Plotius walked back, sighing, to the armchair where he had sat before: “Instead of taking it easy as everyone advises you, you busy yourself with codicils and with what you have in mind to bequeath to this one or that one … Caesar was with you for more than an hour, and one can tell by your voice that this wore you out … well, for my part, I shall take care not to interfere with a pighead such as you …”
“Yes,” added Lucius with a speculative curiosity, “well over an hour … and did you talk of nothing but the Aeneid?… stop, do not answer if it tires you …”
Standing sturdily beside the bed, the slave appeared to have grown in a most unforeseen manner; a stilly coldness emanated from him as from one who has come into a room from the iciest winter weather, and he stood there so broad and mighty that he made it impossible for the boy to send over a single glance, although the latter had climbed up on the table in order to peer over his shoulders.
“The slave should leave …”
“Ah, because of the will?”—Plotius from his armchair looked around the room—, “all of them have left anyway, you may begin.”
Lucius, fussing as usual with the folds of his toga, sat down cautiously on the chair near the bed and, folding his long, slender legs one over the other in a worldly posture, he held his long-fingered hand palm up in a gesture of explanation: “Yes, when the Exalted One once starts talking he is inclined to let one have a fair amount of it. And yet, if we are frank, he is anything but a gifted orator, at least not captivating in comparison with the Roman eloquence of classical times, which we, as surviving witnesses, are entitled to claim … do you remember the senatorial speeches of the past? what a pleasure they were, all of them! However, Augustus’ eloquence does for the present, since, as it is, no one discourses today, and it will have to do … but, Virgil, by no means must I fall into the same blunder as he, praised be his name; I do not want to tire you …”
Why did the slave not move? He was set up here motionless and firmly rooted, like an ice-block, like an iceberg, always threatening to grow higher; by now he covered little Lysanias completely and the cold made itself felt ever more dangerously, issuing from him as though inexorably, bringing great waves of weariness in its wake.
“You need a complete rest,”—Lucius’ hand put a finishing stroke to this pronouncement—, “you need rest, and had you consulted the doctor again he would have told you so; it might be best if we left you alone now.”
His need for rest could not be gainsaid, a sweet and seductive need that had come over him, coming to him on the weariness-waves of chill, dangerous in its inescapability: Oh, it had to be fought, fought immediately! and so it proved most welcome that Lucius had mentioned the doctor and that he, answering the summons, started to emerge solidly from the swarm of transparent figures and continued to emerge no less solidly, a bland smile on his lips: “You have recovered, Virgil, and I am proud to be able to tell you so, for as I may be allowed to state in all modesty, my skill has contributed not a little to this favorable outcome.”
It was a gratifying though not quite unlooked-for announcement: “I have recovered …”
“That is a slight exaggeration though on the whole, the gods be thanked, it may be correct,” Plotius was heard to say from the alcove.
“I am well …”
“You will be soon” … corrected the slave.
“Send him away,” the boy’s voice sounded weak and plaintive—“send him away if you wish to recover; he will kill you too.”
The weariness-chill became downright physical; proceeding from the ice-block it turned into an ice-block itself, turned into a curdled wave, enclosing, enwrapping, fiery at the core, enforcing a warm repose by its freezing embrace: “I have recovered; the doctor did not lie.”
“Perhaps so, at least insofar as a doctor is able to be entirely truthful, but this truth implies that you have to behave live a convalescent who does not want to have a relapse”—Lucius was standing up—“and as for us, now we are going to leave.”
“Stay!”
His voice had failed; the word had not been heard.
“Oh, let them go, let all of them go,” begged Plotia coaxingly, though unable to conceal her own fright, “and him as well, send off him who holds you embraced; my arms are softer than his, and he is loathsome.”
Then it became clear that the glowing-icy clasp was caused by the giant’s arms, lifting him up from the bed and from the earth, and that on the giant’s breast, in the immensity of which there was no longer heart-beat nor breathing, the sweetly-alluring repose of immutability would have to be found.
Clay was the earth from which he had been lifted, but not less earthlike and full of earth’s forces was the giant’s breast on which he lay.
“He is crushing me,” sighed the boy hopelessly overcome by weakness.
“His time is up,” said the giant, and it was almost like a smile, “it is not I who molest him, time does that.”
Mighty as earth was the giant, bearing earth, bearing rest, bearing death—, did he not bear time as well?
“I am timeless,” rejoined Plotia, “I do not alter, do not let him kill me too.”
Did Plotia need to be saved, did the boy? was he himself in need of salvation? was there a need for the will, or for the Aeneid? the embrace became still vaster, heavier, mightier, more and more icy, more and more glowing, the glow and the iciness already melted into a common lifestream, carrying existence toward non-existence so that it could unite with it; the quiet had already become so dense that it threatened to let no sound escape, no sound that might shatter it, and it seemed already past shattering, and not for Plotia, not for the boy, no, but for his own life’s sake, a final effort must be made: “I want to live … oh, Mother!”
