Cento Nuptialis

praef.pr. Ausonius to Paulus, greeting. Read through this too, if it is worth the trouble — a frivolous little work of no value, which neither labour hammered out nor care polished, without sharpness of wit or the ripeness of long reflection. Those who first amused themselves with this kind of piecing-together call it a Cento. It is a task for the memory alone: to gather what is scattered and to make whole what is torn — a thing you may laugh at rather than praise. For it, if it came up for sale among the Sigillaria at auction, neither would Afranius give a straw nor Plautus offer his husk. For it irks me to have dishonoured the dignity of Vergilian verse with so jocular a subject. But what was I to do? It had been commanded; and — what is the most powerful kind of commanding — he who could command was asking: the sacred emperor Valentinian, a man in my judgement learned, who had once described a wedding in this kind of game, with apt verses indeed and festive composition. Then, wishing to try how far he might excel in our contest, he bade me piece together something similar on the same subject. How troublesome this was for me, understand: I wished neither to be preferred nor to be ranked below, since, by the judgement of others too, foolish flattery would have to be exposed if I gave way, or insolence if I came out as a rival victor. I undertook it, therefore, like one refusing, and happily, being deferential, I kept his favour, and, as victor, gave no offence. This, hurried through then in a single day with an added night's work, when I lately found it among my rough drafts, I have such confidence in your candour and love that I would not withhold even ridiculous things from your severity. Receive, then, a little work continuous out of disconnected parts, one out of diverse, sportive out of serious, my own out of another's: lest, in matters sacred and fabulous, you should marvel either at the Thyonian or at Virbius — the one reshaped from Dionysus, the other from Hippolytus. And if you allow me to teach, though I myself need teaching, what a cento is, I will explain it fully. From various places and diverse senses a certain structure of verse is built up into a solid whole, so that into one line there come together either two halved pieces, or one and the following middle joined with a middle. For to place two whole ones together is inept, and three in one series is mere trifling. They are divided through all the caesuras which the heroic verse admits, so that there may agree either a penthemimeris with the rest in anapaestic measure, or a trochaic with the latter segment, or seven half-feet with a choric anapaest, or — let there be placed after a dactyl and a half-foot whatever remains of the hexameter. You might call it like that game which the Greeks called ostomachion (the bone-battle). Those are little bones: in sum they have fourteen geometric figures; for they are equally three-cornered, whether with extended lines or of the same front, whether with right angles or oblique: they call them themselves isosceles or equilateral, right-angled too and scalene. By the various joinings of these little dice the shapes of a thousand forms are counterfeited: the elephant a beast or the boar a wild thing, the goose flying and the gladiator in arms, the crouching hunter and the barking dog, nay even a tower and a goblet and other such of innumerable figures, which one man varies more skilfully than another. But the piecing of the skilled is a marvel, the joinery of the unskilled is ridiculous; which being said beforehand, you will know that I have imitated the latter. This little work of a cento, then, is handled like that game, so that in like manner diverse senses may agree; that what is adopted may seem akin; that the borrowed may not show through; that the far-fetched may not betray force; that the close-packed may not jut out beyond measure; that the gaping may not lie open. If all these things shall seem to you as the precept is, you will say I have composed a cento; and because I then served under my emperor, you will bid the stipend go forward to me among the regular troops; but if otherwise, you will make me one cashiered, so that, the heap of verse being restored to its own treasury, the lines may return whence they came. Farewell.

1. PREFACE. Receive these things in your minds, and turn your glad thoughts hither, both excellent in spirit, both distinguished in surpassing arms; both flourishing, a race unconquerable in war. And you first — for that you go over the deep under greater auspices is clear faith — than whom no other was more just in piety, nor greater in war and arms; and you, and your boy, the second hope of great Rome, the flower of men of old and the valour of heroes, my greatest care, recalling his grandsire in name, his parent in spirit and in hand. Not unbidden do I sing. To each his own undertakings will bring toil and fortune: for me it is right to take up what is commanded.

