1. Introduction¹

The question of whether what is normally thought of as Tristia 3.4 forms one original poem or two has been discussed by several scholars. Heinsius, in the seventeenth century, was the first editor to separate Tristia 3.4 into two parts (1-46; 47-78), because the first and second halves have different addressees and concern different topics.² Yet, as Evans (1983) and Williams (1994) have pointed out, Ovid makes a similar shift from a single addressee to a generalized audience in Tristia 1.5, without consternation to modern editors. Williams (1994, p. 128-33) finally argues that Tristia 3.4 can be read as a single elegy with two differentiated sections which have in common the theme of “visual recollection”. However, since most modern scholars can be described as “separatists” – such as Owen (1915), Luck (1977) and Hall (1995) –, the separation of 3.4 into a and b represents a form of scholarly compromise.

The poem (or section) 3.4a – on which I am going to focus in this article – might be quickly summarised like this: Ovid advises an unnamed friend to avoid mingling with the powerful. For the greater a man’s renown is, the greater is his ability to injure his inferiors. A modest life offers less risks to an individual. Ovid regrets not having followed such advice, but hopes that his friend will enjoy a happier fate than his own. He remembers the unshaken fidelity and the sincere grief that this friend devoted to him at the hour of his departure from Rome. Finally, he advises his addressee to live without envy and seek equals for friends, and to continue loving the one part of Ovid that is not in exile – that is, his name.

In this framework, this article will focus especially on Ovid’s paradoxical relationship with power in Tristia 3.4a: for if, on the one hand, Ovid strongly advises his addressee to shun ambition – and even hides this addressee’s identity as a way to protect him (a theme that will be developed further in Tristia 3.4b) –; on the other hand, Ovid seems to insist on the idea that, despite all the adversities, his name is powerful and survives in Rome.

2. Ovid advises his friend to avoid over-distinguished contacts

O mihi care quidem semper, sed tempore duro
cognite, res postquam procubuere meae,
usibus edocto si quicquam credis amico,
uiue tibi et longe nomina magna fuge.
uiue tibi, quantumque potes, praelustria uita:
saeuum praelustri fulmen ab arce uenit.
nam quamquam multum possunt prodesse potentes,
num prosit potius, siquis obesse potest!

Ah friend, my dear care as always, though in harsh circumstances
first truly assayed, after my world’s collapse,
if you’ve any respect for the lessons experience has taught me,
live for yourself, keep far from all great names;
live for yourself, avoid (as best you may) too-illustrious
contacts – from that illustrious citadel
a savage bolt descends. Only potentates can protect us,
yet what use is that if they prefer to obstruct?³

Fuente: (Ov. Tr. 3.4a.1-8)

Ovid begins the poem addressing an anonymous friend through mihi care. Though the “real” identity of this addressee is perhaps of secondary importance (and even defies the usual practice of the Tristia), scholars have proposed two theories.⁴ Owen (1915) and Wheeler (1924), for example, identified the recipient of 3.4a as Brutus, using three poems from the Ex Ponto in support (1.1, 3.9 and 4.6). Luck (1977, p. 184), however, proposed that Ovid’s “dear” addressee was actually Carus, who was described as the tutor of Germanicus’ sons, and as Ovid’s fellow poet in Ex Ponto 4.13. This correspondence is hinted at in Tristia 3.5.17-8, and especially in the opening lines of Ex Ponto 4.13, where Ovid explicitly emphasizes the relationship between the name and the adjective carus.⁵ From these poems, it is possible to infer that Carus could use his influence and eloquence to act on behalf of Ovid.

If we accept that Ovid is invoking Carus through care, in Tristia 3.4a, then we could perhaps establish a link between this type of allusive language (covert and, at the same time, self-evident) and the secret codes of communication used by lovers, described by Ovid in other of his works. In Amores 1.4.17-34, for instance, the Ovidian narrator gives instructions for his domina to send him signals at a dinner party without her uir noticing them, such as touching her own earlobe or cheek, slowly twisting the ring on her finger, touching the table, or even writing messages with wine. Then, in Amores 2.5.15-20, the narrator bitterly recounts how he could read the nods, eyes, quiverings of the brow and any other messages sent by his domina to another man, recognising that she was conducting a secret conversation with him (sermonem agnoui, quod non uideatur, agentem, l.19 – “I realised you were conducting a conversation, which was not to be perceived”). Similarly, in the Ars Amatoria, Ovid suggests that young men use coded language (sermone… tecto, 1.569 – “a covert speech”) to communicate with their puellae in a discreet way.

