Avsnitt
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Ἄνδρά μοι ἔννεπε, Μοῦσα, πολύτροπον, ὃς μάλα πολλά
πλάγχθη, ’πεὶ Τροίης ἱερὸν πτολίεθρον ἔπερσεν ·
πολλῶν δ’ ἀνθρώπων ϝἴδεν ἄστεα καὶ νόϝον ἔγνω,
πολλὰ δ’ ὅ γ’ ἐν πόντωι πάθεν ἄλγεα ὃν κατὰ θυμόν
ἀρνύμενος ἥν τε ψυχὴν καὶ νόστον ἑταίρων.
ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ ὧς ἑτάρους ἐρρύσατο, ἱέμενός περ·
αὐτῶν γὰρ σφετέρηισιν ἀτασθαλίηισιν ὄλοντο,
νήπιοι, οἳ κατὰ βοῦς Ὑπερίονος Ἠϝελίοιο
ἤσθιον· αὐτὰρ ὃ τοῖσιν ἀφείλετο νόστιμον ἦμαρ.
τῶν ἁμόθεν γε, θεά, θύγατερ Διός, ϝεἰπὲ καὶ ἡμῖν.
I hereby present first fruits of my mission to sing Homer: it amounts to a reaffirmation of the single articulated breath of the Homeric epos. I shall explain what I mean. The Homeric hexameter has a rich prehistory. It was born in a circle dance, emulating the newly stable paths of the sun’s outer planets with their regular retrogressions at opposition. (The leftward steps in the dance occurred from steps 9 to 12 of the 17, corresponding to the syllables between the trochaic caesura and the bucolic diaeresis.) It lent its rhythm to the chanting of catalogues, memorialising by bringing to orchestic life the list of ancestors and events that were shared in common by a people and a place. As these catalogues expanded internally, like a concertina, into episodic narratives, the hexameter’s story ends as a choice vehicle for epic narrative and drama, like the English pentameter. It persisted in this guise, somewhat remarkably, in the Latin language and the Roman era.
When I began this project, I tended to pause at what I have demonstrated to be a mid-line accentual cadence in Homer’s hexameter. This accentual cadence generates the two kinds of caesura in the third foot of the six. There is often a pause in sense at this location, and when one attempts to sing the pitch changes indicated in the score, a pause here is often welcome to separate the pitched rhythms before and after. In its history as a medium, the hexameter may well have observed a pause at mid-line, for example, in citharodic and other styles of melodic performance, including when using Homer’s verses. But I have become convinced by the texts we have that the Iliad and the Odyssey were composed for performance by a thespian rhapsode bearing a wand; and that in the composer’s hands the hexameter line had become a unit of expression—a single articulated breath. It was of course rhythmic and syncopated, and tonally inflected, but it was a single breath of speech. The articulation or articulations were phrasal, shaped by the pitch accent, but not necessarily requiring pauses. The necessary pause for breath was generally at line end, but I believe the performer’s freedom was comparable to a Shakespearean’s: a pause anywhere was permissible if it counted, and was always welcome at mid-line or at the diaeresis, if that worked better than at line end.
Stephen Daitz argued that the hexameter should be recited without a pause. I have given evidence that some lines in Homer seem to be scripted with a pause (in my new book, Singing Homer’s Spell, now available on Amazon, and soon in an Apple ebook complete with audio demonstrations). Yet I agree with Daitz about the integrity of the Homeric line in performance. It seems somehow to live in the consciousness of the performer, who will not breathe only at the end of each line, but when the lines and phrases themselves instruct him to. The orchestration of the breath is not beyond Homer’s scripting. That is a discovery about Homer’s stature and nature awaiting every Homeric performer! If Shakespeare has had his way with you, you will know what I mean: real verse sprung from a poet knows how to articulate itself.
Here, for now, is the opening of the Odyssey.
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The shaping and self-organising of phrases in recitation is the ultimate proof in the pudding, that the law of tonal prominence has at last released the rhythmic tonal motion, the music, of ancient Greek prose and verse. Perhaps the greatest treasury of all to be tapped by the new law is that of ancient tragic and comic dialogue. Nowhere is the reward so immediately present as when Greek iambic verse comes to life. The words seem to answer their speaker and sing themselves, just like when you crack the reading of a line from Shakespeare. Here is the opening speech, or salvo, of Sophocles’ Antigone, spoken by the heroine:
ὦ κοινὸν αὐτάδελφον | Ἰσμήνης κάρα,
ἆρ᾽ οἶσθ᾽ ὅ τι Ζεὺς | τῶν ἀπ᾽ Οἰδίπου κακῶν
ὁποῖον οὐχὶ νῷν | ἔτι ζώσαιν τελεῖ;
οὐδὲν γὰρ οὔτ᾽ ἀλγεινὸν | οὔτ᾽ ἄτης ἄτερ
οὔτ᾽ αἰσχρὸν οὔτ᾽ ἄτιμόν (|) ἐσθ᾽, ὁποῖον οὐ
τῶν σῶν τε κἀμῶν | οὐκ ὄπωπ᾽ ἐγὼ κακῶν.
καὶ νῦν τί τοῦτ᾽ αὖ φασι | πανδήμῳ πόλει
κήρυγμα θεῖναι | τὸν στρατηγὸν ἀρτίως;
ἔχεις τι κεἰσήκουσας; | ἤ σε λανθάνει
πρὸς τοὺς φίλους στείχοντα | τῶν ἐχθρῶν κακά;
In Gilbert Murray’s translation:
My own, mine sister, O beloved face,
Tell me—of all the curses of our race,
What curse shall God not shelf off thee and me?
Surely in is no pain, no misery,
No vileness or dishonour, that we two
Have not already seen; and now this new
Edict, proclaimed by our new Prince's word
On whole our people . . . knowst thou? Hast thou heard?
Or is it hid from thee? There comes a fate
On one we love meet for the worst we hate.
Listen, and try it yourself! Such operatic iambs—ah Shakespeare’s soft English can only dream!
David
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Saknas det avsnitt?
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The key to reading Greek aloud—that is, the first step in treating ancient texts in the way that they were intended to be used—is to know which syllables were weighted in the delivery. This is to pay attention to ancient Greek usage, which describes the pitch changes in Greek prosody with the words ‘sharp’ (ὀξύς) and ‘heavy’ (βαρύς). With respect to prosodic pitch these do not mean, as is often erroneously stated, ‘high’ and ‘low’, but ‘sharply rising’ and ‘heavily falling’. When one applies them to a voice, sharpness and heaviness intuitively connote different kinds of intensity, not only tonal shifts. It is therefore reasonable to suppose that these Greek prosodic qualities of sharp and heavy intonations were not unlike the sounds, including pitch changes, associated with the familiar English stress prosody. In particular, when one determines which Greek syllables bore the heavy Greek prosody, one knows which syllables ‘anchor’ the delivery, and which ones the speech lands on. The sharp syllables, on the other hand, propel and energise the line, including at the ends.
καὶ ὅσοι φθόγγοι ταχεῖς τε καὶ βραδεῖς φαίνονται, τοτὲ μὲν ἀνάρμοστοι φερόμενοι δι’ ἀνομοιότητα τῆς ἐν ἡμῖν ὑπ’ αὐτῶν κινήσεως, τοτὲ δὲ ξύμφωνοι δι’ ὁμοιότητα. τὰς γὰρ τῶν προτέρων καὶ θαττόνων οἱ βραδύτεροι κινήσεις, ἀποπαυομένας ἤδη τε εἰς ὅμοιον ἐληλυθυίας αἷς ὕστερον αὐτοὶ προσφερόμενοι κινοῦσιν ἐκείνας, καταλαμβάνουσι, καταλαμβάνοντες δὲ οὐκ ἄλλην ἐπεμβάλλοντες ἀνετάραξαν κίνησιν, ἀλλ’ ἀρχὴν βραδυτέρας φορᾶς κατὰ τὴν τῆς θάττονος ἀποληγούσης δὲ ὁμοιότητα προσάψαντες μίαν ἐξ ὀξείας καὶ βαρείας ξυνεκεράσαντο πάθην, ὅθεν ἡδονὴν μὲν τοῖς ἄφροσιν, εὐφροσύνην δὲ τοῖς ἔμφροσι διὰ τὴν τῆς θείας ἁρμονίας μίμησιν ἐν θνηταῖς γενομένην φοραῖς παρέσχον. (Timaeus 80a ff.)
