“I cannot and I dare not finish it … I cannot do it because this would be just the wrong sort of preparation.”
“And how would you accomplish the right one?”
“Through sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice?”
“Just so.”
“To what end will you sacrifice? To whom?”
“To the gods.”
“The gods have stipulated the sacrifices which are acceptable to them, they have given them over to the care of the state, and I see to it that they are punctiliously carried out in the whole empire. There are no sacrifices outside the state’s sovereignty.”
Augustus remained stubborn, he knew nothing of the pledge commanded by the unknown god; it was futile to try to convince him: “The forms of religion that you guard are untouchable, but to say they are untouchable is not to say that they are complete.”
“How shall they be completed?”
“Everyone may be commanded by the gods to sacrifice, and everyone must be ready to be chosen as the sacrifice should it so please the gods.”
“If I understand you, Virgil, you want to exclude the mass of the people from the sacrificial regulations and to have them replaced by the individual who is in some way concerned with the supernal; without doubt this is inadmissible and more than inadmissible. And besides, you refer this to the will of the gods in order to give yourself a semblance of justification and responsibility. Nevertheless, all of this remains vastly irresponsible, and the gods will be the last ones to take over the responsibility for your intentions, because the time-honored cult-forms and the sacrifices proper to them suffice for the gods, as for the people. They should not be exceeded by even half a step.”
“They are being terribly exceeded, Augustus! the people dully sense that a new truth is in preparation, that the old forms will soon broaden out, they sense dully that the ancient rites of sacrifice suffice for no one; and driven by a confused longing toward the new, driven also by a confused longing to sacrifice, they crowd to the places of execution, and to the games which you organize, crowd to the impious sham-sacrifice that is bloodily offered them in death that grows in cruelty, so that in the end only the intoxication with blood and death is satisfied …”
“I have turned brutalization into discipline, unbridled cruelty into games. All this implies just the necessary hardness of the Roman people and has nothing to do with forebodings about the sacrifice.”
“The people have forebodings, more so than the individual. For their total feeling is duller and more ponderous than the meditation of the individual soul, duller and weightier, wilder and more confused is their urge toward a world-redeemer. And faced with the blood-horror at the places of execution and on the sands of the arena they have a shuddering realization that from these the true sacrificial deed will arise, the real sacrifice, which will be the ultimate and decisive form of perception on earth.”
“The profundity of your work often seems like a riddle, and now you are talking in riddles.”
“The bringer of salvation will bring himself to the sacrifice out of love for men and mankind, transforming himself by his own death into the deed of truth, the deed which he casts to the universe, so that from this supreme and symbolic reality of helpful service creation may again unfold.”
The Caesar wrapped himself in his toga: “I have placed my life at the service of my work, at the service of public welfare, at the service of the state. In doing so my sacrificial need found satisfaction enough. I recommend the same to you.”
What passed back and forth between them now amounted to nothing, just empty words, or not even words any more, racing across an empty space that was no longer even space. Everything was an unbelievable nothingness, cut off and bridgeless.
“Your life has been one of deeds, Caesar, deeds done for the people and public welfare, and you have given yourself without stint. The gods chose you for this sacrificial deed and commanded you to it, and through it you have been nearer to them than any other mortal, as your life shows.”
“What sort of sacrifice do you still want? Any work that is actually accomplished demands the whole man and his entire life; the same has been true in your case as far as I can judge, and you are just as much entitled to call it sacrifice.”
The many layers of existence had faded to an amorphousness beyond that of any emptiness; no lines were to be seen any more, not the faintest shadow of a line—, where could one still find the means of recognition? “All I have done was egotism, it was hardly action, to say nothing of sacrifice.”
“Then follow my example, pay off your obligations, give the people that to which they are entitled, give them your work.”
“Like every work, it was born out of blindness … out of worldly blindness … whatever we are doing … nothing but blind work … we are not humble enough for the true, for the seeing-blindness …”
“And I also?… my work also?”
“No more layers of existence …”
“What?”
