On translating Virgil

I like to have a long-term project on the back-burner, for those moments when I don't fancy getting on with the jobs I know I really ought to be getting on with. I'm fond of Latin literature, which is why I don't think I'd be any good at teaching Latin at secondary level: having to force feed youngsters so many lines of authors I may even not be keen on myself does not appeal at all. Much better to do your own thing at your own leisure. Over the past 18 months or so I've been forcing myself to read more original Latin; it's very easy, leading a prep school existence, to let the months slip by without reading anything decent. Anyway, last year I re-read the Aeneid twice, a delightful and fulfilling experience from which I emerged with a high regard for the un-trendy second half of the epic, usually shunned by examining boards, and especially Books 10 and 11.

My mind then turned to how to communicate in translation just a taste of Virgilian poetry to those unfortunate enough to be illatinate. Prose, even with plenty of epic diction, has to be a no-go zone, although it would make the task a lot easier. This of course leads on to the question: if not prose, then what kind of verse?

Some time ago I read John Dryden's version. After a few thousand lines of rhyming couplets things soon became tedious. It didn't really reflect the Latin, either, so rhyme, I decided, was out as well. Nor, I thought, was the standard English iambic pentameter line appropriate. I'm looking for something more weighty, more… well, epic; a longer line which can convey within itself an English version of a snappy Virgilian one-liner if need be. Other requirements? The first syllable of each line ought to be stressed, reflecting the initial long syllable in Latin; and the last five syllables of the line ought to be dactyl+spondee or dactyl+trochee, to try to capture the rhythm of the Latin. Latin hexameter lines vary from 13 to 17 syllables in length, so over last summer I knocked out some lines nominally 15 syllables in length. It was quite an effort, and I would welcome readers' honest comments on what they think of my efforts, and what verse form they think would be appropriate. A respected colleague has suggested, for example, that since the length of the Latin line is flexible, I should not be constrained by a line of 15 syllables. There follow two, short samples of well known pieces; then a longer, less well known piece from Book 10; and finally the first eighty lines or so of Book 11.

I look forward to hearing your comments before I go any further!

 

1.1

arma uirumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris


Italiam, fato profugus, Lauiniaque uenit


litora, multum ille et terris iactatus et alto


ui superum, saeuae memorem Iunonis ob iram…

 

I sing of warfare and of a man, the first to arrive, an

exile of fate, from the shores of Troy at Italy and the

coasts of Lavinium. Greatly both on the land and on the deep

was he buffeted about by the might of those above, all

through the unforgetting anger of the cruel goddess Juno.

 

2.1

conticuere omnes intentique ora tenebant;

inde toro pater Aeneas sic orsus ab alto:

infandum, regina, iubes renouare dolorem…

 

Everyone fell silent, and focused attention upon him.

Then from his couch on high spoke as follows father Aeneas:

"Unspeakable, o queen, is the grief which you bid me renew…

 

10.833

interea genitor Tiberini ad fluminis undam


uulnera siccabat lymphis corpusque leuabat


arboris acclinis trunco. procul aerea ramis

dependet galea et prato grauia arma quiescunt.


stant lecti circum iuuenes; ipse aeger anhelans


colla fouet fusus propexam in pectore barbam;


multa super Lauso rogitat, multumque remittit


qui reuocent maestique ferant mandata parentis.              

at Lausum socii exanimem super arma ferebant


flentes, ingentem atque ingenti uulnere uictum.


agnouit longe gemitum praesaga mali mens.


canitiem multo deformat puluere et ambas


ad caelum tendit palmas et corpore inhaeret.

 

Meanwhile, leaning against a tree by the waves of the Tiber,

his father, resting his body, staunched his wounds in the waters.