[We must pursue] also those sounds which appear quick and slow, sharp [ὀξεῖς] and heavy [βαρεῖς], at one time borne in discord because of the disagreement of the motion [κίνησις] caused by them in us, but at another in concord because of agreement. For the slower sounds overtake the movements [κινήσεις] of those earlier and quicker ones, when these are already ceasing and have come into agreement with those motions with which afterwards, when they are brought to bear, the slow sounds themselves move [κινοῦσιν] them; and in overtaking they did not cause a disturbance, imposing another motion [κίνησις], but once they had attached the beginning of a slower passage, in accord with the agreement of the quicker one, which was fading, they mixed together a single experience out of sharp and heavy sound, whence they furnished pleasure to the mindless, but peace of mind to the thoughtful, because of the imitation of the divine harmony arisen in mortal orbits.
I demonstrate here how intuitive performance can become, when I apply the law of tonal prominence to Greek prose. The new law finally makes sense of Greek rhythm, in prose speech as well as poetry. The accent marks preserved in our texts had appeared to have a purely random relation to emphasis in lines and sentences. The breakthrough was to discover that whenever the syllable following the acute mark was long, it bore a down-glide in pitch which carried the prosodic weight. That is, in certain definite circumstances it was the syllable following, rather than the graphically accented syllable, which was prominent. Now, with the discovery of the new law, phrases and sentences seem to take sonic shape in a way that makes sense to those raised in Indo-European languages. Phrases seem to ‘self-organise’, rather than intone suddenly and randomly. An author’s voice emerges.
I have picked the most obscure passage in Plato I know. I shall not attempt to explain it here. I have merely recited it in the new way, and supplied my translation below. In speaking it out I wish to share the simple experience I have been blessed with: even if it occasionally seems that what Plato is saying is ‘all Greek to me,’ at least now one is not decoding symbols, but listening to someone talking, someone trying to describe something subtle.
It seems to me Plato is describing the musical motion of an Homeric hexameter, both objectively and subjectively as we like to say: at once both outside and inside. I say in my recent book, Singing Homer’s Spell: “[he] is trying to describe the phenomenology of a poetic or melodic line, the way it moves and cadences both internally and finally, and seems to be trying to describe the experience of the hexameter dance of the Muses in particular. Remember that Greek writers had no recourse to abstract terms derived from Greek or Latin, like even our ‘rhythm’ and ‘accent’, to help describe phenomena that are hard to get a perspective on at the best of times, so as to put them into words and sound scientific when doing so.”
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Recording and translation © A. P. David 2022.
Greek text hyperlinked to lexica via Perseus (perseus.tufts.edu):
αὐτὰρ ἐγὼν ἐπὶ νῆας ἅμ᾽ ἀντιθέοις ἑτάροισιν
ἤια, πολλὰ δέ μοι κραδίη πόρφυρε κιόντι.
αὐτὰρ ἐπεί ῥ᾽ ἐπὶ νῆα κατήλθομεν ἠδὲ θάλασσαν,
δόρπον θ᾽ ὁπλισάμεσθ᾽, ἐπί τ᾽ ἤλυθεν ἀμβροσίη νύξ,
δὴ τότε κοιμήθημεν ἐπὶ ῥηγμῖνι θαλάσσης.
ἦμος δ᾽ ἠριγένεια φάνη ῥοδοδάκτυλος Ἠώς,
νῆας μὲν πάμπρωτον ἐρύσσαμεν εἰς ἅλα δῖαν,
ἐν δ᾽ ἱστοὺς τιθέμεσθα καὶ ἱστία νηυσὶν ἐίσῃς,
ἂν δὲ καὶ αὐτοὶ βάντες ἐπὶ κληῖσι καθῖζον:
ἑξῆς δ᾽ ἑζόμενοι πολιὴν ἅλα τύπτον ἐρετμοῖς.
ἂψ δ᾽ εἰς Αἰγύπτοιο διιπετέος ποταμοῖο
στῆσα νέας, καὶ ἔρεξα τεληέσσας ἑκατόμβας.
αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ κατέπαυσα θεῶν χόλον αἰὲν ἐόντων,
χεῦ᾽ Ἀγαμέμνονι τύμβον, ἵν᾽ ἄσβεστον κλέος εἴη.
ταῦτα τελευτήσας νεόμην, ἔδοσαν δέ μοι οὖρον
ἀθάνατοι, τοί μ᾽ ὦκα φίλην ἐς πατρίδ᾽ ἔπεμψαν.
ἀλλ᾽ ἄγε νῦν ἐπίμεινον ἐνὶ μεγάροισιν ἐμοῖσιν,
ὄφρα κεν ἑνδεκάτη τε δυωδεκάτη τε γένηται:
καὶ τότε σ᾽ εὖ πέμψω, δώσω δέ τοι ἀγλαὰ δῶρα,
τρεῖς ἵππους καὶ δίφρον ἐύξοον: αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα
δώσω καλὸν ἄλεισον, ἵνα σπένδῃσθα θεοῖσιν
ἀθανάτοις ἐμέθεν μεμνημένος ἤματα πάντα.’
Samuel Butler’s translation with certain names Hellenised:
‘… whereon I turned back to the
ships with my companions, and my heart was clouded with care as I
went along. When we reached the ships we got supper ready, for night
was falling, and camped down upon the beach. When the child of morning,
rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, we drew our ships into the water, and
put our masts and sails within them; then we went on board ourselves,
took our seats on the benches, and smote the grey sea with our oars.
I again stationed my ships in the heaven-fed stream of Egypt, and
offered hecatombs that were full and sufficient. When I had thus appeased
heaven's anger, I raised a barrow to the memory of Agamemnon that
his name might live for ever, after which I had a quick passage home,
for the gods sent me a fair wind.
‘And now for yourself—stay here some ten or twelve days longer, and
I will then speed you on your way. I will make you a noble present
of a chariot and three horses. I will also give you a beautiful chalice
that so long as you live you may think of me whenever you make a drink-offering
to the immortal gods.’
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Recording and translation © A. P. David 2022.
Greek text hyperlinked to lexica via Perseus (perseus.tufts.edu):
ὣς ἐφάμην, ὁ δέ μ᾽ αὐτίκ᾽ ἀμειβόμενος προσέειπεν:
‘‘υἱὸς Λαέρτεω, Ἰθάκῃ ἔνι οἰκία ναίων:
τὸν δ᾽ ἴδον ἐν νήσῳ θαλερὸν κατὰ δάκρυ χέοντα,
νύμφης ἐν μεγάροισι Καλυψοῦς, ἥ μιν ἀνάγκῃ
ἴσχει: ὁ δ᾽ οὐ δύναται ἣν πατρίδα γαῖαν ἱκέσθαι:
οὐ γάρ οἱ πάρα νῆες ἐπήρετμοι καὶ ἑταῖροι,
οἵ κέν μιν πέμποιεν ἐπ᾽ εὐρέα νῶτα θαλάσσης.