It was not worth while talking; one could only repeat oneself: “Your actions took place among the people and became a deed through the people; mine had to be taken to the people, not serving as a deed serves but in order to win recognition and applause.”
“Enough, Virgil,”—Caesar’s attitude expressed the utmost impatience now—“if you deem it egotistical to publish the Aeneid, have it published after your death. That is my last suggestion.”
“The poet’s search for fame reaches beyond his death.”
“And then, what?”
“The work must not outlast me.”
“By Jupiter! Why? At last I should like to know why. Give me your real reasons now!”
“Since I could not consecrate my whole life to sacrifice, as you have done yours, I must designate my work for this purpose … It must sink out of memory, and I with it.”
“That is not reasoning, that is utter lunacy.”
“The unchastity of remembering … I want to forget … to forget everything … and I want to be forgotten …”
“What a charming message for your friends … truly, Virgil, your memories would be more chaste if you clung to something friendlier instead of to empty and malicious wishes, which in fact are only empty and malicious evasions.”
“The redemptive deed of perception is imminent; I must sacrifice in order to fulfill the pledge … salvation lies only in fulfilling the pledge … for everyone … for me …”
“Oh, your salvation, always your salvation … well, your savior will not arrive a day sooner because of your sacrifice, but you are robbing the people, your people, and this is what you call your salvation. Lunacy, just lunacy, that’s what it is!”
“Only truth without perception is lunacy, this has to do with the truth of perception … in such reality there is no lunacy.”
“So—there are two kinds of truth, are there, one full of perception for you and another without perception for me, who in your opinion talks like a lunatic, eh? Is that what you mean to say? Well then, say it bluntly!”
“I must destroy what is without perception … it constitutes the evil … it is imprisonment … unliberated … redemption will come through the sacrifice … it is the highest duty … the imperceptive must yield to perception … only by doing this can I serve the people’s truth and further their salvation … this is the law of truth … this the awakening from the encircling twilight.”
A sharp and hasty step—, Augustus stood close to his bed: “Virgil …”
“Yes, Augustus?”
“You hate me.”
“Octavian!”
“Call me not Octavian since you hate me.”
“I … I hate you?”
“And how you hate me.” Caesar’s voice was shrill with bitterness.
“Oh, Octavian …”
“Keep still … you hate me more than every other person on earth, and more than all other men because you envy no one so much as me.”
“That is not true
… that is not true.”
“Do not lie; it is true …”
“Oh, it is not.”
“It is true …”—furiously the hand of the scornful man tore the laurel leaves from the wreaths of the chandelier—, “indeed, it is true … indeed, it is true, for you have filled yourself with thoughts of being a king but you were too weak to make the slighest effort to become one; you hate me because you had no other choice than to put your cravings into your poem, by which you could show yourself, here at least, as mightier than your kings; you hate me because I was able to work for all that you desired for yourself and which, nevertheless, I have so despised that I could allow myself to refuse the crown of empire; you hate me because you hold me responsible for your own impotence … this is the source of your hatred, your envy …”
“Octavian, listen to me …”
“I do not want to listen to you …”
The Caesar was shouting, and strange, ah, most strange; the louder he shouted the richer became the world; the visible with its many layers of existence appeared once more, and the leaden apathy came back to life, and again there was something like hope.
“Octavian, listen while I speak …”
“To what end, tell me, to what end? … first, with false modesty you hypocritically slander your own work so as to be able to disparage mine more easily, and then you want to reduce it to a windy semblance of a sham-image, and a blind one at that, thus abusing the Roman people and the faith of their fathers, which, as the expression of my work, does not please you and which, for that reason, you find necessary to have reformed, knowing quite well that all this is futile, knowing quite well it must continue to be futile for you, knowing quite well that I remain more powerful than you and must continue to remain so, knowing quite well that you cannot get the better of me, you now take refuge at last in the supernatural, yonder where no one, not even I, is able to pass, and you want to saddle me with a savior who doesn’t exist and never will exist, but who is to subdue me in your stead … I know you, Virgil; you seem to be gentle, and you love to be worshipped by the people for your purity and your virtue, but in reality your allegedly pure soul trembles constantly with hatred and malice, yes, I repeat it, it trembles with a most abject malice …”
Without doubt the consecrated one was hollering his complaints; and yet it was so strangely good that it should be so, it was so strangely good, oh, so good, that this could still be possible, and it seemed as if there were an invisible firm ground showing within the invisible realm, that firm invisible ground from which invisible bridges could be flung again, human bridges to humanity, chaining one word to another, one glance to another, so that word, like glance, should again become full of meaning, human bridges of meeting; oh, that he would speak on!
