Welcome to issue #11 of Love Is a Rhythmical Art! (If you’re a newcomer, feel free to check out the archive. What, you haven’t registered? Do it now.)

In today’s issue, Ovid tells a familiar story from an unfamiliar perspective. In his era, everyone knew what happened with the Greek hero Theseus and the Cretan princess Ariadne, daughter of King Minos. After she helped him escape from the Minotaur’s labyrinth, she embarked with him on the voyage back to Athens—but when they rested on the island of Naxos, Theseus callously left her sleeping and sailed home without her. She awoke, realized her predicament, and lamented his faithlessness in a long soliloquy. In some versions of the story, she dies alone; in others, as here with Ovid, she is met by Dionysus (a.k.a. Bacchus), the god of wine, who marries her.

Ovid’s version is remarkable for what it leaves out. Everyone else who told the story devoted considerable time to Ariadne’s lament; in fact, there were so many versions of her aria of jilted love that the topic became something of a cliché. By contrast, Ovid focuses on her looks and gives her barely anything to say. She even begins to repeat herself, as if she has run out of words—and that’s the last we hear from her. Instead, the focus turns to Dionsysus and his retinue of fellow partiers, including female Bacchae, lusty satyrs, and the old, drunken Silenus. Oh, and Dionysus’ chariot is drawn by tigers! It’s a wild scene.

You might notice a few literary references, too. Sure, Ovid himself didn’t incorporate quotations from the Gospel of John or from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma! But he refers to other Greek and Latin writers all the time, and the more you know about ancient literature, the more you’ll appreciate his Latin original. The same goes for my translation. You’re not required to pick up what I’m laying down, but you’ll enjoy it more if you do. I mean, could there be a translation that doesn’t establish a relationship with literature? Is a translation, in any language, ever disconnected from other works in that language? Could there even be translators who don’t want their readers to appreciate the impiety of influence?

No, no, and no.

(For those of you following along in the original Latin, here are lines 525-564 of Book 1.)

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But what heavenly powers now attack us?
My Lord and my God and my Bacchus!
   He feels the same twitches
   That love provokes—which is
Exactly why Bacchus will back us.

There once was a girl from Cnossus
Whom Theseus, no moral colossus,
   Had dumped; she demanded,
   “Oh, where am I stranded,
And why did that wretch doublecross us?”

Her soliloquy falls on deaf waves—
For Naxos, which seawater laves,
   Is home to no boats,
   And so nobody notes
The weird way Ariadne behaves.

She’s just woken up, and it shows
In the great disarray of her clothes,
   And her feet, which are bare,
   And the fact that her hair
Down her back unrestrictedly flows.

She’s screaming and crying, and yet,
Though her face is quite flushed and quite wet,
   Her looks nonetheless
   Are a stylish success;
There’s no setback in looking upset.

As she ponders the malice of men,
She beats on her breast yet again:
   “Oh, what did he sin for?
   And what am I in for?
Oh, what am I in for?” And then—

The whole seashore resounds with the song
Of timpani, tam-tam, and gong!
   The girl feels unwell
   And faints for a spell
(But not for too terribly long).

Look, Bacchae are starting the revel
With hair that they shake and dishevel!
   Look, Satyrs join in
   With no notion of sin—
Part God and part man and part devil!

Look, drunken Silenus appears
In between his pet donkey’s huge ears!
   As he tipples and totters
   Towards Bacchus’s daughters,
The Satyrs provoke him with cheers.

Here’s the god of the booze and the binge!
His surrey is topped with a fringe
   Of Chardonnay grapes;
   On his tigresses’ napes
The reins have an aureate tinge.

Unlike Theseus’s homecoming fleet,
The girl has turned white as a sheet.
   She’s afraid and surprised
   And has now realized
That she can’t move her tongue or her feet.

She trembles again and again
Like aspens astir in a glen;
   As she trembles and trembles
   She also resembles
The whisper of reeds in a fen.

Said Bacchus, “How pleasant to meet you!
The Olympians know how to treat you:
   With the flowers that they’ll toss us,
   Dear bride from Cnossus,
They’ll show just how warmly they greet you.

“Did I mention that marriage is nigh?
My gift is a part of the sky,
   Whence the light from your crown
   Will come glittering down
And lost ships will be led from on high.”

His tigresses tied with a lariat,
He nimbly leaped out of his chariot—
   But wherever he put
   The full weight of his foot,
The sands could not easily carry it.

He acts without further delay
(A mere mortal could not but obey),
   Puts the girl on his knees—
   Gods do as they please—
And whisks Ariadne away.

It’s time for the wedding festivities!
The satyrs indulge their proclivities,
   And songs fill the air
   For the newlywed pair
As they join on their couch and they live at ease.

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In the next issue: How to behave at a party. Stay tuned.