‘becoming and just and profitable both in private and in public and beside that pleasurable’’ (col. xxxii.26–29). Aristotle himself said that pleasure is a concomitant of anger since the thoughts of an angry person focus on vengeance, which is pleasurable to think about (Rh. 378b). 6. I am very grateful to David Armstrong for allowing me to use his forthcoming translation of Indelli’s text of On Anger. Due to constraints of space, I have not been able to include Indelli’s text. 7. On the Good King col. xxviii.23–26; On Anger col. xliv.2–24. 8. This is similar to how Aristotle probably would have evaluated his behavior, judging from his definition of hybris at Rh. 378b: ἔστι γὰρ ὕβρις τὸ πράττειν καὶ λέγειν ἐφ’ οἷς αἰσχύνη ἔστι τῷ πάσχοντι, μὴ ἵνα τι γίγνηται αὑτῷ ἄλλο ἢ ὅ τι ἐγένετο, ἀλλ’ ὅπως ἡσθῇ (‘‘Hybris consists in doing or saying things by which the sufferer is disgraced, not in order that anything may happen to oneself, or because anything has happened to oneself, but just to gain pleasure’’). Eustathius (ad loc.) seems close to Philodemus’ interpretation when he says, ‘‘As if someone had asked him [sc. Odysseus] why he was not convinced by his friends’ good advice, he says that it was ‘with angered thymos.’ ’’ But then he makes it clear that he approves of Odysseus’ anger by adding that ‘‘thymos’’ (which he misinterprets to mean anger) ‘‘against a person who violates hospitality is a virtuous feeling.’’ 9. Erler 992b: 5–7; Galinsky 994: 95, 98; cf. Procopé 993: 372, 376. 20. Cairns 989: 9. 2. All translations of the Aeneid are my own unless otherwise stated. 22. Cf. Armstrong 998. The anachronistically ‘‘philosophical’’ tone of the phrase servare modum rebus sublata secundis, sounding more like Horace’s Epistles than Vergil, is noteworthy. A very close parallel to the phrase, in fact, can be found near the beginning of col. xxxvi of On the Good King, where Hector is said not to know that he was just a human being ‘‘in favorable times’’ (ἐν εὐτυχίαις), as I show in a forthcoming publication. 3

jeffrey fish 23. So Otis 964: 373; Thomas 998: 288–289. This may (cf. Thomas 998: 289) contribute to Turnus’ ‘‘original innocence.’’ 24. It has been observed before that Book 2 opens with a raging Turnus and closes with a raging Aeneas (so Rieks 989: 84). Despite the parallelism, however, an important contrast must not be overlooked. Turnus’ rage is pleasurable; whatever else may be said of Aeneas’, it is not a pleasure to him, and he would as soon not have felt it. 25. Rieks 989: 27; on therapeutic philosophy, see Nussbaum 986. 26. Armstrong 998. 27. Whether one has the correct kind of anger, says Philodemus, depends partly on one’s διάθεσις (cf. cols. xxvii.22, xxxiv.20, xxxvii.30, xxxviii.2, and passim), which Erler (992b: 8), followed by Schmit-Neuerburg (999: 96), takes to mean essentially whether one is a good or a bad person. To this Procopé (993) comments that ‘‘διάθεσις here is an intellectual factor, a tendency, much of it acquired, to see and respond to things in a certain manner’’ (375). On Frank Speaking speaks of those who become (not are) ‘‘incapable of being cured by parrēsia’’ (fr. lix.0–). According to the Epicurean theory, the soul is composed of four elements, and the variation in proportion of these elements determines both one’s mood and one’s temperament (so Lucretius De rerum natura 3.258–306). So one’s disposition does play a role, but Lucretius ‘‘takes pains to stress that while there are ineradicable original traces (vestigia prima) of particular natures left in the soul after Epicurean instruction, they are so small that nothing prevents us from leading a life worthy of the gods’’ (D. Fowler 997: 20). 28. E.g., [Plut.] Vit. Hom. 7 observes that Athena comes once to Achilles but is constantly with Odysseus. See Hillgruber 999: 258, for extensive citations. 29. Erler 992b: 0. 30. Cf. Cairns 989: 69. 3. ‘‘The phrase implies an aggressive courage and anger that are to be commended’’ (Wright 997: 70 n. 3). 32. Cf. Schroeder in this volume. 33. Cf. Williams 972–973, vol. 2, on .366; Highet 972: 58. 34. Cf. also fr. 82 (on not rebuking in the presence of others); fr. 60; col. ib. 35. Erler 992b: 08. E.g., 0.68: ob tantum dedecus amens (‘‘mad on account of such a great dishonor’’). 36. Erler 992b: 09. A fine example of this is 9.756–76, where Turnus could have opened the Trojan gates and let in his army, but furor and ‘‘insane desire for slaughter’’ (caedisque insana cupido, 760) drove him to the front lines. 37. Knauer 964: 278 n. , cited by Erler 992b: 09. 38. mixtoque insania luctu, 2.667; the same phrase is used of Mezentius at 0.87, never of Aeneas, as Rieks (989: 30–3) observes. 39. Erler 992b: , who points out that Jupiter claims at 4.232 that the gloria rerum does not inflame Aeneas. In Book 6, the love of fame has to be enkindled in him by his father (756–776, 806, 889). Contrast Turnus at .442–445. Philode 32

Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of the Aeneid mus refers to the self-harm that comes to the lover of power and the lover of glory (φίλαρχον ἢ φιλόδοξο[ν]) at On Anger col. xv.3–32, although elsewhere he may have had an approach more accommodating to the Roman nobility, since in On Flattery he says that the pursuit of glory could be done ‘‘according to nature,’’ but only if done ‘‘for the sake of safety,’’ ἡ δόξα τοίνυν χάριν ἀσφαλείας ἐδιώχθη κατὰ φύσιν (P.Herc. 222 col. iv.4–6 Gargiulo). See further Procopé 993: 378; Erler 992a: 96. 40. Emphasized by Thomas 998: 273; Thomas 992b: 39–40. 4. Since Mezentius is modeled upon Polyphemus (Glenn 97; S. J. Harrison 99: 858–866n) it may be significant that Aeneas kills him at the end of Book 0 with no gloating or taunting, quite unlike Odysseus’ taunting of Polyphemus. Aeneas prays joyfully to Apollo (laetusque precatur, 874) when he hears Turnus’ summons to battle, which I think says more about his piety (the phrase is also used at 6.93) than any battle joy. 42. And so I cannot help but think that to say that Aeneas ‘‘has flashes of Homeric χάρμη’’ or ‘‘drinks delight of battle with his peers’’ (Horsfall 995a: 200) is overstating it, though his point that Vergil wishes to present a ‘‘militarily credible hero’’ is well taken. 43. And it cannot be said that this is because Aeneas is simply not a happy person. It is true that he is not. He is filled with cares from the beginning to the end. But there are many points along the way where he is happy, if only momentarily. A few are 3.78; 5.283, 826–827; 6.383; 7.36, 288; 8.3, 67, 730. 44. For details of the connections between this scene and Turnus’ slaying of Pallas, see S. J. Harrison 99: 49–500n. 45. The text here is probably corrupt (see Berres 992: 8–0; Renehan 973; Austin 96: 92–94). Flamae is a very late reading, but in fact establishing the text here is unimportant for my argument. Killing Helen will fill Aeneas with pleasure regardless of how the text is established. Murgia (97: 209) shows that Austin (96: 93) is incorrect to suppose that animum explere must mean ‘‘to satisfy the feelings’’ rather than ‘‘to fill the mind.’’ Murgia (209) notes that Aeneas’ words animumque explesse . . . satiasse (585–586) allude to Lucretius 3.03–04: deinde animi ingratam naturam pascere semper / atque explere bonis rebus satiareque numquam. These lines in Lucretius are part of an Epicurean rebuke. This is a fine touch, given the nature of Venus’ rebuke, which is about to follow, as I shall explain below. The Helen Episode appears to borrow at least six times from Lucr. 3.004–028, where the punishments of the underworld are shown to be allegories for this life (Goold 970: 46–47). 46. Much of Philodemus’ treatise is taken up by polemic against Epicureans who did not share his views concerning the nature of anger and its proper treatment (see Procopé 993: 378–386). It is possible that Philodemus inherited these views from his teacher Zeno. His and Zeno’s view that rhetoric is an art was similarly controverted by other Epicureans. 47. I discuss the issue of authenticity below. Treatments of the Helen Episode 33

jeffrey fish do not explore in any depth the nature of Aeneas’ anger, and the studies of the anger of Aeneas do not consider the Helen Episode except in the most cursory way. Rieks (989: 80) claims that the fact that the Helen Episode has the element of anger in it supports its authenticity, and goes on to say that ‘‘wir müssen erneut feststellen, daß ein Interpolator kaum diese Lücke so geschickt geschlossen und die von ihm beschriebene Zornaffektion des Aeneas so wirkungsvoll als Kontrastsparallele zur Schlußszene der Dichtung entworfen haben könnte’’ (80 n. 9). 48. Procopé 993: 376. 49. Cf. Cairns 989: ch. 2. 50. Cf. Putnam 98: 46–50. 5. Harrison 970: 324–325. 52. A parallel is Jupiter’s rather mild scolding of Juno near the end of the poem: irarum tantos volvis sub pectore fluctus. / verum age et inceptum frustra summitte furorem (‘‘Such waves of anger you set rolling in your heart. But come now, lay aside this fury conceived in vain,’’ 2.83–832). However, he says nothing of the damage of anger (e.g., in making her unhappy). Juno does not give up all of her grudges (see Feeney 984), and her relenting some of her anger seems more the result of Jupiter’s conciliatory offer to her rather than his rebuke. On these lines, cf. M. Wigodsky’s contribution in this volume. 53. Feeney (983: 20), speaking of Aeneas’ communication with his mother in general, observes a ‘‘frustration of speech,’’ but I think this scene is an exception. In fact, convincing as Feeney’s demonstration is overall that in the Aeneid speech-acts in general, unlike those in Homer, do not lead to effective communication, he seems to have left this scene entirely out of consideration: see his note 65, where he mentions Aeneas’ encounters with Venus in Book  and Book 8 but speaks as if this scene, an exceptionally effective communication from mother to son, does not exist. 54. Conington and Nettleship (88–884, :336n) and R. D. Williams (97– 972, : ad loc.) connect numine divum with talibus dictis, as though Panthus’ words declare the will of heaven, but Austin (964) rightly notes that they have not done so (336n). He suggests that numine divum is ‘‘a protest,’’ but ‘‘certainly not an admission by Aeneas that he was ‘inspired’ by the gods,’’ as Bailey (935: 68) suggests. If numine is instrumental, as Austin says, it seems to me arguable that Aeneas either was influenced by some divine power or thought that he had been, and is not making a mere protest that he believes to be empty. 55. One could argue in opposition that the very fact that Aeneas undergoes such a therapeutic rebuke from a deity, whereas Turnus is only incited to anger by a deity, is merely an indication that they have differing dispositions, Aeneas possessing the capacity to check his anger that Turnus does not. S. J. Harrison suggests that a ‘‘crucial difference’’ between Aeneas and Turnus is that Aeneas is able to snap out of battle rage and turn to ‘‘more civilized thoughts of sympathy, pity, and regret’’ (99: 267). Aeneas displays this quality, he argues, in the case of Lausus (0.82–829) and also at 2.560, where the death of Priam reminds Aeneas 34

Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of the Aeneid of his responsibilities toward his family. There is merit to this, but rather than incorporate the Helen Episode and Venus’ rebuke into this scheme as another instance of such a quality in Aeneas, I would say instead that the rebuke was for him a watershed event that changed the nature of his anger. 56. Such as Otis (964) formulates, for instance (cf. 308 and passim). But resistance to any change in Aeneas over the poem can be equally excessive, such as the insistence of Kraggerud (968: 23) that ‘‘der Charakter des kämpfenden Aeneas ist in Troja und in Latium derselbe.’’ He cautions those who would wish to blame Aeneas for his anger in Book 2 that Aeneas is also characterized by furor in the last books of the poem (22). Galinsky warns that ‘‘defining Vergil’s poetry mostly by connecting verbal repetitions falls down because it tends to ignore shifting aspects of the same phenomenon. In plain English, each instance of furor is not the same, nor should we insist on the poet’s having to use protreptic epithets like iustus to designate such shifts’’ (994: 94). Erler (992b: 4) views the character of Aeneas’ anger (and other aspects of his character) as constant and not mixed with the desire for vengeance. Presumably he left the Helen Episode out of consideration on account of its disputed authenticity. If the rest of col. xxxvi of On the Good King had been available to him, perhaps he would have been more amenable to the thought of Aeneas undergoing moral correction. Erler rules out the possibility that Aeneas takes a step with regard to his anger partly on the basis of his interpretation of the term διάθεσις in On Anger, on which see above, note 27. 57. I note with pleasure that E. L. Harrison (970) read the Venus Episode as transforming for Aeneas: ‘‘The Venus passage marks the beginning of Aeneas’ progress towards a new kind of heroism. Up to now in the action at Troy he has been at the mercy of a series of impulses—an irrational turmoil of anger, courage, grief, recklessness, and sheer frenzy’’ (324). Cf. Otis 964: 243–244. 58. E.g., Kraggerud 968: 2. 59. Both Servius and Servius Danielis (Servius auctus) contain the lines, though in different places. Servius has them in the life of Vergil that precedes his commentary, Servius Danielis at Aen. 2.566, where he says that the lines were removed by Varius and Tucca. Servius (at 2.592) gives two reasons for the excision: because it is shameful for a brave man to get angry with a woman, and because of contradiction with 6.494–534, where Helen is found in the house of Deiphobus. Full bibliography may be found in Berres 992: 24–243, to which may now be added Gall 993; Geymonat 995; Egan 996; Horsfall 995a, 995b; Matthiessen 997; Zwierlein 999; Erbse 200. 60. A nice sketch of early evaluations of the passage is found in Austin 96: 86–87. Goold’s claim in the revised Loeb (999: ad loc.) that the lines ‘‘are now pronounced spurious by the most recent critics’’ is inaccurate. Most of the recent treatments have supported their authenticity. 6. There are other repeated expressions, as well as inconsistencies (see Austin 96: 94). 35

jeffrey fish 62. After speculating about Golden Sections in the Aeneid (48–54) and claiming that the interpolator of the Helen Episode has attempted one, Goold (970) proclaims, ‘‘From the preceding discussions we have gained an important clue. The Helen Episode is a finished product. Whoever composed it meant it to stand as it is. It is a fair copy, as good as its maker could achieve’’ (54). But the Helen Episode does not make a Golden Section, as Berres (992: 4) demonstrates. 63. An example of the excess sometimes involved is condemning aspicio in 569 since it does not occur elsewhere in the Aeneid (Goold 970: 55), after Austin (96: 88) had already noted an adequate parallel in Ecl. 7.8. 64. Goold 970: 45–46. 65. Murgia 97: 26. 66. Norden 96; Shipley 925; Johnson 927; for the most extensive treatment, see Berres 992: 29–35. Austin notes, however, that the sections Shipley and Johnson used in their analyses were not Vergilian paragraphs (96: 87 n. 5). 67. Austin 96: 88–92. 68. Conte 986: 20–202. Heyne (830–84) at 388–593 had noted that Venus’ restraining Aeneas is paralleled by Athena’s restraining Achilles at Iliad .93–20; but apparently he failed to notice (as did all who followed him, including Knauer 964) that the Helen Episode is paralleled by what immediately precedes in Iliad .88–92, Achilles’ pondering whether or not to slay Agamemnon. Matthiessen (997: 295) takes over Conte’s observation as if it were common knowledge. 69. Conte 986: 202. 70. Matthiessen (997) seems to have been the first to note this. This passage does not mention Phoenix hesitating, as Aeneas and Achilles do, but nevertheless the basic structure is the same. While this chapter was in the hands of the anonymous reviewers, an article appeared by Hartmut Erbse (200), himself unaware of Matthiessen, which goes so far as to suggest that Aristarchus’ excision of Iliad 9.458–459 served as a precedent for Varius and Tucca in their excision of the Helen Episode; but this is very speculative. 7. The Homeric vulgate of Vergil’s day as reflected in quotations by authors of the day was much fuller than ours (see Haslam 996), and it is reasonable to suppose that his Homer contained those lines as well, even if the papyri of the passage we possess do not, as Apthorp 998 demonstrated. Philodemus’ Homer text (and Strabo’s) contained the plus-verse Od. 30a, which is not found in any of our mss., on which see Fish 200: 47. I would suggest that Vergil has this plus-verse in mind in Aen. 2.95–98. Vergil’s Homer text also lines up with an important variant in Strabo at Aen. 3.97–98 (see E. L. Harrison 98: 25 with n. 0; Hardie 998: 56). 72. Horsfall 995b, arguing only briefly against Conte’s thesis, questions whether the ‘‘Helen-episode and sequel really derive from a single Homeric passage’’ (62–63). As the Phoenix passage shows, if they do not, they probably 36

Anger, Philodemus’ Good King, and the Helen Episode of the Aeneid derive from a single narrative pattern, which may do more to support the authenticity of the passage than if it derived only from a single passage. Horsfall (995b: 63) and Knauer (964: 38; s.v. Book 2.589–62) point to Iliad .357ff., which I think Vergil (or the supposed forger) cannot have had in mind. In these lines, a weeping Achilles is comforted by his mother, not rebuked by her for intending to kill someone, as Aeneas is in the Venus passage. Thetis’ calming gesture (Iliad .36) does not strike me as a significant parallel to Venus’ restraining one. Horsfall would have it that Vergil had these verses in mind (Iliad .357ff.) and the forger, ‘‘whose Greek was excellent . . . ingeniously exploited the similarity of Il. .88ff. to integrate the Helen episode into its context’’ (995b: 63). 73. See my comments above, note 2. 74. A parallel observed by Henry 878: 378, certainly not enough in itself to authenticate the Helen Episode, as Heinze pointed out (993: 60 n. 72 [= 928: 45 n. 72]). 75. The seventeenth-century scholar Emmenessius first noted the parallel, as I learn from Heinze (993: 60 n. 75 [= 928: 48–49 n. 75]), who notes that the technique employed is ‘‘ganz die virgilische Imitationstechnik’’ (28 [= 928: 48– 49]). Heinze did not believe in the authenticity of the Helen episode, on which see 26–29 (= 928: 47–49). On Vergil’s use of Greek drama, see most recently Hardie 997b, 998: 62–63; Galinsky 200: 52–53; 2003. 76. As Büchner (955: 33–334) and others have argued. 77. Heinze 993: 27 (= 928: 46). Many ancient critics could have felt the same way, in other words, exactly as Aristarchus is said to have felt about Phoenix’s idea of killing his father. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Stahl claims that Aeneas’ intentions in the Helen Episode (if authentic) were intended to be viewed as essentially positive, part of a ‘‘community-oriented urge and obligation to serve country and justice’’ (98: 70).Venus represents private family concerns, he maintains. When Aeneas is shown that the gods are behind the fall of Troy and that resistance is futile, he is freed from communal responsibilities and can turn his attention to saving his family (7). Aeneas’ wrath in the scene ‘‘shows a capacity of passionate, holy wrath . . . , of being carried away at the sight of striking injustice—an appealing human feature Virgil would hardly wish to forgo when providing contemporary Romans with a portrait of their Emperor’s ancestor’’ (7). 78. Goold 970: 24–26, 32, and passim. For various theories on the complicated question of the relationship of Servius, Servius Danielis, and Donatus, see Brugnoli 988: 809–82. 79. Bruère (964) showed that Bellum civile 0.59 (dedecus Aegypti, Latii feralis Erinys) must allude to Aen. 2.573 (Troiae et patriae comunis Erinys). See also Berres 992: 65–69. Skeptics (cf. Goold 970: 66) can still respond, ‘‘We cannot be sure that Lucan’s echoes of the Helen Episode derive from a text of Virgil rather than from sources into which a study of the Aeneid had taken him.’’ Goold speculated that Lucan himself may be the interpolator (66–67), Zwierlein (999: 35–45) 37

jeffrey fish that an editor of the poem, perhaps Iulius Montanus, composed it around forty or fifty years after Vergil’s death, on which see Galinsky 2002. 80. A draft of this essay benefited especially from comments by David Armstrong, James O’Hara, and Karl Galinsky. I am grateful to the National Endowment for the Humanities for a fellowship that supported my research on Philodemus’ On the Good King According to Homer, and to the Baylor University Research Council.

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chapter 9

p h i l o d e m u s : Avocatio a n d t h e pat h o s o f d i s ta n c e i n lu c r e t i u s a n d v e r g i l frederic m. schroeder

Reason was certainly the tool of ancient, as it is of modern, philosophy. However, as Pierre Hadot has so elegantly argued, ancient philosophy included as well a pastoral element, a kind of spiritual direction and psychotherapy that was lost when philosophy was reduced in the Middle Ages to the rank of ancilla theologiae.1 When philosophy regained its independence in the Enlightenment, its pastoral dimension was never recovered. There are signs of a recovery of the psychotherapeutic character of philosophy in the contemporary world. Certainly the Epicureanism of the Roman period, and specifically Philodemus, offered spiritual direction. The Epicurean technique was a rhetorical avocatio, a system of training the imagination to avoid the seduction of passion and attain peace. Although our discussions are addressed to Epicureanism, I wish to begin by advancing a text from the Stoic Marcus Aurelius that manifests, not the divisio familiar from Stoicism, but an Epicurean avocatio. Marcus Aurelius was indeed capable of making a Stoic application of Epicureanism.2 An author who was much admired in an earlier age, he is too easily dismissed by the contemporary philosopher, who is unable to understand the graceful techniques of spiritual direction and rhetoric that Marcus employs. I choose this text because it serves as an excellent template for the features of avocatio that I intend to discuss in the present essay. The emperor Marcus Aurelius, perhaps musing on his own difficulties as emperor, recommends an exercise for those who are angry and upset by the evil of those who surround them (4.32): Think, let us say, of the times of Vespasian; and what do you see? Men and women busy marrying, bringing up children, sickening, dying, fighting, feasting, chaffering, farming, flattering, bragging, envying, scheming, calling down curses, grumbling at fate, loving, hoarding,

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coveting thrones and dignities. Of all that life, not a trace survives today.3

First we are engaged in the immediate preoccupations of our anger. Then follows a moment of detachment: we are asked to imagine the court of Vespasian with all of its wickedness and intrigues. Then we are invited to a second act of the imagination: all those who participated in such things are now dead. The second act of imagining destroys the image generated by the first. Now we are detached both from our anger and from its objects. The two acts, first of generating an image, and then of dismissing it, result in an affective displacement. First our emotion and attention receive a new focus in the court of Vespasian; then, when that image is obliterated by the reflection on mortality, we are delivered from passion and observe apatheia. What we see, however, is not only the court of Vespasian: we are presented with an image of the functioning of our own mind that the new image allows us to observe with detachment for the first time.4 In the De ira, Philodemus invites the patient suffering from anger to envision the countenance and bearing of an angry man. The angry man, he says, has the eyes ‘‘of madmen,’’ and sometimes his eyes flash, a characteristic that the best poets have treated as a symptom of madness, eyes that look askance at those with whom he is enraged; and particularly he has a blushing face: some have a bloodshot face, others have the neck tensed and the veins standing out and the saliva very bitter and distasteful, and in some such manner they are in distress (fr. 6 Indelli). Philodemus also bids the patient to reflect upon the rash behavior of the angry man: when a young slave says something or gets in the way, the angry man beats and kicks him (fr. 3 Indelli). Philodemus uses the phrase ‘‘to place before the eyes,’’ τίθεναι πρὸ ὀμμάτων or ἐν ὄψει, to describe this act of envisioning. Thus a fellow Epicurean who rejected this kind of envisioning (τίθεναι πρὸ ὀμμάτων) as silly and absurd is called silly and absurd himself (col. i.2.20–25 Indelli). The physician counsels the patient suffering from that disease to envision the pathological consequences of anger (τιθεὶς ἐν ὄψει, col. iii.3–4 Indelli; τιθέντα πρὸ ὀμμάτων, col. iv.6 Indelli).5 Philodemus then effects detachment by instructing his disciple to divert his attention from the immediate objects of his anger to the countenance and behavior of the angry man and to the consequences of anger, both behavioral and medical. The disciple in this way places a distance between himself and his passion. This distance is attained, in the first instance, through aversion (to the ugly sight of the face in the heat of anger), 40

Avocatio and the Pathos of Distance

and in the second, through fear (of the consequences of anger).We should notice the powerful use of visual imagery in Philodemus’ spiritual counseling. His act of envisioning something is ( pace Nussbaum 986) an original contribution to Epicurean therapy.6 Since Plato’s attack on the plastic arts in the Republic, philosophy had been ruled by logos. I would suggest that the act of envisioning in the avocatio of later Epicureanism restores the importance of the visual imagination in that marriage of reason and rhetoric that is effected by its pastoral concern. Philodemus’ De morte offers more and very telling examples of the use of avocatio and envisioning we are discussing. The De morte offers striking parallels with Lucretian avocatio. Kleve discusses fragments from a Latin text from the Herculaneum library that, he argues, are from Lucretius, and he remarks: ‘‘The discovery links Lucretius firmly with the school in Herculaneum. Theories building on the assumption that Lucretius had no contact with contemporary Epicureanism suffer a serious set-back.’’ 7 Before we discuss these and further parallels with Lucretius, we should first consider the recent views of Sedley, who argues that Lucretius, whom Sedley styles as an Epicurean fundamentalist, was not influenced by his contemporaries, including Philodemus.8 Sedley does make the concession: ‘‘It would not be surprising at all if Lucretius had links with it [Philodemus’ school], not only because he was himself an Epicurean, but also because in the next generation leading literary Romans like Vergil and his eventual executors Varus and Plotius Tucca were to maintain close contacts with it.’’ 9 Yet Sedley disagrees with Kleve’s conclusion because he does not think the presence of a book on a shelf constitutes evidence of influence, and because he wants the publication of Lucretius to be posthumous.10 Sedley argues that Lucretius the fundamentalist ignores contemporary Epicurean discussion of whether the mind is located in the heart or in the brain. Sedley remarks, however, ‘‘In every other respect he shows himself an acute observer of his own society, sensitive and subtle in argument and thoroughly versed in the literary traditions of both Italy and Greece, including Hellenistic as well as Greek poetry. Even Hellenistic intellectual trends, such as euhemeristic and other allegorical rationalizations of religion, have left their mark on him. It is only in his hard-core scientific and philosophical beliefs that his fundamentalism shows itself [italics mine].’’ 11 My argument is that the dependence of Lucretius on Philodemus is found, not in his scientific arguments, but in his use of Epicurean therapy. Sider anticipates Sedley in rejecting Kleve’s evidence. He does so on two grounds: that the book could have been added to the library after 4

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Lucretius’ death, and that the paleography would allow the fragments of Lucretius to be dated as late as the end of the first century b.c. Sider comments that many passages in one philosopher shedding light on the other ‘‘are of course due to their common dependence on and adherence to Epicurus.’’ 12 As we have seen, the technique of visualization that we find closely paralleled in Philodemus and Lucretius may not be derived from Epicurus. It belongs rather to a psychotherapy intended to render the doctrine of Epicurus emotionally relevant.13 It may be objected that the influence runs in the other direction, that is, that since Philodemus and Lucretius were contemporaries, it was not Philodemus who influenced Lucretius, but vice versa. To this I would reply that we do not find Greek poets or philosophers imitating Latin poets or philosophers, although Latin poets and philosophers imitate Greek poets and philosophers. I shall also be making the argument that it is Philodemus’ De morte that influences Lucretius, particularly in Book 3 of the De rerum natura where Lucretius offers consolatio for death. The pathos of distance receives greater thematic elaboration in Philodemus than it does in Lucretius: we have seen that it is introduced in another context, that of overcoming anger. In the De morte it is used to overcome the fear of death. We should expect that the author who has developed this psychological technique in greater embellishment would influence the more particular adaptation. Thus Lucretius, who confines the technique to the fear of death, also found in Philodemus, has narrowed its focus. To the potential objection that Lucretius was not dependent upon Philodemus because they might have had the same source or sources, it can only be replied that the close parallels between Philodemus’ De morte and Lucretius argue strongly for a direct dependence. In the De morte, Philodemus’ arguments assume that the disciple has accepted the rational argument that death is not to be feared because it cannot be subjectively apprehended. The disciple insists that still he has a fear of a particular kind of death. The therapy is in each case to render a particular death as yet death and thus not to be feared. Thus Philodemus, considering the fear of death by drowning, counters the image of being devoured by fish with that of being buried on land and devoured by maggots or worms, or burning on the fire. The good Epicurean will reflect that, in any case, the mortal remains will have no perception of their fate (XXXII. col. 3.0.2–XXXIII. col. 4.0.5 Kuiper).14 Philodemus uses the sense of temporal or historical distance to give perspective on the passions. A person might fear that, either through human wickedness or fortune, he will be deprived of burial. The therapy 42

Avocatio and the Pathos of Distance

is to reflect that he will have no perception of his unburied state, and that many famous, rich, and powerful people of the past have been deprived of burial and no sensible person buries them or pities them as if they had suffered some misfortune (XXXII. col. 3.0.2–20 Kuiper). For the fear that one might not die gloriously, for example, in battle, the therapy is the reflection that Themistocles and Pericles died of disease, yet no sensible person would think the worse of them for that, while many people have died on the field of battle who are not remembered (XXIX. fr. 7.0.2–8 Kuiper). For the anxiety that one might be unjustly accused and put to death, Philodemus offers the reflection that many noble persons have suffered that fate, yet we do not think ill of them, for example, as some say, Socrates, Zeno of Elea, and Anaxarchos (XXXIV. col. 5.0.39– XXXV. col. 6.0.34 Kuiper), as well as Palamedes, Socrates, and Callisthenes (XXXIV. col. 5.0.3–4 Kuiper). The fear that one’s body and good looks will be disfigured by the corruption of death (together with the fear that one will not be buried) is countered with the reflection that one will not have sensation of these things (XXX. fr. 8.0 Kuiper). This passage is mirrored in Lucretius 3.870ff. Philodemus (like Lucretius) imagines a soliloquy on the part of the man who fears death. Thus: ‘‘‘I for my part am taken from the land of the living, who have often had many good things and was able to enjoy them, while such and such a man survives me.’ And he sees one man who achieves consolation and another who is not even deemed worthy of a greeting’’ (37.5 Gigante). The passage continues with the reflection that no one is immune from death. Gigante compares Lucretius 3.898–899: ‘‘Poor wretch,’’ men tell themselves. ‘‘One fatal day has stolen all your gains.’’ 15

Philodemus also notes that to have dear children will not affect the fact that we are unconscious in death (XXII. fr. 2.0.30–33 Kuiper), again reflecting Lucretius (3.894ff.).16 There is a difference between the De ira and the De morte regarding the production of the image. In the first, it is the master who invokes the image, for example, the image of the angry face, in order to dispel anger. In the second, it is the pupil who brings the image, such as the fate of the body after death, to the attention of the master. Yet in both cases the image is held before the mind so that it, and the accompanying emotion, anger or fear, may be dismissed together. We shall see that the pathos of distance is expressed, both in ecphras 43

frederic m. schroeder

tic responses to architecture and in actual architecture. In contemporary scholarship, it has been suggested that the belvedere of the Villa dei Papiri is associated both with an epigram of Philodemus and with the prooemium of Lucretius 2. The association of architecture with the view described in that prooemium is made by Statius. In the following discussion, I do not take sides on the literary connections of the belvedere.What I do wish to establish is that both this epigram of Philodemus and the prooemium to Lucretius 2 have suggested architectural reference, both in contemporary and in ancient literature. To this end, let us first turn from the philosophical to the poetic writings of Philodemus, Epigram 29 Sider: [Philodemus:] Already the rose and chickpea and first-cut cabbagestalks are at their peak, Sosylos, and there are sautéed sprats and fresh cheese curds and tender curly lettuce leaves. But we neither go on the shore nor are we on the promontory (ἄποψις), Sosylos, as we always used to. [Sosylos:] Indeed, Antigenes and Bakkhios were playing yesterday, but today we carry them out for burial.17

The noun ἄποψις, which Sider translates as ‘‘promontory,’’ can also be rendered as ‘‘belvedere.’’ Gigante has offered the suggestion that the reference is indeed to a belvedere, and specifically to the belvedere of the Villa dei Papiri. He also prefers ‘‘headland’’ to ‘‘beach’’ or ‘‘shore’’ (as in Sider’s translation) for ἀκτή, as in Homer’s Odyssey 5.36.18 In his notes, Sider suggests that ‘‘Philodemus may be referring in ἀκτῆς to that part of Herculaneum that juts out most prominently, and in ἐν ἀπόψει to the view of the sea from that point.’’ 19 Leaning on the interpretation of ἄποψις as belvedere, Gigante charmingly locates the epigram in the Sitz im Leben of life in the Epicurean villa: In the life of the Epicurean circle at Herculaneum, their shared philosophical activity was followed by simple banquets and common amusement. They went to the high point of the Villa, the ἀκτή, which is not the beach, as it is usually understood, but the headland, jutting out into the sea. Then they would take a break with a modest lunch at the belvedere, while contemplating nature and playing pleasant party games. But one day in spring—when the rose is blooming in the Garden and the chickpeas, cabbages, sardines, cheese . . . and lettuce have been prepared—the rhythm of common life stands still: there is no meeting at 44

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the belvedere as usual. Nobody goes out to the headland, because two friends, who were carefree and happy yesterday, are now dead and must be buried.

Sauron conjectures that the owner of the Villa, after the publication of the poem, erected the belvedere to commemorate the words of the prooemium of Lucretius De rerum natura 2.–0:20 How sweet it is, when whirlwinds roil great ocean, To watch, from land, the danger of another, Not that to see some other person suffer Brings great enjoyment, but the sweetness lies In watching evils you yourself are free from. How sweet, again, to see the clash of battle Across the plains, yourself immune to danger. But nothing is more sweet than full possession Of those calm heights (templa serena), well built, well fortified By wise men’s teaching, to look down (despicere) from here At others wandering below, men lost, Confused, in hectic search for the right road.

The prooemium of Book 2 of the De rerum natura leaves it uncertain where the ideal spectator is located. He perceives the drowning sailors e terra (‘‘from land,’’ 2.2). The words templa serena provide an architectural reference (2.8), and the use of despicere (2.9) suggests a view from a height. Perhaps, if the belvedere were present during the tenure of Philodemus, as Gigante thinks, Lucretius was thinking of the same belvedere. If Lucretius is not referring to the belvedere of the Villa dei Papiri, we may still legitimately think that the view is from a building overlooking the sea. Perhaps the prooemium of Lucretius Book 2 owes a literary debt to the epigram of Philodemus in expressing the pathos of distance. We have noted that Gigante sees an architectural reference in Philodemus, Epigram 29 Sider, and that Sauron sees such a reference in the prooemium to Book 2 of Lucretius. An ancient author also seems to make an association of the prooemium with architecture. Statius in Silvae 2.2 describes the Neapolitan maritime villa of Pollius Felix with views from the Capo di Massa promontory over Cape Sorrento and Cape Miseno (there are references to the view of the sea in 3–29, 45–5, and 73–97). It seems that Pollius is identified as an Epicurean in line 3, where he is thought to ponder the counsels of the Gargettian teacher. Pollius is raised above fate and fortune. Note the contrast between ourselves and Pollius (29–32): 45

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But we, a worthless folk, slaves at the beck of transient blessings and wishes ever new, are tossed from chance to chance: thou from thy mind’s high citadel (celsa tu mentis ab arce) dost look down (despicis) upon our wanderings and laughest at human joys.21

We may observe here the parallel with the prooemium of Lucretius 2. Pollius looks down from the lofty tower of his mind (we may compare despicis, 32, and despicere, Lucretius 2.9) and sees us wandering about aimlessly (we may compare errantes, 32, with palantes in Lucretius 2.0). Perhaps Statius is thinking of the Lucretian passage.22 While the citadel in the immediate context is Pollius’ mind, his architectural elevation over the sea provides the plastic context of his retreat. In his letter to Gallus (2.7) describing his marine Laurentine villa, Pliny the Younger, while not explicitly introducing Epicurean tranquillitas, emphasizes the peace, seclusion, and sense of maritime distance that it affords. Pliny describes at length the architecture and setting of his Tuscan villa, again a place of quiet retreat with a distant view (this time from the mountains), in a letter to Apollinaris (5.6). He apologizes to his friend for the length of his description, but compares it to the elaborate descriptions on the part of Homer of the Shield of Achilles and in Vergil of the Shield of Aeneas, pointing out that in each case, the length of the passage is proportionate to the grandeur of its subject. It is of interest that Pliny sees his description of his villa as an ecphrasis. The very sense of wandering through an elaborate maze belongs both to the narrative structure of the letter and to the meandering effect of the villa’s layout. Pliny remarks that the setting is like an amphitheatre provided by Nature herself: ‘‘The countryside is very beautiful. Picture to yourself a vast amphitheatre such as could only be a work of nature.’’ 23 If you were to view the villa from the mountain, you would think that it was not a natural scene, but a painting: ‘‘It is a great pleasure to look down on the countryside from the mountain, for the view seems to be a painted scene of unusual beauty rather than a real landscape, and the harmony to be found in this variety refreshes the eye wherever it turns.’’ We may see, then, how Pliny compares the notional ecphrasis 24 of the shields in Homer and Vergil with the real ecphrasis that he provides of his villa, an actual work of art. Yet the surrounding nature responds, as it were, architecturally to the villa, offering in its natural amphitheatre an antiphonal response to the architecture of the villa. To the distant observer, the whole scene of the villa, by virtue of its appearing to his gaze as art, provides a further plastic response to the villa. We may also see that 46

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literary ecphrasis becomes itself a form of architecture.25 There is here a wonderful refraction and combination of literary and artistic genres. We may further see how architecture promotes philosophical avocatio in the sense that the seclusion of the villa and its distant views promote peace of mind. We might be justified in conjecturing a literary dependence of the Lucretian prooemium upon Philodemus’ epigram, or at least in concluding that the splendid conjunction of maritime distance and death is remarkably similar. The sentiment is different. Lucretius’ tower, as it were, distances him from the suffering of humanity. In Philodemus, both the promontory and the headland or belvedere, with their serene views upon the sea, doubtless contribute to Epicurean detachment. However, in the presence of death, the tower or eminence from which we experience the pathos of distance and its detached pleasures are best avoided. The claims of friendship may transcend the need for detachment. Lucretius uses the tower as a means of achieving distance and detachment from the fear of death. As the unfortunate sailors are not his immediate friends, he may allow himself a perspective and distance unavailable to Philodemus. We may note that the image of the view from the headland creates a geographical remoteness that suggests a psychological distance. In this passage, Lucretius amplifies the sense of geographical distance with what appears to be an account of a battle as viewed from a distance (2.5–6): How sweet, again, to see the clash of battle Across the plains, yourself immune to danger.

In 3.830–842 Lucretius illustrates the maxim nil igitur mors est ad nos (‘‘Death is nothing to us’’) by asking us to envision the carnage of the Punic Wars and then further to reflect that we were not in them. He also teaches that the time before our birth is in this way a mirror of the time after our death: in neither do we suffer (3.972–975). Here the geographical distance that is summoned in Book 2 is supplemented by a temporal or historical distance. This temporal distance is similar to that established in the text by Marcus Aurelius that we examined earlier. De Lacy argues convincingly that there is a link between the imagery of distance contained in the prooemium to Book 2 and Lucretian atomic theory. The view we have of the atoms must be a distant one because of their small size (2.32–33). Our view of them is compared to the view we have of sheep on a distant hillside: although they are in constant motion, we see only the appearance of whiteness on a green hill (2.37–322).When 47

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we see a battle from a mountaintop, the army is marching on the plain, but we do not see the motion, only a stationary brightness on the plain (323– 332). Particularly telling is the common occurrence of martial imagery here and in line 5 of the prooemium to Book 2: from a distance we behold ‘‘the clash of battle’’ (belli certamina magna). The struggle of the atoms is compared to motes in a sunbeam involved in eternal struggle (aeterno certamine, 2.8).We may think also of the general whose grand army cannot dispel fear (2.40–49). De Lacy remarks: This repetition of the military theme emphasizes the point that distance really does make a difference. In the proemium, being far away makes the difference between danger and safety; in the atomic theory, being far removed from the atoms makes the difference between a world of endless random motion, where the only events are collisions and rebounds, and a world of relatively stable, recognizable objects behaving in orderly ways. Removal from the warring atoms, it seems, is as essential to our well-being as removal from the storm at sea, the battlefield, and the destructive conflicts engendered by human ignorance and folly.26

I had occasion above, in my discussion of the De ira, to remark on the original character of Philodemus’ use of envisioning, not to be found in Epicurus. We may further reflect that the sense of distance established there and in the De morte may be regarded as original. De Lacy remarks of Lucretius’ use of distance: But if we ask further whether the distant view is orthodox, our answer must be negative. For Lucretius, taking the distant view is in effect pursuing the life of contemplation. The true piety, Lucretius says in a famous passage in the fifth book (98–203), is to be able to look at all things with a mind at peace, . . . pacata posse omnia mente tueri. Epicurus himself did not attach such importance to contemplation. He asked his followers rather to memorize a convenient set of rules, which would take care of any problems they might have to face. It was living by the rules, not gazing on the distant scene, that gave them detachment and security.27

We may reflect that, while Lucretius does not have the distant view from Epicurus, he may well have derived it from Philodemus. Philodemus as spiritual director makes a strong use of envisioning in his therapy, which liberates philosophy from the tyranny of logos. Lucretius also practices such therapy and is notorious for his abundant and 48

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compelling use of visual images: to philosophy and therapy he adds the vocation of a poet, from whom such acts of the imagination should be expected. If the visualization is an original contribution of Philodemus to Epicureanism and we also find it in Lucretius, we have a good internal argument for the influence of Philodemus upon Lucretius. Before we explore the influence of Philodemus on Vergil, we should entertain some important hermeneutical considerations.The term ‘‘source research’’ carries with it a deterministic character. The word Quelle in Quellenforschung means ‘‘spring.’’ We may imagine a spring that gives birth to a stream, that becomes a river, that merges finally with the sea. If we know the character of the landscape, we can predict the course the water will take. In the case of philosophical ideas, we should realize that the human mind does not transmit material in such a predetermined manner. Often it is more productive to speak in broad terms of a tradition than to attempt in each case to identify a specific source. When we trace the influence of philosophy upon literature, the task of source research is even more perilous. Any artist has a precarious relationship to the house of intellect. The artist will absorb philosophical ideas as they feed creative vision.We should not expect to find precise cases for the influence of Philodemus on Vergil. What we are now in a position to say is that speculation along these lines is supported by a prosopographical foundation. Philodemus, as we have seen, adapts Epicurean philosophy to a special form of psychotherapy in which the person suffering from passion, such as fear or anger, is summoned to an act of envisioning, which is then followed by an act of dismissing the object of envisioning in order to return to peace. We cannot expect that Vergil in an epic will practice this form of psychotherapy in any direct way. Rather, the technique of envisioning in Philodemus nourishes his imagery. It may be objected that Vergil was capable of deriving this technique of envisioning from Lucretius (to whom we know he has a literary debt) rather than from Philodemus. As we have observed, we are not in the position of being able to establish precise locations of source. However, in the light of Vergil’s known involvement with Philodemus, coupled with Lucretius’ most probable debt to Philodemus, it is likely that Vergil’s technique represents a tradition stemming from Philodemus. Lucretius remains the philosopher and therapist, like Philodemus, but brings to his task a powerful artistic gift. Vergil taps this already established tradition both to feed his artistic vision and to give away something of the poetics implicit in his work. 49

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It is always difficult to penetrate the objective tone of epic to reach the signature of the poet. Yet Vergil, in his uses of engagement with and detachment from images and in his use of the pathos of distance, gives us that signature and makes more explicit the poetics implicit in his art. He wishes us, in one way, to share the sufferings of his characters. Yet, in another way, he wishes to show us that we are to view them sub specie aeternitatis as we disengage ourselves from empathy. Vergil then uses visual imagination to accomplish that pathos of distance that we have encountered both in Philodemus and in Lucretius.We have seen that the epigram of Philodemus and the prooemium of Lucretius Book 2 both lend themselves to architectural interpretation. Vergil’s use of the pathos of distance involves notional ecphrasis 28 of architecture and its accompanying plastic art. We have seen in Statius and Pliny examples of how architecture and literature can interact. It does not matter whether epigram 29 of Philodemus or the prooemium of Lucretius 2 exhibits dependence upon the belvedere of the Villa dei Papiri, or indeed has any true architectural reference. It is important rather that these works can found a tradition of such mutual influence. Upon his arrival in Carthage, Aeneas marvels at and is lost in the relief sculptures upon the temple of Juno depicting scenes of the Trojan War yet so fresh in his memory. Vergil depicts him as in a state of complete emotional involvement with the art (.459–465): He halted. As he wept, he cried: ‘‘Achates, where on earth is there a land, a place that does not know our sorrows? Look! There is Priam! Here, too, the honorable finds its due and there are tears for passing things; here, too, things mortal touch the mind. Forget your fears; this fame will bring you some deliverance.’’ He speaks. With many tears and sighs he feeds his soul on what is nothing but a picture.29

We may notice in this passage two moments, engagement and detachment, which are familiar from the paraenetic texts that we have already considered. In this case, the engagement belongs to the character, Aeneas, while the detachment belongs to the reader.30 Vergil directs the reader to win a detachment not possible to the character at that moment in the action of the epic in observing: animum pictura pascit inani (‘‘He feeds his soul on what is nothing but a picture’’). Or rather, the reader is engaged, as is Aeneas, in the emotions prompted by the scenes upon the bas-relief, 50

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but, at Vergil’s prompting, is removed from them. This passage reveals the signature of the poet and provides us with a key to understanding how he wishes his poem to be read.31 In lines 4.40–4 of the Aeneid, Aeneas, obeying the instructions of the gods, prepares his flight from Carthage: And one could see them as, streaming (migrantes), they rushed down from all the city: even as ants, remembering the winter, when they attack a giant stack of spelt to store it in their homes; the black file swarms across the fields; they haul their plunder through the grass on narrow tracks; some strain against the great grains with their shoulders, heaving hard; some keep the columns orderly and chide the loiterers; the whole trail boils with work. What were your feelings Dido, then? What were the sighs you uttered at that sight, when far and wide, from your high citadel (arce ex summa), you saw the beaches boil and turmoil take the waters, with such a vast uproar before your eyes?

In this passage we have two expressions of distance. One, as in Lucretius, is geographical and perhaps architectural. Both involve a distant maritime view. If we interpret Lucretius 2.–0 to contain an architectural reference, then the view entertained by Dido arce ex summa (‘‘from your high citadel’’) will recall Lucretius. We may also compare the motion of the ants (migrantes, ‘‘streaming’’) with the view of lost humanity palantes (‘‘wandering’’) in Lucretius 2.0. The other expression of distance proceeds from miniaturization: the ants are so much smaller than ourselves that we experience distance from them even before we consider geographical distance of the kind expressed in Dido’s view from the citadel. I would suggest that Vergil here, as in the passage in Book , complements engagement on the part of a character (here Dido) and detachment on the part of the reader. When the reader contemplates the departure of the Trojans under the form of the ant simile, he abstracts it from its emotional setting and regards it sub specie aeternitatis. Vergil is, in a way, too successful in his fashioning of Dido’s rhetoric. Too many readers are swayed by it and become insensitive to Aeneas’ position: as a king himself, his love for Dido cannot exclude her office as queen. Indeed, he bids her upon his departure to resume her queenly 5

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character. She should therefore respect his kingly mission to found Rome and know that his leadership is an inextricable part of the person whom she loves. The reader is, in the ant simile, cautioned to read the whole of Book 4 in such a way that its suffering may be understood from a philosophical distance. Dido and Aeneas are, in a way, like those forlorn and tiny lovers whom we behold at great remove in Willow Pattern china. Marcus Aurelius, contemplating the nugatory concerns and passions of humanity, observes (7.3): An empty pageant; a stage play; flocks of sheep, herds of cattle; a tussle of spearmen, a bone flung among a pack of curs; a crumb tossed into a pond of fish; ants, loaded and labouring; mice, scared and scampering; puppets, jerking on their strings—that is life. In the midst of it all you must take your stand, good-temperedly and without disdain, yet always aware that a man’s worth is no greater than the worth of his ambitions.

In this passage as well, the image of the ants accomplishes philosophical distance. Perhaps there is a rhetorical trope at work both in Vergil and in Marcus.32 In Aeneid , Aeneas and Achates gain a prospect of Dido’s city (48– 420): Meanwhile Aeneas and the true Achates press forward on their path. They climb a hill that overhangs the city, looking down upon the facing towers.

Some of the Carthaginians are erecting walls, others are rearing up a citadel ( pars ducere muros / molirique arcem, 423–424). Could the tower be that from which Dido was to behold the antlike Trojans? This passage is followed by the wonderful simile of the bees (430–436): Just as the bees in early summer, busy beneath the sunlight through the flowered meadows, when some lead on the full-grown young and others press out flowing honey, pack the cells with sweet nectar, or gather in the burdens of those returning; some, in columns, drive the drones, a lazy herd, out of the hives; the work is fervent, and the fragrant honey is sweet with thyme. 52

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This simile differs from its Homeric precedent (Iliad 2.87–90) in the sense of distance gained from the high vantage-point of Aeneas’ outlook.We are reminded of the vivid and utterly engaging passage in Georgics 4 describing the battle of the bees. The reader is engrossed in the shining wings, the tiny trumpets; but then (86–87): And all these epic battles (certamina tanta) and turbulent hearts you can silence By flinging a handful of dust.33

Again, both geography and miniaturization figure into the sense of distance achieved. A lively image of apian combat is summoned, only to be dismissed pulveris exigui iactu. Again we may see the influence of Lucretius as in his view from an eminence he reflects (2.5–6): How sweet, again, to see the clash of battle (certamina magna) Across the plains, yourself immune to danger.

Perhaps we may see the two insect images, the bees in Book  and the ants of Book 4, as framing the story of Dido and Aeneas. Together they suggest the sense of distance and detachment that Vergil requires of his reader. Perhaps Vergil, in his use of miniaturization to gain the sense of detachment, is influenced by the manner in which Lucretius obtains a sense of distance in his description of the atoms. And so we may see a possible trajectory from Philodemus to Lucretius to Vergil in which a compelling yet vanishing image at first engages and then detaches sentiment to achieve spiritual distance from passion. The marriage of philosophy and rhetoric in the cause of spiritual direction breeds a wonderful use of imagery, directed not to the purpose of philosophical thought experiments, but toward the therapy of deliverance from passion. The poet, who is informed by such education, may indulge the sense of visual imagination in even greater elaboration and indicate, behind the objective tone of epic, the poetics implicit in his art.34

notes . Hadot 995. Hadot was anticipated in this view by Rabbow 954. 2. Cf. Hadot 998: 58. 3. Trans. Staniforth (964), whose translation will be used throughout. 4. Cf. Hadot 998: 47–48 for a discussion of this passage as an ‘‘imaginative exercise.’’ Schroeder 998: 7–8 further discusses this passage in the context of a treatment of avocatio in Plotinus. 5. In On Frank Speech 42 the editors supply the words τίθεναι πρὸ ὀμμάτων 53

frederic m. schroeder from the De ira to describe envisioning the consequences of not purging the soul of avarice. 6. Nussbaum (986: 37) remarks: ‘‘This fascinating material [the therapeutic argument] is not likely to be original with Philodemus, since he constantly refers to the authority and practice of Epicurus, cites known writings of Epicurus as exemplary of the sort of therapeutic logoi he has in mind, relates anecdotes of life in the garden, and in general represents himself as giving a picture of the way things go in the well-functioning Epicurean community.’’ Yet she later complains that, in her examination of therapy (from Philodemus), she is losing touch with argument (43). ‘‘We seem to be in danger of losing touch with argument. For our account has led us into areas of psychological interaction that do not look much like the give and take of philosophical discourse. It is tempting at this point to imagine that we have in some of this material interesting information about the extracurricular life of the garden, but that the real hard-core philosophical activity was something else. (For after all, the extant writings of Epicurus look like philosophical arguments of the recognisable kind; they are detailed, systematic, frequently sophisticated in their strategies against the opposition.)’’ The latter observation surely casts doubt upon the former: Nussbaum makes an uncritical acceptance of Philodemus as a doxographic source for our knowledge of Epicurus. 7. Kleve 989: 5. 8. Sedley 998: 62–93. 9. Ibid.: 64. 0. We may now no longer identify the Memmius to whom Lucretius dedicates his poem with the dedicatee of Philodemus’ Rhetorica. See Sider 997: 24, who also believes that the fact that fragments of Lucretius have been found in the Villa dei Papiri does not in itself indicate a relationship between Lucretius and Philodemus. . Sedley 998: 72. 2. Sider 997: 24. 3. Clay 983: 24–25 anticipates Sedley’s view that Lucretius’ source was Epicurus alone and that there are no parallels between Philodemus and Lucretius close enough to argue a relationship of source between them. Clay comments (25): ‘‘Moreover, the interests of these Epicureans [contemporary with Lucretius and living in the vicinity of the Bay of Naples], especially as expressed in the writings of Philodemus, center on poetry, rhetoric, logic, and generally on subjects that have some ethical bearing.’’ Armstrong (995) argues successfully that the poetics of Lucretius, with their principle of the impossibility of literary metathesis, owe a clear debt to the poetics of Philodemus. Barri (997–98) argues the probable influence of Philodemus’ poetics on Lucretius’ presentation of Epicurus’ teaching in hexameters. We should also add that Clay does not consider the influence of Philodemus’ De morte on Lucretius 3. 4. The sentiment that we need not fear what happens to our bodies after death is to be found in the Cynic Teles: ‘‘What difference does it make to be con 54

Avocatio and the Pathos of Distance sumed by fire or to be devoured by a dog or if above the earth by crows or, if buried, by worms?’’ (De exilio 3.–3, trans. Segal 990: 44 n. ). Hense (969) provides further references to Epictetus, Seneca, Petronius, and others (see Segal 990: 44 and n. ). In the pseudo-Platonic Axiochus 365c, the fear of rotting and being turned into worms or snakes is expressed and is met by Socrates (365d) with the Epicurean argument that there will be no perception of such decay (see Segal 990: 45). That Philodemus here stands in a doxographic tradition might, of course, mean that Lucretius need not depend on Philodemus for the sentiment. Yet the style of envisioning presented by Philodemus’ therapy (and not to be found in Epicurus) is consistent, and Philodemus is a likely proximate source. 5. Gigante 983a: 89. This translation and all other translations of Lucretius are by Humphries (968). 6. For good speculation on the influence of Philodemus on Lucretius, see Kilpatrick 996: 86–88. Kilpatrick brings out well the medical character of psychotherapy in late Roman Epicureanism. 7. Trans. Sider 997. 8. Gigante 995: 53–56 and 04 n. 45. 9. Sider 997: 68. 20. Sauron 980: 299; 983: 8–82. There is no argument for when the De rerum natura was published. 2. Trans. Mozley (928). 22. We may not insist that, in an eclectic age, Pollius was a strict Epicurean (Van Dam 984: 209), but there is an association between Pollius’ retirement and Epicurean ataraxia (ibid.: 20). For further links of Epicureanism with villas, see Statius .3.90–94, where the association is made between the villa’s owner, Manilius Vopiscus, and Epicurus. 23. This and the following translation from Pliny the Younger by Radice (972). 24. For notional ecphrasis, see Hollander 995: 4: ‘‘Notional ecphrasis—or the description, often elaborately detailed, of purely fictional painting or sculpture that is indeed brought into being by the poetic language itself—abounds in antiquity and after.’’ Cf. Hollander 988: 209. 25. See Du Prey 994: 8: ‘‘[Pliny] thereby virtually invented architectural description as a separate subcategory of ecphrasis.’’ 26. De Lacy 964: 50. 27. Ibid.: 55. 28. See again Hollander 995: 4; 988: 209. 29. Trans. Mandelbaum (97), whose translations of the Aeneid will be used throughout. The line references, however, are to the OCT. 30. Cf. Putnam 998: 25. 3. Skinner (in this volume) argues that Aeneas’ emotional engagement in this passage is, according to the criteria of Philodemus, not ‘‘properly evaluative.’’ If I am right, the reader is advised to observe an appropriate detachment. 55

frederic m. schroeder 32. Cf. Aeschylus(?) PV 452–453 for the picture of humanity as ants before their Promethean redemption. 33. Trans. C. Day Lewis (964). 34. I should like to thank David Armstrong and Diskin Clay for their helpful suggestions when I read this paper at the Symposium Cumanum.