σοι δ᾽ οὐ θέσφατόν ἐστι, διοτρεφὲς ὦ Μενέλαε,
Ἄργει ἐν ἱπποβότῳ θανέειν καὶ πότμον ἐπισπεῖν,
ἀλλά σ᾽ ἐς Ἠλύσιον πεδίον καὶ πείρατα γαίης
ἀθάνατοι πέμψουσιν, ὅθι ξανθὸς Ῥαδάμανθυς,
τῇ περ ῥηίστη βιοτὴ πέλει ἀνθρώποισιν:
οὐ νιφετός, οὔτ᾽ ἂρ χειμὼν πολὺς οὔτε ποτ᾽ ὄμβρος,
ἀλλ᾽ αἰεὶ Ζεφύροιο λιγὺ πνείοντος ἀήτας
Ὠκεανὸς ἀνίησιν ἀναψύχειν ἀνθρώπους:
οὕνεκ᾽ ἔχεις Ἑλένην καί σφιν γαμβρὸς Διός ἐσσι.’’
ὣς εἰπὼν ὑπὸ πόντον ἐδύσετο κυμαίνοντα.
Samuel Butler’s translation with certain names Hellenised:
“‘The third man,’ he answered, ‘is Odysseus who dwells in Ithaca. I can see him in an island sorrowing bitterly in the house of the nymph Calypso, who is keeping him prisoner, and he cannot reach his home for he has no ships nor sailors to take him over the sea. As for your own end, Menelaus, you shall not die in Argos, but the gods will take you to the Elysian plain, which is at the ends of the world. There fair haired Rhadamanthus reigns, and men lead an easier life than any where else in the world, for in Elysium there falls not rain, nor hail, nor snow, but Oceanus breathes ever with a West wind that sings softly from the sea, and gives fresh life to all men. This will happen to you because you have married Helen, and are Zeus’s son in law.’
“As he spoke he dived under the waves …
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Recording and translation © A. P. David 2022.
Greek text hyperlinked to lexica via Perseus (perseus.tufts.edu):
ὣς ἔφατ᾽, αὐτὰρ ἐμοί γε κατεκλάσθη φίλον ἦτορ,
κλαῖον δ᾽ ἐν ψαμάθοισι καθήμενος, οὐδέ νύ μοι κῆρ
ἤθελ᾽ ἔτι ζώειν καὶ ὁρᾶν φάος ἠελίοιο.
αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ κλαίων τε κυλινδόμενός τε κορέσθην,
δὴ τότε με προσέειπε γέρων ἅλιος νημερτής:
‘μηκέτι, Ἀτρέος υἱέ, πολὺν χρόνον ἀσκελὲς οὕτω
κλαῖ᾽, ἐπεὶ οὐκ ἄνυσίν τινα δήομεν: ἀλλὰ τάχιστα
πείρα ὅπως κεν δὴ σὴν πατρίδα γαῖαν ἵκηαι.
ἢ γάρ μιν ζωόν γε κιχήσεαι, ἤ κεν Ὀρέστης
κτεῖνεν ὑποφθάμενος, σὺ δέ κεν τάφου ἀντιβολήσαις.’
ὣς ἔφατ᾽, αὐτὰρ ἐμοὶ κραδίη καὶ θυμὸς ἀγήνωρ
αὖτις ἐνὶ στήθεσσι καὶ ἀχνυμένῳ περ ἰάνθη,
καί μιν φωνήσας ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδων:
‘τούτους μὲν δὴ οἶδα: σὺ δὲ τρίτον ἄνδρ᾽ ὀνόμαζε,
ὅς τις ἔτι ζωὸς κατερύκεται εὐρέι πόντῳ
ἠὲ θανών: ἐθέλω δὲ καὶ ἀχνύμενός περ ἀκοῦσαι.’
Samuel Butler’s translation with certain names Hellenised:
“Thus spoke Proteus, and I was broken hearted as I heard him. I sat
down upon the sands and wept; I felt as though I could no longer bear
to live nor look upon the light of the sun. Presently, when I had
had my fill of weeping and writhing upon the ground, the old man of
the sea said, ‘Son of Atreus, do not waste any more time in crying
so bitterly; it can do no manner of good; find your way home as fast
as ever you can, for Aegisthus be still alive, and even though Orestes
has been beforehand with you in killing him, you may yet come in for his
funeral.’
“On this I took comfort in spite of all my sorrow, and said, ‘I know,
then, about these two; tell me, therefore, about the third man of
whom you spoke; is he still alive, but at sea, and unable to get home?
or is he dead? Tell me, no matter how much it may grieve me.’
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Recording and translation © A. P. David 2022.
Greek text hyperlinked to lexica via Perseus (perseus.tufts.edu):
‘σὸς δέ που ἔκφυγε κῆρας ἀδελφεὸς ἠδ᾽ ὑπάλυξεν
ἐν νηυσὶ γλαφυρῇσι: σάωσε δὲ πότνια Ἥρη.
ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε δὴ τάχ᾽ ἔμελλε Μαλειάων ὄρος αἰπὺ
ἵξεσθαι, τότε δή μιν ἀναρπάξασα θύελλα
πόντον ἐπ᾽ ἰχθυόεντα φέρεν βαρέα στενάχοντα,
ἀγροῦ ἐπ᾽ ἐσχατιήν, ὅθι δώματα ναῖε Θυέστης
τὸ πρίν, ἀτὰρ τότ᾽ ἔναιε Θυεστιάδης Αἴγισθος.
ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε δὴ καὶ κεῖθεν ἐφαίνετο νόστος ἀπήμων,
ἂψ δὲ θεοὶ οὖρον στρέψαν, καὶ οἴκαδ᾽ ἵκοντο,
ἦ τοι ὁ μὲν χαίρων ἐπεβήσετο πατρίδος αἴης
καὶ κύνει ἁπτόμενος ἣν πατρίδα: πολλὰ δ᾽ ἀπ᾽ αὐτοῦ
δάκρυα θερμὰ χέοντ᾽, ἐπεὶ ἀσπασίως ἴδε γαῖαν.
τὸν δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἀπὸ σκοπιῆς εἶδε σκοπός, ὅν ῥα καθεῖσεν
Αἴγισθος δολόμητις ἄγων, ὑπὸ δ᾽ ἔσχετο μισθὸν
χρυσοῦ δοιὰ τάλαντα: φύλασσε δ᾽ ὅ γ᾽ εἰς ἐνιαυτόν,
μή ἑ λάθοι παριών, μνήσαιτο δὲ θούριδος ἀλκῆς.
βῆ δ᾽ ἴμεν ἀγγελέων πρὸς δώματα ποιμένι λαῶν.
αὐτίκα δ᾽ Αἴγισθος δολίην ἐφράσσατο τέχνην:
κρινάμενος κατὰ δῆμον ἐείκοσι φῶτας ἀρίστους
εἷσε λόχον, ἑτέρωθι δ᾽ ἀνώγει δαῖτα πένεσθαι.
αὐτὰρ ὁ βῆ καλέων Ἀγαμέμνονα, ποιμένα λαῶν
ἵπποισιν καὶ ὄχεσφιν, ἀεικέα μερμηρίζων.
τὸν δ᾽ οὐκ εἰδότ᾽ ὄλεθρον ἀνήγαγε καὶ κατέπεφνεν
δειπνίσσας, ὥς τίς τε κατέκτανε βοῦν ἐπὶ φάτνῃ.
οὐδέ τις Ἀτρεΐδεω ἑτάρων λίπεθ᾽ οἵ οἱ ἕποντο,
οὐδέ τις Αἰγίσθου, ἀλλ᾽ ἔκταθεν ἐν μεγάροισιν.’
Samuel Butler’s translation with certain names Hellenised:
“‘Your brother and his ships escaped, for Hera protected him, but
when he was just about to reach the high promontory of Malea, he was
caught by a heavy gale which carried him out to sea again sorely against
his will, and drove him to the foreland where Thyestes used to dwell,
but where Aegisthus was then living. By and by, however, it seemed
as though he was to return safely after all, for the gods backed the
wind into its old quarter and they reached home; whereon Agamemnon
kissed his native soil, and shed tears of joy at finding himself in
his own country.
