THEREUPON HE WAS PERMITTED TO TURN AROUND; THEREUPON CAME THE COMMAND TO TURN AROUND; AND THEREUPON HE WAS TURNED AROUND.
And there, before his once more perceiving eyes, the nothing was infinitely transformed once more, turning into the present and into the past, widening out to the aeonic cycle once more so that this, having become infinite, might close once more; infinite the round of heaven, infinite the heavenly dome arching once more, infinite the endless shield of the world, surrounded by the seven-colored bow in endless recollection. Again there was light and darkness, again day and night, again nights and days, and again immensity was regulated according to height, breadth and depth, and the plan of the sky was defined, opening out to its four directions, again there was above and below, cloud and sea; and in the middle of the sea the land rose up once more, the green isle of the world bedecked with plants, with forests and with pastures, the mutation within immutability. And up came the sun in the east on its course over the round, and the stars followed at night, conforming to the northern pole with its star-free center, where righteousness maintaining the equilibrium was enthroned, beamed upon by the rays of the Northern Cross. Yet again in the morning light eagles and sea-gulls streaked through the upper air, hovering about the island, and dolphins emerged to hearken to the mute song of the spheres. From the west came a trail of animals, coming to meet the sun and stars, the beasts of the wilderness and those of the field mingling in a harmony innocent of conflict, lion and bull and lamb, and the goat with its bulging udder, streaming eastward all of them, seeking the eastern shepherd, striving toward the human face. And this face could be beheld in the middle of the world-shield, in its infinite depth, beheld there amidst infinite human life and human living, beheld for the last and yet as for the first time: peace without conflict, the harmonious human countenance innocent of conflict, beheld as the image of the boy in the arms of the mother, united to her in a sorrowful smiling love. Thus he saw it, seeing thus the boy and the mother, and they were so familiar that he was almost able to name them without being able to recall their names; yet, still more familiar than the face and the missing name was the smile that bound mother and child, and it seemed as if prescient in this smile the whole significance of the interminable occurrence were comprehended, as if the law of truth were proclaimed in this smile—the mild yet terrible glory of the human fate, begot from the word and, already in the begetting, coming to be the word’s substance, the word’s comfort, the word’s blessing, the word’s advocacy, the word’s redemptive strength, the law-founding force of the word, the word’s renewal, once more expressed and expressible in the insufficient but still sole sufficing representations of human actions and wanderings, made known and preserved and repeated in them forevermore. In loving perception the word received the yearning of the heart and that of the mind for their great communion, the word becoming the confirmation by force of innate necessity, assuming the yearning of the lodger who longed to become the son, his task fulfilled. Thus drawn hither by the summons of the word, the brooks and streams began to trickle, the surf with a soft booming struck the shore, the seas swelled steel-blue and light, ruffled by the nethermost fires of the south, and everything could be seen and heard in simultaneous depth because, turned round toward the immensity which he had once left behind him, he saw through it into the immensity of the here and now, looking backward and forward at once, listening simultaneously to what was behind and what was ahead, and the rustling of the past, sunken into the forgotten invisibility, was rising up again to the present moment and became the simultaneous stream of creation in which the eternal rests, the first image, the vision of visions. Thereupon he shuddered and it was a mighty shuddering, almost beneficent in its finality, for the ring of time had closed and the end was the beginning. The images sank down but, preserving them unseen, the rumbling continued.
The welling fountain of the middle, gleaming invisibly in the infinite anguish of knowing: the no thing filled the emptiness and it became the universe.
The rumbling continued and it was emitted from the mingling of the light with the darkness, both of them roused by the incipient tone which now actually began to sound, and that which sounded was more than song, more than the striking of the lyre, more than any tone, more than any voice, since it was all of these together and at once, bursting out of the nothing as well as out of the universe, breaking forth as a communication beyond every understanding, breaking forth as a significance above every comprehension, breaking forth as the pure word which it was, exalted above all understanding and significance whatsoever, consummating and initiating, mighty and commanding, fear-inspiring and protecting, gracious and thundering, the word of discrimination, the word of the pledge, the pure word; so it roared thither, roaring over and past him, swelling on and becoming stronger and stronger, becoming so overpowering that nothing could withstand it, the universe disappearing before the word, dissolved and acquitted in the word while still being contained and preserved in it, destroyed and recreated forever, because nothing had been lost, nothing could be lost, because end was joined to beginning, being born and giving birth again and again; the word hovered over the universe, over the nothing, floating beyond the expressible as well as the inexpressible, and he, caught under and amidst the roaring, he floated on with the word, although the more he was enveloped by it, the more he penetrated into the flooding sound and was penetrated by it, the more unattainable, the greater, the graver and more elusive became the word, a floating sea, a floating fire, sea-heavy, sea-light, notwithstanding it was still the word: he could not hold fast to it and he might not hold fast to it; incomprehensible and unutterable for him: it was the word beyond speech.