Well, the Augustus did speak on, and not only did he speak, nay, rather he shouted, laying no restraint on himself: “Pure and virtuous and modest are you in manner, but just a little too pure, too virtuous, and too modest not to arouse suspicion … never would your so-called modesty have permitted you to accept an office that I could have tendered you, never would I have dared offer you one, because in reality none could be thought of that appeared good enough for you, you would have found objections to each one of them had it been that of senator, of pro-consul or any other of high rank, and the last thing that would have been possible for you would have been to accept any office from my hands, because you hate me too deeply and too thoroughly for that! Yes, sheer hatred of me compelled you to write poetry and build up your independence as a poet, for what you really wanted of me was to stand back and let you have my place, and in this I was, and still am, unable to oblige you, not to mention that you would decline my office also, because, being unable to hold it and conscious of your inability, you would have been forced to despise it … all of this proceeds from hatred and because of it your hatred is being repeatedly enkindled …”
“Never have I esteemed my poetry above any office you could have offered me.”
“Keep still, and do not continue to steal my time by your hypocrisy … all that concerned you was that I resign my office, perhaps only that you might be able to spurn it, and this gave rise to your fuss about perception, your sophistries concerning sacrifice, and now to your proposed destruction of the Aeneid, so that I might learn from it how to give up and destroy one’s own work … yes, you would rather have the Aeneid vanish from the earth than have to go on enduring or suffering the sight of my work any more …”
Layer on layer of existence piled up under these scoldings, and the room which Caesar was furiously pacing was an ordinary earthly room once more, part of an earthly house and furnished with earthly furniture, an earthly thing in the light of late noon. And now one could even feel one’s way across the invisible bridge: “Octavian, you do me wrong, a bitter wrong …”
“So, I do you wrong, do I? but you want to destroy the Aeneid so that you will not have to dedicate it to me! You dedicated the Georgics to Maecenas and the Eclogues to Asinius Pollio right gladly! On me, to the contrary, on me whom you hate, you wanted to foist the Culex, for me the Culex was good enough and still is, according to you, seemingly to prove that it was good enough for me twenty-five years ago, that I could claim nothing better at that time, nor can I today, … but that in these twenty-five years I have accomplished my work, and that this work fully entitles me to the Aeneid, well-grounded as it is in my achievement, in the reality of Rome and its spirit, and without which it could never have come into being, that is too much for you, you cannot bear it, and you would rather destroy the poem than dedicate it to me …”
“Octavian …!”
“It is immaterial to you whether a work, be it yours or mine, is greater than life or death, immaterial because of your hatred …”
“Octavian, accept the poem!” All the paperish pulp, the dull paper-like whiteness had disappeared from the atmosphere outside; the light shimmered over the landscape, almost ivory in color.
“I do not want to hear anything more of your bungling work … do what you please with it; I do not want it.”
“It is not a bungling work.”
Caesar remained standing and looked askance at the chest: “It has become a bungling work to me; you have reduced it to that yourself.”
“You know that it was meant for you when I wrote it, that you were constantly in my thoughts, that you entered into the work and that you are, as you were, in the poem which is yours …”
“That is what you made believe to yourself and by the same token to me. Truly, you are right to call me blind, blind as a new-born kitten, for it was flagrantly blind to believe in you, flagrant for me to have had confidence so long in you and your trickery!”
“There was no trickery.”
