Livy’s Metamorphoses by Zbigniew Herbert

Livy’s Metamorphoses

How did my grandfather and his father understand Livy

for they surely read him at their classical gymnasium

in the somewhat unpropitious time of year

when a chestnut tree stands at the window—ardent candelabras of

  blossoms—

and all my grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s thoughts ran panting to

  Mizia

singing in the garden showing her décolleté and goddess-like legs to the

  knee

or Gabi from the Vienna Opera with her cherub’s locks

Gabi with her snub nose and Mozart in her throat

or finally to good old Józia a refuge for the forlorn

she without beauty talent or extravagant demands

and so they read Livy—O season of budding flowers—

in the smell of chalk boredom naphthalene floor wash

under a portrait of the emperor

for there was an emperor then

and the empire like all empires

seemed eternal

Reading the City’s history they succumbed to the delusion

that they were the Romans or the decendants of Romans

those sons of the vanquished themselves under the yoke

it’s likely the Latin teacher had a part in it

with his position of counselor to the court

a collection of ancient virtues under a scruffy frock coat

following Livy he instilled in his pupils scorn for the mob

so popular revolt—res tam foeda—aroused their loathing

while on the other hand all the conquests seemed just

showing simply the victory of the superior stronger

they were pained by the defeat at Lake Trasimeno

while Scipio’s ascendancy filled them with pride

“they took Hannibal’s death with unfeigned relief

easily far too easily they let themselves be led

through entrenchments of dependent clauses

convoluted constructions ruled by the gerund

swollen rivers of elocution

syntactical booby traps

—into battle

for a cause not theirs

Not until my father and I after him did anyone

read Livy against Livy

studying closely what lies under the fresco

that’s why Scaevola’s theatrical gesture did not reverberate in us

nor did centurions’ cries or triumphal marches

and we tended to feel moved by the ruination

of the Samnites Gauls or Etruscans

we counted the many names of peoples the Romans trampled to dust

those buried without praise those who for Livy

were not worth even a ripple of style

those Hirpins Apuleans Lucanians Osunans

and residents of Tarentum Metapontis Locri

My father knew well and I know too

that one day on the farthest outskirts

without any signs from the heavens

in Pannonia Sarajevo or Trebizond

in a city on the cold sea

or in the valley of Panshir

a local fire will break out

and the empire will fall