Far off, his heavy weapons rest in the meadow. His helmet

of bronze hangs down from the branches. Hand-picked young warriors stand

all around him. Unwell and gasping, he eases his neck. His

beard, combed forward, pours down over his chest. Repeatedly he

asks after Lausus, and keeps sending back men to recall him,

bearing a sad parent's instructions. But comrades in tears were

now bringing back on his shield the lifeless body of Lausus,

a mighty man by a mighty wound laid low. Far away his

mind, anticipating disaster, acknowledged the groaning.

Fouling his grey hair with quantities of dust, clinging to the

body, he stretched his hands up towards the heavens and thus spoke:…           

 

11.1

Oceanum interea surgens Aurora reliquit:


Aeneas, quamquam et sociis dare tempus humandis


praecipitant curae turbataque funere mens est,


uota deum primo uictor soluebat Eoo.


ingentem quercum decisis undique ramis            

constituit tumulo fulgentiaque induit arma,


Mezenti ducis exuuias, tibi magne tropaeum


bellipotens; aptat rorantis sanguine cristas


telaque trunca uiri, et bis sex thoraca petitum


perfossumque locis, clipeumque ex aere sinistrae              

subligat atque ensem collo suspendit eburnum.


tum socios (namque omnis eum stipata tegebat


turba ducum) sic incipiens hortatur ouantis:


'maxima res effecta, uiri; timor omnis abesto,


quod superest; haec sunt spolia et de rege superbo              

primitiae manibusque meis Mezentius hic est.


nunc iter ad regem nobis murosque Latinos.


arma parate, animis et spe praesumite bellum,


ne qua mora ignaros, ubi primum uellere signa


adnuerint superi pubemque educere castris,     

impediat segnisue metu sententia tardet.


interea socios inhumataque corpora terrae


mandemus, qui solus honos Acheronte sub imo est.


ite,' ait 'egregias animas, quae sanguine nobis


hanc patriam peperere suo, decorate supremis               

muneribus, maestamque Euandri primus ad urbem


mittatur Pallas, quem non uirtutis egentem


abstulit atra dies et funere mersit acerbo'

Sic ait inlacrimans, recipitque ad limina gressum


corpus ubi exanimi positum Pallantis Acoetes               

seruabat senior, qui Parrhasio Euandro


armiger ante fuit, sed non felicibus aeque


tum comes auspiciis caro datus ibat alumno.


circum omnis famulumque manus Troianaque turba


et maestum Iliades crinem de more solutae.               

ut uero Aeneas foribus sese intulit altis


ingentem gemitum tunsis ad sidera tollunt


pectoribus, maestoque immugit regia luctu.


ipse caput niuei fultum Pallantis et ora


ut uidit leuique patens in pectore uulnus               

cuspidis Ausoniae, lacrimis ita fatur obortis:


'tene,' inquit 'miserande puer, cum laeta ueniret,


inuidit Fortuna mihi, ne regna uideres


nostra neque ad sedes uictor ueherere paternas?


non haec Euandro de te promissa parenti               

discedens dederam, cum me complexus euntem


mitteret in magnum imperium metuensque moneret


acris esse uiros, cum dura proelia gente.


et nunc ille quidem spe multum captus inani


fors et uota facit cumulatque altaria donis,              

nos iuuenem exanimum et nil iam caelestibus ullis


debentem uano maesti comitamur honore.


infelix, nati funus crudele uidebis!


hi nostri reditus exspectatique triumphi?


haec mea magna fides? at non, Euandre, pudendis               

uulneribus pulsum aspicies, nec sospite dirum


optabis nato funus pater. ei mihi quantum


praesidium, Ausonia, et quantum tu perdis, Iule!

Haec ubi defleuit, tolli miserabile corpus


imperat, et toto lectos ex agmine mittit               

mille uiros qui supremum comitentur honorem


intersintque patris lacrimis, solacia luctus


exigua ingentis, misero sed debita patri.


haud segnes alii cratis et molle feretrum


arbuteis texunt uirgis et uimine querno               

exstructosque toros obtentu frondis inumbrant.


hic iuuenem agresti sublimem stramine ponunt:


qualem uirgineo demessum pollice florem


seu mollis uiolae seu languentis hyacinthi,


cui neque fulgor adhuc nec dum sua forma recessit,              

non iam mater alit tellus uirisque ministrat.


