“Never!”
“Never?”—Curiously this time the contradiction did not increase Augustus’ anger, in fact he seemed to be somewhat mollified—, “Really! how is that?”
“The deed is the task of time; not the word, not art; time asks only for the perceptive deed.”
“Then I ask you again: why only as a metaphor?”
Speaking was becoming a great strain, oh, and thinking even a greater one: “Oh, Augustus, to recognize the celestial in the terrestrial and by virtue of that recognition to bring it to earthly shape as a formed work or a formed word, or even as a formed deed, this is the essence of the true symbol; it stamps the primal image within and without, containing it and being contained by it, just as your state, filled by the Roman spirit, lies embedded in that very spirit; and born by the celestial which it represents, nay more, which has entered into it, the symbol itself comes to outlast time, growing as time endures, growing to death-annulling truth, of which it has been the symbol from the very beginning …”
“So that is what the genuine metaphor is like …”—Caesar seemed to consider this, although with the look of one who is unable to grasp something—“The symbol which has more than a superficial meaning …”
“Yes, the genuine metaphor, which is the lasting one, the genuine work of art, the genuine state … the enduring truth within the metaphor.”
“I cannot test the validity of these conditions … they are very complicated.”
Caesar did not have to verify anything. There was no use in checking upon what one did not grasp, one had merely to accept it, even though one were Caesar: “You have founded peace and order; on the ground prepared by your deed, every perceptive deed of the future will unfold to an annulment of death, and your work, already a symbol, is growing out to meet it … is that not enough for you, Caesar Augustus?”
At this Caesar smiled thoughtfully, meanwhile preparing to leave: “This is all very long-winded … doesn’t it belong to the commentary that we wanted to keep for Maecenas?”
“Perhaps … I do not know … yes …”—Why did Caesar not go away, since he wished already to be gone? yes, all of this was extremely long-winded, extremely tiring, extremely strenuous, and really one should put it off to some future meeting with Maecenas, or perhaps altogether. Defer it for a long time. Softly the wall-fountain trickled, and its trickling echo was trickling everywhere, trickling deeply down toward the sea, trickling on to the nocturnal waves of the sea and turning into a wave itself, a white-crested wave in the darkness, it held a trickling conversation with the voice of Plotia which floated mutely inaudible above the trickling sound gleaming silverly through the night, waiting for Caesar to be gone, waiting for the loneliness of the night. Was this the night? oh, how hard it was to open one’s eyes again. Oh, to put off both day and night.
But notwithstanding his initial leavetaking, Caesar suddenly was no longer in a hurry; he seemed to be considering some other request and abruptly sat down again; he sat there like someone who meant neither to stay long nor to leave immediately, veering a little toward the edge of the chair, his arm hanging over the back, and after remaining silent for a while he said: “Possibly so … possibly all that you say is right … but one cannot live in a chaos of symbols.”
“To live …?” was this still the question? was there still a concern for life? round about was the soft and enticing trickling—, to live, oh, to live on, so that one would be able to die.
Who had to decide that? whose voice was the decisive one? Plotia’s silence held.
But Augustus said: “Let us not forget that there is a reality, even though we are limited to metaphor in expressing it and giving it shape … we are alive … and that is reality, simple reality.”
Life was to be grasped only in metaphor, and metaphor could express itself only in metaphor; the chain of metaphor was endless and death alone was without metaphor, death to which this chain reached, as though death, even though lying outside it, were its last link, and as though all metaphors had been shaped simply for the sake of death, in order to grasp its lack of metaphor despite all, aye, as if language could regain its native simplicity from death alone, as if there lay the birthplace of earth’s simple language, the most earthly and yet the most divine of symbols: in all human language death smiled. And now Plotia spoke: “Reality is mute, and we shall live in its muteness; go forward into reality, I shall follow you.”
“To go forward through the chain of metaphors, to move into increasing timelessnes … metaphor turning to metaphor, which in turn becomes reality … dying without death …”
Now Caesar smiled: “Yes, that is a very circumstantial kind of reality … are you serious in thinking that reality is subject to such involved conditions? I see scarcely any difference between them and those you have imposed on metaphor … ”
Though Caesar was sitting so near, his voice broke through from a strangely immeasurable distance, but not less strangely and from a distance still greater, if possible, came his own words although from an opposite direction: “The metaphor of reality and the reality of metaphor … oh, only at the very end does the one merge into the other … ”
“I believe in a simpler reality, my Virgil; for instance, I believe in the homely and robust reality of our everyday life … yes, Virgil, in just the simple reality of everyday life.”