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piety in vergil and philodemus pat r i c i a a . j o h n s to n

Pietas, it is widely recognized, is the distinguishing characteristic of Vergil’s hero, Aeneas, as he struggles to lead the few surviving Trojans to a new homeland in Italy and, once he has arrived, to establish a foothold there.What Vergil means by pietas, however, has long been debated.1 Vergil’s conception of piety was of major importance in the new Augustan ideology, but attempts to pigeonhole his piety as a Stoic virtue have not been persuasive.2 Vergil’s Aeneas, while guided by the gods and obedient to their commands, ultimately bears responsibility for his actions. It has often been observed that, although Stoicism and Epicureanism were rival philosophies over their long period of vitality, ‘‘they resemble one another in their emphasis on the individual’s responsibility for his own happiness and the importance of freeing the mind from emotional disturbance.’’ 3 Lucretius’ criticism of piety as a form of hypocrisy has sometimes been taken as evidence that, in making his hero pious, Vergil rejected his early Epicurean leanings. Yet Epicurus’ concept of piety, as delineated by Philodemus in De pietate, indicates first that Epicurus, rather than rejecting this virtue, understood it in much the same way as the concept was delineated in Plato’s Euthyphro, as reflecting interaction between men and gods, and second, that Aeneas’ piety is therefore not inconsistent with Epicurus’ notions of piety. A brief reconsideration of Epicurean aspects of the Aeneid will show that Vergil’s concept of piety is a mix of Epicurean and Stoic elements, with the added association, particularly in the second half of the poem, of arma. Roman pietas is particularly embodied in the personality of Aeneas, who is identified on at least twenty separate occasions as pius Aeneas. In the first half of the poem, the epithet appears most often when Aeneas is performing some sort of ritual offering, praying to the gods or somehow in-

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dicating his relationship to the gods. The ritual aspect of piety (reflecting one’s relationship with the gods) is consistent with the traditional Greek concept of ὁσιότης or εὐσέβεια. We find this concept not only in Plato’s Euthyphro (where the terms are generally used synonymously), but also in the later Stoic and Epicurean writers (apart from Lucretius). Piety, even in Plato, is also directed at parents and other family members (e.g., εὐσέβεια εἰς θεοὺς καὶ γονέας, Plato Resp. 65c; πρὸς ἀδελφόν, Dio Cass. 48.5), but for the Romans, as in Cicero and Vergil, the concern for family and country becomes an increasingly important part of its meaning. In the second half of the Aeneid, finally, a third, military aspect of the concept becomes prominent, with the result that the concept comes to embody the range of meaning that suited Augustan ideology.

piety in stoic and epicurean ideology In Greek, two words are used for the concept of piety, ὁσιότης and εὐσέβεια. In Plato’s Euthyphro, which is concerned with determining the real meaning of ὁσιότης (as opposed to δίκαιος), piety is based in the relation of men to the gods (2e9). It is that part of justice which is a service to the gods, and is manifested in the proper offering of sacrifices to the gods (Euthyphro 4d–e).4 A person who behaves in a manner consistent with divine laws is ὅσιος, and indeed this was the title of five special priests at Delphi (Plut. Mor. 292d, 365a). ὁσιότης meant piety not only in the sense of being disposed to obey divine law,5 but in performing and preserving divine ritual as well. The third century b.c. Stoic Chrysippus reportedly said, ‘‘Piety [is] knowledge/expertise that renders trustworthy precisely those people who preserve what is right toward the gods’’ (ὁσιότης δὲ ἐπιστήμη παρεχομένη πιστοὺς καὶ τηροῦτας τὰ πρὸς τὸ θεῖον δίκαια).6 The Greek concept of piety thus was based on one’s relationship to the gods—one’s belief in them, and one’s demonstration of this belief by the performance of proper rituals, which provide a service to the gods. This concept is found not only in Academic and Stoic thought, but also in Epicurean thought, as is seen in Philodemus’ defense of Epicurus against charges of impiety. In De pietate, Philodemus rebuts charges that Epicurus was an atheist. ‘‘Piety,’’ he writes, ‘‘appears to include not harming . . . other people and especially one’s benefactors and homeland. . . . The populace, regarding as impious those who declare their opinion in this fashion about the gods, punish them, as the Athenians did Socrates.’’ 7 Epicurus, according to Philodemus, proclaims that the deity should have been determined to 60

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surpass all things, and as a result ‘‘is evident and honored in ritual observance’’ (38–390, pp. 200–20 Obbink). For Epicurus, as for Plato’s Socrates, ‘‘piety and justice appear to be almost the same thing’’ (226– 2265). In De pietate there is extensive reference to Epicurus engaging in ritual observance. While he is critical of orgiastic ritual and ‘‘reproaches those who eliminate the divine from existing things . . . and likens them to Bacchic revelers,’’ 8 he specifically advocates praying (739–75, pp. 56–57 Obbink): In On Lifecourses (Περὶ βίων) he says that to pray is natural [or ‘‘fitting’’: οἰκεῖον] for us, not because the gods would be hostile if we did not pray, but in order that, according to the understanding of beings surpassing in power and excellence, we may realize our fulfillments and social conformity with the laws.

Epicurus also encourages sacrificing to the gods: Let us sacrifice to the gods . . . devoutly and fittingly on the proper days, and let us fittingly perform all the acts of worship in accordance with the laws. . . . Moreover, let us sacrifice justly. . . . For in this way it is possible for mortal nature, by Zeus, to live like Zeus.9

The attitude of Philodemus’ Epicurus contrasts sharply with Lucretius’ account of Epicurean beliefs. Lucretius is quite critical of visible demonstrations of pietas: It is not piety to show oneself with covered head, turning toward a stone and approaching every altar, nor to fall prostrate upon the ground and to spread open the palms before shrines of the gods, nor to sprinkle altars with the blood of beasts in showers and to link vow to vow; but rather to be able to survey all things with a mind at peace ( pacata mente). de rerum natura 5.98–203, trans. w. d. rouse

For Lucretius, true piety ‘‘is the peace of mind which stems from the correct, Epicurean concept of the gods and which preserves man from the fear of death.’’ 10 Lucretius’ interpretation has limited bearing on the Vergilian concept, for Vergil’s hero, while briefly enjoying the peace of mind espoused by Lucretius’ Epicurean sage, does not shrink from action. A good example of this contrast occurs in Aeneid 2.304–308, where Aeneas,

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sensing the destruction of Troy from afar, is compared to a shepherd observing a violent flood from a safe distance: in segetem veluti cum flamma furentibus Austris incidit, aut rapidus montano flumine torrens sternit agros, sternit sata laeta boumque labores praecipitisque transit silvas; stupet inscius alto accipiens sonitum saxi de vertice pastor.11 Just as when a fire has fallen on a field of wheat, stoked by fierce south winds, or a raging torrent from the mountains levels the fields and the crops and all the oxen’s toil, and rushes through the fallen forests; the shepherd, not knowing, hears the sound from a high cliff and is amazed.

Unlike Lucretius’ sage, who stays uninvolved, Vergil’s Aeneas rushes into the fray, and has to be persuaded to retreat when he learns that resistance is useless, since the gods have ordained the fall of Troy. While Vergil’s language and imagery contain many echoes of Lucretius, it is clear that there is a different quality both to the Epicureanism of Lucretius and to that of Philodemus, and thus it is not surprising that when Vergil’s words do recall Lucretius, he frequently appears to contradict him or set himself in opposition to his predecessor, expressing admiration for, but rejection of, the ‘‘scientific’’ poetics of Lucretius and his predecessors (G. 2.490–492): felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, atque metus omnis et inexorabile fatum subiecit pedibus strepitumque Acherontis avari.12 Happy the man who understands the causes of things, and has trampled beneath his feet all dread, pitiless fate, and the roar of greedy Acheron.

Vergil’s participation in Philodemus’ Epicurean circle at Herculaneum and Naples is now well established.13 In contrast to Lucretius, Philodemus depicts an Epicurus whose beliefs permit us to make a good argument that at least some aspects of Vergil’s early Epicurean orientation persist in his epic, as can be seen in the attitude expressed toward ritual activities. Philodemus’ Epicurean Sage states that ritual activities, if they are performed with sincerity, are acts of piety toward the gods, in whom the Sage believed and in whose ritual activities he participated.14

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aeneas’ piety Richard Heinze, citing Wissowa, long ago pointed out that Aeneas’ piety was a basic element in the tradition about his surviving the fall of Troy. In Homer, Poseidon says that Aeneas is destined to survive the war and rule future generations of Trojans (Iliad 20.307). After Homer, however, tradition provides differing accounts of his escape. Sophocles, in the Laocoon, had Aeneas leave Troy before it was captured. In Livy’s account, he was spared by the Greeks in return for assisting the Greeks and helping to restore Helen: duobus, Aeneae Antenorique, et vetusti iure hospitii et quia pacis reddendaeque Helenae semper auctores fuerunt, omne ius belli Achivos abstinuisse (‘‘The Greeks withheld all the conventions of war [ius belli] from two men, Aeneas and Antenor, both because of an old tie of hospitality and because these men had always argued for the return of Helen and peace,’’ Livy .). The later view, that he fled the captured city, rescuing his aged father and the gods of his household, prevailed. This ‘‘most popular version’’ was a legend going back to Timaeus (c. 350–260 b.c.), whereby Aeneas held the citadel to the end, and then surrendered on the condition that he be allowed to depart unharmed. Because he chose to take with him his aged father instead of gold or silver, the Greeks, impressed by his piety, allowed him to take the images of the gods, and then in addition ‘‘his household, worldly possessions, and even supplied the ships in which to depart.’’ 15 In Vergil, Aeneas’ piety is demonstrated in a number of ways—through the rituals he performs, through his own deeds and statements, and through what others say about him. In the early books of the poem, Aeneas is frequently seen performing ritual offerings, and his piety is often identified by the word pius or some derivation of that word. In his first appearance in the poem, he is identified as ‘‘a man distinguished by his piety’’ (insignem pietate virum, Aen. .0). At various points in the poem, the adjective is also applied to his people ( parce pio generi, .526; cf. 2.690), but the vast majority of references to piety focus on Aeneas himself. In the third book, where the Trojans sail from one site to another, trying to identify their new homeland, the adjective is also applied to Apollo, with whom Aeneas and the Trojans are becoming associated (Aen. 3.72–76): sacra mari colitur medio gratissima . . . quam pius arquitenens ora et litora circum errantem Mycono e celsa Gyaroque revinxit.16

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In the middle of the sea is a most pleasing island . . . which the pious archer-god bound fast to lofty Myconos and Gyarus, after it was floating around their coasts and shores.

The land is of course the floating island Delos, which had permitted Latona to give birth to Apollo and Artemis, and subsequently was fixed permanently in the sea by Apollo. The Trojans are rather like Latona as they search for a home, and Apollo becomes their guide. What is particularly pertinent is the application here of pius, the epithet so consistently used elsewhere of Aeneas, to the archer-god Apollo. Subsequently in this book, Aeneas refers to his fellow Trojans as pios (3.266), and then Helenus, functioning as Apollo’s mouthpiece, addresses Anchises as felix nati pietate (3.480). The tie between Aeneas and Apollo resumes in Aeneid 6, when Aeneas goes to the temple of Apollo at Cumae and is accompanied into the underworld by the god’s seer, the Sibyl at Cumae. Near the close of the sixth book, the young Marcellus is praised (878– 88): heu pietas! heu prisca fides invictaque bello dextera! non illi se quisquam impune tulisset obvius armato, seu cum pedes iret in hostem seu spumantis equi foderet calcaribus armos. Alas for Piety! Alas for ancient Faith and a right hand unconquered in war! None would have met him in arms safely, whether he met the enemy on foot or was digging spurs into the foaming horse’s flanks.

This blatantly military context of pietas foreshadows its use in the later books, where it becomes a dominant factor. After the sixth book, Apollo is not a prominent factor again until Book 9, when pietas also begins to have military implications, as will be discussed below. Aeneas, then, is frequently seen performing some sort of ritual offering when he is referred to as pius, particularly after the death of Anchises. In Book 5, there are numerous uses of the word and its derivatives, first in the context of the funeral games for Anchises (5.26, 286, 296, 48), and then even more after the burning of the ships, here in the context of prayers and offerings to the gods (5.685, 688, 734, 745, 783). In Book 6 Aeneas is called pius when he first visits the temple of Apollo, and the word is used repeatedly in the context of the funeral ritual he performs shortly thereafter for Misenus (at pius Aeneas ingenti mole sepulchrum / imponit suaque arma, 6.232; cf. 53, 76, 379).17 In Book 7, the term occurs only

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once, when pius Aeneas performs burial rites for Caieta (at pius Aeneas exsequiis rite solutis, 7.5). Early in Book 8, pius Aeneas sacrifices the white pig to Juno. In Book 2, when the single combat is about to be fought by Turnus and Aeneas, a ritual offering (a pig and a sheep) is made (2.70–74), and immediately after (2.75) Aeneas is called pius as he takes his oath.18 Finally, in Book 2, Jupiter predicts that one day this new race of Romans will surpass all men and even the gods in piety (838–839):19 hinc genus Ausonio mixtum quod sanguine surget, supra homines, supra ire deos pietate videbis. From here will arise a race mixed with Ausonian blood, which in piety will surpass mortals, and even the gods.

obedience to the gods Vergil’s Aeneas demonstrates his pietas not only through ritual, but also in his persistence in carrying out the orders of the gods, who have directed him to lead his people to a new home. In this he functions much as Philodemus’ Epicurus would have, ‘‘not out of weakness or because we have need of anything from God, even in return for his benefit’’ (col. xxxvi, p. 77 Obbink). While it is true that the gods do intervene in Aeneas’ activities, it is also true that Aeneas pursues his destiny with no hope of personal reward, and hence does bear considerable personal responsibility for his fate. In the last book of the poem, he bids farewell to his son before entering battle, recalling Hector’s farewell to his own son, Astyanax, in the Iliad (6.466ff.). In his farewell, Hector prays to the gods that his son will be a greater fighter than his father. In Aeneid 3, Andromache’s question about Ascanius reflects a hope similar to that of Homer’s Hector: ecquid in antiquam virtutem animosque virilis / et pater Aeneas et avunculus excitat Hector? (‘‘Do his father Aeneas and uncle 20 Hector inspire any of that ancient virtue and heroic spirit [in the child]?’’ 3.342–343). When Aeneas bids his son farewell, on the other hand, his words reflect a contrast in expectations for father and son (2.435–440): disce, puer, virtutem ex me verumque laborem, fortunam ex aliis. nunc e mea dextera bello defensum dabit et magna inter praemia ducet. tu facito, mox cum matura adoleverit aetas, sis memor et te animo repetentem exempla tuorum et pater Aeneas et avunculus excitet Hector.

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Learn, my son, from me virtue and true labor, from others learn fortune. Now my right hand will defend you from war and introduce you to great rewards. You, when you have become a man, see that you be mindful to have your father Aeneas and your uncle Hector arouse you to follow the examples of your ancestors.

Aeneas’ words recall Vergil’s fourth eclogue, which foresees the rise of a new Golden Age. There it is said that the child will benefit from his father’s victories—he will read about them (legere) rather than perform them, and will rule over a pacified world. It is a very different perspective from that of the Iliad, but consistent with the poet’s earlier predictions of a new era.21 Aeneas’ piety is often interpreted as weakness—from his first appearance in Book , where he laments his fate and wishes he had died at Troy; as he reluctantly leads his people through their various crises; culminating in his relationship with Dido, where he is initially dominated by her, and then, seemingly helpless before the gods, abandons her.22 Quite apart from narrative considerations, however, his pious behavior is consistent with Epicurus’ perspective: he is obeying the gods and not acting with a view to personal gain, behavior reflected again in the moving farewell to his son. As he weeps at the loss of his friends Orontes and Amycus (220–22),23 he is called pius. After the storm has abated and he has reached shore, he sets out to identify where he and his men have landed (305), and identifies himself as pius to the huntress who proves to be his mother (378). In Book 4 he is pius when he tries to console Dido, albeit with no intention of staying in Carthage (at pius Aeneas, quamquam lenire dolentem / solando cupit, 393–394). In Book 5, he is pius as he gives instructions to turn the ship toward Sicily, since the winds demand it (26), then oversees the funeral games that foreshadow the fighting in the latter half of the poem (286, 48). After Juno has the ships set on fire, he is called pius as, tearing his clothes, he prays to Jupiter in behalf of those companions who cannot complete the journey (685). In each case, however, regardless of the personal cost, Aeneas assumes the responsibility of carrying out his duties. A truly weak hero could not have persisted so steadily and consistently.

pietas et arma Aeneas’ piety in the later books not only is demonstrated by the performance of appropriate rituals, but is increasingly linked with arma. In the last four books (9–2), his piety is invariably associated with war. In 66

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Book 9, he is called pius in the context of Nisus’ and Euryalus’ hope for praise from him (255) when he will learn of the bravery of their incursion into the enemy’s camp. In Book 0, on each of the three occasions in which he receives this epithet, he is killing or has just killed the enemy, whether Lucagus (59), or a multitude of foes (783), or, finally, regretfully, Lausus: quid pius Aeneas tanta dabit indole dignum? / arma, quibus laetatus, habe tua (‘‘As Aeneas regretfully addresses the dying Lausus, ‘What will pious Aeneas give you, in keeping with such fine character? Keep these, your weapons, in which you gloried,’ ’’ 826–827). The epithet is next used of him when Evander speaks at the funeral of Pallas: quin ego non alio digner te funere, Palla, / quam pius Aeneas et quam magni Phryges (‘‘Indeed I would not honor you with any funeral other than the one with which pious Aeneas and the great Phrygians honor you,’’ .69–70). Finally, in Book 2, the epithet is applied when Aeneas is seeking peace and an end to the conflict (75, 3). It is clear that piety has here been endorsed as one of the virtues of the warrior. This phenomenon, however, is again not necessarily inconsistent with Philodemus’ Epicurus, who is quoted as saying, ‘‘Even if there should be war, it would not be terrible, if the gods are propitious’’ (De pietate, col. 33, p. 7). Epicurus thus allows for piety to be linked with arms. Earlier in the Aeneid, pietas is also frequently linked with arma. In .545, Ilioneus says of Aeneas that no one is iustior pietate nec bello maior et armis (‘‘more just with respect to piety or greater with respect to war and arms’’). The god who guides and inspires Vergil’s Aeneas is Apollo, who, as was seen above, is also called pius in 3.75: tellus . . . quam pius arquitenens oras et litora circum errantem . . . revinxit (‘‘The land still floating around seacoasts and shores the pious archer-god fixed in place’’). The reference there is to his having pinned down the floating island of Delos in recognition of the shelter it had provided to Latona. It should not be overlooked, however, that Apollo, for all his association with beauty and music and medicine, was very much the god of colonization (and hence a fitting god for Aeneas and for the Roman emperor in that capacity). Apollo takes possession of Delos, but he also occupies Delphi and Cumae, in both cases replacing the powerful goddesses who had oracular seats there before him.24 He is the inspiration for the crew of the Argo in their quest for booty, and he directs Anchises and Aeneas to the site that the Trojans will, in fact, invade and occupy.25 In these functions, the god is a model of both piety and successful colonization. In Aeneid 6.403, the Sibyl identifies Aeneas to Charon as pietate insignis et armis, and in 6.769–770 Anchises prophesies that Silvius Aeneas will 67

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be pariter pietate vel armis / egregius. The connection of pietas with arma particularly troubled later Christian apologists such as Lactantius, who argued that piety ‘‘surely rests with those who know not wars, who preserve harmony with all, who are friendly even to the unfriendly, who love all men as brothers, who know how to restrain wrath and to quell all fury of mind with tranquil moderation.’’ 26 For Vergil’s Aeneas, however, arma are the means by which he must perform his ultimate demonstration of pietas in fulfilling the decrees of the gods, which lead to the founding of Rome.27

impietas [This manner of conducting oneself in religious matters] on account of these things impiously does away with the whole notion of holiness together with the preservation of common traditions [or common beliefs], and . . . as those who are said to be religious think, it hurls us [one] into unsurpassable impiety. For pious is the person who preserves the immortality and consummate blessedness of God together with all the things included by us; but . . . impious is the person who banishes either [blessedness and immortality] where God is concerned. And the person who sees also that the good and ill sent us by God come without any unhealthy anger or benevolence, declares that God has no need of human things. philodemus de pietate col. xl, p. 85 obbink

Vergil never uses the word impietas, but he does apply the adjective impius to arma and other war-related things as well as to various sources of violence. In Aeneid 6, for example, those who have pursued impia arma (63) are in Tartarus. In Aeneid 2, Latinus blames himself for having broken his pledge and having pursued impia arma (29–3): victus amore tui, cognato sanguine, victus coniugis et maestae lacrimis, vincla omnia rupi: promissam eripui genero, arma impia sumpsi. Overcome by my love for you [Turnus], by our related blood, overcome by the tears of my unhappy wife, I broke all these bonds: I reneged on my pledge to my son-in-law, and took up impious arms.

Vergil similarly applies the adjective to the soldier who has taken possession of Meliboeus’ farm in the first eclogue (70), to the impia saecula reigning in Italy at the end of the first georgic (468), and to Mars him 68

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self shortly thereafter, as he blames civil war for the chaos then rampant (G. .50–5): vicinae ruptis inter se legibus urbes arma ferunt; saevit toto Mars impius orbe. Neighboring cities, their mutual bonds broken, bear arms; impious Mars rages through the entire world.

The gens that consumed the ploughing ox and brought the Golden Age to an end is likewise deemed impia (G. 2.537).28 In the Aeneid, other sources of violence are similarly described, such as Furor (.294), Diomedes (2.63–64), Fama (4.298), and Tartarus (5.733–734). The notion of ‘‘impiety’’ in these passages sometimes implies a bias on the part of the speaker: Meliboeus calls the miles who has displaced him impius, whether deservedly or not. Again, Diomedes is called impius by Sinon, himself a master of deception and treachery, as he persuades the Trojans to bring the destructive horse into Troy. When Venus, describing the murder of Sychaeus, calls Dido’s brother impius (.349), she is referring to his violation of family ties. Dido turns Aeneas’ epithet against him by referring to him as impius when she orders that all traces of the nefandus vir be destroyed (4.495–498): arma viri thalamo quae fixa reliquit impius exuviasque omnis lectumque iugalem, quo perii, super imponas: abolere nefandi cuncta viri monimenta iuvat. Pile in my bedchamber the weapons left by the impious one, and all his spoils, and our marriage bed, by which I was destroyed: I intend to wipe out all record of the unspeakable man.

In all these examples, there is a suggestion that proper relationships have been violated, but when, in her death soliloquy, Dido asks herself, infelix Dido, nunc te facta impia tangunt? (4.596), we pause to wonder what relationship she sees herself as having violated. Austin and Williams interpret facta impia as ‘‘her lack of pietas to Sychaeus, and perhaps also her failure in her duty to her own people.’’ 29 They reject any allusion to Aeneas in impia facta. Her sense of obligation to Sychaeus, however, for Dido and for Vergil, is embodied in pudor,30 not pietas. On the other hand, impietas does appear to embody this ruler’s responsibilities to her subjects. In dying, Dido has failed in her obligations to

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her people, just as she says earlier that Sychaeus, in dying, has failed her. When she asks to die (4.45), we are told that she is weary of gazing at the heavens (taedet caelum . . . tueri ). The Trojan women in Book 5 similarly give way to their weariness before they set the ships afire (taedet pelagi perferre laborem, 5.67). Surprisingly, taedet is applied to Aeneas (tot spicula taedet / vellere, 0.888–889) just before he kills Mezentius’ horse, Rhaebus; the horse, shortly before he is killed, takes on almost human coloration because of Mezentius’ moving address to it. Aeneas’ growing weariness and disgust at this point are becoming evident, but, unlike Dido and the Trojan women, he does not give up. Thus, when Dido decides to die, she lays the basis for truly impia facta, since she leaves her people without a dux.

conclusion Philodemus writes on Epicurus’ theories about piety to defend him against charges of atheism.31 In the process, he unveils a perspective quite different from the attitude toward the gods that Lucretius attributed to the Epicurean Sage. The piety that Vergil attributes to Aeneas is in many ways consistent with Philodemus’ account of Epicurus’ conception of piety. Central among Epicurus’ beliefs were (contrary to Lucretius) the appropriateness of offering sacrifices to the gods, the need to make these offerings without concern for one’s return (in contrast to the position espoused by Plato’s Euthyphro), and the acceptability of linking piety with war. These are all essential aspects of Aeneas’ piety in Vergil’s epic. Piety toward one’s family (which by extension becomes the state), while respected by the Greeks, becomes increasingly attached to the concept by the time of Augustus, probably bolstered by the traditional piety attributed to Aeneas, while the link between pietas and arma grows ever stronger in the course of Vergil’s poem, implicitly to enable the leader to fulfill his pious duties. Thus the early emphasis on man’s behavior with respect to the gods extends increasingly to family and country and becomes central to the concept by Roman times, and is embodied forever in Vergil’s Aeneas. We see, however, that in developing Aeneas’ piety, Vergil did not necessarily abandon his youthful Epicurean beliefs, since they are consistent with what he would have learned in the company of Philodemus and his school. What he does reject are Lucretius’ criticisms of those whose piety is evident.

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notes . For Cicero, its meaning evolves from performing one’s duty to country or parents or other blood relations (Inv. rhet. 2.22.66, 2.53.6), to piety toward one’s ancestors (Verr. 4.6.2), but during the last years of his life, he speaks repeatedly of pietas adversum deos (Fin. 3.22.73; Nat. D. .2.3, .4.6; Top. 90. For useful surveys of pietas, see Galinsky 969, Wagenwoort 980, and Garrison 992. For Philodemus, see Obbink 996. 2. Even Otis acknowledged, ‘‘We must not exaggerate the Stoicism [in Vergil]. . . . In the last analysis, the Aeneid is anything but simply Stoic’’ (964: 226n). Compare Hardie 986: 28ff. and Kraggerud 968: 44 n. 06 for arguments that Aeneas is Stoic, not Epicurean. 3. Long 985: 625. 4. In the Euthyphro, the father-son relationship that is such an essential part of Vergil’s familial piety is contradicted, as the son, in rigidly interpreting his religious duties, is initiating proceedings against his father for having violated ὁσιότης. This sort of contrast, as embodied in the distinction between Lausus and his evil father, Mezentius (Aen. 7.648–654), takes on tragic proportions in Vergil. Cf. Rabinowitz 958; McPherran 992: 220–24. 5. Cf. Empedocles 3.2–5 D-K (492–432 b.c.): ἐκ δ’ ὁσίων στομάτων καθαρὴν ὀχετεύσατε πηγὴν καὶ . . . πέμπε παρ’ Εὐσεβίης ἐλάουσ’ εὐήνιον ἅρμα (‘‘Pour from holy lips the pure stream and, . . . driving your well-yoked chariot, send it from the [dwelling of ] Piety’’). 6. Andronicus Περὶ Παθῶν p. 25.9 Schuchardt; cited by von Arnim 968: 67.4–5. 7. De pietate 338ff., pp. 98–99 Obbink. 8. Ibid.: col. xix, pp. 43–45 Obbink. 9. Ibid.: col. xxxi, p. 67 Obbink. 0. Wagenwoort 980: 9, citing J. Woltjer, ‘‘Religio en Pietas bij Lucretius,’’ Versl. en Meded. Kon. Ak. v. W. afd. Lett.  (92): 239ff. esp. 246. Cf. Hardie (986: 57–240), who examines Vergil’s ‘‘inversion’’ of Lucretius’ Epicureanism. Thomas (988, :3–4 and passim) allows that Lucretius’ influence in the Georgics, while pervasive, is purely formal. Farrell (99: 69ff.) finds that Vergil’s allusions to Lucretius’ poem are dominant in G. 2 and 3, and that the majority of these allusions come from Books 5 and 6 of Lucretius. . The text used for Vergil is Mynors 969; all translations are mine unless otherwise noted. 2. Even the title of Lucretius’ De rerum natura is here suggested by rerum causas. Another such contrast occurs in G. 3.475ff.; on this, see Mynors 990 and Thomas 988: vol. 2, both ad loc.; cf. Ross 987: 228–230. 3. See Gigante in this volume, and cf. Gigante 983e and 99; Gigante and Capasso 989. On Philodemus in Campania, see Gigante 995 and 999.

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patricia a. johnston 4. E.g., ‘‘Not only will [the sage] sing praises of . . . the sacrifices, but also at the rites of gods and heroes’’ (cols. lxiiii–lxv, pp. 233–235 Obbink). 5. Heinze 993: 8; for a list of other sources of the legend, see 55 n. 43. 6. See Callim. Hymn to Delos 5–54. 7. Sua arma here refers to Misenus’ trumpet; see Williams 972–973, : ad loc., and Delattre in this volume. 8. It is this ritual aspect of piety on which Theophrastus (ap. Porph. Abst. 2.5.) is said to have focused in discussing piety: ‘‘It seems to be an incalculably long time since the most rational race of all, as Theophrastus says, dwelling in the most sacred region created by the Nile, started first . . . to sacrifice cassia and frankincense mixed with saffron.’’ 9. Cf. Gottlieb 998. 20. Cf. Williams 972–973, : ad loc. Creusa was the sister of Hector. 2. In Ecl. 4.26–27, the poet prophesies that in the new Golden Age, children will learn by reading (not by experiencing) the heroic deeds of their ancestors: simul heroum laudes et facta parentis / iam legere et quae sit poteris cognoscere virtus (‘‘As soon as you are able to read the great deeds [laudes] of heroes and of your father and to recognize what virtue is’’). See also 37–39: hinc, ubi iam firmata virum te fecerit aetas, / cedet et ipse mari vector, nec nautica pinus / mutabit merces (‘‘Hereafter, when the strengthening years have made you a man, the sailor himself will yield to the sea, and the nautical pine tree will no longer exchange merchandise’’). 22. Hence Servius explains the epithet pius at Aen. 4.393: at pius Aeneas iussa deum exsequitur. bene autem excusat Aenean ‘‘pium’’ dicendo, cum ei et gemitus dat, et ostendit solacia dolenti velle praestare, et probat religiosum, cum deorum praeceptis paret. (‘‘But pious Aeneas carries out the commands of the gods. He [Vergil] appropriately apologizes for Aeneas by calling him ‘pious’ when he gives him moans and shows that he wants to give solace to the one grieving, and shows that Aeneas is religious when he obeys the commands of the gods.’’) 23. Aeneas’ devotion to his companions is reminiscent of the importance of friendship in Philodemus’ circle; cf. Davis and Schroeder in this volume. 24. Cf. Johnston 998. 25. Cf. 3.6–62, non haec tibi litora suasit / Delius aut Cretae iussit considere Apollo (‘‘Apollo did not intend these shores for you, nor did he bid you settle in Crete’’), with 6.2, Delius vates (i.e., the Sibyl). 26. Dicet hic aliquis: quae ergo, aut ubi, aut qualis est pietas? nimirum apud eos, qui bella nesciunt, qui concordiam cum omnibus servant, qui amici sunt etiam inimicis, qui omnes homines pro fratribus diligunt; qui cohibere iram sciunt, omnemque animi furorem tranquilla moderatione lenire (‘‘At this point someone will say: ‘What then, or when, or of what sort is piety?’ Certainly among those who know not war, who keep harmony with all, who are friendly even to enemies, who love all men as brothers; who know how to restrain anger and to soothe all passion of the mind with calm guidance,’’ Div. inst. 5.0). As Galinsky (969: 72

Piety in Vergil and Philodemus ch. 4) points out, such skepticism regarding Aeneas’ pietas was not limited to Christian writers. 27. Already in the fourth eclogue, the link (or, one might say, disjunction) in Vergil’s mind between arms and peace is prominent, e.g., at lines 5–7: ille deum vitam accipiet divisque videbit / permixtos heroas et ipse videbitur illis, / pacatumque reget patriis virtutibus orbem (‘‘He will enjoy the life of the gods and will see heroes / mingled with gods and will himself be seen by them, / and will rule a world made peaceful by his father’s virtues’’ [or: ‘‘will rule a pacified world with his father’s virtues’’]). The ambiguity in the last line appears to be intentional. 28. Cf. Johnston 980. 29. Austin 977: ad loc.; see also Williams 972–973, : ad loc. and Johnston 987. 30. While pudor tends to be thought of as a female virtue, in Vergil it is in fact frequently linked with some reference to military activity or military games. In Book 5, Mnestheus exhorts his crewmates to ‘‘feel shame at being the last’’ (extremos pudeat rediisse, 5.96), a cry he repeats in Book 9 to the Trojans under attack (9.598–599). Later in Book 5, in the boxing match between Entellus and Dares, pudor renews the strength of Entellus (tum pudor incendet viris, 5.455). In Book 9, Turnus attacks the Trojan camp during Aeneas’ absence. In accordance with Aeneas’ instructions, the Teucrians take shelter within their own fortification and fight defensively, even though pudor and ira urge them to join the battle: ergo etsi conferre manum pudor iraque monstrat (9.44). Later in Book 9, the Rutulian Numanus taunts the Trojans for their defensive posture, ‘‘Aren’t you ashamed (non pudet) to be besieged (teneri ), for a second time, O twice-captured Phrygians?’’ (non pudet obsidione iterum valloque teneri, / bis capti Phryges, 9.598–599). In Book 0, grief coupled with shame (dolor et pudor) ‘‘arms’’ (armat) Pallas’ opponents to fight against him, as he viciously slaughters them: facta viri mixtus dolor et pudor armat in hostis (0.398), and in Book 2, Juturna rouses the Rutulians to arms by shaming them into breaking the agreed-upon single combat between Aeneas and Turnus: non pudet, O Rutuli? (2.229). In Book 0, after Mezentius’ speech to his horse, Rhaebus, he is incited by ‘‘infinite tides of shame’’ (aestuat ingens . . . pudor, 0.870–87), commingled with grief and madness, into his final combat with Aeneas. These lines recur in Book 2, this time applied to Turnus, ashamed at having failed his people and grieving at the results of that failure, himself cornered but too proud to take flight: aestuat ingens / uno in corde pudor mixtoque insania luctu / et furiis agitatus amor et conscia virtus (‘‘Enormous shame swells in his heart, and madness mixed with sorrow, and his passion and awareness of his own virtue is goaded by fury,’’ 2.666–668). 3. See Obbink 996: –24.

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vergil’s De pietate: from Ehoiae to allegory in vergil, philodemus, and ovid dirk obbink

Xenophanes said that Homer and Hesiod attributed to the gods all the things that are sources of blame and reproach among men (2 B  D-K):

πάντα θεοῖς ἀνέθηκαν Ὅμηρός θ’ Ἡσίοδός τε ὅσσα παρ’ ἀνθρώποισιν ὀνείδεα καὶ ψόγος ἐστίν, κλέπτειν, μοιχεύειν τε καὶ ἀλλήλους ἀπατεύειν. Homer and Hesiod attributed all things to the gods that among men are reproach and blame, stealing, adultery, deceiving each other.1

Some may not have thought the complaint a fair one, either because they liked these things, or because they were entertained when Homer showed the gods engaging in them. Or they considered, perhaps, that not only the Olympian gods but also the famous families descending from the gods owed their existence to such affairs—so that polygamy and infidelity and even incest, that is, the absolute freedom from restriction in sexual relations, was merely one of the characteristics that defined the Greek gods as essentially different from men. If one, like earlier Greeks, judges the gods either by one’s own fantasies of absolute power or by extrapolation from the observed behavior of local basileis, a large part of what the later philosophical tradition has to say about gods flies out the window. But starting with Xenophanes’ critique (quoted above), the critical and moral engagement of philosophers with early Greek poetry is our earliest example of literary criticism in the Western tradition and the beginning of Western theology. The agonistic taking to task and defending of poetry in the heat of the public forum was central to the consumption of literature and provides valuable evidence for how works were read and responded to from earliest times. Among the many improprieties that Philodemus in his treatise De pie-

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tate (Peri eusebeias, On Piety) casts in the teeth of the poets and mythographers is that they show the gods engaged in scandalous love-affairs. The complaint was not a new one. Already Plato had made Socrates in the Republic decry the sexual excesses of the gods of Greek myth. Even earlier than Xenophanes’ condemnation, the poets themselves could be prudish when it came to depicting a divinity’s sexuality or open engagement in sex. In the Odyssey the female gods stay away from witnessing the exposed adultery of Ares and Aphrodite, although the male gods approve and watch enthusiastically, with Hermes and Apollo saying that they, too, would wish to sleep with Aphrodite, even with all the gods and goddesses looking on. Even Zeus has to conceal from the other gods sex with his own wife in the Διὸς ἀπάτη in Iliad 4. But when it comes to affairs with mortals, the gods exhibit no such compunction. Even female divinities accost their favorites openly, as Aphrodite does Anchises in the Homeric Hymn, without fear of exposure or recrimination. Force may be used, if expedient, as the wise Centaur Chiron condones Apollo’s quest for Cyrene in Pindar’s ninth Pythian ode. Philodemus objects in particular to the element of deception involved in the gods’ affairs.2 One of the elements that emerged, somewhat surprisingly, from reconstruction of the correct order of columns in Philodemus’ On Piety for a new edition was the discovery that the topic of the gods’ sexual improprieties devolves from a discussion of their deception through metamorphosis or shape-changing, termed πολυειδεία by Philodemus—which already intimates connections with Ovid and Vergil. Philodemus earlier in the treatise leveled other criticisms against the gods of myth: that they are born, die, steal from, fear, war with, enslave, and wound one another, as well as undergo labors and sufferings. He sums up before the section on deception as follows (P.Herc. 433 fr. 2 ii + 088 fr. ):

Ὅμηρ[ος καὶ Πείσαν]δρος [τοὺς πόνους] καὶ μ[όχθους τοῖς θεοῖ]ς ἐκπεπόμ[φασι πανταχ]όθεν, κ[αὶ ἐποίησα]ν ταλαιπωρ[οτ]έ[ ρους] τῶν ἐχ[όντ]ων [χεῖ]ρον αὐτοὺς καὶ [κακ]ὰς ὑ[π]ολήψεις [πε]ρὶ [α]ὐτῶν· οἱ μὲ[ν γὰρ ὄν]τες θνητοὶ πα[ρ]αγρά[πτ]ους ἔχου[σ]ι τὰς κακοπαθίας, οἱ δ’ ἀεὶ ζῶντες αἰωνίους ἀναδέχονται τὰς συμφοράς. Homer and Pisander have sent toils and labors against the gods from all sides, and have made them [sc. the gods] more wretched than people who have these things [sc. toils and labors] worse and who also have debased ideas about them. For they [i.e., people] have sufferings that 76

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have an end-mark, since they are mortal, whereas the others, because they live forever, endure woes that last for all eternity.

Philodemus’ point here shows an affinity with a similar remark made by Longinus in On the Sublime (9.7):3

ἀλλὰ ταῦτα φοβερὰ μέν, πλὴν ἄλλως, εἰ μὴ κατ’ ἀλληγορίαν λαμβάνοιτο, παντάπασιν ἄθεα καὶ οὐ σῴζοντα τὸ πρέπον. Ὅμηρος γὰρ μοι δοκεῖ παραδιδοὺς τραύματα θεῶν στάσεις τιμωρίας δάκρυα δεσμὰ πάθη πάμφυρτα τοὺς μὲν ἐπὶ τῶν Ἰλιακῶν ἀνθρώπους ὅσον ἐπὶ τῇ δυνάμει θεοὺς πεποιηκέναι, τοὺς θεοὺς δὲ ἀνθρώπους. ἀλλ’ ἡμῖν μὲν δυσδαιμονοῦσιν ἀπόκειται ‘‘λιμὴν κακῶν ὁ θάνατος,’’ τῶν θεῶν δ’ οὐ τὴν φύσιν, ἀλλὰ τὴν ἀτυχίαν ἐποίησεν αἰώνιον.4 Terrible as these passages 5 are, they are utterly irreligious and breach the canons of propriety unless one takes them allegorically. I feel indeed that in recording as he does the wounding of the gods, their quarrels, vengeances, tears, imprisonment, and all their manifold passions, Homer has done his best to make the men in the Iliad gods and the gods men. Yet, if we mortals are unhappy, death is the ‘‘harbor from our troubles,’’ whereas Homer has made their miseries rather than their divine nature immortal.

Unlike Philodemus, Longinus offers us the possibility of reading allegorically the improprieties of the gods, an option to which we shall return. In passing he offers the moral platitude that Philodemus has framed as an Epicurean criticism of myth in On Piety—an occurrence that may have relevance for the dating of Longinus, recently challenged by Malcolm Heath,6 who would downdate the work to accommodate the authorship of the third-century rhetor and philosopher Cassius Longinus, an Athenian who worked at the court of the Palmyrene queen Zenobia in the late 280s. As it happens, there is a remarkable parallel with our passage in Cassius Longinus F 0f (Brisson and Patillon 994 = Proclus In Tim. Platonis .63.24–63.7):

τίς γὰρ Ὁμήρου μεγαλοφωνότερος, ὃς καὶ θεοὺς εἰς ἔριν καὶ μάχην καταστήσας οὐ διαπίπτει τῆς μιμήσεως, ἀλλ’ ἀρκεῖ τῇ φύσει τῶν πραγμάτων ὑψηλολογούμενος; Who is more magniloquent than Homer, who when he puts the gods themselves into strife and combat does not fall short of the imita-

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tion, but is equal to the nature of the events in the sublimity of his language? 7

Since the parallel with Philodemus’ De pietate (before 44 b.c., the date of composition of Cicero’s De natura deorum) clearly argues for the traditional first century b.c. or a.d. dating, I am tempted to suggest that Proclus, Porphyry, and the later Neoplatonists who preserve various fragments of Cassius Longinus simply attributed to him the treatise that has come down to us as On the Sublime, perhaps (like Heath) due to the similarity of names.8 Another near-contemporary echo of Philodemus’ point occurs in Juturna’s lament in Vergil’s Aeneid (2.879–882) and further anchors this dating:9 quo vitam dedit aeternam? cur mortis adempta est condicio? possem tantos finire dolores nunc certe, et misero fratri comes ire per umbras! immortalis ego? 10 Why did he [sc. Jupiter] bother to grant me eternal life? Why am I not eligible for the safety-clause of death? Especially when I could now bring an end to such woes, and accompany my brother [sc. Turnus] through the shades. Immortal, am I?

Finire and tantos dolores echo Philodemus’ παραγράφειν, ‘‘to draw a line under,’’ ‘‘to bring to a conclusion,’’ and κακοπαθίαι or συμφοραί, ‘‘sufferings,’’ respectively. Juturna laments her immortal, Homeric status, forced to suffer for all times, and attempts to exit the Vergilian universe through aetiological suicide, becoming divinized as a dimly remembered spirit of a spring in the Roman forum. She thus becomes an exemplum of two of Philodemus’ themes at once: of the evil the great gods inflict on lesser goddesses and mortals by their love affairs, and of the passions and griefs that, supposing the gods suffer them, would make their immortality less bearable than our mortality. This theme is programmatic for Vergil’s Aeneid as a whole, as is clear from the outset (.): tantae animis caelestibus 11 irae? (‘‘Do the gods’ souls experience such great angers?’’). The line may be taken as introducing the topic of piety as programmatic not only in Vergil’s epic but in the entire tradition of mythological poetry with a divine superstructure.Vergil’s epic will be a kind of De pietate, inspired by the Muse (for which read: ‘‘mythological in form,’’ ‘‘translated from Homer’’), recounting the causes by which the very queen of the gods, dolens with her numine laeso,12 could put 78

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a man—virum/ἄνδρα—outstanding in piety (insignem pietate) through such a lot of bother and misery (labores/πολλὰ πλάγχθη) and why. The echoes of the themes of divine wrath (ira/μῆνις) and hero (virum/ἄνδρα) in posing this question suggest that Vergil proposes to critique the tradition of mythological epic starting from Homer. Vergil frames his poem with an answer to this question at its other end. At Aeneid 2.830–83, Jupiter says (subridens, 829, strikes an ironical note): es germana Iovis Saturnique altera proles irarum tantos volvis sub pectore fluctos. True sister of Jupiter are you, and Saturn’s other child, to have such a surge of wrath deep in your breast.

Here the answer to the question tantaene animis caelestibus irae? appears to be a resounding ‘‘Yes!’’ But the matter is hardly so simple.Vergil obviously intended the opening question to be a point for meditation and study throughout his mythological εἰσαγωγή into theology. Anger of this sort is seen to be a disease endemic in the entire mythological tradition. This does not, of course, mean that it is necessarily wrong (in ethical terms) or unnatural (in psychology), only that it is inappropriate for a divinity. What marks Aeneas out as human at the close of the Aeneid defines true divinity in a way that shows the gods of the Aeneid to be players in a didactic drama. Juno is as angry as Jupiter when he has been deceived. But the vestiges of divine propriety are maintained when Jupiter immediately urges Juno to repress her anger (2.832): verum age et inceptum frustra submitte furorem. At 2.54–55, Juturna cries real tears and beats her breasts with her hands like a mortal woman mourning; Juno for her part upbraids her like a child: ‘‘No time for tears: go see if you can’t snatch your brother from death.’’ 13 Philodemus’ concerns with mythological poetry and stories in De pietate show him sketching out how far one may attribute anthropomorphic properties to the gods without violating ethical, psychological, and physical constraints. Vergil can be seen putting a specifically Epicurean conception of the gods into Dido’s mouth when she says of Hermes to Aeneas at 4.379–380: scilicet is superis labor est, ea cura quietos / sollicitat (‘‘Truly, this is work for the gods, this is care to vex their peace’’). Only the Epicureans believed the gods to live a life so fully at ease that they did not bother to communicate with men. Just as Vergil begins the Aeneid by referring to the topic of piety, so he returns to the topic very near the end of the epic, both in Juturna’s speech and in the hope expressed at Aeneid 2.839 that Teucrians 79

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mixed with Latins will produce a race that supra homines, supra ire deos pietate videbis (‘‘you will see go beyond both men and gods in piety’’). The gods of the Aeneid are often perceived as capricious, whimsical, or upset, as furens, amens, or insanus. Or as suffering. Vergil, like Philodemus, perceived that the traditional epic pantheon, together with the gods of Rome (including its current divine rulers), was populated largely by transgressive figures, criminal gods and their demonic underlings, who violate the very sacred order that they guard in order to define and claim and validate their special place in it. Figures such as these can indeed be ‘‘gone beyond’’ by the mortal heroes in piety. Such portrayals (and the doubts expressed at times by the narrator over them) balance the increasing emphasis on the piety of Aeneas in the epic. He is, for example, from Book 3 onward shown performing rites that are foundational for Rome, in the sense that they would later have a national significance. Vergil links his contemporary Rome with Aeneas’ time through aetiological associations. The sacrifices and rites that Aeneas is shown performing will be later performed in Vergil’s Rome, emphasizing the piety that is part of every Roman’s bloodline. For the Aeneid, the history of Rome itself was the proof that the Roman way of worshiping the gods was the way of which the gods themselves approved. What has proved correct is continued habitually and impersonally. Vergil could be seen as trying to explain the (correct) origin of these ceremonies, however institutionalized and mechanized they may have become by his own time, and to re-infuse them with a personal meaning. The very personal rites at Anchises’ tomb clearly suggest the later Roman Parentalia. Side by side with historical outcomes, it can be seen that Vergil uses the gods to highlight personal consequences. According to the reading popularized by Heinze, the gods of the Aeneid are symbols or figurative representations of what happens in the hearts and minds of men. Thus, if someone feels a specific emotion,Vergil often attributes that feeling to the respective divinity. Because Dido is completely infatuated with Aeneas, Vergil portrays her as possessed by a Cupid sent by Venus, wounded by his arrow and poison. No doubt this reflects a contemporary strategy for reading Homer and traditional myths, perhaps of the allegorical variety instantiated in the passage of Longinus discussed above. By this means the gods often become outward personifications of the inner psychology of the victim. The mortals in the Aeneid are more often than not victims of the divine, much in the same way as we might see ourselves as the victims of our own emotions. Vergil is clearly aware of this formulation, but he often expresses it the 80

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other way round. Our emotions and beliefs themselves become gods, in a way that contrasts with traditional theology. Nisus at 9.84–85 says: dine hunc ardorem mentibus addunt, Euryale, an sua cuique deus fit dira cupido? Is it the gods who put passion in men’s mind, Euryalus, or does each person’s fierce desire become his own God?

I must be content with suggesting that Vergil gives us a mixture of these two: a natural passion amplified into something that would otherwise not have occurred, explaining both historical and ethnic continuity and accounting for human motivation. More concisely formulated, the gods in the Aeneid can be seen as the historical working out or projection of an individual’s or a people’s ethical goal. They ‘‘are’’ someone’s, or a people’s, own idea of them. When Juturna jumps suicidally into the stream at Aeneid 2.886, she abandons a divinity that she could happily have retained in a world populated by Epicurean gods, who neither suffer like humans nor endure that suffering for all time. A goddess, she buries herself in her own stream: se fluvio dea condidit alto. Here condidit also suggests founding, in an aetiological sense, as in the phrase condere urbem.14 She becomes a spring, later little known, but commemorated by a cult in the later Roman forum, resurrected by Vergil for a cameo appearance in an Augustan mythological epic. In becoming a mere aetiology in Vergil’s Callimachean poetry, Juturna’s divinity evaporates into the kind of false belief about the gods noted by Philodemus to be held by people who really do suffer like the gods in myth. It remains to be seen if this same mixture of concern over proprieties in the representation of the state’s gods on the one hand, and the personal psychology of religion on the other, might surface elsewhere in Vergil and his contemporaries, who wrote in the shadow of Augustus’ Rome. What strands of interest and influence led to such a conception of divinities on an allegorical level that became foundational for all later Western literature?

neptune’s lovers and their progeny Into this nexus of agonistic complaint and response to poetry about the gods falls the following text, P.Herc. 602 fr. 6, first edited by Adolf Schober 15 and more recently by Wolfgang Luppe.16 I shall try to make some further improvements on it, specifically by expanding and extending its 8

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text through a new type of combination of fragments in the Herculaneum papyri. This is a type of restoration and conservation that requires close attention to the archaeology of the papyrus rolls of the Herculaneum library, but equally to the literary context and source tradition of the text. I apologize in advance if I seem to be jumping indiscriminately between the two, but I shall try to make a case that this is essential to the methodology. After setting out the methodology of reconstruction, I go on to state exactly what we gain from the resulting new text. Finally, I appeal to the text and its background to draw some implications for the originally distinct gods Neptune and Poseidon, at a time when Greek literature and philosophy came to Italy and Rome. The current state of P.Herc. 602 fr. 6 after the editions of Schober and Luppe, based on the Naples apograph (the papyrus itself was destroyed in the process of opening the roll), is essentially as follows: . . . . . . ] Λαπηθε[ίαι Σι]θώνηι, πρὸ[ς δὲ τ]αύταις Ἀ[λκυόνηι κα]ὶ Κελαιν[οῖ ταῖς Π ]λειάσιν κ[αὶ Χά  ρι]τι καὶ Μη[κιονίκ]ηι καὶ Λαο[δίκηι, ἔ ]τι δὲ τῆι Ἐν[ιπέως ἐρ]ασθ είσηι Τ [υροῖ, ὅ ]θεν τεκε[ Πολυβοία [ι] κ[αὶ τῆι  θ]νητῆι Γοργ[οῖ . ]ΟΓΕΛΟΚΙΤΑ . ]τῶν πλείστ[ων ]ων πατέρα [ ]αυτους δὲ δ[ειλαιο]τέρους θεο [ὺς ]ΤΕΝΟΝΜΕΜΕ[ . ]ΠΕ[ . . ]ΤΙΝ[ . ]ΚΑΙ[ . . . ]ΓΑΡ[ ]ΤΟΝ[ . . . ]ΠΡΟΣ[



5

0 [δ]ὲ Πέλοπι Luppe  5

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The papyrus roll was cut into halves in the eighteenth century, revealing this column of writing on one of its inner layers. To begin the reconstruction of such a papyrus, the roll must be envisaged as split open 82

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lengthwise. Then a drawing is made of the exposed inner layer of writing. This layer is then destroyed in order to reveal the layer underneath, which is drawn, destroyed, and so on. Only the final layer survives. Drawn fragments are numbered successively: fr. , fr. 2, and so on, so that they are in normal cases in the reverse of their original order in the treatise. In previous editions of the papyri, we have actually been reading the treatises backward! In order to recover the original order of fragments, we must invert their numerical sequence, and read each column in alternation with its corresponding member from the other half of the papyrus roll—which must first be located, since the papyri are inventoried in a complete state of disarray due to several moves. This is in essence the method I developed for the reconstruction of the rolls,17 now used successfully by Daniel Delattre working with On Music and Richard Janko working with On Poems . The fragment preserved in P.Herc. 602 fr. 6 will serve to illustrate the basic method, to which I hope to make some further refinements. The first step in this process of discovery—and it is absolutely essential to proceed in this order and no other—is to restore the text as fully but as accurately and with as much caution as possible. The apograph gives the impression of the Naples disegnatore at the time the layers of the scorze stack were peeled off, one by one. Draftsmen who knew no Greek were intentionally selected. This may seem odd, but the intention was to reduce the amount of error introduced by conjecture or suggestion to the eye of a given sequence of letters. As a result, the transcript is not in every case accurate, but mistakes are of a predictable sort due to similarity of letter-shapes. Corrections of the draftsman’s work, often easily made on the basis of context by normal methods of textual criticism, are designated in the texts that follow with underlining instead of with the sublinear dot marking uncertainly read letters. Schober and Luppe were able to make these corrections and arrive at the text given above by realizing that the column consists of a list of women’s names. So who are these women, and what do they have in common?

 2 3 4 5–6 6–7 7

Λαπηθε[ίαι Σι]θώνηι Ἀ[λκυό ]νηι Κελαιν[οῖ [Χά  |ρι]τι Μη[κι]ονί |[κ]ηι Λαο[δίκηι

Ovid Her. 9 — — 33(a)Alcyone 35(b) Celaeno — — 35(a)Laodice 83

Hes. Cat. cf. fr. 7.2 — fr. 84 fr. 69.2 — fr. 253 —

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9 2 22

Τ [υρ]οῖ Πολυβοία [ι  θ]νητῆι Γοργ[οῖ

32 Tyro — 34 Medusa

fr. 30.25 — Theog. 277–279

Alcyone, Celaeno, Mecionice, Laodice, Tyro, and Medusa (the ‘‘mortal Gorgon’’ in 22) all have in common that they slept with Poseidon. The others are obscure, and not to be found in most handbooks on mythology; Laodice and Polyboea are extremely so. Polyboea is supposed to be the sister of Hyacinthus who was killed by Apollo’s discus-throw, but we don’t know much about her.18 Others are more familiar. Odysseus saw Tyro in the underworld in Odyssey  (235–259), where she is said to have fallen in love with the river-god Enipeus, whose waters she frequented. This in itself is strange enough (few mortal women fall in love with gods), but the story gets stranger still: Poseidon takes the form of Enipeus and sleeps with Tyro at the outpourings of the river. A dark wave towers up over them to hide them. There is a speech (several lines of which overlap with her Ehoia in the Hesiodic Catalogue) in which Poseidon reveals himself to Tyro and calls upon her to bring up their children, but also enjoins her to keep silent about the affair. She becomes the mother by Poseidon of Pelias and Neleus, and Poseidon’s insidious instructions to keep the affair a secret are related to themes later exploited in Sophoclean tragedies. Celaeno and Alcyone are together two of the Pleiades, the daughters of Atlas. The offspring of Celaeno and Poseidon is Lycos, who has no more children and is transported by Poseidon to the island of the Blessed (Hellanicus FGrH 4 F 9b; [Apollod.] Bibl. 3.0.). But Alcyone’s son by Poseidon is Hyrieus (his name explains the coastal site of Hyria near Aulis), who fathers Nykteus by a nymph named Klonie: Nykteus becomes the father of Antiope, who will bear Zethos and Amphion to Zeus ([Apollod.] Bibl. 3.0.), and these last two ‘‘will become founders, in one legend at least, of Thebes, and actors in a basic drama of wicked stepmothers and revenge.’’ 19 So it could be argued that these are some of the most important, foundational figures of Greek myth. These names also have in common that all seem to be in the dative. (Iota adscript, as elsewhere in the treatise, is not consistently written by the scribe and so must in some places be supplied by the editor in angle brackets.) The datives are familiar from other passages in which the gods’ sexual encounters are described, regularly depending on verbs meaning ‘‘to have sexual intercourse with,’’ μίγνυμι, συγγενέσθαι, συνουσιάζειν, or the like. Philodemus includes several such lists of individual gods’ sexual escapades: for example, the one for Zeus given in P.Herc. 85:20 84

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[Νέμε]σιν τ’ ὁ τὰ Κύ[πρια γ]ράψας ὁμοιωθέ[ντ]α χηνὶ καὶ αὐτ[ὸν] δ ιώκειν, καὶ μιγέν[τα]ς ὠιὸ ν τεκεῖν [ἐξ] οὗ γενέσθαι τὴν [Ἑλ]ένην. ὡς δὲ [Λή]δας ἐρασθεὶς [ἐγ]ένετο κύκνος, [Εὐ]ρώπης δὲ ταῦ[ρος], Λαμίας δὲ ἔ[πο]ψ, Δανάης δὲ χρ[υσὸ]ς καὶ παρ’ Ἀπολ [λωνίδ]η[ι] καὶ παρ’ Εὐ[ριπίδ]η[ι] λέγετ[αι]. The author of the Cypria says that having turned himself into a goose, [Zeus] also pursued Nemesis in this form, and that after they had had intercourse, they produced an egg, from which Helen was hatched. Both in Apollonides and in Euripides it is said that when he became enamored of Leda he became a swan, and of Europa, a bull, and of Lamia, a hoopoe, and of Danae, gold.

Philodemus gives such catalogues for Apollo, Hermes, Ares, and Hephaestus (although we do not know in what order). Most of the mythographic material for these catalogues shows parallels with the women who appear in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women. We can get a glimpse of the original for Mecionice (who appears in P.Herc. 602 fr. 6 at lines 6–7) from a fragment of the Μεγάλαι Ἠοίαι (fr. 253 M.-W. = Σ Pi. Pyth. 4.36c):

ἢ οἵη Ὑρίῃ πυκινόφρων Μηκιονίκη, ἣ τέκεν Εὔφημον γαιηόχῳ Ἐννοσιγαίῳ μιχθεῖσ’ ἐν φιλότητι πολυχρύσου Ἀφροδίτης. Or like her at Hyria, careful-minded Mecionice, who was joined in the love of golden Aphrodite with the Earth-holder and Earth-shaker, and gave birth to Euphemus.

Although passed by in many modern handbooks of mythology, she was the mother of Euphemus (the argonaut who helped to found Cyrene in Pindar’s fourth Pythian ode). Using the model of the datives, and the formula of citation used by Philodemus elsewhere in the treatise, we can predict the grammatical construction as well as the extent of the catalogue (the others run up to a column in length). Poseidon will be the accusative subject of an infinitive like συγγενέθαι (so already Luppe) controlling the datives. Poseidon and the list that follows will have been introduced by a verb of speaking and an authority as subject in the nominative—presumably a single authority rather than a different one for each affair, as in the case of Zeus in P.Herc. 85. Note also that here Philodemus gives us the form of Poseidon’s transformation only in the case of Tyro in 8–9 (‘‘When she was in love with him in the form of the river Enipeus’’), rather than for each affair, as in P.Herc. 85. 85

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The first editor, Schober, had already cleverly recovered the names of Celaeno, Laodice, Tyro, and the ‘‘mortal Gorgon,’’ that is, Medusa, not out of thin air, but by noting a parallel in the list of Neptune’s lovers in Ovid’s Heroides 9.29–40, in which Hero exhorts Poseidon in memory of his own passionate affairs not to hinder Leander as he braves the waves: at tibi flammarum memori, Neptune, tuarum nullus erat ventis impediendus amor, si neque Amymone nec laudatissima forma criminis est Tyro fabula vana tui lucidaque Alcyone Calyceque Hecataeone nata et nondum nexis angue Medusa comis flavaque Laodice caeloque recepta Celaeno et quarum memini nomina lecta mihi. has certe pluresque canunt, Neptune, poetae molle latus lateri composuisse tuo. cur igitur totiens vires expertus amoris assuetum nobis turbine claudis iter? 21

30

35

40

Yet, Neptune, if you were mindful of your own heart’s flames, you should let no love be hindered by the winds—if neither Amymone, nor Tyro much praised for her beauty, are mere stories idly charged to you, nor shining Alcyone, and Calyce, child of Hecataeon, nor Medusa when her locks were not yet twined with snakes, nor golden-haired Laodice and Celaeno taken to the skies, nor those whose names I recall from my reading. These, surely, Neptune, and many more, the poets say in their songs have entwined their soft bodies with your own. Why, therefore, having experienced the power of love so many times, do you close with a storm the route familiar to us?