 

Meanwhile, rising up, Aurora left the Ocean behind her.

Troubled in his mind by death, Aeneas, though anxious to get

on and dedicate time to the interment of his comrades,

paid, as victor, vows to the gods at the first sign of daybreak.

Lopping off the branches on all sides he sets on a mound a

mighty oak. He bedecks this tree with the spoils of the chieftain

Mezentius. Glittering armour, a trophy for you, all-

powerful God of War. He fixes the spears of the man, smashed,

the crests, bedewed with blood, the breastplate, targeted and pierced

in a dozen places. On the left he ties the shield of bronze.

Down from the neck he hangs the sword with its ivory hilt. A

crowd of senior men, densely packed, now pressed all around him.

He spurred on his triumphant comrades, beginning as follows:

"Men, a very great feat has been achieved. As for what remains,

let all fear be banished. These are the spoils, first pickings from a

haughty king; here's Mezentius, made by my very own hands.

Now our route must be to the king and the walls of the Latins.

Ready your weapons! In hearts and hopes anticipate war

so that as soon as those on high look with favour upon our

grabbing the standards and leading our men out of the camp, no

sluggish fearful advice may slow us down, no hesitation

hinder us unawares. Meanwhile let's commit to the earth the

unburied bodies of our comrades, that mark of respect which

alone exists way down in the depths of the Underworld. Go!

he said, Adorn with final gifts these remarkable spirits

who by their blood have created for us this fatherland. Let

Pallas first be returned to the grieving town of Evander.

Dark is the day which has stolen him away from us and drowned

him, though not lacking valour, in death, premature and bitter.

Thus he spoke in tears, and from there he withdrew to the entrance,

where the lifeless corpse, watched over by the ageing Acoetes,

had been laid. Acoestes, armour-bearer once to Evander

in his Parrhasian days, was then appointed companion

to dear Pallas, with far from equally favourable omens.

A group of slaves and a crowd of Trojans gathered all around,

the hair of the women let loose as a sign of their mourning.

They beat their breasts and raised an almighty groan to the heavens

when Aeneas moved inside the lofty entrance. The royal

tent was filled by the bellowing of grief and lamentation.

When Aeneas saw the propped-up head, the face of the snow-white

Pallas, and on his smooth chest the open wound of a spear from

Ausonia, the tears welled up and he spoke out as follows.

"When fortune smiled did she envy me you, pitiable boy?

Not allowing you to see our kingdom or to return in

triumph to your father's home? These were not promises which I

made about you to your parent Evander just as I was

leaving him. He embraced me then as he sent me on my way

to found a mighty empire. He forewarned fearfully that our

battles would be with a hardy race of valiant foemen.

Perhaps no doubt even now, with vain hope greatly deluded,

he is paying his vows and heaping his altars with presents.

Meanwhile we, mourning, escort with pointless honours a young man,

lifeless and owing nothing now to those living in heaven.

You poor man, who will witness the last cruel rites of your own son.

Is this the expected return, this the triumph we hoped for?

This the great promise I made? At least you will never have to

witness as a father, Evander, a son stricken down by

wounds which are shameful, or wish a dreadful death upon yourself,

since your son is home safe and sound. Alas Ausonia, so

great a bulwark you are losing - and you also, Iulus.

Having wept thus, he orders the wretched corpse to be lifted.

He picks from his entire column and dispatches a thousand

men to accompany the last rites, to share in the father's

tears; scant solace for mighty grief, yet no more than is due to

the misery of a father. Others busily plait the

pliant wicker bier with twigs of oak and shoots of arbutus,

building up the couch and shading it with a canopy of leaves. Here

they put the young man, high on an agricultural litter.

