Death of Virgil

by Hermann Broch

  “Are you coming now?” asked Plotia, almost impatiently, giving herself in nearly the same breath the disappointed and disappointing answer: “Alas, you do not wish to come …”

  “Out with you …!” ordered the slave again. “Even you are not able to bring help …” and thereupon—for a moment perfectly visible—Plotia floated off as though she were a fury, her ivory body crowned with hair that was streaming flame.

  Who would bring help? No one had been allowed to remain, not even Plotia; all of them had been frightened away, and yet the isolation was like rest, yes, it was very quiet now with a quietness that bade fair to grow beyond itself, foretelling a ramble among flowery groves under the shade of laurels, a promise of that prenatal land into which it would blossom, to be meted out in a mild flow to the wanderer who would no longer have to pursue it in himself, absolved of the torment of searching, absolved of existence, absolved of his name, absolved of his anguish, absolved of his blood and his breath, he a wanderer in the forgotten land, and in the purity of forgetfulness!

  “Forgetfulness will bring no help to you either,” said the slave.

  Oh, who would bring help if there was no surety even in forgetting; oh, who could comfort one for one’s inability to rectify what had been done, or retrieve what had been left undone,—the done and the undone, one like the other, were forfeited and sealed—, what effort was still required for the redeeming and redeemed help to come? Once a voice had spoken, but it was only an annunciation, not yet the deed, and even the voice could no longer be heard, even the voice was forgotten, as forgotten as one’s own voice, forfeited and sealed in the irrevocable.

  And now the slave said: “Only he who calls out for help by name shall partake of it.”

  To call out for help? to call out once more? Once more to struggle for breath, once more to fight against the taste of blood on the tongue, once more, gasping with fatigue and fatigued with gasping, to have to call back one’s self and one’s own voice? Oh, what was the name, for the name had been forgotten! For a moment, for just a short moment came the vision of a face that could not be lost, that face of hard, brown, stiffened clay, kind and strong in its farewell smile, the never-vanishing parental countenance in its last calm—and then it faded away into the unforgettable.

  “Call,” urged the slave.

  The mouth was full of blood thick enough to stifle one, and all that was or could be outside of oneself remained imperceptible, remained behind endless, paralyzing layers, dim, opaque and impervious to sound. If there was no telling the call’s goal, there was no way to detect the name!

  “Call!”

  The call had to be forced out through the stifling, the paralysis, through strain; oh, voice calling out for the voice!

  “Call!”

  — Father!—

  Had it been called?

  “You called,” said the slave.

  Had it been called? The slave affirmed it as if he were the mediator to one who should have received the call, and who perhaps had already heard it, even though he did not choose to answer.

  “Ask him for help,” said the slave.

  And with recaptured breath, the plea came without effort, without premeditation, of its own accord: “Come to me …”

  Was this the moment of judgment?—Who would pronounce it? Or had it already been pronounced? On what would it fall? Would it ring out and be audible? would it appear as a deed? When, oh, when? The judgment between good and bad, separating guilt from innocence, the judgment which calls up the name and joins it to the innocent one, the law’s truth of reality, the last and only truth—, oh, the sentence had been pronounced and now one must wait until it was executed.

  But nothing followed, neither a deed nor a voice, but despite that something did follow, something that one could scarcely capture; for messengers were coming from there where the call had penetrated, they were coming through the air on silent, soft-hooved horses, coming like an echo or its herald, and they were approaching slowly, ever more slowly, so that one could almost think they would never arrive. But even their non-coming was an oncoming.

  Then, however, dimmed by many intervening clouded panes of glass, only barely visible, a kind round face was bending over the bed and saying in a sound-distant, sound-deadened voice: “How can one help you? Would you like another drink?”

  “Plotius, who sent you hither?”

  “Sent me? … if you want to put it like that, our friendship …”

  Plotius was not the messenger; he was perhaps just the forerunner of the messenger, or perhaps a still further link of the chain. And besides it was not a question of this or that kind of succor, even though it would have been comforting to be allowed to drink once more; the blood-taste would not subside. But at the beginning of the chain stood he who had sent Plotius hither, stood he who sends water to the thirsting; even the non-coming was oncoming.

  “Drink, if you are thirsty,” said the slave. “Water wells from the earth, and the service that you are consummating is still an earthly one.”

  In the breast something fluttered with too great speed, and, despite this too great and disquieting speed, something was there akin to joy, because it was the heart, the heart that was still beating, yes, that could even be curbed again to a quiet and more regular beat; it was almost an awareness of an imminent, ultimate victory, the victory of complete serenity: “Curbed to duty … once again to earthly duty …”

  “You have only to curb yourself for your health; beyond that no other duties exist for you at the moment.”

  “The Aeneid …”

  “That will become your task once more when you will have fully recovered … until then the poem is well protected in Augustus’ care, and you will find it again, unharmed.”

  It seemed scarcely credible that Augustus would be able to guard the Aeneid under the couch of rags on which he was forced to lie, aged, naked and powerless, and anyway, Plotius’ speech, although intelligible, sounded most strange, stiffly-hollow, even though the glass-pane had started to clear and to melt away. Everything was incongruous. All the works of men were incongruous. The Aeneid was an incongruity.

