Death of Virgil Read Online

Plotius should have had an answer, Plotius, whose worldly-trained, worldly-efficient, worldly-important maturity had always emanated so much of good intimidation that it gave one courage to recover, a never-ending courage beginning in childhood, that was like a refuge in its earthly, irresistibly-gentle warmth, which held one unhesitatingly on this side and brooked no resistance; indeed, Plotius should have given an answer, but this seemed not to have struck him: a little troubled, he sat there heavily, thumb joined to thumb, sometimes sending over worried glances, and as always it was almost impossible to discover the once youthful features in his good, maturity-padded countenance.

Lucius, however, was in fine form: “Lucretius, whom you, oh Virgil, do not honor less than all of us, Lucretius, no less great than you, Virgil, although no greater, he was granted the comprehension of the law of reality, and the song into which he composed it came to be one of truth and beauty; no longer is beauty shattered on reality, no longer consumed by it, but the reverse takes place: that which perishes at the touch of reality falls away from it as soon as its law is perceived and demonstrated in beauty, only the beautiful remaining, remaining as the one and only reality.”

Alas, he knew this language, this twilight speech of literature and philosophy, the language of the benumbed, unborn word, dead before it was born; it had once been familiar to him also, and certainly he had believed then in what it expressed, believed or thought that he believed; now, however, it sounded alien, almost incomprehensible. Law? There was only one law, the law of the heart! Reality? There was only one reality, the reality of love! Should he not, must he not, shout this aloud? should he not, and must he not, tell this to them so that they should comprehend it?! Alas, they could not comprehend it, they had no wish to comprehend it, and so he said simply: “Beauty cannot live without approval, truth locks itself off from applause.”

“The approval of centuries and millenniums is not the approval of the present, it is not the shoddy applause of the cheaply charmed masses … in becoming immortal, the immortalized work of art comes to be a recognition of truth.” Thus ran the agile answers of Lucius and he wound up with: “In immortality truth and beauty are united, and this holds good for you too, Vergilius!”

This immortality which Lucius was erecting was an earthly one and therefore not timeless, being at most of eternal duration on earth, and not even that! For only the Saturnian meadows endure eternally, stretched out in the divine forgetfulness of their infinite renewals, while here the concern was only for glory. Did not this imply the ghastly possibility that the immortals were unable to die? Did not this portend damnation?! He who equates truth with everlasting beauty abolishes the life-giving timelessness, abolishes salvation and the grace of the voice! Then Homer and Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, those sovereign elders, as well as Lucretius, gone early to his rest, would live on in the ghastliness of their eternal earthly death, a death that must endure until the last line of their writings be tilled out of human memory, until there was no human mouth to recite their verses, until there was no stage that would show their works; a thousandfold death would be their portion, called ever and again from the underworld, evoked into the ghostly, absurd interrealm of earthly immortality. If this were so—and it was not impossible that it was so—should not these immortals, they before, and like all others, should not they also have destroyed their creations, for the sake of more blessed fields in which to abide? Oh, Eurydice! Oh, Plotia! aye, so it was: “Deadly the wound of Apollo’s arrow e’en though it fails to kill.”

“How true,” said Plotius. “If I did not have my monthly bleedings I would long since have been under the ground with my forefathers.”

Lucius nodded assent. “By Apollo eternally wounded … and the fastidious dignity of his attitude is the only choice left to him wounded by immortality, if he wants to live according to the exalted example of Epicurus.” And he himself was the purest example of this attitude as, with one leg thrown over the other, resting his elbow on it, the palm of his hand turned upward, he offered this explanation. “For what could well be put in the place of beauty and the harmony of its pure and noble form, since human life reaches no further than seeing and hearing and the other senses? The seeing and hearing of beauty is the ultimate that Apollo has to bestow, and the artist selected by him to receive such divine gifts must accept his lot …”

“Is it so hard for you, Lucius?” asked Plotius.

“I do not speak of myself. But this applies to every artist, and before all to our Virgil … and he will admit that these conclusions must of necessity be drawn from the principles of Epicurus, but also that they lie close to Plato’s views on the beautiful, perhaps even going beyond them and certainly never to be refuted by them …”

“I admit it willingly, it may be so.” Possibly Lucius was right, but it was of no moment.