“In every day’s simple reality … ” Even in their simplest meaning the words of men stemmed from death, but further than that, from the cavern of nothingness which gave birth to reality, they stemmed from the enormous cave behind the twofold portal of death, they stemmed from immensity, and therefore the listener who received them was no longer himself; he had become another person, removed from himself because he participated in immensity.
“The simplicity of the fathers and forefathers, Virgil, the simplicity of your Aeneas; it was in the simplicity of their everyday life that they set up the Roman stat …”
There were sun-eclipses in the sky, the lightlessness was lion-colored, the horses of Poseidon, trampling the waves, stamped on, and the lion of Phoebus was not to be seen—, had the heavenly span, forgetful of the divine taming, already broken free of the reins and gone back to the horse-herds of the waters? Oh, it was Lucifer rising, and washed by the waves of the ocean, he who was followed by Venus, chosen by her as the light-star, lifting his holy head eastward, his glances were likewise uplifted, dawn was released by his glances—, had this been the reality of Aeneas? had he been permitted to leave earth’s simplicity so far behind him? had he really pushed on so far? was this how he saw it? “Oh, Augustus, everything was simple reality to Homer … that was his perception.”
“To be sure; you are merely confirming my statement. Whatever meant reality to our ancestors persists, and is hidden in every kind of art …”
“Oh, Augustus, the ground is shaking … nothing shook for Homer or his heroes … however, for Aeneas … ”
“Are you speaking about reality or art?”
“About both.”
“Well then, about both; so you must realize at last that Rome and your poem are one, and that Rome’s plain reality is contained in your poem … nothing shakes in it, its reality is as well founded as the Italic soil …”
Even the moon’s shining orb, even the sun’s very fire, spirit was feeding them both, mind reached through all the world’s members, uniting as into one body the whole of existence by essence—, perceiving and perceived, does the star travel eastward? “Oh, Augustus, all reality is but the growth of perception.”
“Rome sprang from the perception of our forefathers: Rome was the perception of Aeneas, and there is no one who knows this better than yourself, Virgil.”
It was above an earth in repose, not above states that the star would wander; however, of this Augustus wanted to know nothing. And yet it must not be held back in silence: “The ancestors planted the seed of perception when they created the Roman order …”
“I do not wish to hear again that the reality of Rome, th
e reality of what has been created and is yet to be created, has been merely a symbol … the reality of my work must be more than a mere metaphor …”
“Rome was founded in the likeness of perception; it carries truth in itself, evolving more and more into reality … there is no reality save that of growth and development.”
“So the present counts for nothing?”
“Born from perception, the Roman state will grow beyond itself; its order will come to be the kingdom of perception.”
“The Empire does not need to grow any further; with the help of the gods we shall succeed in pushing the German frontiers as far as the Elbe, so as to establish the shortest possible line of defense between the Ocean and the Euxinian Sea, and the Empire having reached its natural limits, to safeguard it in the north from Britannia to Dacia …”
“Your domain, oh, Caesar, will come to be even greater …”
“It ought not to be greater; were it to be, the Italic progeny would not suffice to support Roman order and customs throughout the whole territory.”
“The realm of reality which you are helping into existence will be more than an expansion of government over militarily protected territory.”
“Verily, what has been accomplished counts for nothing with you, and since it counts for nothing you reduce it to a metaphor that has no claim on reality.”
Breathing was wearisome, speaking was weariness, and wearisome the struggle against Caesar’s increasing distrust and his sensitive assertiveness: “Swordless is the peace which you have founded within the empire, oh, Caesar, and it shall embrace the whole world without the aid of the sword.”
“True …” —the explanation seemed to have been satisfactory—“indeed, it has been my care to ensure peace through treaties and not through the sword; however, the power of the sword must stand behind the treaties in order that they shall not be broken.”
“In the kingdom of perception the sword will come to be superfluous.”