“‘Now there was a watchman whom Aegisthus kept always on the watch,
and to whom he had promised two talents of gold. This man had been
looking out for a whole year to make sure that Agamemnon did not give
him the slip and prepare war; when, therefore, this man saw Agamemnon
go by, he went and told Aegisthus who at once began to lay a plot
for him. He picked twenty of his bravest warriors and placed them
in ambuscade on one side the cloister, while on the opposite side
he prepared a banquet. Then he sent his chariots and horsemen to Agamemnon,
and invited him to the feast, but he meant foul play. He got him there,
all unsuspicious of the doom that was awaiting him, and killed him
when the banquet was over as though he were butchering an ox in the
shambles; not one of Agamemnon's followers was left alive, nor yet
one of Aegisthus', but they were all killed there in the cloisters.’
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Recording and translation ©A. P. David 2022.
Greek text hyperlinked to lexica via Perseus (perseus.tufts.edu):
ἀλλὰ καὶ ὣς μύθοισιν ἀμειβόμενος προσέειπον:
‘ταῦτα μὲν οὕτω δὴ τελέω, γέρον, ὡς σὺ κελεύεις.
ἀλλ᾽ ἄγε μοι τόδε εἰπὲ καὶ ἀτρεκέως κατάλεξον,
ἢ πάντες σὺν νηυσὶν ἀπήμονες ἦλθον Ἀχαιοί,
οὓς Νέστωρ καὶ ἐγὼ λίπομεν Τροίηθεν ἰόντες,
ἦέ τις ὤλετ᾽ ὀλέθρῳ ἀδευκέι ἧς ἐπὶ νηὸς
ἠὲ φίλων ἐν χερσίν, ἐπεὶ πόλεμον τολύπευσεν.’
ὣς ἐφάμην, ὁ δέ μ᾽ αὐτίκ᾽ ἀμειβόμενος προσέειπεν:
Ἀτρεΐδη, τί με ταῦτα διείρεαι; οὐδέ τί σε χρὴ
ἴδμεναι, οὐδὲ δαῆναι ἐμὸν νόον: οὐδέ σέ φημι
δὴν ἄκλαυτον ἔσεσθαι, ἐπὴν ἐὺ πάντα πύθηαι.
πολλοὶ μὲν γὰρ τῶν γε δάμεν, πολλοὶ δὲ λίποντο:
ἀρχοὶ δ᾽ αὖ δύο μοῦνοι Ἀχαιῶν χαλκοχιτώνων
ἐν νόστῳ ἀπόλοντο: μάχῃ δέ τε καὶ σὺ παρῆσθα.
εἷς δ᾽ ἔτι που ζωὸς κατερύκεται εὐρέι πόντῳ.
Αἴας μὲν μετὰ νηυσὶ δάμη δολιχηρέτμοισι.
Γυρῇσίν μιν πρῶτα Ποσειδάων ἐπέλασσεν
πέτρῃσιν μεγάλῃσι καὶ ἐξεσάωσε θαλάσσης:
καί νύ κεν ἔκφυγε κῆρα καὶ ἐχθόμενός περ Ἀθήνῃ,
εἰ μὴ ὑπερφίαλον ἔπος ἔκβαλε καὶ μέγ᾽ ἀάσθη:
φῆ ῥ᾽ ἀέκητι θεῶν φυγέειν μέγα λαῖτμα θαλάσσης.
τοῦ δὲ Ποσειδάων μεγάλ᾽ ἔκλυεν αὐδήσαντος:
αὐτίκ᾽ ἔπειτα τρίαιναν ἑλὼν χερσὶ στιβαρῇσιν
ἤλασε Γυραίην πέτρην, ἀπὸ δ᾽ ἔσχισεν αὐτήν:
καὶ τὸ μὲν αὐτόθι μεῖνε, τὸ δὲ τρύφος ἔμπεσε πόντῳ,
τῷ ῥ᾽ Αἴας τὸ πρῶτον ἐφεζόμενος μέγ᾽ ἀάσθη:
τὸν δ᾽ ἐφόρει κατὰ πόντον ἀπείρονα κυμαίνοντα.
ὣς ὁ μὲν ἔνθ᾽ ἀπόλωλεν, ἐπεὶ πίεν ἁλμυρὸν ὕδωρ.’
Samuel Butler’s translation with certain names Hellenised:
“ … nevertheless, I answered, ‘I will do
all, old man, that you have laid upon me; but now tell me, and tell
me true, whether all the Achaeans whom Nestor and I left behind us
when we set sail from Troy have got home safely, or whether any one
of them came to a bad end either on board his own ship or among his
friends when the days of his fighting were done.’
“‘Son of Atreus,’ he answered, ‘why ask me? You had better not know
what I can tell you, for your eyes will surely fill when you have
heard my story. Many of those about whom you ask are dead and gone,
but many still remain, and only two of the chief men among the Achaeans
perished during their return home. As for what happened on the field
of battle—you were there yourself. A third Achaean leader is still
at sea, alive, but hindered from returning. Ajax was wrecked, for
Poseidon drove him on to the great rocks of Gyrae; nevertheless, he
let him get safe out of the water, and in spite of all Athena’s hatred
he would have escaped death, if he had not ruined himself by boasting.
He said the gods could not drown him even though they had tried to
do so, and when Poseidon heard this large talk, he seized his trident
in his two brawny hands, and split the rock of Gyrae in two pieces.
The base remained where it was, but the part on which Ajax was sitting
fell headlong into the sea and carried Ajax with it; so he drank salt
water and was drowned …
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‘δαιμονίη μή μοί τι λίην ἀκαχίζεο θυμῷ:
οὐ γάρ τίς μ᾽ ὑπὲρ αἶσαν ἀνὴρ Ἄϝϊδι προϊάψει:
μοῖραν δ᾽ οὔ τινά φημι πεφυγμένον ἔμμεναι ἀνδρῶν,
οὐ κακὸν οὐδὲ μὲν ἐσθλόν, ἐπὴν τὰ πρῶτα γένηται.
ἀλλ᾽ εἰς ϝοἶκον ἰοῦσα τὰ σ᾽ αὐτῆς ϝἔργα κόμιζε
ἱστόν τ᾽ ἠλακάτην τε, καὶ ἀμφιπόλοισι κέλευε
ϝἔργον ἐποίχεσθαι: πόλεμος δ᾽ ἄνδρεσσι μελήσει
πᾶσι, μάλιστα δ᾽ ἐμοί, τοὶ Ἰλίῳ ἐγγεγάασιν.’ (VI.486-493)
‘Divinity, do not on my account grieve yourself too much at heart;
For there is no one, no man, who beyond my fate will throw me forth into Hades:
No one escapes his portion; I say, no such man exists,
Not a coward, not even a brave man, from the moment he was first born.
But go into the house, and manage the works that do belong to you—
The loom and the distaff—and instruct the assistants
Going back and forth at the work. War shall be the concern of men—
All of us, but me especially, of those who are native in Ilium.’
Recording and Lecture © A. P. David 2022.
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‘δᾶϝερ ἐμεῖο κυνὸς κακομηχάνου ὀκρυοέσσης,
ὥς μ᾽ ὄφελ᾽ ἤματι τῷ ὅτε με πρῶτον τέκε μήτηρ
οἴχεσθαι προφέρουσα κακὴ ἀνέμοιο θύελλα
εἰς ὄρος ἢ εἰς κῦμα πολυφλοίσβοιο θαλάσσης,
ἔνθά με κῦμ᾽ ἀπόϝερσε πάρος τάδε ϝἔργα γενέσθαι.
αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ τάδε γ᾽ ὧδε θεοὶ κακὰ τεκμήραντο,
ἀνδρὸς ἔπειτ᾽ ὤφελλον ἀμείνονος εἶναι ἄκοιτις,
ὃς ϝᾔδη νέμεσίν τε καὶ αἴσχεα πόλλ᾽ ἀνθρώπων.
τούτῳ δ᾽ οὔτ᾽ ἂρ νῦν φρένες ἔμπεδοι οὔτ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ὀπίσσω
ἔσσονται: τὼ καί μιν ἐπαυρήσεσθαι ὀΐω.
ἀλλ᾽ ἄγε νῦν εἴσελθε καὶ ἕζεο τῷδ᾽ ἐπὶ δίφρῳ
δᾶϝερ, ἐπεί σε μάλιστα πόνος φρένας ἀμφιβέβηκεν
εἵνεκ᾽ ἐμεῖο κυνὸς καὶ Ἀλεξάνδρου ἕνεκ᾽ ἄτης,
οἷσιν ἐπὶ Ζεὺς θῆκε κακὸν μόρον, ὡς καὶ ὀπίσσω
ἀνθρώποισι πελώμεθ᾽ ἀϝοίδιμοι ἐσσομένοισι.’ (Iliad VI.344-58)
‘Oh brother mine, of me the b***h-dog, the evil-contriver, a woman abhorrent,
If only on that day when first my mother bore me
There had come and carried me off an evil blast of storm wind
Into a mountain or a wave of the thunderous crashing sea
Where a wave had swept me away before these deeds came to pass.
But since the gods have thus ordained these things—
If only I had been a better man's wife,
A man who was sensible of the indignation and the many revilings of people.
But this man’s mind is not now stable, nor indeed will be
In future; so I suppose he shall reap the fruit of it.
But come now—enter in—and sit upon this chair,
Brother dear, since it is you most of all whose mind is beset with trouble,
Because of me, the b***h, and because of Alexander’s folly—
We upon whom Zeus has placed an evil fate, so that even in the hereafter
Of humanity we be sung about—songs for men yet to be.’
Recording and Lecture © A. P. David 2022
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ὣς οἵ γ᾽ ἀμφίεπον τάφον Ἕκτορος ἱπποδάμοιο.
This is the last line of the Iliad: ‘So did the men arrange the burial of Hector, tamer of horses.’
Recording and lecture © A. P. David 2022.
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Translation © A. P. David 2022
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Translation © A. P. David 2022.
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3. Quintilian’s witness
It is often claimed that Quintilian’s description of the Latin accent is hampered or confused by the use of descriptive terms borrowed from Greek grammarians:
The Roman accent was a stress, while the Greek was a pitch accent … Roman grammarians borrow the Greek terminology and speak of accents in terms of pitch.
And in a more recent Loeb edition:
The use of Greek terminology gave rise to considerable confusion and difficulty for the Latin grammarians, who have to use gravis for unaccented syllables, and acutus both for the tonic acute accent of Greek and for the stressed syllables of Latin.
There are in fact three terms in Quintilian’s description of Latin prosody: ‘acute’, ‘flex’ and ‘grave’. The more recent editor does not even mention Quintilian’s use of ‘flex’, one presumes because he is embarrassed to impute to Quintilian the idea that Latin had a circumflex. He is also misleading about Quintilian’s use of gravis, as we shall see. It is thought that a sort of Greek envy, or emulation, guides Roman poetry and scholarship generally, in this case to the point of misrepresenting the Latin accent as though it were defined by a Greek-style pitch change.
These descriptors are indeed calques of the Greek terms ὀξύς, (περι)σπώμενον and βαρύς. The confusion, however, seems largely to be in the modern interpretation rather than the ancient author. A Latin theory of the contonation will be seen to vindicate Quintilian’s use of Greek terms, to describe completely homologous phenomena in Latin in a completely homologous way.
It will be shown in particular that Quintilian does not mean ‘unaccented syllables’ when he designates them as ‘grave’, but is using this term to describe specifically the svarita, the down-glide of the contonation that automatically follows the pitch rise. In this sense his description, applying Greek concepts in a correct way to describe Latin phenomena, may serve to correct the misdirection caused by the use of this term ‘grave’ in the notational practice of written Greek manuscripts, where it indicates by a downward angled sign the suppression of an acute, rather than a positive phonic feature in its own right.
In Greek grammar a whole class of words (heretofore pointlessly) were called ‘barytone’. Such a word is ἄνθρωπος; under the new theory, we describe this word as ‘barytone on the penult.’ The voice rises on the antepenult, as indicated by the acute sign, then falls in pitch over the two moras of the long penult. The prominent syllable according to Allen’s stress rules is this penult. Latin is supposed to stress a long penult, and for Quintilian this means it must bear the acute or the flex (e.g. anthrôpus). Quintilian cites a name of Greek origin that Latin speakers pronounce with apparent error in relation to Latin usage: Céthēgus. He cites other names of Greek origin that from his youth were pronounced with pitch rise on the antepenult, although the penult is long, whereas the Latin habit should yield Cethêgus. He also cites Cámillus, a Latin name that shows this prosody in pronunciation, where the Latin rule expects Camíllus.
The errors in question are described as switching acute and grave—as when Camíllus is pronounced acute on the first syllable, and so the penult switches from acute to grave—or switching grave for flex, as happens in the penult when Cethêgus is pronounced with initial acute. (Quintilian seems always to focus on the pitch pattern of the penult.) Translators err badly in this passage when they have Quintilian say that acute on the intitial syllable Céthegus causes the quantity of the middle syllable to change; they presume upon the text—there is no mention of quantity; the only change (mutatur, Inst. Orat. 1.5.23) the author is discussing in the passage is the change from one kind of accent to another, not long to short. The middle ‘e’ remains long, but is pronounced grave rather than flex.
It is in fact a salient feature of both classical Latin and Greek accentuation that the accented syllables do not affect the quantity or vowel grade of neighbouring syllables in pronunciation. (There is of course evidence that the historical initial stress in old Latin did produce these effects in unstressed syllables.) In this sense the alleged Latin ‘stress’ does not bring with it the usual most obvious effects of stress upon unstressed syllables, and by itself this suggests its nature may have more kinship with the pitch accent of Greek than is generally thought.
When Quintilian articulates the Latin accent rule, where the acute must occur within the last three syllables of a word (1.5.30-31), but never the last one, it is worth noting how he describes the case of a short penult: ‘a short syllable in this place will invariably have a grave accent, and so will make the syllable which precedes it (the antepenultimate) acute.’ Note that a grave necessitates an immediately prior acute. This is an odd way of putting things if the story was simply that the acute located the stressed syllable in a word, and that all unstressed syllables are ‘grave’. Quintilian again focuses on the penult, or as he puts it, the middle syllable of the terminal three: whether this syllable is acute, flex, or grave, determines the accentual melody of the whole word. In point of fact, ‘grave’ cannot mean simply unstressed: Quintilian’s usage describes a prosodic phenomenon that is immediately, and necessarily, post-acute. The Greek borrowings can present the non-Latinate shape of a long penult that is all the same grave: that is, not ‘unaccented’, and neither acute nor flex (‘accented’), but grave post-acute. In this entire passage (Inst. Orat. 1.5.22-31), ‘grave’ therefore refers to the second part of the contonation when it occurs on its own syllable, rather than as part of the circumflex.
Quintilian’s description decides in favour of the first formulation of the Latin contonation rule:
In every word, the acute falls within three syllables, whether these are the only syllables in the word or the last three, and in these it is either on the penultimate or on the antepenultimate. Moreover, of the three syllables of which I speak, the middle, if long, will be either acute or circumflex; a short syllable in this place will invariably have a grave accent, and so will make the syllable which precedes it (the antepenultimate) acute.