And yet, and yet: even though human life did not reach beyond seeing and hearing, and though the heart could not sound any further than it beat, and even though, in consequence of this, harmony was set up before men as something of final dignity and worth, fate-destined to be form and only form, yet, despite this, everything that happened merely for the sake of beauty remained prepossessed by empty nothingness and greatly exposed to damnation; for even in the moderation of harmony it remained in bondage to intoxication, a reversion of the path, it was simply a subterfuge and did not aim toward that perception in which alone divinity was at rest. Oh, woe to the seeing of the gold-glinting universe that looks on beauty; it remains, in spite of that, imprisoned in leaden blindness! Oh, beauty-bedecked world, decked out for beauty! This was the world in which Rome was erected, rich in gardens, rich in palaces, that picture of a city, a rising image that moved nearer and nearer, transported in itself, yet near at hand and filling the azure sky: the house of Augustus and that of Maecenas were there, and not far off his own house on the Esquilin, the pathways adorned with columns, the quadrangles and gardens with statues; he saw the Circus and the amphitheater in a turmoil with the furious playing of organs; he saw the gladiators wrestling to death for beauty’s sake, the beasts set upon men; he saw the masses jubilant with lust, crowding about a cross on which, roaring and whimpering with pain, an insubordinate slave was being nailed—the intoxication of blood, the intoxication of death, and withal the intoxication of beauty—, and he saw more and more of these crosses, saw them multiplying, lapped by the torches, licked by the flames, the flames mounting from the crackling wood and from the uproar of the crowds, a flaming ocean that closed over the city of Rome and ebbed away, leaving nothing but blackened ruins, wrecked pediments, tumbled statues, and a land grown over by weeds. He saw, and he knew it would come to pass, because the true law of reality revenged itself irresistibly on mankind, and must so revenge itself, when, being greater than any manifestation of beauty, it was bartered for beauty—plainly affronted by this, despised by being overlooked: high above the law of beauty, high above the law of the artist, which was only greedy for corroboration, there was the law of reality, there was—divine wisdom of Plato—the Eros in the urge of existence, there was the law of the heart, and woe to a world which had forgotten this last reality. Why had he been singled out to know this? Were the others still blinder than he? Why did they not see, not grasp it? Why not, at least, his friends? Or did his blindness make him incapable of showing them? Why was he too paralyzed, too weak, too inarticulate to make them understand? Blood was what he saw before him, blood was what he tasted in his mouth; a rattling moan tore through his chest, rattling through his throat, and he was obliged to let his head sink back on the pillows!

Oh, truth alone is immortal, immortal in truth is death. Only he who closes his eyes has a sense of the seeing blindness, a sense of overcoming fate.

For even though the law could be perceived only in the eternal and unchangeable form assigned it by fate, and even though this form, and with it fate itself, lay in the cold unchanging imprisonment of the Saturnian realm, yet the Promethean endeavor was aimed toward the fire in the conjoined depths above and below, and shattering the prison of mere form, thrust forward to the first ancestor enthroned there, in whose hands lay the truth of inner reality.

And therefore: terrible on the outmost edge of reality hung laughter, the very sister of death, terrible beyond all darkness and every abyss, hung in a perilous balance, a floating border between greed for life and self-destruction, tilted toward this side in its earth-splitting, volcanic yelling, and toward the other in its sea of smiles which confronted the night, embraced the world and burst it asunder. But there was no longer a trace of laughter, no longer the hint of a smile. Plotius said gravely: “The doctor should have been here a long time ago … we’ll look for him ourselves as we go to call on Augustus.” And both of them stood.

However, he wanted and was compelled to detain them; their blind blindness had to be banished: overpowering was the compulsion to make them understand, so that they should not be estranged from him, overpowering the compulsion to tell them what they had not grasped, and had not even wished to grasp. And although he himself hardly knew what it meant, a phrase presented itself: “Love is the reality.”

So it became audible and suddenly it was no longer enigmatic. For the gods had blessed man with love to ease the pang of his lusts, and he who has partaken of this blessing perceives reality; he is no longer a mere lodger in the realm of personal consciousness in which he is caught. And again he heard: “Love is the reality.”

“Quite so,” affirmed Lucius, seeming neither shocked nor surprised, “that is what you taught us, and when I observe Tibullus or Propertius or even young Ovid who is so full of poor taste, I want only to maintain that you have taught this a little too fervently, because their immaturity, which proposes to follow in your footsteps and even perhaps to surpass you, you, the unsurpassable, has no longer any other theme than love, and I must confess that I am quite glutted with it, as little as I am inclined to turn against love as such … where, by the way, is the Greek boy whom you mentioned before?”