  “Let not a single word be changed …”

  Now it was Lucius who understood immediately what he meant: “No one would ever dare to touch a manuscript of Virgil or even to suggest a correction, not to mention that Augustus would never permit such a thing!”

  “Caesar will come to be powerless; he will not be answerable for anything.”

  “For what should he be answerable? there is nothing to be answerable for; you give yourself too many worries.”

  It was still an unfamiliar language that was being spoken here, the language of an alien people whose guest one was, a language that one was barely able to understand while one’s own was already forgotten or still unlearned; certainly the words of Augustus, in spite of his raggedness, had been much more familiar.

  Plotius brought the goblet: “Here you are, Virgil.”

  “Presently … first let me have another pillow.” The heart was fluttering and needed to be brought into another position in order to curb it.

  In a flash the slave was at hand with the pillow, and stacking it neatly behind the back, he warned softly: “Time presses on.”

  The fountain drizzled. From somewhere the heavy smell of damp clay, the lighter odor of glazed pottery and earthen jars came floating by on a breath of air, easy to draw into the painful lungs, and grateful to them: somewhere a potter’s wheel was buzzing, gentle its high-pitched whirring sound, which came intermittently, almost tonelessly, and finally stopped: “Time … indeed, time presses on …”

  “It doesn’t press on at all …” growled Plotius.

  “Reality awaits you,” said the slave.

  Reality towering behind reality; here the reality of friends and their language, behind this an unquenchably lovely memory of a boy at play, further back, that of the caves of misery where Augustus was obliged to live, and beyond these the threatening, britt
le and linear entanglement spread out over all existence, over world upon world, behind which was the reality of the flowering groves, oh, and behind this, oh, undiscernible, so undiscernible, the genuine reality, the reality of the never heard, though ever forgotten, ever promised word, the reality of the creation rising anew in the rays of the unbeholdable eye, the reality of the homeland—, and the goblet in the hand of Plotius was of ivory.

  Timidly, perhaps confused by the presence of the slave, perhaps intimidated by his stronger will, nevertheless sure in her knowledge, Plotia made herself known, but from the inaudibility of an infinitely remote distance: “You have disdained the homeland of myself; rest now, slumber on to me.”

  Where was she? Close about him living walls of impenetrable green shot up suddenly as if the leaden prison had been transferred again into the shadowy grotto of leaves which once had been on the point of embracing him and Plotia,—the impenetrable thicket stretched out endlessly, it extended into the infinite distance on every side, but in the midst of its green shone a bush with golden leaves, almost within reach of the hand, although one would have had to grasp across the width of the stream, which unmoving, barely trickling, was now flowing past; the flowing mystery which could not be checked. And from over there, from out the branches of the golden bush Plotia’s sibylline voice could be heard, lightly taking farewell.

  Alas for the vanished one! alas for her who was already wandering beyond the stream, beyond all desiring, and beyond reach: “Without a wish …”

  “That is right,” said Plotius, “very right that you have no wishes.”

  “And should you need anything,” added Lucius, “that is why we are here … a while ago you said you had something to ask from us.”

  Beyond the empty stream! the shoreless stream without source or outlet; impossible to discriminate the place of our emergence from that of our re-immersion, for it was the time-bearing, oblivion-bearing flood of the creaturely, returning without beginning or end—was there a ford in such a stream? certainly, with or without a ford, one was still not permitted to attempt a crossing, and the stream flowed away, disappeared, as the slave, already quite impatient, emphasized the essential: “Do what has become your duty.”

  Raised up on the pillows, breathing was easier, the cough was looser, and speaking once more became natural; but much remained confused: “I am still without guidance.”

  “You have left your work in time to guide one through the times; this was the sum of your wisdom, for yours was the divination of light.”

  Standing near the bed, attentive and motionless, a serving slave uttered these words—; but had he uttered them? Considering the change which suddenly came to pass, this must have been so, for even had the words been mute, they had wrought a change: restored again the first plane of reality’s existence, the surrounding things were familiar, familiar the friends; one was no longer a guest in a strange land with a strange language, and even if the image of the true and promised homeland stood fixed before one’s eyes, without having become discernible, even here in the midst of earthly things repose had again been granted for a time, though presumably the time was short.

  And Lucius corroborated: “Your poem is guidance, and guidance it will remain.”

  “The Aeneid …”

  “Yes, Virgil, the Aeneid …”

  The stream had vanished, the leafy grotto had vanished, only the drizzling went on; but this, it is true, might be coming from the wall-fountain.

  “I may not destroy the Aeneid …”

  “Are you still thinking of that?” The angry distrust welling up in Plotius seemed on the point of breaking out anew.

  The stream had vanished, but the fields still remained, lying there in the vibrant stillness of afternoon, filled with the chirping of crickets. Or was it the potter’s wheel sending up its gentle, whirring song again? No, it was not that—only the drizzling persisted.

  “Destroy … no, I no longer wish to destroy the Aeneid.”

  “Now you are really sound, Virgil.”

