...and if
she could have uttered words, she would have told
her name and wretched fate and begged for aid.
Instead of words, it's letters that she traced
in sand - she used her hoof: so she revealed
her transformation - all of her sad tale.
"What misery!" cried Inachus; he clasped
her horns and neck; and snow-white Io moaned.
"What misery!" he wailed. "Are you my daugher,
the one whom I have sought through all the world?
My sorrow at the loss of you was less
than in finding you; and now there's silence;
my words recieve no answer, only sighs
and lowing - these must serve as your reply.
To think that - unaware, oblivious -
I was intent on all your wedding rites,
your marriage torch, and all I was hoping for
a son-in-law and then grandsons. But now
it is a bull whom you must wed; you'll bear
a bull as a son. And I can't kill myself,
however deep my grief: sad fate indeed
to be a god: the gate of death is closed
against me; I am doomed to bear this sorrow
eternally."


That's Mandelbaum's translation... I have to say, there's none of the humor in Martin's rendition - Mandelbaum takes the passage much more seriously, and tragically. I'm not sure whom I like better. I mean, after all, Io's poor fate shouldn't be laughed at, she was cursed from the get-go. On the other hand, the father's bemoaning words are pretty inconsiderate, if you think about it. I do really love how Mandelbaum says, "But now / it is a bull whom you must wed; you'll bear / a bull as a son. " because it's really vivid... poor girl, getting it from a bull!!! Martin's version is much more tame.

I give two thumbs up for both of 'em.

J.

Ok… let's compare. Using Google Print and Amazon's "search inside" feature, I've compiled a few other translations to look at. Let's see how they rendered it and maybe through that can get a glimpse of how Ovid can be read.

And since comments are limited to a certain length, I'll divide it into one translation per comment. Fun.

First up, Arthur Golding's 16^th century translation. If my information is correct, this is the translation from which Shakespeare read Ovid. Starting at line 802:

And, had she had her speech at will to utter forth her thought,
She would have told her name and chance and him of help besought.
But for because she could not speak, she printed in the sand
Two letters with her foot whereby was given to understand
The sorrowful changing of her shape. Which seen, straight crièd out
Her father Inach, 'Woe is me!' And clasping her about
Her white and seemly heifer's neck and crystal horns both twain,
He shriekèd out full piteously, 'Now woe is me!' again.
'Alas, art thou my daughter dear, whom through the world I sought
And could not find? And now by chance art to my presence brought?
My sorrow, certes, lesser far a thousand fold had been
If never had I seen thee more than thus to have thee seen.
Thou stand'st as dumb and to my words no answer can thou give,
But from the bottom of thy heart full sorry sighs dost drive
As tokens of thine inward grief and dolefully dost moo
Unto my talk—the only thing left in thy power to do.
But I, mistrusting nothing less than this so great mischance,
By some great marriage earnestly did seek thee to advance
In hope some issue to have seen between my son and thee.
But now thou must a husband have among the herds, I see,
And eke thine issue must be such as other cattles be.
O that I were a mortal wight, as other creatures are,
For then might death in length of time quite rid me of this care!
But now, because I am a god and fate doth death deny,
There is no help but that my grief must last eternally.'

---

Golding, Arthur, trans. Ovid's Metamorphoses. Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins UP, 2002. 54-55.

Woof. Look at those lines. Impossible to have any kind of punch with lines like that. I guess the "fourteeners" (I looked them up: iambic, rhymed fourteen syllable lines) were popular in the mid 16^th century, but man, what a dog— what a tiring way to read a long poem.

"My sorrow, certes, lesser far a thousand fold had been / If never had I seen thee more than thus to have thee seen." Again... woof.

Still, I think the tragi-comedy and the absurdity are inherent in the old fart's rambling monologue of selfish woe.