Just like a flower, perhaps a gentle violet or a

drooping hyacinth, plucked by a young girl's finger and thumb. Its

glory is no more, but its own shape has not yet departed.

Yet mother earth no longer feeds or supplies it with vigour.

Harold

My late mid-life crisis continues. Freshly coiffured, and having just left the salubrious premises of my tonsorial artiste near Derby Road, I was strolling along the Felixstowe Road in the direction of Sainsbury's on Wednesday. Passing by the traffic lights at St Augustine's I saw that I was being clocked by four young lads in a little red Peugeot. There were no other pedestrians around, so when I had passed about twenty yards beyond them and heard repeated shouts, to accompanying laughter, of 'Hey, Harold!', I decided not to look back, fearing that to do so would encourage even louder guffaws. It didn't take me long to work out that the only Harold who would be familiar to such youths would be Harold Bishop, formerly of Neighbours fame; a bumbling, pompous chap with a paunch. Not me, surely? Harumph!

The bus-pass approacheth

As you will appreciate, my overt maturity leads to my having few problems in purchasing alcoholic items at supermarket check-outs. For the first time ever, however, I recently encountered the flip-side of this, and I'm undecided as to whether or not I am happy with the situation. Over the summer I attended (with Mrs RCB and a friend in his 70s) a computer fair at Ashton Gate, the home ground of Bristol City Football Club. Our friend secured our admission, gaining entry for me - without my complicity, you understand - at the concessionary OAP rate. I didn't know whether to be pleased at having got in at the lesser rate, or annoyed at the ticket seller for imagining someone of my youthful appearance to be of pensionable age. I decided that to say nothing would be the better course of action. I'm now wondering whether there are other situations in which I could perhaps turn my apparent decrepitude to my advantage...

American idle

Mrs RCB and I were enjoying afternoon tea in the restaurant at Sandringham. An American family sat nearby. My attention was drawn to them firstly by their accents, then by the fact that their young teenage son was wearing a baseball cap. Being something of a snob in these matters I asked Mrs RCB what sort of parents allowed their offspring to wear headgear at the meal table. I then noticed that every twenty seconds or so the young brat in question suddenly extended his right arm to its full length in front of him, then returned it to its normal position and examined his palm. My annoyance turned to compassion: poor lad, I thought. He's obviously suffering from some serious physical affliction. How wonderful of the parents to be so patient with him. My admiration was short-lived. Half an hour later we were wandering through the excellent museum. There was the American family again. The adults were showing a keen interest in the exhibits, the afflicted teenager in the baseball cap following closely behind, paying no heed to the items on display but presenting the same physical symptoms. When I saw the reason for these all suddenly became clear and my sympathy disappeared instantly. In his hand was an iPod-like electronic device. Instead of showing a healthy interest in the exhibits he was going through the motions of ten-pin bowling and checking his score after each attempt. This is what he had been doing in the restaurant and was clearly what he was going to continue to do until falling asleep in bed that night. Oik.

A recipe for complacency?

The report of the February 2009 ISI inspection of Orwell Park is now published on-line (it can be found here). By any standards it can only be described as exceptional, the key summary coming in paragraph 5.4: 'The school has no significant weaknesses'. A recipe for complacency if ever there was one. If only the same could be said of the inspection itself. It runs to a mere 20 pages, compared to the 44 of its 2003 predecessor.  One department received not a single lesson observation from the inspection team; the same department, as it happens, which was totally ignored in the previous inspection report, much to the chagrin of the then Head of Department. The inspectors themselves are not to blame; they are only, to quote the dictum used in a different context, carrying out the orders of others. As far as the academic side of things is concerned, the nature of the current phase of inspections represents a retrograde step, and is far less helpful from the school's perspective. The comments are thematic rather than departmental: general comments about excellence do not refer to specific subjects, denying those responsible the public recognition they deserve, and if there were to be any adverse comments (let's say, for example, about poor marking), these would not identify specific departments; thus rendering impossible the targeting by senior management of such departments for improvement. The inspectors worked incredibly hard before, during, and immediately after the inspection. One has the impression that it's something of a treadmill for them, however much they may enjoy witnessing the workings of another school. If only the Independent Schools Inspectorate would reconsider the nature of the remit they impose on their inspection teams: the teaching in schools would improve and standards would be driven up as a result. As for Orwell Park, its staff are far too professional to be lulled into complacency by such fulsome compliments, however flattering.