Hero and Leander were mythological lovers. Hero was a priestess of Aphrodite at Sestus. Leander, who lived at Abydos on the other side of the Hellespont, saw her at a festival, fell in love with her, and used to swim the Hellespont at night to see her until a storm put out the light by which she guided him, and he was drowned. Hero leapt from her seaside tower onto his corpse. For the names not included by Ovid, Schober had recourse to the fragments of the Hesiodic Catalogue. The methodology is not risk-free. Luppe was able to make a number of improvements to Schober’s reconstructions. Schober had restored Ἀ[μυμώνη in line 3 on the basis of the lead figure in Ovid’s list. Luppe realized that Amymone cannot (with Celaeno in 4) qualify as a Pleiad to take up the dative Π]λειάσιν in 5. Thus he 86

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replaced Amymone with Celaeno’s sister Ἀ[λκυόνη, Alcyone, who takes up the same space (she occurs both in Ovid’s list in Heroides 9 and in the Hesiodic Catalogue). Luppe also restored the names of Lapitheia and Sithone in –2. They are not otherwise attested, but if correct, they presumably were the eponymous heroines of their respective cities: Λάπηθος on the northern coast of Cyprus, and Σιθωνία in the middle of the three Chalcidian peninsulas (perhaps she was a relative of Σίθων). As coastal or sea-girt sites, their heroines would be suitable amorous conquests for a sea-divinity like Poseidon. So they may be correct. But Χά|ρι]τι in lines 5–6 can hardly be correct. Never attested as a paramour of Poseidon, Charis has no connection with the sea, and is elsewhere (in the Iliad ) domestically paired with Hephaestus, in whose separate catalogue she appears prominently in Philodemus (who notes there that Philonis slept with both Apollo and Hermes in the same night).22 I have likewise removed from consideration Luppe’s correction of the incomprehensible sequence of letters given by the apograph in 3 to read δ]ὲ Πέλοπι . Pelops has no place here—not because he was not beloved  of Poseidon (as Pindar’s first Olympian ode tells us he was), but rather because their love affair has no issue. For this reason he does not appear as one of Poseidon’s paramours in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women, the purpose of which was to trace genealogically the historical tribes of Greece, from which these names ultimately derive. I have therefore banned this correction from further consideration, noting that it also does not appear in Ovid’s list at Heroides 9.29–40 (cf. Met. 6.5–20). So to recap: we have a single fragment of the stack of layers numbered 602 containing a catalogue of the lovers of Poseidon couched in the dative, governed by a verb like μίγνυμι in reported speech, with connections to the Hesiodic Catalogue. Line lengths are variable only within strict limits (3–5 letters). The scribe writes iota adscript in the dative feminine, but may sometimes omit it. The nineteenth-century copyist occasionally mistook certain letters for their similarly shaped counterparts (no doubt he found the original in poor condition and difficult to read). In some cases these can be corrected to allow acceptable sense. So far so good.

toward a new reconstruction Many problems remain. Names of lovers still elude us in 5–6 and 3, and perhaps elsewhere (0, before ). The order of fragments listing the individual gods’ lovers is uncertain. And how are we to achieve anything like continuous sense? The next step in the process is to focus for a moment on the letters 87

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that are not there any longer, but that are known to have once been there. I focused on the row of letters restored with reasonable certainty at the left edge of the column in P.Herc. 602 fr. 6. For the papyrologist, gaps can sometimes be more revealing than preserved text. For one thing, they provide clues to reconstruction.Where, we are entitled to ask, is this missing series of letters? It may of course be lost, like so much else. But we are not entitled to conclude this until we have completed an exhaustive inventory and examination of all fragments of the same manuscript for a column that might show them on its right edge. Such a search in the National Library at Naples eventually produced the following fragment, from the series of Herculaneum fragments bearing the inventory number 243, which contains the beginning of the catalogue of Apollo’s lovers (P.Herc. 243 fr. 3 [original papyrus] = Hesiod fr. novum p. 90a M.-W. [ed. min.3]):23 col.  ] ]η ]. ]. ]ησ ]κου ]ναι ]ωνη  ].`ι´[[υ]] ].. ]μη ]δε ]νη ]σ ]λυ ]ονι ]αι ]σ ]οι ]αι ]ηι ]ι ]η ]σε

col. 2

θαι τὰ τῶν [πρεσβυτέρων. κα[ὶ τὸν μὲν Ἀπόλλω [τὸν Μουση{ι}γέτη[ν ἐρασθέντα τῆ[ς Μακαρέως θυγατρὸ [ς Εὐβοίας Ἀργε[ῖον τεκεῖν, μειχθέν[τα] δ ὲ [τὴν νῆ[[πλησιά[ζοντα ταῖς]] [[παρθένο [ις ἐπόησεν Ὅ-]] [[ μηρος ἔν [τε τοῖς ὑ-]] [[περώιοις [καὶ Ἄρην]] σον ἀπ’ ἐκ είν[ης ἐπονομάσαι, Φ  [ιλάμμωνα δ’ ἐκ [Φιλωνίδος τῆς ἐρω [ μένης {ν} τῆς τἀδελφ[οῦ γεννῆσαι, τὸν `δ᾿´ Ἀ[σκληπιὸν ἐξ Ἀρσ[ινόης, μηδ’ Ἀκακαλ [λίδα γέ τοι τὴν Ἑρμε[ῖ συνγενομένην π [εριιδ εῖν. ἐρασθῆνα [ι δὲ καὶ Κυρήνη[ς κ]α[ὶ Αἰ 88

5

0

5

20

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]νες ]ενε ]σου ]σ

θούσ{οι}ης καὶ ν[ύμφης Ἀστρηΐδος κ[αὶ τῆς Τροφωνείου μ [ητρὸς Ἐπ ικάσ [της· Ἑρ- ||

25

28

. . . the characteristics of the older ones; and that Apollo Leader of the Muses became enamored of Euboea daughter of Macareus and begat Argeios, and after he had intercourse with her named the island after her; and that he begat Philammon on Philonis the lover of his brother, and Asclepius on Arsinoe; and that he indeed did not overlook Acacallis, who also had an affair with Hermes; and that he became enamored of Cyrene and Aethusa and a nymph Astreis and Epicaste the mother of Trophonius; and that Hermes. . . .

Removed through the process of svolgimento or ‘‘reverse-scorzetura’’ (i.e., from the back of the stack of layers of papyrus), the catalogue of Apollo’s lovers survives in the original, shown here with the benefit of the new technology of imaging the carbonized papyri under infrared filters. A nearly complete column, it is preceded by an otherwise unpromising series of one or two letters from the ends of lines of the preceding column. In most cases they can be seen to match the letters predicted by restoration at the end of the lines of the column with which we began (P.Herc. 602 fr. 6), and elsewhere they correct previous editors’ supplements and suggest new restorations. In at least three new cases they supply new names of women expected from the catalogue in Ovid’s Heroides 9. The result is that 243 fr. 3 now follows seamlessly from 602 fr. 6. I present a revised composite version with new lineation, reflecting the addition of lines from the join with 243 fr. 3. 602 fr. 6 // 243 fr. 3 col.  [ ] [ . . . . .//. . . . . . . ]η [ . . . . .//. . . . . . . ] . [ . . . . .//. . . . . . . ] . [ . . . . .//. . . . . . ]ης [ . . . . .//. . . . . ]κου [ . . . . .// μιχθῆ]ναι [φησιν // Ἀμυμ]ώνη   ι [ . . . . .//. . . . . ]δ`ι´- [[υ [ . . . . .//. . . . . ] . . . καὶ] Λαπηθε[ίαι εἰ] // μὴ

5

Ovid Her. 9.3 vel ]λι0 89

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Σι]θώνηι, πρὸ[ς] // δ ὲ τ]αύταις Ἀ[λκυό] //νηι κα]ὶ Κελαιν[οῖ // ταῖ]ς Π]λειάσιν κ[αὶ // Κα]λύκ]ηι καὶ Μη[κι] //ονίκ]ηι καὶ Λαο[δικεί ]αι ἔ ]τι δὲ τῆι Ἐν[ιπέω] //ς ἐρ]ασθ είσηιΤ [υρ] //οῖ, ὅ ]θεν ‘‘τέκε [τέκνα,’’// κ]αὶ Πολυβοία [ι] κ[αὶ // τ]ῆι  θ]νητῆι Γοργ[οῖ. // φασ]ὶ δ’] ὃ γελοιότατ [ον // δ]ὴ τῶν πλείστ[ων // φύ]σεων πατέρα //[τι]νές, αὐτοὺς δὲ {δ//ε} νεω]τέρους θεο [ὺ] //ς οὔ γε νῦν μεμε[ιμῆ] //σ- || {. ]πε[ . . ]τιν[ . . . . . .} {. ]και[ . . . ]γαρ[ . . . . .} {τον[ . . . ]προσ[ . . . .}

Hes. fr. 84 Hes. fr. 69.2 Hes. fr. 245 Hes. fr. 253

5

Hes. fr. 30.25, Od. .235–259 cf. Od. .249

20

Hes. Theog. 277–279

25

28

[Author’s name missing] says that [Poseidon] had relations with Amymone [several names missing] and Lapetheia if not with Sithone, and in addition to these with the Pleiades Alcyone and Celaeno, and with Calyce and Mecionice and Laodica; and further, with Tyro when she was enamored of the river Enipeus, whence she came to ‘‘bear children,’’ 24 and with Polyboea, and with the mortal Gorgon. Some say —which is indeed the most laughable thing—that he is father of the greatest number of entities, while these themselves,25 being divinities of a more recent age, no longer now imitate [continues with 243 fr. 2 col. 2 as given above].

Double-slashes mark the juncture between the two fragments. I have replaced Luppe’s restoration of δ[ειλαι|ο]τέρους at 26–27 with νε|[ω]τέρους, which provides the natural and expected contrast with πρεσ]|βυτέρων at the beginning of 243 fr. 2, on the assumption that the scribe mistakenly copied δέ twice. (Schober had already posited the correction ν[ε|ω]τέρους, but that is too short for the space.) In 28 μεμε[ιμῆ]σ||θαι seems the natural restoration across the join. The middle is rare (so noted by LSJ ad loc.), but compare Plato Politicus 239e and Philebus 40e. 90

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An added gain is that the fragments numbered 243 are revealed as containing the layers from the other side of the papyrus roll corresponding at this point to those of 602. As such, this join may be used as the point of reference from which to sequentially intercalate the fragments of the 602 and 243 series in their proper sequence, so that the catalogues of the gods’ lovers move in an orderly and continuous fashion from Zeus through Poseidon, Apollo, Hermes, Ares, and Hephaestus, before continuing with the female gods and their mortal consorts. Note that the scribe has mistakenly started copying lines from the same level in the following column (P.Herc. 243 fr. 2) and has excised these in P.Herc. 243 fr. 3 by means of hooked brackets (περιγραφαί ). A corrector has copied the anticipated lines into the lower margin of the column from which they originally stood, indicating the point of insertion with the word κάτ(ω) between the lines. The displaced lines concern the surreptitious entry of a god (Ares or, less likely, Hermes) into the upper story (ἐν τοῖς ὑπερώοις) of a house (in this case, the women’s quarters or a ‘‘girl’s bedroom’’). The reference is to Iliad 2.53–55 (Astyoche, mother of Askalaphos and Ialmenos by Ares; she ‘‘went into the chamber with him’’).26 A closely related scene is depicted on a Phylax-vase from Paestum, showing Zeus with a ladder, assisted by Hermes, who holds a lamp, both about to mount to a second-story window, where a woman patiently waits.27 The join between these two fragments eluded previous editors because the fragmentary first column of P.Herc. 243 fr. 3 was not recorded in apograph by the copyists, who regularly failed to transcribe such negligibly preserved columns, judging that their time was better spent on more extensively preserved sections of text—with disastrous consequences for the reconstruction process. If they had transcribed such columns consistently, the work of construction would have been much easier, more secure, and more complete. As it is, scholars who worked only from the apographs, without access to the original papyrus, were deprived of information essential to the process of reconstruction. Luppe and Schober never saw the original papyrus, but worked only from the apographs. Schober, following the lead of Theodor Gomperz, made several important such joins elsewhere in On Piety, but he failed to follow out their implications rigorously for a reconstruction of the treatise as a whole. For example, both editors ordered the fragments of 602 in ascending sequence, the reverse of their original order in the roll. Following rigidly the procedure of reversing the order of fragments and alternating each with those of the differently numbered series, I made hundreds of such joins in On Piety. What makes the new join unorthodox from the perspective of the 9

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process I used to reconstruct the rolls is the presence at the bottom of P.Herc. 602 fr. 6 (new text as above) of three extra lines.When the matching letters from P.Herc. 243 fr. 3 col.  are aligned, these three lines can be seen at the bottom, written below the level of the margin. 602 fr. 6 shows a blank margin below these three lines. Columns sometimes differ in length by one line from one to another but never by as many as three, and in any case they seem to continue below the level of line 28. A correction like that penned in the bottom margin as in 243 fr. 2 cannot be ruled out, but we have no indications of it as such.28 The lack of alignment between the two bottom margins seemed so anomalous that I had come to doubt the integrity of the join and to despair of a solution, until Leofranc Holford-Strevens pointed out to me that each of the discontinuous series of letters in these final three lines make up commonly known and frequently appearing Greek words (τιν, και, γαρ, τον, προς). Furthermore, this is a phenomenon characteristically observed in the falsifications of the apographs by the nineteenth-century copyists (who were paid by the number of lines copied), as amply demonstrated in an article by Wilhelm Crönert and others.29 The statistical improbability of a purely chance occurrence of matching letters at the right edge above is overwhelming. After examination of similarly located falsifications, I conclude that there is good reason to suspect that these three lines were added out of whole cloth by the copyist (G. Cassanova, who is known to have similarly falsified the apographs of other papyri), and that the original papyrus column ended with line 9. The fact that the Greek words formed by the sequence of letters in these lines are commonly occurring ones suggests that they were words with which the copyists (originally ignorant of Greek) will have become familiar, and so were inserted to make the lines seem plausible and original. Therefore I have excised these lines (surrounded in the new text by braces marking the editor’s deletion of text that does not belong in that place) as spurious. However, as far as I know, the falsification of an apograph at the exact point of join with another fragment is unusual, to say the least, and unexpected. I draw it to the attention of others, in case there are similar cases among the Herculaneum papyri waiting to be discovered.

from philodemus to ovid So, what do we learn? From the new composite text above (to the new lineation of which I shall now refer), we may now derive the ending of the woman’s name at the head of Ovid’s list: Ἀμυμ]ώνη  . Amymone is well known. A Danaid (the only one with Hypermestra to escape pun 92

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ishment), she was attacked by a satyr she disturbed while fetching water. She prayed to Poseidon (as a god in some way associated with the spring). Poseidon appeared suddenly and chased off the satyr. Then he took the maiden for himself. According to Hyginus Fabulae 69, Poseidon afterward struck the earth with his trident, at which issued forth the Lernaean spring later known as Amymone. Amymone is particularly well-known for her role in the Aeschylean satyr-play Amymone, presented with the Danaid trilogy. That the satyr replicates the role of the Aigyptioi in the tragedies has been long hypothesized. Gantz notes that one of the two surviving lines of the play (TGF 3 F 3: σοὶ μὲν γαμεῖσθαι μόρσιμον, γαμεῖν δ’ ἐμοί, ‘‘It is fated for you to be married and me to marry’’) ‘‘may have deeper resonances as a paradigm for the acquiescence of Amymone’s sisters to marriage when presented with the right suitor.’’ 30 The story is popular on red-figure vases from about 470 b.c., depicting satyr(s) or Poseidon accosting a woman with a hydria (private collection, Zurich), with the name ‘‘Amymone’’ added from about 460 (VG 20846). Pherecydes and, later, [Apollodorus] Bibliotheka make their offspring Nauplios (whether the eponymous hero of the Nauplia or the son of Palamedes is not clear). Philodemus’ confirmation of Ovid here almost guarantees Amymone a place in the Hesiodic Catalogue (cf. fr. 27, which tells of Danaus coming from Egypt with fifty daughters). Her Ehoia will have come early, among the progeny of Inachus (charting Io’s wandering to Egypt), and so heads the list both in Philodemus and in Ovid Heroides 9. An indication of Amymone’s union with Poseidon, establishing that she headed Philodemus’ list as she does Ovid’s in Heroides 9, is the remnant of an infinitive ending in -ναι in the preceding line (7), no doubt μιχθῆ]ναι or συμμιχθῆ]ναι. A verb of speaking and the name of Poseidon may be suspected to be lurking nearby. A single authority’s name must have also preceded here (since there are no sources given for each lover of Poseidon individually). Given the preponderance of names that occur in the Hesiodic Catalogue, there is every reason to believe that this was Hesiod, by whose name Philodemus repeatedly cites the Catalogue of Women (once he cites the Megalai Ehoiai as ὁ τὰς μεγάλας Ἠοίας ἀναγράψας, i.e., of anonymous or disputed authorship). At the end of 3, readings from the newly joined fragment triumphantly confirm Luppe’s supplement Ἀ[λκυό]νηι. Similarly, at the end of 5, the two new letters provided at line-end by the new join (]λυ-) give an unmistakable clue to the occupant of the place held by the suspect Χάριτι  in Luppe’s reconstruction. This can be none other than Calyce, daughter of Aiolos, expected from her similar position in Ovid’s list. She doesn’t 93

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come for free, however, but at the cost of the change of a single letter (τ) in the apograph, which must be emended to η. The need for change here is confirmed by her mention in this order in the Hesiodic Catalogue and the generally low level of accuracy in the apograph elsewhere (especially at the edges). Interestingly, the name of Calyce is not in fact witnessed in any of the previously known sources for Ovid’s text here. Instead of Calyceque Hecataeone, the manuscripts of Ovid here read ceuceque et aueone, but have been emended in all modern editions by Heinsius on the basis of Hyginus Fabulae 57.2. Philodemus’ testimony now both exonerates Heinsius’ emendation and provides a new source for Ovid’s text. Note that Ovid will not have derived the name of Hecataeon from Philodemus’ list. Its absence there points to a common source rather than direct derivation from Philodemus. Otherwise we must suppose that Ovid augmented his source’s mythography from his own or another’s knowledge. No doubt Ovid did so at times, but this seems uneconomical to suppose as a rule. We get little help from the new join with the two new girls Lapetheia and Sithone in –2. They are still unattested. We could restore εἰ] μὴ at the end of , perhaps indicating that Philodemus’ learned mythographic source questioned Sithone’s claim to a place in the Hesiodic Catalogue (or to an authentic liaison with the sea-god?). If so, we might not expect attestation elsewhere. But εἰ] μὴ stands oddly without a verb. A better solution is to read Μη|θώνηι here.31 The Methone intended remains uncertain at best. One possibility is the southwestern tip of the Messenian peninsula. Not much mythology is recorded, but the site is well known in the Homeric poems, where it appears as Pedasos.32 Even if Μηθώνη now displaces Σιθώνη as the occupant of 2, she remains similarly obscure. Λαο[δικεί ]αι in 7 cannot be said to be any better known.33 Together with Πολυβοία [ι 34 in 2, they provide a string  of little-known women of old, Laodiceia and Polyboea, who slept with a famous god. Lines 9–0 must still harbor the names of two missing girlfriends of Poseidon. For candidates from the Hesiodic Catalogue we must turn back to Ovid, both Heroides 9 and another Ovidian catalogue, that of Neptune’s transformations for his seductions at Metamorphoses 6.5–20: te quoque mutatum torvo, Neptune, iuvenco virgine in Aeolia posuit, tu visus Enipeus gignis Aloïdas, aries Bisaltida fallis; et te flava comas frugum mitissima mater 94

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sensit equum, sensit volucrem crinita colubris mater equi volucris, sensit delphina Melantho.

20

You, too, Neptune, Arachne portrayed, changed to a grim bull with the Aeolian maiden; now in the form of Enipeus you begat the Aloadae, as a ram you deceived Bisaltis. The most kind golden-haired mother of corn knew you in the form of a horse; the snake-haired mother of the winged horse knew you transformed into a bird; Melantho knew you as a dolphin!

A table comparing the lovers of Neptune in this passage with those of Poseidon in the new text from Philodemus and antecedents in the Hesiodic Catalogue reveals the following correspondences: Philodemus De piet. vs. Ovid Met. 6.5ff. vs. Hes. Cat. — 6 Canace fr. 0a.34 ? 9–0 7 Iphimedeia (nisi Tyro) fr. 9 — 7 Theophane d. Bisaltes — — 8 Demeter cf. Theog. 969 22 9–20 Medusa Theog. 277–279 — 20 Melantho — Thus these lines yield six candidates, only one of which is repeated from Ovid’s list in Heroides 9. It is as though Ovid has carefully avoided repetitions, leaving only the duplication of Medusa as a cross-reference to the catalogue in Heroides 9. One might have thought that the combined lists would exhaust the inventory of Poseidon’s lovers. But not so: his sexual appetite was seemingly insatiable. The Hesiodic Catalogue provides at least six more: . Mestra, daughter of Erysichthon, who fed his incurable hunger through the shape-shifting talents granted her by Poseidon in recompense for taking her virginity (fr. 43). 2. Manto, a.k.a. Pronoe (fr. 36, 6–8), daughter of Melampous. 3. Eurale (fr. 48 M.-W.), mother of Orion. 4. Arethusa (fr. 88a M.-W.). 5. Salamis (fr. 226 M.-W.): n.b., an island nymph. 6. ?Zeuxippe? (fr. 223 M.-W.), mother of Boutes, the first priest of Poseidon.

In addition to these may be added:

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7. Eurynome (Hyg. Fab. 57), a.k.a. Eurymede ([Apollod.] Bibl. . 85), brother of Bellerophon. 8. Demeter in various guises: Demeter Erinys at Arcadian Telphusa, she in the form of a mare, he as a stallion (Paus. 8.25.4–5); she bears to him the marvelous horse Arion and, at Telphusa, a daughter with a secret name; at Phigaleia, Black Demeter bears by Poseidon a daughter Despoina (also the public name of the daughter of Demeter and Poseidon Hippios at Lycosura: Paus. 8.37.9–0). 9. The sea-nymph Thoösa, daughter of Phorkys (Od. .70–73, ‘‘She in the hollows of the caves had lain with Poseidon’’), who bears to him Polyphemus.

While the possibilities are numerous, not just any of them can have fallen in the gap in 9–0. Of these, only Ἰφιμε]δί |[αι will fit the traces at the end of 9: υ is deleted by the ancient scribe with a supra-linear expunction point, and ι is added above the line (the scribe probably originally started to write -δυια before catching his error). The other, suggested by traces, is a woman’s name ending in ]κη. I think this can only be Canace, as suggested by placement early in Ovid’s list at Met. 6.6, virgine Aeolia. Even taken together, the lists of Ovid and Philodemus provide only a selection. Ovid (Her. 36–37) states and Philodemus implies (24–25) that there were many more: Hero remembers hearing of them in her reading of the poets (quarum memini nomina lecta mihi / has certae pluresque canunt, Neptune, poetae, ‘‘whose names I recall from my reading; these, surely, Neptune, and many more, the poets say in their songs . . .’’). One might think that Zeus, not Poseidon, is at the head of the list when it comes to number of affairs and sexual conquests of mortal women. But Philodemus’ catalogue makes us look again. The count from West’s tables for the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women 35 shows Poseidon to be equally matched with the king of gods and men: Zeus 5

Poseidon 5

Apollo 3

Hermes 4

Ares 2

Neleus 

Apollo, for his measly three encounters, does not in fact beget a great many children, and only one daughter (Parthenos, who dies young and becomes the constellation Virgo). The new join shows that by line 23, the catalogue has finally come to a close, but not without noting that there were many more—an observa 96

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tion remarkably paralleled by Hero’s remarks in Heroides 9. That a seagod had so many lovers and so many offspring Philodemus labels as ‘‘most ludicrous,’’ γελοιότατον—a brilliant correction 36 of the letters recorded by the copyist in line 3. The copyist has mistaken the scribe’s ΙΟΙ for ΚΙ.37 Thus the new join confirms and in a few places corrects the restoration of previous editors. The parallel with Ovid’s list in Heroides 9 is extended and enhanced: Philodemus De piet. vs. Ovid Her. 9.229ff. vs. Hes. Cat. v. 8 Ἀμυμ]ώνη 3 Amymone cf. frr. 27–28   ι 9–0 Ἰφιμε]δί |[αι cf. Met. 6. 6–7 fr. 9  Λαπηθε[ίαι — — 2 Μη|θώνηι — — 3 Ἀ[λκυό ]νηι 34(a) Alcyone fr. 84 4 Κελαιν[οῖ 35(b) Celaeno fr. 69.2 5–6 Κα]λύ|[κ]ηι 34(b) Calyceque fr. 0a.34 6–7 Μη[κι]ονί |[κ]ηι — fr. 253 7 Λαο[δικεί ]αι 35(a) Laodice — 9 Τ 32 Tyro fr. 30.25  [υρ]οῖ 2 Πολυβοία [ι — —  22 θ ]νητῆι Γοργ[οῖ 34 Medusa Theog. 277–279 24 πλείστ[ων 37 pluresque etc. I note that Ovid in particular is exercised to stress the girls’ beauty: 3, laudatissima forma (laudatissima is a hapax); 33, lucidaque Alcyone; 34, Medusa, before she had snakes for hair; 35, flavaque Laodice (she was previously unknown as one of Poseidon’s lovers outside of Ovid; we now have confirmation that Ovid didn’t make her up); 38, molle latus. All go to remind Poseidon of his indomitable desire for them. Philodemus’ catalogue is bare bones by comparison, more conservative than Ovid’s. But vestiges of mythic narrative intrude. At lines 8–9 he begins to narrate Tyro’s story, noting that Poseidon lay with her ‘‘when she was in love with the river Enipeus’’ (τῆι Ἐνιπέως ἐρασθείσηι Τυροῖ), that is, as whom Poseidon disguised himself in order to seduce her. A brief quotation in 20 tags the theme and language of the Hesiodic Catalogue, which stressed the issue of the union of god with mortal woman.38 This is in keeping with Philodemus’ point: he emphasizes the number of offspring, whereas Hero in Ovid (Her. 36–38) stresses the number of lovers. For the name of Medusa, Philodemus offers a paraphrase 97

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in 22, ‘‘the mortal Gorgon,’’ thus summarizing her story in a nutshell, as does Ovid in a different way (‘‘before she had snakes for hair’’). Note that Ovid’s order corresponds roughly to that of Philodemus, and both in at least some respects correspond to the order in which they appeared in the Hesiodic Catalogue. Arachne’s catalogue in Metamorphoses 6 (quoted above) may be compared separately. Like Hero’s in Heroides 9, it is almost pure Greek. The names are but thin transliterations, and in 8 comas is a Greek accusative of respect. Like Philodemus on Tyro, Ovid stresses Neptune’s changing of shape to effect his amatory conquests. The same may be observed for Philodemus’ catalogue of Zeus’ lovers in P.Herc. 85 (quoted above). Canace, like Calyce (Her. 9.33 and now Philodemus 5–6) is a daughter of Aiolos. As such she comes early in an early stemma, and so heads the list. But Arachne, like a schoolgirl, has erred in her mythology, confusing Iphimedia with Tyro from Odyssey .235–254. (Tyro alone experienced Poseidon in the form of the river Enipeus, as Philodemus knows in lines 8–9, but it was Iphimedia on whom Poseidon fathered the Aloadae Otos and Ephialtes.) According to Anderson (972: 5–20), ‘‘Arachne may be inexact in her mythology here; a rare confusion’’ in Ovid. The slip is paired symmetrically with the infamous flaw in Ovid’s description of Athena’s rival handiwork in the preceding lines: Ovid says that Athena depicted the twelve Olympians in her weaving (6.72, bis sex caelestes). She includes herself, but also Victory (i.e., Νίκη) at the end as a thirteenth. Like Philodemus, Ovid repeatedly adverts to Medusa as mother by Poseidon of the winged horse Pegasus (also at Met. 4.785 and 789ff.; Philodemus De pietate, P.Herc. 247 col. i.–2—on which see further below). Ovid likewise indicates an awareness of those who, like Philodemus, are openly critical of the god’s actions, as Arachne is, too: note 7, fallis, ‘‘he deceived her’’ (cf. 3, luserit, ‘‘he played with her’’). The preceding catalogue of Jupiter’s indiscretions at Met. 6.4ff. comes to a close with a charge of incest with his own daughter Proserpina.39 Compare here also Heroides 9.32 (quoted above), where Hero knows that some people think that Poseidon’s sexual adventures are merely vana fabula with which to impugn his divinity. I conclude from all this that Ovid followed the same mythographic source as Philodemus. He may have also known Philodemus’ account in On Piety, as did Cicero, who partly translates it and partly paraphrases it in De natura deorum .25–4. That source is well known: it is the later second-century b.c. polymath grammarian Apollodorus of Athens in his

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encyclopedic Περὶ θεῶν, as Philodemus himself tells us later in De pietate (P.Herc. 428 fr. 5 = FGrH 244 F 03):40

κ αὶ Ἀπολ[λό]δωρος ὁ τὰ πε[ρὶ θεῶν] εἴκοσιν καὶ τέτ[τα]ρα συντάξας καὶ τὰ [πά]ντα σχεδὸν εἰς [τα]ῦτ’ ἀναλώσας, εἰ καὶ [μ]άχεταί που τοῖς [συ]νοικειοῦσιν, οὐ δι[αφέρει]. Apollodorus, who compiled On Gods in twenty-four books, and put virtually all of these examples into them, even if he quibbles somewhat with those who reduce the gods to a single entity or principle, nevertheless he does not differ from them.

Most of Apollodorus’ examples of the gods’ mortal lovers will have been drawn from the Hesiodic Catalogue, whose genealogical frame of organization is followed also in the Roman-period summary of Apollodorus’ Περὶ θεῶν known as the Bibliotheca. Joseph Farrell has recently argued in an unpublished paper that this organization is the model for the entire Metamorphoses, which, like the Bibliotheca and the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women, after its account of cosmogony and theogony delineates the genealogy of the major Greek tribes—Deucalionids, Inachids, Belids, Thebans, Athenians, and Trojans—and narrates no mythology later than the Trojan War. This accords well with the work of Apollodorus of Athens, who makes the Trojan War the chronological limit of his mythological work in his Περὶ θεῶν, and begins his historical work with the period after it in his Χρονικά. In contrast to Philodemus and the Hesiodic Catalogue, however, Ovid truncates the genealogies of his Metamorphoses, failing in most cases to mention the progeny that in the older stories issue from the union of god with mortal woman.41 But my claim is much more modest: that knowledge of the Hesiodic Catalogue and its structure was derived (both by Ovid and by the later epitomizer of the pseudo-Apollodorean Bibliotheca) from the original Περὶ θεῶν of Apollodorus of Athens, on whom Philodemus is likewise dependent. Apollodorus’ chief object in that work (its extensive fragments collected by Jacoby) was the interpretation and etymologizing of the names and epithets of the Greek gods, not from place-names and aetiological myths, but from their natures: ‘‘Their names were seen as functions of their energeiai and dynameis.’’ 42 Hence the reference to the dynameis of the younger divinities in lines 4–5 of P.Herc. 602 fr. 6. Apollodorus’ study of epithets was based on the evidence of Greek literary texts, which Apollodorus quoted verbatim, together with accurate cita 99

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tions of authors and works. Among these authors, Homer stands alone as Apollodorus’ ‘‘approved’’ source. It is in this sense that the Περὶ θεῶν was a work of Homeric scholarship. Authors later than Homer were cited for approval or censure following Homeric and Apollodorean interpretations of epithets, or were censured for catachresis, that is, the false, nonHomeric use of a name, character, or epithet. Apollodorus referred collectively to these authors as νεώτεροι (sc. Ὁμήρου), a term borrowed from his teacher Aristarchus, who used it to designate those who (he thought) had supplemented the Iliad and Odyssey by interpolating into them references to non-Homeric stories or (for the cyclic poets and Hesiod) preferring a non-Homeric story or version of a particular myth. When Philodemus refers to the ‘‘younger gods’’ in lines 26–27 of P.Herc. 602 fr. 6, he means, following Apollodorus, that the entire list of Poseidon’s lovers derives from the Hesiodic Catalogue, and so is the work of a poet ‘‘later’’ than Homer. He adds, probably mockingly, that they do not for this reason live up to the record in divinity of their Olympian predecessors. Nonetheless, they are here viewed as linked to Poseidon’s dynamis as a sea- or water-divinity (since he is also associated with streams and rivers). Apollodorus himself may have adduced the catalogue of Poseidon’s lovers in an attempt to show how pervasive was the dynamis (i.e., water) of the god of water. Hence the inclusion of the obscure Lapetheia, Methone, Laodicea, and Polyboea as sea-nymphs, as well as those who were seduced by Poseidon in the form of a river, as is specifically noted by Philodemus in 8–9. Others, like Medusa (whom, according to Ovid Met. 6.20, he visited in the form of a bird), Apollodorus probably included as counterexamples that show the Hesiodic Catalogue’s status as the work of a neoteros (‘‘an author later than Homer’’). Philodemus, however, includes Medusa to lengthen the catalogue and heighten the absurdity and impropriety of a god (let alone one whose essence is water) deceiving so many women and having so many sordid affairs. This interest in particularly obscure, little-known lovers of the god is well illustrated by Vergil at Georgics 4.334–347, where a list of extremely obscure mythological women (most of them nymphs connected with water, sea, rivers, or springs), dwelling thalamo sub fluminis alti (333), are catalogued as they listen to the mother of Aristaeus.43 See especially 345– 347: inter quas curam Clymene narrabat inanem Volcani, Martisque dolos et dulcia furta, aque Chao densos divum numerabat amores.44 200

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In the midst of whom Clymene was telling of the futile passion of Vulcan, and the cunning of Mars and his adulterous pleasures, and was recounting the numerous affairs of the gods from Chaos onward.

A Chao (347) marks this catalogue out as Hesiodic, since the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women purported in its preface to be a continuation of the accounts of the gods’ liaisons as reported at the end of the Theogony. Ovid, however, can now be seen to draw positively on Apollodorus’ treatment in Περὶ θεῶν, reducing the gods to their dynameis. Ovid embraces the allegorical interpretation 45 and plays on it. A reflection of the allegory can be clearly seen at Metamorphoses 6.8 (quoted above), where flava suggests the golden hair of Demeter (not otherwise known as a blonde), that is, the color of Ceres’ crops, a rationalization Ovid glosses by adding frugum mitissima mater, ‘‘most kind mother of corn’’ (i.e., she was most kind insofar as she was a benefactor to the human race by introducing the art of agriculture). The absurdity is heightened by the fact that it is with her as a ‘‘Black’’ Demeter, that is, in the form of an Erinys, that Poseidon is supposed to have mated with her. Further, at Heroides 9.38, molle latus lateri composuisse, ‘‘have entwined their soft bodies with your own,’’ at once describes the tactile beauty of Poseidon’s lovers and his own ‘‘soft side,’’ namely water (his δύναμις). In fact, Ovid’s vires (amoris) at 9.239 may be a direct translation of dynameis. A remnant of Apollodorus’ original interpretation of the dynamis of Poseidon appears to have been preserved in the Roman-period epitome: according to the pseudo-Apollodorean Biblioteca (.53), Iphimedia fell in love with Poseidon (Ποσειδῶνος ἠράσθη), and often, going down to the sea, she would draw up the waves with her hands and pour them into her κόλποι (i.e., her lap/groin/bosom). Poseidon came to her and engendered two sons, Otus and Ephialtes (καὶ συνεχῶς φοιτῶσα ἐπὶ τὴν θάλασσαν, χερσὶν ἀρυομένη τὰ κύματα τοῖς κόλποις ἐνεφόρει. συνελθὼν δὲ αὐτῇ Ποσειδῶν δύο ἐγέννησε παῖδας, Ὦτον καὶ Ἐφιάλτον). A further link between Philodemus and the Augustan poets in the reception of Poseidon is found in lines 24–25, πατέρα τῶν πλείστων. At Vergil Aeneid 5.4, Palinurus says quidve, pater Neptune, paras? Now I know of no reason in particular why Neptune should be called pater (only Zeus is so called in Homer, often in the formula ‘‘father of gods and men’’). But at Aeneid 5.863 we have again patris Neptuni, while at 5.87 it is said of Neptune, iungit equos auro genitor. This last phrase of course has its model in Iliad 3.23–24, and it is followed by a catalogue of the retinue of Neptune modeled on Iliad 8.39–40. But Poseidon is not even named 20

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in the latter passage, whereas at Iliad 3.0 and 34 he is called not pater but Enosichthon, as is standard in Homer. This link affords us another clear parallel between Philodemus’ mythography in De pietate and Vergil’s cast of divinities in the Aeneid, one that is so close as to defy any denial of a connection.46 At Aeneid 5.822– 823, Neptune’s retinue is described as immania cete / et senior Glauci chorus Inousque Palaemon, ‘‘monstrous whales, the aged company of Glaucus, with his son Palaemon,’’ etc. Here cete is almost certainly a translation of Iliad 3.27, ἄταλλε δὲ κήτε’ ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ. But immania (of which there is no hint in Homer) finds a direct ancestor in Philodemus’ De pietate at P.Herc. 242 fr.  + 247 fr. :

525

5220

5225

5230

5235

5240

τουσ[ . . . . . . . . . ἕνα{ι} δὲ ὀ[φθαλμὸν καὶ ὀδόν[τα μόνον ἐχούσας [πάσας Αἰσχύλος ἐν [Φορκίσιν λέγει καὶ [ὁ τὸν Αἰγιμιὸν ποή[σας· παρὰ δ’ οὖν Ἡσιό [δωι τῶν Φόρκου γε[γονυι- || ῶν Μέδου]σα μὲν ἔτεκε . . .]†κεντανα τὸν χρυσ]οῦν ἄο[ρ ἐν ταῖς χερ]σ[ὶ]ν [ἔχο]ντα· ὁ δὲ Γηρ]υόν[ην τρικέφαλο]ν καὶ ὄφ[ιν, ἡ δὲ καὶ Πήγ]ασον· [γέγραφεν γὰρ ταύτην Ποσειδῶ]νι συν[εῖναι, δέρης δὲ τ]εμνομένης ἐκ]πηδῆσα[ι τούτο]υς. Ἡσίοδος δὲ καὶ] Ἀκουσίλαος  Ἐχίδν]ης καὶ Τυφῶνος κύ]να Κέρβερον ἀθά]νατον καὶ ἄλλα τ]ερατώδη φ[ασὶ τέκν]α. τόν δὲ ἀε202

242 Fr.

25/4

Aesch. TrGF vol. 3 F 262 Hes. Fr. 295 M.-W. Hes. Theog. 270–279

30/9 247 Fr. Hes. Theog. 283 5

Hes. Theog. 287–288 Hes. Theog. 28 Hes. Theog. 278

0

Hes. Theog. 280–28 Hes. Theog. 306–332 Acusilaus EGM 3

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τὸν] τὸν καθ᾿ Ἡσίο [δον ἀεὶ τὸ τ]οῦ Προμ[ηθέ[ως ἧπαρ ἐσθίοντα]

Hes. Theog. 523–527 20 2

Aeschylus says in his play Daughters of Phorcys, as does the poet of the Aegimius, that they 47 all share one eye and tooth.48 Certainly in Hesiod, among the daughters of Phorcys, || first Medusa gave birth to [name corrupt] a being with a golden blade in his hands;49 and he 50 begat Geryon, a three-headed monster, and a serpent and that she 51 begat Pegasus as well. For he 52 wrote that she 53 slept with Poseidon, and when her neck was severed 54 they 55 leapt out. Moreover, Hesiod and Acusilaus say that the children of Echidna and Typhon were an immortal dog Cerberus and other monsters. That the eagle that according to Hesiod 56 was forever eating the liver of Prometheus. . . .57

From the fact that the same group of figures is characterized as τ]ερατώδη (= monstrous, immania) here, we can see a distinctly Epicurean and Philodemean overlay upon Homeric material in Vergil’s transformation of traditional mythographic material. Presumably Vergil reflects the catalogues of Poseidon’s offspring in both Hesiod’s Theogony and the Hesiodic Catalogue. But these would seem to have been filtered through Apollodorus of Athens’ sympathetically allegorical summary and analysis in his Περὶ θεῶν, as well as through Philodemus’ hostile Epicurean critique in De pietate of how proper divinities should not behave. The connection brings to light the idiosyncratically Vergilian portrayal of Neptune in the Aeneid, where he is a god of vast power and capacious, benign influence: he ends but does not begin the storm; most of the Trojans pass unharmed.58 Nonetheless, some ambivalence remains: he demands ‘‘one life for many,’’ and causes Palinurus’ death, as he overshadows Misenus’ death with a tragic note that impugns his benevolence if not his divinity.

conclusion Thus Vergil makes it obvious by his treatment of the gods’ passions, angers, and loves and his portrayal of their ultimate moral inferiority to the best of the human heroes that he has studied Epicurean theology to his own poetic profit. But, by looking into the mediating text of Philodemus’ On Piety and his other theological writings, we can also see Apollodorus of Athens, Philodemus, Ovid, and Vergil each engaged in diverse mythographic projects. Apollodorus compiled a vast collection of mythographic data for investigation into divine names according to Stoic 203

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principles of etymology and allegory. Philodemus takes over from Apollodorus the list of Poseidon’s lovers, rejects or belittles the allegorical interpretation, and adduces the list to show the absurdity of a god, confined to the water, having so many sexual liaisons and offspring. Ovid, in a more playful Callimachean mood, affects a consciousness of the philosophical criticism of the gods of myth for an Augustan intellectual elite, but reverts to Apollodorus’ allegorical explanation as the latest scientific explanation of the day, and so saves the relevance of his mythographic subject for poetic ends. None of the three maintains the original use of these women’s affairs in the Hesiodic Catalogue, which was to explain the systematic diffusion throughout Greece of a finite number of tribes in certain places.59 An example of this can clearly be seen in the map of Boeotia, where three of Poseidon’s most famous erotic conquests— Calyce, Alcyone, and Canace, indeed all the families of Aiolus’ daughters who come prominently early in the Catalogue—make a geographical series, extending in an arc from west to east.60 While the idea that Poseidon was the Casanova of the Greek gods may be an unfamiliar and controversial one (especially in the light of Zeus’ rival record), the identification of Poseidon with water is an idea that is ubiquitous in Western thought from antiquity to the present. Indeed, it is tempting to validate this identification, especially given the importance of water in the Mediterranean climate, with its erratic rainfall, as well as in agriculture, trade, and transport in early societies generally. Water shaped patterns of settlement and controlled agricultural productivity. Controlling water was tantamount to political control. Water was even socially important, as evidenced by the role of public bathing (in the city) and springs (in a non-urban context): the locus amoenus with its sacred associations is the setting for most of Poseidon’s liaisons with his young lovers. In a practical sphere, water was essential for drinking and sanitation, hygiene and personal health (Empedocles cured Selinus of a plague by diverting a river’s course through the city).Water was used in cult for purification and libation (its opposite being fire). Even in death, the dead were considered thirsty: in the Orphic texts, the soul is parched with thirst and wants to drink the water of memory and so not forget (note that in Plato and Vergil, e.g., Aen. 6.74 and 749, this relationship is poetically reversed in afterlife myths: the souls drink the water of oblivion). Water is named as a primal element in cosmogonic thought, both in science (Thales) and in the early cosmogonies that re-mythologize these conceptual insights. Water was ‘‘good to think with.’’ It was as fundamental to Presocratic thought

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(e.g., the Heraclitean ‘‘flow,’’ and the notion that ‘‘you can’t step twice into the same river’’) as it was to religion: oases were by definition sanctuaries. Cicero (Nat. D. 3.52) attests that the Augurs in their precatio swear by the rivers in the vicinity of Rome, including Tibur, Spino, Almo, and Nodinus.61 But there are good reasons for rejecting with Philodemus the identification of Neptune and Poseidon with water. Beginning with the Roman god, the accounts of Ovid and Vergil become risible (and their Greek background apparent) when one considers how insignificant Neptune was as a god in comparison with Greek Poseidon. An obscure god of pools— expanses of water threatened by evaporation in the heat of the summer— Neptune only under Poseidon’s influence becomes associated with bodies of water and watercourses, and later becomes the patron of journeys on water. Even the etymology of his name is uncertain (Etruscan Neθun(u)s). Although his festival is of the oldest series at Rome (the Neptunalia, July 23, a hot and dry time of the year when water was perhaps insufficient), no Flamen is attested.62 Neptune is quite monogamous, having but one attested love interest: his cult partner Salacia, possibly the goddess of ‘‘leaping’’ or spring-water.63 Originally Neptune will have been no more and possibly less important than Portunus, god of Tibur harbor at Rome. His festival, the Portunalia, August 7, has at least a Flamen attested and his name a known etymology: Cicero’s Stoic speaker Balbus derives Portunus from portus (though the suffix is left unaccounted for). By analogy, he derives Neptune from nare, ludicrously, and has to explain that the method involves ‘‘a slight alternation of the earlier letters.’’ 64 As Mark Twain said, ‘‘You can derive Moses from Mississippi by substituting ‘o’ for the ‘i,’ and ‘es’ for ‘issippi.’’’ Neptune at any rate will hardly live up to the claim for pervasiveness implied by Ovid and Vergil. A further point to be observed (and with this I conclude) is that no single methodology, whether archaeology or textual criticism or literary criticism or the history of ideas, is capable of recovering this nexus. Rather, they must all be used in conjunction.

notes . All translations are my own unless otherwise specified. 2. The moral implications of sex itself are a separate issue in Hellenistic philosophy. For the Epicureans, opinions range from Epicurus’ express statement (Diog. Laert. 0.8) that sexual intercourse has never done any man any good, and he is lucky if it has not harmed him, to Philodemus’ intimation in De dis 3

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dirk obbink that the gods take pleasure in those things that humans genuinely enjoy; Epicurus himself did so, and wrote about it (Plut. Non posse suaviter vivi secundum Epicurum 089c = Epicurus fr. 436 Usener). See further, for Epicureans, Henrichs 983: 35 n. 2; for Stoics, Gaca 2000, with further references. 3. Cf. Heath 2000: 63–64; Cassius Longinus F 0f. 4. Text of D. Russell, and translation after Russell 995; but for the last sentence, see Obbink 2002: 02. 5. Sc. Iliad 2.388 and 20.6–65 (Aidoneus fears that Poseidon might split the earth asunder in the theomachia). 6. Heath 2000. 7. Translation after Heath 2000. 8. The same confusion appears in John the Sicilian: see Heath 2000: 55. 9. The correspondence between Philodemus and Vergil here was first noted by Barchiesi 978: 02. I have treated it at length and presented a new edition of the text (given above) in Obbink 2002. 0. Citations from the Aeneid are from Mynors 969. . Goold’s (Loeb) translation ‘‘heavenly spirits’’ neglects the implications for Vergil’s divine psychology of emotions enacted in the Aeneid. The theme of divine theodicy in mythographic poetry is echoed throughout the poetic tradition: see further below, and cf. Ovid Met. 8.279, tangit et ira deos; Ausonius Epitaphia 27.9; Shakespeare, II Henry VI, Act 2 scene . 2. Grief and wounding are hardly qualities of numen. This type of theological irony is ubiquitous in the Aeneid. The exact implications in this case are unclear, but some possibilities are: () Juno is defective as a goddess if she can suffer in this way, or (2) Juno’s concerns are exaggerated if she can not suffer from them, or (3) the offenses are excessively great if they can threaten the tranquility even of such a goddess. 3. Cf. 6.73, credere dignum est, a formulaic comment by the narrator on occasions where an act’s ill-befitting a god leads the narrator to express doubts over the validity of the story. 4. I owe the idea to Marilyn Skinner. This is apparently Vergil’s addition, since in other respects the phrasing seems to be closely modeled on the description of Zeus’ dispatching of Iris to order Achilles to release the body of Hector at Iliad 24.79, ἔνθορε μείλανι πόντω· ἐπεστονάχησε δὲ λίμνη. 5. Schober 923. Underscored letters indicate an editor’s correction of letters mistakenly copied by the nineteenth-century copyist, in cases where the papyrus itself does not survive to verify the correction. 6. Luppe 986a. 7. Obbink 996. 8. Her name was first read in this fragment by Höfer 906; cf. Lippold 909. 9. Gantz 993: 26. 20. For the history of this fragment, see Henrichs 974; Luppe 974, 975. I

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Vergil’s De pietate give a new, revised text based on autopsy of the Oxford apograph, the only witness to the text, the original papyrus having long since perished. 2. Text: Kenney 996. 22. P.Herc. 243 fr. 2.5–8. 23. The history of P. Herc. 243 col. 2 is charted as far as 984 by Henrichs 983 and Luppe 984. Images of the original papyrus captured by infrared photography in 200 made possible the advances reflected in this revised text. The join with P.Herc. 602 fr. 6 now adds another column of continuous text. 24. Viz. Pelias and Neleus. 25. Sc. the progeny of Poseidon and these women. 26. Cf. Iliad 6.80–86 (of the Myrmidon Eudoros, ‘‘a maiden’s / child, born to one lovely in the dance, Polymele, / daughter of Phylas; whom strong Hermes Argeiophontes / loved, when he watched her with his eyes among the girls dancing / in the chorus for clamorous Artemis of the golden distaff. / Presently Hermes the healer went up with her into her chamber / and lay secretly with her, and she bore him a son, the shining Eudoros’’; Lattimore’s translation). 27. Vatican U 9 (inv. 706); Trendall 987: 24 no. 76, cf. p. 72 no. 45. 28. As David Kovacs points out to me, the letters of these lines are actually written on a scale slightly larger than those of the preceding lines. This may indicate that they come from a higher layer (i.e., a fragment of a bottom of a column later in the treatise). 29. Falsification in the Herculaneum facsimiles: Crönert 898 (= 975); Capasso 986. 30. Gantz 993: 206. 3. Suggested by M. L. West by private communication. Dittography of θ could be assumed: Μη|[θ]{θ}ώνηι or Μη|[θ]{ε}ώνηι. Otherwise misalignment of the position of the ε at right margin by the copyist must be posited, even allowing for column-drift (Maass’ Law). 32. Iliad 9.52, and see Paus. 4.35. With equal claim is Μηθώνη in Thessaly, from which Philoctetes came, according to Iliad 2.76 (named there with Thaumakia). We ought also to reckon with the possibility that Μεθώνη is the place intended, i.e., the Macedonian town north of Pydna in the siege of which Philip lost one of his eyes, and the site of the tomb of Olympias. Its eponymous founder Methon was held to be a descendant of Orpheus (Dem. 50.46; Plut. Mor. 293b). But interchange of ε and η is not common in the Herculaneum papyri. 33. Schober (923) proposed to restore here Λαο[δίκη on the basis of Ovid Her. 9.35. Λαο[δικεί ]αι, suggested to me by M. L.West, neatly fits the spacing. Otherwise we must restore Λαο[δίκηι κ]αὶ | [ἔ ]τι {ς} τῆι κτλ. Exactly to whom Ovid is referring is unknown. Laodicea would presumably be the Phrygian city overlooking the confluence of the river Lycus with the Meander, providing the possible association of a water-course with an eligible lover of Poseidon—rather than Laodicea at modern Nihavend in Media. Antiochus II named both after his

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dirk obbink wife Laodice. The new text would imply an earlier antecedent for both Philodemus and Ovid, deriving from the Hesiodic Catalogue, but does not preclude a connection or aetiology for the wife of Antiochus. 34. Possibilities for her identification are canvassed by Höfer 906. 35. See tables in M. L. West 985: 73–82. 36. Suggested by Lippold 909, but subsequently overlooked. 37. By a similar oversight, the copyist not infrequently mistakes ΙΣ for Κ. 38. With line 20 τέκε [τέκνα compare Hesiod fr. 43.68 (of Mestra) ἐ]πεὶ τέκε παῖδα Ποσειδάωνι ἄνακτι (I had originally proposed to restore τέκε [παῖδα on the basis of this parallel, but as Ted Courtney points out to me, a plural is needed, since the offspring are two: Otos and Ephialtes); but see also Od. .249 (Poseidon to Tyro) τέξεις ἀγλαὰ τέκνα, of which τέκε [τέκνα here may be simply a recollection; further: 254 ἡ δ’ ὑποκυσαμένη Πελίην τέκε καὶ Νηλῆα, Hes. fr. 253 M.-W. Μηκιονίκη | ἣ τέκεν Εὔφημον γαιηόχῳ Ἐννοσιγαίωι. 39. Cf. 5.362ff. and 54ff.; Callim. fr. 43.7 Pf.; Diod. Sic. 3.64; Cic. Nat. D. 3.23. 40. Cf. FGrH 244 F 353.. 4. The structure of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, styled by him in the proem as ter quinque, may even be a reference to the organization of the Hesiodic Catalogue, edited in five books in the standard editions. 42. Rusten 988: 32. On this aspect of Apollodorus’ Περὶ θεῶν, see Rusten 982: 3–33; FGrH 244 F 353. with Jacoby’s commentary, pp. 756–757; Pfeiffer 968: 262; Henrichs 975: 25. 43. Besides Clymene, the list includes Drymo, Xantho, Ligea, Phyllodoce, together with Nesaea, Spio, Thalia, and Cymodoce (these possibly interpolated from Aen. 5.826); then Cydippe, Lycorias, the Oceanitides Clio and Beroe, Ephyre (= Corinth in Eumelos), Opis, Asian Deiopea (cf. Polyboea in the present text, Aen. 5.825 Panopea), and Arethusa. 44. Text: Thomas 988. 45. Further on allegory: Dawson 992. 46. The link between Philodemus’ De pietate at P.Herc. 433 fr. 2 ii + 088 fr.  and Vergil’s portrayal of Juturna at Aen. 2.879–880 (noted above) is another. 47. The daughters of Phorcys. 48. I.e., they are monsters. 49. Chrysaor. 50. Chrysaor, with Calliroe daughter of Oceanus. 5. Medusa. 52. Hesiod Theog. 278–279, 283. 53. Medusa. 54. Viz., by Perseus. 55. Chrysaor and Pegasus. 56. Theog. 523–527.

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Vergil’s De pietate 57. Probably continued: ‘‘was born from these monsters says [author’s name missing].’’ 58. I owe the point to Hutchinson (2002: 3), who compares Posidippus PMil. Vogl. VIII 309 col. 3 line 38 and the epigram that follows there (both poems on Polyphemus and his father Poseidon). 59. In addition to M. L. West 985, see R. W. Fowler 998; Gaertner 200; Rutherford 2000. 60. Conveniently illustrated in the map in M. L. West 985: 6. 6. Further on water: Ninck 92; Wörrle 98; in myth: Buxton 994: 09–. 62. Wissowa 92: 225–227; Dumézil 973: 2–23, 975: 25–27. 63. I.e., derived from salire. She is later identified with Amphitrite, as Neptune was with Poseidon. 64. Nat. D. 2.66: nomenque productum ut Portunus a portu sic Neptunus a nando paulum primis litteris immutatis. See Philod. De piet. 534 with note. Like the following etymology of Ceres from gero ‘‘because she bears the crops,’’ these represent attempts on the part of Cicero,Varro, and other Romans to imitate the Greek etymologies of the Stoics in Latin.

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e m ot i o n s a n d i m m o rta l i t y i n p h i l o d e m u s On the Gods 3 a n d t h e Aeneid michael wigodsky

‘‘Gods exist; for the cognition of them is clear,’’ Epicurus says in the Letter to Menoeceus (23–24); but, he adds, ‘‘the assertions of the many about the gods are not preconceptions but false assumptions.’’ 1 The notion of blessed and imperishable living things is supposed, that is, to be a preconception of something really existing; but, unlike our other preconceptions, its reliability cannot be confirmed or its supposed contents corrected by comparison to recurrent sensory experiences. It is unclear, therefore, how we are supposed to distinguish the clarity of our notion of the gods, who exist, from the obscurity of our notion of centaurs, who do not exist and never have (Lucretius 5.878ff.). Some distinguished scholars have claimed that there is in effect no difference, since both gods and centaurs are merely images, the immediate causes of our notions of them, but images formed by the chance aggregation of parts of other images, or of atoms not originating from any three-dimensional bodies.2 The gods, on this view, are real and immortal only in the sense that the idea of human flourishing expressed in our uncorrupted preconception of them is a permanent truth about human nature. Whether this ‘‘idealist’’ interpretation or a ‘‘realist’’ one is correct, it is clear that the gods of the Aeneid are not those of Epicurus: they are neither imaginary models of the good life for human beings, nor real biological entities living outside our world and free from concern for it. This does not mean that Vergil’s account of them may not contain significant references to Epicurean doctrines; but before we can identify such references, we need to determine which version of Epicurean theology Vergil had learned from Philodemus. The latter has been cited on both sides of the controversy; indeed, On Piety cols. viii–xiii has been one of the main supports of the idealist interpretation.3 I will offer later a different interpretation of that passage; but I am mainly concerned here with another

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treatise, On the Gods 3,4 most of which at least presupposes that the gods are three-dimensional living things, not mere images of them, dealing as it does with such matters as their nourishment and breathing and such questions as whether they sleep and what language they speak.5 As I interpret it, the treatise when complete did not just presuppose their real existence, but presented an argument for it based on a necessary connection between their blessedness, that is, freedom from emotional disturbance, and their immortality. After attempting to reconstruct that argument, I will suggest that Vergil alludes to this connection in order to emphasize the difference between the gods of epic and the true, Epicurean gods.

philodemus’ theology Philodemus’ argument has to be reconstructed rather than simply extracted from the text because of its fragmentary character. Only the last eight columns are almost complete, and the author, as I understand him, identifies this section as a series of excursuses to what he calls τὸ συνεχὲς ὑπόμνημα, the continuous part, or main argument, of the treatise.6 Although this could refer to an earlier or later book, I think it is more likely to mean the earlier part of this one, more than half of which seems to have dealt with a single topic, the gods’ self-preservation. Even some scholars like Bailey,7 who thought that Epicurus did believe in real gods and not just mental images of them, have suggested that Philodemus’ concern with the details of their bodily functioning represents a concession to popular superstition which goes beyond what he would have approved; but Philodemus himself sharply distinguishes between his inquiries and mere idle curiosity at the end of the book (cols. xiv.2–xv): I shall indicate in summary what sorts of questions about the gods it is proper to investigate and pronounce upon, and what sorts one should neither investigate nor pronounce upon, so that we may look with contempt upon distracting and unjustified sophistries, and . . . [eight lines illegible] . . . as, for instance, when we have pronounced it certain that the gods take nourishment, some people go on to ask what particular kind of nourishment and how it is prepared and digested and excreted. And when we have shown in general terms that they enjoy sensory pleasures, they demand to know as well what particular pleasures and from what sources. And so let them set down as a general rule that nature, in accordance with which the gods exist and have been and always will be preserved in existence, has certainly provided and 2 2

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will provide them with every sort of advantage which we can conceive in thought, although these advantages do not fall within the range of our senses. They particularly inquire what the corresponding advantages for [mortal] living things are and how they differ from those of the gods, questions which, like other similar ones, fall in neither of the classes I have mentioned.

