I'm not talking about an adaptation of the television series No one lives here based on Ancient Rome, which, by the way, would not be bad at all, but on Satire III (There is no one who lives in Rome ) of the Roman poet Juvenal (1st and 2nd centuries), where he denounces the social situation of a decadent and corrupt Rome in which all kinds of vices and vices occur. Using humor, irony, parody, analogies and some exaggeration, he reflects on the loss of traditional values, now occupied by ambition, greed, the desire for power and submission to pleasures. Here I leave you a good part of the 322 verses that compose it. By the way, don't you think this criticism could be applied to our own society?
Unfortunately, the departure of my dear friend [Umbrico] has left me, I appreciate his decision to settle in Cumae, today almost empty […] But no matter how lonely these places are, it is better to take refuge in them than not to live in the terrible Rome with the horrors of its fires, the collapse of houses, and its poets, who do not stop reciting their verses even in the middle of August.[…]
Since there is no room in Rome, Umbrico shouted, for honest professions, which now produce less than yesterday, and tomorrow will produce less than today, I flee to the places where Daedalus shed his weary wings.
My hair barely whitens; my old age, of which I am in the beginnings, is healthy and vigorous; I do not need a cane, because my legs are strong; I leave my country. Let Antonio and Cátulo continue in it; let those who change white for black remain; those who speculate with everything; those who trade with slaves; those who exploit the temple, and the market and the dirty sewer, and even the corpses that lead to the pyre. Before, with their swollen cheeks, they blew the horn in the circus fights, and they were singled out for their low status.[…]
They can do anything, a living example of how Fortune raises to the highest, to have fun, those who come from the lowest.
What would I do in Rome? I do not know how to lie. If a book is bad, I'm not capable of praising it.[…]
I can't stand a Greek-style Rome. Little amount of the achaean element enters this dregs. The Oronte, a Syrian river, empties into the Tiber for a long time, bringing the language and customs of that country; the harp with oblique strings, the flute players, the exotic drummers and the girls who are looking for clients strolling nearby. Of the circus. You go to look for them, those of you who like these she-wolves with painted hair. But this rustic descendant is of a different opinion.
One leaves high Sicyone, the other Amidon, the one from beyond Samos, Trales or Alabanda, to march to conquer the Esquiline and the Viminal hill. Here they are, waiting to be the masters, the lords of the great houses. They have lively intelligence, shamelessness and eloquence more mighty than the waters of the Iseo.
Do you realize what a Greek is? Grammarian, rhetorician, geometer, painter, masseur, augur, doctor, mountebank, magician... he will climb to heaven if it suits him! A hungry Greek knows all the trades. He was not a Thracian, Mauritanian, or Sarmatian who put on two wings to fly:he was born in Athens, the heart of Greece.
There are those who came to Rome selling figs and plums, and driven by the winds of Fate will impose its laws on me and lie down in a better bed than mine. But they still go further. People who are experts in flattery, praise the conversation of the ignorant, the waist of the hunchback and the vigor of the one who faints from sheer weakness. Also among us there are flatterers. But it is not the Roman, but the Greek, who takes advantage of the flattery, because he is believed. They are full of praise when an actor plays Tais perfectly, or plays a wife, or Doris totally naked, so that no one would say that it is a man instead of a woman, since everything is smooth and flat in its lower part. belly. We do not admire an Antiochus, a Stratokles, a Demetrius or a shameless Hemo. But in Greece... all of Greece is a comedian.
They laugh much more than you, with great laughter when you have to laugh. And when they have to cry they do it with tears, but without the slightest feeling. If you say you're cold, they wrap up, and if you're hot, they undress and you'll even see them sweat. The game is uneven. Whoever adapts to the opinion of the other and every day and every night is willing to indulge and even kisses the one who urinates well, making his golden urinal resonate, plays with an enormous advantage.
Add to this that, for them, there is nothing worthy of respect, nothing safe against their lasciviousness:neither the austere matron, nor the young married woman, nor the virgin, nor the boy still pure. They even pounce on the friend's grandmother.
They try to find out family secrets to make themselves feared. Listen to what I am telling you:one of the most prestigious robed had his friend Barea killed, through his accusation, and later, when he was old, he sacrificed his disciple, raised on those shores where a feather fell from the Gorgon's horse .[…]
One of those vile people is the one who poured his poison into the ear of someone who could throw me out on the street. What matters my works and services? No illusions. Here the son of a free man serves as a servant to the slave of a rich man.
There are individuals who pay the harlot Calvina or the harlot Catiena, for enjoying them once or twice, the money that a legion tribune earns. You, on the other hand, will have to think about it a lot if you like Quione and want to possess her […]
The citizen will be interested in his fortune, and, if anything, he will be asked about his morality. But always, how many slaves does he keep, how many yokes of land does he own, how many dishes and how much are served at his banquets. Confidence is inspired as much as money is possessed. Nothing is worth the oath of the poor, even if they do it before the altars and by the gods.
The grim poverty carries with it the harshest stigma:that of making men ridiculous.
How amusing to see a cape dirty or in tatters, a threadbare toga, broken shoes, and even more so if you can see the broken toes! Out with the humble! Out with the gentlemen's banquets, he who has no income! Let the son of a scoundrel begotten under any bridge sit in his place! […]
A long time ago all Romans should have emigrated from Rome.
How much does a miserable house cost? Domestic difficulties depress spirits and prevent the virtuous from showing their worth.[…] Eating sufficiency costs exorbitant amounts.
