Ajax and Ulysses Compete for the Arms of Achilles (II)

{T}he dukes, lords, noble princes, and great men were seated, with their people standing in a ring around them. Ajax did not wait any longer: he stood up and looked to the shore, extending his hands toward the ships, and began to speak contemptuously, with an air of impatience and wrath: [1–10]

“By great god, you have seen us here competing to have the arms of Achilles. From here, Ulysses can see the ships, and still he opposes me. He had no stomach for a fight when Hector and his followers set fire to the fleet. He strove at being the fastest to run away. He never made any effort to save the fleet from the Trojans! I jousted against mighty Hector. I drove the enemy away from the ships after they set fire to them. Ulysses is more skilled at wagging his tongue than at hand-to-hand fighting. He can use this to his advantage, for I know nothing of oratory. I would be better at jousting. But now he had better give a true account of the acts of valor he has performed. There is no need to have mine recited to you first, in this place: each of you has firsthand knowledge of my acts of valor and my efforts. You have seen how stalwart I have been in championing the Greek cause. I have put my body in jeopardy to perform many onerous feats. I know very well that what I am seeking is a great gift. But then, Ulysses degrades it massively by presuming to demand and claim the arms for his; there is not much honor in winning something Ulysses is after, no matter how great the thing is in itself. But this debate will forever stand to his credit, if only because he thought to challenge me, even if he falls short of his hopes. For, in faith, it will be a great honor for him to have competed with me. [11–52]

“Now, if I had less valor, I am nonetheless of great gentility and very great nobility. I am the son of Telamon, who once took the city of Troy by his efforts at the side of mighty Hercules, and went to Colchis with Jason to seek the Golden Fleece.

Orpheus (I)

{A}bove, you heard the tale of how the girl Iphis became a boy and took a wife. To his wedding came Hymen, the god of marriage, with great pomp and joy. From there, Hymen traveled at great speed through the air, gowned in yellow, to Ciconia, where he was summoned to an unusual wedding. Orpheus had summoned him there. He was supposed to take as his new wife the noble, young, and lovely maiden Eurydice. Without bringing any good fortune, and with no sign of rejoicing, Hymen came to the wedding, but remained sadly withdrawn and made signs and indications that grief and misfortune would come to the bridal pair. But the outcome was even worse than the signs had shown. [1–22]

The new bride, reveling in the springtime, went barefoot in the fields full of scented grass. A handsome and merry shepherd – that is, the esteemed Aristeus – saw the beauty, and entreated her love, but she refused him to grant him her love and favor. For she did not deign to abandon herself to doing anything he asked, for all the entreaties he made. Instead she ran away, and he followed her. As the beauty was fleeing, a snake bit her on the heel, whereby the beauty was put to death. [23–37]

It was a great sorrow and a great blow to Orpheus, when by sudden mischance he had lost his bride. Much he lamented, much he grieved. When he had mourned her amply in this world, he resolved to go down to the realms of hell and find out whether he could have his bride again and move the infernal beings to give her to him. He took his harp and his bow and, harping, sang a song that went like this: [38–49]

“{Y}ou, O god of the shadowy dungeon, where every human creature comes and descends either late or soon, such that nothing takes them from you: if I may be so bold as to say so, I have not come to visit this empire, nor to see you in person, nor to submit to your tortures, for I have no interest in any of that.

The Daughters of Minyas (I): Dercetis and Nais

{A}bove, you heard in the story how Pentheus suffered because of Bacchus, whom he held in contempt. Everyone who knew this was moved by the matter to perform new rites. All of the Ismenides and the Theban women honored Bacchus with rites and worshipped him as a god; they burned incense on the altars in his temples and sang, “Euhoe! Euhoe!” [1–13]

But this was not at all the case with Alcithoë or her sisters, the daughters of Minyas. Not even on account of the death of Pentheus, who had been slaughtered, nor of the tragic submersion of the sailors Bacchus had caused to drown, did they deign to mend their ways of holding the god and his power in contempt. They showed no honor, no reverence to him or his rites. Rather, they went on naively despising his feast and considered him low-born, saying that he had never been Jupiter’s son, as those who performed his rites were claiming. They had confidantes and chambermaids who were just as arrogant and proud as they were, and who shared their opinion. [14–31]

The priests were celebrating with great devotion the feast of Bacchus and commanded the people to celebrate it solemnly, and that all of the women together, whether ladies or maidens, serving wenches or maidservants, refrain from laboring and come to the temple to pray during this solemn feast; that each one let her hair down, wear on her head wreaths made of vine leaves, and that each one cover her breasts with animal skins and carry in her hands a green and leafy wand – and that anyone who disobeyed would anger the new god and incur ill-fortune for it. [32–49]

The women performed rites for the new god with great reverence and named him by many names: Liber, Bromius, Lyaeus, Son of Two Mothers, Nyctelius, Nyseus, the Unshorn, Thyoneus, Born of Fire, Planter of the Vine, Euhan, Iacchus, Eleleus and father and Bacchus, and by so many other different names that I cannot put them all in verse.