“If there was not, you hate your own work now just because it bears traces of me.”
“I will finish it for your sake.”
“And I am still supposed to believe that?” Again the Caesar looked askance at the box and this was unpleasant; but now there was nothing else to be done.
“You must believe me, Octavian.”
Oh, even the tiniest whirling second released from a human soul into the abyss of time, only to vanish there, is greater in its incomprehensibility than any work, and now from Caesar’s soul such a second released itself, a second of friendship, a second of affection, a second of love, distinctly felt although he said only: “We will reconsider it.”
And now came the hardest part: “Take the manuscript with you to Rome, Octavian … with the help of the gods I shall find it there again.”
The Caesar nodded and for the length of this nod a vast peace reigned, the peace of an affinity that reached out like a breath from the human heart, passing through all invisibilities ever and again toward the human heart, the great power of quietude: the brown-timbered ceiling was again becoming the forest from which it had been taken, the laurel scent of the wreaths turned back into the most hidden shadows resting deep in the sun-covered lea
fy vales, misty with the trickle of the fountains, misty and soft like the tone of a mossy reed and yet firm-fast, yet oaken-heavy, and the breath of the inexplicable heart was that of mutual intuition. Was it still on this breath that the lamp, as though for the last time, started to swing on its silver-sounding chains? nothing stirred around them, the waters were smooth as though holding their breath; the voyage halted. And Augustus standing under the laurel-elm, his hand in the laurel-leafage, said: “Do you remember, Virgil?”—“Yes, I remember many things, but they are always too few.”—“Do you remember the horses and dogs that we picked out together?”—“Of course, I remember: I predicted their speed and their fitness as you were buying them.”—“They were Crotonian mares and stallions and Iberian dogs.”—“I advised you against one of the stallions, but you bought him nevertheless, Octavian.”—“Yes, you knew all about it, the stallion proved to be really no good.”—“You paid dearly for him and you might have saved the money, for my advice was sound.”—“Sometimes it is well not to follow your advice, Virgil.”—“Why? but that was long ago.”—“Very long ago. The stallion had a pleasing appearance, a black stallion with a small head. Too bad.”—“Yes, too bad. A black stallion, he had white fetlocks and his hind-quarters were too weak, although that was scarcely noticeable.”—“Quite so, his hind-quarters were too weak but he had no white marks whatsoever.”—“But no, Augustus, the fetlocks were white.”—“An animal that I have seen once stays in my memory, I assure you the horse was without markings.”—“We raised so many horses in Andes that my memory for them is keen; here I feel sure of my ground and no one can talk me out of it, not even you, Octavian.”—“And you are nothing but a pig-headed peasant.”—“I am a peasant and the son of horse-breeders; as a child I galloped over the meadows clinging to the horse’s mane.”—“If the nags you mounted at that time were no better than your memory you need not be too proud of them.”—“They were not nags.”—“And your memory is no memory; mine is the better.”—“It is all one whether or not you are the Augustus, you may be that a thousand times, the fetlocks were still white, white as snow.”—“Fume as much as you like, it is useless, they were not white.”—“I say white and that is final.”—“No, say I.”—“Really, Octavian, do not contradict me; I am ready to die on the spot should the fetlocks not have been white!” Augustus who until now had stood there with lowered brow, musing as if wishing to hold fast not only to memory but to peace as well, now lifted his head: “We won’t gamble with such stakes, I forbid it, for that would be too high a price for me, in that case I should much rather the fetlocks had been white.” And thereupon they both had to laugh, overcome by a wave of soundless laughter, by a soundless, fluttering laughter that was a little painful, probably also for Augustus, for his saddened features—or were there even tears shimmering in his distant eyes?—let one infer that he too was feeling the anguish in his throat and chest, painful, like dream-laughter, sore at heart and choking because, alas, no one laughs in the dream and, alas, because the bliss-giving stillness that had enthralled them was being painfully dispelled since Augustus had raised his head, wakened out of the stillness that now was gone.
Death of Virgil Page 41