It is said that there is a vast region of the Italian territory where no one is seen in a toga, but when it dies Any solemnity, if it is ever celebrated in these places, has dirt floors as its theater, and, if a popular comedy of those that make children cry in their mothers' arms is performed, they will be seen in the scene faded masks and costumes as poor as that of the spectators. Only the high personalities will wear the white tunic, as a gala of their category. In Rome, the opposite happens. He dresses better than economic possibilities allow. Ostentation surpasses prudence, even if you have to resort to the neighbor's loan. He is a vice of all. We are poor, but vain. Everything in Rome has its price. How much does it cost you the vanity of rubbing elbows with Cosío or that Veienton deigns to look at you without opening his lips? You have to stand out. One shaves his beard, another cuts the hair of his favourite.
Who, invites in his house, and fills it with goodies, but he has to pay for them. You, shut up and eat.
If you have your house in the delicious Preneste, in Volsena, with its lush gardens, in the quiet Gabius, or in the stony amphitheater of Tibur, do not fear that it will collapse or fall into ruin. It has solid foundations. Instead, we have our homes built on weak supports. Don't dwell on your fears. The authority will tell the tenants of the house that is about to collapse, to sleep peacefully, under the threat of perishing. One claims the water when vacating his shack, because the third floor is already on fire. Fear rose from the ground floor and the fire with it to the attic, protected from the rain by the tiles, there where the pigeons coo, where they gather to lay their eggs.
Codro had a bed too small for Procula. And he decorated his sideboard with six little pitchers. And, in the lower part, an amphora with a small centaur Chiron, made of marble. He also had, in an old cupboard, divine Greek books, which the mice had gnawed little by little. In reality, Codro, reduced to his poverty, had nothing; well, this nothing totally lost him and he was left naked and exposed to the elements; for which he was forced to ask for a little food and a roof under which to shelter. Nobody paid attention to him. Instead, one day Persico's magnificent palace goes up in flames, and everyone is moved. Ladies forget their finery, our patricians go into mourning, magistrates suspend trials. It is then that the fire is cursed and the catastrophes that occur in Rome are lamented. The palace is still burning, when its reconstruction is already underway. A rich man will offer marbles and bronzes; another will donate white naked statues; another, some masterpiece of Euphranor or Polykleitos; the one from beyond, tapestries and books; the one from over here, a silver Minerva and a lot of money. Luckily, the old Persian, a very rich man with no children, will obtain much more than he has lost.
To the point that the suspicion arises that it was he himself who set his house on fire.
If you are willing to do without the circus games, find yourself a house in Sora in Fabratería, in Frusino and you will find it very comfortable for what, in Rome, it costs you to rent a miserable room. You will have a garden, with a not very deep well from which you can draw yourself, without much effort, the water necessary to irrigate the lawn and the garden. Work your land with a hoe, which will give you great satisfaction and produce enough to feed a hundred Pythagoreans. Owning a property, even if humble, is already something.
In Rome there are many people who die of insomnia . In what tenement house in Rome can you fall asleep?
You have to have a lot of money to be able to sleep in this city. The passage of the carts through the narrow streets, the oaths of the coachmen, who have to stop every moment, would keep Drudo himself awake at night, and the sea cows. We are forced to blend in with the crowd. If I'm in a hurry, as if I'm not, I have to walk at the pace that others want. One squeezes me, the other sticks his elbow into my kidneys, the other, who carries a piece of wood, hits me on the head with it, the other with a pitcher. My legs get tired, they swell, my feet get into mud.[…]
The wagon, loaded with whole trees, threatens the crowd with its movements. A windblown tile falls on you and breaks your head. At night they throw broken pottery, useless objects, from the windows onto the street, which crash to the ground if they don't find you on their way. I assure you:you will be reckless if you go to a dinner without first having made a will. You must consider yourself lucky if you pass through a street at night and they don't pour on you more than the contents of the pots. You walk down the street quietly. A drunken, shameless young man, wearing his scarlet cloak, tells you to stop. There is nothing more to obey. The young man leads a long escort of servants with torches and bronze lamps. Since I don't light myself with more light than that of the moon, or that of a poor lamp, he despises me. The gentleman, who may be crazy and stronger than me, asks me haughtily:«Where do you come from? he yells he. In which house have you filled your belly with beans and wine? What rascal has shared with you the slop of onion and lamb's snout? Answer!… And he kicks me. What synagogue do you come out of or are you a beggar begging in the streets? And he gives you more kicks. If one answers or tries to withdraw silently, it is the same. They hit you and then they hand you over to the patrol. With these aristocrats, the poor man has no other recourse but to beg, even if they pummel him with their fists and kicks and, if he manages to be let go, he must go away happy if he still has some teeth.
But this is not the only thing terrible. Robbers abound who rob you when no one can come to your aid, because all the doors are closed and the shops barred with heavy bars. Sometimes the robber attacks you dagger in hand. The criminals can act freely, while patrols of armed guards guard the pontine lagoons and the Galinaria forest [outside the city] is constantly watched. Armed and well armed, because iron forges and anvils are forged for them, even though this metal is lacking to make plows, hoes and pickaxes.
Happy great-great-grandparents of our great-grandparents! Happy past centuries, that under the kings or under the tribunes were content to see in Rome only one prison!
I could tell you much more in support of the reasons that advise leaving Rome, but the mules get impatient and the twilight advances. The muleteer waves his stick indicating to me that it is time to leave. Goodbye, and don't forget me. […]
It is not surprising that the poet coined the well-known phrase:
Source:Classical Studies of the Carlos III University of Madrid