Was it a cry? It could not be ascertained whether it had pierced the borders of stillness. The breast of the giant was without heart-beat or breathing, without heart-beat or breathing the world. And it was quite a while before the giant said: “I am not freeing you because of the woman’s entreaties nor those of the boy, neither because of your own fright; I am freeing you because you have a mind to accomplish your earthly service.” It was almost an admonition; and withal he felt the clasp loosen as if the giant were restoring him to the clay floor of earth.
“I want to live … I want to live!”
Yes, now it was a cry, realized by the voice and the ears, hoarse, it is true, but still loud enough to cause the two friends to jump up in alarm; Plotius rushed over and pushing aside the helpless Lucius he reached the bed with a reproachful: “This is what comes of it!”
But the clasp was broken, the giant had vanished, the frightful seduction had subsided, and what remained was the usual fever, only the usual fever, which was still like a glowing ice-block, crushing the chest and compressing the breath to a painful rattling, however, so often experienced and so well-known that even the taste of blood rising in the mouth was no longer alarming; one was again in an ordinary sick-room, Lysanias was crouched on top of the table, he likewise was greatly exhausted and looked attentively across the room.
“This is what comes of it … this is what comes of it …”
It was not easy to decide whether the reproachful grumbling was meant for the sickness, the sick man, or Lucius, and the latter said: “The doctor …”
One was again in an ordinary sick-room; Lysanias was present as was proper, but these two old men, Lucius and Plotius, were out of place here, and Mother was missing. Why was Plotius sitting in grandfather’s place near the window? Probably because he was as stout and ponderous as the latter. Under his weight the feet of the arm-chair had made a jagged dusty groove in the clay floor and through the window one could see the rolling meadows of the Mantuan landscape in the sunny light of noon. One must call Mother from the kitchen: “Thirsty …”
Before Lucius could turn around, Plotius, with clumsy agility, had discovered a beaker and had returned with it from the wall-fountain to bring moisture to the expectant lips of
the sick man, whose head he supported meanwhile with his other hand. “Are you better, my Virgil?” he inquired, still short of breath and perspiring with excitement.
Speech was difficult to restore. It was possible to thank Plotius only with a nod. And besides the voice of Mother was now audible in the kitchen. “Coming,” she called cheerfully, “coming … my child shall soon have his milk.” This meant that Mother was still alive; without altering, she was timeless, and this assurance made for inmost well-being. “Am I still sick, Mother?”—“A little, but soon my child will be out of bed and able to play again.” Yes, he would play again on the kitchen floor and out there in the sand of the garden, at Mother’s feet. But how could Mother approve of such a play that, in forming the clay-like earth, repeated and continued doing what Father had done, and what the god still does? was not this game a crime against the earth that wished to remain unformed, a crime against its primal loam? did it not awake horror and scorn in the knowing mother-goddess? However, it was now impossible to reflect upon it, because of Plotius who was still standing beside the bed; and what he had brought was not milk but water, clear water from the springs of earth.
After a second long gulp, having sunk back into the pillows, speech was again possible; “Thank you, my Plotius, much better, you have restored me …”
It was a beaker of brown horn, but the figure of a cock was etched upon it. It was the good solid beaker that farmers use.
“I will bring the doctor,” persisted Lucius, moving toward the door.
“Why bring the doctor?” It was curious; the doctor was already here, and the somewhat uncertain and nebulous shape in which he was cast seemed to take on solidity with every passing moment.
“We want to ask him,” said Plotius, reflectively, “whether or not he will bleed you; how often have I myself had attacks like this, even worse, but after getting rid of a few ounces of blood one finds oneself again in the midst of life and is aware that the whole unpleasant procedure has been most beneficial for one’s health.”
The doctor, Charondas, combed his beard: “Roman school, Roman method of treatment, we will have none of it; in your case we have not to withdraw any fluids from your body but on the contrary we must add to them … I bid you drink as much as possible.”
“Let me have another drink!…”
“Do you want wine again?” asked Lysanias, lifting the ivory goblet.
“Nonsense,” the doctor snapped out at him, “no wine; you have nothing to say here.”
Verily, the cool trickling was medicine: “I have recovered; the doctor himself said so.”
“Then we want him to confirm it,” said Lucius from the door, his hand on the knob.
“We have always to reckon on little relapses,” said the doctor and smiled blandly, “this was nothing but a little relapse.”
“Stay here, Lucius … we shall not make a lot of a little relapse; now I must draw up my will.”
Lucius came back to the table: “Postpone it only until this evening; I promise you we shall finish it before our departure.”
No, it had to be done at once; otherwise the giant might believe that the will had been used only as a subterfuge to escape him. Had not the retreat into the earthbound been altogether too cheap? Shame arose in him, a crippling and scourging shame, as crippling and scourging as the freezing heat of the fever which persisted, although there had been only a slight relapse.
Lysanias, now as before atop the table, wanted to dispel it. “The shame lies only in the chance but your path was chanceless, Virgil, and all that you did was necessary.”
“He who goes backward on his path feels ashamed.”
With a heavy sigh, Plotius sat down on the edge of the bed: “Now what is that supposed to mean?”
“The will is urgent, I cannot put it off.”
“Nobody would understand your feeling as shame the postponement of a few hours, and you yourself cannot be in earnest.”