Acheloüs and Hercules

{A}bove, you heard the tale as told by Acheloüs: he was a snake when it pleased him, or turned himself into a river or a bull. But when he transformed into a bull, he was missing his right horn. He had lost it in combat. All because he was missing his right horn, he sighed and began to groan and his whole body started trembling. What made him groan, and why was his forehead injured? Theseus asked and questioned him about his horn. Acheloüs, his tangled hair wreathed with reeds, answered his question. [1–16]

Paris and Helen

{P}riam did not know that his son, the youth Aesacus, was a bird, and he mourned him as though he were dead, and Hector and the royal family held funeral rites for him. Paris was not present at this ceremony, for he was sailing across the sea to abduct Helen with the shapely body, whom Venus had promised to the foolish lover in exchange for his judgment. He sailed so much, night and day, not caring to rest, that he arrived at the port of Mycenae. [1–13]

He found Menelaus on the shore, getting things ready for his journey, because he wanted to go to Crete without delay and take his army there, on account of some great business he had. Menelaus saw the ship coming. It was very beautiful, attractive, and very richly decorated: no one ever saw one better outfitted. He asked those aboard who they were, and which of them was master of the ship. Paris said he was in charge. Menelaus asked him his name, and what land and family they originated from, and what they had come to seek there. [14–28]

Paris said: “I was born in Asia (Minor), a realm in the possession of my father, Priam, who rules and has dominion throughout Asia (Minor) and over the great city of Troy. I have heard so many good things said about you and the splendor of your empire, that I’ve come here to serve you, in order to earn your love and learn the language and customs of the people of Greece, if you deign to take me on.” [29–39]

“Friend, you’d be very welcome to come,” said Menelaus. “Your service doesn’t displease me, truth be told, if it pleases you to stay with me. But very shortly I must travel to Crete for some important business. I’ll be back soon, for I don’t care to stay there long. I’d already like to be on my way back, having taken care of my business. As soon as I’ve carried it to term, I’ll set sail back home. Until I return, my wife will ensure your ease and comfort.” [40–53]

Paris heard him and mightily rejoiced.

The project of translating the Ovide Moralisé has spanned a decade, and, if taking into account the preliminary manuscript research, a decade and a half. It would never have started without the friendship and mentorship of the late Robert Fables, Arthur Marks ‘19 Professor of Comparative Literature at Princeton University, and acclaimed translator of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. During their last in-person meeting, he challenged Sarah-Jane Murray to “watch out for a text that wouldn’t let go,” and to translate it so that others might enjoy, and learn from, it.

Murray’s initial research on the Ovide Moralisé (OM) began in 2006, when Maud Simon, Laurence Harf-Lancner, and Michelle Szkilnik invited her to speak during an annual lecture series at the Centre d’Etudes du Moyen Age (CEMA) at the Sorbonne Nouvelle (Université de Paris III) in May 2007. The CEMA’s subsequent invitation of an affiliate research membership was a great source of encouragement and central to the decision to undertake what would become the translation project.

From 2007–2011, Murray traveled to consult all the surviving manuscripts of the OM, with support from the American Philosophical Society Franklin research award, a National Endowment of the Humanities (NEH) summer stipend in the humanities, a research sabbatical from Baylor University, and a Big Twelve fellowship with the University of Texas at Austin. We both wish to thank the many special collections libraries who supported this research, into the OM manuscript tradition and contemporary manuscripts of Ovid, Ovidian commentaries, and theological works (like the writings of Bonaventure and Aquinas): The French National Library (BNF), the Rouen Municipal Library, the Vatican Libraries, the British Library, the Geneva Library, The Royal Library of Belgium, the Bern Municipal Library (Burgerbibliothek), the Municipal Library of Cambrai, the Pierpont Morgan Library in New York, the Harry Ransom Center and the Libraries of the University of Texas at Austin, and the Royal Danish Library, who also granted permissions for the image on the cover of these volumes.

The translation itself was supported by a Critical Editions & Translations grant from the NEH, awarded to Murray between 2011 and 2016. We are grateful to our program director at the NEH, Ann Meyer (now at Georgetown University), who championed and supported the project throughout its duration.