It had failed. It had again glided into the trivial and the literary, gliding over the surface of the real within existence, as if to show that he deserved no better, that he was in a literary no-man’s-land, which did not touch even the surface, that encompassed nothing, neither the depths of heaven nor of earth, at most only the empty province of beauty. And it oppressed him anew. For he who had trodden the unholy path of reversion, he who had always intoxicated and inflamed himself on beauty alone, he who possessed by mania wanted to deafen the weakness within him by the vastness outside of him, he who had not been able to search for the immutable in the human heart but had been compelled to gather together into one company the stars, the primal-ages and all the doings of the gods, he had never loved; and what he had held to be love had been only yearning, nostalgia for that lost landscape, in which once, oh once, lost long ago, childhood forgotten, the beyond forgotten, love had existed even for him; only this landscape had sufficed for his poetry; never had a song for Plotia escaped his lips, and even then, when gripped by the beauty of Alexis, made his by the favor of Asinius, he had thought to sing for the boy, it had not come to be a love-song but an Eclogue of thanks for Asinius Pollio, dealing but in a most negligible way with love in a longed-for landscape. No, it was an error to assume that he, who had never loved and who therefore had never succeeded in writing a genuine love-poem, had brought any influence to bear upon these young poets of love, or even that he could qualify as their spiritual ancestor; they did not stem from him, they were more honorable than he: “Oh, Lucius, they have a better progenitor than I, he is called Catullus; they have not been my followers, nor should they ever have been.”

“You will not be able to shake them off, even if you dismiss them from your charge, despite the fact that this is so beautifully expressed in your Eclogue; nevermore shall I sing songs, and no longer am I your guardian! No, Virgil, you are and you will remain the progenitor, verily the one whose force they will never equal.”

“I am very weak, Lucius, and have always been so, and, considering my lack of force, it is possible to call me their progenitor, for truly they share this with me … all that we have in common is that we are both short-lived …”

“All I know is that Catullus and Tibullus died at thirty, and you are already in your fifties,” stated Plotius firmly.

Ah, even though the littérateur in his weakness has the fancy that the landscape of his childhood for which he may be yearning is the infinity of the Saturnian fields, and that, were he there, he would hearken to the depths of heaven and of earth, the landscape proper to him is that of sheer platitude, and he listens to nothing, least of all to death: “When was it that Tibullus was snatched away, Plotius? Scarcely a few weeks past … and Propertius lies sick unto death, even as I do … our weakness is apparently unpleasing to the gods, and now they mean to root us out thoroughly …”

“Our friendly, calm Propertius is still alive, alive for his own and for our benefit, and so are you and never more than now … and in twenty years the two of you, he at fifty and you at seventy, despite your everlasting sickness, will be striving as you now strive with all the youngsters, should they be called Ovid or some other name …”

“And just as today they would be unimaginable without your Eclogues and Georgics,” stressed Lucius, who was more concerned with correct literary definitions, “just as now you have pointed out the way, the way to the idyllic, the way to the bucolic, the way to Theocritus, just so will you precede them on new paths …”

“I am not in the line of Theocritus, this is truer of Catullus, even though this might be argued …”

Reluctantly, Lucius narrowed his prophetic literary forecasts: “Still, Catullus was your compatriot, Virgil, and a common homeland often leads to common aims and common inclinations …”

“Catullus or no Catullus,” grumbled Plotius, “Theocritus or no Theocritus, and with them all their followers, you are Virgil, you are you, and even in twenty years, should I live so long, you will be my preference, essentially more to be preferred than all of them together; in my opinion you should have no truck with them.”

It was a sharp line that Plotius had drawn, overestimating him and underestimating the young, and it felt good to be counted among the grown-ups, among the forceful who need not die before their time. Nevertheless, one had to rectify these false evaluations: “Be not unjust to the young, Plotius; they are honest in their way, more honest, it may be, than I have ever been.”

Again Lucius cut in: “To speak of honesty in art is always somewhat beside the point. One can say of an artist that he is honest if he keeps close to the traditional, eternal rules of art, but on the other hand that just this constitutes his dishonesty, because he hides his own ego behind tradition. Are we dishonorable in making the Homeric world our own? Are the young dishonorable in emulating a Virgil? Or are they even more honorable when committing some lapse of taste?”

“Lucius, the question of honesty and dishonesty is no longer an artistic question: the aim is toward the essential in human life before which art is almost negligible, since it is able to express only the human element.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Plotius. “That is just rhetorical bilge and I decline, as you well know, to take part in it.”

“Virgil maintains that the young are more honest than he, and we cannot possibly be expected to stand for that.”

“That’s a matter of indifference to me,” persisted Plotius in his staunch, friendly blindness, “Virgil is honest enough for me.”

“Thank you, Plotius.”

“It is just that I am fond of you, Virgil … however, you may nevertheless oblige Lucius; admit that you are more honest than the young.”