Almost startled, Caesar looked up: “How will you protect yourself against broken treaties and perjury, how will you do this without a legion? The golden age has not yet arrived.”
The golden age in which iron should be transmuted to gold again, the age of Saturn who was immune from observation in the changelessness of his interminable change—, but he who hearkened into the depths, both of heaven and of earth, surmised—possibly beyond the Saturnian realm—the future reunion of the human with the divine: “Only the true perception can uphold the pledge.”
Augustus smiled: “That may be, but it will be better able to do so if supported at the same time by one or two legions.”
“You no longer need troops for the inner peace of Italy.”
“That is true, Virgil, and I have good reasons for not keeping garrisons here …”—a sort of a sly candor was discernible in Caesar’s countenance, a twinkle in the eye, understandable for the friend alone—, “troops within range of the Senate and its agents seem to me a somewhat too solid reality.”
“You are mistrustful of the Senate.”
“Men do not change, either in their good or bad aspects, and the garrulous malice that wrought the downfall of Julius Caesar, blessed be his paternal name and memory, operates in the conclave of the Senate, just as it did twenty-five years ago; even were I to exert a still greater influence over the senatorial nominations, these gentlemen are to be relied upon only so long as they know that I can throw Gallic and Illyrian legions into Italy at any time, and I take care that they do know it.”
“The people support your sovereignty, Augustus, not the Senate.”
“That is so … and being the Tribune of the people is the most important of all my offices.” Again the features disclosed a cunning candor, this time indicating that it was not for the sake of the people, but because of the right to veto the decisions of the Senate, that being the people’s tribune was of such prime importance.
“You are the symbol of peace to the people and that is why they love you … the golden age has not come, yet it is promised by your peace.”
“Peace? War?”—The cunning in Caesar’s countenance was tinged with pain—“the people accept the one like the other … I was in conflict with Antonius, I formed an alliance with him, I destroyed him, and the people scarcely took any notice of these changes; they do not know what they really want, and we have only to see to it that no other Antonius appears … the people cheer any victor; they love the victory, not the man.”
“This may hold good for the huddled masses lured into cities, but not for the peasants; the peasant loves peace and him who brings peace. The peasants love you for the man you are, and peasants are the real people.”
For a moment, for a heartbeat, oh, for a painful breathing-space, the sun’s eclipse faded, the livid light and sketched landscape, as well as the wavering stability, faded without actually fading out, as if to give place to the picture of the Mantuan plain, the mountain-shadowed region of fields whispering of childhood, spread out in sunshine, in rain, spread throughout all seasons and all stages of life.
As though there were no more need to hurry, Caesar settled back properly in the chair: “I cannot root out the cities from the surface of the earth, Virgil, on the contrary I have to erect cities because they are supporting points of the Roman order, as much today as ever before … we are a city-building people and first and foremost came the city of Rome …”
“Not as the city of merchants and money-lenders. Their golden age is coined and stamped.”
“You are unjust; the merchant is the Roman soldier of peace, and if I want him to exist I have to tolerate banking … this is all part of the state’s welfare.”
“I am not unjust, I see the avaricious swarms in the streets, I perceive the impiety; the peasant is the only one who retains the piety of the Roman people, although he too is in danger of succumbing to the greed for money.”
“Insofar as you are right, it is only an urgent reminder for us to take up our educational task without delay; we must see to it that the city masses become what they should be by virtue of their civil rights: a united Roman people.”
“They will become so by virtue of the perception for which they are avid.”
“They are even more avid for the circus … which certainly does not lessen our task, or its urgency.”
“Yes, they hanker for games … the path of reversion …”
“Whose path?”
“Whoever is without perception must dull his sense of emptiness by intoxication, consequently also by the intoxication of victory, if only as a spectator.”
“I have to reckon with established facts and I must not overlook anything that may be relevant to a unification of the masses. They are welded into a people by the sense of victory; feeling themselves victorious they are ready to band together for their country.”