2. THE WEDDING FEAST. The awaited day was at hand, and for the worthy wedding the mothers and the men, the young before the faces of their parents, gather, and they recline on the spread purple. The servants give water for the hands and load with baskets the gifts of laboured Ceres, and bring the roasted flesh of fat game: a most long succession of courses. The kinds of birds and of beasts and the swift-following roe-deer are not absent there, nor sheep and the butting kids, and the sea-born kind, and the does and the fleeing stags: before the eyes and amid the hands are the mellow fruits. After hunger was banished and the desire of eating restrained, they set out great mixing-bowls and serve the wine of Bacchus. They sing sacred songs, beat out the dances, and recite poems. And the Thracian priest too, in his long robe, accompanies with measures the seven distinct notes of the voice; while from another quarter the flute gives its double-mouthed song. There is one rest from labours for all, and all, leaving the tables, rise up: through the glad thresholds, thronging, they run to and fro and change their turns — the people and the elders, the matrons, the boys — and roll their voices through the spacious halls: the lamps hang from the gilded ceilings.

3. DESCRIPTION OF THE BRIDE COMING FORTH. At last she comes forth, the most just care of Venus, now ripe for a husband, now marriageable in her full years, bearing a maiden's face and bearing, on whom a deep blush has set fire and run over her heated face, turning her intent eyes, and she burns men by being seen. Her all the youth, pouring out from houses and fields, and the throng of mothers, admire. The first traces of her foot were white, and she had given her hair to be spread to the winds. She wears garments embroidered with the woof of gold, the adornments of Argive Helen; and such as golden Venus is wont to appear to the heaven-dwellers, and how great, such was her aspect, such, glad, she bore herself toward her parents-in-law, and, raised high, she sat down on a lofty throne.

4. DESCRIPTION OF THE BRIDEGROOM COMING FORTH. But from another quarter the boy bore himself in through the lofty doors, marking his face with the unshorn down of earliest youth, his golden cloak embroidered with the needle, around which ran much Meliboean purple in a double maeander, and a tunic which his mother had woven with soft gold: in face and shoulders like a god, and with the light of youth. As, when Lucifer, bathed in the wave of Ocean, has lifted his sacred face to the sky: so he bore his face, so his eyes, and, frantic in his course, he hastens to the threshold. Love troubles him, and he fixes his looks upon the maiden; he tasted her kisses and, embracing, clung to her right hand.

5. THE OFFERING OF GIFTS. The boys advance, and together before the faces of the parents bear gifts: a mantle stiff with figures and gold, carrying gifts and talents of gold and of ivory, and a chair and a covering embroidered with saffron acanthus, vast silver for the tables, and a necklace of pearls for the neck, and a double crown of gems and gold. To her is given a handmaid and twin children at the breast; to him four young men and as many unwed maidens: for all, by custom, the hair is cut; on the top of the breast a flexible circle of twisted gold about the neck.

6. THE EPITHALAMIUM TO BOTH. Then the mothers, pouring out in eagerness, lead them to the threshold; but the chorus of equals, boys and unwed maidens, sport with unpolished verses and recite their songs: "O joined to a worthy man, most welcome bride, may you be happy, having known the first labours of Lucina and become a mother — take up the goblets of Maeonian Bacchus. Scatter the nuts, bridegroom; gird these altars with a fillet, you flower of men of old and valour of heroes: for you a wife is led, that with you, for such deserts, she may pass all her years and make you a parent by fair offspring. Fortunate both, if pious powers can avail anything, live happy." "Run," said the Parcae, harmonious, with the steadfast power of the fates, to their spindles.

7. THE ENTERING INTO THE CHAMBER. After they have come to the chamber, its roof hanging in pumice, at last they enjoy permitted converse. Coming together, they join right hands and lay themselves upon the couch. But Cytherea, with new arts, and Juno the bride's attendant, urge and counsel them to provoke unknown wars. He, when in soft embrace he cherishes her, and suddenly has received the wonted flame and the marriage-bed: "O maiden, a new face to me, most welcome bride, you have come at last, my only and late delight. O sweet wife, these things do not come to pass without the will of the gods: will you fight even against a love that pleases you?" Him, speaking such things, she, long since turned away, beholds, and hesitates in fear, and trembles that the weapon presses near, and, between hope and fear, pours forth these speeches from her mouth: "By you, by the parents who begot you such, O comely boy, this one night and no more, I pray, console my helplessness, and pity me as I entreat. We sink down: my tongue avails not, the wonted strength does not suffice my body, nor do voice or words follow." But he: "In vain you weave empty causes," and he hurries on all delays and looses her modesty.