Whether the recipient of Tristia 3.4a is really Carus or not, it is clear that Ovid is writing to a close acquaintance of his – though not an old one. As implied in lines 1-2, sed tempore duro cognite, it was only under the difficult circumstances of his own exile that Ovid came to know this person more intimately. Throughout the poem it is implied, moreover, that this friend is much younger than Ovid. In fact, Ovid adopts a sort of fatherly attitude towards him. At the same time, Ovid seems to project the image of his younger self onto that of his addressee, reflecting on his own past to give him some advice. Though his own body has collapsed, Ovid is still able to raise his voice from the depths of the ocean and speak from a place of wisdom and moral superiority, shaped by practical experience (usibus, l. 3 above) rather than study.⁶ In this way, Ovid gives new meaning to his own concept of usus privileged in the Ars Amatoria: as he made sure to emphasize in Tristia 1.1, Ovid no longer regarded himself as a praeceptor amoris.⁷

Tristia3.4a resembles a philosophical letter, where Ovid advises his friend to live for himself (uiue tibi) – an idea that evokes the Epicurean precept láthe biósas. Yet Ovid, like Horace in Epistle 1.10 (which, by all standards, is a philosophical letter), seems mainly concerned with the notion of excessive ambition.⁸ He accordingly advises his addressee to keep far from all great names (longe nomina magna fuge, l.4 above) and shun over-illustrious contacts (praelustria, l. 5 above), for glittering renown often takes the form of a cruel lightning-bolt. Particularly in lines 7-8, the Ovidian text emphasizes the alliteration of p, building a chain of interconnected signifiers around the implicit word potestas – as if power was so strong that it could ironically “break” through Ovid’s speech against power itself.

In the passage above, Ovid relates power and profit, suggesting that people who have the power to help are often the ones who prefer to injure those who are below them. He then establishes an opposition between the verbs prodesse and obesse. A similar contrast will be seen in Tristia 5.1.65-68, where Ovid suggests that books may have a harmful effect on the reader but a beneficial effect on their author (yet, paradoxically, Ovid claims that his books have proved pernicious to none but himself).

3. Nautical imagery

effugit hibernas demissa antemna procellas,
lataque plus paruis uela tumoris habent.
aspicis ut summa cortex leuis innatet unda,
cum graue nexa semel retia mergat onus?
haec ego si monitor monitus prius ipse fuissem,
in qua debueram forsitan urbe forem.
dum mecum uixi, dum me leuis aura ferebat,
haec mea per placidas cumba cucurrit aquas.

A lowered sail-yard escapes the gales of winter, spread canvas
risks more than running close-hauled.
Can you see how the cork bobs buoyant on each wavecrest
once the woven net’s submerged by its own weight?
If I’d got, long ago, the advice I’m now dispensing
I might still be in the City, my proper home.
While I kept to myself, and a light breeze bore me onward,
this skiff of mine ran on through placid seas.

Fuente: (Ov. Tr. 3.4a.9-16)

Ovid uses the traditional nautical metaphor to illustrate that staying humble, and avoiding the heights of power and ambition, is always the best and safest way to navigate through life.⁹ A lowered sail-yard and a light boat can overcome storms and waves more easily. This connection between wise mediocritas and sailing imagery is equally prominent in Horace’s Ode 2.10, where Horace advises Licinius to avoid the high seas.¹⁰

Ovid then combines these nautical images with the memory of his own voyage over the seas, mingling metaphor and autobiography. He wished he had heeded his own advice before being sentenced to exile, admitting that, had he kept a low profile, he could still be in Rome. He nostalgically recalls his life in Rome as a skiff running smoothly through the placid sea. However, in lines 15 and 16, we can see that the text alternates between different verb tenses (uixi... ferebat… cucurrit), reflecting the natural inconstancy of the sea and winds, which, in turn, reflects Ovid’s change of fortune. A similar verb pattern is employed in Tristia 1.9.17-8 and, more importantly in this case, in 5.12.39-40, where Ovid says: “time was I was magnetized by the dazzle of name and fortune,/ while my vessel ran before a following breeze” (nominis et famae quondam fulgore trahebar,/ dum tulit antemnas aura secunda meas).