“The peasants do so for the sake of their country’s peace,”—oh, Mantuan meadows that lie spread out yonder—“the peasant always lives in that community which is called ‘the people’; within it when he plows his fields, when he drives to market, on every one of his feast-days …”
“I have always made a point of promoting the peasantry; I have reduced their taxes, I have divided the vast areas of the crown estates for the benefit of small tenants, and regulated the terms of cultivation. However, our unpleasant experiences with the colonization of the veterans was an unmistakable sign of changed circumstances in our national economy … Rome has grown beyond its peasantry and we are more concerned with the corn of Egypt than with that of Italy and Sicily; we may no longer support ourselves exclusively on our peasantry, we may hope even less to bring our masses back to peasantry; in either case we should be condemning the state-economy and the state itself to destruction …”
“Yet the Roman freedom which you have taken under your protection was, and is supported by the peasants.”
“Freedom? Certainly, certainly, I am responsible for the freedom of the Roman people; no one shall disturb i
t, neither Antonius nor any other. This is the task of the Roman state, and for this it must be made firm. By letting the people participate in the state’s momentum, we give them the feeling of freedom for which men strive, since this aspiration is intrinsic to human nature and must be satisfied. The one and only place to shelter this feeling for freedom is in the commonwealth of the state: here it is accessible to everyone, even to the slave, and it is more than the freedom of the soil, of which you speak; it is the freedom of a divine order! Indeed, Virgil, that it is. All else is dream, without reality, nothing but a dream of the golden age, in which there was neither order nor duty. It must suffice for our pleasure to play at this dream-freedom during the Saturnalia. Were we to celebrate the Saturnalia the whole year round, the state could not exist. The Saturnalia are symbols but the state is the reality. I am not able, nor am I called upon, to usher in the golden age, but the age that I am called upon to prepare and that I am preparing shall be mine and that of my state.”
Now the slave spoke: “Freedom inheres in us; the state is ludicrous and earthly.”
However, Caesar gave no heed to this. He had risen, and strangely undisturbed, strangely motionless, yet seeming to be moved from within, and curiously exalted, he continued his speech: “Insofar as it is part of the state’s welfare, even freedom must be a reality and dare not be a sham reality, for it too must be more than an empty symbol; all too often has it been reduced to one, and in particular by the Senate itself. By just such means the gentlemen in the purple togas succeeded in betraying the people again and again, and incited them to civil war! Miserable trickery! Certainly the doors of the Curial stood open, and everyone who wanted to could listen to the Senatorial sessions; but this was the only freedom granted to the people, the most insidious of all popular freedoms, the permission to listen while laws were being passed by the utterly unscrupulous, to suppress and to fleece them! Symbols or no symbols, institutions which are obsolete turn reality into a farce of reality, freedom to a farce of freedom, and provide the best soil for all kinds of criminality; that’s the sort of thing I had to clear away. Aye, in the old peasant-state that you have in mind they were still possessed of sound judgment, there the citizens could survey matters of public concern, there a people’s assembly could exercise its will. Today, however, we have to deal with four million Roman citizens, today we have before us blind, gigantic masses without judgment, and these follow anyone who is clever enough to wrap himself in the glittering and seductive mantle of freedom, trickily disposing its folds so as to conceal how it is patched and pieced together with scraps of meaningless and outworn form. That, and that only, is what freedom for the masses is like, and verily they know it themselves! They are aware of the profound insecurity in which they live, both of body and soul; they are aware of their lack of judgment; they know, without being fully conscious of it, that they are surrounded by a new sort of reality, which they are neither able to grasp nor direct; they know only that they are exposed to incalculable forces, forces of an unimaginable dimension, forces that they are often able to name as famine or pestilence, as a failure of crops or a barbaric invasion, but which are nevertheless the expression for them of the far greater threat that stands behind these things, deeper, more unaccountable, more inconceivable than these; assuredly the masses know something of the dangers of their freedom, they know it for a sham freedom whereby they are turned into a frightened, veering, leaderless herd. And just in view of this insecurity, in view of this inner and outer threat to which such masses of people are exposed, I repeat, and must repeat, that the only real freedom is that which is found in the Roman order, in the well-being for everybody, in short—in the state. No other freedom exists. The state that my idolized father, blessed be his memory, wished for, the state that I am at pains to build up as his legacy, this state in itself constitutes freedom, immortal and real; it represents freedom in the reality of the Roman spirit.”
Death of Virgil Page 38
