EARTH—THE EXPECTATION
THE AWAKENING OCCURRED WITH THE FEELING OF remissness: this too was a mere impression like his falling asleep, however it came abruptly, and feeling that someone was near his bed, he also felt that this would spell frustration for him; with the second prod of this sensation he crossed the sill of awareness, knowing that he should have rushed to the seashore at dawn to destroy the Aeneid, and that it had become too late to do this. And he fled back into sleep again to find the angel who had vanished, perhaps even hoping that the strange glance which he felt still resting on him might be his. He was certain it was not; all too surely he sensed the strangeness that stood next to him, and actually to frighten it away, even though still with a last spark of hope for the angel's presence, he asked out of sleep: "Are you Lysanias?"
The answer was something unintelligible, uttered by a quite unfamiliar voice.
Something sighed in him. "You are not Lysanias... go away."
"Master . . . ," came hesitantly, almost pleadingly.
"Later..."; the night must not end, he did not wish to see the light.
"Master, your friends have arrived . . . they are waiting . . ."
There was no help. And the light hurt. The cough was in his breast ready to break out and there was a risk involved in speaking.
"My friends? ... which ones...?"
"Plotius Tucca and Lucius Varius have come from Rome just to greet you ... they would like to see you before they are called before Caesar ..."
The light hurt. Slanting from southward, the rays of the September sun cut sharply through the corner alcove, filling it with warmth, the light and warmth of a September morning, and the room although beyond reach of the sunrays was affected by them, having become sober-looking in, the light, ugly in the heat: the dark floor of relucent mosaic was soiled, the tall candelabrum with its faded flowers and its burnt-down candles looked shoddy. Over there in the corner of the room stood the commode, a necessity and a temptation. Everything that could hurt began to hurt. The friends would have to wait. "First of all I must cleanse myself ... help me."
Dragging his legs over the edge of the bed, he sat there, his crooked back quite bent over, struggling with the urge to cough, the painful impulse having again assaulted him; likewise the mawkish lassitude of fever made itself felt again, firstly in the drooping legs, thence creeping upwards streakily, it spread in soft wavelike thuds over the whole body, finally invading his head; and seized by weariness, his glance fastened itself with slow, tired, long-lasting concentration on his naked toes, unable to bring their mechanical half-gripping movements to a standstill, peering as if something important might be discovered there, perhaps even the origin of the fever—, ah, need the engrossing life of organs and senses begin again? And though one could not ask any intimate question of a slave, his glance wandered up to the one here, seeking enlightenment, almost involuntarily, almost against his will in its questioning, only to be immediately disappointed, because in the oriental, slightly thick-nosed, impenetrable, mask-like and ageless servant's face there was nothing to be seen that could qualify as an answer, nothing but a stern subjection and a subjected sternness, that although unapproachable was prepared to take orders, waiting without impatience for the guest to make them known and to decide to rise. But just this seemed impossible, because a discord was everywhere observable, and not only in his body; it was a universal discord, and until it had been resolved not a limb could be moved: he who wished to arise, to hasten to the sacrificial deed on the shore, might not do so in discord and division; the officiant must needs be faultless, faultless the offering, if the dignity of complete validity were to be attained for the sacrifice; and it could not even be ascertained whether all the rolls were in the chest, so that the work in its entirety could be offered for destruction, or whether some of the rolls had gone astray in the course of the night—who could answer? To be sure the top of the chest was so neatly and stoutly fastened that one might actually think it had never been opened—, but who would dare touch the offering and loosen the straps? Discordant the body and its limbs, discordant the world-—, could integration again be hoped for? He waited and the slave waited with him, both without impatience. But in the midst of all this the door was opened rather unceremoniously and Plotius Tucca as well as Lucius Varius, irritated by the waiting, doubtless having heard from outside that he was awake, entered the room in short order. He withdrew his legs into bed again.
The Death of Virgil Page 24