Philodemus claims, that is, to be investigating only what is or is not consistent with the preconception of blessed and immortal beings, and indeed what can be inferred from it; thus he tells us (col. xii.2–4) that it was because sleep is similar to death and because dreams are a source of disturbance that the Epicureans discussed the question of whether the gods sleep. But, according to Epicurus (Sent. Vat. ), it is only in order to free ourselves from mistaken beliefs that prevent us from living happy lives that we have need of physiologia; and while the wise man, we are told, is like himself even when asleep (Diog. Laert. 0.2b = fr. 595 Us.), and may therefore be relatively free from emotional disturbances even in dreams, he cannot choose not to sleep. Clearly, if our notion of the gods were only supposed to be, as Long and Sedley put it, ‘‘an accurate intuition of man’s natural good,’’ 8 there would be no point in attempting to ground it in the physiology of a nature different from that of man. But even if gods exist in reality, what have the resemblances and differences between their life processes and those of human beings and other animals to do with their functioning as moral examples? As I read him, Philodemus thought that the exemplary function of the gods depended on a belief in their existence, and his treatment of their self-preserving activity formed part of an argument intended to confirm our supposed clear cognition of them as existing. The critical step toward reconstructing that argument was taken by Philip Merlan,9 who was the first to explain the connection between the section on the gods’ self-preservation and the following discussion, at the end of the series of fragments and the beginning of the continuous columns, of whether and in what sense various specific virtues can be attributed to them; he cited a parallel passage from Plutarch On the Cessation of Oracles 420c–e, which makes the same connection: The only thing I have heard the Epicureans say against the demigods introduced by Empedocles is that it is impossible, if they are bad and sinful, that they should be blessed and long-lived, since vice involves much blindness and a tendency to encounter destructive things (πολλὴν τυφλότητα τῆς κακίας ἐχούσης καὶ τὸ περιπτωτικὸν τοῖς ἀναι2 3

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ρετικοῖς) . . . it is in a different sense that we speak of virtue as strong and vice as weak, not in reference to permanence and dissolution of the body. . . . And so they are wrong to make the eternal existence of a god the result of his being on guard and repelling destructive things (ἐκ φυλακῆς καὶ διακρούσεως τῶν ἀναιρετικῶν); for being unaffected and imperishable ought to be inherent in the blessed being and require no activity (πραγματείας) on his part.10 Before looking at what Philodemus says about that activity, I want to say something about the connection between his account of the gods’ survival and another Epicurean idea which is alluded to at several points in it, namely, the argument from equal distribution, or isonomia. This principle is explicitly mentioned only by Cicero (Nat. D. .50), who gives a vague and ambiguous general formulation: ‘‘Great indeed is the power of infinity . . . so that everything corresponds to everything else in equal numbers (summa vero vis infinitatis . . . ut omnia omnibus paribus paria respondeant).’’ He follows this with two examples: ‘‘If there is so great a multitude of mortal beings, there is an equally large number of immortal ones; and if the things that destroy are innumerable, the things that preserve must also be infinitely numerous.’’ Lucretius also speaks of the balance of destruction and creation in a passage (2.569–576) in which he uses the expressions motus exitiales (‘‘deadly motions’’) and rerum genitales auctificique motus (‘‘motions that cause birth and growth of things’’) as apparent equivalents for Cicero’s quae interimant and quae conservent, and his language has given rise to such imprecise paraphrases as ‘‘forces of destruction’’ and ‘‘forces of preservation.’’ But ‘‘forces’’ have no independent existence in an atomist ontology; and if we are to see how isonomia could be deduced from atomist principles, interpreting rather than just repeating Cicero’s reference to the ‘‘power of infinity,’’ we must start from the existence of an infinite number of atoms of each shape, and consequently of an infinite number of specimens of every possible type of compound body. But not every combination of atomic shapes is capable of joining to form a stable compound: only some combinations have suitable motions or ‘‘motions that come together,’’ Lucretius’ convenientis motus (.030, 2.72–73 and 94–942, 5.442). I take this to mean that some shapes of atoms collide and rebound so as to fall into patterns of oscillation within the compound ( palmoi, Epicurus Ep. Hdt. 43); and in fr. 4,11 Philodemus in fact uses palmoi in a way which shows that Lucretius’ rerum genitales auctifique motus and his convenientis motus mean the same thing, the motions capable of creating and maintaining particular types of compounds; in the Philodemus fragment, these motions are named by metonymy for 2 4

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the compounds themselves. This suggests that the destructive motions and the generative ones are such only for particular types of compound bodies; thus when Lucretius says (2.573–574) that they are always in balance, this should probably be closely connected with the argument about rare animals in the preceding paragraph (2.532–568): somewhere there is a sufficient supply of matter suitable for the care and feeding of elephants to assure that their species, like others, will not perish. Without rhetorical or poetic embellishment, then, the principle of isonomia states that since there is an infinite supply of atoms of each shape, there must, in a universe ruled by chance, be an infinite supply of every possible kind of compound body, from the simplest compounds, through somewhat more complex types such as those which each species of animal needs to get from its food, to the animal species themselves. According to Cotta in Cicero’s Nature of the Gods (.09), this principle was used by the Epicureans in an argument for the existence of the gods; but it is obvious that, as Cotta in fact goes on to point out, it cannot serve by itself as such an argument: ‘‘Since there are things that destroy, you say, there must be things that preserve. Let us grant that there are; but they must preserve things which exist; and I do not think that your gods exist.’’ What is needed, that is, is something corresponding to the minor premise in Leibniz’s version of the ontological argument: if a most perfect being can exist, it must necessarily exist; but since the idea of a most perfect being allegedly involves no logical contradiction, such a being is possible, and therefore does necessarily exist.12 The analogous Epicurean argument would say that every possible kind of compound body must exist in infinite numbers; but blessed and imperishable living beings are possible; therefore an infinity of such beings exists. The account of the gods’ self-preservation which we find in Philodemus and Plutarch is, I think, meant to supply an argument for the requisite premise, that blessed and immortal beings are possible. But what sort of argument would Epicurus have regarded as sufficient to establish this? The appeal to ‘‘absence of counterwitness’’ in Ep. Hdt. 74 13 is disquieting at first blush, since this seems as permissive a criterion as Leibniz’s absence of logical contradiction. On the other hand, ouk antimartyrēsis was meant to be applied, not to any random speculation, but to reasoning based on the appearances and concerned with things not evident; and such reasoning was grounded on a firm faith in the uniformity of nature. Thus, as we can see from Lucretius’ argument against the existence of centaurs (5.878– 924), it was not analogies but deviations from analogy that were regarded as suspect. Centaurs cannot exist, we are told, because horses and men 2 5

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require different kinds of food and grow at different rates, so that it is impossible for parts of each to be joined in a viable organism. Thus the only way that the existence of perishable living beings can provide an argument for that of imperishable ones is if the disanalogy can be shown to rest on a deeper analogy. At 3.804ff. Lucretius lists several possible conditions for imperishability which our souls do not satisfy; the last lines of this passage (89–823) have been recognized since Giussani 14 as referring to the immortality of the gods: quod si forte ideo magis immortalis habendast, quod vitalibus ab rebus munita tenetur, aut quia non veniunt omnino aliena salutis aut quia quae veniunt aliqua ratione recedunt pulsa prius quam quid noceant sentire queamus. . . . But if it is perhaps to be considered immortal rather because it is fortified and kept safe by factors that favor life, or because things alien to its safety either do not approach at all, or are driven off and depart before we can become aware of what damage they do. . . .

We have already learned from Plutarch and Philodemus what part of this enumeration refers to the gods: Lucretius’ last two alternatives are purely theoretical possibilities, as untrue of the gods as they are of mortal beings. Both gods and mortals are exposed to infinite quantities of toxic substances, as well as of salubrious ones;15 but the reference to ‘‘things alien to its safety’’ being driven off explains what is meant by vitales res. It is by their own activity, and not, or at least not primarily, because of lesser exposure to danger, that the gods are able to preserve their blessed existence. All animals, however, possess some capacity for selfpreservation; and this, I think, is what Philodemus says in fr. 26, καὶ [[φαντασ]] `προληπ´-τικῶς νοούμεν[ο]νζῷον οὐδὲ[ν ἐ ]δυνάμεθα ’ὑπο´[λ]αβεῖν [ἐ ]στερημένον αὐτῶν, `ἀλλὰ´ καὶ, ‘‘And we could not suppose [or, imagine] any living thing thought of in accordance with the preconception that would be completely deprived of these things but also. . . .’’ 16 The argument, that is, deals with some qualities or capacities 17 found in the gods but also, at least to a lesser extent, in all animals. What these capacities are can be conjectured on the basis of Lucretius’ account of the processes of life, and also, in my opinion, from On Piety viii.209–29 and xiii.347–375 Obbink, where Epicurus is cited for a contrast between unities formed from the same elements and from similar elements (356–358: ἐκ τῶν αὐτῶν ἢ τῶν ὁμοίων στοιχείων ἑνό τ ητες). 2 6

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The latter have always hitherto been taken to be the gods, while ‘‘unities formed of the same elements’’ has usually been supposed to refer to all other kinds of compound bodies. But ‘‘the same elements’’ can hardly mean numerically identical ones,18 since all compound bodies are constantly losing atoms through the emission of images and other kinds of erosion, and since most such losses, at least to relatively stable compounds, must be just as constantly made up by the taking into their internal motions of suitable matter from the surroundings, mostly in the form of images and debris of images (cf. Ep. Hdt. 48: ‘‘There is a constant flow from the surface of bodies, which is not evident from any lessening in size by reason of their replenishment’’). Inanimate objects (‘‘unities formed of the same [kinds of ] elements’’), however, replace the matter they lose only with atoms and small compounds of the same kinds, while living beings (‘‘unities formed from similar elements’’) can cope with a wider variety of convenientis motus, so that their chemical composition, to use modern language, varies with their age, state of health, and so on.19 None is ‘‘completely deprived of ’’ the capacity to take in suitable and expel unsuitable matter in the processes of respiration, nutrition, excretion, and so on, and all continue to do so for a certain period of time. According to Lucretius (2.22–43), growth takes place as long as the organism is taking in more matter, that is, matter of the right kinds, than it is giving off; but when the maximum growth is reached, in living things within our sensory experience, what follows is not lasting equilibrium but an eventual loss of the ability to distribute nourishment to all the body’s parts, and a reversal of the process of growth as we lose more of the right sorts of matter than we take in. In some animals, however, including human beings, this attrition does not become apparent for some time after the attainment of maximum growth; and if these animals can maintain a state of equilibrium for years, one can imagine Epicurus asking, why should there not be others possessing this capacity in a higher degree? I suggest that in both fr. 26 and On Piety cols. xiii–xiv (where τὰ πολλὰ [μὲ]ν in 37– 372 expects a contrast), the surviving text was followed by the claim that the gods are such animals, capable of maintaining their vital equilibrium indefinitely.20 If this were all there was to the argument, the claim that the capacity for self-preservation found in all animals could be carried to the point of perfection might be dismissed as merely another example of Epicurus’ characteristic optimism (though we should remind ourselves that biologists still find the mechanisms by which cells cease to multiply and replace themselves harder to explain than growth and regeneration themselves). 2 7

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But in fact, the same notion of equilibrium which he used to explain the survival of living organisms is fundamental to his conception of pleasure, and though literal immortality is not a human possibility, the gods’ availability as a model of the good, that is, pleasant life for human beings was closely connected with his account of their survival. The most important, if not the sole, component of that life, on his view, is catastematic pleasure, the awareness of one’s own undisturbed functioning in a state of mental and bodily equilibrium,21 and the antecedents of this concept are to be found in fifth-century biological speculation: the Hippocratic writers explained health as the proper balance of the ‘‘elements’’ or of opposite qualities and disease as resulting from contact with inappropriately compounded matter, and Empedocles is reported to have described pleasure and pain in similar terms.22 From the explanation of pleasure as awareness of one’s own normal healthy condition, it was only a step to characterizing pleasure generally as salubrious and pain as deleterious (cf. Lucr. 3.472: dolor ac morbus leti fabricator uterquest, ‘‘Both pain and disease are contrivers of death’’), and when the Stoics substituted selfpreservation for pleasure in their account of the newborn animal’s first impulses, they were not introducing a concept with which Epicurus was unfamiliar, but denying what he considered a necessary connection. He explicitly affirmed this connection in Sent. Vat. 37, ‘‘Nature is weak in response to evil, not to the good; for it is saved by pleasures and destroyed by pains’’; some particular pleasures may have to be rejected because of harmful concomitants or consequences, but whatever is pleasant is also in itself conducive to survival. The principle applies to states of mind as well as body, and it is no mere metaphor when Lucretius argues (3.459–462) that ‘‘just as the body undergoes great sicknesses and harsh pain, so the mind undergoes biting cares and grief and fear; and therefore it must also share in death.’’ Unpleasant emotions, like bodily pains, Epicurus attributed to our ingesting inappropriate kinds of matter, in the shape of images of distressing things; and Plutarch’s criticism that ‘‘it is in a different sense that we speak of virtue as strong and vice as weak’’ is beside the point, since for Epicurus virtue meant the art of living a pleasant life, and the strength manifested in freedom from emotional disturbances is essentially similar to that shown in ‘‘shaking off ’’ those types of matter which could do bodily harm. It is probably no coincidence that the word ἀσθενής, ‘‘weak,’’ occurs in Principal Doctrines  (‘‘[A god] is not subject to feelings of anger or of favor; for everything of this sort is characteristic of the weak’’), as well as in Sent. Vat. 37 and the Plutarch passage. 2 8

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It is because human beings are also capable of this kind of strength that the gods can serve as moral examples for us; and we are in a position to give a more complete reconstruction of the argument from analogy of which fr. 26 formed a part now that we have recognized its moral or psychological aspect: There ought in principle to be one science of maintaining equilibrium of mind and body. The lower animals have little or no ability to control their emotions; but human beings can exercise varying degrees of such self-control, with wise men almost reaching perfection. We also have a limited ability to control our bodily states by means of diet and so on; the avoidance of emotional disturbance, too, probably contributes something to bodily health. But there could be, without violating any known regularity of nature (any known, that is, to pre-evolutionary thinkers), a species which is as far in advance of us in bodily self-control as we are of the animals in emotional self-control; and this would be just what we mean by a perfectly blessed being. It would also be an immortal being, and its immortality would be in a way a consequence of its blessedness: it is because its existence is entirely pleasant that it would never have any sufficient reason to call a halt to its self-preserving activity. Philodemus asserts the connection in fr. 3, ‘‘Those who attempt to deprive them of imperishability must [also] deprive them of blessedness’’;23 and the same idea seems to underlie the discussion of the gods’ use of language which he cites from Epicurus’ successor Hermarchus 24 in cols. xiii.36–xiv.6: And one must say that they use speech and converse with one another; for, he says, we would not consider them more fortunate and indestructible (μᾶλλον εὐδαίμονας καὶ ἀδιαλύτους) if they did not, but rather similar to mute human beings. For since in fact all of us who are not maimed make use of language, to say that the gods either are maimed or do not resemble us in this respect (there being no other way either they or we could give shape to utterances) is extremely foolish, especially since conversation with those like themselves is a source of indescribable pleasure to the good.

‘‘Blessed and immortal’’ is of course the standard Epicurean description of the gods, but I do not think that the addition ‘‘(fortunate) and indestructible’’ is mere automatic writing; rather, it calls attention to their motivation for continued existence. Hermarchus wrote a treatise Against Empedocles in twenty-two books, and Bernays’ suggestion that Plutarch On the Cessation of Oracles 420c–e (quoted above) is derived from it has been generally accepted.25 Certainly 2 9

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it is the most economical hypothesis that this vast work was both Plutarch’s source for the Epicurean attack on Empedocles and Philodemus’ for this argument and for the further points about divine physiology for which he cites Hermarchus by name in cols. xiii–xiv.26 But I do not think the argument about the gods’ self-preserving activity could have originated in this criticism of Empedocles’ demigods: since they were not immortal but only long-lived, there would have been no reason to devise an explanation of the gods’ immortality in order to throw doubt on them. Furthermore, this use of the argument left the way open for Plutarch’s retort that experience does not show much correlation between high character and longevity, that Epicurus, for instance, died much younger than Gorgias. It is probably more charitable to assume that Hermarchus discussed the gods’ self-preservation at length as part of a comprehensive treatment of religion, and that its application to the demigods was only incidental. The awkwardness of the application may be an indication that the argument was one which had already been put forward, that is, by Epicurus. Cicero attributes the principle of isonomia to him by name; and if he did offer, as a confirmation of our supposed clear cognition, an argument for the possibility of blessed and immortal beings based on the conceptual connection between bodily survival and freedom from emotional disturbance, this would give an additional resonance to his statement that ‘‘the gods exist; . . . but such gods as the many believe in do not exist’’ (Ep. Men. 23).

vergil’s theology The real gods could no more choose to risk their tranquility, for example by committing adultery,27 than they could choose to put an end to their supremely pleasant lives; but the gods of Homer and myth are another story, and the gods of the Aeneid resemble their Greek models in being ‘‘subject to feelings of anger or favor.’’ In his criticism of the poets’ theology (On Piety, P.Herc. 433 fr. 2 ii + 088 fr. ),28 Philodemus remarked that for such beings, immortality would mean, not endless pleasure, but eternal misfortune; and it seems very probable that Vergil was thinking of this Philodemean argument when he made Juturna complain that the eternal life which Jupiter had given her as payment for her virginity served only to prolong her grief for her brother Turnus and to prevent her from joining him in death (Aen. 2.878–884).29 For an Epicurean reader, a goddess who proclaims her immortality a curse identifies herself as a fiction. This intertext, to be sure, would have been recognized by relatively few 220

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readers; but it is closely connected with two other passages in the twelfth book where the same Epicurean point is made by means of more obvious, poetic allusions. Juturna refers to Jupiter as magnanimus, and the same epithet was used in the earlier reference to her seduction, where Juno says to her, ‘‘You know how much I prefer you to all the other women of Latium who have climbed into the unloved bed of high-spirited Jupiter’’ (magnanimi Iovis ingratum ascendere cubile, 2.44). Ancient readers sensitive to generic boundaries in diction would have recognized the word as an equivalent to the Homeric megathymos,30 rather than mistaking it, with most modern editors, for the philosophical megalopsychos. Jupiter’s adulteries resulted from his passionate nature; and this repeated underlining of that nature is an added reason for preferring the interpretation of Servius and most editors since Wagner 31 in 2.83–832, es germana Iovis Saturnique altera proles: irarum tantos volvis sub pectore fluctus. You are the sister of Jupiter and the second child of Saturn, [witness the fact that] you agitate such great waves of wrath in your breast.

With this punctuation, Jupiter recognizes Juno as his kin by the magnitude of her passion, in effect giving an affirmative answer to the poet’s own question, tantaene animis caelestibus irae? (‘‘Is there such great wrath in heavenly minds?’’ .). Most earlier modern editors put a question mark at the end of 2.832, making it an expression of surprise; but magnanimus Jupiter was no more entitled to such surprise than Saturn was to be called free of wrath, so that even on this reading the line deconstructs the narrative of which it is a part. What is more, it does so in language borrowed from Lucretius’ warning against believing that the gods experience such passions: unless you purify your ideas about the gods of everything unworthy, he says, you will suffer for it, not because they are angry with you (6.73–74), sed quia tute tibi placida cum pace quietos constitues magnos irarum volvere fluctus. but because you yourself will imagine those tranquil beings in their placid peace as churning with great waves of wrath.32

The echo would have been readily recognized by any reader who knew his Lucretius; and the allusion could hardly be taken as ‘‘polemical’’ unless one supposed that Vergil was polemicizing in favor of a naive belief in myth, since no philosophical school approved of great anger. 22

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There may be a further hint of Epicurean protreptic at the end of Jupiter’s speech (2.838–40), hinc genus Ausonio mixtum quod sanguine surget supra homines, supra ire deos pietate videbis, nec gens ulla tuos aeque celebrabit honores. You shall see the race that will arise from their mingling with Italian stock surpass men and gods in piety, nor will any people so multiply your honors.

Juno is no doubt meant to understand pietas as being explicated by the following line, and to take supra deos, like most modern editors, as meaningless rhetorical amplification. A few commentators have looked for a more specific meaning: Henry explained supra ire deos pietate as a reference to Juno’s deficiency in ‘‘tenderness and gentleness of heart,’’ while West finds an allusion to her lack of familial deference to Jupiter himself.33 Both are, of course, possible meanings for pietas; but restricting the slur to Juno is hardly more plausible in 839 than in 832, especially so soon after the reference there to Saturn.34 Indeed, Mackail saw here a general reflection on the gods, not just of myth, but of traditional Roman religion, for their unreliability in rewarding their worshipers’ piety.35 Perhaps what matters most is not in what sense some or all Romans might surpass some or all gods in pietas, but simply that the line does problematize the word, and so, coming in the wake of the Lucretian allusion irarum volvis sub pectore fluctus, might recall the lines in which Lucretius did the same, and thus suggest the possibility of some Romans’ achieving that true piety which consists in emulating beings very unlike the gods of myth: nec pietas ullast velatum saepe videri vertier ad lapidem atque omnis accedere ad aras . . . sed mage pacata posse omnia mente tueri. Nor is it any sort of piety to be seen often turning with veiled head toward a stone and approaching all the altars . . . but rather to be able to look upon everything with a mind at peace. lucr. 5.98–99, 203

To be sure, only an Epicurean reader, or one already persuaded of Vergil’s Epicureanism, would be likely to think of what Lucretius said about pietas on reading 2.839. If I find that a problem, it is not because of any anxiety about the so-called fallacies of intentionalism and biographical in222

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terpretation: I do not believe that any reader who has grasped the concept of fiction can help wondering sometimes about the author’s intentions, or using his knowledge of the author’s life and beliefs in interpreting a text, just as he does with spoken utterances in everyday life. The problem is that we do not know from any independent evidence that Vergil remained an Epicurean—indeed, most ancient and modern readers have not known that he ever was one—while attempts to infer his Epicureanism from the text run into numerous difficulties. Epicurean views on the gods, as we have already seen, are in conflict with the literal narrative; doubts about religious beliefs are easy to find in the poem, but were hardly confined to Epicureans;36 nor are the philosophical ideas in the poem confined to Epicurean ones. Even the reference to Juno’s passions in 2.832 is open to another philosophically respectable interpretation, though one which is equally inconsistent with a literal reading, namely allegorization, to which Hardie resorts here, comparing volvis sub pectore fluctus with the literal volvunt ad litora fluctus in .86 and suggesting that Juno is ‘‘a partial reflection of the old allegory of Hera as ἀήρ, that is the lower air, the place of storms.’’ 37 But of course if the allegory is to convey a Stoic meaning, with Juno’s anger representing the impersonal motions of a part of the worldsoul, the reader has to overlook the echo of Lucretius and its original context (which Hardie refrains from citing here, referring to Lucretius only in general terms). Thus the allegorical interpretation of the gods as natural forces may or may not be relevant to 2.832; but it is certainly suggested at other places in the poem,38 as are Stoic ideas about fate and duty. One might conclude that philosophical theology, of whatever provenance, is used in the Aeneid only as decoration; and this would at least be consistent with Philodemus’ views on poetics. In Miss Prism’s novel, we are told in The Importance of Being Earnest, ‘‘the good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what Fiction means.’’ Similarly, in the Aeneid the gods are subject to great passions because that is what Epic means. Philodemus agreed with Eratosthenes that poetry aims not at instruction but at entertainment (or effectiveness),39 and he was confident that good poems in the future as in the past would be similar enough to one another to constitute the referent of a preconception.40 He thus offered a theoretical basis for the practice of imitation; to be sure, he also acknowledged the need for judgment to determine in what respects the classic poets ought to be imitated (On Poems V.xxxiv.7–33 Mangoni), but it would have been as easy for Vergil as it is for us to list the ways in which the gods contribute to the effectiveness of the Homeric epics. They permit a synoptic view of the action; they externalize, and so allow more vivid presentation 223

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of, human motivations; and they provide relief, sometimes comic, from the usually grim tale. They may also, of course, serve as vehicles for deep thoughts about how the world is run and why; but perhaps it is as much a mistake for interpreters of Vergil as it would be for those of Homer to focus too exclusively and solemnly on this function.41 How natural it was, while the classical tradition was still alive, to regard the gods simply as narrative devices (‘‘divine machinery’’), and how little this might have to do with belief, is evident in Pope’s words: ‘‘Whatever cause there might be to blame his Machines in a Philosophical or Religious View, they are so perfect in the Poetick, that . . . after all the various Changes of Times and Religions, his Gods continue to this Day the Gods of Poetry.’’ 42 Pope (a nominal Christian) was, of course, well aware that Christian poets like Tasso and Milton had found ways to reconcile Homeric imitation with their own theology; but Vergil did not have that choice, since the Epicurean gods could only absent themselves from an epic narrative, and an epic without gods would have other drawbacks besides its unlikeness to Homer. Divine interventions, and particularly omens and prophecies, were part of the tradition of Roman historical epic too, and the attribution of divine status or ancestry was a traditional way of praising a ruler, as well as an actual pretension of the Julii; thus a Roman epic without divine machinery could hardly be other than subversive. An Epicurean poet could only console himself with the thought that any harm his poem might do to readers foolish enough to take the gods literally would be an insignificant addition to that already done by Homer and the poetic tradition generally,43 and try to limit it still further by means of such hints as 2.832. The problem which the presence of Stoic ideas creates for an interpreter who believes that Vergil remained an Epicurean already confronted Cristoforo Landino when he tried, at the end of his Camaldolese Disputations (472), to reconcile the appearance of the Stoic world-soul at 6.724ff. with his general interpretation of the poet as a Platonist; his reply was that ‘‘since Virgil had seen that Chrysippus, in his book On the Nature of the Gods, interpreted the fables of Orpheus, Musaeus, Hesiod and Homer in such a way as to attempt to show that the early poets had long ago held the same opinions as the Stoics, so as not to be thought dissimilar to those poets whom he wished to resemble, he decided to prop up ( fulcire) the Portico and adhere to the Stoics on this subject.’’ 44 As often, Landino’s interpretive intuition was better than his interpretive principles; in modern terms, what he is saying is that not only the literary tradition but the

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tradition of interpretation shapes the horizon of expectations. Vergil may have derived this lesson from another of Philodemus’ principles, that the judgment of what constitutes a good poem should be based on a standard common to everyone (On Poems V.xxv.23–xxvi.20): If the only good poem is one that everyone can agree is good, it ought to be open to the same variety of interpretations as its commonly admired models. A poem which only Epicureans would understand or like would have been neither a good poem nor good propaganda, for any given Roman reader might turn out to be ‘‘a Stoic or something worse.’’ 45

notes . All translations here are my own. 2. See Bollack 975: 225–238; Long and Sedley 987, :44–49; and Obbink 996: 330–333. 3. Though of course that treatise may be by Phaedrus rather than Philodemus; cf. Obbink 996: 88–89. 4. All citations introduced by ‘‘col.’’ or ‘‘fr.’’ are to this book, which also has the special title On the Tranquil Life of the Gods (Π ]ερὶ τῆ[ς] εὐ στ α θ[οῦς τῶν θ]εῶν διαγωγ[ῆς]); it is preserved in a papyrus roll which is split horizontally (P.Herc. 52/57), and the last seventeen, joined columns (a–g and 6–5) are preceded by two series of fragments (–50, lower, and 5–8, upper column-halves) whose alignment has not been determined. It was last edited by Diels (97a [text] and 97b [commentary]), on the basis of Scott’s text (885; Diels never saw the papyrus); parts were re-edited by Arrighetti (955a and 955b, 958, 96, and 983) and by Longo Auricchio (988: 67–68). 5. Woodward (989) has shown that it is possible to supplement the text of cols. viii–x of the latter work, the passage on astral deities, in such a way as to make it, taken in isolation, seem to support the idealist view; but he makes no attempt to reconcile his interpretation of this passage with the rest of the book. 6. Col. viii.5–9, ‘‘Some will think that this [i.e., the question whether anything is impossible for the gods], and perhaps also the two preceding questions, are more suitable for examination in the continuous treatise; but let it be placed [here], since it also has a certain relevance to the present supplement’’ (ᾠκονομήσθῳ διὰ τ [ὸ] καὶ τῇ ν[ῦν] προσθέ[σει π]ως συνῆφθ[αι]); Diels (97b: 22) takes this as a reference to a planned later book. 7. Bailey 928: 469. 8. Long and Sedley 987, :47. 9. Merlan 933: 204–27, supplemented by 960: 59 n. 44; summarized in Rist 972: 49–50. 0. Cf. also Origen Against Celsus 4.4: ‘‘The gods of Epicurus, although compounded of atoms and as far as their composition is concerned dissoluble, man-

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michael wigodsky age to shake off the destructive atoms (πραγματεύονται τὰς φθοροποιοὺς ἀτόμους ἀποσείεσθαι)’’; Aëtius .7.7 (fr. 36b Us.): ‘‘The blessed and imperishable living thing, satiated with all good things and unreceptive of any evil, being entirely occupied with the maintenance of its own happiness and imperishability, takes no notice of human affairs.’’ . ‘‘. . . Because of the infinite number he [presumably a god] passes over some things and encounters others; for since he has an unbounded supply of both suitable and alien oscillations, in this way those which have been made suitable in regard to . . .’’ (. . . διὰ τὴν ἀ[πειρί ]αν τὰ μὲν ὑπερβαίνῃ, τοῖς δ’ ἐγκυ[ ρῇ. ἐπει]δὴ γὰρ ἀπειρία καὶ τῶν οἰκείων καὶ τῶν [ἀ]λλοφύλων ἔστιν αὐτῷ παλμ ῶ ν [Diels’ supplement παλ[ μῶν] is confirmed by traces visible under the microscope], [οὕτω]ς τ ὰ μὲν ᾠκειω[ μέν]α πρ(ὸς) ΑΛ . . . ). The same antinomy is mentioned in fr. 8, ‘‘to receive nothing alien but all suitable things, and to be overcome by nothing’’ ( μηδὲν [ . . . . . ] ἀλλόφυλον δέχ εσθαι, τὰ δ’ οἰκεῖα π [ά]ντ α μ η[δ’ ὑ]φ’ ἑνὸς κρατεῖσθαι), and fr. 32a, ‘‘has the strength to resist, with calculation and caution with regard to its surroundings, that which is alien, avoiding all disturbance, and to receive everything which is productive of immortality’’ ( μετὰ τοῦ λογισμοῦ καὶ τῆς τῶν περιεχόντων εὐλα β είας ἰσχύει διερείδεσθαι πρὸς τὸ ἀλλόφυλον ἄνε[υ] πάσης ὀχλήσεως καὶ πᾶν τὸ ποιητ[ικ]ὸν τ ῆς ἀ[ιδιότητος] or ἀ[φθαρσίας ἀποδέχεσθαι]); and there is another reference to an infinite number of harmful things in fr. 24a. 2. See Lovejoy 936: 352–353 n. 49. 3. ‘‘. . . For indeed no one could prove that in one kind of world there might not have been included seeds of the kinds from which animals and plants and the rest of the things we see are formed, while in another kind this would not have been possible.’’ 4. Giussani 896: .224–225. 5. See note  above. 6. This is in effect a new fragment, since the text as printed by Scott 885 and Diels 97a defies understanding. The first two supralinear corrections are in very faded ink and are not only illegible but almost invisible to the naked eye; Scott read only the pi of ὑπό, and did not record the clearly visible cancellation of φαντας-. The fragment is a sottoposto attached to the pezzo containing frr. 24a– 25b, and has a stichometric number Ζ to the left of its last line (there is an Η in the corresponding position to the left of fr. 24a); it is probably the bottom of the column of which fr. 20 is the middle. 7. I suggest that δυνάμεων is the noun to be understood. 8. στοιχεῖον, etymologically ‘‘one of a row’’ or ‘‘of an ordered (or countable) set,’’ is in any case more often used of types than of tokens; cf. Burkert 959. Here, and in some other Epicurean passages, I think it refers not to types of atoms, but to classes of simple compound bodies more or less corresponding to the Empedoclean four elements; see Wigodsky forthcoming. 9. ὁμοίων is in fact explicated as ‘‘constantly changing’’ at 3.372–375, if one 226

Emotions and Immortality retains the transmitted ἐκ τῆς ὁμοίων ἄλλων [κἄλ]λων [ἐπι]συνκρί[σεως σ]τοι[χείων] (‘‘from the accretion of different and [then] different similar elements’’), rather than, with Obbink, deleting the first ἄλλων. 20. See further Wigodsky forthcoming. I will argue at greater length for this interpretation, and for distinguishing between the ‘‘unities formed from the same and from similar elements’’ and the images ‘‘from the same and from similar (sources)’’ mentioned in xii.329–332 and in col. ix.27, as part of a more comprehensive treatment of Epicurean theology in preparation. 2. I accept Diano’s view that by ‘‘pleasures in motion’’ Epicurus meant, not the processes of satisfying wants, which Aristotle called by that name, but rather the ‘‘variations’’ which are the objects of the natural but non-necessary desires; see his articles collected in Diano 974, and summarized in Rist 972: 02–. On this interpretation, all pleasure is catastematic, while on the process-interpretation, pleasures in motion are merely a means to the goal of catastematic pleasure. 22. According to Aëtius (4.9.5 and 5.28); cf. Gosling and Taylor 982: 2–24. 23. τῆς ἀφθαρσίας στοχασαμένο υ ς σ[τ]ερῆσαι τῆς εὐδαιμονίας αὐ[τοὺς] στερητέον. The object must be the gods, but we can only speculate about who had expressly or in effect denied their immortality. The fragment might be connected with the argument against Empedocles’ long-lived daemons reported by Plutarch; but I think it is more likely to be directed against dissident Epicureans, who may have argued that, since death is no evil, the gods could be perfectly blessed without possessing or without using the power to prolong their lives to eternity. 24. Hermarchus is cited by name for the discussion of the gods’ respiration, 3.20–36; the section on speech follows naturally on this, and though only a few words survive of 26–32, it is unlikely that a second citation (φησί, 3.38) began there—cf. Longo Auricchio 988: 33–34. 25. For the work’s title and contents, cf. Obbink 988; for the attribution, Bernays 866: 40–4; and, for ‘‘I have heard’’ used in citing a written source, ibid.: 45 and Schenkeveld 992. 26. ‘‘Without this we will no longer be thinking of the sort of living beings that we preconceived’’ in xiii.22–23 resembles fr. 26, suggesting that the latter also derives from Hermarchus. 27. Cf. fr. 78, ‘‘. . . is not chaste like a stone, which is incapable of adultery, and he would commit adultery if he wished. But he would not wish to, any more than a stone would. Similarly a god, if he wished not to receive good things, but to receive bad things, would even do that; but in fact, although he has the power. . . .’’ I follow the interpretation of Grilli 957: 28. 28. Cf. Gomperz 866: 36; Obbink in this volume, pp. 76–78. 29. See the discussion by Obbink in this volume. 30. For which it was probably coined by Ennius; cf. Wigodsky 972: 24. 3. Heyne and Wagner 833, 3:89–820. 32. Cf. volvere curarum tristis in pectore fluctus, 6.34, and nec capere irarum 227

michael wigodsky fluctus in pectore possunt, 3.298; also aeternumque daret Matri sub pectore vulnus, 2.639. 33. Henry 889, 4:324–325; D. West 998: 3–32. 34. W.W. Fowler (927: 45), endorsing Henry’s interpretation, absurdly adds that ‘‘Jupiter and his father were good-tempered, reasonable and benevolent gods.’’ 35. Mackail 930: 506. 36. This is repeatedly acknowledged in the most comprehensive treatment of such passages, Mellinghoff-Bourgerie 990; see, e.g., her remarks on life after death, 46–47, and on the gods of myth, 43–46. 37. Hardie 986: 339 and n. 75. 38. Cf. Heinze 957: 298–299 (= 993: 238–239). 39. Strabo ..0; on the meaning of psychagogia, cf. Wigodsky 995: 65–68. 40. προειλήφαμεν . . . ἀρετὴν ποιήματος, On Poems 5.33.34–36 Mangoni; he infers the impossibility of kinds of poetry (or poets) from their never having appeared to date, ibid. 7.20–24 (on which cf. Wigodsky 995: 58–65), 37.7–2, and 38.24–25. 4. For a recent reminder of the multiple functions of the gods, see D. West 998: 34–36; Heinze 957: 29–38 (= 993: 235–250) is of course a distinguished precursor. 42. Preface to the Iliad, in Mack 967: 7. 43. Cf. On Poems V.iv.9–2, ‘‘Many [of the finest poems of the most famous poets, 0–2] in fact do the greatest harm that is in their power.’’ 44. Landino 980: 258. 45. The phrase is borrowed from Long 974: 6.

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Carmen inane: philodemus’ aesthetics a n d v e r g i l ’ s a rt i s t i c v i s i o n m a r i ly n b . s k i n n e r

Vergilian song is, overall, a fragile construct offering little protection against time and circumstance.1 In contrast to the faith in the transcendent value of poetry voiced by other authors of the late Republican and Augustan periods, a note of self-reflexive uncertainty about the ultimate significance of the poetic project runs all through the Vergilian corpus, from the initial Eclogues to the last books of the Aeneid. This is not to deny the Vergilian narrator his moments of artistic self-confidence and lofty panegyric (at the opening of the third georgic, for example); but, as critics have observed, those elevated passages are regularly offset by others that appear to question or even reject the poet’s capacity to make a difference to his society, given the bitter realities of violence, constant suffering, and blind existential necessity. Taking their cue from Ralph Johnson, who demonstrated in Darkness Visible (976) that encounters with visual art in the Aeneid do not enlighten or comfort a beholder standing in for the poetic audience, scholars have investigated aspects of ‘‘the failure of art’’ in numerous Vergilian texts. Yet, despite the popularity of a widespread (though arguably erroneous) notion that writing and reading verse posed a doctrinal difficulty for orthodox Epicureans, Vergil’s attitude toward his craft has not often been explored in the light of his philosophical training and close ties with the Epicurean school at Naples. To be sure, Tait, whose 94 dissertation remains the only extended treatment of Philodemus’ impact upon his literary contemporaries, recognizes that Vergil’s work is ‘‘filled with traces of the school’s influence—with Epicurean doctrine, and with the more intangible colouring given to his thought and writing by the associations made there.’’ 2 However, Tait’s investigation of literary impact is governed by the assumption that it will reveal itself through generic imitation and close verbal borrowing. Following a fruitless search for echoes of Philode-

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mus’ Greek epigrams in the Catalepton, Tait accordingly concludes that ‘‘it is useless to attempt to look for definite traces of Philodemus in Virgil’s poetry.’’ Poetic influence, though, can be manifested in ways more subtle than mere lexical or thematic parallelism. I would like to approach the same issue from a different direction by inquiring whether Philodemus’ understanding of poetic composition and appreciation as purely intellectual processes, coupled with his emphatic dismissal of utilitarian criteria for judging poetry, might have made a conceptual contribution to Vergil’s aesthetic pessimism. This is a question that has not, to my knowledge, been raised before. In broaching it, I acknowledge some genuine trepidation, since I am a literary scholar and not an expert on Epicureanism, much less on the papyrus fragments of Philodemus. Thus I apologize in advance for oversimplifying what I know are the many complex and difficult issues surrounding the historical influence of Philodemus’ poetic theory. I hope, however, that the connections I make in this essay may prove stimulating and even suggestive for further investigations into the philosophical and literary intercourse of Philodemus and Vergil. Although Roman authors belonging to the generation immediately before Vergil express a range of opinions on how poetry might further the ends of society, all write within an intellectual milieu that recognizes the potential usefulness of its contribution. Development of a Latin literary tradition, as Thomas Habinek has argued, was closely associated with the extension of the Roman empire after the Punic Wars and the attendant formation and preservation of an aristocratic Roman cultural identity.3 Hence Cicero can appeal to long-established cultural assumptions when, in defending the poet Archias’ right to citizenship, he grounds his argument upon the claim that praising a deserving citizen, as poets do, simultaneously enhances the fame of the man’s homeland: at eis laudibus certe non solum ipse qui laudatur sed etiam populi Romani nomen ornatur (‘‘But by these praises not only he himself who is praised but, in addition, the reputation of the Roman people is surely honored,’’ Arch. 22).4 Elsewhere, in a number of philosophical treatises and most notably in the Tusculans, Cicero draws upon the Stoic notion of poetry as an educational tool, citing Latin epic and tragedy to bolster ethical assertions and present examples of good and bad conduct. On both grounds, poetry is justified by its significance for the moral well-being of the community. For Callimachus, the benefits of art are instead subjective and private. Beginning with Homer, whose Helen famously asserts that she and Paris

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will be a subject of song for men to come (Iliad 6.357–358), Greek poets had always insisted that immortality was within their gift.5 Callimachus invests this traditional claim with a new urgency. Intellectually and physically displaced, with the old values of polis society eradicated, the scholarpoets of Ptolemaic Alexandria looked to the written word to anchor what remained of the past.6 For both the author himself and those whose names he chose to preserve, the ordered poem was an enclave of certainty in the midst of fortuitousness and absence of design.7 In one poignant epigram, G-P 34 (= Anth. Pal. 7.80), Callimachus has just learned about the death of his friend, the distinguished diplomat and poet Heraclitus of Halicarnassus,8 which had apparently occurred some time before:

Εἶπέ τις, Ἡράκλειτε, τεὸν μόρον, ἐς δέ με δάκρυ ἤγαγεν· ἐμνήσθην δ’ ὁσσάκις ἀμφότεροι ἠέλιον λέσχῃ κατεδύσαμεν. ἀλλὰ σὺ μέν που, ξεῖν’ Ἁλικαρνησεῦ, τετράπαλαι σποδιή· αἱ δὲ τεαὶ ζώουσιν ἀηδόνες, ᾗσιν ὁ πάντων ἁρπακτὴς Ἀίδης οὐκ ἐπὶ χεῖρα βαλεῖ. Someone mentioned your death, Heraclitus, and brought me to tears; and I recalled how often we both put the sun to bed talking. But you, friend from Halicarnassus, are somewhere ashes four times since. Yet your nightingales live on, and upon them the raptor of all things, Hades, will lay no hand.

Though the man himself is dead, his poems, figured as ‘‘nightingales,’’ continue to exist; but that is not, or not merely, the point. It is a reasonable inference that the speaker knew nothing of Heraclitus’ misfortune until an anonymous individual, tis, spoke of it incidentally. In his ignorance, he had gone on assuming he would one day see his friend again; now he realizes that he does not even know where Heraclitus is buried.9 The epigram evokes the sudden shock of loss, the abruptness with which personal ties—especially those maintained across distance—can be severed. Under these circumstances, Hunter perceptively explains, ‘‘we cling to the ‘nightingales’ for both comfort and the security of knowledge.’’ 10 In a world of disrupted certainties, poetry’s capacity to survive its maker is one of the last remaining emotive consolations. Verse composition is accordingly a special calling, demanding extraordinary industry and requiring intense commitment from its practitioners. 233

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On those grounds, Callimachus’ neoteric imitators in Rome could assure themselves of the value of their products even though they wrote for a much more limited audience than the entire res publica. Catullus professes a firm belief in his vocation when he playfully declares himself a ‘‘devout poet,’’ pius poeta (6.5) and dismisses his meretricious rivals as impii (4.7). However odd this application of ethical terminology to literary practices might seem in its immediate context, it provides an important clue to his self-definition as artist, for pietas, fidelity to obligations, is a virtue he takes very seriously. Thus in poem 68b Catullus promises to immortalize his friend Allius in return for the favors (officiis, 68.42 and 50) Allius had done for him. He observes the principle of returning service for service fundamental to the Roman construction of friendship (amicitia) by acting on the assumption that a poem is the finest reward he can confer. In view of Epicurus’ alleged injunction against studying and writing verse (Diog. Laert. 0.2b), Lucretius’ appropriation of didactic epic for philosophical ends poses a problem too complicated to discuss here adequately.11 In the proem to Book , however, the didactic narrator confidently articulates his own belief in what the De rerum natura is equipped to do—namely, to promote Roman moral and cultural understanding by expounding the nature of reality on Epicurean principles.12 A little later, the famous simile of the bitter medicine sweetened by honey (.936– 950) defines the practical application of art in furthering acceptance of that message. Moreover, Lucretius’ reliance upon an atomistic poetics, in which the combination of letters as indivisible units forms the basis of sound and meaning in the same way that particular junctures of atoms make up an entity, allows him to adduce his own writing as a model for the structure of the universe (2.03–022): quin etiam refert nostris in versibus ipsis cum quibus et quali sint ordine quaeque locata; namque eadem caelum mare terras flumina solem significant, eadem fruges arbusta animantis; si non omnia sunt, at multo maxima pars est consimilis; verum positura discrepitant res. sic ipsis in rebus item iam materiai concursus motus ordo positura figurae cum permutantur, mutari res quoque debent. Furthermore, in my own verses it makes a difference with what letters and in what kind of order each separate letter is placed, for the same marks express ‘‘sky,’’ ‘‘sea,’’ ‘‘lands,’’ ‘‘rivers,’’ ‘‘sun,’’ and the same marks 234

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‘‘crops,’’ ‘‘woods,’’ ‘‘animals’’; if all are not similar, by far the greatest number are, but the things signified differ because of their position. So likewise now with actual objects: when the arrangements of material, its motions, sequence, position, shapes are transposed, the entities must also be changed.

Because the configuration of a line of verse mirrors that of the real world in an essential and concrete sense, its advantages as a vehicle for promulgating Epicurean metaphysics are self-evident.13 Although their specific reasons may differ, then, these Republican writers profess a common belief that poetry is capable of providing major benefits to mankind, a theme reiterated, with even more solemnity, by their Augustan successors Propertius, Horace, and Ovid.14 That is the same conviction that Vergil frequently interrogates. Subjecting all relevant passages in the Vergilian corpus to close examination would be far beyond the scope of this essay; hence I shall single out only a few cases for analysis in the light of Philodemus’ poetics. In doing so, I shall attempt to explain why, for Vergil, the prospective gain derived from art is often undermined by loss of control on the part of the artist, and why the reception of artistic content—especially in the metonymic form of a painted or sculpted object—too often results in the observer’s misreading of the image.What do these recurrent episodes of communicative failure imply when they are brought into conjunction with Philodemus’ notion of the poet’s strategies and objectives, as they may be inferred from some surviving fragments of his works? Let me begin with a brief sketch of Philodemus’ ideas about the mental processes of poetic creation and reception, as far as they can be ascertained. In P.Herc. 676 he appears to define the specific task of the poet as the selection (ἐκλέγειν) of appropriate diction and the purposeful arrangement of it so as to make the thought, that is, the content, clear.15 There and elsewhere the process of composition is clearly envisioned as rational, rather than instinctive or intuitive. Gigante explains Philodemus’ demand for a rational approach to poetry, music, and rhetoric as a strategy for reconciling these pursuits with Epicurus’ moral teachings:16 Philodemus did not hold that the circle of culture suffocates moral progress toward happiness. But because this had to occur without violating the intention and position of Epicurus, it became necessary to remove uncertainty and imprecision from the liberal arts and to endow them, in an exhaustive, unbiased way, with technical knowledge and historical consciousness. 235

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By the same token, the poet’s audience appreciates the product of his craft by exercising its own rational judgment; the listener’s mind must be prepared to comprehend the thought (διάνοια) and then evaluate the effectiveness of its expression (On Poems V.xxiii–xxix Mangoni). Thus, as David Armstrong observes when dealing with the latter passage, poetry is not beautiful ‘‘because its music appeals to the mere irrational sense of hearing: it is not an irrational or sensual pleasure produced by mere music that we find in poetry, but a purely intellectual pleasure, one not appreciated by the ear but by reason, λόγῳ.’’ 17 We infer, then, that poet and reader meet on the common ground of logical analysis. If each approaches his or her respective task systematically, applying the tools of reason to the process of articulation or comprehension, due pleasure is imparted and communicative breakdown is unlikely to occur. Philodemus’ own epigrams appear to illustrate such a rational poetics, for they engage and challenge the knowing reader intellectually through their wit, allusiveness, and playful affirmation of Epicurean topoi.18 It is, however, in his insistence that good poetry is not necessarily beneficial to society that Philodemus parts company with his Roman political and literary contemporaries, as well as those spokesmen for opposing positions whom he attacks in his aesthetic treatises. Arguing against Heraclides of Pontus, he declares that poetry, to be beautiful, need not be edifying: good poems exist that are, in fact, morally harmful (On Poems V.iv.0–2 Mangoni).19 Later he states that poems, if they are beneficial, are not beneficial as poems (κἂν ὠφελῆι, καθὸ ποήματ’ οὐκ ὠφελεῖ, col. xxxii.8–20). Asmis interprets this concession to mean that poems may benefit an audience incidentally, ‘‘by imitating speech that is useful and, in general, representing the ordinary good sense of people of intermediate virtue.’’ 20 However, the essential function of the poem is to give pleasure, and what constructive moral examples it may offer are not pertinent to the criteria by which its intrinsic excellence has to be measured. Should a poem in fact afford such examples, it is the job of the philosopher to extract them and demonstrate their applicability to his system of ethics. Philodemus puts that implication into practice in his one work of literary criticism, On the Good King According to Homer, dedicated to his patron L. Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus, in which he defines a set of epic ‘‘starting points’’ (ἀφορμαί, P.Herc. 507 col. lxiii.6) to further analytical discussion of the correct uses of power.21 It is that sane and coherent model of judicious creation, levelheaded audience response, and pragmatic application with which Vergil grapples theoretically—and which he time after time rejects. In his eyes, I submit, 236

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aesthetic misapprehension, on both sides, is endemic and symptomatic of the general human tendency to fall victim to that complex of irrational impulses encapsulated in the term furor. One obvious instance of furor subverting artistic production is already evident in the Eclogues: poetry is unable to bring intellectual insight to its own composer, or even to lessen his unhappiness through its pleasurable capacity. Here Galinsky has anticipated my line of inquiry by suggesting that the lovesick singers’ failure to console themselves in Eclogues 2 and 0 reflects the Epicurean rejection of the therapeutic power of music.22 Daniel Delattre now makes a corollary point in the present volume. Noting that in Vergil, music, far from quelling desire, actually incites and prolongs it, he observes the parallel with Philodemus’ express denial of music’s efficacy in cases of lovesickness (On Music 4, col. cxx.–3 = IV, 6 K.). Each case, furthermore, also epitomizes the triumph of passion over reason: Corydon is in the grasp of dementia (2.69), and Gallus, acknowledging that there is no cure for his madness (nostri medicina furoris, 0.60), reluctantly succumbs to Amor. Of course,Vergil is drawing on the timeless poetic conceit of love as a disease of both body and mind, but this metaphor has been strongly reinforced by Epicurean teachings.23 Orpheus’ lapse into doubt in Georgics 4 is an even more obvious instance of irrational disturbance; in her parting speech, Eurydice laments his furor, which, she asserts, has destroyed them both (4.494–495). While the full implications of his tragedy remain a perplexing problem, they should certainly prompt us to reconsider the extravagant claims for the deathdefying power of song advanced by the neoterics. Orpheus, a patently Callimachean poet, can indeed charm the rulers of the underworld; but he is still unable to master his own reckless impulses.24 If the successful outcome of the creative process can be thwarted by lack of emotional restraint on the part of the poet, the listener’s disposition may in turn interfere with correct reception of the poetic product. A classic example of such obstruction occurs in the programmatic Eclogue , where the complacent Tityrus, absorbed in his own good fortune, fails to react to the obvious distress of Meliboeus until the very end of the poem. Each of Meliboeus’ poignant references to his own misfortune (3–4, – 7, and, indirectly, at 49–50) passes unacknowledged; indeed, Tityrus has paid so little attention to these expressions of grief that he can frame an adynaton tactlessly glancing at Meliboeus’ actual predicament (.59–66): Tityrus: ante leves ergo pascentur in aethere cervi et freta destituent nudos in litore piscis, 237

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ante pererratis amborum finibus exsul aut Ararim Parthus bibet aut Germania Tigrim, quam nostro illius labatur pectore vultus. Meliboeus: at nos hinc alii sitientis ibimos Afros, pars Scythiam et rapidum cretae veniemus Oaxen et penitus toto divisos orbe Britannos.

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Tityrus: Sooner, therefore, will buoyant deer graze on air and the seas leave fish exposed on the shore, sooner, each crossing over the borders of the other, will the Parthians in exile drink from the Arar and the Germans the Tigris, than his countenance slip from my memory. Meliboeus: But we are leaving here—some of us will go to the parched Libyans, part to Scythia and the Oxus that carries off clay, and to the Britains remotely separated from the entire world.

With the abrupt corrective at nos, Meliboeus must explain to Tityrus, as though he were hearing it for the first time, that the ‘‘impossible’’ conditions described now obtain in the external world. The lament for dispossession he then utters (67–78) finally elicits a suitable response: Tityrus invites him to a simple meal, concluding the poem with a gesture of Epicurean consolation.25 However, Meliboeus has already declared his intention of singing no more: carmina nulla canam (77). Tityrus’ ultimate offer of hospitality, then, cannot fully offset all the earlier instances of failed communication.26 On a metapoetic level, such failures appear to be caused by the irruption of the senseless and painful into a lucid Epicurean aesthetic cosmos, for, despite their ostensible participation in dialogue, Tityrus and Meliboeus speak from opposing generic positions—Tityrus from snugly within the pastoral tradition, Meliboeus already estranged from it.27 Two episodes in the Aeneid that create a metatextual problem of reader response by describing an instance of visual perception raise corollary questions about the Epicurean paradigm of author-audience relations. The first of these, Aeneas’ unexpected encounter with scenes of the Trojan War in Juno’s temple at Carthage (.446–493), explores the distorting effects of emotion upon an observer’s grasp of what he sees.28 As he is moved to tears, Aeneas draws hope from the very existence of these representations, for he assumes they are infused with a natural human pity aroused by the widely circulating accounts of Troy’s fall (459–465):29 constitit et lacrimans ‘‘quis iam locus,’’ inquit, ‘‘Achate, quae regio in terris nostri non plena laboris? 238

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en Priamus. sunt hic etiam sua praemia laudi, sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt. solve metus; feret haec aliquam tibi fama salutem.’’ sic ait atque animum pictura pascit inani multa gemens, largoque umectat flumine vultum.

465

He stopped short and, weeping, said, ‘‘What place, Achates, what region of the earth is not filled now with our suffering? Look at Priam! Even here there is proper recognition of virtue, there are tears for events and mortal affairs touch the heart. Put away your fear; this report will offer you some safety.’’ Thus he spoke and, groaning often, nourished his feelings with an empty image and wet his face with copious tears.

Since we, as readers, experience the actual scenes only through Aeneas’ eyes, we have no way of gauging the correctness of his interpretations. However, his increasing psychological investment in the messages he derives from them is intimated by words and phrases displaying subjective bias: the tents of Rhesus are prodita (470); Troilus is an infelix puer (475); the Trojan women process to the templum non aequae Palladis (479); and the ransom of Hector becomes a base commercial transaction (exanimumque auro corpus vendebat Achilles, 484), very different from Priam’s first-hand description of the incident (2.540–543). Instead of taking the surrounding context into account, Aeneas extracts wish-fulfilling significance from an interpretive vacuum: ‘‘Vergil’s phrase ‘animum pictura pascit inani,’’’ Eleanor Leach remarks, ‘‘aptly describes the cognitive process of Aeneas’ reading by which the emotion and knowledge brought into the text become the effective determinants of perception.’’ 30 It is quite possible, then (as several recent studies have suggested), that he erroneously imposes his own false hopes upon what is actually a commemoration of Juno’s triumph over her personal enemies.31 Had Jove not sent Mercury to insure a peaceful reception for the Trojans (.297–304), such a leap to a mistaken conclusion might well have been fatal. Given his present circumstances, Aeneas’ aesthetic response is spontaneous and predictable, but, according to the criteria set by Philodemus, it is not properly evaluative.32 The account of Daedalus at Aeneid 6.4–33 poses a reciprocal object lesson for poets, because it concerns a craftsman who is prevented from reshaping the past to his own design. Having arrived safely at Cumae after fleeing Crete, the master artist dedicates his wings to Apollo and then embellishes his temple on the acropolis (20–33):

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in foribus letum Androgeo; tum pendere poenas Cecropidae iussi (miserum!) septena quotannis corpora natorum; stat ductis sortibus urna. contra elata mari respondet Cnosia tellus: hic crudelis amor tauri suppostaque furto Pasiphae mixtumque genus prolesque biformis Minotaurus inest, Veneris monimenta nefandae, hic labor ille domus et inextricabilis error; magnum reginae sed enim miseratus amorem Daedalus ipse dolos tecti ambagesque resolvit, caeca regens filo vestigia. tu quoque magnam partem opere in tanto, sineret dolor, Icare, haberes. bis conatus erat casus effingere in auro, bis patriae cecidere manus.