Translation begun November, 1940,
finished October, 1944.
J. S. U.
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
The real significance of “The Death of Virgil” was borne upon the translator more than a year before she undertook the English version, through her reading and translation of the five elegies on fate. These elegies stand at the intellectual as well as actual center of the work, crystallizing both its meaning and method.
It is conceded that no poem is entirely translatable, and “The Death of Virgil” is a poem, although neither in the sense of a single lyrical outburst nor a sequence of poems on a single theme, yet one that sustains its tension through nearly five hundred pages. The form of this poem, whose subject relates it to the antique epics, is consequent upon two inherent characteristics: Most salient, of course, is its poetical unity in which the fullness of expression lies not alone in the words themselves but quite as much in the spaces between. For in a poem the words are less integers than points in a configuration: indeed, one might well describe the structure of the lyric (and the nature of this work is unquestionably lyrical) as the expression of the interval. The second aspect is the musical composition of the work as a whole: the four main parts of the book stand in the same relation to each other as the movements of a symphony or quartette, and somewhat in the manner of theme and variations the successive part becomes a lyrical self-commentary on the parts that have preceded it.
The style of this book is the inevitable outcome of its structure, since style itself is only the outer and inseparable manifestation of method. But it is with the concretization of method that the translator must directly deal. It may be of interest briefly to summarize a few problems that arose from the style.
Broch’s syntax, which is an essential element of his work, had faithfully to be preserved, despite far-reaching and radical differences in German and English modes of expression. This syntax emerged from the functioning of two main ideas which are indissolubly connected, deriving on the one hand from the musical structure of the work, on the other from the inner monologue. The narrative proceeds in the third person, but it is soon discerned that for all its comprehension of multiple levels of experience, both internal and external, it is from first to last an inner monologue, into which even the book’s conversational scen
es are drawn. Although these conversations are reproductions of outer events and actual dialogues, their inclusion into the inner monologue gains for them an abstract quality, in a measure reminiscent of Plato, and certainly far removed from the effort at naturalistic representation. From such a monologue, however, arise its own stylistic demands, but Broch’s syntax fully meets these when—retaining the musical analogy—the four symphonic parts of the book press on through the various tempi, from the Andante of the beginning to the Maestoso of the end. The more headlong the tempo, the shorter the sentence, the slower the tempo becomes, the more complicated the sentence structure; the sentences in the Adagio of the second part are probably among the longest in the world’s literature; undoubtedly they put a strain upon the translation. Broch’s syntax, which he considers purely functional, and which may be summed into the principle: “one thought—one moment—one sentence,” permits him to gather within a fleeting moment of consciousness all the thought-groups of the inner monologue, whose emotional and philosophical contents are often of a highly disparate nature. Yet the force of this principle pervades the book, sustaining its poetic and musical unity. While complicated, the sentences are never confused: mirroring the feverish yet lucid thoughts of the dying poet, in their great rocking rhythms they reproduce the sensation of the floating journey on which he is being carried by the bark of death.
It was not easy to capture this rhythm and these long sentences in the English language, whose genius more often finds expression in a shorter line. Nor was this the only difficulty. The greatest challenge sprang from intrinsic differences in the two languages. With its mass of composite words, and especially with the emphasis which Broch gives to the substantive, German achieves a concentration of meaning which, both in its associations and grammatically, permits of a many-dimensional expression; a German sentence may have at the same time a concrete and a metaphysical meaning. While no language, rightly understood, can be called one-dimensional, and above all the English language with its rich inheritance of poetry, nevertheless a clear and unequivocal expression has always been held a virtue of English writing. If the long sentence with many subordinate clauses has been used with great power by eminent English writers of the 18th Century, and with extraordinary subtlety by Henry James, it is not characteristic. As a rule, richness has been achieved by the exfoliation of the subject in a successive and natural development, rather than by trying to sound multiple levels of meaning at one stroke. Certain modern poets, it is true, have sought subtlety and complexity through a wealth of allusion, sometimes so abstruse and esoteric that communication is largely imperilled. Joyce, who like Broch, was searching for a language of many dimensions, often ignored the tradition and, dismissing syntax and grammar, formed new words in combinations hitherto untried.
Such experimentation is admirable in the daring innovator, who, of course, assumes sole responsibility for his work; it is impermissible and impossible for the translator. To have substituted rhythms different from those of the author would have been to misrepresent him; to have taken greater liberties with the English language would have been a double betrayal. The translation has adhered as much as possible to the shape of the original German sentences, to the general rhythmic pattern, and to the maintenance of as many levels of meaning as the language would allow. Instead of representing the ever-recurring ideas by constant repetition of the key-words, in the manner of the leit-motif, an accretion of nuances was sought through the use of synonyms in order to approximate the multi-meanings of the German composita. Broch uses the symbol of the rainbow throughout the work. This iridescence, this glowing and fading and merging of color, tone and meaning, gives the book a kind of natural magic, spanning symbolically the new world that seems always to be arising out of the elements to which the existent one is being constantly reduced. The translator has endeavored with all her resources, following the author scrupulously, to carry the spell unbroken from one language to the other; the method was identical with that used in the translation of a lyric.
