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Juvenalia
Peter Green, Richard Quick
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Juvenalia
Peter Green, Richard Quick
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And now for something completely different - Simon Callow, theatrical treasure extraordinaire, reprises a success from early in his career. The writer, Juvenal born circa 55AD, wrote sixteen satires that attacked the decadence of Rome in its heyday. Here adapted by Richard Quick we are given a view into the moral decline that is as relevant now as it was back then.
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SEQUENCE II
To POSTUMUS:
Postumus, are you really
Taking a wife?
You used to be sane enough â what
Furyâs got into you, what snake has stung you up?
Why endure such bitch-tyranny when ropeâs available
By the fathom, when all those dizzying top-floor windows
Are open for you, when there are bridges handy
To jump from? Supposing none of these exits catches
Your fancy, isnât it better to sleep with a pretty boy?
Boys donât quarrel all night, or nag you for little presents
While theyâre on the job, or complain that you donât come
Up to their expectations, or demand more gasping passion.
Look around the arcades, try to pick out a woman
Whoâs worthy of your devotion. Check every tier of seats
At all the theatres in town: will they yield one single
Candidate you could love without a qualm? When pansy
Bathyllus dances Leda, all fouettés and entrechats,
Just watch the women. One canât control her bladder,
Another suddenly moans in drawn-out ecstasy
As though she were coming.
These are the women
Whoâll pay out fancy prices for the chance to defibulate
A counter-tenor, to ruin a concert performerâs voice.
One has a kink for ham actors. Are you surprised? What else
Do you expect them to do? Go ape on a good book?
âNot one woman, out of so many, who meets your requirements?â
Assume one with beauty and charm, fertile, wealthy, her hall
A museum of old ancestral portraits, grant her
Virginity more stunning than all those dishevelled Sabine
Maidens who stopped the fighting could raise between them,
Make her a rara avis, a black swan or the like â still
Who could stomach such wifely perfection?
Censenniaâs husband swears sheâs the perfect wife: why so?
Because she brought him three million. In exchange he calls her chaste.
âThen why does Sertorius burn with passion for Bibula?â
When you get to the root of it, what he loves isnât his wife
But merely her face.
So, man, if youâre not going to love
Your lawfully wedded spouse, why marry at all? Why waste
Good money on a reception, or those cakes handed out at the end
To your well-gorged guests, when the partyâs breaking up?
The bed that contains a wife is always hot with quarrels
And mutual bickering: sleepâs the last thing you get there.
This is her battle-ground, her station for husband-baiting:
In bed sheâs worse than a tigress robbed of its young,
Bitching away, to stifle her own bad conscience,
About his boy-friends, or weeping over some way-out
Fictitious mistress. She keeps a copious flow
Of tears at the ready, awaiting her command,
For any situation: and you, poor worm, are agog,
Thinking this means she loves you, and kiss her tears away â
But if you raided her desk-drawers, the compromising letters,
The assignations youâd find that your green-eyed whorish
Wife has amassed! Suppose, though, you catch her in bed with
A slave, or some businessman?
For sheer effrontery, nothing
Can beat a woman caught in the act; her very
Guilt adds fresh fire to her fury and indignation.
I know the advice my old friends would give â âLock her up
And bar the doors.â But who is to keep guard
Over the guards themselves?
What was it (you well may ask) that bred such monsters, how
Do they come about? In the old days poverty
Kept Latin women chaste: hard work, too little sleep,
These were the things that saved their humble homes from corruption â
Hands horny from carding fleeces, Hannibal at the gates,
Their menfolk standing to arms. Now we are suffering
The evils of too-long peace. Luxury, deadlier
Than any armed invader, lies like an incubus
Upon us still, avenging the world he brought to heel.
Since Roman poverty perished, no visitation
Of crime or lust has been spared us.
Thereâs nothing a woman
Baulks at, no action that gives her a twinge of conscience
Once sheâs put on her emerald-choker, weighted down her ear-lobes
With vast pearl pendants. Whatâs more insufferable
Than your well-heeled female? But earlier in the process
She presents a sight as funny as itâs appalling,
Her features lost under a damp bread face-pack,
Or greasy with vanishing-cream that clings to her husbandâs
Lips when the poor man kisses her â though itâs all
Wiped off for her lover. She takes no trouble about
The way she looks at home: those imported Indian
Scents and lotions she buys with her lover in mind.
First one layer, then the next: at last the contours emerge
Till sheâs almost recognizable. Now she freshens
Her complexion with assesâ milk. (If her husbandâs posted
To the godforsaken North, a herd of she-asses
Will travel with them.) But all these medicaments
And various treatments â not least the damp bread-poultice â
Make you wonder whatâs underneath, a face or an ulcer.
Itâs revealing to study the details of such a womanâs
Daily routine, to see how she occupies her time.
If her husband, the night before, has slept with his back to her, then
The wool-maidâs had it, cosmeticians are stripped and flogged,
The litter-bearerâs accused of coming late. One victim
Has ...