Arachne

{P}allas had lent an ear to this marvel that the Muse was telling her about, while recounting the dispute of the nine Muses and the nine magpies. And she said that they had avenged themselves well, and she praised their disputation, and said that they were justified and in the right. [1–8]

Then she said softly so that no one could hear her: “What good does it do me to praise you? Why do I let myself be scorned? I feel great spite and anger because Arachne scorns me with her skill and mastery, of which she is becoming prideful. She’s a fine craftswoman and good weaver: because of this she doesn’t deign to obey me. For sure, I’ll go challenge her, and she’ll pay for her presumptuousness if she doesn’t show me reverence.” [9–20]

This Arachne of whom Pallas was thinking was, as the tale relates, born to a very low station and lived in a little village, but she was a very skilled wool-worker and a fine weaver: there was no one as skilled in the region. She had great renown for it throughout the whole land of Lydia, but she was so prideful and arrogant because of her skill and renown that it was a marvel. From all around the nymphs would come and delight in seeing what she made, for her work was beautiful and very pleasing. They took great pleasure in watching her work. She knew well how to shear, card coarsely and finely, comb, and spin wool. She knew so well how to dye wool in scarlet, and was so expert and wise in weaving and the art of wool-working that no one else knew as much, except Pallas, who felt spited by her contempt and her foolish boasting that Pallas didn’t know as much. [21–47]

Pallas, who heard her bragging, came to Arachne’s home in the form of a gray-haired old woman, trembling and supporting herself with a cane she held, and she spoke to the weaver and told her: “Girl, I’ve come to your house to scold you. I’m old and gray-haired but you mustn’t scorn me for that. An old person can very well say a thing from which a young one can profit.

Scylla

{T}he morning star had already become visible, and already the dawn appeared, bringing in and revealing the day and covering the darkness of night. Solar’s breath subsided and gentle Auster breathed and blew, providing a fair and gracious return to Cephalus and his men. They kept their course towards Athens, and arrived to great joy in less time than they had expected, since they had the right wind. [1–12]

In the meantime, powerful Minos laid siege to Lelegia and succeeded in destroying it, and returned via the mighty city of Alcathoë. There he set up camp. He thought he would capture it easily but met great opposition: Nisus put up strong resistance. He was king and lord of the land, experienced and trained in warfare, valiant in arms, full of knowledge, well endowed with friends and wealth. He protected and defended his territory well. Minos could make little headway against him; as long as Nisus was alive, he would never possess his land. Nisus successfully held out for a full seven months; Minos, out in the open, never managed to gain even a little ground. [13–31]

Nisus had a daughter of great renown, extremely wise and beautiful. The maiden was named Scylla. The girl would often climb a tall stone tower next to the walls in order to amuse herself. She used to watch the knights fight when they were in battle. She could see very well from the tower what was happening in every tent. She put so much of her care and attention into watching the lords in the army that she could make out one from the other: who held his lance best in the saddle socket, and who struck the most impressive blows in the bloodbath where the weapons clashed. [32–48]

She admired Minos above all others. She found him more impressive in battle than all the lords in the army. She didn’t think that much could shake him. When he was armed with his arms and held his shield by the straps, she thought he must have been born that way. There was no man in thirty kingdoms who knew better how to wield a sword. Whether on horseback or on foot, she deemed him superior to any other.

Circe’s Vengeance on Glaucus

{A}lready Glaucus had passed by Etna, the hot, burning mountain that is ablaze with the fire of hell and set on the giant’s face, and had passed by Gigantea, the land inhabited only by malfeasant giants: oxen did not plow or harrow there. Then he passed by Zancle and Rhegium, and crossed, it seems to me, the cruel sea between Sicily and Lombardy, in which many ships have perished. He strained and exerted himself so much that he crossed the Tuscan Sea and did not stop or slacken until he reached the grassy mountain. He entered the palace of the goddess Circe, the wise enchantress, daughter of the resplendent sun who illuminates everything with his eye. The palace was filled with wildlife, animals of various kinds. When Glaucus saw Circe, he addressed and greeted her, and she returned his greeting. Sighing, Glaucus said to her: [1–26]

“Circe, lady of great worth, full of intellect and good sense, who knows all the strength and medicine of herbs and roots, I beg you to take pity on me and relieve, if you please, O goddess, the great frenzy of love that overwhelms and injures my heart. For, to my mind, no one could help me but you, goddess. My transformation has taught me well that herbs have tremendous power, and if it pleases you that I should tell you the cause of my malady, of the love and madness that so torment my heart, it pleases me that I should tell it to you. [27–43]

“On the coast of Lombardy, I saw the maiden Scylla bathing, and found her incredibly pleasing and beautiful. And, truth be told, I asked if I might have her love but she was so prideful and arrogant that for no love or entreaty, for no promise or flattery did she want to be favorable to me. She refused my love and me, which causes me great grief and great distress. Now I beg you to give me counsel, if there is any power in spells, and put a spell on her and enchant her so that the beauty consents to my love. Or, if herbs are more powerful, use herbs to torment and force her to do my pleasure.