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On the doors was the death of Androgeos, then the sons of Cecrops, ordered, alas, to pay as a penalty every year the bodies of seven of their children; the urn stands with lots drawn. On the other side, the island of Cnossos, raised high out of the sea, corresponds to it; recorded here is the cruel love for the bull and Pasiphae mated by a trick and the hybrid issue and two-bodied offspring, the Minotaur, testimony to perverted love; here that ordeal of the palace and the impenetrable maze. But in fact Daedalus himself, having pitied the great love of the queen, unraveled the traps and windings of the building, directing blind footsteps with a thread. You also, Icarus, would have played a great part in such a masterpiece, if grief had allowed it. Twice he had attempted to fashion the fall in gold; twice the father’s hands fell.

By putting his skills at the service of the god whom Callimachus celebrated as his divine mentor (fr. .2–28 Pfeiffer), Daedalus becomes a foil for the Alexandrian poet. The program of panels he creates turns out to be his autobiography, although it is only gradually revealed as such. On the first door, the events portrayed—the death of the Cretan prince Androgeos and the resulting penalty inflicted upon the Athenians—are stated as objective facts, with no mention of the sculptor himself; the parenthetic exclamation miserum! (2) would seem to be a spontaneous interjection on the part of the narrator. Correlated scenes on the opposite door, depicting Pasiphae’s copulation with the bull, the birth of the Minotaur, and the labyrinth fashioned to house that monster, are rapidly summarized, again without reference to Daedalus’ role in abetting the unnatural union and then designing a maze to conceal its result. It is only when Ariadne enters 240

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the story that the artist finally shows himself taking part in the action as he provides a solution to the riddle of the labyrinth out of pity for the queen’s great love—or so we are told. Finally, the narrator steps in to account for the apparent presence of a blank panel: Icarus, too, would have been prominent in these reliefs, had not unresolved grief prevented Daedalus from depicting the fall of his son. In retrospect, it becomes clear that the doors are giving a reason for the artist’s escape from Crete to Cumae, and thus an implicit justification for the dedication offered: Leach aptly compares this ecphrasis to a tabula ex votivo (355). In a seminal article, Fitzgerald noted that the description of the portals falls into ‘‘two halves distinguished by descriptive mode,’’ the first treating the frieze as a static, finished work of art, the second recounting its subject matter as open-ended narrative. At the point where the craftsman seeks to ‘‘eternalize and finalize the fate of Icarus in gold,’’ the ‘‘frame of art’’ dissolves back into the contemporaneous present, and the focus shifts from explanation of the visual content to Aeneas’ interrupted perusal of it.33 Simultaneously, Daedalus himself moves from clever detachment to painful self-awareness as he reconstructs his own past in metalwork. The version of his Cretan adventures he intends to offer the viewer is, obviously, a tendentious one: he omits his involvement in Pasiphae’s furtum and presents his conspiracy with Ariadne and Theseus—the reason he had to flee Crete—in the best possible light. The editorializing comments that accumulate as the ecphrasis progresses (miserum, crudelis amor, Veneris monimenta nefandae, magnum . . . miseratus amorem) project a moral tone, and thus force the reader to see these images precisely as Daedalus wanted them seen.34 However, he cannot ‘‘eternalize and finalize’’ into art his own burden of responsibility for his son’s death. Thus these value judgments also reflect the artist’s increasingly troubled subjectivity, building up until his ‘‘final honesty, his deepest response to natural feelings, brings artistic barrenness as well as a final powerlessness.’’ 35 To the degree that art can be rational and objective, it is at the same time manipulative; moral consciousness, with its attendant guilt, silences the author. Confronting art, and life as well, from a purely intellectual perspective can be a decidedly efficient method of dealing with ordinary ambiguity and uncertainty. Certain Epicureans, like Diogenes of Oenoanda, thought so highly of that strategy that they offered personal (and expensive) testimonials to its efficacy. Vergil understood the strong appeal of a rationalist poetics; perhaps that, more than anything else, explains his ongoing retirement at dulcis . . . Parthenope (G. 4.563–564) and his continued association with the Epicurean school there. But, I submit, he seems to 24

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have perceived a deep flaw in the crystalline surface of Philodemus’ poetic theory: its denial of emotive constituents in the production and reception of art, which in turn (if I have read the Daedalus episode correctly) is implicated in Philodemus’ further denial of a moral dimension to poetry, except as an accidental and contingent attribute. This ambivalence may well issue from Vergil’s own poetic experience; certainly it emerges, again and again, in episodes of incomplete or futile artistic communication. In trying to comprehend the larger meaning of those repeated instances of unmeaning, I have begun to believe (and here, again, I follow in the footsteps of Ralph Johnson) that the great ideological and psychological rift in Vergil’s art, over which so much scholarly ink has been spilled, may be a reflex of persistent doubts about the viability of a brilliant, idealizing, and totalizing vision—not that of Augustus, however, but of Epicurus.

notes . Passages from ancient authors cited in this chapter are taken from OCT editions of Cicero, Lucretius, Vergil, and the Epigrammata Graeca. All translations are my own. 2. For Vergil’s Epicurean ties, see in general Tait 94: 48–63; quotations are from p. 6. 3. Habinek 998: ch. 2, esp. 39–59. For the assimilation of Greek culture by the aristocracy during Cicero’s own lifetime, cf. Rawson 985: 3–3. 4. On how Archias applied his talents to enhancing the image of prominent Romans, see Wiseman 982: 3–34. 5. Pindar’s epinician odes, as one might expect, constantly allude to the commemorative powers of song. The unquenchable fame Homer bestowed upon the hero Ajax is compensation for the latter’s tragic suicide (Isthm. 4.35–45). Poetry is everlasting, proof even against the elemental forces of nature (Pyth. 6.0–4). The man who departs life with his achievements unsung is as pitiable as one who dies childless (Ol. 0.85–96). Earlier, Sappho had expressly denied remembrance and mourning after death to a woman without ‘‘a share in the roses of Pieria’’ (fr. 55 L-P). 6. Green 990: 77. 7. Selden 998 is a comprehensive inquiry into the sociological, psychological, and linguistic dislocations that pervade Callimachus’ verse; he concludes by perceiving therein ‘‘a void at the heart of things around which appropriated forms and significances coalesce in the negative order of the alibi’’ (40). Cf. Johnson 982: 00–04, a briefer but equally perceptive analysis of Callimachean ‘‘limitation and vulnerability.’’ 8. The identification of this Heraclitus with an internationally known official named on proxeny lists is now generally accepted; see Swinnen 970. 242

Carmen inane 9. For pou as ‘‘somewhere’’ rather than the vague ‘‘I suppose,’’ see Hunter 992: 9–2. 0. Hunter 992: 20. . Diogenes’ comment has led scholars to assume that Epicurus flatly condemned the reading and writing of poetry. For challenges to the communis opinio based upon closer examination of Philodemus’ fragments, see Obbink 995a and Wigodsky 995. 2. Minyard 985: 35. 3. For discussion of the passages that draw an analogy between letters and atoms and their implications for Lucretius’ theory of composition (.96–98, 799–802, 907–94; 2.688–699, 03–022), see Friedländer 94; Snyder 980: ch. 2; and, most recently, Armstrong 995: 225–228. 4. Bartsch (998: 325) remarks that the theme of ‘‘art’s civilizing influence’’ is topical for the Augustan poets. 5. Here I follow Asmis’ reading and interpretation of P.Herc. 676 col. xii (i) 9–24 (995b: 56–57). It is true, as she notes, that the text, taken by itself, does not clearly separate Philodemus’ own views from those of the opponent he is attacking. That he would agree with the statement above is likely, however, since it is in conformity with other remarks on the subject found in the fragments of his treatises (Greenberg 990 [955]: 57). 6. Gigante 995: 30. 7. Armstrong 995: 27. Cf. Janko’s précis of Philodemus’ argument on this point: ‘‘What makes a poem good is not the sound, but the combination of words and sense. Although the sound appeals to the ear, the most important pleasure we obtain from poetry is in the mind, and such is therefore the function of verse’’ (2000: 8). 8. Sider 997: 32–39. 9. For the theories of Heraclides of Pontus, see now Janko 2000: 34–38, who confirms that he is the writer referred to in On Poems V cols. iii.3–vi.5. 20. Asmis 99: . 2. Asmis (ibid.: 20–2), who shows that this treatise conforms to Philodemus’ aesthetic theory in its critical procedures; cf. Armstrong in this volume. Gigante (995: 68–7) points out that, as protreptic, it is firmly in the Epicurean tradition. For a demonstration of how the interpretative pronouncements contained in On the Good King can cast a reflexive light on Vergilian poetics, see Fish in this volume. 22. Galinsky 965: 65–68. 23. For amor as rabies and furor, cf. Lucr. De rerum natura 4.7–20. Brown conveniently gathers the testimonia on the view of love adopted by Epicurus and his followers (987: –8). 24. J. Griffin 986: 76–77. 25. Davis in this volume. 26. Perkell argues that Tityrus is at last drawn out of his solipsism by the 243

marilyn b. skinner power of Meliboeus’ poetic voice, which creates ‘‘a shared longing, a shared esthetic, and consequently shared values’’ (990: 79). If such a transformation has occurred, however, it has only been accomplished with great difficulty, again casting doubt on the efficacy of song in the face of the listener’s indifference. 27. Rundin (2003) argues that Tityrus’ ‘‘self-involved impassivity’’ (6) models the ataraxy of the Epicurean sage and is programmatic for the Ecologues, which were intended as ‘‘an Epicurean therapy for the disturbance of civil war’’ (70). The problem with this otherwise attractive interpretation is that Tityrus’ failure even to acknowledge his companion’s sorrow goes beyond the limits of imperturbability and verges on callousness. If that is ataraxy, it is not presented in an appealing light. 28. Because Vergil does not specify the medium of representation (frescoes, metopes, and plaques are all conceivable), I use equally vague terms in discussing these images. See Boyd (995: 8–83), who believes the absence of clarity here is a deliberate and meaningful ‘‘gap’’ in the text. 29. The primary narrative model for this incident is Odysseus’ weeping at hearing Demodocus’ songs of the Trojan War (Od. 8.83–95 and 52–534). Odysseus, however, is moved to tears by the narratives’ fidelity to historical events he has himself experienced. While the representations in Juno’s temple are factually accurate, Aeneas reads into them an emotive content they may not possess. Through this contrast, Vergil’s imitation of Homer underscores the problem of perception it raises. 30. Leach 988: 38. 3. See Johnson 976: 03–05; Leach 988: 37–38; Hexter 992: 354–355; Boyd 995: 78–79. 32. Schroeder (in this volume) notes that Aeneas’ engagement with the scenes he beholds must be met with a corresponding detachment (signaled by animum pictura pascit inani ) on the part of the reader. 33. Fitzgerald 984: 54, 57; he proceeds to sum up the ecphrasis as ‘‘the unfolding of a process by which the past is first frozen and then reintegrated into history.’’ 34. Leach 988: 356–357. She carefully distinguishes the narrator’s adoption of Daedalus’ perspective from the artistic goals of the poet, who, she claims, is attempting to ‘‘divorce his reader from his own absolute authority as narrator, to reveal the fallibility of his own sympathies, and to challenge his reliance upon his independent experience of reading’’ (359–360). Similarly, Bartsch claims (998: 336) that Daedalus’ creative failure leaves a gap for a further voice to supply ‘‘the picture (and us) with that which is not on its surface through a subjective act of interpretation,’’ thereby destabilizing a monolithic, and ideologically driven, understanding of the artwork. 35. Putnam 998: 82.

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vergil and music, in diogenes of babylon and philodemus d a n i e l d e l at t r e

The young Vergil, as has always been known, studied at Naples with the Epicurean Siro, and it is unlikely that he would have missed the opportunity of frequently visiting Philodemus of Gadara, the house and family philosopher of L. Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus.1 Philodemus had dedicated to Vergil at least one of the books of his comprehensive work On the Vices and Their Opposing Virtues.2 Philodemus also composed On Music in four books, of which the first—the only one to have survived 3—was devoted to a formal refutation of opinions and arguments traditionally proposed by Greek philosophers from the Pythagoreans and Plato to the middle of the second century b.c. promoting music not just for professionals, but also for children of good birth. Between 200 and 50 b.c., the Stoic Diogenes of Babylon had systematically collected a considerable, albeit unusual, body of material on this subject into an enormous treatise, probably entitled On Music, no doubt with the intention of reconciling it with the philosophical principles of the Stoa. So it only remained for Philodemus to dictate to a scribe a selection of passages drawn from this work (for the most part quoted literally), and then to criticize them harshly, following the same order as his reading notes. The poet Vergil, younger than Philodemus by about forty years, was probably also acquainted with this Epicurean treatise and, through it, was familiar with the traditional Greek conception of music. Now, when one systematically rereads his poetic trilogy, one gets the clear first impression that the Epicurean doctrine, profoundly original in its radical opposition to the notion of music as a way of inculcating virtue and as a basic school discipline, is deliberately ignored in favor of an extremely classical conception of music. Such a conception, as in the era of Plato, integrates poetic text (metra or logoi ) and purely musical elements (melē kai ruthmoi ) and takes for granted the diverse uses made of music, both in the histori-

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cal setting of the epic and in the contemporary context of the beginning of the Principate of Augustus at Rome. Did Vergil therefore repudiate his Epicurean education, at least in the realm of music? It is not our purpose here to deliberate about whether or not Vergil’s decision to embrace a poetic career was compatible with the Epicurean doctrine on poetry that he received from Siro. We will not, moreover, be concerned with the music of Vergil’s own verses, nor with various stylistic devices employed by the poet to produce their sound. Rather, it is his attention to music, through the instruments he mentions and the purposes and effects of that art, that will concern us in the present study. In presenting himself as a poet,Vergil inserts himself directly and deliberately into the tradition of Homer, Hesiod, and Theocritus, whom he intends to rival, though without designating them directly by name.4 In the process, he borrows from them a good number of conventions and practices. It is in fact because he follows in their footsteps that he invokes from time to time, so they may inspire him, the Muse or Muses (Musa, Aen. .8; Musae, Aen. 9.77; cf. G. 3.). He specifies these divinities in other ways as well: collectively, as goddesses (Aen. 7.64: deae; Aen. 0.63: divae); as ‘‘Pierian maids,’’ Pierides (Ecl. 3.85, 6.3, 8.63, or 9.33) and Camenae (Ecl. 3.59), or, in individualizing them, as Erato (Aen. 7.37 and 4), Calliopea (Ecl. 4.57; Aen. 9.525), and, similarly, Thalia (Ecl. 6.), although she is ordinarily considered to be the patron of comedy rather than of bucolic poetry. In employing the term ‘‘Muse,’’ what the poet has specified is, in fact, not so much an authentic divinity as a conventional metaphor for poetic inspiration. Moreover, the very term musa becomes at times a metonym in Vergil’s work, a translation of the Greek mousa used as an equivalent of mousikē and a simple synonym for cantus.5 Aside from the Muses, mythological figures are also introduced largely to contribute to the embellishment of poetry, which Vergil does not seem to distinguish from music.6 It is therefore not surprising to see Apollo (Aen. 4.44–45) or his sister Diana leading the chorus of nine sisters on Helicon; Pan and his flute embodying the poetry of the countryside (Ecl. 2.3, 8.24; G. .7); the nymph Clymene (G. 4.344–346) or the father of the Satyrs, Silenus (Ecl. 6),7 singing mythological tales; and elsewhere Satyrs dancing (Ecl. 5.73). There is no astonishment at the reference in Vergil’s verses to Linus (Ecl. 6.67), Amphion (Ecl. 2.24), Orpheus (G. 4.459–55),8 and the Muses (Aen. 6.667–669), legendary musicians and figures associated, so to speak, with ancient writings on music.9 Moreover, in the work of Vergil, music is present as much in the uni246

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verse of mortals—whether living or dead—as of gods. Thus Apollo ‘‘renews the choral song’’ at Delos (Aen. 4.44–45); Circe, daughter of the Sun, ‘‘causes the impenetrable woods to re-echo her continuous song’’ (Aen. 7.–2); and the nymphs who are assembled ‘‘around Cyrene,’’ the mother of the unhappy herdsman Aristaeus, allow themselves to be ‘‘charmed by the songs [of Clymene] while unrolling the soft wool from their spindles’’ (G. 4.348–349). In the same way, in Elysium, certain of the dead happily ‘‘lead choruses, striking the ground with their feet, and singing songs’’ (Aen. 6.644) or ‘‘singing in a chorus a joyous paean’’ (Aen. 6.657), not far from the ‘‘pious poets whose verses were worthy of Phoebus,’’ nor from ‘‘those who, by the invention of the arts, have embellished life’’ (Aen. 6.662–663). Youths (‘‘young men and maidens,’’ Aen. 2.239) and elderly (‘‘here a chorus of young men. . . . the chorus of old men,’’ Aen. 8.285–288, at the end of the banquet offered to Aeneas by Evander), women (‘‘the choir of Roman matrons’’ in the temples, Aen. 8.78) and men sing or lead choral rites. Moreover, not only the Trojans 10 and the Phrygians in general (Aen. 9.67), the Carthaginians (Aen. .740–756),11 the Rutulians, and the Latins are devoted to music, but also the Greeks,12 the Arcadians (Ecl. 0.3–33),13 the Syracusans (Ecl. 6.), and, more generally, the Sicilian compatriots of Theocritus (Ecl. 4.). Is there a way to suggest more clearly that music at once both is universal and accompanies the whole of one’s existence, to the end of life and beyond? This evidence at first seems to coincide completely with the image of music that Diogenes of Babylon would have wanted to give in his monograph, criticized by Philodemus in the major part of the last two sections of Book 4 of his On Music. The Stoic Diogenes, although little known today, was figured importantly in antiquity, inasmuch as he was one of the founders of Middle Stoicism and initiated, before Panaetius, the Stoics’ dialogue with Plato and the Lyceum. He also refused to distinguish music from poetry, a view that Philodemus vehemently opposed.14 Philodemus in effect already had a ‘‘modern’’ conception of music, since he distinguished the rational element of it, which consists of words (logoi ) and, from his point of view, acts upon the human soul, from that which is specifically musical (melodies and rhythms). The latter were understood by the Garden to be alogon, devoid of reason and merely capable of entertaining the ear and procuring for it an unnecessary pleasure. Diogenes, on the other hand, mingles poetry and music without distinction, and then enumerates the different uses of mousikē in daily life or analyzes its effects upon human beings. It will be useful at this point to list the diverse musical instruments 247

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that Vergil mentions in his poetic works. Let us begin with the stringed instruments. First is the cithara (Aen. .740–74),15 also occurring in hendiadys as cithara fidesque (Aen. 6.9–20).16 The poet specifies elsewhere that this prestigious instrument—reserved for professional musicians, of whom Orpheus is the specific model and patron—has seven strings, or nervi (Aen. .776), and that one can play it directly ‘‘with the fingers’’ or ‘‘with an ivory plectrum’’ (Aen. 6.646–647).17 He also alludes to another stringed instrument, which can only be a lyre. Constructed, according to the tradition, initially from a turtle’s shell, it is designated by the periphrasis cava testudine (G. 4.463). This is a much more common instrument, which, among the Greeks from the time of Pericles, was played even by children. The wind instruments, on the other hand, are much more numerous; but, while falling principally into our overall categories of ‘‘brass’’ and ‘‘woodwind,’’ they do not display extensive variety. The Roman trumpet, or tuba, occurs frequently in the epic: this is not surprising in military or battle contexts (Aen. 2.33).18 Is this the same instrument that sounds clearly (Aen. 5.39),19 or, at another time, that Vergil designates with the terms classicum (Aen. 7.637) or signum (Aen. 0.30)? In each case, these instruments are employed to give the signal for combat, and are of bronze (aere, Aen. 6.64),20 like the lituus with the curved bell in the form of a sea shell (cava concha) that the trumpeter Misenus brandishes in the hand that does not touch the spear (Aen. 6.67).21 In battles, horns, also of bronze (Aen. 7.64–65), likewise sound, under the names cornua (Aen. 7.65, 8.2)22 or cornu recurvum (Aen. 7.54), and bucina, the almost entirely circular Roman trumpet whose hollow sound provokes terror (Aen. 7.59– 520).23 Thus we see that the battle music of trumpets occupies an essential place in the Aeneid. Again, the presence of another, more elaborate wind instrument is indicated, the Phrygian flute with two pipes, of which one is straight and the other curved (Aen. .737).24 With regard to the small Carian flute, an instrument similar to a shrill, piercing fife, it seems that the term ‘‘boxwood,’’ buxus (Aen. 9.69),25 which etymologically covers all objects made of wood, was sufficient to designate it in Vergil. If we set aside the Aeneid for a moment and turn to the Eclogues, we will not be surprised to discover there, to the exclusion of other types of instrument, a very different sort of wind instrument, a rustic one and thus undoubtedly very simple: tibiae (pipes) in their different varieties. The most rustic is certainly Pan’s flute, designated by the periphrases disparibus septem compacta cicutis / fistula (‘‘a pipe formed of seven uneven hemlock-stalks,’’ Ecl. 2.36–37)26 or wax-jointed pipe, fistula cera / iuncta 248

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(Ecl. 3.25–26), or again by the plural calami, ‘‘reeds’’ (Ecl. 8.24).27 The poet underlines elsewhere the fragility of the reed, which is indicated by the adjective leves, ‘‘slender’’ (Ecl. 5.2), unless this refers instead to the lightness of its sound. The same word, in the singular this time, is accompanied in one case (Ecl. .0) by the adjective agrestis (‘‘woodland’’), which elsewhere characterizes the tenuis harundo (Ecl. 6.8), the ‘‘slender reed,’’ 28 with which Vergil proposes to play (metaphorically) at the beginning of the sixth eclogue. Besides, the slenderness of the hollow-stemmed materials (reed, straw, oats, or hemlock) used to fabricate the rustic flutes seems elsewhere a Vergilian leitmotif (no doubt encouraged by metrical considerations), since, in conjunction with preceding expressions, it recalls the ‘‘slender’’ reed, tenuis avena (Ecl. .2),29 the ‘‘frail’’ reed, fragilis cicuta (Ecl. 5.85), or the ‘‘scrannel straw,’’ stridens stipula (Ecl. 3.27). Finally, consider the other synonyms of the rustic flute, whose number of pipes it is difficult to state precisely: the herdsman Damon speaks of his tibia (Ecl. 8.2),30 which would certainly not be a complicated instrument like the Phrygian double flute, or of his fistula (Ecl. 8.33),31 designating with these two terms in the singular one and the same (modest) pastoral instrument, the pipe. Aside from stringed and wind instruments, Vergil also mentions, on rare occasions, three types of percussion instrument. First, there are the tympana, lively tambourines that are shaken and struck (Aen. 9.69– 620),32 and bronze cymbals, Corybantia aera (Aen. 3.),33 two women’s instruments used regularly in the violent ceremonies of the cult of the Magna Mater. On the other hand, there is the sistrum (Aen. 8.696), a cymbal or, better, a rattle,34 a typically oriental, metal instrument, shaken frenetically, with which Cleopatra, the queen of Egypt, incites her troops against Octavian at the center of the shield of Aeneas, where it is depicted in a startling, brief foreshadowing of the future of Rome. To conclude this brief review, a few comments may be in order. To begin with,Vergil does not include any instrument indiscriminately. Rather, we have seen that in every context that is military or solemn, it is the bronze trumpet, with its variants, that is called for. On the other hand, when we enter the pastoral universe, it is the rustic pipe and Pan’s flute that rule. Moreover, the sonorities of these two chief types of wind instrument are antithetical: to the terrifying power of the tuba (due to the clarity and especially the depth of the broken cries of the trumpet) is opposed, according to all the evidence, the sweet lightness and the supremely steady, high pitch of the frail song of the bucolic instrument, the pipe, just like 249

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the force and violence of the epic follow, in Vergil’s works, the nuances and fragile grace of the eclogues. Finally, when he wants to evoke the East and Corybantic chaos, it is the percussion instruments, tambourines and sistra, accompanied by the shrill, exciting stridency of Carian flutes, that inspire the poet. As to the verbs employed to evoke the sound of diverse instruments, it will be observed that they are limited in number. Most often, actually, Vergil uses substantives and speaks of the sonitus, the clangor or the signum of trumpets. Nevertheless, he sometimes uses verbs such as canere, ‘‘sing’’ (Aen. 5.3),35 conspirare, ‘‘blare out’’ (Aen. 7.65), or sonare, ‘‘sound’’ (Aen. 7.637):36 the (wind) instrument is then the subject of the verb. Otherwise, except for ludere, ‘‘play’’ (Ecl. .0), only two deponent verbs, exclusively applied to the rustic flute, recur to describe the musical sport of the herdsmen: meditari, ‘‘practice, court’’ (Ecl. .2 and 6.80), and modulari, ‘‘run through a scale, play’’ (Ecl. 5.4 and especially 0.50–5).37 Although these verbs can have a playful side, they suggest above all the application and concentration of playing on the flute, in a word, the reflective thought, as if the ideas expressed were imposing their law on the music itself. It would no doubt be possible to extend the exegesis in order to try to determine the degree of exactitude and precision attained by Vergil in his knowledge of the instruments that he evokes, but as my goal here is not primarily musicological, I shall leave this concern to others. Let me simply say that our poet is sufficiently cognizant, in every instance, to avoid obvious blunders, and that metrical exigencies can have played, on occasion, a certain role in the choice he made among the Latin terms he had at his disposal to designate all the instruments. Apart from the instruments, it is suitable also to note the considerable place occupied by songs (a cappella or perhaps accompanied by instruments that are not specified or even mentioned) otherwise expressed by the human voice in Vergilian poetry: songs of a single person, often of a woman, or of a chorus, perhaps composed of men or of women of varied ages;38 melodies sacred or profane;39 songs of weaving (G. 4.344 and following), of the banquet (Aen. .740 and following; 8.285–304 and 0.737– 738), of joy (Aen. 8.78), of love (Ecl. 8; 0.34), of sadness involving love betrayal (Ecl. 8.4–6 and 62–09), or of sorrow (Aen. 0.89–93).40 Most often, however, either they attract admiring silence or move the hearers to abandonment (G. 4.347–350 and 470–47, 480), as in the case of Bacchic (Aen. 4.30–303) or Corybantic rites, or they compel the obedience of rocks and forests or the submission of animals.41 Finally, ought we not to interpret the Vergilian text, when the Sibyl of 250

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Cumae, who will guide Aeneas in his visit to the underworld (Aen. 6.77– 80), goes into a trance, as an astonishingly realistic metaphor of the playing of a musical instrument (of wind, in this case)? For is a vates—call him or her seer, inspired poet, or sibyl—anything else but a medium, an organum,42 who lends body and voice to the divinity who enters him in enthousiasmos? Progressively more aroused (Phoebi nondum patiens, ‘‘not yet brooking the sway of Phoebus,’’ 77) before being tortured pitilessly by the virtuoso artist ‘‘playing’’ her—here, the god of music in person, Apollo (ille fatigat / os rabidum fera corda domans, ‘‘He tires her raving mouth, tames her wild heart,’’ 79–80)—the Sibyl finishes by serving faithfully the prophet who bends her to his wishes ( fingitque premendo, ‘‘and molds her by constraint,’’ 80)43 and allows a truly divine music to escape from her lips (magnum si pectore possit / excussisse deum, ‘‘If so she may shake the mighty god from out of her breast,’’ 78–79). After this review of the kinds of instruments and songs present in the three Vergilian poems, the most interesting point for us is without question the examination of the circumstances in which there is recourse to music in Vergil, and especially of the effects that it seems to have on the listener, whether animate or not. Let us begin with the musical games between the herdsmen in the Eclogues, which constitute the dominant theme of Eclogues 3, 5, 7, and 8.44 It is necessary to imagine that these herdsmen, each in his own turn, interrupt the passages played on the reed with the joyfully chanted couplets, as verse 48 of Eclogue 5 clearly indicates.45 The principal function of music, in this case, is to divert, by affording an agreeable pastime to the guardians of the herds, who would otherwise find their occupation tedious. To indicate the ‘‘divine’’ pleasure thereby obtained, it would be difficult to find an expression more eloquent than the admiring exclamation of Menalcas in the same eclogue (5.45–47): tale tuum carmen nobis, divine poeta, quale sopor fessis in gramine, quale per aestum dulcis aquae saliente sitim restinguere rivo,

or the parallel words of Mopsus (82–84): nam neque me tantum venientis sibilus Austri nec percussa iuvant fluctu tam litora, nec quae Saxosas inter decurrunt flumina vallis.46

It will be observed, however, that this sensual enjoyment, all the more grand in that it is usually available to the hearer by way of a third party, 25

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remains in these two cases easy to obtain, and is linked quite closely, and exclusively, to nature (soft grass and fresh water, or wind-music, and wandering, deep-banked rivers). It is as if Vergil saw in the delight of music a natural, unnecessary pleasure (since the herdsmen could readily do without singing), alluding in this to the teaching of the Garden (Phld. Mus. IV, col. 5 = 37 K., 29–34) that words convey intellectual messages that music cannot. However, among the other effects of song that Vergil evokes in his verses and that we shall briefly consider in review, not one is required by an Epicurean like Philodemus to be the effect of the music alone, that is, the melodies and rhythm. All are attributed by Vergil, when he consents to recognize the reality of such effects, only to thoughts expressed by the words that are sung. Here there reappears the fundamental ambiguity of the term mousikē, present for the major part of the Greek tradition, which, contrary to Epicurean philosophy, the poet does not appear to have judged a good thing to denounce explicitly. Nevertheless, since he uses most often an ambivalent terminology centered on the terms cantus, canere, cantare, which denote the use of the human voice and the very articulation of the words that are sung (or, to be more precise, their imitation by an instrument or an animal),47 it would be ill-advised, and dishonest, to accuse Vergil of having rejected Philodemean teaching, and one could even go so far as to recognize that he essentially agrees with his theoretical position. Thus, instead of a deliberate desire by the poet to defend and maintain at Rome the dominant Greek musical tradition against the specific orientation of Epicureanism, the relative poverty of the Latin vocabulary could well be the explanation for the poet’s persistent recourse to the ambiguity inherent in the notion of music. In fact, it is not only to music but to songs (in the sense of words sung) that one returns in Vergil’s works for the consolation of sorrow, and especially for the sorrow of love. Thus Cycnus is ‘‘singing and with music solacing his woeful love’’ (Aen. 0.9)48 after the death of his lover Phaethon; thus Orpheus accompanies his perpetual lament on his cithara,49 until the Maenads tear him to pieces and throw his decapitated head into the Hebrus, while his ‘‘bare voice and death-cold tongue’’ continue to call ‘‘Eurydice, ah, hapless Eurydice’’ (G. 4.522–526). One must conclude that in both Vergilian examples, having recourse to music not only does not ease the pain 50 but in fact wakens it and makes it lasting.51 This is precisely the position that Philodemus defends against his Stoic adversary. Moreover, in the case of the legendary poet Orpheus, the supernatural power of his song is such that it can soothe tigers (mulcentem tigres, 252

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G. 4.509) and cause trees to put themselves in motion in order to follow him (agentem carmine quercus, ‘‘making the oaks attend his strain,’’ G. 4.509; silvasque sequentes, ‘‘the woods that follow him,’’ Ecl. 3.46). Now this is precisely one of the arguments employed by Diogenes of Babylon to prove the idea, essential to his thesis, that music has ‘‘the ability to put in motion’’ (kinētikē ).52 In fact, the Stoic explains, one need not take this formulation literally, for he proposes an allegorical interpretation of this legend: Orpheus, in reality, would have been a builder who resorted to musical accompaniment (usual for heavy construction, particularly in Egypt) to endow his workers with the power of transporting heavy materials for construction, namely trees and stones. Philodemus, in his criticism of this argument,53 might have been more disposed to accept such a rationalistic reading except for one reason, which is nowhere addressed in Diogenes: for the Epicurean, music can, at best, distract attention from a laborious task, but it has no natural capacity for setting in motion, as this could only be, in his view, an outcome of thoughts conveyed by words.54 Vergil’s formulation, which is ‘‘hyperbolic’’ in that it is poetic, does not permit one to say whether the poet himself thinks more in terms of Diogenes’ or Philodemus’ interpretation, but nothing in the text prevents our supposing that he was able to adopt on this issue the point of view of the Garden. On the other hand, another passage in the Georgics (4.333–348) appears to confirm that he definitely thought in favor of the Philodemean interpretation. At the beginning of the story of Aristeas, Vergil represents the nymphs who surround his mother Cyrene, occupied with spinning wool to the recitation (narrabat, 344) of the loves of Mars and Venus, and also of other gods, which is sung by one of them, Clymene. Now, the only goal of this nymph seems to be to distract 55 them from the dull aspect of their labor by capturing their attention: carmine quo captae dum fusis mollia pensa / devolvunt (‘‘Charmed by the strain, they unrolled the soft coils from their spindles,’’ 347–348). Furthermore, at the end of the ninth eclogue (63–65), the remark that the herdsman Lycidas addresses to the old man Moeris has the same implication. In fact, as the thunderstorm threatens, they are concerned to hasten their steps to the distant town with the goats that the second herdsman leads; in order to shorten the journey, Lycidas offers to sing to his companion all along the way: cantantes licet usque (minus via laedit) eamus: / cantantes ut eamus (‘‘We may yet go singing on our way—it makes the road less irksome. That we may go singing on our way,’’ 64–65). Let us note in passing the use of the verb laedere in this passage, which emphasizes the unpleasant difficulty of the 253

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journey still to be accomplished, and all the need to forget, through song, the effort to push on.56 Thus we see at the outset of such observations that, far from being in contradiction with the teaching of the Garden, the Vergilian position can indeed be reconciled with the philosophic reflection of Philodemus on music. It would nevertheless appear that in a military context, Vergil deviated from Philodemus’ doctrines in order to return to the traditional belief that the sound of the trumpet, or other military wind instruments, incites soldiers to bravery—a belief that Diogenes of Babylon endorsed. As we saw above, the trumpet sounds in the Aeneid to give the signal for combat, and one sees this and expects the enemy to rush wildly forth amid the clashing of arms. For Diogenes, such a causal sequence is not at all surprising, since, on the one hand, ‘‘music naturally puts in motion and pushes to action’’ (Philodemus Mus. IV cols. 43.5–8 and 2.24–27 Delattre), and on the other hand, ‘‘music leads to Virtue, and even to a good number of Virtues, if not to all’’ (col. 49.5–20), among them, evidently, courage (cols. 22 and 49 passim). In these circumstances, when Vergil writes (Aen. 6.64–65), Misenum Aeoliden, quo non praestantior alter aere ciere viros Martemque accendere cantu,57

one would believe he alludes to the doctrine of Diogenes, poetically formulated in Latin. In fact, the verb ciere refers quite directly to the Greek kineīn,58 a leitmotiv of Diogenes. Again, in the expression Martem accendere, the name of the god, in poetry a simple synonym for ‘‘the fury of combat,’’ refers to the use of the name Ares in Aeschylus (Sept. 58, 64, 5, 344, and 497, for example), which was also referred to by Diogenes (perhaps through a quotation of Gorgias) in his work devoted to music (Phld. Mus. IV, 72 = III, 6 K., 32–34). Beyond this, when Misenus ‘‘in sounding [the trumpet] calls to contest’’ (cantu 59 vocat in certamina, Aen. 6.72,60 it is clear that this is an effect of the sound of his instrument, and not of his words, which is offered in evidence. In this case, one cannot allege the ambiguity of the notion of mousikē. On this point also, Philodemus is explicitly opposed to his Stoic adversary, since he writes that ‘‘it [sc. the trumpet, or perhaps music?] no longer awakens military ardor (thymos) with [its sonority],61 for it would be useless to seek to restrain that of the trumpet players; now in reality . . . [lacuna in the papyrus]’’ (Phld. Mus. IV, col. 68 = III, 4 K., 33–36). The continuation, less damaged, specifies that such an irrational effect is neither natural nor automatic, since in other circumstances (official cere254

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monies, funerals, or sport gatherings), when the trumpet sounds, ‘‘this provokes no furious ardor of this sort,’’ and that, even in war, each soldier ‘‘at the signal for combat, executes what he must to make himself a danger to the enemy and to be followed by his own people when he thrusts himself into the conflict’’ (Phld. Mus. IV, col. 68, 39–69, 7 = III, 4 and 5 K.), that is, a controlled and more rational behavior. In every case, if one considers more closely the literal meaning of the Roman epic, one would have to recognize that the call of the trumpet there has been utilized above all as a signum, ‘‘a (military) signal’’ (Aen. 2.33),62 and that, finally, the poet never established an explicit link between the trumpet and military furor, except in those verses where he evokes the exceptional merit of the trumpeter Misenus. Therefore, in spite of appearances, the Vergilian expression remains, even on this point, (almost) always compatible with the musical doctrine of Philodemus. To conclude our examination of Vergil’s attitude with respect to music, let us consider a very curious passage in his epic, Aeneid 7.750, 752–755: quin et Marruvia venit de gente sacerdos . . . . . . fortissimus Umbro, vipereo generi et graviter spirantibus hydris spargere qui somnos cantuque manuque solebat mulcebatque iras et morsus arte levabat There came also a priest of Marruvian race . . . the brave warrior Umbro. . . . He was accustomed to aiding as much by song as by hand, of pouring sleep on the race of serpents and of baneful-breathing hydras with a loud hum, of appeasing their wrath and skillfully easing their bite.

These lines describe the powers of an astonishing figure, a very brave vates, or prophet, of an Italic tribe, the Marsi, whom Vergil calls Umbro and introduces as a remarkable charmer of serpents and a specialist in antidotes.63 What strange, if not magical, powers are attributed explicitly to song! All this appears to refer to a very ancient conception of music, which has been conveyed to us, if not from the very age of Pythagoras and the Pythagoreans of Magna Graecia (toward the end of the sixth century b.c.), at least within a context that is clearly Pythagorean and Italian. In fact, music was used in Pythagoreanism as a radical means of appeasing anger, and also as an effective remedy for a certain number of physical diseases. In like manner, one reads in the fourth century a.d. Neoplatonist Iamblichus, who offers a partial resume of the Pythagorean Maxims 255

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and the Life of Pythagoras by Aristoxenus (a fourth-century b.c. authority) that ‘‘according to tradition, the sciences that the Pythagoreans honored the most were music, medicine and divination. . . . They were more reserved about drugs, only using those intended to treat ulcerations. . . . In the case of certain maladies, they had recourse to incantations. They attributed moreover to music great powers over health, on the condition that they were used according to the appropriate practices. They did not omit the recitation of passages, chosen as much from Homer as from Hesiod, in order to restore harmony of the souls’’ (Iambl. VP 63–64).64 In other respects, it was also a typically Pythagorean practice to have recourse to music to appease anger (Clinias 4 D-K) or the excesses of drunkenness (Quint. Inst. .0.32).65 The serpents tamed by Umbro could be taken as a symbolic expression of this idea. Now, we know from Cicero in particular (Fam. 4.3)66 that already toward the end of the Republic, a renewal of Pythagoreanism began to surface at Rome, in the circle of the senator P. Nigidius Figulus, before it manifested itself, through the activities of Thrasyllus, at the court of the emperor Tiberius in the following century.Vergil, without a doubt acquainted with Pythagorean doctrines, could very well have been aware of the geographical origins in southern Italy of that elitist and rather mysterious philosophical trend. He might have been inspired to make mention of it in such terms in his great work of national integration through his desire for Italian and Roman ‘‘recovery’’ of this ideology, fundamentally Greek in origin, within the new political order of the Pax Romana established by the princeps Octavian Augustus. In this way, one could implicitly find here in such a detail, apparently of no great importance, the constant care, generally recognized in the creator of the national Roman epic, to contribute to the civic unification and to the ideological effort toward the refounding of Rome, through the integration into his vast poem of all the Italian peoples. This would therefore be less a personal choice by the Augustan poet than a ‘‘political’’ obligation, which would have led him not to reject the opinion, contrary to reason and unacceptable for a student of Philodemus, according to which music could sometimes be endowed with marvelous powers. To conclude, this study has permitted us to establish that, from the time the poet takes up the question of the effects of music on human beings, he is, so to speak, never in contradiction with the Epicurean point of view, however idiosyncratic, that Philodemus expressed in Book 4 of his On Music. At the same time, he is apparently in agreement with the Greek tradition that, following the Pythagorean Damon and Plato after 256

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him, would recommend the apprenticeship and practice of music as an indispensable tool in the moral development of children of good family and, more generally, of the citizens of the entire permanent and politically harmonious State.Would it not be a splendid accomplishment by the author of Rome’s national epic to have succeeded in preserving discreetly, in the great creation he was commissioned by Augustus to compose, and of which the import was universal, the philosophic options that Siro and Philodemus labored to inculcate in him in his adolescence, without any falsity at all toward the world, his friends, or himself? I can say at this point that, in undertaking the present research, I was almost certain I would end with a different conclusion. Since, in weaving his work,Vergil appeared to have progressively distanced himself from the conception of music as pleasure, clearly expressed in the Eclogues, only to give it no more than a utilitarian function in the Aeneid, where there is occasion for many more traditional and conventional applications of music both in military contexts and in daily life, I had, rather hastily, believed I could conclude with Vergil’s rejection of the values of the Garden through necessity. Responding to the demands of the new master of the Roman empire, Vergil would have been compelled to endorse in turn the widespread traditional conception of music. But, as I have shown, this argument is insubstantial, and Vergil seems in the end not to have betrayed the teaching of the Garden in the course of his brilliant career as an inspired poet. This holds true even if the Epicureans, innovators in their conception of music as well as in many other areas, and for this reason isolated in antiquity, scarcely had a chance, at first view, to triumph in advocating free pleasure and the individualism of small circles of friends in politics.67

notes . I would like to thank the organizers of the 2000 Symposium Cumanum, ‘‘Vergil and Philodemus,’’ for their invitation to the enlightening days at the Villa Vergiliana, and especially Professor Patricia Johnston for translating this essay. 2. Fr. 279a of P.Herc. Paris. 2, whose subject is slander; cf. Gigante and Capasso 989: 3–6. 3. I have now completed an edition of this text for Belles-Lettres (CUF, Paris) under the title Philodème, Commentaires sur la musique, livre IV. All the references to Philodemus’ De musica are given first to my new edition (not yet published, henceforth Mus.), and then to Kemke’s editio princeps (884; henceforth = K.). All quotations from Vergil are from Pichon 96; the English translations of 257

daniel delattre Vergil in the notes are taken from Fairclough 96–8, except 7.750, 752–755, which is my own translation. 4. The periphrasis Ascraeo seni, ‘‘the old Ascraean’’ (Ecl. 6.70), refers to Hesiod; Sophocleo cothurno, ‘‘the buskin of Sophocles’’ (Ecl. 8.0), evokes the great Athenian tragedian; the periphrases Sicelides Musae, ‘‘Sicilian Muses’’ (Ecl. 4.), Syracosio . . . ludere versu, ‘‘to sport in Sicilian strains’’ (Ecl. 6.), and pastoris Siculi, ‘‘of the Sicilian shepherd’’ (Ecl. 0.5), are all references to Theocritus, author of the Idylls and professed model for the Bucolics. The Iliad and Odyssey of Homer, finally, constitute the model itself for the Aeneid. 5. Thus Ecl. 3.84: Pollio amat nostram, quamvis est rustica, musam (‘‘Pollio loves my Muse, homely though she be!’’), where nostram musam undoubtedly refers to the pastoral poems of Vergil; Ecl. 8. and 5: Pastorum musam Damonis et Alphesiboei . . . Damonis musam dicemus et Alphesiboei (‘‘The pastoral Muse of Damon and Alphesiboeus [. . .], the Muse of Damon and Alphesiboeus I will sing’’); see also Aen. 0.89. 6. In fact, in the Aeneid (6.662, 669), for example, the name vates (‘‘prophet’’) is used without distinction to specify poets and musicians. 7. He is the ‘‘hero’’ of the poem. Silenus, bound with ropes by two herdsmen and a nymph while in an intoxicated sleep, will, in effect, sing to obtain his freedom: all of nature listens under his spell. 8. Orpheus occupies a separate place in Vergil’s works, appearing in the two other poems: Ecl. 3.45 and 8.56, and Aen. 6.9 and 645. Vergil also mentions Arion and his dolphin, named in the company of Orpheus, in Ecl. 8.56. 9. Cf. the illustrative essay On Music by Ps.-Plutarch, where these characters are listed along with others: Amphion and Linos (32a) and Orpheus (33e). The character of Orpheus is found in Diogenes of Babylon (cited by Philodemus Mus. IV, col. 4 = I, 28 K., 0, and criticized col. 22 = IV, 8 K., 26 ff.). 0. Whose symbol could be the trumpeter and pilot Misenus, son of Aeolus. (See Aen. 6.62–235, where his tragic end and funeral are recalled.) . Through the figure of the bard-musician (and philosopher?) Iopas, an African king, if Servius is to be believed. 2. With Homer, Hesiod, and Sophocles, in particular, and more generally all of Greek mythology. 3. tamen cantabitis, Arcades . . . / . . . soli cantare periti / Arcades (‘‘Yet ye, O Arcadians, will sing . . . ; Arcadians only know how to sing’’). 4. See Mus. IV, col. 43 (= IV, 29 K.), 2–27 in particular. 5. cithara crinitus Iopas / personat aurata, docuit quem maximus Atlas (‘‘Longhaired Iopas, once taught by mighty Atlas, makes the hall ring with his golden lyre’’); see also Aen. 2.39–394: iamque aderat Phoebo ante alio dilectus Iapyx / Iasides, acri quondam cui captus amore / ipse . . . laetus Apollo / augurium citharamque dabat (‘‘And now drew near Iapyx, Iasus’ son, dearest beyond others to Phoebus, to whom once gladly did Apollo’s self, with love’s sting smitten, offer . . . his augury, his lyre’’). 258

Vergil and Music 6. Orpheus / Threicia fretus cithara fidibusque canoris (‘‘Orpheus, strong in his Thracian lyre and tuneful strings’’). 7. [Orpheus] obliquitur numeris septem discrimina vocum / iamque eadem digitis, iam pectine pulsat eburno (‘‘Orpheus matches their measures with the seven clear notes, striking them now with his fingers, now with his ivory quill’’). 8. See also Aen. 5.3 and 39, where it signals the beginning of funeral games, then of ship-races; 6.233; 7.628; 8.525–526, where it is referred to as ‘‘Tyrrhenian’’ (Tyrrhenus . . . tubae mugire . . . clangor, ‘‘The Tyrrhenian trumpet-blast pealed’’); 9.504–505; .92, at the time of Pallas’ funeral, then 424. An interesting military metaphor will also be used in the Georgics (4.7–72), where the droning of bees who attack is compared to the fracas of the trumpet: et vox / auditur fractos sonitus imitata tubarum (‘‘And a sound is heard that is like unto broken trumpet-blasts’’). 9. clara dedit sonitum tuba (‘‘The clear trumpet sounded’’). 20. See also Aen. 7.64–65 (aerea, ‘‘brazen’’); 9.504 (aere canoro, ‘‘with brazen song’’). 2. Yet, when it is placed on his tomb with an oar, his instrument becomes a tuba (Aen. 6.233, ‘‘trumpet’’). 22. Here their sound is qualified by raucus (‘‘hoarse’’). 23. bucina . . . dira dedit signum (‘‘The dread clarion gives the signal’’); and Aen. .474–475: bello dat signum rauca cruentum / bucina (‘‘The hoarse clarion gives bloody signal for battle’’). 24. In a context of Phrygian banquets: curva choros indixit tibia Bacchi (‘‘The curved flute proclaims the Bacchic dance’’). In the preceding book (9.68), in the phrase biforem dat tibia cantum (‘‘The pipe utters music from double mouths’’), the adjective could make one imagine the two pipes of the Greek double-aulos; yet, as the context there is again Phrygian, it is probably the same instrument with unequal pipes, one of them in the shape of a horn, which is found in the cult of Magna Mater (or Cybele). 25. Where Carian flutes are closely associated with tambourines in the context of the cult of Cybele. 26. It is the herdsman Alexis who speaks of the instrument, which is his own. 27. Pana qui primus calamos non passus inertes (‘‘Pan, who first awoke the idle reeds’’); cf. also 2.34 (in the singular); 5.2, 48; and 6.69 (the Muses giving a gift to Silenus). 28. agrestem tenui meditabor harundine musam (‘‘Now will I woo the rustic Muse on slender reed’’). 29. sylvestrem tenui musam meditaris avena (‘‘You are wooing the woodland Muse on slender reed’’). 30. incipe Maenalios mecum, mea tibia, versus (‘‘Begin with me, my flute, a song of Maenalus!’’), a refrain that recurs eight times with a variant in verse 6: desine Maenalios, iam desine, tibia, versus (‘‘Cease, my flute, now cease the song of Maenalus!’’). 3. Cf. also Ecl. 7.24 (arguta fistula, ‘‘shrill pipe’’). 259

daniel delattre 32. tympana vos buxusque vocant Berecynthia Matris / Idaeae (‘‘The timbrels call you, and the Berecynthian boxwood of the mother of Ida’’). 33. hinc Mater cultrix Cybelae, Corybantiaque aera (‘‘Hence [i.e., from Crete] came the Mother who haunts Cybele, the Corybantian cymbals’’). 34. regina in mediis patrio vocat agmina sistro (‘‘In the midst the queen calls upon her hosts with their native cymbal’’). 35. See also 8.2 (strepuerunt cornua cantu, ‘‘The horns rang with their hoarse notes’’); 9.68 (dat tibia cantum, ‘‘The pipe utters music’’); or 0.30. 36. In 6.7, on the other hand, the subject of the compound personare is Misenus, and not the trumpet, which is in the ablative. 37. ibo et Chalcidico quae sunt mihi condita versu / carmina pastoris Siculi modulabor avena (‘‘I will be gone, and the strains I composed in Chalcidian verse I will play on a Sicilian shepherd’s pipe’’). In this last passage, it is clear that the poetic composition (Chalcidico . . . versu) precedes (quae sunt mihi condita . . . carmina), and that the putting to music of the text (modulabor avena) comes thus to fit the intellectual content. 38. Who may be a simple mortal or a divinity, nymph, or goddess; see the discussion of Circe and Cyrene above. On the diverse kinds of choir, see above, p. 247. 39. Such a paean, in honor of Apollo, is mentioned in Aen. 6.657 and in 0.738: conclamant socii [sc., of Mezentius] laetum Paeana secuti (‘‘His comrades join their shouts, taking up the joyous cry of triumph [or better: the Paean song]’’); or the songs of the Salii in 8.285–288. 40. In Aen. 0.89–93, Cycnus, in weeping for his love, Phaethon, is covered with feathers dum canit et maestum musa solatur amorem (‘‘while he is singing and with music solacing his woeful love,’’ 9). See also G. 4.463, on Orpheus: cava solans aegrum testudine amorem (‘‘He, solacing love’s anguish with his hollow shell’’). 4. In the legend of Orpheus (G. 4.509 and Ecl. 6.28, also Ecl. 6.7, where Hesiod is said to have enjoyed the same privilege), or in the case of the priest of Marses, Umbro, charmer of serpents (Aen. 7.752–755). 42. Quintilian (.3.20) uses this term borrowed from the Greek to designate every musical instrument, before the word was reserved for the hydraulic or wind organ. 43. I thank M. Gigante for having pointed out in Varius (De morte fr. 4) the expression fingit morando (‘‘molds by delay’’), which this phrase in Vergil probably echoes, to the extent that the same theme of submission by force recurs also in the Georgics (3.5–7). 44. The contest (or amoebaean song) between Damoetas and Menalcas, whose couplets alternate in lively fashion, is arbitrated by Palaemon, and constitutes only verses 60–07. Eclogue 5: The song of Mopsus, which describes the sorrow of nature at the death of Daphnis, occupies verses 20–44, and that of Menalcas, which depicts the joy caused by the apotheosis of the same Daphnis, extends 260

Vergil and Music from verses 56 to 80; the symmetry here is rigorous. Eclogue 7: This time the contest sets Corydon as the opponent of Thyrsis in exchanging quatrains. Eclogue 8: first Vergil (6–6), then the Pierides (64–09), will repeat in sequence the songs of the herdsmen Damon and Alphesiboeus. 45. nec calamis solum aequiparas, sed voce, magistrum [sc. Daphnis, the teacher of Mopsus, who will sing verses 20–44] (‘‘Not with the pipe alone, but in voice do you match your master’’). 46. Ecl. 5.45–47: ‘‘Your lay, heavenly bard, is to me even as sleep on the grass to the weary, as in summer-heat the slaking of thirst in a dancing rill of sweet water. Not with the pipe alone, but in voice do you match your master.’’ 5.82– 84: ‘‘For no such charm for me has the rustle of the rising South, nor the beach lashed by surge, nor streams tumbling down amid rocky glens.’’ 47. Such a use appears to me to be metaphoric rather than descriptive. 48. dum canit et maestum musa solatur amorem. 49. The words used by Vergil, carmine (G. 4.509), miserabile carmen (‘‘her piteous strain,’’ 53), maestis questibus (‘‘with sad laments,’’ 54), exclude an expression purely instrumental and imply the presence of words. 50. See Mus. IV, col. 43 (= I, 28 K., 30–32): ‘‘[Music, moreover], is capable [of consoling] the [sorrow of ] love’’ (thesis of Diogenes), and col. 29 (= IV, 5 K.), –5 (Philodemus’ own critical response): ‘‘And certainly, music is no more capable of consoling the sorrow of love—such a [consolation] is in effect the jurisdiction of reason alone—but it provides distraction and prevents thinking, under the same category as sexual pleasure or inebriation’’ (trans. Delattre). 5. See Mus. IV, col. 20 (= IV, 6 K.), –3 (Philodemus’ criticism of Diogenes): ‘‘And indeed he himself calls it disturbing; nor are the things he claims happens accomplished through the music, but through the poetry, nor is physical desire tamed by music and poetry but by most of it and in most cases it is inflamed; and both the one and the other furnish the effects he says happen in erotic love—but the text is far more important in every case’’ (trans. Delattre). 52. See Mus. IV, col. 4 (= I, 27 K.), 0–4 (thesis of Diogenes): ‘‘[Moreover], it is from its origins (anōthen) that by nature the melody receives an ability to set in motion and cause it to proceed into actions. That is why the legend says that [Orpheus] rightly set stones in motion, but in fact this was not stones but laborers who submitted to authority’’ (trans. Delattre). 53. See Mus. IV, col. 22 (= IV, 8 K.), 25–36 (Philodemus’ criticism of Diogenes): ‘‘And if we are not to understand that it was because of the height of his musical knowledge that the myth says Orpheus could charm both stones and trees, as we sometimes even now say out of poetic hyperbole, but just to suppose, as the Stoic supposes of the ship-draggers, that he was employed in playing for building-workers, why then we shall say it was for that reason, not because of Diogenes’ ravings [to think that music is in itself the act of putting souls, and also bodies, in motion]’’ (trans. Delattre). 54. That Vergil’s contemporary Horace was influenced in some of his expres26

daniel delattre sions about ‘‘music’’ and poetry, especially in the Ars poetica, by Philodemus’ theory that only the words, not the musical accompaniment of a poem by itself, convey any intellectual or rational message was seen long ago by Wilkinson (938) and by many critics since. 55. In Greek, perispān, a verb that often recurs in Philodemus to translate the principal effect of music, which, in his eyes, is purely pleasant and diverting. Mus. IV, col. 62 = III, 9 K., 39; 29 = IV, 5 K., 6; 33 = IV, 9 K., 32; 40 = IV, 26 K., ; 46 = IV, 32 K., 39, and perispasmos col. 42 = IV, 28 K., 27. 56. Elsewhere, Lycidas is going to lighten the burden of goats for Moeris by carrying them himself (65). 57. ‘‘Misenus, son of Aeolus, surpassed by none in stirring men with his bugle’s blare, and in kindling with his clang the god of war.’’ 58. See Mus. IV, col. 5, 2; 9, 3; 27, 3; 36, 2, 5; 37, 38, to which is added kinēsis (40, 7) and kinētikos (4, 6), for the ‘‘résumé’’ of Diogenes. 59. This is clearly (as in Aen. 6.65) the supine of canere, rather than the substantive derived from the noun; whence the interpretation that I suggest. 60. Similarly, Cleopatra patrio vocat agmina sistro (8.696: ‘‘calls upon her hosts with their native cymbal’’). The Greek verb kaleīn is rendered thus in Latin. Often it is used by Diogenes (and then by Philodemus in his criticism) to designate the incitement to action that music provokes in human beings. 6. Unless [by its nature] is to be restored? 62. See also Aen. 7.53; 8.2 and 525; 9.504; 0.30 (where signa becomes the very synonym of tubae); and .424 and 474. 63. The following verses (756–758) repeat the same idea of an art of curing wounds through ‘‘sleep-inducing songs’’ (medicari ictum . . . in vulnera cantus / somniferi ). The art is impotent, however, when it is Umbro himself who has been touched by a ‘‘Dardanian arrow’’—which is not, it is true, the tongue of a venomous serpent. 64. English translation from Dumont, Delattre, and Poirier 988; the italics are mine. See also the other collected evidence in Diels-Kranz 952 (henceforth D-K): ‘‘The Pythagorean school’’ D , where it is recalled that music was also called purgation by the students of Pythagoras. 65. nam et Pythagoram accepimus concitatos ad vim pudicae domui afferendam iuvenes, iussa mutare in spondeum modos tibicina, composuisse (‘‘We are told that Pythagoras on one occasion, when some young men were led astray by their passions to commit an outrage on a respectable family, calmed them by ordering the piper to change her strain to a spondaic measure’’) (tr. Butler 963). The same anecdote is ascribed by Galen to the Pythagorean Damon the Musician (= D-K: Damon A 8). 66. Cicero addressed this letter to Nigidius Figulus, who, having taken sides with Pompey, was forbidden to stay at Rome by Caesar after Pharsalus. See also Suet. Aug. 94, where Nigidius is said to have predicted before the Senate the birth

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Vergil and Music of the master of the world upon the day of the birth of Octavian, and Gell. NA 9.4., who mentions him, along with Varro, as a great scholar. 67. In this, my conclusions seem to join those of several colleagues who have brilliantly participated in this volume by dealing with other aspects of Vergilian creation. Here let me particularly mention Jeffrey Fish, whose very convincing presentation on the particular ethical problem of the anger of the good king has perfectly shed light on the relationship between Vergil and Philodemus (see Fish in the present volume).