Exam week - why do we bother?

It's exam week in the prep school world: three and a bit days of papers in all the usual subjects which our anxious 13 year-olds are sitting in order to secure entry to the senior independent schools of their choice. It's called 'Common Entrance' (CE), and marks the academic culmination of their prep school careers; it has been the point of focus for them and their parents over the past two or three years, generating stress, sweat and tears in the process. The children's teachers, of course, are anxious for their charges to do well in their own subjects and, being very familiar with the pattern of CE papers, are well experienced in all the usual exam techniques. A senior colleague selflessly gave up a day of his half-term break two weeks ago to run a voluntary revision session in his subject; a highly laudable gesture, you would think. But what is announced at the staff meeting immediately on our return for the second half of term? A parent has sent an e-mail of complaint to more than one colleague - not the one who had given up some of his holiday - to say that such sessions should not be held, since it was inconvenient for her daughter to attend. She was unable to benefit, so why should anyone else? Why do we bother?

Punning Latin mottoes

When General Charles Napier captured the Pakistani province of Sindh in 1843, he is alleged to have reported his success to the Governor General with a punning one-word telegram in Latin: peccavi ('I have sinned/Sindh'). He knew that the message would be understood by the recipient: this was in an era, of course, when a greater proportion of the population enjoyed the benefits of a classical education than is the case nowadays.

This, and a recent visit to St Edmund's School, Canterbury, got me thinking about punning Latin mottoes.

The Tesco Connection

Some years ago I was contacted by the customer relations people at Tesco. A customer had, like me, noticed the motto mercatores coenascent on the doors of their internet delivery vans and wondered what it meant. Tesco did not know the meaning of their own motto, but a Google trawl came up with only two hits, one of them being the website I had at the time.

The coenascent will immediately strike latinists as not quite right (it's clearly a deponent verb, and the -ent ending is impossible), and a quick look at The Oxford Latin Dictionary will confirm that it does not exist. If the motto meant anything, it would be along the lines of 'merchants will grow together.' However, the illatinate nature of the verb makes sense to those who know that the founder of the firm was Jack Cohen, and that the first four letters of the Latin are a pun on his name. Jack came up with the word Tesco by combining the initials of tea importer T. E. Stockwell with the first two letters of his own name. I pointed this out to the customer relations people at Tesco and was thanked with a very generous voucher for my efforts.

Canterbury Tales

And so to Canterbury, where I recently spent an enjoyable day visiting the Classics Department of St Edmund's Junior School. There the respected Tom Hooley runs a great one-man department, combining traditional standards with innovation: for example, I found myself playing Nick to his Sir Alan in a classroom re-enactment of The Apprentice, the task for the two project managers and their teams being to master the Greek alphabet - the kids lapped it up. It was Tom who explained to me the background of the St Edmund's motto.

Most mottoes have noble, aspirational sentiments, or embody eternal truths: Onwards and Upwards, Work Conquers All, Courage in Adversity - you know the sort of thing. Well, the St Edmund's motto translates as 'May I enjoy the function of the whetstone' (fungar vice cotis). What is that all about?

Well, St Edmund's was founded in Yorkshire in 1749 as the Clergy Orphan Society - COS. Sharp-eyed latinists will know that cos (genitive singular cotis) is the perfectly classical word for a whetstone. QED. It's an interesting pun, and if any readers of this blog know of anything similar I'd be delighted to hear about it.