[Previous: lines 643-670]
Jesus and his disciples have broken bread at the Last Supper. Now read on!
Ergo ubi pulsa fames sociis, sese ociùs heros------------
exuit insignem tunicam, et mantilibus albis
succinctus poscit flammis undantia ahena:
tum gelidam irrorans dextra, laevaque sonoris
pertentans labris ferventem temperat undam. [675]
Hinc genibus positis Petro, reliquisque suorum,
plurima quanquam ille attonitus novitate recuset,
dat pedibus lymphas, et molli siccat amictu
accurvus sociis linquens imitabile factum.
Mox gemitus imo ducens de pectore fatur: [680]
“En, mihi summa dies, socii, quamque ipse propinquam
praedixi toties, nox illa advenit acerba:
vos linquam, et moriens Genitoris jussa capessam.
Unus erit vestrûm (vix ô vix credere tantum
fas scelus) insidiis prodet qui me hostibus ultro. [685]
Haud me animi fallit: furias iam perfidus ille
concipit, insidiasque animo meditatur avaro:
id pietas mea magna, mei meruere labores.
Non tamen ipse diu pulchro laetabere facto,
quisquis eris: satius, si nunquam lucis amorem [690]
gustasses, dulcis nec vitae limen inisses.
At vos, este pii, inque vicem (quae exempla reliqui)
inter vos aliis alii parete volentes;
summissisque animis fastus abolete superbos.
Non Erebi in tanto cessabunt cardine dirae [695]
vestra potestates praevertere corda timore.
Pervigiles, quaeso, iam custodite, proculque
consulite: hic animos, atque illos promite sensus,
quos toties mihi polliciti; ne cedite pesti:
vos servate, viri, noctem non ampliùs unam.” [700]
As the disciples fed their hunger the hero------------
took off his fine tunic. Dressed only in linen
he asked a bronze bowl be heated on the fire,
then poured in colder water with his right hand
testing the bubbling basin with his left. [675]
He knelt before Peter and the others—
Peter, shocked at this novelty, tried to refuse—
and washed their feet, drying them with his soft cloak:
giving them this example to be copied.
Then a sigh rose from the depths of his heart: [680]
“So! My last day, comrades—which I always said
was near—has come; and one last bitter night.
I leave you to obey my Father’s command.
And one of you (hard, too hard, to credit such
wickedness) betrays me to my enemies. [685]
But I know what moves his soul: perfidious
wrath and greed nudge him to set his snares:—
this the reward for my piety and effort!
But he will not long enjoy the rewards of
this noble deed. Indeed he would better never [690]
have been born, or set eyes on sweet daylight.
The rest of you: be good, serve (I’ve shown you
how) one another, willingly each to each;
humble your hearts and abolish your pride.
The dire powers of Erebus won’t cease [695]
trying to pervert your hearts with fearfulness.
I beseech you: be vigilant! think of
the future: display those qualities of soul,
of heart, you promised me you would: beware
that plague, men—starting with just this one night.” [700]
‘Erebus’ (line 695) is Vida’s classicised name for Hell (in Greek mythology it was ‘a place of nether darkness, forming a passage from Earth to Hades’). But you knew that already.
This scene, Jesus washing his disciples’ feet, derives from John 13:
He riseth from supper, and laid aside his garments; and took a towel, and girded himself. After that he poureth water into a basin, and began to wash the disciples' feet, and to wipe them with the towel wherewith he was girded. Then cometh he to Simon Peter: and Peter saith unto him, Lord, dost thou wash my feet?This episode is nicely done by Vida, I think. He mentions Peter’s disinclination to see his master abase himself, even if only in passing; and he adds the lovely little novelistic detail about Jesus mixing hot water with the cold and testing the temperature with his hand, which works well. There’s lots of Vergil kneaded into this passage, too: Gardner’s notes point out echoes of Aeneid 7:463 and 12:417 in Vida’s line 627f, and line 700’s vos servate, viri, noctem non ampliùs unam directly quotes Aeneid 1:683: tu faciem illius noctem non amplius unam (‘you must assume his appearance for no longer than a single night’; this is Venus talking to her son Cupid, instructing him to disguise himself as Aeneas’s son Ascanius).
Jesus answered and said unto him, What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter.
Peter saith unto him, Thou shalt never wash my feet. Jesus answered him, If I wash thee not, thou hast no part with me.
Simon Peter saith unto him, Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and my head.
Jesus saith to him, He that is washed needeth not save to wash his feet, but is clean every whit: and ye are clean, but not all. For he knew who should betray him; therefore said he, Ye are not all clean.
So after he had washed their feet, and had taken his garments, and was set down again, he said unto them, Know ye what I have done to you? Ye call me Master and Lord: and ye say well; for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet; ye also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have given you an example, that ye should do as I have done to you.
The image at the head of this post is one of my favourite Ford Madox Brown’s paintings: ‘Jesus Washing Peter’s Feet’ (1852-6). It’s in the Tate. The awkwardness and uncomfortableness on Peter’s face is superbly done.
In line 692 what Christ actually tells his disciples to be is ‘pious’, pius, a Latin word with a notoriously tricky semantic field. It’s Vergil’s favoured epithet for Aeneas; the jangling almost-rhyme ‘pius Aeneas’ chimes all the way through the Aeneid. But although the English word ‘pious’ does derive from the Latin pius (just as ‘piety’ derives from the Latin pietās) these modern words mean rather different things. In today's usage ‘piety’ has an inescapable whiff of sanctimoniousness about it, a holier-than-thou stiffness. For a Roman, pietas meant a particularly engaged kind of goodness: a duty to respect and uphold your nation, your family and your household gods. For them it described a certain relationship to one's parents (especially) but also to one’s children and other relatives, as to benefactors and friends: a mode of affection, love, loyalty, gratitude, and putting their needs before your own, a mode of gentleness, kindness, tenderness, pity, compassion. How to translate that into English with one word? Not easy. I’ve seen translations of the Aeneid that use “good Aeneas” (smacks, rather, of the patronising “good boy!” we bestow on a well-behaved dog) or “dutiful Aeneas” which is much too strenuous and Kantian. ‘Kosher Aeneas’ has a pleasant cultural-cross-current gnarliness (not inappropriate to Vida’s poem, actually) although it makes the Trojan hero sound a bit like a sausage. ‘Decent Aeneas’ is probably too bland, too passive; ‘good-bloke Aeneas’; ‘upright Aeneas’—perhaps we need to adopt a surfer-dude accent and call him ‘righteous Aeneas.’ I don’t know what the answer is to this translation conundrum, to be honest. It’s a different fight, for a different arena, but I’ve often thought we should battle to reclaim nice as a positive descriptor, to purge it of its weak-tea and mimsy overtones. Being nice is a profound and (yes) righteous business, much harder than it might seem (since it requires us to learn how to muzzle our nastiness, our anger and spite) and very potent as a means of cleansing and shining sunlight onto social interactions. Plus ‘nice Aeneas’ reproduces something of the near-rhyme of Vergil’s original.
Alright: I’ll start a petition.
[Next: lines 701-730]
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