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c h a p t e r 5

h o r ac e ’ s Epistles  a n d p h i l o d e m u s d av i d a r m s t r o n g

Let his Dutch commentators say what they will, his philosophy was Epicurean; and he made use of Gods and Providence only to serve a turn in poetry. john dryden

In the days long ago when all of Roman literature was being eagerly ransacked for possible references to the doctrines of Posidonius of Apamea, Housman wrote an unforgettable sarcasm into his apparatus to Manilius 2.93: it is now well established that the Romans never read anybody but Posidonius, iamdudum constat Romanos praeter Posidonium nihil legisse.1 Edwardian and Wilhelmine scholars could find no more respectable and plausible candidate for the intellectual dynamo behind Augustan poetry than a liberal-minded Stoic who was the first to intuit that Rome might be the image on earth of the divine cosmopolis, and thus prophesied the higher mission of empires, not just Roman, but British and German also. In our own rationalist and libertarian age, more and more inclined to explain as little as possible with providence and universal mind, and as much as possible with human evolution and ingenuity applied to a purely material universe in which life came about by chance, Epicureanism has come into its own with a vengeance. It is now at the center of Hellenistic philosophical studies everywhere. And where the letters and fragments of Epicurus himself fall short as a source, the Herculaneum library fills in. Those of us who work on it therefore have always to remember that in valorizing Epicurus and Philodemus as sources for the Augustan poets, we, too, must be careful about giving in to the prejudices of our own fin de siècle and nouveau siècle, and we, too, may go too far, and deserve a rebuke like Housman’s that we think the Augustans read no one but Philode-

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mus: iam constat inter vos Horatium aliosque Romanos plurimos nihil legisse praeter Philodemum. But at least we have a better factual case for investigating the Epicurean side of Augustan poetry than the Posidonians ever had. Horace once mentions Posidonius’ teacher Panaetius as an enthusiasm not of his own but of his amateurish friend Iccius (Carm. .29.4), but Posidonius’ own name is not once mentioned by any surviving Roman poet. Horace does mention Philodemus by name and with approval in the Epicurean context of Satire .2, and Epicurus many times. Such apparently casual mentions function commonly in Horace as a warning to the ancient and modern searcher after intertextualities that the authors in question have been studied with some intensity for the poems—or rather the books of poems—in which they appear. Vergil never mentions any philosopher by name (save in the Catalepton), but we know now from various passages of the Herculaneum papyri explicitly that Vergil was an addressee with his friends Varius, Quintilius, and Tucca of various Philodemean ethical treatises, as well as that he studied with Philodemus and Siro at Naples (for full details see Marcello Gigante’s chapter in this volume). If Horace’s name was too hastily divined by Körte (890) in these passages where Plotius Tucca was meant instead, its absence from the group probably has more to do with Horace’s wealth and social status—comparatively inferior to Vergil’s and those of the other typically wealthy and powerful knights and senators who were more eligible for Philodemus’ dedications—than with any lack on Horace’s part of experience of Philodemus and his teaching.2 Horace, after all, was Apulian/Lucanian by birth and upbringing and a lifelong frequenter of the neighborhood of Naples on his vacations—Tarentum, Baiae, and Salernum, for example, as he mentions many times. And as Gigante points out in his essay, Quintilius, Varius, Tucca, Vergil, and Maecenas (himself also an Epicurean) are named as amici and contubernales, together and singly, over and over again in his poems from the first book of Satires on. In the introduction to this volume we have outlined the wave of enthusiasm in Anglo-Saxon scholarship—Tenney Frank, Norman De Witt, Agnes Michels, Jane Tait, and others—from the 920s to the 940s over the prospect that Herculaneum might throw more light on Horace’s and Vergil’s philosophical training from Philodemus and Siro, and its gradual fading as the texts came to seem more and more remote. In the secondary literature of Epistles , particularly, De Witt’s hope for further light from Herculaneum has come spectacularly short of fulfillment. Book after book has decentralized Epicureanism on the theory that Horace’s 268

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citations from the master himself are mainly of aphorisms anyone of any sect might accept, and are balanced by his citations of similar aphorisms from other schools to a degree that makes it safe for us to characterize his devotion to ‘‘philosophy’’ as merely generic, or if anything, influenced by the contemporary Academic willingness to take anything vaguely improving from any school as well said.3 This position is most elegantly set out and argued by Mayer in a 986 article (‘‘It may be that we can at last bid firm farewell to studies which aim to show that [Horace] belongs, however intermittently, to one of the great sects,’’ he begins),4 and it is worked out with some rigor in his 994 commentary, in which ‘‘philosophy’’ of any particular school has small place and references to philosophical texts are cut to a bare minimum, while Philodemus’ name barely appears in the index.5 Of course, Epicureanism is meant by ‘‘one of the great sects.’’ Horace has never been said by anyone to ‘‘belong’’ to the Academics, the Stoics, the Hedonists, the Skeptics, the Platonists, or the Peripatetics; however, he might have read and been influenced by them. The scholars Mayer has in mind are apparently Heinze and Fraenkel, among others, not easy opponents to dismiss,6 but the best-known recent studies of Epistles , McGann 969 and Kilpatrick 986, in fact agree with Mayer in minimizing the sectarian side of ‘‘philosophy’’ and Epicureanism’s role in particular, excellent as they are (like Mayer’s commentary, in fact) on the purely literary side.7 They take the view that Horace is unambiguously sincere in proclaiming himself an eclectic in Epistle .. If with any school, they identify him with the Middle Academy, though that school distinctly favored providence, the primacy of public duty over personal interests, and an afterlife—none of which ideas interest Horace more than marginally. Certainly these scholars have done well to restore a sense of the amazing variety and complexity of Horace’s sources for the twenty poems of Epistles —Panaetius,8 Posidonius, the Academics, Cicero’s philosophica; and to remind us that Horace, even when he seems superficially most Epicurean, may as well be citing literary commonplaces that are simply part of what Aristotle called the nomizomena, the accepted ethical commonplaces of ancient literary and philosophical culture at once. It does not make one a Stoic to have a place for virtus or a follower of Panaetius to have a place for the decens in one’s language, and no more does it make one an Epicurean to have a place for pleasure or the simple life. If Horace says sperne voluptates, nocet empta dolore voluptas (Epist. .2.55), Epicurus certainly said so (‘‘It is as well to abstain from some of these pleasures, that we may not suffer worse sufferings,’’ fr. 442), but as Kiessling-Heinze (ad loc.) points out, so did the comic poet Alexis (φεῦγ’ ἡδονὴν φέρουσαν 269

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ὕστερον βλάβην, ‘‘Flee pleasure that brings damage after it,’’ 297 KA = Men. monost. 806 J).9 Such examples abound, and they ought to, for Horace ought to interact with both poets and philosophers as he writes philosophical poems. But is it really ‘‘literary’’ to ignore obvious models, even from Epicurus himself, when they come (or mainly come) from the Philodemean library and have been long known? A good example is found in the fragments of Epicurus’ epistles (Arrighetti 960: 40–33), texts about which we would know nothing much without Herculaneum. A little more than half, on a rough count, of the seventy-four Arrighetti fragments come from other sources, but most of them are briefer than the major Herculaneum fragments. Arrighetti, however, did not catalogue all of Philodemus’ and the older Herculaneum writer Demetrius Laco’s references to Epicurus’ letters; the new publications of the Scuola di Epicuro have added many more,10 and it is clear that Philodemus and Demetrius referred to them continually. In addition, the most plausible explanation of the elegant literary finish of most of the Vatican Sententiae, first published in 888, is that a good part of them are quotations from these letters, selected as especially memorable and beautiful, but unlike the Herculaneum fragments they must be read out of context.11 Heinze’s conjecture about their influence on Horace is strikingly argued, and one sees why Burck wanted readers to have continued access to it, reprinting it in the editions of Kiessling-Heinze from the eighth on. Heinze has just argued that neither Cicero’s correspondence (still less, earlier Roman epistolary literature) nor Cicero’s philosophic writings furnish adequate models for what we have in them: But it was as a philosopher above all that Horace wrote Epistles I, and especially and quite intentionally, which is most important, as one seeking wisdom on Epicurus’ path. He calls himself with sharp self-irony to his friend Tibullus Epicuri de grege porcus, a pig from the sty of Epicurus, but behind the irony is a large portion of truth. The sphere in which as a Roman inspired by Augustus’ mission and the pressing demands of national reform he had formerly dissociated himself from Epicurus’ insaniens sapientia finds no expression in the Epistles; and besides Horace refuses to swear by a master’s words and gives unambiguous indications that the power of that active Stoic notion of duty and virtus is more to his taste than the sometimes weary wisdom (müde Weisheit) of Epicurus—just as he on the other hand praises the laughing man of the world and enjoyer of it Aristippus as the true artist of 270

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life, when he has lost his temper with the haughty rigorous pride in virtue of certain fanatics of freedom and human dignity. But these are temporary aberrations, while we encounter step by step in the Epistles the deep influence of the ways in which the poet has learned, far from the noise of the Forum and the pursuit of riches and honor, to seek the happiness of life in peace of mind. And probably the Epistles owe still more to Epicurus than the philosophical core of their intellectual content. If the influence of that philosopher even in his own lifetime went far beyond his Athenian garden, not the least reason for that is the extended correspondence that he carried on with his followers scattered all over the Greek world. He was a master of epistolary style and wrote his letters not as ephemeral things but in the knowledge that they would outlast him, would preserve the picture of his personality, and at the same time attest for his teachings that he observed them in his own life and death. His disciples guarded this precious legacy and formed themselves on the Master’s model, that he left them in these personal words, throughout with the same traits of calm superiority and self-assurance, whether he clears up doubtful points of his teachings, or combats other schools, or tells of his own life, or invades another’s counseling and warning, or reassures his mother about his health, or in a friendly and avuncular way admonishes a child to be good and obey Papa and Mama. It is unthinkable that Horace in his circle of Epicurean friends, among whom, certainly, Philodemus made one, did not know and learn to love these letters, and it is perfectly conceivable that it was just these that gave him the actual impulse to give the results of his thought and life to his contemporaries and to posterity in a book of letters.12

Heinze’s instinct seems profoundly right (though of course, where he was too enthusiastic, as in denying the influence of Cicero’s letters and philosophica on Horace as a stylistic model and an object of literary rivalry, he has indeed been fully corrected by Kilpatrick 13 and others). Why, for example, does Horace devote so many of his letters to friends abroad, particularly in Tiberius’ suite as he travels outward to regain the eagles from the Parthians, unless to imitate Epicurus’ model of letters to scattered members of his contubernium, but this time all over the Roman and not the Greek world? One might say the poet exulted in the chance Tiberius’ travels gave him to kill two birds with one stone, to pretend that he himself, like Epicurus, has a pan-Mediterranean following and to please the imperial family by celebrating Tiberius’ much-publicized embassy to the 27

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Parthians, immortalized on the breastplate of the Prima Porta Augustus, in a way particularly his own. More seriously: Heinze cannot really have meant that Horace was bored by reading letters about the fall of the Republic when he had himself lived through it, or have denied the influence of Cicero’s style and manner on every writer who succeeded him in poetry and prose alike; but he has identified a crucial source in addition.Where in Cicero, except as a deliberate joke aimed at precisely the sort of philosophical earnestness represented by Epicurus’ kind of letter (e.g., Fam. 7.2, on Trebatius Testa’s conversion to Epicureanism), does one find an inquiry into the state of someone’s philosophical soul, or an expression of distress about the writer’s own, and of aspiration to a better state? Or on a topic more purely Epicurean still, friendship, where can one parallel in Cicero the worries Horace expresses that his amici amid their political concerns may lose their sense of friendly contubernium (Epist. .4)? In fact, the model of friendship in these letters may well react with implied hostility here and there to Cicero’s—even intentionally satirize it from an Epicurean point of view, as in the sarcastic ‘‘client’s view’’ epistles (Epist. .7 and .8) about patronage as it appears to the inferior in the relationship. But it is far more indebted to the model of personal intercourse offered not just by the personal letters of Epicurus, whose august and self-confident tone a professed novice and progress-maker like the Horatian persona of the epistles would be ill-advised to take, but also by the humbler, now self-satirizing, now gentle, now harsh tone of the Epicurean therapist pictured in Philodemus’ at last translated and available On Frank Speaking. The picture, once more, is not complete without Herculaneum. In fact, since our surviving fragments do show Epicurus closely following his friends around the world in their philosophical progress and advising them on their relations with each other, but do not give any close parallels with Horace’s own language, it is not hard to see why Heinze’s hope for further development in this field has not been fulfilled. The really close verbal parallels turn out to be with that eclectic Epicurean of his own day, Philodemus: the real revelations come from him, and especially from the four great treatises On Anger, On Death, On Frank Speaking, and On the Good King According to Homer. Supposing David Sedley is right, and Lucretius’ persona is that of an Epicurean ‘‘fundamentalist’’ 14 who ignores the later progress of the school, its arguments with the Stoics, its development of theories of anger, Homeric interpretation, poetics, and rhetoric on mere hints from the master—Philodemus, as Sedley notes, scornfully calls Epicureans who refused to accept these innovations the biblikoi, 272

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or Epicureans ‘‘by the book’’—then in truth one can see why Philodemus was an inspiration to a Roman gentleman like Horace who wanted to live up to the general tone of the school without being ‘‘fundamentalist’’ and embarrassing about it. If we take these Philodemean intertexualities into account along with Horace’s frequent paraphrases of Epicurus’ own sayings, the balance shifts, and Horace’s eclectic dice turn out to be loaded after all. The verbal echoes of Philodemus’ doctrines—that is to say, his own master Zeno’s—like those of Epicurus’, are important and crucially placed in the book. Philodemus’ theory of moderate natural anger without lasting mental consequences (On Anger); his concessions to other philosophers, and especially the Stoics, in fleshing out what the Epicureans would make of defiance to a tyrant or a democracy like Socrates’ (On Death); his instructions in how to use even strong and determined frank criticism to a philosophical student’s or friend’s benefit (On Frank Speaking); and his treatise showing how the Epicureans would vie with the Stoics in making out a moral interpretation of Homer (On the Good King) all are echoed in general and in detail, and they take significant pride of place over Horace’s excursions into the commonplaces of other schools. Of course (as we have pointed out in the introduction to this volume), it is the fault of Herculaneum studies, their slow progress, the welljustified insecurity of nonspecialists that the texts are reliable and won’t alter with every new reading, the lack of translations into English, French, and German, that these sources are missing from the modern literature; hardly that of scholars like Kilpatrick or Macleod or Mayer or the others mentioned above. And on the other hand, the merit of being able to write an essay like this one when one has specialized in and visited and studied the papyri for a decade on end is not great: the material is so vital and so obviously essential to Augustan literature that making a start at correcting for its near-absence in the secondary literature so far is no heroic task. This may sound like the sort of large claim that I deprecated in my opening paragraph, but a detailed examination of some key passages of Epistles , though it will not suffice to make Philodemus and Epicurus the sole heroes of the book, will show that they have indeed been seriously neglected so far as sources. Even in the Odes, where in .34 Horace famously professed to have had second thoughts about his insaniens sapientia, many have noted that despite his claim, the immediate result (for the reader of the book as a book) is an ode to Fortuna, a goddess who exists in Epicurus’ pantheon of the world as in the Stoics’, and not to one of the conventional gods; and his final word to Maecenas on the virtue of the wise man at the end of the collection is a translation not of some Stoic but 273

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of Epicurus (Carm. 3.29.40–48 = Sent. Vat. 55, cf. 75), in an ode whose tone is Epicurean from beginning to end. Indeed, as Gigante has argued (995: 79–90), this ode is in one sense just an expansion of a theme Philodemus had given to Latin poetry and Catullus had already used in c. 3: the invitation of a rich man to a simple philosophical dinner.15 Whatever his eclecticism, Horace always belies it by putting the Epicurean axiom or citation in pride of place, as here at the end of the three books of odes in the great resolution of one of the odes’ main themes, amicitia over amor. In the odes, the gods appear frequently, and so does the afterlife. This might be merely obedience to the rules of genre. Lyric poetry might be impoverished without the gods and a Hades of rewards and punishments, just as Obbink and Wigodsky in this volume argue that even Philodemus might have approved of Vergil’s admitting gods and an underworld, in obedience to genre and tradition, into the Aeneid. Hexameter poetry’s rules are different, and if we want to investigate the lifelong influence of Philodemus and Epicureanism upon the poet, little or nothing of that kind stops us in the Epistles; for Horace treats the afterlife and the underworld throughout his hexameter poems, and especially in Epistles , as nonissues, nocturnos lemures, and members of the imperial family are no longer the gods’ vice-regents on earth, as they had been in the lyric poems. Nor even are they, any more than the gods themselves, to be thanked for anything except giving us the life and resources to deal with our own problems genio nostro. Here, too, Horace has given us in his opening epistle what appears to be his word as a Roman gentleman several times over that the theme of Epistles —his middle-aged life review in the light of his old philosophy books he is rereading—will not be prejudiced in favor of the Epicureans. Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri, committed to swear by the words of no one master, he calls himself to Maecenas at the opening, going on to say that in his current studies he feels himself at one time a Stoic and at another a Hedonist, and at Epistle 3, he tells Tibullus to laugh at him for going back on his high principles and living in his country retreat the life of an Epicuri de grege porcus. That seems pretty explicit, and certainly in real life no card-carrying member of the Epicurean sect would have said anything like this, or been allowed to without severe parrhesiastic rebuke from the kathēgemones, Philodemus himself included. But it is basic to all study of satire and related hexameter genres in Latin since Anderson that we are listening not exactly to Horace but a persona, constructed for the occasion, whose selfcontradictions and self-undercuttings are there on the surface for the instructed critic to investigate. To propose that the Stoics are one extreme 274

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he is thinking of joining, and the Hedonists another (a little against contemporary plausibility, for the Roman world did not exactly swarm with Cyrenaics), suggested to Roman readers who had followed Horace devotedly since the Satires that he was asking them to imagine a middle term; est modus in rebus, there is a middle ground in things, after all, and it is hard to think who else would be this middle term but the Epicureans. More hints follow. Dirk Obbink, for example, has recently noted that when Horace goes on in this epistle to further characterize his eclectic reading, he talks of it in a way that indicates his real philosophical leanings, in terms of charms and spells to memorize and enchant oneself with by repetition: sunt verba et voces quibus lenire dolorem / possis et magnam morbi deponere partem . . . sunt certa piacula quae te / ter pure lecto possunt recreare libello (Epist. ..34–37: ‘‘There are words and sayings with which you can soften pain and get rid of most of your sickness . . . certain charms that when the treatise is read out thrice carefully can revive you’’). This, one might say, is one of those fused allusions to two things at once that Dante critics speak of. Horace knew the secret of these brilliant fewword fusions of intertextualities also, even in that poetry his persona with mock modesty calls his sermones repentes per humum, his ‘‘conversations creeping along the low ground.’’ Here Horace alludes in his fused way, in but a few words, at once to Plato, to the Charmides and the ‘‘charms and spells’’ of philosophical argument with which Socrates proposed to cure Charmides’ headache (Charmides 55c4–57c8), and to the specially Epicurean habit of memorizing things as short as the (rhythmically expressed) tetrapharmakon and as long as a libellus like the Epistle to Herodotus, as its author, Epicurus, explicitly recommends the reader do at the opening, for the sake of clarifying one’s mental vision by acts of directed attention to the essential truths in moments when one cannot consult the master’s complete works and fuller expositions. The fusion, however, had already been made by the Epicureans, and specifically by Philodemus. Obbink’s impressive long note on On Piety 538–539 (53–537) argues that the certa piacula are what Philodemus here calls epiteles phylakē, religiously effective wardings-off, and in P.Herc. 465, which he re-edited in the note, is called apophylakē and is exemplified by reciting a verse-maxim of Epicharmus’ that is consistent with Epicureanism, as Alexis’ verse is consistent. By sneaking in this reference to Epicurean memory practice of Epicurus and of suitable commonplaces from the poets almost unnoticed, Horace is discreetly loading the dice and hinting at his real choice. And, if Horace pretends to be considering the Stoic view of virtue seriously at the outset, he concludes the essay by ridiculing the Stoic wise man, with 275

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a significant self-intertextuality, in the same style as at the end of each of the first three earlier and more explicitly Epicurean Satires of Book . The sudden transition, indeed, from his complaint (modeled after Sat. .3) that Maecenas, were he Horace’s real amicus, would care more about his philosophical and ethical inconsistencies than his clothes and his haircut (94–05), to the last three lines, leaves a semantic gap easily enough filled in at first (06–08): ad summam, sapiens uno minor est Iove, dives, liber, honoratus, pulcher, rex denique regum, praecipue sanus, nisi cum pituita molesta est. In sum, the Wise Man is subject to Jove alone, alone rich, free, lawgiver, beautiful, king above kings, and especially sane, unless he has a runny nose.

The gap is filled in most obviously by saying that as he begins his mature studies, Horace is anything but the Wise Man of the Stoics; but the lines also recall the way each of the first three satires ended with a similar jab at the Wise Man of the Stoics: at the wordiness of ‘‘bleary Crispinus’’ (Sat. ..20–2), at Fabius’ refusal to consider being caught in adultery anything but an apoproegmenon, an ‘‘unpreferable’’ in Stoic terms (Sat. .2.34), and at Crispinus’ belief in the same paradoxa Stoicorum ridiculed here, Sat. .3.37–42. Horace gives us fair warning that it is not the Stoic Wise Man who is his ideal, then or now. Thus, his eclecticism is not inconsistent with a suspicious tendency, just as in the Odes, to give pride of place to anti-Stoic jokes and Epicurean maxims, even in this first poem. An undercutting of his supposedly eclectic self-portrait starts already to appear in Epistle , very much as covert satire of the Angry Man who is the speaker peeks out everywhere underneath the surface satire of Rome in Anderson’s picture of Juvenal. What, then, should we say of Epistle 2, where the Epicureans appear to have the whole show to themselves from beginning to end? And that on a subject where one might have expected the Stoics, as the ancient world’s leading allegorists—both cosmic and moral—of Homer, Hesiod, and the tragic poets, to come into their own. Indeed, older commentaries like Orelli-Baiter (886) thought that Horace’s moral allegory was Stoic and quoted a Stoic allegory of Odysseus from Maximus of Tyre (32, p. 35 R.) exempli gratia; but this proves not to be so at all. In this epistle, Horace’s persona pretends that his first specific philosophical task, in fulfillment of the program outlined in the first epistle, is 276

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the rereading of Homer for moral meaning and ethical instruction. One of the first really secure discoveries we have made in recent decades in assessing Horace’s relations to Herculaneum, however, is that all the examples given follow the program of moral interpretation laid down in a major Herculaneum text instead, Philodemus’ On the Good King According to Homer. Here I can be brief, because the main points are all to be found clearly set out in Gigante’s Philodemus in Italy (995: 75– 78).16 On the Good King takes the point of view that there are bad and good examples for princely behavior (and by implication, for the behavior of Republican Roman magnates like its addressee, Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus, Philodemus’ principal patron) to be found among Homer’s characters. In Philodemus’ view, Homer occasionally even indicates that he intends them to be taken as such, though not always, in which case a philosopher’s reading like Philodemus’ is helpful. As Elizabeth Asmis has shown, there is no contradiction with Philodemus’ theory in On Poems that ‘‘good’’ morality or bad is no part of the definition of ‘‘good’’ poetry or a ‘‘good’’ poet. It is merely that Homer lends himself to this use if one likes to make it. Philodemus professes at the end to have given Piso ‘‘starting points,’’ ἀφορμαί, for ‘‘corrected rereading,’’ ἐπανόρθωσις.17 The poet is not morally useful as a poet and not useful at all until the philosopher points out how he should be read. This is exactly the style of Horace’s ‘‘rereading’’ of the Iliad. It is worth noting, too, that Horace says that Homer teaches ‘‘what is becoming, what disgraceful, what is profitable and what not’’ melius Chrysippo ac Crantore, better than Chrysippus and Crantor, better than the Stoics and the Academy. The choice of names is not accidental. Would Horace ever have said Epicuro melius, better than Epicurus? He could hardly have said Philodemo melius, better than Philodemus, since it is from Philodemus that he is borrowing his interpretation. In this Horatian rereading, Antenor and Nestor figure for Horace as kings who are to be praised for their desire to make peace; Paris, who refuses advice (Iliad 7.347–364), and Achilles and Agamemnon, who refuse Nestor’s (Iliad .245–303), figure as aversive examples of princes in the grip of erotic love and anger (Epist. 2.6–6). Most of the same examples figure even in our incomplete text of Philodemus. In On the Good King (ed. Dorandi [982]), the folly of Paris is compared to that of Demetrius Poliorcetes (col. xxxvii.–5); Nestor is praised precisely for trying to make peace between Achilles and Agamemnon (col. xxviii.27–30), a parallel with Horace long ago pointed out by Sudhaus (892; see Dorandi’s note); but Nestor’s words and deeds are always held up as examples (cols.

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xxviii.24–26; xxix.23–25, see below, xxxii.5–22; xl.23; xlii.3, where his peacemaking is again praised). Achilles is censured for his wrath, thymos, against Athena (xii.5–8) and against Agamemnon (xxvii.34–35). Horace next turns to the Odyssey. Odysseus is an utile exemplar, a useful example, as Horace puts it, of virtus and sapientia (Epist. .2.7–8). The companions of Odysseus, who gave in to Circe and were made animals, the suitors of Penelope, and the nebulones Alcinoi, the lazy young Phaeacians, are aversive examples of bad behavior that ‘‘we,’’ Horace and Lollius, resemble more (23–3). Philodemus’ Odysseus, as Jeffrey Fish shows elsewhere in this volume, is a more complex character now than he was known to be until recently, for further reading and reconstruction of the text shows that he was a more merciful and mature hero after learning the moral of his disastrous exhibition of vengeful anger when he mocked the Cyclops, himself an angry and foolish hybrist, but he is everywhere else in On the Good King treated as the same kind of ideal example Horace makes him. Indeed, though Epicureanism was much criticized for making virtus subordinate to pleasure, Philodemus makes Odysseus his principal example of what are at least once called the ἀρετηφόροι, ‘‘virtue-bearers,’’ among Homer’s characters, a word so far only found in Philodemus, at col. xxii.23 (cf. On Rhetoric .27.8 Sudhaus, On Death col. xxxv.26)—the treatise in fact makes many concessions to the extra demands for virtue and self-control required of good kings as opposed to men in private station. And of course, he implies Odysseus’ wisdom throughout, explicitly calling him and Nestor the most understanding of the Greeks: οἱ φρονιμ[ώ]τα[το]ι τῶν [Ἑλλ]ήνων Ὀ[δ]υσσε[ύς τε καί ] Νέστωρ (xxix.23–25), coupling the two of them exactly as Horace does  (they are coupled again at xlii.3 as Agamemnon’s two best counselors). So Horace’s virtus and sapientia are not after all references to ‘‘Stoic’’ values, as they are sometimes taken, but in fact echo Philodemus’ own words. The suitors of Penelope and the youth of the Phaeacians, the τρυφερόβιοι Φαίακες (col. xix.3–32, cf. Odyssey 8.246–250, paraphrased in Epist. 2.28), are censured by Philodemus in the same style as Horace (the suitors are ‘‘crazy, but even they do not appear to be drunks,’’ xvii.4–7; though φαυλότεροι ‘‘even they’’ take athletic exercise, col. xxii.7–26), and in fact, in one passage where the suitor Eumelus was long believed to have been held up to disapproval, it turns out in Fish’s new text to have been the lazy young Phaeacian Euryalus who proposed to defeat Odysseus in the athletic contest (Od. 8.26–200). It was Euryalus, not Eumelus, who was included in a list of those more noted for beauty than for excellence, along with Paris, Demetrius Poliorcetes, Ares, and Nireus (37.2). 278

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Gigante (995: 77) needs to be corrected: the youth of the Phaeacians were held up as negative examples after all. So then we have all of Horace’s exempla except Antenor and the companions of Odysseus in the surviving part of the treatise, which gives us in damaged form the last half or less of the original text. It seems hardly probable that Odysseus was not contrasted with the companions somewhere, since he is the central example of the good king; whether Philodemus mentioned Antenor would be anyone’s guess. That is the first part of the epistle, –3, Philodemean to the core, and without a touch of such Stoic specialties as the allegorizing of the gods as elements and natural forces: thus, an Epicurean reply to such Stoic interpretations. It should be noted that Horace does not forget his rereading of Homer in the style of On the Good King in the remaining epistles of Book . At 6.63–64 he satirizes the gulosi, gluttonous, as like the ‘‘foolish oarsmen of Ithacan Odysseus’’ who preferred lotus-eating to their nostos to Ithaca. At 7.40–44 he compares his doubts about Maecenas’ gift of the Sabine farm if it entails perpetual attendance on him to Telemachus’ refusal of the horses of Menelaus; thanks to Jeffrey Fish, we now know more about Philodemus’ praise of the educational value of Telemachus’ journey ‘‘among such great men,’’ and the experience it gave him of Philodemean ‘‘frank criticism,’’ as in the treatise On Frank Speaking (col. xxiii Dorandi).18 At 5.24, Horace is humorously picturing himself on vacation at Salerno as a pinguis Phaeax, which means we may be doubly grateful to Fish for restoring the Phaeacians to Philodemus’ treatise. The second half of Epist. .2, which draws the moral for life in general, is built around poetic paraphrases of distinctively Epicurean doctrines, as Gigante argues: but we may add that at least one of these transforms and paraphrases one of the Vatican Sententiae, and one restates the distinctive doctrine on anger of the De ira. For just as I would argue quite seriously that St. Paul subjected this doctrine to a genre change for his Jewish-Greek congregations, restating it in Septuagint-influenced language as ‘‘Be angry and sin not; let not the sun go down upon your wrath, neither give place to the devil’’ (Ephesians 4.26–27), Horace metamorphoses the principal teaching of On Anger into satiric hexameters. Horace tells Lollius to begin philosophizing young, a theme of Epicurus’ (Sent. Vat. 80), and he emphasizes his point by reworking one of the Vatican Sayings (4) into poignant verse (Epist. .2.4–43): We are born once for all, and cannot be born twice, and for all time (eis ton aiona) must no longer exist; but you who are not lord of tomor279

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row put off your joy; and life is wasted in waiting (mellesmos) and each one of us dies without allowing himself leisure. vivendi qui recte prorogat horam rusticus exspectat, dum defluat amnis; at ille labitur et labetur in omne volubilis aevum. Who defers the time of right living is the rustic who waits for the river to flow away, but it glides on and will glide on flowing for all time.

Horace advises Lollius not to seek money (44–54) in a series of aphorisms of which the centerpiece is line 46, quod satis est cui contingit, nihil amplius optet (cf. Sent. Vat. 88, ‘‘Nothing is enough for him to whom enough is little,’’ fr. 69 Bailey; ‘‘for him to whom a little is not enough, to him nothing is enough’’). ‘‘Who fears or desires,’’ qui cupit aut metuit (5), cannot enjoy his possessions (as Keissling-Heinze notes [ad loc.], this is ‘‘einer der Grundsätze Epikurischer Ethik,’’ repeated in Epist. .6.9 and 6.65): sincerumst nisi vas, quodcumque infundis acescit, ‘‘Unless the jar is clean, whatever you pour in sours’’ (54), the paragraph concludes, collapsing, as KHB also notes, Lucretius 6.7–9, vitium vas efficere ipsum omniaque illius vitio corrumpier intus quae conlata foris et commoda cumque venirent, The jar itself creates the fault, and everything inside it corrupts by the jar’s fault, whatever good thing collected from without comes in,

out of its rather wordy original form into a single brilliant line. The next line again paraphrases Epicurus: sperne voluptates: nocet empta dolore voluptas (‘‘Spurn pleasures: pleasure bought by pain does harm,’’ 55 [= fr. 443 Us.]). ‘‘It is better to abstain from certain of these pleasures, that we may not suffer worse sufferings.’’ Of course I do not want to argue that some of these thoughts were unavailable to a Stoic or Academician, or are not to be found in the vast literature of protreptic teaching by other schools here and there; still less to diminish the relevance of the lines cited in commentaries from Menander and Alexis and other comedians that contain the same thoughts. As we said, Philodemus himself finds virtue in sayings of the other schools,19 and Horace indicated in the opening lines of Sat. .4 and many another place that the comic stage had been ransacked for his sermones. But the giveaway is that Horace is not through with Herculaneum yet, for he concludes (59–63) by preaching 280

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against anger, and in the very terms of the On Anger so often mentioned in this volume: qui non moderabitur irae (‘‘He who cannot set limits to,’’ not eliminate, ‘‘his anger’’) infectum volet esse, dolor quod suaserit et mens, dum poenas odio per vim festinat inulto. ira furor brevis est; animum rege, qui nisi paret imperat: hunc frenis, hunc tu compesce catena. will wish undone that which his anger and wrath talked him into, while it makes him too hasty and violent in avenging his unavenged hatred. Anger is brief madness; govern your anger, for unless it obeys it gives orders; check it with reins and chains.

This is precisely Philodemus’ talking point: the pain of anger—which is its only natural aspect—one must grit one’s teeth and accept ‘‘like wormwood or the surgeon’s knife’’ (On Anger xliv.20–22), for otherwise one could not effectively repel danger and insult. But unmoderated anger indulged in for its own sake does not help, but hinders, practical effort to remove its causes. ‘‘Unless animus’’ (here it means Philodemus’ orgē and/or thymos, like dolor et mens = orgē kai thymos, in 60, where see KHB) ‘‘obeys it gives orders’’: Philodemus says exactly this in arguing against the Peripatetic conception of anger, that an army fighting out of anger cannot even obey its own generals who incited the anger in them (‘‘About these [angry] soldiers so idly talked of, why should I speak at length, to show how disobedient they are to their general, how they give orders to him instead [= Horace’s ‘unless it obeys it gives orders’], and bring about all sorts of evil,’’ On Anger xxxiii.23–27). Thus in the second epistle, where Horace reveals how he has been rereading Homer and in what spirit, Epicurus and Lucretius and Philodemus’ On the Good King and On Anger turn out to have the field entirely to themselves as philosophical models— not to mention the example the poem itself sets, like several other epistles, of Philodemus’ σκληρὸν γένος τῆς παρρησίας (‘‘tough mode of frank speaking’’) in On Frank Speaking, softened as Philodemus recommends at beginning and end by the poet confessing to have made the same errors.20 The special theory of On Anger, like that of On the Good King, is not forgotten in the sequel, either, for it is given a place of honor at the very end in Horace’s final account of the Horace his book will immortalize, and made part of its closure (Epist. .20.25): irasci celerem, tamen ut placabilis essem.21 . . . that I’m swift to get mad, but nonetheless easy to calm. 28

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The influence of On Frank Speaking and its model of Epicurean friendship and interpersonal therapeia is also strong on the third epistle, where Horace attempts to reconcile quarrelling amici in Tiberius’ suite abroad. His enquiry into the state of their friendship and their souls mimics Epicurus’ concern in his private epistles for his communities abroad, as Heinze saw. Horace also goes beyond Epicurus’ model and inquires into the state of the literary endeavors of Tiberius’ studiosa cohors (6). One of them, Celsus, needs to be more original in his writings and stop ransacking the Palatine library for topics (8–20), ne, si forte suas repetitum venerit olim grex avium plumas, moveat cornicula risum furtivis nudata coloribus. lest if by chance the whole flock of birds come to take back the feathers that are theirs, the crow provoke laughter, stripped of its stolen rhetorical colores. Here, interestingly (as Mayer, and before him Jonathan Barnes,22 have

well noted), Horace himself borrows a metaphor from Philodemus’ On Rhetoric: By Zeus, they have taken their art from others, for example eristics and amphibolies from the dialecticians and adorned themselves with others’ feathers . . . he has taken . . . from poetics and rhetoric and geometry and astronomy and music and decked himself out with others’ feathers like a daw. sudhaus ii.67–68

Again, not that the Aesopic fable of the crow’s stolen feathers was not a common metaphor for literary plagiarism as well as pretentiousness in general (it is given more simply at Lucian Apology 4), but the references in Horace to rhetorical colores and to ransacking a library make Philodemus’ words the obvious source. So in the fourth epistle, to Tibullus, where Horace follows a strict inquiry into the health of Tibullus’ soul in Philodemus’ frank-speaking manner with a paraphrase of a great passage of On Death 23 at the end, tempering it with a self-deprecating confession that he himself is currently Epicuri de grege porcus (3–6): omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum: grata superveniet quae non sperabitur hora: 282

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me pinguem et nitidum curata cute revises, cum ridere voles, Epicuri de grege porcum. Believe that each day has dawned on you as the last; the hours unhoped for will come more gratefully; you will revisit me, fat and sleek with skin taken care of, if you wish to laugh, a pig from Epicurus’ sty.

The lines surely have more point if taken to refer to Philodemus’ splendid peroration in On Death (col. xxxviii.3–24): But the man of sense, when he has come to understand that he can attain that which is self-sufficient to a happy life, from that point on walks about as one already laid out for burial in his shroud (ἐντεταφιασμένος) and enjoys every single day as if it were an age, and when that is taken from him, goes forth [to die] not mourning, that thus, having somehow missed something that belongs to the best possible life, he joins the company of those who have died before. And all supplement to his time, he receives as in reason, he ought, as one who has lighted upon an unexpected piece of good fortune (παραδόξῳ . . . εὐτυχίᾳ), and gives thanks accordingly to—the facts (τοῖς πράγμασιν εὐχαριστεῖ).

The passage is very complex, of course, because it also echoes the criticism in the second epistle of the Phaeacians as in cute curanda plus aequo operata iuventus and foreshadows his description of himself as a pinguis Phaeax, a fat Phaeacian, at 5.24: Horace mocks himself for using his unhoped-for extra life to be a Phaeacian kind of Epicurean, so that his ‘‘eclecticism’’ is still in place in spite of the Philodemean echo. The fifth epistle to Torquatus, as Sider and Tait have shown, is a transgenre exercise in expanding Philodemus’ famous ‘‘invitation to a simple Epicurean dinner’’ addressed to Piso into the genre of satiric hexameter, amplified with praise of this particular evening as a time for spargere flores and drunken self-indulgence because tomorrow is Caesar’s birthday (not Epicurus’, as in Philodemus) and no practical ends are served by caution. Even in these first five epistles, one sees what a wide range of Philodemus’ writings must have influenced his admirers: the much-praised epigrams, one of which at Sat. .2.20–22 Horace ranks above Callimachus’, the clear and bright but not especially distinguished prose of the On Rhetoric, the messy lectures On Frank Speaking and On Anger, which read like slightly revised transcripts of classroom improvisations, the brilliant and unconventional rhetoric of On Death, and at least parts of On the Good 283

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King—all turn up one by one as part of Horace’s range of reference, of course very broad in many other directions, too. As for the parody-doxography in Epistle 6, where Numicius is offered a Hobson’s choice under the guise of a series of choices, none of which on closer reading is attractive but the first: Horace’s supposedly eclectic philosophy in Book  of the Epistles is not all that different from Philodemus’ mode of doxography anyway, also an offering of Hobson’s choices in which the Epicureans always win, and yet other schools are sometimes done all the justice that can be done them consistently with the Epicurean system. Marcello Gigante recently summed up his own investigations and Erler’s of Philodemus’ and Zeno’s eclecticism as Epicureans, their desire to fill in the school’s theories in places left blank or half-filled by the early master of the school, which made Zeno and Philodemus, as Erler notes, the Panaetius and Posidonius of the Garden: ‘‘Flessibile nel dogmatismo, Filodemo congloba talvolta nella dottrina epicurea tutto ciò che non contrasta con i suoi fondamenti’’ (‘‘Flexible in his dogmatism, Philodemus draws together here and there into his Epicureanism every opinion that does not contradict its fundamental doctrines’’).24 A student of his On Poetry cannot help but notice, beneath the harsh polemical tone Philodemus adopts toward the various theories he summarizes for his students, the surprising frequency with which he stops to agree with every point he thinks can be made to agree with his own theory, even if put in terms he would not himself have chosen. Reading his works at large, one gets used not just to this phenomenon, but to the various modes of presentation of the doxographies and doxographical summaries that appear in a majority of his treatises: neutral presentation, followed by a recapitulation of all the theories in the same order with refutations appended theory by theory; exposition of the theories of one opponent, such as Diogenes of Babylon, then systematic refutation point by point in the same order; presentation first of the theory he favors, then of a list of others, either with immediate refutation, or with refutation doctrine by doctrine in the same order as given, to follow. There are two doxographies in this style, one long, one short, in Book  of the Epistles. First let us look at Epistle 6, Nil admirari, which gives in the first place what I think is an Epicurean version of what this maxim should mean, then a list of possible things to admire if one is not to admire nothing, in which Horace’s persona tries, like Philodemus, to appear ‘‘neutral’’ without, as the poet himself is well aware, really succeeding. I know from working over the fragments of On Poetry, especially P.Herc. 228, where Philodemus in some of the columns is giving a ‘‘neutral and un284

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biased’’ exposition of the doctrines of Crates and the doxai of Zeno, and in some of them clearly interjecting some Epicurean opinions on poetry even before he comes to the section of refutations in the same order of the opinions previously listed, that he did not always refrain from criticism and allow the adversaries their unprejudiced free time onstage as he did, for example, in the first half of On Signs and Inferences.25 Here, Horace sets out at length in –27 what seems to be a clearly Epicurean theory of nil admirari: one should admire neither sun, nor stars, nor the regularity of the universe’s movements and seasons, as the Epicureans did not, and the Stoics did; one should think virtue nothing worth pursuing ultra quam satis est, as the Epicureans did and the Stoics did not; one should admire nothing on earth that is mortal, including fame, as both schools thought—but the line in which he sums up this thought, nothing mortal can save you, ire tamen restat, Numa quo devenit et Ancus (27), is paraphrased from Lucretius, clearly indicating Epicurean bias. The rest of the doxography, as so often happens in Philodemus, is not really as neutral as it pretends. Here are the other choices. One can choose (like the Stoics) virtutem admirari, to ‘‘admire’’ or wonder at (thaumazein) virtue and live omissis deliciis, with pleasures passed by (30–3). Since Horace says nothing further, the implication is, why bother? One can choose res admirari, to admire wealth, and work all day and night for the dubious rewards of riches (3–48). One can choose honores admirari and do the same for political power (49–55), seeking the curule ebur or curule chair from an importunus, ‘‘irritating,’’ great political patron (here the pretense of neutrality is suddenly very thin, and the Epicurean hostility to political involvement shines through). One can choose to admire gluttony, cenam admirari, and live ‘‘like the foolish sailors of Odysseus of Ithaca who cared more for forbidden delights than their native land’’ (59– 66)—here the neutrality is not even there—or amorem iocosque admirari, ‘‘be in awe of love and play,’’ like Mimnermus and presumably the Epicureans’ other foil throughout the book, the Hedonists; and instead of refuting further, Horace ends with a brief q.e.d. and the first option clearly in possession of the field—a perfect parody in a brilliantly fused page or two of the sort of exposition on which Philodemus loved to spend whole hours in the lecture room.26 This brief doxography is echoed in another even briefer at the end of Epistle 8, as Horace reminds Lollius that he must never while engaged in his decorous toad-eating to his patrons forget that there is a reality beyond the ambiguous rewards of clienthood.

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It’s Lollius’ turn for this exhausting pursuit, but amid it he should always remember to run over doxographies in his mind (00–03): virtutem doctrina paret naturane donat, quid minuet curas, quid te tibi reddat amicum, quid pure tranquillet, honos an dulce lucellum, an secretum iter et fallentis semita vitae. Whether instruction gives you excellence or it is nature’s gift; what diminishes care, what makes you your own friend and gives you pure peace of mind: . political power (= honores admirari ) or 2. a nice little profit (= res admirari )—or 3. the secret path and the way of one’s hidden life.

This is a short résumé-doxography, only to be called such because the first alternative collapses into a half-line the doxography of Epistle 6, where both honos and dulce lucellum were treated with such sarcasm: once more the Epicurean maxim, what Plutarch treats as Epicureanism’s signature maxim, lathe biōsas, ‘‘live hidden,’’ is in pride of place at the end of the epistle. Horace makes clear that all one gets from clienthood is a greater appreciation of lathe biōsas: he goes on to praise his own quiet life in the sticks at the Sabine Farm, and to close (as Heinze and Fraenkel saw) with a versification (–2) of Epicurus Sent. Vat. 65, μάταιόν ἐστι παρὰ θεῶν αἰτεῖσθαι ἅ τις ἑαυτῷ χορηγῆσαι ἱκανός ἐστι (‘‘It is ridiculous to ask of the gods what one is competent to supply to oneself ’’): sed satis est orare Iovem quae ponit et aufert, det vitam, det opes, aequum mi animum ipse parabo. But it is enough to pray Jove for what he actually gives and takes away: may he give life, may he give a living: I can create a calm soul for myself.

Always the Epicurean thought is in pride of place: si comincia e si finisce con Epicuro. Si comincia, also, for lathe biōsas had also subtly been inserted in pride of place at the beginning in Epistle 8’s twin and pendant, Epistle 7, an even more sarcastic attack on the pursuit of profit through clienthood (6–2): si te grata quies et primam somnus in horam delectat, si te pulvis strepitusque rotarum si laedit caupona, Ferentinum ire iubebo, nam neque divitibus contingunt gaudia solis 286

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nec vixit male, qui natus moriensque fefellit. si prodesse tuis pauloque benignius ipsum te tractare voles, accedes siccus ad unctum. If pleasant quiet and sleep till the first hour pleases you, if dust and the noise of wheels and cheap bars wound you, I say stay in the small towns, for not only the rich enjoy life and it’s no bad life, the life—and death—of lathe biōsas. Or if you want to help your friends and treat yourself better at the same time, go into athletic training with me.

But the alternative is once more sarcastic, for the self-serving precepts of Aristippus and the Hedonists lead in the end only to degradation, servitude, and making oneself both notorious and ridiculous, as the rest of the epistle clearly shows. I could wish for more space to trace the theme of frank criticism in the manner of On Frank Speaking throughout the first book of the Epistles, because it involves so crucial a question. Theorists of friendship in Horace’s poems have been embarrassed to account for Horace’s irony and harshness to his addressees throughout his work, and particularly here, to Maecenas, in Epistle 7, to Scaeva in Epistle 7, to Lollius in Epistle 8, and in many other places, without any idea that this does not constitute a subversive ‘‘other voice’’ but is only common practice in literary imitations of philosophical therapeia, or that the theory of how to practice it is laid down nearly as explicitly in Plutarch’s How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend as in On Frank Speaking. For that matter, as Plutarch implies, even in ordinary Roman social life, frankness and honest criticism of some kind was so much de rigueur in anyone who pretended to be a friend that flatterers felt more or less compelled to imitate it: by praising a friend’s bad prosewriting to the skies, for example, but at least harshly criticizing the poorquality paper or the scribe’s bad script.27 We don’t need Plutarch to tell us so, however; Horace himself considers parrēsia a common enough strategy of clients that it requires as little comment as flattery if you don’t overdo it (some clients act to their potens amicus like terrified children with a bad-tempered schoolmaster; others who want to be thought the personification of parrēsia, libertas mera, tell him they would rather die than not say exactly what they think about trifles ‘‘such as whether you get to Brundisium better by the Minucian or Appian Way,’’ Epist. .8.6–20).28 One might ask, then, why—if we can find models for ordinary social behavior like this in Plutarch and Horace himself—Philodemus’ On Frank Speaking is especially relevant to Horatian practice. The answer is 287

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surely that Horace is describing in the first book of the Epistles not ordinary social interaction but that expected between fellow students and progress-makers in specifically philosophical studies, for which On Frank Speaking is now our main text for Epicurean practice. The reason Lyne’s 995 Horace: Behind the Public Poetry is so effective in identifying hitherto neglected instances of parrēsia in Horace’s poetry throughout is that most or all belong either to Plutarch’s category of parrēsia as expected in social intercourse, especially from the less influential to the more influential friend, or to the philosophical category (again a fine example is Carm. 3.29, in which maxims from Epicurus are mixed into the Philodemean mini-genre, the invitation to a simple dinner). Much worry over how Horace can go so far in Epist. .7 as to offer Maecenas the Sabine Farm and the rest of his gifts back if attendance on him is compulsory can be seen as wasted in this light: it’s actually a compliment to talk this way to a poem’s honorary addressee, who is tacitly but effectively proclaimed to be tolerant of one form or another of ‘‘tough love.’’ 29 As Philodemus says, one uses this kind of frank criticism to the grown men among the students, ‘‘those stronger than the soft ones,’’ τοὺς μᾶλλον τῶν μαλάκων ἰσχυρούς (On Frank Speaking fr. 7). I am sorry I only have space to sketch a treatment of Epistle 6, then, which rakes a young nobleman Quinctius over the coals as an aspirant in philosophy, and which is what Courbaud so rightly called so long ago la pièce maîtresse of the whole book, as for Fraenkel, with whom I agree, Carm. 3.29 is the ode maîtresse of Odes –3. From the ground of his being, which is the Sabine Farm, fully described at the beginning in a way that sets the scene for the Sabine end of Epistle 8 also, Horace addresses a young Roman nobleman of high rank living in Rome.30 Throughout Horace’s poems, the Sabine Farm is the symbol of philosophical freedom and friendship and Rome the symbol of what Philodemus meant when he said in true Epicurean style that ‘‘there is nothing more inimical to friendship, nothing more tending to create enmity, than politeia.’’ 31 At Rome, Quinctius is called by the populus a vir bonus et prudens, Horace suspects from his Sabine viewpoint, wrongly; would Quinctius not be terrified (25–29) if someone addressed to him a line or two of a panegyric on Augustus (and indeed, by 20 b.c., they lived in a world where that could mean instant death), perhaps even, as the scholiasts claim, a line or two of adulation of Augustus from Varius Rufus, another of the Philodemean circle mentioned with Vergil in the now-famous dedication of P.Herc. Paris. 2? 32 If so, how can Quinctius be fool enough to accept such a description as bonus et prudens when it cannot be conferred by Augus288

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tus or the people, but on the truly wise alone? That Augustus does not disappear from Horace’s thoughts at this point, I have always believed, is clear from the lines in which a singular is always translated as if it were the populus in question; but in fact the populus has to be understood from as far back as line 2, and the nearest such singular is in Augusti laudes (29), when Horace says (33–38): qui dedit hoc hodie, cras si volet, auferet, ut si detulerit fasces indigno, detrahet idem. pone, meumst, inquit, pono tristisque recedo. idem si clamet furem, neget esse pudicum, contendat laqueo collum pressisse paternum, mordear opprobriis falsis mutemque colores? Who gave you this today will take it back tomorrow if he (it) wishes, as if he (it) had given the fasces to an unworthy man, that he (it) can take back also. ‘‘Put that down, it’s mine,’’ he (it) says. I put it down and sadly withdraw. But if he (it) shouted I were a thief or called me a passive homosexual or claimed I had strangled my own father, can I be wounded by false charges or turn pale?

Commentators have been puzzled here, for under the Republic the people rarely withdrew the fasces they gave, though by the date of the first book of Epistles they belonged to the emperor both to give and to take away whenever he pleased, even during an official’s year of office if necessary.33 But, though it was theoretically the people but really Augustus who owned the fasces at the time of publication, would the princeps inflict disgrace of this kind on a man, call him a thief, unchaste, or a murderer of parents, instead of merely annihilating him with the well-known method of renuntiatio amicitiae? I hesitate to outdo even Lyne in discovering Horatian ‘‘sappings,’’ or Don Fowler in his search for anti-Augustan ironies in the Odes,34 in this case an implication that in Rome as it is now both emperor and people are objects of fear. But if some such delicate implication is not hiding there, why is Quinctius confronted at the end with Horace’s extraordinary allegory of the Bacchae, which Courbaud did not exaggerate in calling Horace’s high point as a poet-philosopher? 35 The truly wise man, Horace concludes, when his self-estimation is threatened—not by the people, by a tyrant—feels the terrible insouciance of Dionysus before Pentheus, who interestingly enough is not rex Thebarum, but rector Thebarum, as if he were rector rei publicae, to use the title hopefully invented by Cicero (De re publica 2.52; 5.5, 6; 6., 3) for the theo289

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retical governor or president Rome might one day need, instead of a king (73–79): vir bonus et sapiens audebit dicere, ‘‘Pentheu, rector Thebarum, quid me perferre patique indignum coges?’’ ‘‘adimam bona.’’ ‘‘nempe pecus, rem, lectos, argentum: tollas licet.’’ ‘‘in manicis et compedibus saevo te sub custode tenebo.’’ ‘‘ipse deus, simul atque volam, me solvet.’’ opinor, hoc sentit: ‘‘moriar.’’ mors ultima linea rerum. The wise and good man will dare to say, ‘‘Pentheus, first man in Thebes, what will you make me endure that is unworthy?’’ ‘‘I will take your goods.’’ ‘‘Oh, flocks, property, beds, silverware, you can have it.’’ ‘‘I will keep you chained hand and leg by a merciless guard.’’ ‘‘The God himself the moment I wish will loose me.’’ I say he means, ‘‘I can die.’’ Death is the line at the end of things.