The image of the skiff (cumba), in particular, evokes Propertius 2.4.19 (tranquillo tuta descendis flumine cumba – “you ran down the tranquil river in a safe skiff”) and 3.3.22 (non est ingenii cumba grauanda tui – “the skiff of your talent should not be weighted down”). In Tristia 3.4a, the cumba also acquires metapoetic significance, suggesting, like in Ars Amatoria 3.26 and Tristia 2.1.330, light elegiac poetry. As Williams (1994, p. 131) points out, “Ovid failed to trim his sails in the Ars and the result was his own form of shipwreck (cf. Tr. 1.5.36, 1.6.8, 2.18, P. 2.6.11 etc.)”. In Ex Ponto 2.6.11-2, Ovid pessimistically thinks that it is too late for him to try and learn how to control his poetic cumba; but, in 4.8.27-8, he is otherwise convinced that his sunken skiff (that is, his poetic ingenium) will rise from the deep once more, and he will be able to write verses in honour of Germanicus.¹¹

3.1. Mythological exempla: Elpenor, Daedalus and Icarus

qui cadit in plano – uix hoc tamen euenit ipsum –
sic cadit ut tacta surgere possit humo:
at miser Elpenor tecto delapsus ab alto
occurrit regi debilis umbra suo.
quid fuit ut tutas agitaret Daedalus alas,
Icarus Icarias nomine signet aquas?¹²
nempe quod hic alte, demissius ille uolabat;
nam pinnas ambo non tenuere suas.
crede mihi, bene qui latuit, bene uixit, et intra
fortunam debet quisque manere suam.

A fall on flat ground – although an event of rare occurrence –
lets you get up again;
but poor Elpenor, who plunged from that high rooftop,
met his king as a crippled ghost.
How did Daedalus manage to ply his wings in safety
while Icarus wrote his name on the Icarian waters?
Surely because one flew high, the other lower, neither
having wings they could call their own.
A low profile, believe me, means good fortune: we all should
stick to our proper lot in life.

Fuente: (Ov. Tr. 3.4a.17-26)

In lines 17-18 above, Ovid argues that it is safer to remain on the ground, for even in the case of a rare fall, one can easily get up. This idea is in sharp contrast with Ars Amatoria 2.243-6, where Ovid encourages his male reader to risk his safety in climbing in through his lover’s window.¹³

Then, Ovid resorts to a number of mythological exempla.¹⁴ He first mentions, in line 19, the more “literal” example of Elpenor – Ulysses’ companion who crashed to the ground from the roof of Circe’s palace, and who afterwards encountered Ulysses in Hades (Od. 10.550-60; 11.51-63). Apart from Tristia 3.4, Ovid only briefly refers to Elpenor in a passage from Metamorphoses 14 (252), and in another passage from Ibis (485-6).

In the following lines, Ovid brings up the fitting examples of Daedalus and Icarus, opposing Icarus’ unrestrained ambition to Daedalus’ prudence. It is worth noting that, from the many details that compose the myth, Ovid selects the fact the Icarian Sea was named after Icarus’ fall, saying that “Icarus wrote his name on the Icarian waters” (Icarus Icarias nomine signet aquas). This mythical link is also emphasized in Tristia 1.1.89-90.