One radical departure was made, in deference to the psychological and grammatical differences of the two languages. Virgil enunciates his philosophical insights and revelations in the present tense; the truths of life seem to burst upon him fully only in the hour of death; his illumination assumes the accent of prophecy. In German the present tense, which Broch consistently employs in these passages, is not only natural but often mandatory. Yet, if prophecy is akin to memory, as this book hints, both may be considered as phenomena of the stream of consciousness. English usually represents that stream in the past tense, treating it grammatically as a form of indirect discourse. Therefore, in recording the data of consciousness, the simple past tense was in most cases substituted: to have done otherwise would have imparted an unbearably didactic character improper to the poem. And seeing that a thought which has found its form in words must already have occurred in time, even though its truth may have an immediate as well as a timeless cogency, the translator deems herself to have been faithful to the author’s spirit.
Translation is always a hazardous enterprise; translating poetry even quixotic. But poets must have more of courage than of common sense, and in so far as she is a poet the translator dares to hope that her labor has not been vain; that her admiration for this work and her identification with it these past years have, for its sake, afforded “to every power a double power.”
At various times help has been given the translator in reading the more difficult passages, and it is her pleasure to thank for their services the following: Mrs. Josephine Kahler, Dr. Viktor Polzer, Dr. Wieland Herzfelde, and for more continuous help, Mrs. Marianne Schlesinger. She also desires to express her gratitude to Roger Sessions and Paul Rosenfeld for their sympathetic reading of the first English drafts; most of all she acknowledges her deep indebtedness to Jule Brousseau, who read the complete English manuscript and gave generously of her gifts as writer and friend.
J. S. U.
SOURCES
Historical source material concerning Virgil’s life and work is far from voluminous. It goes without saying that this material was consulted in “The Death of Virgil.” For the most part reference was sought in standard works so generally known that a bibliography seems superfluous.
However, it may prove of interest to present here one example of the legends which grew up about the figure of Virgil during the Middle Ages:
“PUBLIUS VERGILIUS MARO sprang from humble parents, especially on his father’s side, of whom a few averred that he was a potter, the majority, however, relating that he began by being the paid servant of a certain traveler, by name Magus, but that soon, as a result of his industry, he became the latter’s son-in-law. When his father-in-law turned over to him the overseership of the planting and harvesting of his fields and the care of his flocks, he increased his holdings through the purchase of woodlands and the pursuit of bee-culture.
He (Virgil) was born on the Ides of October in the village of Andes not far from Mantua.
The pregnant mother, Maja, dreamed she had climbed on to a limb of a laurel, which, when it had touched the earth, she saw take root and grow to a full-blown tree full of flowers and fruit. The next morning, accompanied by her husband, she was wandering in the immediate neighborhood when she had to leave the path to give birth. It was said that as the child was being born he did not whimper and was of such a mild countenance that even then there was no doubt that his future would be favored. And other portents followed. A poplar shoot which was planted in the same village, following the local custom at the birth of a child, took root so quickly that it soon reached the growth of poplars which had been planted much earlier. Thereafter it became known as the tree of Virgil, and was dedicated as a shrine most sacred to pregnant mothers, who went there to make their pledges and returned to fulfill them.
Virgil passed his earliest childhood until his seventh year in Cremona. In his seventeenth year he donned the toga of manhood. By a coincidence the poet Lucretius died on
that very day.
Virgil, however, went from Cremona to Milan and thence soon departed to Naples. There, after eagerly delving into Greek and Latin lore, he turned with utmost earnestness and application to the study of medicine and mathematics.
When he had surpassed all others there in knowledge and skill, he betook himself to Rome and, after having won the friendship of Augustus’s Master of the Horse, soon healed various illnesses which befell these animals. After a few days Augustus permitted Virgil to be given bread in payment, as if he were one of the equerries.
Meanwhile a young Crotonian horse of extraordinary beauty had been sent as a gift to Caesar. This horse seemed to give promise of real soundness and unusual speed. When Virgil saw him he said to the Master of the Horse that the stallion had been born of a sick dam and would be neither strong nor fleet. And this proved to be true. When the Master of the Horse related this to Augustus, he ordered Virgil’s pay to be doubled.
Later, when Augustus was presented with some Iberian dogs, Virgil predicted their courage and fleetness. Augustus, being apprized of this, again ordered Virgil’s pay to be doubled.
Death of Virgil Page 49