The formulation in terms of moras predicts that closed penults (where the vowel is ‘long by position’) will show pitch rise on the short vowel with the contonation completed within the syllable (círcus), and that naturally long penults will show the circumflex (mandâre). It seems clear that Quintilian excludes from native Latin the shape of Greek ἄνθρωπος, with rise on the antepenult and long svarita or grave on the penult, but remembers this shape from his youth in the pronunciation of certain Greek names in Latin (plus the name Cámillus!).
What emerges is that these three calques of terms from Greek grammar—acute, grave and (circum)flex—are in fact perfectly natural descriptors for the prosody of Latin, as suited for Latin as they ever were for Greek. This is because Latin also had natural quantity in its vowels and a recessive contonation, which results in these three possible effects when the contonation is placed in such a way as to be either disyllabic or monosyllabic. The key difference lies in the fact Quintilian points out: that the acute (the beginning of a contonation) is differently restricted in its recession than in Greek; it can never occur on the ultima, and because the circumflex contains an acute, neither can the circumflex land there except in the case of monosyllables. In Greek, the restrictions are on the number of moras allowed after the end of the contonation—that is, its immediately trailing βαρύς or svarita component—the feature Quintilian calls ‘grave’, ‘heavy’. Hence in Greek there are oxytone final words that can sound with enclitics, and perispomenon words (circumflex-final), neither of which can occur except in particular circumstances in Latin. Quintilian mentions grammarians who encourage pronouncing certain prepositions with acute-final accents, in the case of circum to avoid confusion with the noun (1.5.25-7), although he himself treats them as proclitics which lose their accent in favour of the accent of the word governed; he cites qui primus (qui prîmus) and ab oris (ab ôris) from line 1 of the Aeneid.
There is therefore no Greek envy going on here. In sharing the disyllabic contonation, and therefore being both tonal and quantitative, same as Greek, Latin is naturally suited to reinforcing Greek-style metres. Of course there is a level of abstraction involved, if these idiosyncratic metres were simply borrowed rather than grounded in traditional Roman dance practice. Some of the Greek metres had no doubt become classical forms rather than stimulants of a living jazz. But the German Mozart set new standards for Italian opera, and brought Italian coloratura to the German Magic Flute. Quintilian is not the least bit confused or filtered when he uses the terms acute, grave and flex to describe Latin prosody. Just as in Greek, this prosody in the classical period was genuinely tonal, and did not have the deleterious effects of stress on unstressed syllables.
As I mentioned, the prehistory of Latin does show direct evidence of the effects of stress; Quintilian’s contemporary forms show the evidence of an antique initial stress upon the following syllable, which persists in the spelling when the accent (mysteriously) became a recessive tonal prominence (e.g., ínimicus > *inamicus*). I maintain that there is something as yet unexplained about the emergence of this species of recessive, tonal accentuation across Greek, Latin and classical Sanskrit.
It is possible Quintilian gives us a snapshot that describes only the practice of his day, which may once have been different. He himself speaks about the pronunciation of Greek names that he heard from teachers in his youth, who performed the grave (svarita) on a long penult where the vetus lex, as he understood it, required a flex. Hence it is possible to wonder how old the old law really was, and if perhaps the practice in the era of Virgil, or in the idiomatic usage of Virgil, may have been different—perhaps more Greek in the sense that it was possible in some cases for the down-glide to occupy two moras. Quintilian, for example, declares solemnly that the heroic verse does not allow an iambus (1.5.29). And yet there is the third word of the Aeneid.
4. Virgil
In other writing I have already made the case for the prosody of canō. Let us now also add the Aeneid’s second word, virum—or virumque with its influencing enclitic. Both these disyllables are unheroic iambs, where the long final coincides with the thesis of the dactyl. The Latin rule stresses them as vírum and cánō, however, each accenting in context the second short of their respective dactyls, and leaving the ictus unstressed. This seems an unlikely effect to be intentional in the first line of the poem, for its very first phrase and cadence at mid-line. In the case of virumque one grammatical school allows that the enclitic causes the accent to shift to the ictus position, virúmque, but we are still left with cánō accenting the foot and line audibly out of place. I am well aware that there may be many educated modern generations used to pronouncing cáno here, from a distance beyond that of Quintilian’s barbarians. But the truth of the matter lies in the Latin contonation.
This is not to deny that Quintilian’s ‘old law’ is not old. It is rather to claim that Virgil’s hexameter, like Homer’s, was a locus of excepta for the sake of the music—Musae gratia. Iambic disyllables represent the only shape where recession of the acute portion of the contonation requires that the down-glide occupy a long syllable of two moras. It seems more than plausible that Virgil deployed such shapes for a rare ultima emphasis. The voice still rises on the short penult, but descends on pitch on the incantation of cánò, ‘I sing’.
The dispute about accentual shifts due to enclitics is also resolved by means of the Latin contonation: the idea that the accent does shift may have come precisely from examples like vírùmque, where the enlitic happens to close the final syllable of virum. This brings the grave down-glide into prominence, perceived as a shift in prominence from the preceding acute. Such a shift is indeed highly unlikely in cases like egomet and amāreve, cited by Gildersleeve and Lodge, which the disputed enclitic rule would stress as egómet and amāréve. The enclitics here do not change the equation of moras, however, and one should expect the old law applied to the whole collocation, in these cases causing no shift: égomet and amáreve. (In the latter case, however, we see perhaps a change from flex to acute, amâre + ve = amáreve.) In this way, analysing in light of the contonation, as I would claim does Quintilian, helps explain an occasional accentual shift caused by enclitics in a completely straightforward way.
There follows a suggested performance text for the opening of Virgil, using acutes for the pitch rise of the contonation and for short vowels in closed syllables, circumflexes for the contonations completed within long vowels, and graves written to follow acutes only on the rare occasions when they are more prominent than the acutes in Virgil. One rediscovers a pattern, familiar to the method from Homer, of syncopation yielding to moments of agreement, but with all the nasalisations and falling cadences of Latin.
Árma vírùmque cánò, Troîae qui prîmus ab ôris
Itáliam, fâto prófugus, Lavíniaque vênit
lítora, múltum ílle et térris iactâtus et álto
vî súperum saêvae mémorem Iunônis ob îram;
múlta quoque et béllo pássus, dum cónderet úrbem,
inférrètque déòs Látio, génus únde Latînum,
Albánìque pátrès, atque áltae moénia Rômae.
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This performance indulges the actor more than the reciter. It serves to demonstrate the histrionic possibilities inherent in the composition when it is no longer constrained by the reciter’s feeling for an underlying dance movement. The text is Allen’s Oxford edition, and I am calling the pronunciation ‘Attic’ for its lack of digamma and other infelicities; but the prosodic data, and the theory of its implementation, is exactly the same as for the recitations already uploaded. You are warmly invited to compare them on this site! Homeric poetry is extraordinarily adaptable. This poetry can also be rendered as isometric dance music, and, in the opposite direction, more indulgently histrionic than is attempted here. An actor can only feel with each rendering that there are still many roads untaken. Enjoy!
ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα, πολύτροπον, ὃς μάλα πολλὰ
πλάγχθη, ἐπεὶ Τροίης ἱερὸν πτολίεθρον ἔπερσεν:
πολλῶν δ᾽ ἀνθρώπων ἴδεν ἄστεα καὶ νόον ἔγνω,
πολλὰ δ᾽ ὅ γ᾽ ἐν πόντῳ πάθεν ἄλγεα ὃν κατὰ θυμόν,
ἀρνύμενος ἥν τε ψυχὴν καὶ νόστον ἑταίρων.
