Brother/Lover from the Same Mother: Cicero, pro Caelio 32

“Indeed, that is what I would do quite eagerly if I weren’t always hindered by the enmity of her husband, or, pardon me, I meant to say her brother – I’m always making that mistake.”

Quod quidem facerem vehementius, nisi intercederent mihi inimicitiae cum istius mulieris viro—fratre volui dicere; semper hic erro.

 

The siblings here alluded to are Cicero’s personal enemy Publius Clodius and his sister Clodia. (They were children of the distinguished and somewhat infamous patrician Claudian family; they used the popular ‘Clodius’ form of their name to emphasize their attachment to the popular party and the people it pandered to. Indeed, Publius Clodius had his status formally changed from patrician to plebeian so that he could stand for election as a Tribune.) This Clodia is usually identified with the Lesbia of Catullus’ poems. The rather ungentlemanly things which he writes about her seem to have been rather consistent with the common street gossip regarding her.

Catullus, Carmina 101: Trying to Comfort Mute Ash

“Drawn across many nations and seas

I come to your pitiful resting place, brother

To present you with a final gift at death

And to try to comfort mute ash pointlessly,

Since chance has stolen you away from me.

My sad brother, unfairly taken from me.

For now, this, the ancient custom of our ancestors

Handed down as the sad gift for the grave,

Accept with a flowing flood of fraternal tears

And forever, my brother, hail and farewell.”

Multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus

advenio has miseras, frater, ad inferias,

ut te postremo donarem munere mortis

et mutam nequiquam adloquerer cinerem,

quandoquidem fortuna mihi tete abstulit ipsum,

heu miser indigne frater adempte mihi.

nunc tamen interea haec, prisco quae more parentum

tradita sunt tristi munere ad inferias,

accipe fraterno multum manantia fletu

atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.

In school, I had to memorize the following poem.  I took it very seriously. Then I went to grad school and learned about genre, persona, and play.  Now I can’t read the poem as a record of actual human emotion. Graduate school ruined Catullus for me. (And many other human things).  This translation started as an attempt to regain it. But, the poem does seem maudlin and exquisitely built. Shit. Is he for real? What’s real? Thursdays!

(So, now, this translation is an allegory for graduate school.)