Next is A.D. Melville's translation, included in the Oxford Classics series. Beginning with line 650:

                    ...if only words would come,
She'd speak her name, tell all, implore their aid.
For words her hoof traced letters in the dust—
I,O—sad tidings of her body's change,
'Alas, alack!' her father cried, and clasped
The moaning heifer's horns and snow-white neck.
'Alas, alack!' he groaned: 'Are you the child
I sought through all the world? Oh, lighter grief
You were unfound than found. You give no answer;
Silent, but from your heart so deep a sigh!
A moo—all you can say—is your reply!
I, knowing naught, made ready for your marriage,
Hoped for a son-in-law and grandchildren.
But now the herd must find your husband, find
Your child. For me death cannot end my woes.
Sad bane to be a god! The gates of death
Are shut; my grief endures for evermore.'

---

Melville, A D., trans. Metamorphoses. Oxford ; New York: Oxford UP, 1998. 10-11.

Now we have David R. Slavitt's translation, which Bernard Knox mentions in his introduction to the Martin translation. From line 655:

     ...And then at last, with a hoof, she wrote in the dust
her name with its two letters, the straight line and the circle,
at which her father groaned aloud. "Oh, woe. O Io!
My daughter! You? I have searched the whole world over, my heart
utterly broken. But finding you thus is a greater grief.
You cannot answer in words; sighs and sobs are enough,
and groans that are much like mooing. I'd thought one day to prepare
a wedding for you and hoped for a son-in-law. Must I look
to the barn for such a one? Will my grandchildren someday
join the herd in the meadow? Such great grief commends
death to mortal men, but I cannot look for relief
even through that dark door. My pain will continue forever,
unabated and unrelenting, immortal as I am."

---

Slavitt, David R., trans. The Metamorphoses of Ovid. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins UP, 1994. 17-18.

"Must I look / to the barn for such a one? Will my grandchildren someday / join the herd in the meadow?"

I love the absurdity that those lines bring out. Granchildren joining the herd, indeed! Looking in the barn for a son-in-law.

Finally, Michael Simpson's prose translation:

...And if only she could make the words come, she would beg for help—and say her name and tell them what had happened to her. Instead of the words she could not speak, she traced letters in the dust with her hoof, spelling out her name and her sad change.

"Poor me!" her father cried, hanging on the groaning heifer's horns and snow-white neck, "Poor me! Are you the daughter I have searched for everywhere? I grieved for you less when you were lost than I grieve now, after I've found you! You don't say anything, you don't answer me, you only heave long sighs and, I suppose, do the only thing you can, moo back to me! In my ignorance I planned your wedding and hoped, first, for a son-in-law, then for grandsons. Now your husband has to come from a herd of cattle, and your son, too, has to come from a herd of cattle. I cannot simply die and end my sorrow. It hurts to be a god! And since the door of death is closed to me, my misery will last forever!"

---

Simpson, Michael, trans. The Metamorphoses of Ovid. Amherst: University of Massachusetts P, 2001. 22.

And just so you can laugh at how anal retentive I am, a bibliographical summary of the translations.

What, no opinion? No thumbs up/down, no scale of 1 to 10? Don't pretend to be objective, I know you too well. ;)

J.

Nah... You're just too impatient. :D

Mandelbaum's translation reads well. It's definitely a dignified translation. It's curious to notice that of these 6 translations, M is the only one to avoid the word "moo". And that certainly adds to the dignity. "Lowing" is pastoral, and less childlike and immitative, there's an elegance to the word, itself. There's nothing dignified about mooing. It's a silly word, silly sounding, silly to say. And the commedy of the passage, I think, hinges on it... the whole scene is absurd, but the "moo" ensures that it isn't overly romanticized into some sighing, tear-dripped ode.

One thing Mandelbaum does well, I think, is his avoidance of archaic diction. His tone is formal, but the diction is still current. And his lines read very well. I think Mandelbaum's translation is probably my second favorite of these—his lines flow, river-like, deep-running, unstoppable. In contrast, Melville's lines are more like a babbling brook, with starts and stops, upheavals, twists, and turns. He also uses a mixture of the old and new in diction, but not horribly so. Slavitt has an odd mixture of modern and archaic, which doesn't strike my ear well.