Satires 1.2 (Fairclough)

The flute-girls’ guilds, the drug-quacks, beggars, actresses, buffoons, and all that breed, are in grief and mourning at the death of the singer Tigellius. He was, they say, so generous. On the other hand, here’s one who, fearing to be called a prodigal, would grudge a poor friend the wherewithal to banish cold and hunger’s pangs. Should you ask another why, in his thankless gluttony, he recklessly strips the noble estate of his sire and grandsire, buying up every dainty with borrowed money, he answers that it is because he would not like to be thought mean and of poor spirit. He is praised by some, blamed by others. Fufidius, rich in lands, rich in moneys laid out at usury, fears the repute of a worthless prodigal; five times the interest he slices away from the principal, and the nearer a man is to ruin, the harder he presses him; he aims to get notes of hand from youths who have just donned the toga of manhood, and have stern fathers. “Great Jove!” who does not cry as soon as he hears it? “but surely he spends on himself in proportion to his gains?” You would hardly believe how poor a friend he is to himself, so that the father whom Terence’s play pictures as having lived in misery after banishing his son, never tortured himself worse than he.

Should one now ask, “What is the point of all this?” ’tis this: in avoiding a vice, fools run into its opposite. Maltinus walks with his garments trailing low; another, a man of fashion, wears them tucked up indecently as far as his waist. Rufillus smells like a scent-box, Gargonius like a goat. There is no middle course. Some men would deal only with women whose ankles are hidden by a robe with low-hanging flounce; another is found only with such as live in a foul brothel. When from such a place a man he knew was coming forth, “A blessing on thy well-doing:” runs Cato’s revered utterance; “for when shameful passion has swelled the veins, ’tis well that young men come down hither, rather than tamper with other men’s wives.” “I should not care to be praised on that count,” says Cupiennius, an admirer of white-robed lechery.

It is worth your while, ye who would have disaster wait on adulterers, to hear how on every side they fare ill, and how for them pleasure is marred by much pain, and, rare as it is, comes oft amid cruel perils. One man has thrown himself headlong from the roof; another has been flogged to death; a third, in his flight, has fallen into a savage gang of robbers; another has paid a price to save his life; another been abused by stable-boys; nay, once it so befell that a man mowed down with the sword the testicles and lustful member. “That’s the law,” cry all, Galba dissenting.

But how much safer is trafficking in the second class—with freedwomen, I mean; after whom Sallustius runs just as wild as an adulterer. Yet he, if he wished to be good and generous, so far as his means and reason would direct, and so far as one might be liberal in moderation, would give a sum sufficient, not such as would mean for him shame and ruin. But no; because of this one thing he hugs himself, admires and plumes himself, because, says he, “I meddle with no matron.” Just as was once said by Marsaens, Origo’s well-known lover, who gave his paternal home and farm to an actress: “Never may I have dealings with other men’s wives!” But you have with actresses and with courtesans, through whom your name loses more than does your estate. Or is it enough for you to avoid the “role,” but not the thing, which in any case works harm? To throw away a good name, to squander a father’s estate, is at all times ruinous. What matters it, whether with matron you offend, or with long-gowned maid?

Villius, son-in-law of Sulla, was punished richly and more than enough because of Fausta—by this name alone was the wretch misled—being smitten with the fist, assailed with the sword, and shut out of doors while Longarenus was within. If while facing such evils a man’s mind were thus to plead on his passion’s behalf; “What wouldst thou? Do I ever, when my rage is at its worst, ask you for a dame clad in a stola,” the offspring of a great consul? “What would he answer?” The girl is a noble father’s child. But how much better—how utterly at variance with this—is the course that nature, rich in her own resources, prompts, if you would only manage wisely, and not confound what is to be avoided with what is to be desired! Do you think it makes no difference, whether your trouble is due to your own fault or to circumstances? Wherefore, that you may have no reason to repent, cease to court matrons, for thence one may derive pain and misery, rather than reap enjoyment in the reality. Though this may not be your opinion, Cerinthus, yet not softer or finer are a woman’s limbs amidst snowy pearls and green emeralds—nay, often the advantage is with the strumpet. She, moreover, presents her wares without disguise; what she has for sale she openly displays; and if she has some charm, she does not boastfully show it off, while carefully concealing all unsightliness. This is the way with the rich when they buy horses; they inspect them covered, so that if a beautiful shape, as often, is supported by a tender hoof, it may not take in the buyer, as he gapes at the comely haunches, the small head, the stately neck. In this they act wisely. So do not survey bodily perfections with the eyes of a Lynceus and be blinder than Hypsaea, when you gaze upon deformities. “What a leg! what arms!” you cry, but there are thin hips, a long nose, a short waist and a long foot. In a matron one can see only her face, for unless she be a Catia, her long robe conceals all else. But if you seek forbidden charms that are invested with a rampart—for this it is that drives you crazy—many obstacles will then be in your way—attendants, the sedan, hairdressers, parasites, the robe dropping to the ankles, and, covered with a wrap, a thousand things which hinder you from a clear view. In the other—no obstacle. In her Coan silk you may see her, almost as if naked, so that she may not have a poor leg, an unsightly foot; you may measure her whole form with your eye. Or would you rather have a trick played upon you and your money extorted before the wares are shown? The gallant sings how “the huntsman pursues the hare mid the deep snow, but declines to touch it when thus outstretched,” and adds: “My love is like unto this, for it passes over what is served to all, and chases flying game.” Do you suppose that with verses such as these, sorrow and passion and the burden of care can be lifted from your breast?

Would it not be more profitable to ask what limit nature assigns to desires, what satisfaction she will give herself, what privation will cause her pain, and so to part the “void” from what is “solid”? Or, when thirst parches your jaws, do you ask for cups of gold? When hungry, do you disdain everything save peacock and turbot? When your passions prove unruly, would you rather be torn with desire? I should not, for the pleasures I love are those easy to attain. “By and by,” “Nay more,” “If my husband goes out”—a woman who speaks thus is for the Galli, says Philodemus; for himself he asks for one who is neither high-priced nor slow to come when bidden. She must be fair and straight, and only so far arranged that she will not wish to seem taller or fairer than nature allows. When she and I embrace, she is to me an Ilia or an Egeria I give her any name. No fears have I in her company, that a husband may rush back from the country, the door burst open, the dog bark, the house ring through and through with the din and clatter of his knocking; that the woman, white as a sheet, will leap away, the maid in league with her cry out in terror, she fearing for her limbs, her guilty mistress for her dowry, and I for myself. With clothes dishevelled and bare of foot, I must run off, dreading disaster in purse or person or at least repute. To be caught is an unhappy fate: this I could prove, even with Fabius as umpire.