Here Orelli was sure he saw a Stoic allegory of Euripides’ scene, for Plutarch quotes Bacchae 498, ‘‘The god himself will loose me whenever I wish,’’ as appropriate to a wise man defying a tyrant at On Tranquility of Mind 4, and there are similar, if prosier, dialogues between the wise man and the tyrant at Epictetus .7 and 9. Horace had indeed gone back on his Epicurean preferences and put here in pride of place a Stoic moralization of Euripides, as if the ‘‘tired wisdom’’ of that philosophy needed toughening with a Stoic touch to make its coverage of the possibilities of life and death complete. But in fact, in his lecture On Death, Philodemus had gone out to conquer this Stoic territory of the wise man before the tyrant and/or the republic or democracy (as suited his audience of late Republican aristocrats): Then again, it might seem forgivable to be pained when one is going to die violently under the condemnation of a jury, or of a tyrant, like Palamedes and Socrates and Callisthenes. For this certainly is one of those things highly contrary to reason, and very rare in its occurrence to philosophers, not indeed that they practice any of the conducts that lead to this, but because they have not even anything in common [with those who do]. But just because it’s not impossible—so much the more, because they are of the class not in power—for this to happen, to remain completely unhurt is not easy, but it is possible to endure and be troubled very moderately by the whole thing because of such con290

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siderations as follow. For when persons are in fact liable to shameful punishments, whether decided by a majority or by a tyrant, and come to their death, they will be wretched, but because they were afraid of such a fortune when living, not because any bad thing will come to them when they’ve died on account of their loss of honor. But when a man has lived honorably and in a manner pure of all stain, and then from envy and slander and conspiracies of contemptibly wicked men is wounded by some such misfortune, he will see that the pains are disturbing him no more than in sickness, but he has already realized that even if he should be totally destroyed, in his moral strength and health he has become far his enemies’ superior. And the manner of his death he will think neither brings blame nor is miserable in and for itself, nor because of men outside his own circle, because neither does everyone think so, nor even many. And if everyone did think so, he still would have his clear conscience, and his unimpeachable and blessed life will keep itself totally indifferent of these wingless stinging-insects. And the idea that he is alone in his unhappiness does not trouble him. For in fact he knows of ten thousands of the most excellent who fell by envy and slander both in democracies and at the courts of princes; and by tyrants’ hands the best men more than any, and kings by the hand of kings, and he has faith, too, that those who condemned him are punished already throughout their own life out of the evil inside themselves, and on his account will be anguished with many a pang of repentance, and probably also will themselves later be hurt yet more horribly by others. But I am amazed at them, who think it unendurable to be condemned, and that not by good men, but by the worst of them, beasts rather; if they think that those live happily and will live happily, who are very evil, but acquitted of slanders, or not slandered at all among such men as these; and then, if they do not think the life even of the most intelligent of us to be wretched, if in fact it is a misfortune to become vulnerable to such men. . . . But it is so certain that the standard-bearers of virtue among human beings can endure such things nobly, that one can see even ordinary men not just enduring with neck unbowed, but displaying the profoundest contempt for those who put them there, never mind Socrates and Zeno the Eleatic and Anaxarchus as historians tell us, and others of the philosophers. on death xxxiii.37–xxxv.34

Philodemus’ six examples show his own brand of eclecticism: Palamedes, from the Homeric cycle, and Callisthenes, the murdered friend of 29

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Alexander; Socrates (twice), whom the Epicureans did not ordinarily rank very high;36 Zeno the Eleatic and Anaxarchus, who both suffered torture and death at the hands of tyrants. None of them, significantly, were suicides. His ordinary, unphilosophical men ‘‘endured with neck unbowed,’’ which means the same thing. The Epicureans did not forbid suicide but discouraged it, which is why, pace Orelli’s note, simul atque volam is paraphrased by Horace himself as moriar, ‘‘I can die,’’ not ‘‘I can kill myself.’’ (Dionysus in the play took the punishment without threatening suicide either.) Even if my mildly subversive point about Augustus does not work (and when I gave this paper at the Cumae conference, I left Francis Cairns for one quite unconvinced), Horace and Philodemus both refer to the tyranny of cities and tyrants as the same thing, and both hold the Epicurean doctrine that the wise and good man’s perfect innocence is the only true freedom from fear. It is to secure peace of mind and safety from the rest of the human race, asphaleia ex anthrōpōn, that he never commits crimes or violates laws. According to Philodemus, as to Horace, the wise man mostly secures freedom from damage also by this means, but, if he is lied about, cares nothing about the liars or the punishments they inflict on him anyway, because he knows better than they who and what sort of man he is. There is something very specific (besides the many various crossreferences to him in Gigante 995) to show that Horace read this lecture and liked it: namely the self-referential closure mors ultima linea rerum, ‘‘Death is the (goal)-line’’ (but also just: ‘‘mark, line’’) ‘‘to which all things tend.’’ It has been shown many times by now that this is a reference to the favorite Philodemean metaphor of the paragraphē and corōnis of life (the references are given in the note in Obbink 996: 92–94). The showiest of all these Philodemean usages is the daring self-referential closure of On Death (xxxix), where Philodemus speaks of death as the ‘‘period’’ and ‘‘paragraph’’ of life in a concluding periodic sentence under which the paragraphos itself is written in the papyrus as a close: But with persons of stable mind, even if through some unavoidable cause they were unsuspecting in advance of the fact that already the paragraph and limit of their life ( paragraphos tou biou) was approaching, when it comes into actual view, they, summing up in one period ( periodeuontes) systematically, and with keenest vision (in a way that is a mystery unexplainable to the ignorant), their own complete enjoyment of life and the utter unconsciousness that is to come over them, breathe their last as calmly as if they had never put aside for an instant of time their act of attention to death. 292

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In addition, Philodemus, in an epigram that also (at least probably) had a paragraphos or corōnis under it as the end of a book of amatory and convivial epigrams, asked the Muses to place the corōnis at the end of the selides or pages of his youthful folly.37 Horace must have saved up for a long time a wish to imitate this gorgeous sort of visual, self-referential conclusion, treating a poem on death as a visual object and referring both to the goal-line of a race and the linea on the page indicating the end of the poem: mors ultima linea rerum. Philodemus, and Horace’s imitation of him (like the similar touch of making the word exitus the last word of the Epodes, as has often been noticed),38 might be thought to have deserved some sort of prize from the editors of Classical Closure (Roberts, Dunn, and Fowler 997), though Horace was not one of their chief topics (Hardie [997a: 57], one of their contributors, noted the self-portrait at the end of Epist. .20). But again, Herculaneum topics have been slow to enter the mainstream. To conclude: was Horace an eclectic in Epistles ? The answer is certainly yes, and by nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri he does indeed mean that readers need not be afraid that doctrinaire (Sedley’s ‘‘fundamentalist’’) preaching of any kind will find its way into the poems, and that an enormous mass of different and contradictory sources have been drawn on for their interactions and intertextualities. But an overview of the combined role Epicurus, Lucretius, and now at last Philodemus can be seen to play fully justifies everything Heinze said about Horace’s bias. Nothing in the poems contradicts any fundamental doctrine of Epicureanism; many of these are explicitly or implicitly affirmed. If an eclectic, Horace can be seen clearly to be an eclectic of the Garden, just as Michael Erler’s phrase ‘‘ein Panaitios des Kepos’’ (992a) for Philodemus suggests more than one sees in it at first: as Erler points out, Panaetius compromised the doctrines of the Stoa with his eclecticism, but Philodemus, as much as he and Zeno innovated in less crucial matters, and as much as he compliments the other schools for occasionally offering teaching that an Epicurean can profit from, never violates the truly cardinal teachings of his school. No more does Horace, ein römischer Kallimachos des Kepos from beginning to end.39

notes . For this and other examples of Housman’s sarcasm about ‘‘pan-Posidonianism,’’ Posidonium ante lectitatum quam natum, by which he meant the tendency to ascribe pure commonplaces of both literature and philosophy to a Posidonian source, see Kidd and Edelstein 972, :xx. 293

david armstrong 2. Armstrong 986; 989: ch. . 3. As is made clear by the review of the opinions of Gigon, Lebek, and others in Doblhofer 992: 67–70, which makes it sound as if the quotations from Heinze and Fraenkel below are merely out of date and naive, though still occasionally finding minority support. 4. Mayer 986: 55; so also Dilke 98: 847 (‘‘If [Horace] had a phase of real Epicureanism it had left little impact apart from a sincere belief in the value of friendship’’). 5. Besides a reference to one of Philodemus’ epigrams paraphrased in Epist. .4, however, Mayer (994) does note that the application of the old simile of the crow with borrowed feathers to a literary borrower at Epist. .3.5–20 is an allusion to Philodemus’ Rhetoric (Sudhaus 892–896, 2:67–68; add 2:0, which reveals that the passage is not a restoration, as Mayer supposed): for this, see below. Mayer’s introductory remark (994: 2) about Epicurus’ letters (‘‘So enduring is the appeal of the personal note that these are now all that survive of his original writings’’) would strike a specialist as somewhat cursory, since the three great epistles in Diogenes Laertius have nothing personal about them but the bare pretense of the form, and the really personal epistles exist in fragments— not to mention the Kyriai Doxai, mostly treated since Bailey (926: 344–347) as an original work of art that ‘‘survives’’ complete, and the On Nature books at Herculaneum. 6. For Heinze’s 99 lecture on the Epistles and his notes in the various editions of Kiessling-Heinze (KHB ), see below. Heinze, it is important to note, wrote in a period when Jensen, Philippson, and others were bringing out their series of Teubner and other texts of Philodemean treatises at a great rate, and he profited from these for his edition of Lucretius 3 (897). No doubt he expected further revelations from Herculaneum that in the event did not appear soon enough for him to read. Fraenkel had lost all hope of Herculaneum, I think, by the time his Horace was published in 957, but he does not hesitate to identify an Epicurean bias in Horace, and especially in Epistles Book  (the end of Epist. .8 is Horace’s ‘‘Epicurean confession of faith,’’ and in spite of Fraenkel’s claim of eclecticism earlier in the book, it shows ‘‘full adherence to the Epicurean creed,’’ 957: 255, cf. 39). 7. Johnson 993 (see note 37 below) is more insightful, and so is Macleod, who notes the prominence of Epicurean turns to the thought throughout. For example, Macleod rightly notes that Horace deliberately twists the apparently Stoic phrase vivere convenienter naturae to mean in context life in conformity with Epicurean and not Stoic notions of Nature (Macleod 979: 25 = Collected Essays 289: the same passage misinterpreted as Stoic in Dilke 98: 848). 8. Though a lot of the relics of early-twentieth-century ‘‘pan-Posidonianism’’ in these studies are still to be received with incredulity: cf. McGann’s attempt to find Panaetianisms in Epistles  (969: 0–32); for example, the mere word decens (Dilke [98: 848] so interprets every occurrence of the root, even when, as at 294

Horace’s Epistles  and Philodemus Epist. .4.32, Horace says that expensive togas and perfumed hair ‘‘became’’ him, decuere). I have tried to select only much less tenuous intertextualities of Horace’s with Epicurean sources. 9. All translations are my own. 0. Some indications can be found in Dorandi 990a (Epicurus’ letters give Athenian archon dates, and quotation by Philodemus from the letters is the main reason for their occurrence in Herculaneum papyri). . The epistolary nature of Vatican Sententiae 5 and 76, for example, is selfevident, and it is conjectured for many others; the Kyriai Doxai were once supposed to contain many excerpts from Epicurus’ letters, but most nowadays would agree with Bailey (926: 344–347) that this is an independent and highly structured prose work meant to stand by itself. 2. Heinze 95: 3–4: the point is re-emphasized even further in closing, 4–5. 3. I should say here that Kilpatrick’s The Poetry of Friendship (986), for all its excellent demonstrations of Horace’s debt to the Latinity Cicero invented for philosophical discussion, does not really deal with the fact that on all the essential points, and especially on the nonpolitical nature of friendship, and its origin and end in the creation of the happy self, Horace agrees not with Cicero but with the positions that Cicero characterizes as Epicurean in De amicitia and De officiis. But this is material for another paper. 4. Sedley’s now-famous third chapter on Lucretius’ Epicurean ‘‘fundamentalism’’ (998) relies partly on the evidence from Philodemus of Epicureans who refused the innovations of Zeno of Sidon and his school: see the introduction above. 5. Philodemus, 27 Sider = 23 G-P: see below, and on the ‘‘mini-genre’’ this poem created in Latin poetry, including Carm. .20, 4.2, and Epist. .5, cf. Tait 94: 68–70; Gowers 993: ch. 4; and Sider 997: 52–53, with bibliography. 6. See also Asmis 99: 20–2, who notes this parallel. 7. Fish’s rereading (in this volume) of the papyrus and the Neapolitan disegno in this part of his text (P is no longer there for the part of line 20 after δυ|να) removes the old restoration of Olivieri ‘‘correction of dynasties,’’ as Dirk Obbink had already suggested privately: τῶν ἀφο[ρ]μ ῶν  , ὦ Πεί|σων, ἃς ἔστ ι παρ’ Ὁμήρου λ α|βεῖν εἰς ἐπανόρ θω σ ιν δυ |νατό [ν . . . , ‘‘Of the starting points, o Piso, which it is possible to find in Homer for corrected reading . . .’’ (xliii.5–20). 9–20 δυ |νατό [ν Obbink: δυ|ναστε[ιῶ]ν Olivieri: δυ|να[ P: . . ]νατε[ N. On these ‘‘starting points’’ and on the meaning of ‘‘corrected reading,’’ see Asmis 99: 2–22, and Obbink 995a: 9. 8. Lines 28–32 should now read:

ὁ ποι[η]τὴς (one or two words missing) ἀγαγεῖν τ [ὸ]ν Τηλέμ [α]|χον εἰς Πύ λον [καὶ Σ ]πάρτη [ν] | ὅπου τ [η]λικο [ύ ]το ις ἔμε`λ´λε | σ υ[μ]μείξ ε[ι]ν,  | οὐ γὰρ δὴ πλε[ῖ]|ον γ’ ἔτ περὶ τοῦ | πα  ι | ποιήσειν   τ ρὸς [ε]πὶ τῆς Ἰθακῆς ὄν|τος ἤδ[η]. 295

david armstrong Homer [contrived to?] bring Telemachus to Pylos and Sparta where he was to have dealings with such great men, for he was certainly not going to achieve anything [more] concerning his father, who was by then already on Ithaca. Lines 4–8 give the reason: ἐπεὶ καὶ ἀ|θέατο[ν] ἀ νάγκη καὶ ἀνισ|τό ρητον εἶναι πολλῶν καὶ παρρησίας ἄ πειρον ἰ|σηγόρου, ‘‘Since he had had to be ignorant  of so many things and inexperienced in the parrēsia of conversation between equals.’’ 9. It should be said, though, that Philodemus never gives in to any idea incompatible with his own version of Epicureanism in these passages, and ( pace Sorabji 2000: 37–38, 66–68) his version of the ‘‘bite’’ is distinguished from the Stoic one in that Philodemus always considers it a healthy phenomenon to be ‘‘bitten’’ by natural anger or the natural terrors of death or the sting of parrēsia, whereas the Stoics considered it an unavoidable but regrettable yielding to psychic disturbance. 20. Konstan et al. 998: 32–33, fr. 9: ‘‘Since the wise man will sometimes transfer to himself an intemperate error, [saying] that it occurred in his youth.’’ The context shows that this is a technique recommended for softening the impact of ‘‘frank’’ rebukes. 2. Commentators sometimes compare here Cic. Att. .7.4 (6 b.c.: Cicero is trying to persuade Atticus to forgive Quintus Cicero’s surliness): ‘‘If you take the view (si ita statueris) that the best people are apt to be easily provoked (irritabilis) and also easily appeased ( placabilis), that this mobility and impressionability of temperament is usually the sign of a good heart, and above all that we ought to bear with one another’s drawbacks, shall I say, or faults, or injuries, then all this will I hope be easily assuaged’’ (trans. Shackleton Bailey). Atticus was of course an Epicurean, living among Philodemus’ Epicurean circle in Athens, the eclectics like Zeno and Phaedrus; and it is tempting to think statueris means ‘‘If you believe as your school believes,’’ for both these doctrines are Epicurean (forgiveness to one’s friends as opposed to Stoic demands for moral perfection from them is the subject of Horace’s doctrinaire-Epicurean Sat. .3). In that case, we could know that Philodemus’ theory of anger goes back at least to Zeno’s school. 22. Barnes 986: 3 and 22 nn. 63 and 64. 23. Already partially quoted in KHB on Epist. .4.2, along with another fragment of Epicurus, Usener 490. Mayer (994: ad 3) is quite right to note that the advice to ‘‘be absolute for death’’ is an ancient commonplace and cite the collection of passages in Summers 968 on Seneca Ep. 2.8. I venture to think, however, that grata superveniet quae non sperabitur hora = Philodemus’ paradoxos eutychia and eucharistei, and that the resemblance is underlined by the further coincidence of the closure of Epist. 6 with the closure of Philodemus’ treatise (see below). 24. Gigante 999: 9.

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Horace’s Epistles  and Philodemus 25. This will be apparent in the forthcoming edition of Philodemus’ aesthetic works undertaken by the Philodemus Translation Project with the support of the National Endowment for the Humanities, of which the first volume, Janko 2000, has already appeared. There Jeffrey Fish and I are responsible for, among other things, the fragments P.Herc. 58, 407, 403, and 228, in which Philodemus in the first part of On Poetry Book 5 is discussing various doctrines he intends to refute later in the better-preserved second part, 425–538. Some doctrines are given ‘‘neutral’’ and some ‘‘polemical’’ presentation: see the introduction to Mangoni 993: esp. 32–36. 26. On the ‘‘doxographical’’ character of Epistles , cf. Armstrong 989: 7– 9, and Ralph Johnson’s incisive comments, 993: 86 n. . 27. How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend 60a. At 60c–d we learn of a senator who told Tiberius before the senate that as a free man he was going to practice true parrēsia; having attracted general attention by this claim, he fiercely accused the princeps of neglecting himself and wearing himself out for the good of Rome, etc., at which one of the senators remarked, ‘‘Now that’s the kind of parrēsia that can get the fellow killed!’’ It is interesting to see that a show of defiant frankness still counted as ‘‘friendship’’ even in Tiberius’ senate: a hundred years later it would have been unimaginable. 28. If Horace was confident that the Journey to Brundisium, Sat. .5, was one of his more memorable publications, this and the comment to Scaeva in the previous epistle, its pendant, that nothing is more rude than to have your patron take you to Brundisium and complain of the rough trip (Epist. .7.52–57), is a piece of implied impertinence to Maecenas that Lyne (995) ought not to have passed over in his discussion of Horace’s ‘‘sapping’’ of patrons. 29. Kilpatrick (986) goes so far in his belief in the impossibility of Horace’s criticism of Maecenas hitting home as to retranslate such lines as hac ego si compellor imagine cuncta resigno, ‘‘If you are to insult me with this comparison I resign it all back,’’ and inspice si possum donata reponere laetus, ‘‘See if I cannot give all your gifts back with a smile,’’ so that they mean something less combative (– 3), but he has convinced no one, apparently, and Mayer (994) seems right to ignore him. 30. If he is the addressee of Carm. 2., which calls a Quinctius away from politics to pleasure, he might also be Epicurean himself. 3. On Rhetoric, Sudhaus II.0. 32. Courtney (993: 275) is perfectly right to treat this fragment as dubium, but in fact the scholiasts are conjecturing not merely from Carm. .6.–4, as Courtney argues, but from the whole biographical tradition about Vergil, Varius, and their contubernium with Horace as described in Courtney’s introduction to Varius’ fragments (ibid.: 27). 33. In Epist. .6.52–53, an influential politician cui libet . . . fasces dabit eripietque curule / cui volet importunus ebur, but this is not quite parallel: it means he makes you win an election or lose it. 297

david armstrong 34. Lyne 995: e.g., 87–89, 207–24; Fowler 995. I tried to indicate in my own Horace (989) that I agree with those critics who find tensions with the regime in Odes –3, but see nothing but acceptance and reconciliation in Book 4; nor would I think this instance very daring, or anything but an indication of Augustan reality, if the question of possible impertinences—like the much-discussed subtext of Carm. 3.4, Herculis ritu, where I whole-heartedly agree with the ironizers from Steele Commager on—were not so tensely involved with the current battle over irony and ‘‘two voices’’ in the Aeneid. 35. Courbaud 93: 68 (‘‘sommet de la pensée du poète’’). 36. Cf. Kleve 983. I will argue (in Armstrong forthcoming) that On Death is a rhetorical showpiece for a mixed audience of philosophers of various schools and of laymen, not (like most of his treatises) for convinced Epicureans only. 37. See Sider’s note (997: 76–77) on Epigram 4.7 (= 7.7 G-P), and the massive study of this kind of closure in Obbink 996: 89–94. 38. Epod. 7.8; cf. Mankin 995: ad loc. 39. Ralph Johnson puts it very well: Horace’s garden is an Italian garden where ‘‘the askesis of Epicurus, so sufficiently unchanged as to be eventually recognizable, was divested of its surlier dogmatisms, was softly tempered by Aristippean realities, was revised and reissued . . . with a delicate and carefully controlled suspension of intellectual demands and preconceptions. It became a place where one could brood on self and on the languages of self ’’ (993: 5), a typically alert and sensitive passage from this deceptively unpretentious monograph. The only correction I would want to make is that we can now know the role Philodemus played in this transition.

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c h a p t e r 6

va r i u s a n d v e r g i l : t wo p u p i l s o f p h i l o d e m u s i n p r o p e rt i u s 2 . 3 4 ? francis cairns

Elegy 2.34 is the epilogue of Propertius’ longest book, and it is one of his longest poems.1 It is also complex, and it has more than its fair share of textual and interpretational problems. Much scholarly attention has focused on lines 6–82, which celebrate Vergil’s Eclogues, Georgics, and forthcoming Aeneid. Scholarship has also concentrated on Lynceus, that other poet featured even more largely than Vergil in Propertius 2.34 (–54). On the sensible assumption that Propertius would not have given an imaginary epic poet more space than Vergil, Lynceus has often been interpreted as a pseudonym disguising another real-life contemporary; and a case was made decades ago by J.-P. Boucher for identifying Lynceus as Vergil’s lifelong friend and joint literary executor, the epic and tragic poet L. Varius Rufus.2 But there is no current consensus in favor of this identification. For example Nisbet and Hubbard described it as ‘‘ingenious but implausible,’’ Walter Wimmel did not commit to it, and Hans-Peter Stahl questioned it.3 This essay arose out of the following question: what do Lynceus’ behavior, Lynceus’ writings, and Vergil’s poetry have in common to induce Propertius to weave them together into the dominant portion of 2.34? Stahl’s answer to this question was that Lynceus and Vergil are moving in contrary directions, Lynceus toward elegy, Vergil toward epic.4 This is correct as far as it goes; but it does not go very far, particularly since Lynceus’ move toward elegy looks like wishful thinking on Propertius’ part. A different solution is required, and this essay will test one systematically. Some earlier commentators have noted hints of Epicureanism in 2.34,5 or have mentioned the circle of Philodemus at Naples in connection with it.6 This essay goes further and asks whether the disparate personalities and themes of 2.34 are perhaps united primarily by a common Epicurean and Philodemean background, which led Propertius to describe Lynceus’ be-

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havior and writings and (although to a lesser extent) the works of Vergil in consistently Epicurean terms.

lynceus = varius? The proposals advanced in this essay do not absolutely require that Lynceus be Varius; theoretically he could be another contemporary poet, or, although this is almost impossible to credit, he could be imaginary. But Varius is the only other major epic poet of the period who had Epicurean leanings and who was associated with Vergil, and their association helps materially to pull the elegy 2.34 together.7 The ancient Lives of Vergil place Vergil and either Varius or (Quintilius) Varus together (in Naples) in the 40s b.c. as students of Epicureanism under Siro.8 Their testimony is confirmed by two fragments of transcripts of lectures by Siro’s colleague Philodemus 9 in which he addresses Vergil and Varius by name along with Plotius (Tucca) and Quintilius (Varus):

ὦ Πλώτιε καὶ Οὐάρ[ι]ε καὶ Οὐεργ[ί]λιε καὶ Κοιντ[ίλιε. . . . p.herc. paris. 2.2–23; cf. also p.herc. 253 fr. 2

O Plotius and Varius and Vergil and Quintilius. . . .

The other arguments in favor of the Lynceus/Varius identification—most of them already assembled by Boucher (958)—can be summarized as follows: . At Satire .0.43–44 and Ode .6.–2, Horace represents Varius as a celebrated epic poet (although the Agrippa epic envisaged in the latter passage was doubtless never written). Varius’ epic stature derived from his hexameter De morte, and possibly from a laudatory hexameter poem about Augustus.10 2. In addition to their being conjoined by Philodemus, Varius is linked with Vergil by Horace at Satire .6.55, .0.43–45, Epistle 2..245–247, and Ars poetica 53–55; the pair is also found together elsewhere in Horace within a larger Epicurean group.11 3. The adjective varius (‘‘variegated,’’ ‘‘spotted’’) is attached to lynx (‘‘lynx’’) at Vergil Georgics 3.264: quid lynces Bacchi variae . . . ? (‘‘What of Bacchus’ spotted lynxes . . . ?’’), and also at Hyginus Fabulae 259 (of Lyncus, king of Sicily): ob quam rem irata Ceres, eum convertit in lyncem varii coloris, ut ipse variae mentis extiterat (‘‘Angry because of this, Ceres 300

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turned him into a lynx of variegated color, as he had revealed himself to be of shifting mind’’). Euripides’ βαλιαί τε λύγκες (‘‘spotted lynxes,’’ Alcestis 579) is not only the equivalent Greek phrase but sounds not unlike variae lynces (‘‘spotted lynxes’’). Moreover lynx is associated by implication with the keen-eyed mythical Lynceus in peregrinae sunt et lynces, quae clarissime quadripedum omnium cernunt (‘‘Lynxes too are foreign animals; they have the keenest sight of all quadrupeds,’’ Pliny Natural History 28.22). 4. In lines 83–84 of Propertius 2.34, the words minor ore canorus (83) do not appear in N and must be supplemented from the other mss. Otherwise the couplet reads in the (unpunctuated) text of N: nec minor his animis aut sim minor ore canorus anseris indocto carmine cessit olor.

The textual problems of these lines make it impossible to be confident about Propertius’ exact meaning: hence no translation is offered.12 But it is clear that they allude to Vergil Eclogues 9.35–36: nam neque adhuc Vario videor nec dicere Cinna digna, sed argutos inter strepere anser olores. For I do not think that I yet sing songs worthy of Varius or Cinna, but cackle as a goose among clear-voiced swans.

It is also clear, since Cinna was long dead, that Propertius’ olor (‘‘swan’’) must allude to Varius. 5. Finally, an important discovery of Giorgio Brugnoli:13 he perceived that line 67 of Propertius 2.34, tu canis umbrosi subter pineta Galaesi (‘‘You sing [canis] beneath the pine-woods of shady Galaesus’’), where Propertius begins his description of Vergil’s Eclogues, not only alludes to Georgic 4.26, qua niger humectat flaventia culta Galaesus 14 (‘‘Where dark Galaesus irrigates the yellow cornfields’’), but also wittily echoes Varius De morte (fr.4. Büchner), ceu canis umbrosam lustrans Gortynia vallem (‘‘Like a Gortynian bitch [canis] quartering a shady valley’’). I add that the deliberateness of this echo is doubly assured by its implied reference to the famous pseudo-etymological derivation of canis (‘‘dog’’) from canere (‘‘to sing’’) first found in Varro De lingua latina 5.99, 7.32.15 As an echo of Varius as well as of Vergil, Propertius’ line forwards our understanding of the assimilative agenda being followed in his treatment of Lynceus and Vergil. But more importantly the echo is, in my view, decisive in favor of the identification of Lynceus as Varius. Stahl sensibly demanded ‘‘a plausible motive for the use of a pseudo30

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nym.’’ 16 The motive cannot simply be metrical, although—as a tribrach— nominative Varius might sometimes have been awkward; nor can it only be the possibility, however real, of scribal confusion between forms of Varius and Varus. Rather, the motive might relate to what has been plausibly identified as a practice of the Epicurean circle at Naples—the use of pseudonyms. Philodemus was, it seems, called Socrates (and perhaps also Socration), his wife or partner Xantho, or Xanthippe, or Xanthion, or Xantharion; Siro was apparently Silenus, and Vergil was Parthenias.17 All this suggests that Varius’ nickname among the Epicureans at Naples was Lynceus. In addition to the varius/lynx wordplay, Lynceus may refer punningly to Varius as keen-sighted,18 probably metaphorically as a critic or commentator.19 His joint-editorship of the Aeneid may, in addition to reflecting his status as both an epic poet and an old friend of Vergil, have been due to his recognized critical acumen. One motive, then, for Propertius’ use of the pseudonym will have been that Lynceus was Varius’ ‘‘nom de philosophie.’’ If a further reason is needed, it may lie in the fictitious setting of 2.34, in which Lynceus is ostensibly at fault. Although informed hearers would not have taken this scenario seriously, uninformed readers might have done so. Hence it may have been felt more discreet not to use Varius’ real name. The Lynceus/Varius identification is, therefore, adopted here as a working hypothesis, and it gains further strength as this essay proceeds. But adoption of it does not imply support for various scholars’ attributions to Varius (on the basis of Propertius 2.34) of a number of otherwise unattested poetic works.20

propertius’ career to the mid-twenties b.c. In his Monobiblos Propertius shows no interest in Epicureanism. He possibly echoes Vergil’s Eclogues in a number of places,21 although some of these references may in fact be to passages of Cornelius Gallus that also influenced Vergil. Vergil is mentioned only once in the Monobiblos—and then indirectly (.8.0) in an allusive unmetrical reference to the Pleiads as Vergiliae.22 Why, one might ask, are things so different in 2.34? The explanation is a development in Propertius’ career. He first entered the patronage of Maecenas around 27/26 b.c., and he first mentions Maecenas in 2..23 As a new member of the circle of Maecenas Propertius will have been anxious to establish himself in it. Hence his fulsome praise of Maecenas in the prologue to Book 2; and hence too the prominence given in this, the epilogue of Book 2, to Varius and Vergil, the two most eminent and long-serving poets in Maecenas’ circle, both also ex-pupils of 302

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the great Philodemus, whom Maecenas, himself a committed Epicurean, must have admired.

propertius 2.34 as a literary program Although a number of scholars have correctly characterized the personal and poetic interactions of 2.34,24 the ambiguity of the critical terminology used to describe poems like 2.34, e.g., literary program, recusatio, and polemic, can still give rise to misunderstandings of their tone and implications. Sometimes such poems are genuine, and indeed vituperative, rejections of one type of poetry by a practitioner of another type, as when Callimachus in Aetia fr.  spurns homericizing epic (or elegy 25), or when Catullus frequently expresses distaste for the verses of writers like Volusius or Suffenus. But genuine disapproval and real literary battles need not be presumed in all cases. Those Augustan writers in particular who belonged to the poetic generation after Catullus often seem simply to be locating themselves within their own personal literary context when they take issue with the practitioner of another type of poetry. Their rejection of poetry different from their own may even (as in Propertius 2.34) amount to covert or open praise of their supposed literary opponents and their works.26 An even more elusive aspect of literary programs is ‘‘deformation’’—when a poet gives a deliberately inaccurate account of another poet’s writings so as to assimilate them to his own. A well-known case is the bucolicization of Gallan elegy in Eclogue 0; and Propertius 2.34 contains equally prominent deformations. Propertius’ polemic against Lynceus and his writings in 2.34 is, as a number of scholars have realized,27 a mock attack, analogous to his assaults on the poets Bassus and Ponticus in Book . Bassus, a writer of iambs, is threatened iambically by Propertius in .4, while in .7 and .9 the epic poet Ponticus falls in love and becomes a humble adherent of Propertian erotic elegy. Both these writers, as we know from Ovid,28 were in real life personal friends of Propertius, and the apparent polemic of these elegies is in fact complimentary. Another figure seemingly criticized in Book  but in truth highly valued by Propertius is ‘‘Gallus,’’ identified by a number of scholars, including myself,29 as the poet C. Cornelius Gallus. Gallus is portrayed (.5, .0, .3, .20) as a philanderer who is trying to seduce Propertius’ mistress Cynthia; but C. Cornelius Gallus was Propertius’ most influential poetic model in Book , and, as I have argued elsewhere,30 one of his two patrons in the Monobiblos. In 2.34 Lynceus/Varius is represented in terms highly reminiscent of these three poets. Like Bassus and Gallus he has tried to damage Proper303

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tius’ erotic relationship, like Gallus he has attempted to seduce Cynthia, and like Ponticus he is an epic poet who has fallen in love.Vergil is not subjected to the same sort of head-on attack, but Vergil’s Eclogues are systematically deformed to approximate them to Propertian elegy (see below). Propertius is just as well disposed to Varius and Vergil as he was to Bassus, Ponticus, and Gallus in Book : as noted, even in Book  he had paid Vergil an oblique compliment. Moreover it will emerge that a major part of Propertius’ positive portrait of the pair in 2.34 involves bringing to the fore in a laudatory fashion their shared Epicurean interests. Touches of irony are indeed also present and Varius is seemingly reproached, but equally Propertius directs many barbs against himself. Furthermore, Propertius’ use of Epicurean concepts in his polemic with Lynceus may be intended to seem imprecise and thus to undercut his own position. Finally the overall scenario of 2.34 is, like those of the elegies involving fellow poets in Book , fictional and intended to be recognized as such. Cynthia herself is a literary fiction; and the idea that Varius has tried to seduce her is as fantastic as the idea that Gallus had tried to do so in Book . Varius might have expressed an interest in taking up elegy, and this might have been Propertius’ starting point. But there is probably no more substance to Varius’ conversion to love and love-elegy than there is to Propertius’ impertinent assertion (2.34.8–82, assimilating Vergil to a magister amoris, ‘‘teacher of love’’!) that all of Vergil’s work will be equally pleasing to expert lovers and novices in love.

an epicurean friendship (–0) A detailed reading of 2.34 in Epicurean terms can now be attempted. Two preliminary caveats must be issued. First, certain Epicurean attitudes were, of course, shared by some or all other philosophical schools, but that does not make them any less specifically Epicurean when they appear in an Epicurean context. Second, since we cannot be sure that all, or indeed any, readers outside the circle of Maecenas would have grasped the sometimes recondite Epicurean allusions of 2.34, it must be assumed that the elegy was aimed primarily at this inner circle. 2.34 starts by sketching a friendship between Propertius and Lynceus that requires mutual fides (‘‘good faith’’). There is strikingly repetitious emphasis on this theme: credat (‘‘entrust,’’ ), fidelis (‘‘faithful,’’ 3), cognatos (‘‘kinsmen,’’ 5), amicos (‘‘friends,’’ 5), bene concordes (‘‘those in close harmony,’’ 6), hospes (‘‘guest-friend,’’ 7), and hospitium (‘‘guest-friendship,’’ 7). But Lynceus has breached this friendship by attempting to seduce 304

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Cynthia; and Propertius’ reproaches culminate in an accusation of treachery addressed directly to Lynceus in perfide (‘‘treacherous,’’ 9). Presumably this elegy was first recited in Maecenas’ house on the Esquiline, and Varius may or may not have been present at the recital. In either case Propertius’ original audience will have recognized Varius under his pseudonym Lynceus. So they will have understood that Propertius was treating Lynceus not just as a friend but as an Epicurean φίλος (‘‘friend’’), and was thus evoking the circle of Philodemus that Maecenas perhaps optimistically saw as continuing in his own circle. As Cynthia’s would-be seducer, Lynceus falls below the standards required specifically of an Epicurean friend.31 In De finibus, Cicero is polemicizing against Epicureanism; but, in conceding the natural goodness of Epicurus and his followers, he uses some phrases that are curiously similar to expressions employed by Propertius here and later: et ipse bonus vir fuit et multi Epicurei et fuerunt et hodie sunt et in amicitiis fideles et in omni vita constantes et graves (‘‘[Epicurus] was a good man, and many Epicureans have been and are today faithful in their friendships and constant and high-principled throughout life,’’ 2.8). Cicero may be mimicking the language in which Roman Epicureans expressed their ideals.

epicurean friendship, forgiveness, and frank speaking (–6) The situation becomes even more intriguing from line  on. A friend treated perfidiously by his friend in antiquity might be expected to respond with fierce hatred and a keen desire for revenge. The vicious inverse propemptikon once attributed variously to Archilochus or Hipponax is the archetype for such a reaction: it ends with the explanatory ὅς μ’ ἠδίκησε, λ [ὰ]ξ δ’ ἐπ’ ὁρκίοις ἔβῃ, | τὸ πρὶν ἑταῖρος [ἐ]ών (‘‘He who wronged me, and trampled on his oaths, he who before was my friend’’).32 But Propertius reacts very differently, much as he had behaved toward another friend of Vergil, ‘‘Gallus,’’ 33 who in the Monobiblos also supposedly attempted to seduce Cynthia. Apart from noting ironically that Cynthia (in implicit contrast to Lynceus) has shown constantia (‘‘constancy’’) and has been certa (‘‘reliable,’’ ) (another curious overlap with De finibus 2.8, quoted above), Propertius is mainly concerned (2) about the flagitium (‘‘disgrace’’), in this case the loss of esteem from his friends and consequent pain, that success with Cynthia would have brought upon Lynceus. Concepts similar to Propertius’ flagitium appear in the fragmentary treatise of Philodemus Περὶ παρρησίας (On Frank Speaking), where 305

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the term ἀδοξία (‘‘ill repute’’) is used. Fr. 3.7– speaks of the ‘‘ill repute in the eyes of the public and . . . separation from one’s family’’ 34 (suffered by the object of frank criticism) as topics already treated by Philodemus. Again, col. xixb.–5 declares, ‘‘[For they think that it is the part of a friend to apply frank criticism and to] admonish others, but that to do oneself what is deserving of rebuke is a disgrace and crime.’’ 35 Strikingly, despite Lynceus’ offense against him, Propertius is still willing to regard Lynceus as his socius vitae (‘‘partner in his life’’), socius corporis (‘‘joint owner of his body’’), and dominus (‘‘master’’) of his possessions (5–6); and he continues to address Lynceus as amice (‘‘friend,’’ 6). One hears in 5–6 echoes of Epicurean aspirations to a communal lifestyle shared with a group of like-minded friends, and socium vitae (5) may perhaps recall Epicurus’ demand that friends should commit themselves completely to their friends, even to the point of dying for them: καὶ ὑπὲρ φίλου ποτὲ τεθνήξεσθαι (‘‘And on occasion he will die for a friend,’’ fr. 590 Us. = Diogenes Laertius Vita Epicuri 20). Propertius’ willingness to forgive Lynceus’ offense may reflect yet more Epicurean precepts. Epicurus said that one should never give up a friend: τύχῃ τ’ ἀντιτάξεσθαι, φίλον τε οὐδένα προήσεσθαι (‘‘He will take his stand against fortune and never give up a friend,’’ fr. 584 Us. = Diogenes Laertius Vita Epicuri 20). Epicurus also seems to have encouraged forgiveness. His preserved precept on this topic relates to slaves, but presumably his tolerance extended even more to free friends: οὐδὲ κολάσειν οἰκέτας, ἐλεήσειν μέντοι καὶ συγγνώμην τινὶ ἕξειν τῶν σπουδαίων (‘‘Nor will he punish his servants, but rather show compassion and forgive a servant of good character,’’ fr. 594 Us. = Diogenes Laertius Vita Epicuri 8). No doubt Propertius hoped that, as an Epicurean,Varius would be suitably grateful to be corrected for his offense: cf. another precept of Epicurus, καὶ ἐπιχαρήσεσθαί τινι ἐπὶ τῷ διορθώματι (‘‘And he will be grateful to anyone correcting him,’’ fr. 592 Us. = Diogenes Laertius Vita Epicuri 20).36 Indeed, Epicureans were very much concerned with frank criticism within their own circle.37 This was the topic of Philodemus’ On Frank Speaking (mentioned above). Such frankness was considered a virtue opposed to the vice of flattery, and therefore an integral and essential element of Epicurean friendship.38

the philosopher unveiled (7–24) Along with Propertius’ remarkable seeming tolerance of Lynceus goes self-accusation. Propertius describes himself as jealous (7–8) and says 306

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that he is stultus (‘‘stupid’’) because his jealousy frequently causes him to tremble with stultus timor (‘‘stupid fear’’). As the opposite of sapiens (‘‘sage’’), stultus can in philosophical contexts mean ‘‘unphilosophical.’’ 39 Since fear was regarded in antiquity as a form of mental pain, and since avoidance of unnecessary pain was a cardinal Epicurean precept, Propertius, by describing himself as stultus, characterizes himself as morally defective in Epicurean terms. This couplet may also contain a witty allusion to Epicurean teaching about death, which would be relevant to Varius’ De morte, and might even be a quotation from it: quod nil est . . . umbras (‘‘[My] shadow, which is nothing,’’ 9), where umbras means ‘‘shadow,’’ seems to be evoking—via nil igitur mors est ad nos (‘‘Death, then, is nothing to us,’’ Lucretius De rerum natura 3.830)—the standard Epicurean denial that after death umbrae (the ‘‘shades’’ of the dead) persist. Propertius goes on (apparently) to exonerate Lynceus further when he offers an excuse for Lynceus’ offense: Lynceus was drunk when he approached Cynthia (2–22).40 But, of course, an Epicurean sage should not talk drivel in his cups: cf. Epicurus’ precept οὐδὲ μὴν ληρήσειν ἐν μέθῃ φησὶν ὁ Ἐπίκουρος ἐν τῷ Συμποσίῳ (‘‘Epicurus in the Symposium says that the sage will not drivel when drunken,’’ fr. 63 Us. = Diogenes Laertius Vita Epicuri 9). Line 23 looks like a touch of renewed asperity: Propertius will never again be fooled by a stern (i.e., by implication philosophic) appearance: vitae . . . ruga severae (‘‘the wrinkled brow . . . of your ascetic life’’).41 Line 24, omnes iam norunt quam sit amare bonum (‘‘Everybody knows what a good thing it is to love’’), could be taken as a jest against all brands of philosophy if bonum is regarded as a philosophic technical term in general. But the wit is at the expense of Epicureanism in particular if the Epicurean summum bonum (‘‘highest good’’), ἡδονή (‘‘pleasure’’), is being identified as amare (‘‘to love’’), since of course Epicureans did not approve of love (see below). That line 24 draws on a specific, and possibly a well-known, canard against Epicureanism is suggested by a couplet from Petronius’ Satyricon (32.5.7–8)—if the emendations doctos and amare are acceptable: ipse pater veri doctos Epicurus amare iussit et hoc vitam dixit habere τέλος. The father of truth himself, Epicurus, taught his sages to love and said that it was the goal of life.

In line 7 the manuscript tradition offers doctus, which is unmetrical, and in arte or in arce, which are feeble or meaningless. Some older editors at307

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tempted to retain doctus and in arte, but it is hard to see how doctos can be resisted, and, once doctos is read, the adoption of amare is almost inevitable.42 In lines 9–24 Propertius is also undercutting his own position by revealing himself as an unworthy and doctrinally shaky Epicurean—if indeed he is one at all. As well as jealousy driven by fear, Propertius also nurtures rancor, despite his earlier show of forgiveness. It could be argued that, since Propertius readily admits these faults, his confession might in Epicurean terms serve as both mitigation and therapy, this being the standard doctrine of the school.43 But Propertius’ novice status qua Epicurean is made evident throughout, and this implies that his criticism of Lynceus, although in one dimension an act of Epicurean friendship, is in another dimension impertinence. Although it was normal in Epicurean communities for ‘‘the care of souls’’ not to be ‘‘restricted to a few members invested with pre-eminent authority,’’ 44 and although Epicurean teachers were sometimes themselves in need of criticism,45 nevertheless Propertius must have intended his criticism of a well-known Epicurean of long standing to be seen as intrinsically out of order.46

enter philodemus? (25–30) Line 25 builds upon what has gone before: we are told that Lynceus, who is still being spoken of in avowedly friendly terms by Propertius as Lynceus . . . meus (‘‘my friend Lynceus’’), is ‘‘mad with a belated love.’’ The obvious point of criticism of Lynceus here is that he has fallen in love, which an Epicurean sage should not do: ἐρασθήσεσθαι τὸν σοφὸν οὐ δοκεῖ αὐτοῖς· οὐδὲ (Us., p. 332, 5) ταφῆς φροντιεῖν· οὐδὲ θεόπεμπτον εἶναι τὸν ἔρωτα (‘‘[The Epicureans] do not think that the sage will fall in love, nor that he will be concerned about burial, nor that love is divinely inspired,’’ fr. 574 Us. = Diogenes Laertius Vita Epicuri 8, cf. Lucretius De rerum natura 4). Moreover, Philodemus Περὶ παρρησίας fr. 57.–5 refers to someone (probably an Epicurean teacher) not catching people in love but inferring that they are in love.47 Clearly this was for Epicureans a standard situation calling for criticism. For Propertius Lynceus’ falling in love is partly an excuse for his behavior; but more importantly it allows Propertius to claim Lynceus in line 26 as a convert to his own erotic way of life and poetry. Thus Lynceus can be deformed from line 3 on into a (potential) love-poet. But there is another more recondite and more telling attack on Lynceus in Epicurean terms. It involves an idea that, although it cannot be shown 308

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to be certainly or exclusively Philodemean, surfaces clearly in On Choices and Avoidances,48 probably a work of Philodemus. This text (col. xix.2– 2 Indelli and Tsouna-McKirahan) proclaims that people who postpone pleasure become ‘‘faithless’’:49 . . . κατὰ δὲ τὴν φορὰν γινόμενο[ι τ]αύτην ὑπό τε τοῦ παρὰ π[ροσ]δοκίαν ἐξαπιναίου τυπ[τόμ]ενοι τελέ{ξε}ως ἐξίστανται. πρότερον δὲ πάσης ἀπολαύσεως ἑαυτοὺς στερίσκουσιν, ἵνα δὴ διαρκέσῃ τἀναγκαῖα πρὸς τὸν βίον αὑτοῖς· καὶ πρὸς ἀναβολὴν [ζ]ῶσιν ὡς ἐξεσ[ό]μενον αὑτοῖς

ὕστερον ἀγαθῶν μετασχεῖν· κᾆτα διὰ παντὸς ἀσύνθετοι διατελοῦ[σιν]. καὶ διδόασιν αὑ[τοὺς εἰς] πόνο[υς πολλούς.

Thus, carried away by this line of thought and struck against expectation by something sudden, they are entirely beside themselves. But even before, they deprive themselves of every enjoyment in order that the essentials of life will suffice for them. And they live delaying [pleasures], under the impression that they will have the chance of having a share of good things later. And from that point on they pass their lives as faithless (ἀσύνθετοι) men. And they devote themselves to great labors.50

This is exactly Lynceus’ situation: he has become faithless ( perfide, 9) because he has left love until late (seros . . . amores, 25). He is now mad (insanit, 25), like the people of whom Philodemus says that they have been ‘‘struck against expectation by something sudden’’ and are ‘‘beside themselves.’’ Propertius is of course teasing his Epicurean friend by applying this maxim in a philosophically outrageous way. Love, as opposed to sex, is not a pleasure in which an Epicurean should indulge. Indeed, it is more akin to the ‘‘great labors’’ of which Philodemus spoke. Propertius does not harp on about the troubles that Lynceus will suffer in love, as he did with Bassus, Gallus, and Ponticus in the Monobiblos. But the implications are there from line 45 on. I suggest, then, that Philodemus and his teaching enter the elegy in full force at line 25. 309

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It may be that this is not the only reference to Philodemus in this part of the elegy. Socrates can stand for philosophy in general, since many philosophical schools claimed to be Socratic, and commentators on line 27 have usually taken Socraticis . . . sapientia libris as generalized ‘‘philosophic books.’’ But we cannot fail to remember that Philodemus probably bore the nickname Socrates (and possibly also Socration) in his own Neapolitan circle (see above). Hence Socraticis . . . sapientia libris could well refer here to the works of Philodemus.51 In line 28 Lynceus is not reading but writing (dicere). The allusion could be to a past opus of Varius involving physics. If so, it need not be anything other than his well-known Epicurean hexameter poem De morte, which doubtless introduced physics to explain Epicurean doctrine on the non-immortality of the soul. But posse (‘‘the ability to’’) might signal a potential, not a past, work: it would be natural to represent an Epicurean poet as likely to compose, for example, a De rerum natura. The proper name or adjective in line 29 is uncertain. Neapolitanus (N ), the Propertius ms. that normally has superior readings, offers Erechti, while the descendants of A, copied from the same archetype as N but defective at this point, present an anagram of Erechti, namely Crethei. Crethei is hard to sustain: the only eligible Cretan poet is Epimenides, who wrote Katharmoi, a title also employed by Empedocles, a strong influence upon Lucretius. But that is a somewhat labyrinthine path. Many arbitrary emendations of Erechti have been proposed, with, for example, Turnebus and Scaliger suggesting Lucreti, and others a wide variety of other proper names.52 J. K. Newman recently went further and emended more broadly exempli gratia, producing aut quid nunc Triquetri prosunt tibi carmina lecti (‘‘What good is it to you to have read the poems of the Sicilian’’), thus introducing Empedocles.53 Certainty is impossible here, but the least intrusive approach is perhaps preferable, that is, to replace the misspelled and unmetrical Erechti with the correct form, Erechthei (the Erechthean, i.e., the Athenian). That leaves us with an ‘‘Athenian.’’ Might Erechthei have suggested itself to Propertius during the process of composition because he had just written Socraticis in 23? If Propertius wrote Erechthei, what Athenian poet (poetphilosopher?) did he have in mind? It is very unlikely that he was thinking of the historical Socrates. Socrates may have written some verses in his last confinement, but they were not one of his claims to fame.54 Plato, another Athenian philosopher, also wrote verses, but again would hardly have been thought of as a poet by Propertius. Yet another philosopher who was an Athenian citizen (for all that he was born on Samos), who resided most 3 0

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of his life in Athens, and who looms large in the rest of 2.34, Epicurus, must be ruled out because he wrote no poetry.55 There remains a candidate who was certainly both a celebrated poet and an Epicurean philosopher, but who at first sight seems excluded because he was not Athenian, namely the teacher of both Vergil and Varius, Philodemus, who was born in Gadara. However, Philodemus moved, perhaps even as a youth, to Athens, and he probably spent a long time there in the philosophical schools.56 The shared elements in the lives of Socrates, Epicurus, and Philodemus cannot fail to have been observed by Philodemus’ pupils, particularly since Philodemus seemingly bore the nickname Socrates/(?)Socration. Might this nickname and the immigrant status of both Epicurus and Philodemus, combined with Philodemus’ long residence in Athens, have led his pupils, in the hothouse atmosphere of the Neapolitan circle, to describe him as ‘‘the Athenian’’? A special factor could have made his original ethnic ‘‘Gadarene’’ uncongenial to Philodemus: Gadara had been conquered and probably forcibly judaized in Philodemus’ early years by the Jewish king Alexander Jannaeus.57 There is an exact parallel to this in Quintilian’s account (Inst. 3..7–8) of a famous Augustan rhetor who taught the young Tiberius on Rhodes: Theodorus Gadareus, qui se dici maluit Rhodium (‘‘Theodorus of Gadara, who preferred to be called Theodorus of Rhodes’’)—doubtless for the same reason. It is not a valid objection to this hypothesis, or to the earlier suggestion that Socraticis . . . sapientia libris (27) refers to the works of Philodemus, to claim that many Epicureans had a poor opinion of Socrates. Dirk Obbink has discussed this problem with great care.58 His conclusion, namely that this was an early attitude and that ‘‘Plato’s Socrates . . . was rehabilitated’’ by the mid-first century b.c. (996: 379), would allow Philodemus to have been reasonably comfortable with Socratic associations woven around himself by his school. Nothing, of course, is thereby implied about Philodemus’ commitment to Socratic positions. If the Athenian of line 29 is Philodemus, then the two couplets 27–28 and 29–30 refer to his philosophic works and to his poetry respectively. Philodemus’ carmina (his epigrams) are indeed ‘‘unhelpful in a great love’’ (30), since they conform with Epicurean views of poetry and of personal relationships.59 The form in which this statement is made, that is, their author ‘‘does not help at all’’ (nil iuvat, 30), negates another Epicurean joke: the literal meaning of Epicurus’ name (‘‘helper, ally’’) seems to have been played upon among Epicureans.60 Horace employs the same joke at Satires 2.6.32: hoc iuvat et melli est (‘‘that gives pleasure and is as good 3

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as honey’’)—again in an Epicurean context. If the Athenian is Philodemus, vester senex (‘‘your aged man,’’ 30) acquires an appropriateness that is otherwise hard to understand, since for Varius, Vergil, and the Epicureans of the Neapolitan circle he was indeed their revered master.61 A last thought: if Philodemus is the main subject of lines 27–30, then the insistence of these lines upon books (libris, 27) and reading (lecta, 29) becomes more meaningful in the context of the Epicurean library at Herculaneum.

the works of l. varius rufus (3–54) Lines 3–38 describe poems that Propertius says it would be better for Lynceus in his new role as lover to write, rursus (33) meaning not ‘‘again’’ but ‘‘on the contrary.’’ 62 They turn out to be Philetan/Callimachean Aetia. Lines 39–40 have been misunderstood and have caused improper speculation about a Thebais by Varius for which there is no attestation. The subjunctive prosint indicates that this work is purely hypothetical: ‘‘It would do you no good to write a Thebaid,’’ that is, now you are a lover. Propertius is not attributing a Thebaid to Varius: he mentions a Thebaid only because this is a typical epic subject, and so stands for all epic. Propertius may be seeking here to gloss over a slight oddity in Varius’ literary career. Varius was an epic poet in that he wrote hexameters. But, as far as we know, his hexameter poetry consisted solely of his De morte (and his possible panegyric on Augustus), and he wrote no narrative epics. Propertius’ mention of a purely hypothetical Thebaid may be intended to conceal the fact that Varius’ hexameter compositions were epic only in this attenuated sense.63 Lines 4–42 indicate through desine (‘‘Stop!’’ 4) that we are back in the world of reality. The couplet refers to a literary form that Varius certainly did compose—tragedy.Varius’ Thyestes, written to celebrate Augustus’ victory at Actium,64 was rewarded by the princeps with a million sesterces.65 Varius is now being told to abandon tragedy and to take up erotic elegy; compare the situation of Ponticus in Propertius .7 and .9. After this couplet modern editors begin to shuffle lines, but there is little point to this. Various reflections on Varius’ poetic conversion lead to a description in 5ff. of the poetic subjects that girls do not like to hear about. One such is ratio mundi (‘‘the rationale of the universe,’’ 5), reminiscent of rerum vias (‘‘the workings of the universe,’’ 28), and also of course of the typical Epicurean Περὶ Φύσεως / De rerum natura (On Nature). Then come explanations of eclipses (52), survival after death (53), and thunderbolts (54). Among these typical Epicurean (and Lucretian) concerns, survival after death certainly alludes to Varius’ De morte, which in all proba3 2

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bility drew on Philodemus’ On Death.66 That link provides yet another reason for thinking that Philodemus is the main subject of lines 27–30. The other Epicurean subject-matter can again be explained most economically either as further material from the De morte or as prospective topics for an Epicurean poet.

vergil (6–84) After a six-line cameo (55–60) depicting Propertius as rex convivii (‘‘symposiarch’’), a setting in which his elegiac genius makes him a favorite of the girls, Vergil is introduced at line 6 under his real name. In contrast to Propertius, Vergil might gladly (iuvet, 59) celebrate Augustus’ Actian victory; and he is now composing the Aeneid (63–64). Actia . . . litora (‘‘the shores of Actium,’’ 6) and Caesaris rates (‘‘Caesar’s ships,’’ 62) manifestly bridge the transition from Varius to Vergil, since Varius had contributed so notably to the post-Actian celebrations. The references to Actium may also be intended to credit Vergil with a prospective analogue of Varius’ encomium 67 of Augustus.68 The use of Vergil’s real name rather than a pseudonym must be linked with two other discrepancies between Propertius’ treatments of Varius and Vergil. First, and in contrast to Varius,Vergil is accorded great respect as a past and future epic poet: there are no suggestions that he should or might abandon epic, the Georgics are handled without irony, and Propertius’ account of Vergil’s future Aeneid is accurate, straightforward, and highly laudatory. Propertius was doubtless aware that he could not jest publicly with Vergil over works involving Maecenas and Augustus. But in lines 67–76 Vergil’s Eclogues are treated in a more light-hearted way, reminiscent of Propertius’ approach to Varius: Propertius deforms the Eclogues into elegies, and he is deliberately inaccurate in virtually everything he says about them.69 But here the person of Vergil is hardly visible, Vergil’s ‘‘love-life,’’ if present at all, is hinted at briefly under the mask of Corydon, and there is no interplay whatsoever between Vergil and the erotic life of Propertius. In any case the Eclogues sprang from Vergil’s distant literary past, before he graduated to more elevated genres, and to the patronage of Maecenas and Augustus. The second divergence between Propertius’ two treatments involves Epicureanism: in contrast to the repeated emphases on Lynceus’ Epicurean commitment, there is only one Epicurean (and Philodemean) touch in Propertius’ account of Vergil—striking though it is. Among other deformations of the Eclogues, Propertius claims (69–72) that Vergil 3 3

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describes his country folk as buying sex cheaply from girls with a gift of ten quinces or a goat. In fact this never happens in the Eclogues. There, ten quinces are a gift for a boy (Eclogue 3.70–7), and there is no assumption that they will buy his favors; yet Propertius harps on this theme over four lines. He is doubtless reflecting general Epicurean recommendations of vulgivaga Venus (‘‘casual sex’’), their role in Lucretius, and Lucretius’ description of such mercenary transactions in primitive country settings.70 But Propertius probably also had in mind the epigrams of Philodemus. Among those which survive, a number are concerned with courtesans;71 if we had all of Philodemus’ epigrams, the theme might be even more prominent. Apart from deformations of the Eclogues, of which this is the only philosophical deformation, and apart also from Propertius’ tongue-incheek claim that all of Vergil’s works are acceptable to lovers, experienced and inexperienced alike (8–82),Vergil emerges as a serious but only minimally Epicurean figure. This is a persona that allows Vergil to be given his real name, and it may also represent the reality of Vergil himself in the mid-20s b.c. Although Vergil was a pupil of Philodemus in the 40s b.c., and although his work reveals knowledge of Epicureanism, it shows no signs of strong or exclusive commitment to Epicureanism. Rather Vergil’s keen interest in philosophy went hand in hand with a deliberate withholding of allegiance to any particular school—which was the ostensible stance of Horace also (Epistle ..3–5). This attitude was cultivated by Romans for different reasons, among them the feeling that the mos maiorum (the traditional Roman moral code) should take precedence over Greek philosophy as a guide to life.72 Another reason may be political. In the 60s–40s b.c. Epicureans could be found among both supporters and opponents of Julius Caesar: Cassius, for example, was a distinguished convert. But there was a distinct tendency for Caesarians to be Epicureans;73 and there is some evidence that other schools also attracted individuals of a particular political outlook.74 Augustus clearly rejected politico-philosophical sectarianism, ostentatiously attaching to himself leading Greek philosophers of several schools. These included the Alexandrian Areius Didymus, who specialized in the reconciliation of apparently conflicting philosophical traditions.75 The public espousal by Vergil and Horace, both intimately connected with Augustus, of a broader philosophical openness may reflect imperial policy. Augustus’ attitude perhaps sprang from his Italian bourgeois background; but it also made better political sense in a princeps for whom reconciliation with former political opponents was a primary imperative. 3 4

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after vergil The final section of Propertius 2.34 moves away from Vergil to introduce other recent poets. First comes a renewed recall of Varius (the olor [‘‘swan’’] of 83–84, see above), after which individual couplets are allocated to four elegists, none of them deformed and each accompanied by his named beloved: Varro of Atax (85–86), Catullus (87–88), Calvus (89–90), and the recently deceased Cornelius Gallus (9–92). Calvus is additionally paired with Gallus via the theme of death—that of Calvus’ beloved wife Quintilia 76 and Gallus’ own suicide. Then the concluding couplet proudly tacks Propertius himself onto the catalogue of poets (93– 94). It is clear that Propertius, having criticized Varius and polemicized against Vergil, is now establishing a literary genealogy for himself as an elegist, with all the poets listed fitting more or less into this category. This, however, is not the sole function of the final section of 2.34. Its list of other elegists climaxes with C. Cornelius Gallus, who, as well as being the strongest poetic influence upon Propertius in the Monobiblos (and probably one of his first patrons—see above), had been a friend and poetic colleague of Vergil since the 40s b.c. Indeed, according to ps.Probus,77 C. Cornelius Gallus was a fellow pupil (condiscipulus) of Vergil, presumably in the 40s b.c. There is no reason to doubt this testimony, or to locate the experience of Vergil and Gallus as fellow pupils (of Parthenius?) anywhere other than in the Naples area, where (incidentally) Propertius places the Gallus of the Monobiblos at .20.9. As well as evoking Vergil’s old friendship with Gallus, whose fall and suicide were the probable cause of Propertius’ entry into the circle of Maecenas, and as well as providing Propertius with a bevy of Roman elegiac predecessors, the catalogue of poets in 2.34 seems to recall another figure who was certainly influential upon Vergil, Gallus, and Propertius, and who may also have touched the other Roman writers who appear in 2.34. This is the Greek poet and teacher Parthenius, to whom both Vergil and Propertius allude by name.78 One of Parthenius’ elegiac works (fr. 4 Lightfoot) was entitled Λευκαδίαι.79 Varro of Atax’s elegiac mistress (and elegy book), as Propertius specifically remarks, bore the pseudonym Leucadia (2.34.86), and this may indicate his debt to Parthenius. Similarly Calvus is characterized by Propertius as (in effect) the author of an elegiac epikedion for his dead wife Quintilia (2.34.89–90). Parthenius was famous as the author of an elegiac epikedion for his wife Arete (frr. –5 Lightfoot), and he composed at least one other such epikedion (for Archelais, fr. 6 Lightfoot).80 Moreover Parthenius almost certainly introduced 3 5

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this genre to Rome, and hence he plausibly influenced Calvus’ use of it. The fact that both poets employed the genre to honor their dead wives is of additional interest. As for Gallus, it is hardly necessary to argue that the dedicatee of Parthenius Ἐρωτικὰ Παθήματα (Sufferings in Love) was influenced in his own elegiac Amores by Parthenius! 81 This leaves only Catullus unaccounted for. There is little to indicate indebtedness to Parthenius on Catullus’ part, although it cannot be ruled out.82 But, even if Catullus had no link with Parthenius, Catullus’ elegiac cycle (65–68) may have seemed too important a precedent for Propertius to omit him from the catalogue.