? Parecbasis (Digression). Thus far I have veiled the wedding mystery, to be heard with chaste ears, by a roundabout way of speaking and by circumlocution. But since the festal wedding loves Fescennine verses too, and the game, known by ancient custom, admits a wantonness of words, the rest of the secrets of the chamber and the couch shall also be set forth, gathered from the same author, that we may blush twice over, who make even Vergil shameless. Do you, if it please you, here now set a limit to your reading: leave the rest to the curious.

8. The Consummation. After they had come together alone in the night through the darkness, and Venus herself had given the will, they attempt new battles. He raises himself up, eager; her, attempting much in vain, he seizes — her mouth and her face — and, ardent, he presses foot with foot, treacherous, making for the heights: the branch which lay hidden in his garment, ruddy with the blood-red berries of the danewort and with vermilion, his head bared and their feet entwined, a thing dreadful, shapeless, huge, from which the light has been taken away — he snatches it from his thigh and, ardent, presses upon her as she trembles. There is in a recess, where a narrow path leads, a fiery cleft, gleaming; the shadowed place breathes out a vapour. For none who is chaste is it lawful to set foot on that guilty threshold. Here is a dreadful cave: such a breath, pouring itself from its dark jaws, touches the nostrils with its odour. Hither the youth is borne by the known region of the ways, and, bending over, leaning with the topmost strength, he hurls his spear, with its knots and rough bark. It clung, and, driven home, drank deep the maiden's blood. The hollow caverns resounded and gave a groan. She, dying, draws the weapon with her hand; but the point, by the wound, settled the deeper, into the living flesh among the bones. Thrice raising herself and propped on her elbow she lifted herself, thrice she fell back upon the bed. He remains undismayed. There is no delay, no rest: fastened and clinging to his peg, he nowhere let go, and kept his eyes beneath the stars. He goes and comes back along the way again and again, and, the womb being shaken, he drives through her ribs and beats with his ivory comb. And now, well-nigh at the last lap, and wearied, they were drawing near the very end: then a frequent panting shakes his limbs and his dry mouth, the sweat flows everywhere in streams; he sinks down, bloodless, the fluid distils from the groin. — Be content, my Paulus, my Paulus, with the wanton page: to laugh, nothing beyond, is what I ask. But when you have read it, stand by me against those who, as Juvenal says, "feign to be Curii and live as Bacchanals," lest perchance they should judge my character from the poem. "Wanton is our page, our life is upright," as Martial says. But let them remember — learned as they are — that in the most upright man Pliny there was wantonness in his little poems and censoriousness in his conduct; that the little work of Sulpicia is wanton, while her brow was knit; that Apuleius was a philosopher in his life and a lover in his epigrams; that in the precepts of Cicero severity stands forth, while in the letters to Caerellia a wantonness lurks beneath; that Plato's Symposium contains little epyllia composed upon youths. For why should I speak of the Fescennines of Annianus, or of the books of Erotopaegnion of the most ancient poet Laevius? Why of Evenus, whom Menander called wise? Why of Menander himself? Why of all the comic poets, whose life is austere and their matter merry? Why even of Maro, called Parthenias for modesty's sake, who in the eighth book of the Aeneid, when he described the union of Venus and Vulcan, decently mingled in the "shameful-solemn"? And in the third book of the Georgics, on the males set among the herd, did he not veil an obscene meaning by an honourable transference of words? And if the severity of some men, dressed up, condemns anything in our jest, let it know that it was fetched from Vergil. So, whoever does not like this game of ours, let him not read it; or, when he has read it, let him forget it; or, not forgetting, let him pardon: for the tale is of a wedding, and, like it or not, these rites are not otherwise constituted.