The Complete Poems of C.P. Cavafy. Daniel Mendelsohn

only they would win— I’ll give to anyone who wants them

      the horses and the lion, the Pan made out of coral,

      and the elegant mansion, and the gardens in Tyre,

      and everything else you’ve given me, Antiochus Epiphanes.”

      Maybe he was moved a little bit, the king.

      But he recalled at once his father and his brother,

      and so made no response. Some eavesdropper might

      go and repeat something.— Anyway, as expected,

      at Pydna there swiftly came the horrible conclusion.

      [1911?; 1922; 1922]

       In an Old Book

      In an old book—about a hundred years old—

      I found, neglected among the leaves,

      a watercolour with no signature.

      It must have been the work of a very powerful artist.

      It bore the title “Representation of Love.”

      But “—of the love of extreme sensualists” would have been more fitting.

      For it was clear as you looked at this work

      (the artist’s idea was easily grasped)

      that the youth in this portrait wasn’t meant

      for those who love in a somewhat wholesome way,

      within the limits of what is strictly permitted—

      with his chestnut-brown, intensely colored eyes;

      with the superior beauty of his face,

      the beauty of unusual allures;

      with those flawless lips of his that bring

      pleasure to the body that it cherishes;

      with those flawless limbs of his, made for beds

      called shameless by the commonplace morality.

      [1892?; 1922]

       In Despair

      He’s lost him utterly. And from now on he seeks

      in the lips of every new lover that he takes

      the lips of that one: his. Coupling with every new

      lover that he takes he longs to be mistaken:

      that it’s the same young man, that he’s giving himself to him.

      He’s lost him utterly, as if he’d never been.

      The other wished—he said— he wished to save himself

      from that stigmatized pleasure, so unwholesome;

      from that stigmatized pleasure, in its shame.

      There was still time, he said— time to save himself.

      He’s lost him utterly, as if he’d never been.

      In his imagination, in his hallucinations

      in the lips of other youths he seeks the lips of that one;

      He wishes that he might feel his love again.

      [1923; 1923]

       Julian, Seeing Indifference

      “Seeing, then, that there is great indifference

      among us toward the gods”—he says with that solemn affect.

      Indifference. But what then did he expect?

      Let him organize religion as much as he pleased,

      let him write the high priest of Galatia as much as he pleased,

      or to others like him, exhorting, giving directions.

      His friends weren’t Christians: that much is certain.

      But even so they weren’t able to

      play the way that he did (brought up as a Christian)

      with the system of a new religion,

      ridiculous in theory and in practice.

      In the end they were Greeks. Nothing in excess, Augustus.

      [1923?; 1923]

       Epitaph of Antiochus, King of Commagene

      After she returned from his funeral, greatly bereaved,

      the sister of him who had temperately and sweetly lived—

      the exceedingly scholarly Antiochus, king

      of Commagene—she wanted an epitaph for him.

      And the Ephesian sophist Callistratus—who sojourned

      often in the principality of Commagene,

      and who in the royal household had been

      so pleasantly and frequently received—

      wrote it, at the suggestion of Syrian courtiers,

      and sent it to her aged ladyship.

      “May the renown of Antiochus the benevolent king

      be meetly extolled, O Commagenians.

      He was the provident captain of the land.

      The life he lived was just, and wise, and gallant.

      The life he lived, still more, was that finest thing: Hellenic—

      mankind holds no quality more precious:

      among the gods alone does anything surpass it.”

      [1923?; 1923]

       Theater of Sidon (400 A.D.)

      A respectable citizen’s son— above all else, a beauteous

      youth who belongs to the theatre, agreeable in so many ways:

      I now and then compose, in the language of the Greeks,

      exceedingly daring verses, which I circulate

      very secretly, of course— gods! they mustn’t be seen

      by those who prate about morals, those who wear gray clothes—

      verses about a pleasure that is select, that moves

      toward a barren love of which the world disapproves.

      [1923?; 1923]

       Julian in Nicomedia

      Foolhardy doings, full of risks.

      The encomia for the ideals of the Greeks.

      The white magic and the visits to the pagans’

      temples. The raptures over the ancient gods.

      The frequent conversations with Chrysanthius.

      The theories of the (quite clever) philosopher Maximus.

      And look at the result. It’s obvious that Gallus

      is very anxious. Constantius is suspicious.

      Ah, his advisors weren’t wary in the least.

      This