Actually, Ovid seems to adopt an ambiguous position in relation to Icarus – a position that, at first, could be equally applied to Ovid himself. For, in the same way that Icarus’ temerity led to his fall but made his name immortal, Ovid’s careless ambition was the cause of his exile, but without such ambition his name would never be known. In other words, it was only through his artistic transgression that Ovid was able to inscribe his name in Roman social memory. However, while Ovid’s hubris and fall could be compared to Icarus’, his position as an exile in Tomi could be rather associated with that of Daedalus in Crete.¹⁵ At any rate, though Ovid champions Daedalus’ prudence in flying, he nevertheless highlights that, in the end, it was Icarus’ name that was preserved. While agitaret is used in line 21 above to describe Daedalus’ escape (an act that now belongs to the mythical past), Icarus’ name remains “written” (signet) on the sea. In connection with the nomina magna from the introduction, the discussion on names now acquires a more prominent role in the poem and will be developed further in the conclusion of 3.4a (as well as in 3.4b).

Finally, in lines 25-6, Ovid re-directs his words to his addressee (crede mihi). According to Williams (1994, p. 129), the gnomic expression bene qui latuit, bene uixit also recalls the beginning of the poem, evoking, in addition to the Epicurean saying láthe biósas, Horace’s Epistle 1.17.10 (nec uixit male, qui natus moriensque fefellit). In the same lines, moreover, we have an intertext with Propertius (3.9.2 intra fortunam), besides a broader allusion to the De rerum natura 5 (1120-6), where Lucretius similarly talks about power, honour, fortune and envy, using words and expressions that also appear in Tristia 3.4a.¹⁶

3.2. Dolon and Phaethon

non foret Eumedes orbus, si filius eius
stultus Achilleos non adamasset equos;
nec natum in flamma uidisset, in arbore natas,
cepisset genitor si Phaethonta Merops.
tu quoque formida nimium sublimia semper,
propositique, precor, contrahe uela tui:
nam pede inoffenso spatium decurrere uitae
dignus es et fato candidiore frui.

Eumedes would not have become childless had his foolish
son not coveted Achilles’ steeds;
had Merops controlled his son Phaethon, he would never
have seen the boy torched, his daughters turned to trees.
You too should ever shun, I beg you, what’s over-lofty,
reef in your ambition’s sails:
for you deserve to end your life’s race unstumbling,
to enjoy a happier fate than mine.

Fuente: (Ov. Tr. 27-34)

Ovid completes his mini catalogue of exempla with Dolon and Phaethon. As we know, Dolon was a Trojan soldier, sent by Hector to spy out the Greek camp, with the promise of the horses and chariot of Achilles as his reward; but in the end he was found by Ulysses and killed by Diomedes.¹⁷ And Phaethon, the famous youth who dared to drive the chariot of his divine father (the Sun), was struck down from a thunderbolt by Jupiter.¹⁸ Curiously, in both these examples, Ovid chooses to highlight the figures of Eumedes (the father of Dolon) and Merops (the putative father of Phaethon). As an effect of this choice – as I have suggested above – it seems that Ovid himself is taking the role of his addressee’s father. Though his own fate can be linked to that of Dolon and Phaethon, Ovid is now trying to be a better version of Eumedes and Merops, offering to his younger friend the kind of parental advice that those two fathers did not offer to their sons.

Ovid then begs his friend to shun ambition (tu quoque… precor…, 31-2 above), and (again) resorts to an illustrative nautical metaphor, which alludes to the final lines of Horace’s Odes 2.10.¹⁹ Like a good parent (and friend), Ovid hopes that his addressee may enjoy a happier fate (fato candidiore, l.34 above) than his own.

In addition to these moral contents, the passage at issue has some striking metaliterary elements, too. Indeed, the adjective candidus is evocatively elegiac, whereas the phrase pes inoffensus (pede inoffenso, l.33) brings to mind the reverse image of “limping elegy” – so crucial in Ovid’s poetics.²⁰ Consequently, in the context of Tristia 3.4a, could Ovid be trying to dissuade his friend from writing poetry? This hypothesis gains in plausibility when we think of Ovid’s addressee as Carus; for though little is known about him, we can infer from Ex Ponto 4.13 that he wrote an epic poem on Hercules.²¹ With this in mind, the word sublimia, in line 31 of Tristia 3.4a, could be perhaps read as an allusion to Carus’ epic poem.