“For Augustus’ sake I renounced my wishes in regard to the Aeneid … now, for your sake should I renounce them in regard to my will?”
“We are only concerned with your health.”
“And it is this that permits me, aye, even forces me to go forward on my path. I do not want to go backward.”
“I have never led you backward,” the boy defended himself, “we have always gone forward.”
“And whither now?”
Lysanias was silent; he knew not what to answer.
“His guidance reached only to where I was,” said Plotia, intruding, “what follows now is our common path, the path of our love.”
“Whither? I have to find my way alone.”
“You are unjust, Virgil,” pouted Plotius Tucca, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed and causing the mattress to bend under him, “you are unjust; nothing warrants you in rejecting our help and our love like this …”
Plotius, who was usually so loudly domineering, and was wont to let nothing oppose him, sat there quite helplessly on the edge of the bed, and Lucius, otherwise so secure in his worldly wisdom, seemed quite shaken; it was plain that they had become submissive, both ready for submission to a patient whose impressionability had formerly made him bend almost constantly to their will. What had wrought this change? Were they submissive only to the sovereign power of illness, although formerly they had given little heed to its voice? or were they now beginning to be aware of the greater voice waiting behind the illness? the annunciating voice of love uniting life and death? oh, they must divine it, otherwise they would not oppose so strongly a last will which wanted to prepare for death!
And Lucius said: “I do not wish to oppose you further, but …”
“Do not add a but, my Lucius … yonder in the corner is my luggage, and in the traveling bag you will find my writing utensils and everything that pertains to them …”
Plotius rocked his head to and fro: “Well, one must let you have your own way as there is no holding you back …”
In the face of such docility it was neither appropriate nor pleasant to have to admit to these two that the physical pains were continuing; but there was the danger of an oncoming chill: “Will you just get me a second blanket …”
The sulky face of Plotius became worried and the sulkiness increased: “You are taxing yourself far too much.”
“Just a second blanket … that is all.”
“I will get it for you,” said Lucius.
But scarcely had Lucius called for the servants and given them the order before the slave of the impenetrably stern countenance appeared, already equipped with the blanket, no giant he, but just an ordinary lackey who politely and deftly spread the second blanket over the bed, replacing upon it the laurel sprig hallowed by the touch of Augustus, and this happened so swiftly, so obviously prepared for in advance, that one was inclined to ask oneself whether the request for this blanket had been altogether necessary or justified—, had it not just been an excuse to order the slave back? or an excuse for the slave to steal in again? some explanation was needed: “Were you not here just a moment ago?”
“I have been ordered not to leave you any more.”
The boy Lysanias slid down from the table and came quite close, no doubt so the slave could not push him away again: “Without being ordered I stayed with you always, and now without orders I mean to stay on.”
What the boy said was of no consequence, indeed it was almost like a forgotten, now scarcely understood language, while the words of the other one, despite their curt sound, brought with them a strange kind of confidence: “Why did you not come sooner?”
“You too had to serve before I could serve you.”
Plotius felt worriedly for the cold feet beneath the blanket: “They are like ice, my Virgil!”
“I feel quite well now, Plotius.”
“I hope you are telling the truth,” said Lucius, who meanwhile had been arranging the writing utensils and the pad of paper on the table, “and here is everything that you requested.”
Lucius was astonished: “What! do you even want to do the writing yourself?”
“I want to look at the paper … give it here.”
“Do not be so impatient, Virgil, here it is.” And Lucius, who had opened the leather portfolio, took from the clean-cut pile of paper the topmost sheets and handed them over.
Oh, it was a good quality of paper, it had that rough, cool surface that is easy on the pen, and it was good to pass over it with padded fingertips as though one were about to write. And by holding it against the light one could see through its ivory color the brownish network of the grain. Oh, the first stroke of the pen on the clean white fold of paper, the first line drawn toward creation, the first word to enter into imperishability!
It was hard to part from it: “This is good paper, Lucius …”
“My body is white and smooth and tender,” sighed Plotia in a whispering lament, “but you did not care to touch it.”
Lucius took back the sheets, then he too stroked the surface with tentative fingers, testing it and holding it against the light: “Yes,” he confirmed expertly, “it is good paper.” Then he sat down to write.
Plotia had been untouchable, her fate too heavy to be borne, yet light as down, too light to be borne or to be allowed to be borne, and unknown she had vanished into the unknowable, there where no meeting exists; her ring remained, but she did not appear again.
Plotius said: “If it is only a codicil and not a modification of your former will, you can make it extremely brief.”
No, Plotia did not appear, other shapes came forth, however, from the shadowy swarm, some of them strangely familiar, some of them difficult to recognize as they were immediately whisked away, all sorts of people, among them many whores with blonde wigs, many drunkards and pot-bellies, also waiters and pleasure-boys. For a moment Alexis was visible, insofar as he was recognizable from his back, for he was standing at a ship’s railing and looking down into the water in which all sorts of refuse stewed about. And the boy said, admonishingly, and sadly: “We have gone down all paths together and I have led you through them all; oh, that you might remember …”
Death of Virgil Page 43