“That would be downright dishonesty … I find that the young in their love-poetry have struggled through to an originality which I am unable to approach … Lucius does not want to admit that all reality rests on love, and that behind the love-poetry, for which he may not care, this great original reality is to be found … reality is honesty …”

Lucius seemed to be slightly nauseated; his finger moved to and fro in refutation: “Such cheap honesty suffices in no way for art, Virgil; only exalted love, as depicted by you, and exemplified for all time in that which was between Dido and Aeneas, only such love is entitled to a place in art, in contrast to the petty love affairs with which the young gentlemen like to fill out their poetry.”

Then Plotius grinned: “They mean nothing to me, but they are rather pleasantly readable.”

“Once again you are over-critical, Lucius; no one will doubt that Catullus was a real poet … and need I assure you that we have to recognize such a one even in Ovid?”

“A genuine poet?”—Lucius took fire, but with dignity—“What does it mean to be a genuine poet? It does not mean talent alone, many are talented, talent is cheap, and if possible love is even cheaper, and turns for the most part to the cheapest possible stammering, even though the gentlemen grind out their verses to the best of their ability … naturally, I should be guarded in giving these judgments public utterance for, good or bad, we writers belong together, but here in our limited circle, nothing should restrain us from defining things plainly … in short, I am able to see nothing of honesty in a lascivious stripping, and even less of true art or true poetry …”

Was Lucius right? He could not be right; what he said was comprehensible, as comprehensible as everything that a craftsman has to say, but precisely for that reason it remained arrested in the professional realm, unperceptive of strivings which were aimed at shattering this very realm. Catullus had been well aware of this, he was the first to point out the new way, and for the sake of justice this had to be acknowledged: “Genuine art bursts through boundaries, bursts through and treads new and hitherto unknown realms of the soul, of conception, of expression, bursting through into the original, into the immediate, into the real …”

“Fine!—and you actually want to perceive all this in that allegedly so honest love-poetry … as if in every single verse of the Aeneid there were not more true reality!”

“I do not want to wrangle over this with you, Lucius; in a certain sense you defend your own poetry also when praising mine … for my part, I admit myself more easily beaten than you, and so you may lay it only on me and the Aeneid if I maintain that the new art could no longer travel on in our grooves, that it is bound to find something more immediate and more original, bound to do so by a command that points to the primal cause of reality … indeed, this is how it is, whoever yields to that command has to go back to the primal cause of reality, and he must begin again with love …”

Now Plotius took sides with Lucius: “Well, to be just, I rather like to read this stuff, but for all this originality of which you speak, these fellows are still too weak; only a real man can love in reality, and all that comes along with it is negligible in comparison …”

“Weakness? Which needs more growing power, the juicy blade in good pasturage, or the poor leaf which has to force itself between stones? The latter is of a weak aspect, nevertheless it has power to sprout, nevertheless it is grass … Rome is stony, our cities are stone, and it could almost be called a miracle that despite this something original has grown out of them, certainly weak in appearance, but still original, still real …”

Plotius laughed: “As far as I know, no grass has yet succeeded in picking out its growing-place, and even if it should prefer to be munched by a cow on a lovely meadow, it still remains in bondage to its stones, while these lads are quite free to seek the original wherever it is growing, and where men cause it to grow; verily nothing forces them to remain among the stones of the city, nothing more than their own lusts and inclinations, for the indulgence of which it is more convenient to stroll about in Rome, to sleep about in Rome, and to turn small kisses into small verses. First of all, they should once learn how to milk a cow, to curry a horse, and to handle a sickle.”

The urbane existence of Lucius felt itself attacked and offended: “The born artist, no matter whether he be great or mediocre, is not born to be a farmer; you cannot treat them all alike, Plotius.”

“I merely protest against the immediacy of such grass-love as advanced by Virgil … I have a certain understanding of these things. Weakness remains weakness.”

“And I protest in turn against the injustice shown by you two toward the young.”

Lucius had accompanied the statements of Plotius with an approving nod: “That’s it! They are weak and that is why they never succeed in getting beyond the imitative stage … how then can one talk of injustice! They are imitators of Theocritus, pupils of Catullus, and whatever they can take from our Virgil, that they take.”

Alas, they both remained inconvincible, each one captive in the circle of his own thoughts and words, half asleep and unable to shatter and burst through them, unable to escape the old habit of speech. The one called it grass-love, called it weakness, the other called it imitation, both with justice, yet both did not notice, did not want to notice, that even such a weak, urban love, pining between the walls and stones of a city, that even such a miserably-narrow, earthly-personal and often lasciviously disclosed love—a love such as this—was still touched by the miraculous lawfulness of human existence, touched by the shadow of the divine, whenever it succeeded in extending the one self toward the other self, feeling its way toward the beloved, feeling its way into the other, both imperishable in their union with love. Yes, just this could be sensed in the verse of the young, this was the new reality of truth in its human aspect which occasionally rang out from their poetry, and which they never would have found had they been his pupils.