4. Conclusion: visual recollection and Ovid’s name

quae pro te uoueam, miti pietate mereris

quae pro te uoueam, miti pietate mereris
haesuraque mihi tempus in omne fide.
uidi ego te tali uultu mea fata gementem,
qualem credibile est ore fuisse meo.
nostra tuas uidi lacrimas super ora cadentes,
tempore quas uno fidaque uerba bibi.
nunc quoque submotum studio defendis amico,
et mala uix ulla parte leuanda leuas.
uiue sine inuidia, mollesque inglorius annos
exige, amicitias et tibi iunge pares,
Nasonisque tui, quod adhuc non exulat unum,
nomen ama: Scythicus cetera Pontus habet.

Such prayers from me your gentle love, your unshaken
fidelity for all time have more than earned.
I watched you lamenting my lot, your expression surely
a mirror-image of my own; I watched
the tears rain down your face, absorbed them along with
your protestations of loyalty. Even now
you still defend your banished friend with passion, lighten
my scarce-anywhere-to-be-lightened woes.
Live without rousing envy, enjoy years of undistinguished
ease and delight, seek equals for friends, love the one
part of your Ovid that’s not, as yet, in exile –
his name: all else the Black Sea’s shore now holds.

Fuente: (Ov. Tr. 3.4a.35-46)

In these lines, Ovid vividly recalls the scene of his departure, besides reinforcing the analogy between his addressee and his younger self, evoked previously in the poem. Echoing some words from Metamorphoses 3 (l.36 above haesuraque… fide ~ Met. 3.418-9 uultuque… haeret; l.37 above uidi… uultu ~ Met. 3.416 uisae… imagine; l.40 above fidaque uerba bibi ~ Met. 3.416 dumque bibit), Ovid seems to narcissistically recognise himself in the mirror image of his weeping friend.²²

Then, in line 43, Ovid advises his friend (himself?) to live without envy. This idea – in connection with the phrase amicitias et tibi iunge pares, in the following line – strongly recalls Terence’s Andria 66: sine inuidia laudem inuenias et amicos pares (“may you win fame and gain equals for friends without arousing envy”). The phrase molles… annos, in turn, evokes Ovid’s Heroides 1.111, where Penelope reminds Ulysses of their young son Telemacus: est tibi sitque, precor, natus, qui mollibus annis/ in patrias artes erudiendus erat (“you have a son – and I pray you may always have him – who in his tender years should have been trained in his father’s arts”). This intertext, in particular, highlights not only Ovid’s fatherly attitude towards his friend, but also the similarities between Ovid and Ulysses (equally suggested in Tristia 1.5, for example). Furthermore, as we know, the adjective mollis is typically elegiac; and together with the word annos, it (ironically) alludes to Remedia amoris 23, where Ovid incites Cupid to play freely with love, arguing that a tender rule suits his young age (decent annos mollia regna tuos).

Finally, in lines 45-6, Ovid asks his addressee to love the one part of him that has not been sent to exile yet: that is, Ovid’s name. In this way, Ovid recalls the beginning of the poem, paradoxically suggesting that his own name (that is, his poetic reputation) is powerful and free, while all other parts of his being are powerless and subjected to imperial authority. Thus, Ovid’s Tristia 3.4a ultimately implies a dualism between a person’s name and his/her physical body, as well as between the autonomy of words (and poetry) and the constraints of law.

It is significant that, while in the opening lines of the poem Ovid advised his friend to shun the magna nomina, here instead he asks him to love Ovid’s name (Nasonisque tui… nomen ama) – the only name explicitly revealed in Tristia 3.4a. This kind of ring-composition structure is strengthened by the verb uiue: indeed, the maxim uiue sine inuidia seems to complement the meaning of uiue tibi, in lines 4 and 5 – as well as of bene qui latuit, bene uixit, in line 25.

Taking all these parallels into account, it is striking that the word Pontus, in the final line, brings to mind – and, at the same time, opposes – the idea of potestas, which emerges from a network of interconnected signifiers (cf. potentes, potius and potere at the beginning of the poem). In effect, Pontus is the true cause of Ovid’s impotence. However, Ovid’s name outlives his body, and survives independently of his “owner” in Rome.²³

References

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Notes