  “It may well be so, my Plotius … but …”

  “Well?”

  Something still resisted, something lodged there deeply and ineradicably, demanding sacrifices and eager to offer them; and the slave, as though aware of this resistence, said: “Let your hatred fall from you.”

  “I hate no one …”

  “At least we hope that you no longer hate your work,” observed Lucius.

  “You hate things earthly,” said the slave.

  There was no contradicting this; the slave spoke the truth and one had to bow to it: “Perhaps I have loved them too much.”

  “Your work …,” said Lucius, both elbows supported reflectively on the table, and the pen-holder pressed wistfully to his lips, “your work … love that as we love it.”

  “I will try, Lucius, … but first of all we must take care of publishing it.”

  “As soon as you shall have finished it the publishing will follow … before that you would hardly want to bother with it …”

  “You two will have to see to the publishing of the Aeneid.”

  “Is that what you wanted to ask of us?”

  “Yes, that is it.”

  “Nonsense …” Plotius now actually grew cross—“you have to look after your own affairs, although we are willing to help you with them.”

  “Do you want to exclude entirely the possibility that this task may fall on you two alone?”

  Plotius wagged his large round head this way and that: “Nothing can be entirely excluded … but in this case, Virgil, consider that we two are rather old fellows; it would seem wiser to look for an executor who is somewhat younger.”

  “My first choice falls on you two … it gives me peace of mind, and I want to have everything settled.”

  “Very well, we have nothing to say against that,” agreed Lucius quite readily.

  “And you have to take over this task, all the more since I am bequeathing the manuscript to you, oh, not as payment for your pains, but because I like the thought of your having it.”

  The effect of this communication proved something of a surprise; after a few moments of sheer stupefaction a deep gulp was heard from Plotius, so that it seemed as if he were about to weep again, while Lucius who, although with gratitude, had accepted the legacy of money with composure—at any rate he had remained seated—now sprang up, gesticulating wildly: “Virgil’s own manuscript, Virgil’s own manuscript … really, can you estimate the greatness of your giving?”

  “A gift weighed down with obligations is scarcely a gift.”

  “Oh, ye gods,” sighed Plotius, who had pulled himself together to the point of being able to speak again, “oh, ye gods … but one must consider the matter carefully, remembering that you can hardly take back the manuscript from Augustus after having surrendered it to him …”

  “The Aeneid was written in Caesar’s honor … therefore he must be given the first flawless copy; this is customary, and I shall designate that it be so done, and for this purpose he will deliver the original without more ado …”

  This solution seemed plausible to Plotius, and he nodded; however, he had one more objection: “And then, Virgil, there is something else to consider … namely … I am a simple person, I am no poet … the main work as far as the publishing goes will fall back on Lucius, and therefore he seems entitled to the exclusive possession of the manuscript.”

  “That is right,” said Lucius.

  “It would be, if you two did not stand for a unit to me in every possible respect … besides you will have to bequeath the manuscript with all its burdensome obligations to each other so that the presumptive survivor may take care of it.”

  “Very wise,” agreed Lucius.

  “And what is to happen when both of us shall be dead? This too will come to pass sooner or later …”

  “That, from now on, is something for you to worry about, but no longer for me; but you could appoint Cebes and Alexis as successors, the one as p
oet and the other as grammarian; both are young …”

  Again Plotius gulped with emotion: “Oh, Virgil, you shower us with presents, and your presents give pain …”

  “They will pain you in earnest, my Plotius, when you start with your labors, for verse after verse, word after word, yes, actually letter after letter must be carefully gone over … that is no work for you, and I could almost rejoice should it please the gods to exempt me from such labor and burden Lucius with it instead …”

  “Do not blaspheme …”

  “Yes, Lucius will be saddled with a hard task, and therefore in my will I shall request Caesar to recompense it properly.”

  Lucius parried: “Virgil, this is no work to be paid for; on the contrary, I could even name many persons who would be so glad to undertake it that they would be willing to pay any sum for the privilege … and furthermore, you know this yourself.”

  “No, I know nothing of the sort, because just for a poet like yourself, Lucius, for a poet who has a faculty for improving a great deal or even all of it, and who therefore is sure to find much that is incongruous and in need of improvement, it will be hard to limit himself to merely textual corrections …”

  “I would fight shy of wanting to correct any verse by Virgil … not a word should be added, not a word struck out, for I see clearly that this is your wish, and that only in this way can one meet it.”

  “So it is, my Lucius.”

  “The abilities of a poet are not needed for such work, rather those of a skilled grammarian, and I may flatter myself that there are not many who are better fitted than I for this very task … but Virgil, what are we to do about the verses that you once called waiting-stones?”

  The waiting-stones, indeed! they were still there, those parenthetical verses which were later to be replaced by perfected ones—, ah, now they would never be replaced! It was not good to think of it, and speech had again become labored: “Leave them as they are, Lucius!”

  This did not seem right to Lucius; one could see that he was hurt as much on his own account as for the Aeneid, and his commission seemed somewhat spoiled for him: “Very well, Virgil, very well … we do not have to go into that now; sooner or later you will change the verses yourself.”