ἀλλ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ὣς ἑτάρους ἐρρύσατο, ἱέμενός περ:
αὐτῶν γὰρ σφετέρῃσιν ἀτασθαλίῃσιν ὄλοντο,
νήπιοι, οἳ κατὰ βοῦς Ὑπερίονος Ἠελίοιο
ἤσθιον: αὐτὰρ ὁ τοῖσιν ἀφείλετο νόστιμον ἦμαρ.
τῶν ἁμόθεν γε, θεά, θύγατερ Διός, εἰπὲ καὶ ἡμῖν.
ἔνθ᾽ ἄλλοι μὲν πάντες, ὅσοι φύγον αἰπὺν ὄλεθρον,
οἴκοι ἔσαν, πόλεμόν τε πεφευγότες ἠδὲ θάλασσαν:
τὸν δ᾽ οἶον νόστου κεχρημένον ἠδὲ γυναικὸς
νύμφη πότνι᾽ ἔρυκε Καλυψὼ δῖα θεάων
ἐν σπέσσι γλαφυροῖσι, λιλαιομένη πόσιν εἶναι.
ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε δὴ ἔτος ἦλθε περιπλομένων ἐνιαυτῶν,
τῷ οἱ ἐπεκλώσαντο θεοὶ οἶκόνδε νέεσθαι
εἰς Ἰθάκην, οὐδ᾽ ἔνθα πεφυγμένος ἦεν ἀέθλων
καὶ μετὰ οἷσι φίλοισι. θεοὶ δ᾽ ἐλέαιρον ἅπαντες
νόσφι Ποσειδάωνος: ὁ δ᾽ ἀσπερχὲς μενέαινεν
ἀντιθέῳ Ὀδυσῆι πάρος ἣν γαῖαν ἱκέσθαι.
ἀλλ᾽ ὁ μὲν Αἰθίοπας μετεκίαθε τηλόθ᾽ ἐόντας,
Αἰθίοπας τοὶ διχθὰ δεδαίαται, ἔσχατοι ἀνδρῶν,
οἱ μὲν δυσομένου Ὑπερίονος οἱ δ᾽ ἀνιόντος,
ἀντιόων ταύρων τε καὶ ἀρνειῶν ἑκατόμβης.
ἔνθ᾽ ὅ γ᾽ ἐτέρπετο δαιτὶ παρήμενος: οἱ δὲ δὴ ἄλλοι
Ζηνὸς ἐνὶ μεγάροισιν Ὀλυμπίου ἁθρόοι ἦσαν.
τοῖσι δὲ μύθων ἦρχε πατὴρ ἀνδρῶν τε θεῶν τε:
μνήσατο γὰρ κατὰ θυμὸν ἀμύμονος Αἰγίσθοιο,
τόν ῥ᾽ Ἀγαμεμνονίδης τηλεκλυτὸς ἔκταν᾽ Ὀρέστης:
τοῦ ὅ γ᾽ ἐπιμνησθεὶς ἔπε᾽ ἀθανάτοισι μετηύδα:
‘ὢ πόποι, οἷον δή νυ θεοὺς βροτοὶ αἰτιόωνται:
ἐξ ἡμέων γάρ φασι κάκ᾽ ἔμμεναι, οἱ δὲ καὶ αὐτοὶ
σφῇσιν ἀτασθαλίῃσιν ὑπὲρ μόρον ἄλγε᾽ ἔχουσιν,
ὡς καὶ νῦν Αἴγισθος ὑπὲρ μόρον Ἀτρεΐδαο
γῆμ᾽ ἄλοχον μνηστήν, τὸν δ᾽ ἔκτανε νοστήσαντα,
εἰδὼς αἰπὺν ὄλεθρον, ἐπεὶ πρό οἱ εἴπομεν ἡμεῖς,
Ἑρμείαν πέμψαντες, ἐύσκοπον ἀργεϊφόντην,
μήτ᾽ αὐτὸν κτείνειν μήτε μνάασθαι ἄκοιτιν:
ἐκ γὰρ Ὀρέσταο τίσις ἔσσεται Ἀτρεΐδαο,
ὁππότ᾽ ἂν ἡβήσῃ τε καὶ ἧς ἱμείρεται αἴης.
ὣς ἔφαθ᾽ Ἑρμείας, ἀλλ᾽ οὐ φρένας Αἰγίσθοιο
πεῖθ᾽ ἀγαθὰ φρονέων: νῦν δ᾽ ἁθρόα πάντ᾽ ἀπέτισεν.'
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David’s Performance Text
The most prominent syllables under the new theory of the ancient accent are printed in bold; syllables are seasoned with occasional digammas.
τοῦ ὅ γ᾽ ἐπιμνησθεὶς ἔπε᾽ ἀθανάτοισι μετηύδα:
‘ὢ πόποι, οἷον δή νυ θεοὺς βροτοὶ αἰτιόωνται:
ἐξ ἡμέων γάρ φασι κάκ᾽ ἔμμεναι, οἳ δὲ καὶ αὐτοί
σφῇσιν ἀτασθαλίῃσιν ὑπὲρ μόρον ἄλγε᾽ ἔχουσιν,
ὡς καὶ νῦν Αἴγισθος ὑπὲρ μόρον Ἀτρεϝΐδαο
γῆμ᾽ ἄλοχον μνηστήν, τὸν δ᾽ ἔκτανε νοστήσαντα,
ϝεἰδὼς αἰπὺν ὄλεθρον, ἐπεὶ πρό ϝοἱ εἴπομεν ἡμεῖς,
Ἑρμείαν πέμψαντες, ἐύσκοπον ἀργεϊφόντην,
μήτ᾽ αὐτὸν κτείνειν μήτε μνάασθαι ἄκοιτιν:
ἐκ γὰρ Ὀρέσταο τίσις ἔσσεται Ἀτρεϝΐδαο,
ὁππότ᾽ ἂν ἡβήσῃ τε καὶ ἧς ἱμείρεται αἴης.
ὣς ἔφαθ᾽ Ἑρμείας, ἀλλ᾽ οὐ φρένας Αἰγίσθοιο
πεῖθ᾽ ἀγαθὰ φρονέων: νῦν δ᾽ ἁθρόα πάντ᾽ ἀπέτεισεν.
From ‘A literal impression of Homer’s Odyssea from someone who’s literally heard it’, by A. P. David:
Preoccupied with that, he voiced his lines among the deathless:
‘God damn, get a load of how these mortals blame the gods:
For it’s down to us they say that bad things exist, but it’s that lot themselves
Through their very own recklessness, get grief beyond what is budgeted,
As just now, Aegisthus, beyond the budget, went and fucked Atreides’
Wined and wedded wife—and the man himself he murdered upon his return home—
Knowing full well his steep destruction! Since we told him beforehand ourselves—
We sent Hermes, the watcher, the Slayer of Argus,
“Don’t be killing the man, no, don’t seduce his wife—
From Orestes there will be a reckoning for Atreides,
Whenever he comes of age and lusts for his livelihood.”
That’s how Hermes spoke, but he did not persuade the mind of Aegisthus
Well-meaning as he was: now he’s paid the price, all in a heap.’
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David’s Performance Text:
ἔνθ᾽ ἄλλοι μὲν πάντες, ὅσοι φύγον αἰπὺν ὄλεθρον,
οἴκοι ἔσαν, πόλεμόν τε πεφευγότες ἠδὲ θάλασσαν:
τὸν δ᾽ οἶον νόστου κεχρημένον ἠδὲ γυναικὸς
νύμφη πότνι᾽ ἔρυκε Καλυψὼ δῖα θεάϝων
ἐν σπέσσι γλαφυροῖσι, λιλαιομένη πόσιν εἶναι.
ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε δὴ ϝἔτος ἦλθε περιπλομένων ἐνιαυτῶν,
τῷ οἱ ἐπεκλώσαντο θεοὶ ϝοἶκόνδε νέεσθαι
εἰς Ἰθάκην, οὐδ᾽ ἔνθα πεφυγμένος ἦεν ἀέθλων
καὶ μετὰ οἷσι φίλοισι. θεοὶ δ᾽ ἐλέαιρον ἅπαντες
νόσφι Ποσειδάϝωνος: ὁ δ᾽ ἀσπερχὲς μενέαινεν
ἀντιθέῳ Ὀδυσῆϝι πάρος ἣν γαῖαν ἱκέσθαι.
ἀλλ᾽ ὁ μὲν Αἰθίοπας μετεκίαθε τηλόθ᾽ ἐόντας,
Αἰθίοπας τοὶ διχθὰ δεδαίαται, ἔσχατοι ἀνδρῶν,
οἱ μὲν δυσομένου Ὑπερίονος οἱ δ᾽ ἀνιόντος,
ἀντιόων ταύρων τε καὶ ἀρνειῶν ἑκατόμβης.
ἔνθ᾽ ὅ γε τέρπετο δαιτὶ παρήμενος: οἱ δὲ δὴ ἄλλοι
Ζηνὸς ἐνὶ μεγάροισιν Ὀλυμπίου ἁθρόοι ἦσαν.
τοῖσι δὲ μύθων ἦρχε πατὴρ ἀνδρῶν τε θεῶν τε:
μνήσατο γὰρ κατὰ θυμὸν ἀμύμονος Αἰγίσθοιο,
τόν ῥ᾽ Ἀγαμεμνονίδης τηλεκλυτὸς ἔκταν᾽ Ὀρέστης:
From ‘A literal impression of Homer’s Odyssea from someone who’s literally heard it’, by A. P. David:
There were all the rest of them, as many as fled steep destruction,
Already at home; escapees from war, not to mention the sea.
It was that man alone, in want of his return home, not to mention his woman—the wife—
Whom a bossy young nymph was holding back: Calypso, radiant among goddesses,
Within her hollowed caves, desiring him as her husband.
But when the year arrived, as round and around they come to the point again,
Within which the gods spun for him to make his return home
Into Ithaca, not even there was he escaped from his struggles,
Even among his own near and dear. And all of the gods felt pity
Apart from Poseidon; that one used to rage in a frenzy
Against Odysseus, god’s match, before he reached his motherland.
The thing is, that god was gone visiting among the Flaming-Eyes, who exist afar off.
Your Aethiopes are divided in two, the furthest distant of men,
Some where Hyperion sets and some where he rises.
He went to attend a roasted cookout of bulls and young rams.
There he was, at any rate, having a good time seated at the feast. But the rest of them
Were gathered in the chambers of Zeus, the Olympian.
And amongst them he started the conversation, the father of men and of gods,
For he minded, in his life’s breath, about blameless Aegisthus,
The man whom Agamemnon’s son killed—far-famed Orestes.
Greek text hyperlinked to lexica via Perseus (perseus.tufts.edu):
ἔνθ᾽ ἄλλοι μὲν πάντες, ὅσοι φύγον αἰπὺν ὄλεθρον,
οἴκοι ἔσαν, πόλεμόν τε πεφευγότες ἠδὲ θάλασσαν:
τὸν δ᾽ οἶον νόστου κεχρημένον ἠδὲ γυναικὸς
νύμφη πότνι᾽ ἔρυκε Καλυψὼ δῖα θεάων
ἐν σπέσσι γλαφυροῖσι, λιλαιομένη πόσιν εἶναι.
ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε δὴ ἔτος ἦλθε περιπλομένων ἐνιαυτῶν,
τῷ οἱ ἐπεκλώσαντο θεοὶ οἶκόνδε νέεσθαι
εἰς Ἰθάκην, οὐδ᾽ ἔνθα πεφυγμένος ἦεν ἀέθλων
καὶ μετὰ οἷσι φίλοισι. θεοὶ δ᾽ ἐλέαιρον ἅπαντες
νόσφι Ποσειδάωνος: ὁ δ᾽ ἀσπερχὲς μενέαινεν
ἀντιθέῳ Ὀδυσῆι πάρος ἣν γαῖαν ἱκέσθαι.
ἀλλ᾽ ὁ μὲν Αἰθίοπας μετεκίαθε τηλόθ᾽ ἐόντας,
Αἰθίοπας τοὶ διχθὰ δεδαίαται, ἔσχατοι ἀνδρῶν,
οἱ μὲν δυσομένου Ὑπερίονος οἱ δ᾽ ἀνιόντος,
ἀντιόων ταύρων τε καὶ ἀρνειῶν ἑκατόμβης.
ἔνθ᾽ ὅ γ᾽ ἐτέρπετο δαιτὶ παρήμενος: οἱ δὲ δὴ ἄλλοι
Ζηνὸς ἐνὶ μεγάροισιν Ὀλυμπίου ἁθρόοι ἦσαν.
τοῖσι δὲ μύθων ἦρχε πατὴρ ἀνδρῶν τε θεῶν τε:
μνήσατο γὰρ κατὰ θυμὸν ἀμύμονος Αἰγίσθοιο,
τόν ῥ᾽ Ἀγαμεμνονίδης τηλεκλυτὸς ἔκταν᾽ Ὀρέστης:
Samuel Butler’s prose translation with certain names Hellenised:
So now all who escaped death in battle or by shipwreck had got safely
home except Odysseus, and he, though he was longing to return to his
wife and country, was detained by the goddess Calypso, who had got
him into a large cave and wanted to marry him. But as years went by,
there came a time when the gods settled that he should go back to
Ithaca; even then, however, when he was among his own people, his
troubles were not yet over; nevertheless all the gods had now begun
to pity him except Poseidon, who still persecuted him without ceasing
and would not let him get home.
Now Poseidon had gone off to the Ethiopians, who are at the world's
end, and lie in two halves, the one looking West and the other East.
He had gone there to accept a hecatomb of sheep and oxen, and was
enjoying himself at his festival; but the other gods met in the house
of Olympian Zeus, and the sire of gods and men spoke first. At that
moment he was thinking of Aegisthus, who had been killed by Agamemnon's
son Orestes;
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David’s performance text:
The most prominent syllables under the new theory of the ancient accent are printed in bold. On occasion the presence of digamma obtrudes into the convention; a discussion of the issues involved for both text and performance will be forthcoming as this project unfolds.
ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα, πολύτροπον, ὃς μάλα πολλά
πλάγχθη, ’πεὶ Τροίης ἱερὸν πτολίεθρον ἔπερσε:
πολλῶν δ᾽ ἀνθρώπων ἴδεν ἄστεα καὶ νόϝον ἔγνω,
πολλὰ δ᾽ ὅ γ᾽ ἐν πόντῳ πάθεν ἄλγεα ὃν κατὰ θυμόν, 5
ἀρνύμενος ἥν τε ψυχὴν καὶ νόστον ἑταίρων.
ἀλλ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ὧς ἑτάρους ἐρρύσατο, ἱέμενός περ:
αὐτῶν γὰρ σφετέρῃσιν ἀτασθαλίῃσιν ὄλοντο,
νήπιοι, οἳ κατὰ βοῦς Ὑπερίονος Ἠϝελίοιο
ἤσθιον: αὐτὰρ ὁ τοῖσιν ἀφείλετο νόστιμον ἦμαρ. 10
τῶν ἁμόθεν γε, θεά, θύγατερ Διὸς εἰπὲ καὶ ἡμῖν.
Samuel Butler’s prose translation, with certain names Hellenised:
Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide
after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit,
and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted;
moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his own life
and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could not save
his men, for they perished through their own sheer folly in eating
the cattle of the Sun-god Hyperion; so the god prevented them from
ever reaching home. Tell me, too, about all these things, O daughter
of Zeus, from whatsoever source you may know them.
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