summation As far as we know, Propertius himself had no Epicurean background, and he does not give the impression of being deeply concerned with Epicureanism.83 His entry into the circle of Maecenas was belated, and, although he remained there until either his death or the end of his poetic career, he may not have felt greatly at home in it and may not have proved congenial to all its members.Whether or not Propertius is the butt of Horace’s wit at Epistle 2.2.99–00, where an unnamed poet is willing to award Horace the title Alcaeus in return for being himself hailed as Callimachus or Mimnermus, there is a distinct absence of friendly poetic contact between Horace and Propertius,84 which contrasts strongly with Horace’s poems addressed to Vergil and other Roman literati, including Tibullus—who was not even a member of Maecenas’ circle. Elegy 2.34 looks very much like Propertius’ attempt to establish his presence in the group by courting Varius and Vergil. Propertius appears to have decided to pay homage to Varius by evoking the memory and teachings of his (and Vergil’s) philosophical master, Philodemus. Many of Propertius’ philosophical allusions may, of course, be generic Epicureanism rather than specific to Philodemus, but the very fact that Vergil and Varius had been Philodemus’ pupils would, for Propertius, have made everything Epicurean in 2.34 Philodemean. Propertius next set himself to sketching the works of Vergil, first lauding his forthcoming Aeneid without deformation and then deforming Vergil’s Eclogues into pseudo-elegies. This latter process cannot have failed to remind Vergil and others of how Vergil in Eclogue 0 had deformed Gallus’ elegies into pseudo-bucolics. That train of reminiscence, once established, enabled Propertius to assert his own elegiac identity against its true Roman background. In the course of doing so Propertius evoked a second Greek master, Parthenius, whose works and teaching had inspired Vergil 3 6

Varius and Vergil

in his Eclogues, to balance Philodemus,Varius’ inspiration in his Epicurean poetry. It was all the more advantageous to Propertius to evoke Parthenius since Parthenius had equally been the shaping force behind the work of Vergil’s old comrade Cornelius Gallus, who—so Propertius implicitly asserts—had in turn transmitted the heritage of Parthenius to his protégé and successor, Propertius himself! 85

notes . It is assumed in this essay that Prop. 2.34 is a single elegy: cf. White 964: 63–68; Lefèvre 980: esp. 27, with a particularly telling point in para. ; Stahl 985: ch. 7. There have, of course, been many dissentient voices. The unity or otherwise of Book 2 is not significant in the present context. While engaged in the task of providing translations (at the request of the editors) of the Latin and Greek passages quoted, I consulted a number of relevant Loeb Classical Texts, including G. P. Goold’s Propertius, and on some, but by no means all, occasions I have followed the rendering of the Loeb translator. I do not, however, accept the emendations and transpositions, and the resulting translations, of G. P. Goold’s (990) Loeb text of Propertius 2.34, and these play no part in this essay. 2. Boucher 958; cf. also (in sympathy) Alfonsi 963; Soubiran 982; Cecchini 984; D’Anna 989: 02–05; Brugnoli and Stock 99: 33–35 [Brugnoli]. 3. Nisbet and Hubbard 970: 8; Wimmel 983: 583–585; Stahl 985: 75 and 348 n. 6. Garbarino (983: 30–3 n. 32) was undecided, and Newman (997: 22) shows little interest. 4. Advanced by Stahl 985: 77–78, and associated there with other considerations. The concept had already been formulated for other purposes by Alfonsi 944–945: 8–20. 5. Esp. Boucher 958: 32–33, remarking on Varius’ Epicurean interests and describing him in Prop. 2.34 as ‘‘l’épicurien amoureux’’; cf. also Alfonsi 963: 273– 274. Rostagni 959 collected Epicurean material in the fragments of Varius but did not relate it to Prop. 2.34. 6. Brugnoli and Stock 99: 37 [Brugnoli]. 7. Cf. esp. D’Anna 989: 02. 8. Vita Donati Aucti p. 9.8–9 Brugnoli and Stock (Varum); Vita Probiana p. 98.3–6 Brugnoli and Stock (ambivalent Vari—but Quintilii appears earlier and separately, so Vari should be Varius?); cf. also Servius ad Verg. Ecl. 6.3 (Varus). Because of the ease with which the two names can be confused, it is impossible to be sure whether the tradition referred to Varius or to Varus as Virgil’s fellow pupil. My own instinct (perhaps not shared by the editors of these texts) is to opt for Varius as the better-known figure. For a full discussion of the presence of Varius and Vergil in the Epicurean circle at Naples, cf. Sider 997: 8–23. 9. In thus characterizing Philodemus’ works, I follow the perception of Arm3 7

francis cairns strong 995: 29–220. See now also Sedley 998: 04–09, discussing Epicurus’ On Nature and Aristotle’s Physics as lecture courses. 0. On which see below under ‘‘Philodemus’’ (pp. 308–32) and ‘‘Vergil’’ (pp. 33–36). . Sat. .5.40–42; .0.8. 2. The transmitted text is, however, defensible, as, e.g., by Stahl (985: 83– 84), punctuating after canorus, and separating in and docto. 3. Brugnoli and Stock 99: 33–34 [Brugnoli]. 4. Cf. Thomas 988, 2: ad loc. 5. Cf. Maltby 99: s.v. 6. Stahl 985: 348 n. 6. 7. For the copious evidence, cf. Sider 997: 20, 23–24, 34–38. 8. There seems to be no connection with the other mythical Lynceus, the husband of Hypermnestra, or with the historical Hellenistic writer on cookery, Lynceus, brother of Douris of Samos. 9. Marilyn Skinner kindly indicates as a remote parallel sed certe sint grandia et tumida, non stulta etiam et acrioribus oculis intuenti ridicula (‘‘But these [themes], although grand and inflated, should not also be silly and ludicrous to an observer with keener sight,’’ Quint. Inst. 2.0.6). 20. For such suggestions, cf. Bickel 950; Boucher 958. In contrast, Cova 989: esp. chs.  and 3 presents a very restrained view of Varius’ oeuvre: cf. Jocelyn 990. Hollis 977 and 996 offer good accounts. 2. Lanzara 990 assembles all possible imitations of Vergil by Propertius. 22. Cf. Hubaux 957: 38. 23. For a reconstruction of Propertius’ change of patronage, cf. Cairns 983: 89–9. 24. For good accounts of these aspects of Prop. 2.34, cf. Garbarino 983: 30– 39; D’Anna 989: 93–04. 25. If Cameron (995: esp. ch. 0) is correct. 26. This point may seem labored; but Prop. 2.34’s lines about the Aeneid are sometimes regarded as ‘‘implicit criticism’’: so Mitchell 985: 52. 27. See above, note 24. 28. Tr. 4.0.45–48. 29. Cairns 983: esp. 83–88, with references to predecessors. 30. Ibid.: 89–9. 3. For Epicurean friendship in general, cf. Long and Sedley 987, 2:26–27 and 32–33 (with the corresponding original texts in :37–38). 32. Hipponax fr. 5.5–6 West. 33. On the view accepted above that ‘‘Gallus’’ is C. Cornelius Gallus. 34. καὶ πε-|ρὶ τῆς ἀδοξίας τῆς παρὰ | τοῖς] πο [λ]λοῖς κα[ὶ ] περὶ τοῦ | τῶν  ο ἰκείων ἀ[πο]σπασ-| μοῦ. This was an esoteric treatise, being a summary of Zeno’s lectures in Athens (cf. Konstan et al. 998: 8). The translations printed here and in other quotations are those of Konstan et al. 998. In this specific instance, 3 8

Varius and Vergil however, I wonder whether τῶν ο ἰκείων might refer to the offender’s circle of Epicurean friends rather than to his family. 35. φιλικὸν μὲν γὰρ οἴονται τὸ παρρησί-]|α]ν ἐπι[φέρειν καὶ τὸ νου-|θετεῖν ἄλλους, τὸ δ’ αὐτὸν ἄ[-|ξια ποιε[ῖ ]ν ἐπιπλήξεως, ἀ-|δοχίαν καὶ κατάγνω[σ]ιν. 36. For this theme, cf. also Gigante 983c. 37. P.Herc. 082 (Philodemus) col. ii.–4 distinguishes between frank criticism addressed to ‘‘intimate associates’’ and to ‘‘all men’’: cf. Konstan et al. 998: 7. 38. Cf. esp. ibid.: 5–7. 39. E.g., Cic. Paradoxa Stoicorum 2.9; Fin. .57, .6, 3.60; Tusc. 4.4, 5.54; Hor. Epist. ..4–42. 40. Curiously Ovid (Tr. 2..445–446) represents C. Cornelius Gallus, that other alleged would-be seducer of Cynthia (in Prop. .5), as having fallen from the favor of Augustus because he did not hold his tongue when drunk. 4. Cf., e.g., Cic. Red. sen. 5; Petron. Sat. 32.5.–2. 42. Cf. Kragelund 989: 449–450. Both emendations are accepted in the most recent Teubner text (K. Mueller). 43. Cf. Konstan et al. 998: 8. 44. Cf. ibid.: 23–24. 45. Ibid.: 8; On Frank Speaking frr. 40, 46. 46. Propertius must have enjoyed the irony implicit in this situation, in which doctrinally he was justified in his criticism, although not socially. There is, incidentally, no hint in Prop. 2.34 that Lynceus is annoyed by Propertius’ criticism, as ‘‘old men’’ are said by Philodemus to be annoyed by frankness (On Frank Speaking col. xxiva.7–5). 47. [κἂν μὴ | κατειλήφηι ἐρ[ῶν]τας | ἢ κατασ[χ]έτους κακίαις | τισίν, ἀλλὰ σ ημειωσά-|μενον (‘‘[Even if ] {it is the case that} he has [not] caught them in love or possessed by some vices, but has inferred {it} from signs.’’). 48. Edited by G. Indelli and V. Tsouna-McKirahan (995). 49. For this meaning, cf., in addition to LSJ s.v. II, Danker 2000 s.v. 50. I owe my knowledge of this passage to a paper read by Professor Jeff Fish at the Colloquium of the Leeds International Latin Seminar on May 5, 2000. The translation is by Jeff Fish, based on that of Indelli and Tsouna-McKirahan 995. 5. Similarly Hor. Carm. 3.2.9–0: Socraticis . . . / sermonibus (‘‘Socratic talks’’) might refer to Philodemus’ lectures, since the ode is addressed to the Epicurean Messalla Corvinus. At Cic. Tusc. 3.43 ‘‘Socratic’’ dialogues would seem to be meant. 52. Cf. Smyth 970. 53. Newman 997: 22–223. 54. Cf. Pl. Phaedo 60c–6b. Two fragments are attributed to Socrates at Diog. Laert. 2.42. 55. Some other (non-philosophical) candidates, including Solon, on whom cf. Soubiran 982, are mentioned by Cecchini 984: 55, who goes on to argue (56) that carmina lecta (‘‘poems read,’’ 29) might refer to a set of philosophical max3 9

francis cairns ims, and therefore might denote Epicurus’ Κύριαι Δόξαι (Principal Doctrines). Ingenious though this argument is, it depends too much on special pleading: lecta means most obviously ‘‘read’’ not ‘‘selected’’ and carmina are a world away from prose sententiae. 56. Cf. now, on the life of Philodemus, Sider 997: 3–0. 57. Cf. ibid.: 4–5. 58. Obbink 996: 379–380, 509–54, 542–546. Cf. also Sider 997: 37. 59. Cf. Sider 997: 24–40. 60. Cf. Gale 994: 37 and n. 32; O’Hara 998: 69–7. 6. The term is appropriate for a literary predecessor. In Aet. fr. 75 Pf. Callimachus calls his admired source Xenomedes γέρων (‘‘aged man,’’ 66) and πρέσβυς (‘‘senior,’’ 76). Euhemerus is similarly addressed (Iambi fr. 9. Pf.), although he is being criticized there. For further literary ‘‘old men,’’ cf. Thomas 992a: 5–58 (= 999: 88–95). 62. OLD s.v. 6. 63. However, on the artificiality of such distinctions, cf. Gale 994: ch. 3, discussing whether De rerum natura is epic or didactic. 64. The occasion of its performance is usually identified as the Actian games of 29 b.c., but Jocelyn (980: 39 n. 24) argues for the dedication of the temple of Apollo Palatinus in 28 b.c. 65. Cova (989: 9–24) is skeptical about the link between Varius’ Thyestes and celebrations of the Actian victory. He even doubts its performance. But the notion that Augustus would have given ,000,000 sesterces for a closet drama strains belief. For a critique of Cova’s views, cf. Jocelyn 990: esp. 599–600, referring to his earlier writings. 66. Cf. esp. Rostagni 959: 386–394. 67. A curious and obscure maxim, seemingly of Epicurus, that the sage οὐ πανηγυριεῖν (‘‘will not ‘panegyrize,’’’ Diog. Laert. 0.20) has no relevance to Varius’ encomium: Porphyrio (ad Hor. Epist. .6.25) describes Varius’ opus as a panegyricus, but in later Greek usage this simply means ‘‘encomium.’’ 68. This is not to say that Varius’ encomium had necessarily already been composed at this point. Lines 63–64 reveal Propertius’ knowledge of the main theme of the Aeneid and of its opening lines. Rothstein (996: ad loc.) suggested that lines 6–62 refer to a different epic poem that might succeed the Aeneid. Others claim that lines 6–62 reveal further access on Propertius’ part to sections of the Aeneid, especially to the end of Aen. 8, in pre-publication form. Given the bridging and equating functions (above) of 6–62, such speculations seem pointless. 69. For discussions, cf., e.g., Alfonsi 954: 20–22; D’Anna 989: 54–57; Stahl 985: 8–82. Thomas (996: 24–244 = 999: 263–266) offers an ingenious account of Propertius’ ‘‘summaries’’ of Vergil’s works, which includes the suggestion that each of the ten lines devoted to the Eclogues contains a reminiscence of the corresponding eclogue. 320

Varius and Vergil 70. De rerum natura 5.962–965. 7. E.g., nos. 0, , 7, 8, 20, 2 (Sider). Nos. 37 and 38 (Sider) also fall into this category, but are probably not genuine. 72. Cf., e.g., Cairns 989: 36–38. 73. A balanced discussion can be found in Momigliano 94: 5–57. See also most recently M. Griffin 997: 0–09. 74. E.g., the Pythagorean and Pompeian Nigidius Figulus, and the Stoic Cato and the Academic Brutus with their Republican sympathies. For Brutus’ philosophical adhesion to the Old Academy, see now Sedley 997. 75. Cairns 989: 34, 37. 76. If Quintilia (R–E s.v. Quinctilius no. 9) was a relative of Quintilius Varus (R–E no. 9), this would create a tenuous connection between Calvus and the circle of Vergil’s friends. 77. Hagen 902: 328.2. 78. Verg. Ecl. 0.57; Prop. ..; cf. Hubaux 957: 32–34. 79. Cf. Lightfoot 999: 56–57. 80. Cf. ibid.: 34–35. 8. For Gallus in connection with Parthenius, cf. ibid.: General Index s.v. Gallus, C. Cornelius. 82. Cf. the discussion of Lightfoot 999: 206. 83. His aspiration, stated at 3.2.26, to study Epicureanism in Athens is combined with further hopes to study Platonism (25), oratory (Demosthenes, 27) and New Comedy (Menander, 28). The entire package is thus manifestly both conventional and fictional. 84. Horace did, it seems, write an ode for Propertius’ relative Propertius Postumus (Ode 2.4), but this was presumably a commissioned and paid piece. 85. I am grateful to Professor David Sedley for very helpful advice on an earlier draft of this essay. Naturally, he is not responsible for the opinions expressed or for any remaining errors and inadequacies.

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contributors

david armstrong is Professor of Classics at the University of Texas at Austin. He is the author of Horace (989) and numerous articles, especially on Augustan poetry, Greek tragedy, and ancient literary criticism, and is currently working on translations of Philodemus’ On Anger and On Death, and collaborating on an edition of Book 5 of Philodemus’ On Poems.

francesca longo auricchio is Professore Ordinario di Papirologia Ercolanese at the Università degli Studi di Napoli Federico II and Vice President of the Centro Internazionale per lo Studio dei Papiri Ercolanesi. She is author of numerous contributions in the field of the papyri of Herculaneum and has edited the works of Philodemus and fragments of Hermarcus.

francis cairns, formerly Chair of Latin at the University of Liverpool and the Chair of Latin Language and Literature at the University of Leeds, is at present Professor of Classical Languages at The Florida State University. His major research field is Republican and Augustan Latin poetry and its Greek predecessors, and he also has research interests in the history and epigraphy of Euboea (Greece), medieval and renaissance Latin, and Computing and the Humanities. His publications include Generic Composition in Greek and Roman Poetry (972), Tibullus: A Hellenistic Poet at Rome (979), and Virgil’s Augustan Epic (989).

régine chambert is ‘‘Professeur de Première supérieure’’ in Compiègne, France, teaching Classics to students preparing the entrance exam to the École Normale Supérieure. She is a member of a research group and an occasional lecturer at Paris IV-Sorbonne, and also on the board of the Revue des Études Latines. She has worked on the philosophy and ethics of travel in the literature of the Early Empire period. She now mainly focuses on the influence of the Epicureans on Vergil’s early poems. She is preparing a translation and critical edition of the Appendix Vergiliana for the Budé collection (Belles Lettres).

contributors

diskin clay is RJR Nabisco Professor of Classical Studies at Duke University. He is the author of Platonic Questions: Dialogues with the Silent Philosopher (2000); Paradosis and Survival: Three Chapters in the History of Epicurean Philosophy (998); a monograph on The Philosophical Inscription of Diogenes of Oenoanda (990); and Lucretius and Epicurus (983). He has just published a study of The Cult of Heroes in the Greek States (2003).

gregson davis is Andrew W. Mellon Distinguished Professor in the Humanities at Duke University, where he teaches in the department of Classical Studies and the Program in Literature. He was born in Antigua in the anglophone Caribbean, and he has held previous academic appointments in Classics and in Comparative Literature at Stanford University (966–989) and Cornell University (989–994). Among his publications are books on the Caribbean poet Aimé Césaire (Non-Vicious Circle: Twenty Poems of Aimé Césaire [984]; Aimé Césaire [997]) and on the Latin poet Horace (Polyhymnia: The Rhetoric of Horatian Lyric Discourse [99]).

daniel delattre, a Researcher at the Centre National pour la Recherche Scientifique (Institut de Recherche et d’Histoire des Textes-Paris Sorbonne) since 989, is now preparing a new edition of Book 4 of Philodemus’ De musica for the Collection des Universités de France. He is co-director of a large project of translating into French the main Epicurean texts, which are to be published by Gallimard, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade.

jeffrey fish is Assistant Professor of Classics at Baylor University. He is preparing a new edition and commentary of Philodemus’ On the Good King According to Homer and is collaborating on an edition of Book 5 of Philodemus’ On Poems.

marcello gigante was Professor Emeritus of the Università degli Studi di Napoli Federico II; Director, Centro per lo Studio dei Papiri Ercolanesi; and Honorary President of the Vergilian Society in Italy. For several decades Dr. Gigante led efforts to recover the charred remnants of papyri from the Villa dei Papyri at Herculaneum and make the books of the Herculaneum library accessible to modern readers. Author of numerous books and articles and director of the collection La Scuola di Platone, he founded Cronache Ercolanesi, the journal of the Centro Internazionale per lo Studio dei Papiri Ercolanese, in 97 and was also on the editorial board of a number of important philological journals. His works on Vergil include a series of Lecturae Vergilianae and the monograph Vergilio e la Campania (984).

giovanni indelli is Professore Associato di Papirologia at the Università degli Studi di Napoli Federico II, and Secretary of the Centro Internazionale 344

contributors per lo Studio dei Papiri Ercolanesi. He is the author of numerous articles on the papyri of Herculaneum and on Plutarch, and has published the works of Polistratus and Philodemus, as well as articles on the Moralia of Plutarch.

walter ralph johnson is Professor Emeritus of Classics and Comparative Literature at the University of Chicago. He is author of several books of Latin literature, including Darkness Visible: A Study of Vergil’s Aeneid (976) and, most recently, Lucretius and the Modern World (2000).

patricia a. johnston is Professor of Classics at Brandeis University. She has published extensively on Vergil and other Republican and Augustan Latin authors and their Greek predecessors, including Vergil’s Agricultural Golden Age: A Study of the Georgics (980), a forthcoming Latin commentary on Aeneid 6, and a full (forthcoming) translation of the Aeneid. She has also written Traditio: An Introduction to the Latin Language (988; 2d ed. 998). A former president of the Vergilian Society, she has served as Director of the Symposia Cumana since their inception, organizing the meetings and overseeing the publication of symposia proceedings, including Cultural Responses to the Volcanic Landscape (2003).

dirk obbink is Lecturer in Classics at Christ Church, Oxford. He has published extensively on the papyri of Herculaneum. He is coeditor of Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion with Christopher Faraone (99). He also edited Philodemus and Poetry: Poetic Theory and Practice in Lucretius, Philodemus, and Horace (995), and Philodemus, On Piety (996).

frederic m. schroeder, Professor Emeritus at Queen’s University in Kingston, Canada, is chiefly known for his publications in the intellectual history of late antiquity. His interest in Philodemus arose from his participation in an international team of translators associated with the Society of Biblical Literature that produced Philodemus, On Frank Criticism (998).

marilyn b. skinner is Professor of Classics at the University of Arizona in Tucson. Her research specialization is Roman literature of the Republican and Augustan eras. She has written a monograph, Catullus’ Passer: The Arrangement of the Book of Polymetric Poems (98), and numerous articles on Catullus, Cicero, Vergil, and Ovid. Catullus in Verona, a study of Catullan elegy and epigram, will be published by The Ohio State University Press in 2003. Dr. Skinner also coedited the essay collection Roman Sexualities (997) and is presently writing a book on Greek and Roman sexuality. michael wigodsky is Professor Emeritus at Stanford University and author of Vergil and Early Latin Poetry (972) and many articles on Augustan poetry and Hellenistic philosophy. He is now working mainly on problems in Epicurus. 345

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general index

Academics: as influence on Horace, 269, 277, 280 Actium, 33 adultery: Stoic view on, 276. See also gods, sexual behavior of; sex Aeneas: anger of, 5, 9, 20–2, 97, 98, 06–07, 08, 8–29, 79; contrasted with Turnus, 23–24; as good king, , 23, 28, 5–52; and Helen, 20–29; as impius, 69; moral progress of, 28–29; as obedient to the gods, 65–66; piety of, 06–07, 59–60, 63– 68; traditions concerning, 63; as wise man, 97 Aeneid, gods in, 2–225 aesthetics. See poetics; poetry aganaktēsis, 03, 06. See also anger; furor; ira Alexandrianism: as influence on Vergil, 43, 45–46, 48, 50–54, 55 allegory: gods as, 6, 8, 4, 77, 80– 8, 20, 203–204; in Horace, 276 Amata: anger of, 7 Anderson, W. S., 9, 98, 274, 276 anger: of Achilles, 278; of Aeneas, 9, 06–07, 08, 8–29; in the Aeneid, 97–98, 03–0, –2, 5–29; Aristotle on, 98–99; Epicurean theory of, 2–3, 5–6, 9,

4–29, 296n9; and the gods, 7– 8, 78–79, 203; in Horace, 276, 279–280; and kingship, 277–278; and music, 255; of Odysseus, 29; Peripatetic views of, 98–99, 05, 3, 3n8, 28; Philodemus on, –2, 2, 32n27, 40–4, 273, 28, 296n9; and pleasure, 2–3, 7–8, 4–5, 9, 23, 29; and self-destruction, 25; therapy for, 39–40; of Turnus, 9, 08–09, 5–8; vocabulary of, 03–06; and the wise man, 04 Antenor: as model of kingship, 277– 278, 279 Antipater of Tarsus, 05 Antipater of Thessalonica, 28 apatheia, 40 Apollo: lovers of, 89; as pius, 63–64, 67 Apollodorus of Athens, 99–200 Apollophanes, 37–38, 39 Appendix Vergiliana, authenticity of, 43–44 Arachne, 98 architecture: and poetry, 44–47, 50 Aristotle: on anger, 98–99, 4, 3n8 Armstrong, D., 4, 7, 5, 8, 7, 30n7, 38n80, 54n3, 55n34, 236, 37– 38n9

general index Arrighetti, G., 270 Asmis, E., 3, , 5, 3, 236, 243nn5,2, 277 ataraxia, 76, 78, 79, 82, 94, 244n27. See also equilibrium Athens: as home of Philodemus, 30–3 atomism, 234; and distance, 47–48; and the existence of the gods, 24, 26–27 Atticus, 296n2 audience response, 235–236, 238–239 Augustus, 242, 33; in Horace, 288– 289; philosophical attitudes of, 34 Austin, R. G., 25, 33n45, 34n54, 36n67, 69 autarkeia, 94 avocatio, Epicurean, 39–40, 4; and architecture, 47; in Lucretius, 4. See also therapy Bailey, C., 59n30, 34n54, 22, 295n Barchiesi, A., 90, 94, 96, 206n9 Barnes, J., 282 Barri, G., 54n3 Bartsch, S., 243n4, 244n34 Bassus: in Propertius, 303–304, 309 Berres, T., 26, 36n62 biography: of Horace, ; moral value of, 4; of Philodemus, 3; of Vergil,  Blank, D., 7 Borchardt, R., 93 Boucher, J.-P., 299 Boyancé, P., 33n2 Boyd, B. W., 244n28 Brink, C., 7 Brown, R. D., 243n23 Bruère, R. T., 37n79 Brugnoli, G., 30 Burck, E., 270

Caesar, C. Julius: and philosophy, 34 Cairns, F., 8, , 5, 23, 292 Callimachus: on poetry, 232–233, 237 Calpurnius Piso Caesoninius, L., 4, 3–32, 68–69, 70, 236, 245, 277 Camenae, 28 Capasso, M., 3, 7, 86 Castiglioni, L., 93 catabasis. See underworld Catullus: as influence on Vergil, 43; and poetics, 234 Cavallo, G., 37 Chambert, R., 5 chance, 53–54, 55. See also Fortuna; fortune cholos, 03. See also anger; mēnis Cicero: on Epicureanism, 6; harbor imagery in, 40, 4; as influence on Horace, 269, 27, 272; on poetry, 232 Clay, D., 5, 74n24, 54n3, 55n34 Clay, J. S., 80 Coleman, R., 73n5 comedy: as influence on Horace, 280 Commager, S., 298n34 Comparetti, D., 89 consolation: and the feast, 63–67; and poetry, 63, 64, 69, 7. See also therapy Conte, G. B., 26, 36n68 Corydon: in the Eclogues, 237 Cotta: on the existence of gods, 25 Courbaud, E., 289 Courtney, E., 208n38, 297n32 Cova, P. V., 320n65 Cramer, R., 82n5 criticism. See parrhēsia Crönert, W., 85 Cynthia: in Propertius, 303–304, 305, 307 Daedalus: in Aeneid 6, 239–24 Davis, G., 5–6 348

general index Lewis, C. Day, 8 death, 3–4, 77, 47; consolation for, 43; Epicurean views on, 307; and the gods, 8; as harbor, 77; in Lucretius, 3–4, 42; Philodemus on, 68, 290–293, 35; in Vergil, 52–53. See also immortality; mortality deception: and the gods, 76–77 deformation, literary, 303, 308, 32, 36 De Lacy, P., 47–48 Delattre, D., 8, 8, 22n6, 83, 237 Demetrius Laco, 270 desire, 75; absence of, 79; and music, 237; as pain, 63 detachment, 47, 50. See also apatheia De Witt, N., 6, 90, 268 Diano, C., 227n2 diatribe: as genre, 2, 3, 86 Di Benedetto, V., 86 Dido: anger of, 09; as observer, 5; and pietas, 69; as queen, 5–52 Diels, H., 85 Dilke, O. A. W., 294n4, 294–295n8 dining, symbolic significance of, 44. See also invitation to dinner; simplicity Diogenes of Babylon, 3, 245, 247, 253, 254 Diogenes of Oenoanda, 5, 30–3, 24 distance: architectural, 5; and atomic theory, 47–48; as consolation, 43–44; and geography, 5–53; pathos of, 43–44, 45, 47, 50, 5–52; and piety, 6–62 Dorandi, T., 4, 3, 295n0 doxographies: in Horace and Philodemus, 284–287 Dryden, John, 267 Dunn, F., 293 Du Prey, P. D., 55n25 Du Quesnay, I., 72n, 73n22

duty, 77; in Horace, 270; and pietas, 66; and pleasure, 6; in Vergil, 80. See also otium dynamis: of gods, 20 eclecticism: of Horace, 8–9, 269, 273–274, 275, 276, 284, 29–292, 293, 34; of Panaetius, 293; of Philodemus, 272, 284, 285; of Vergil, 34; of Zeno of Sidon, 296n2. See also fundamentalism, Epicurean ecphrasis, 238–24; notional, 46–47; Philodemus on, 43–44 education: Epicurus’ views on, 5, 30, 307–308; of Odysseus, 3–4; of Telemachus, 279 elegy: development of, 35–36; in Propertius, 299. See also love; sex emotions: Epicurean view of, 28 Empedocles: harbor metaphors in, 40 envy: Philodemus on, 290 epanorthōsis, 4, 9. See also morality epic: contrasted with epigram, 70; elegiac attitudes toward, 32, 33; gods in, 224; in Propertius, 299 Epicureanism: in the Culex, 49; fundamentalist and liberal, 5, 4, 4, 272–273, 284, 293; in Horace, 269–270; in Lucretius, 2, 5; modern fascination with, 267–268, 269; on pleasure, 27; on the senses, 9 Epicurus: on education, 30; on the gods, 22; in Horace, 268; letters of, 32, 34n4, 270–27, 272; as model for Horace, 270–27; as model for Vergil, 28–30; on public life, 39; piety in, 60–6; and the Sirens, 26 equilibrium: and the gods, 27–28, 29. See also ataraxia Erbse, H., 36n70

349

general index Erler, M., 3, 5, 6, 97–98, 06, , 5, 8, 32n39, 35n56, 284, 293 ethics. See morality eusebeia, 60. See also piety failure: of poetry, 23, 235 farming: contrasted with nature, 94; contrasted with politics, 92–93; idealization of, 79; and labor, 92; and the wise man, 9–92 Farrell, J., 7n0, 99 fate: and the gods, 53–54; in Vergil, 53–54 Feeney, D., 20, 34n53 fides: in Propertius, 304–305, 309 Fish, J., 4, 7, 263n67, 278, 279, 295n7, 297n25 Fitzgerald, W., 24 flattery: Epicurean view of, 86, 306. See also parrhēsia Fortuna: in Horace, 273 fortune: in Epicurean philosophy, 66; in Philodemus, 68. See also chance Fowler, D., 33n2, 98, 0n7, 289, 293 Fowler, W. W., 228n34 Fraenkel, E., 269, 294n6 frank speaking. See parrhēsia Frank, T., 6, 96, 268 freedom, Epicurean, 292 friendship, 2, 5–6, 9–20, 53–54, 65, 66, 8, 87, 92, 47, 282; in the Aeneid, 20; of Augustus, 289; and the garden, 82; and happiness, 20; in Horace, 272, 287, 288; and politics, 272; in Propertius, 304–306, 308; of Vergil and Gallus, 34; of Vergil and Horace, 87–88 fundamentalism, Epicurean, 5, 4, 4, 272–273, 284, 293. See also eclecticism furor, 3, 23, 35n56; definition of, 09; in Vergil, 237

Gadara: as home of Philodemus, 3 Gale, M. R., 83n0 Galinsky, G. K., 3, 5, 6, 98, , 5, 8, 38n80, 72–73n26, 237 Gallus, Cornelius, 302, 303–304, 305, 309, 35, 37 gardens: Epicurean, 6; and friendship, 82; of Horace, 298n39; as metaphor, 75–83; as site of philosophy, 45; in Vergil, 77–78, 79. See also villas Gargiulo, T., 3 Gigante, M., 2–3, 6, 7–8, 5, 6, 38, 4, 66, 69, 44, 45, 235, 243n2, 260n43, 268, 273, 277, 279, 284, 292 Glad, C. E.,  glory, pursuit of, 22, 32–33n39 gods: in the Aeneid, 65–66, 80– 8, 2–225; as allegory, 7– 8, 77, 80–8, 20, 203–204; and anger, 7–8, 78–79; anthropomorphism of, 79; and atomism, 24, 26–27; criticism of, 98, 99–200, 206n2; and deception, 76–77; in epic, 22, 223, 224; Epicurean, 22, 23–24, 223; existence of, 2, 24; in Hesiod, 200–20, 204; immortality of, 26, 28, 29; as moral examples, 29; nature of, 75, 2–24, 220, 222; ontological argument for, 25; passions of, 80, 203, 223; and pietas, 65–66; sexual behavior of, 75– 76, 78, 84–87, 9, 220, 22; Stoic views on, 224–225; in Vergil, 6, 9, 43, 53–54, 274 Gomperz, T., 9 Goold, G. P., 28, 35n60, 36n62, 37n79, 37n Greenberg, N., 7, 243n5 Griffin, M., 32n73

350

general index Hubbard, M., 299 Hunter, R., 233 Hutchinson, G., 209n58 hybris: in Philodemus, 2, 3

Grimal, P., 95 Grube, G. M. A., 7 Habinek, T., 232 Hadot, P., 39 happiness, 77; and friendship, 20; pastoral, 47–48; in Vergil, 46, 64 harbor, as metaphor: for death, 77; for philosophy, 29, 37–4 Hardie, P. R., 293 harmony, 79–8 Harris, W. V., 30n3 Harrison, E. L., 24, 35n57 Harrison, S. J., 34n55 Heath, M., 77 hedonism: Epicurean, 77–78; in Horace, 274–275; in Philodemus, 285. See also pleasure Heinze, R., 28, 37nn75,77, 63, 80, 269, 270–272, 280, 282, 293, 294n6 Helen: in Aeneid 2, 20–29 Hendrickson, G. L., 6 Henry, J., 222 Hense, O., 54–55n4 Heraclides of Pontus, 236 Heraclitus (allegorist and commentator), 27, 30 Herculaneum: in Vergil, 9 Herescu, L., 90 Hermarchus, 220 Hero, 86, 98 Hesiod: on the gods, 200–20, 204 Heyne, C. G., 36n68 Hollander, J., 55n24 Homer: on the gods, 200; as model for happiness, 20–2, 97; moral readings of, 20–2, 97, 276–277; in Philodemus, 273; on poetic immortality, 232–233 Horsfall, N., 33n42, 36–37n72 hosiōtes, 60. See also piety Housman, A. E., 293n

Iamblichus, 255–256 immortality: of the gods, 26, 29; and poetry, 63, 233, 242n5 impiety: in the Aeneid, 68–70; of Dido, 70. See also piety Indelli, G., 2, 7 injustice: in Vergil, 52 intertextuality: in Horace, 9, 275, 276; in Vergil, 5–6 invitation to dinner, symbolism of, 4–5, 5, 3–32, 63–65, 68–69, 7, 238, 274, 288. See also simplicity; villas ira, 3, 07, 23; in the Aeneid, 5–7; definition of, 08–09 isonomia, 24, 220; and the existence of the gods, 24–25 James, Henry, 9 Janko, R., 7, 8, , 22n7, 83, 243n7 jealousy: in Propertius, 306–307 Jensen, C., 85 Jocelyn, H. D., 320n65 Johnson, W. R., 6, 7–8, 23, 242n7, 294n7, 298n39 Johnston, P., 7–8, 257n Juno, 79, 222, 223 Jupiter: sexual behavior of, 22. See also Zeus Juturna, 96, 79; death of, 8; mortality of, 220 Kiessling, A., 280 Kilpatrick, R. S., 269, 27, 295n3, 297n28 kingship: in the Aeneid, –3, 69– 70; of Dido, 69–70; Epicurean views on, 4, 9, 20, 277 35

general index Kleve, K., 4 Klingner, F., 80, 92 Knauer, G. N., 36–37n72 Konstan, D., 296n20, 38n34 Körte, A., 2, 5, 85, 86, 268 Kovacs, D., 207n28 Kraggerud, E., 35n56 Kuiper, T., 3 Landino, C., 224 La Penna, A., 80, 93–94 lathe biōsas, 286–287. See also politics; simplicity Leach, E. W., 239, 24 Leander, 86 Leopardi, G., 75–78 Lewis, C. Day, 8 lions: in similes, 5–6 literary criticism, 75–83 locus amoenus, 204; in Vergil, 48. See also gardens Long, A. A., 7n3, 23 Longinus, 77–78 Longo Auricchio, F., 5, 35n6 love: Epicurean views on, 307–309; in Propertius, 32; in Vergil, 46, 64. See also elegy; sex Lucretius: on death, 3–4; Epicureanism of, 72, 62, 272; on the gods, 24–25; as influence on Vergil, 29, 43, 55, 9–92, 93–94, 96; as influence on Philodemus, 4– 42; as influenced by Philodemus, 47–48; on love, 46; on the passions, 50; on pietas, 59, 6; poetics in, 234–235; on sex, 34; on the underworld, 9 Luppe, W., 8, 83, 85, 86, 87, 9 Lynceus: in Propertius, 299–37; identity of, 300–302; Propertius’ attacks on, 303–306 Lyne, R. O. A. M., 56n2, 288, 289

Mackail, J. W., 222 Macleod, C. W., 294n7 Maecenas: as patron of Horace, 88, 276, 297nn28,29; as patron of Propertius, 302–303, 305, 33, 35, 36 Maiuri, A., 90 Manilius, 267 Marcus Aurelius, 39–40, 52 Matthiessen, K., 36n68 Mayer, R., 269, 282, 294n5, 296n23, 297n29 McGann, M. J., 269, 294–295n8 Meliboeus: in Eclogue , 237–238 Mellinghoff-Bourgerie, V., 6, 5, 53, 54, 96–97 memory: Epicurean practice of, 275 mēnis, 03, 06. See also anger menos, 03. See also anger Merlan, P., 23 metaphysics: and poetry, 50–54 Mezentius: anger of, 5 Michels, A. K., 6, 268 Momigliano, A., 32n73 Monet, A., 38 morality: in Homer, 276–277; and poetry, 0–, 8, 9, 48, 234, 277, 278. See also epanorthōsis mortality, 40. See also death; immortality Murgia, C. E., 33n45 Murray, O., 4–5, 3 Muses: in Vergil, 246 music: and anger, 255; and desire, 237; distinguished from poetry, 8, 252; as distraction, 252–254; effects of, 25–252; Epicurean views of, 252; as identical with poetry, 246, 247; as irrational, 247; in Philodemus, 247, 254–255, 256; and pleasure, 247, 252, 257; and politics, 256– 257; and prophecy, 250–25, 255–

352

general index pain: Epicurean attitudes toward, 307 Pales: Vergil’s treatment of, 5 Panaetius, 268, 269, 284, 293 Papyri, Herculaneum: access to, 6–7; condition of, 37, 2, 8–92; decipherment of, 8, 37, 8–92, 295n7; discovery of, ; publication of, 6–7, 8 parody: in Vergil, 48–49, 52 parrhēsia, 6, –2, 4, 3–4, 8, 24, 273, 274, 28–282, 287–288, 305–306; as cure, 32n27 Parsons, P., 9 Parthenias: as pseudonym of Vergil, 302 Parthenius: as influence on Propertius and Vergil, 35–37 passions: contrasted with reason, 237; distance from, 42–43; Epicurean views on, 43; of the gods, 80, 203, 223; in Horace, 86; therapy for, 7, 49; in Vergil, 46, 49, 50. See also anger; pathos; sex pastoral: in philosophy, 39; in Vergil, 238 pathos, 07, 0. See also passions patronage, 272 Pentheus: as exemplum, 289–290 Peripatetics: on anger, 05, 28. See also Aristotle Perkell, C., 243–244n26 persona: of Horace, 274–275 pessimism: of Vergil, 232 Phaeacians: as emblem of the good life, 27, 3–32; as negative exempla, 278–279, 283 philēia, 53, 54. See also friendship Philippson, R., 85 philosophy: and literature, 49; and poetry, 46; practiced by Horace, 270; and the Sirens, 25–26; as therapy, 39; and the wise man, 92

256; in Vergil, 237, 238, 245–247; and virtue, 245. See also poetics mythology: Vergil’s use of, 50–5 Naples: as seat of Epicureanism, 44–45, 90 nature: contrasted with farming, 94; nature of, 54–55, 75–77 Neoptolemus of Parium,  Neptune: contrasted with Poseidon, 95, 205 Nestor: as model of kingship, 277– 278 Neubecker, A. J., 22n6 Newman, J. K., 30 Newton, F., 35n5 Nietzsche, F., 35n2, 78 Nigidius Figulus, P., 256, 262n66 Nisbet, R. G. M., 299 Nola, 89–90 Norden, E., 25 Nussbaum, M., 54n6 Obbink, D., 3, 7, 8, 7–8, 243n, 274, 275, 292, 3 Odysseus: anger of, 2–3, 22, 24, 29, 30–3n2, 3n8; as Epicurean, 32; as good king, 2–3, 278–279; moral development of, 3–4, 278 O’Hara, J., 38n80 Orelli, J. K., 290, 292 orgē, 3, 03, 06; distinguished from thymos, 04–05; empty, 04; physikē, 97, 03–04. See also anger Orpheus: in the Culex, 46–47; in the Georgics, 237, 252–253 Otis, B., 7n2 otium: as harbor for Cicero, 40; pastoral, 46–50, 5, 55; rural, 9, 93; in Vergil, 43, 80, 9, 96. See also duty; pleasure; politics Ovid: on the gods, 20, 204 353

general index Phoenix: as patricide, 26 pietas. See piety piety: of Aeneas, 06–07, 24, 63– 68; in the Aeneid, 63–65, 222; of Apollo, 63–64, 67; in Catullus, 234; in the Culex, 53; definitions of, 59–60, 70; and distance, 6– 62; and duty, 66; in Eclogue , 7–72; in Lucretius, 48, 6, 222; of mortal heroes, 80; in Plato, 60; as Stoic, 59; in Vergil, 7–8, 48, 59–70; and warfare, 66–68 pikria, 06 Pindar, 242n5 Piso. See Calpurnius Piso Caesoninius pity: felt by Aeneas, 9 plainness. See simplicity pleasure, 27, 76, 77, 78, 95; for Aeneas, 9; and anger, 2–3, 7– 8, 4–5, 9, 23, 29; and duty, 6; and health, 28; intellectual, 236; and kingship, 278; and love, 309; and music, 247, 252, 257; and poetry, 69, 70, 236; and simplicity, 66; and the Stoics, 285; types of, 3; and vengeance, 5, 27–28; in Vergil, 48, 49. See also hedonism; invitation to dinner; otium Plotius Tucca, 3, 8–9, 86, 87, 25, 28, 4, 268 poetae novi, 43, 45. See also Alexandrianism poetics: Augustan, 7, 0–; in Callimachus, 232–233; in Catullus, 234; Epicurean, 69, 24; in Lucretius, 234–235; in Philodemus, 0, 4, 8, 232, 235–236, 24–242; in Vergil, 87, 235. See also music poetry: and architecture, 44–47, 50; benefits of, 236; and consolation, 63, 64, 69, 7; distinguished from music, 8; failure of, 23, 235; functions of, 23–235; as identical

with music, 246, 247; and immortality, 63, 233, 242n5; as irrational, 237, 239; and metaphysics, 50– 54; and morality, 0–, 8, 9, 48, 234, 276–277, 278; nature of, 0; need for, 79; and philosophy, 30, 46; and pleasure, 69, 70, 236; and rationality, 235–236, 24–242; and rhetoric, 29 politics: contrasted with farming, 92–93; Epicurean avoidance of, 6, 9–20, 37–38, 8–82, 292; and friendship, 272; in Horace, 288–290; and music, 256–257; in Philodemus, 285; in Vergil, 86–87. See also invitation to dinner; lathe biōsas; otium; simplicity Pollius Felix, villa of, 32–33, 45–46 Polyphemus, 2–3, 29 Pontanus, 89 Ponticus: in Propertius, 303–304, 309, 32 Pope, Alexander, 224 Porter, J., 7 Poseidon: contrasted with Neptune, 205; lovers of, 84–85, 9, 93, 95, 96–98, 203–204 Posidonius, 267, 268, 269, 284 Procopé, J., 3, 32n27 Propertius, 8–9; and Horace, 36; Philodemus’ influence on, 299– 37; on Vergil, 300, 33–34 providence: in Epicurean philosophy, 94. See also fate; fortune pseudonyms among the Epicureans, 30–302 public life. See politics Pucci, P., 36n30 pudor: definitions of, 73n30 Purvis, A., 35n5 Putnam, M. C. J., 98, 06 Pythagoreans: on music, 255–256; in Rome, 256–257

354

general index Sider, D., 3, 4, 6, 35n7, 67, 30n, 4–42, 44, 54n0, 283 Silenus: as mask for Siro, 95 simplicity: Epicurean valuation of, 5–6, 65–66, 67, 69, 7, 269, 274, 286–287. See also invitation to dinner; lathe biōsas; politics Sirens, 27, 30, 33; as emblematic of philosophy, 25–26, 27, 30, 33; as model for Vergil, 28; in the Odyssey, 25–26 Siro, –2, 4, 5, 34n8, 40–4, 43, 44– 45, 50, 55, 87, 245, 246, 268, 300, 302; in Eclogue 6, 95 Skinner, M. B., , 8, 55n3, 206n4, 38n9 slander: Philodemus on, 290 Socrates, 292, 3; Epicurean attitudes toward, 30, 3; in Propertius, 30; as pseudonym for Philodemus, 302, 3 song: distinguished from music, 252 Sorabji, R., 296n9 Stahl, H.-P., 37n77, 299, 30 Stewart, D. J., 20 Stoicism, 92, 267, 277, 290; on anger, 05, 4; on the gods, 224–225; in Horace, 269, 273, 274–276, 280, 294n7; and Lucretius, 272; on music, 245, 247, 253; on pathos, 07; and Philodemus, 273, 285; and pietas, 59; and pleasure, 285; on poetry, 232 studium: as harbor for Cicero, 40 subjectivity, artistic, 239, 24, 244n29 Summers, W. C., 296n23

Pythocles of Lampsacus, 25–26, 27, 28, 32 Quinctius: in Horace’s Epistles, 288– 289 Quintilius Varus, , 3, 85, 86, 87, 268 recusatio, 303–304 religion: in the Aeneid, 97; Epicurean views of, 4; Vergil’s respect for, 5. See also gods retaliation, 2–22. See also anger; thymos; vengeance rhetoric, 9–20; Epicurus on, 0; Philodemus on, 0; and philosophy, 32, 38–39; and poetry, 29 Rieks, R., 07, 34n47 Roberts, D. H., 293 Ross, D. O., Jr., 48, 56n2 Rostagni, A., 6, 95 Rothstein, M., 320n68 Rundin, J., 244n27 Sabine Farm: symbolism of, 288 sage. See wise man sailing: as metaphor for poetry, 25–29 Salvatore, A., 44, 48, 57n2 Sannazzaro, J., 89 Sauron, G., 45 Schober, A., 8, 83, 86, 90, 9, 207n33 Schroeder, F., 7, 244n32 Sedley, D., 5, 4, 54n3, 23, 272, 293, 295n4, 37–38n9, 32nn74,85 Seidensticker, B., 2n Selden, D., 242n7 self-control, human, 29 Servius, 2n2, 95; on the Helen Episode, 25, 28, 35n59 sex: Epicurean attitudes toward, 205– 206n2, 34; and the gods, 75–76, 78, 84–85. See also elegy; love

Tait, J., 4, 6, 23–232, 268, 283 Tarrant, R. J., 56n2 Telemachus: education of, 279 therapy: and distance, 48–49; Epicurean, 6, 54n6, 238, 272, 282;

355

general index musical, 237; for the passions, 42–43, 49; in Philodemus, 42; philosophical, 4, 7, 39, 7, 39, 287–288, 306, 308; of Venus toward Aeneas, 22, 24, 28; and visualization, 49. See also avocatio Thomas, R. F., 82n5, 7n0 Thrasyllus, 256 thymos, 3, 03, 04–06; distinguished from orgē, 04–05. See also anger; orgē Tiberius, 297n27; in Horace, 27–272 Tityrus: in Eclogue , 63–65, 70–7, 237–238; as wise man, 95 transcendence: in poetry, 23 Tucca. See Plotius Tucca Turnus: anger of, 5, 7, 9, 97, 08– 09, 5–8 Twain, Mark, 205 Tyro, 84, 85, 98 umbra: as site for poetry, 7. See also gardens; locus amoenus underworld: in Vergil, 6, 9, 43, 46–47, 5–52, 274 Varius Rufus, L., 3, 8–9, 85, 86, 87, 25, 28, 4, 268, 299, 304, 306, 35–36; identified with Lynceus, 300–302; literary career of, 32–33; in Propertius, 302–303 Varro of Atax, 35 vengeance: of Aeneas, 24; and pleasure, 5, 27 Venus: as therapist for Aeneas, 24, 28, 29 villas: of Calpurnius Piso, 4; dei Papiri, 50; of Philodemus 29,

44–45; of Pliny the Younger, 46; of Pollius Felix, 32–33, 45– 46; of Siro, –2, 44, 56n7. See also invitation to dinner visualization: as therapy in Philodemus, 40–4, 42, 43, 49 warfare: and piety, 66–68 Warren, J., 59n3 water: symbolic associations of, 204– 205 West, D., 222 West, M. L., 207nn3,33 Wigodsky, M., 7, 8, 243n, 274 Wilke, K., 2 Wilkinson, L. P., 9, 8, 90 Williams, G., 6 Williams, R. D., 69 Wimmel, W., 299 wise man: Aeneas as, 97; and anger, 04, 4–5, 2–22; emotions appropriate to, 2–3; and farming, 9–92; in Horace, 273, 289; nature of, 23; and philosophy, 92; and piety, 62; Stoic, 276; Tityrus as, 95 Wiseman, T. P., 242n4 Woodward, P. G., 225n5 Wright, M. R., 98, 32n3 Xenophanes: on the gods, 75 Zeno of Citium, 285 Zeno of Sidon, 3–4, 0, 4, 33n46, 273; eclecticism of, 284, 296n2 Zeus: lovers of, 84–85, 9, 96, 204. See also gods, sexual behavior of Zwierlein, O. 37–38n79

356

index locorum

Antipater of Thessalonica Palatine Anthology .20, 34–35n 4 Aristotle Rhetoric 378b, 3 n 8 Aulus Gellius Noctes Atticae 6.20, 89 Boethius Consolation of Philosophy ..39–4, 30 Callimachus G-P 34, 233 Cicero Epistulae ad Atticum .7.4, 296n2 De finibus 2.8, 305 De natura deorum .50, 2 4 .09, 2 5 Pro Archia 22, 232 Diogenes of Oenoanda Fr. 27 Smith, 30–3

Epicurus Fragments 63 Us., 307 574 Us., 308 584 Us., 306 590 Us., 306 592 Us., 306 594 Us., 306 Letter to Menoeceus 23–24, 2 30–3, 65–66 Sententiae Vaticanae 37, 2 8 65, 286 Euripides Orestes 32–45, 27 Eustathius Ad Od. 9.523–525, 3 n 8 Heraclitus the Allegorist Homeric Problems 4.2, 27 79.2, 27 Hesiod Megalai Eoiai Fr. 253 M.-W., 85 Homer Iliad .88–20, 26

index locorum 9.458–459, 26 Horace Ars poetica 9, Carmina 4.3. –4, 70 Epistles ..34–37, 275 ..06–08, 276 .2, 5 .2.–3, 279 .2.4–43, 279–280 .3.8–20, 282 .4.3–6, 282–283 .5.39–44, 87 .6, 284–285 .6.33–38, 289 .6.73–79, 290 .7.6–2, 286–287 .8.00–03, 286 .8.0–, 286 .20–25, 28 2.59–63, 280–28 Iamblichus Life of Protagoras 63–64, 256

3.459–462, 2 8 3.89–823, 2 6 3.898–899, 43 5.7–8, 72 5.98–203, 6 , 222 6.7–9, 280 Marcus Aurelius Meditations 4.32, 39– 40 7.3, 52 Ovid Heroides 9.29–40, 86– 87 Metamorphoses 6.5–20, 94– 95 Petronius Satyricon 32.5.7–8, 307 Philodemus Economicus 23.9ff., 9 –92 Epigrams 27 Sider, 4–5, 6, 3 –32, 68–

69 29 Sider, 6, 67, 44, 45,

50

Lactantius Divinae Institutiones 5.0, 68 Longinus F 0f, 77–78 On the Sublime 9.7, 77 Lucretius De Rerum Natura 2.–0, 45, 47, 50, 5 ,

On Anger, 5, 2, 3, 7, 8, 9,

97–98, 03– 0, 279 col. i.2–24, 8 col. vi.3–22, 8 col. xiv.7–29, 22 col. xxv.22–34, 05 col. xxix.20–29, 22– 23 col. xxx.5–38, 05 col. xxxiii.23–27, 28 col. xxxvi.7–28, 04 col. xlii.20–29, 2 col. xliii–xlv, 05 col. xliv.5–35, 4– 5

53 2.5–6, 47, 53 2.569–576, 2 4 2.03–022, 234–235

358

index locorum col. xliv.20–22, 28 fr. 6, 40 fr. 3, 40 On Choices and Avoidances col. xix.2–2, 309 On Death, 3, 8, 9, 4 , 42 col. xxix–xxxiv, 42– 43 col. xxxiii.37–xxxv.34, 290–

On the Gods col. viii.5–9, 225n6 col. xiii.36–xiv.6, 2 9 col. xiv.2–xv, 2 2–2 3 fr. 3, 2 9 fr. 26, 2 6, 2 9 fr. 4, 226n On the Good King According to Homer, , 7, 8, 9, 97–98 col. xix.3–32, 278 col. xxiii.5–9, 3– 4 col. xxvii–viii, 277 col. xxxvi, – 5 col. xxxvi.7–24, 2 col. xxxvi.28–32, 3 col. xliii, 4 On Vices and Their Opposing Virtues 8–23, 86 P.Herc. 243 fr. 3, 88– 92 P.Herc. 433 fr. 2 ii + 088 fr. ,

29 col. xxxviii.3–24, 283 col. xxxix, 292 On Flattery 2.2–7, 3 On Frank Speaking, – 2, 7, 8,

9, 272, 287–288 col. xixb.–5, 306 fr. 3.7–, 306 fr. 57.–5, 308 On Music IV, col. 4, 26 n52 IV, col. 43, 26 n50 IV, col. 68, 254–255 IV, col. 20, 26 n5 IV, col. 22, 26 n53 On Piety 242 fr. , 202–203 247 fr. , 202–203 338–59, 60 col. viii–xiii, 2 –2 2 col. xix, 6 col. xxxi, 6 col. xxxiii, 67 col. xxxvi, 65 col. xl, 68 P.Herc. 433 fr. 2 ii + 088 fr. ,

220 P.Herc. 428 fr. 5, 99 Ph., De Pietate, Ch. 29 lines 8–89 On Poetry, 0, , 284–285 On Rhetoric, 0, 5 Sudhaus II.67–68, 282

76– 77 P.Herc. 463, 37–42 P.Herc. 463 fr. 9, 38–39 P.Herc. 463 fr. 3, 37–38 P.Herc. 232 fr. 8, col. i, 65 P.Herc. 602 fr. 6, 8 –205 P.Herc. 85, 84– 85 P.Herc. Paris. 2.2–23, 300 Pindar Nemean 4.33–35, 69–70 Pliny the Younger Letters 2.7, 46 Plutarch Against Epicurus’ Conception of Happiness, Mor. 2.094D, 27 How the Young Should be Exposed to Poetry, Mor. 5D, 26 How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend, 2, 287 60a–d, 287, 297n27 On the Cessation of Oracles 420c-3,

2 3–2 4, 2 9

359

index locorum 0.500–502, 5– 6 2.3–9, 6 2.29–3, 68 2.0–04, 08– 09 2.435–440, 20, 65– 66 2.830–83, 79 2.830–839, 8 2.83–832, 34n52, 22 2.838–840, 65, 222 2.869–886, 96 2.879–882, 78 Catalepton 5, 5, 25–36 5.8–4, –2, 40–4 , 45 8, –2, 44–45 Culex 20–23, 5 42–44, 50–5 58–7, 47 72–97, 57–58n27 93–95, 53–54 202–384, 5 –52 206–209, 58–59n28 20–25, 49–50 227–229, 54 230–23, 53 268–295, 46–47 372–377, 52 43–44, 53 Eclogues , 63–74 .–5, 70–7 .6–0, 7 –72 .40–43, 72 .59–66, 237–238 .79–83, 6, 64–65 4.5–7, 73n27 4.26–27, 72n2 4.37–39, 72n2 5.45–47, 25 5.82–84, 25 9.35–36, 30 9.63–65, 253

Propertius Carmina 2.34, 299–32 2.34.9–24, 307–308 2.34.25–30, 308–3 2 2.34.3–54, 3 2–3 3 2.34.6–82, 299 2.34.6–84, 3 3–3 4 2.34.83–84, 30 2.34.83–94, 3 5–3 6 Quintilian Institutio Oratoria 2.2.24, 27 Servius Ad Aen. 4.393, 72n22 Ad Aen. 6.264, 2 n2 Ad Georg. 4.29, 2 n3 Statius Silvae 2.2., 33 2.2.2–6, 33 2.2.29–32, 45– 46 Vergil Aeneid .4, 07 ., 78, 22 .48–420, 52 .459–465, 50, 238–239 2.304–308, 62 2.567–587, 20– 2 , 25– 29 2.595–599, 2 – 22 3.72–76, 63– 64 4.40–4, 5 4.430–436, 52– 53 4.495–498, 69 6.20–33, 239–24 6.73–74, 22 6.64–65, 254 6.878–88, 64 7.750–755, 255 9.84–85, 8 360

index locorum Georgics .50–5, 69 2.27–225, 88–89 2.475–477, 29 2.483ff., 92–93 2.490–492, 62

4.86–87, 53 4.46, 8 4.333–348, 200–20 , 253 Xenophanes 2 B  D-K, 75

36