"The gods will not deny you their help, Caesar."
Caesar became thoughtfully silent, and then his smile appeared, almost boyish, sly: "Then, just for the sake of the gods and in homage to them, my state must not be lacking in art; the peace that I am establishing is in need of art as much as that of Pericles, who gloriously crowned his by building the sky-towering Acropolis."
So Caesar had succeeded in returning to the Aeneid: "Really, Augustus, you are not making life easy for me, really you have ..." Life? should it not rightly be called death? something gray opened up somewhere, elusive, bridgeless, halted in itself; mysteriously time was flowing on, and yet reluctant to flow longer—
"What do you want to say, my Virgil?"
The voice of the slave took over the answer: "There is no time left and none to talk about art; art can do nothing any more, it is not able to annul time. For my power is greater." And almost at once Plotia added: "Exempt from every transmutation of its mutable course, time will come to stand still in the immutable as you let yourself be converted to me ... in holding me you will hold time." She had spoken silently and coolly from out the coolness of time, invisibly her hand emerged from the invisible, feather-light, to clasp his.
Caesar glanced toward him, glancing at the seal-ring, no, it was upon Plotia's invisible finger, delicate as a breeze, that he looked, and still he smiled: "Is the time that I formed by virtue of my peace worth less than that of Pericles? It is my peace, it is our time, our era of peace."
"Ah, Augustus, you really do not make it easy for one, and besides the Acropolis substantiates you as do the buildings with which you have adorned Rome . .."
"A city of bricks was transformed to one of marble."
"Certainly, Augustus, architecture flourishes, for much like the state which you have made, it has established a similitude of order in space, and is itself order."
"So you concede something to the art of building."
"Order is latent in the mutability of time, in all things terrestrial, oh, Augustus, and whenever one has been successful in creating order on earth, the real order of human existence, there follows also the wish to erect a counterpart of that order in space . . . there is the Acropolis, there are the Pyramids . . . as well as the Temple of Jerusalem . . . bearing witness to the striving for the annulment of death by order within space . . ."
"Well, now . .. this is indeed a concession, even though it is the first I have been able to wrest from you, and it is even a delightful and important one, especially in regard to Vitruvius, who otherwise might ask me at any time to demolish his buildings . . . but, seriously, I should not like to weigh architecture against poetry, nor Vitruvius against Virgil, even though Vitruvius, if I am not in error, dedicated his book on architecture to me, while Virgil intends to take back from me the Aeneid; however, and in all seriousness, I want you to consider that the concession which you have decided to make to architecture implies a similar one for all other arts as well; the wholeness of art is not to be torn to tatters, the right to exist which you grant architecture necessarily brings poetry in its train, and as proof let me go further and say, with no reference to Pericles, that there has never yet been a flourishing civil community which at the same time did not help every single art, including poetry, to a full unfolding."
"Of course, Augustus, art is an exalted unity."
"Your all too swift agreement is dangerous, Virgil; the more quickly it comes the more likely are you to follow it with a denial."
"On the contrary, I extend the agreement . . . whether art expresses itself in this way or that, in all its branches, yes, even in architecture and music, it serves perception everywhere and gives it expression; the unity of perception and that of art are sisters, and one like the other stems from Apollo."
"Which perception? that of life or of death?"
"Both; each existing only by virtue of the other, and therefore united in a single shape."
"So, yet again this perception of death?! Admit that you are heading toward a retraction of your concession."
"Nowhere, however, is this perceptive duty of art so compelling, so binding, and so sharply prescribed, as in the realm of poetry; for poetry connotes speech and speech connotes perception."
"And the conclusion to all this?"
"You honored me before by citing the words of Anchises . . ."
"I do honor you, Virgil, though a little less so for the moment, because you are again trying to slip in a distraction; that quotation was only to make you aware that you yourself have thought such zeal over small inadequacies of form, and the playful tendency to polish your verses to a flawless perfection, incommensurate with a serious purpose and with the dignity of Roman art . . ."
"I agree, Caesar, the ravishing game of constant polishing and correcting . . ." How alluring it would be to be able to start it all over again: yonder stood the chest with all the cleanly written rolls of manuscript which one could have scanned line after line for grammar, metrics, melody, and for meaning, oh, how alluring, how very, how very alluring! But the slave spoke, now very near, yes, from the very edge of the bed: "Do not dream of doing this; disgust would overcome you if you did." And Plotia's hands had again been wafted away.
Caesar, however, standing amidst the silent-lurid emanations of the sun's eclipse said: "Those were the words of Anchises, and it profits you nothing to characterize as ravishing this sort of playing about with art; you can neither dispose of your own pronouncement nor make it weaker."
'The words of Anchises..." Anchises was among the shades, only words remained; not only the light was leaden, nay, shadowy and leaden were the times as well.
"The words of Anchises are your own, Virgil."
"Now that they press up from the realm of shades, I realize that I meant far more by them ..."
"In what way?"
"You have given them too weak an interpretation by far, Augustus."
"If my interpretation is too feeble, then you must rectify it; I deplore my feebleness." Caesar had let go of the candelabrum, he supported himself by both hands against the back of the chair, the sharp crease of anger appeared once more between his eyes, and his foot beat upon the tiled floor in quick hard taps; so had it always been, the slightest contradiction sufficed to provoke this sort of sudden and unexpected irritation.
"Your interpretation is not feeble, it merely leaves room for some intensification … many things that at first are mere presentiments gain their inner meaning only by time."
"Divulge it"
"Compared to the art of ruling, compared to the art of state-regulation and peace, compared to this essentially Roman art and task, all other arts, not only the alas so ravishing one of artistic dalliance, are pale, aye, even this exaltation, bearing and born of felicity, pales also, this exaltation in which eternal art is embodied and was bound to be embodied, insofar as it presumes to be more than a mere sham-artistic, decorative adornment of life . . . aye, even it pales in comparison; this is what I intended to express with the words of Anchises, and it was this very opinion that I repeated when I estimated your work, your state, your expression of the Roman spirit, as the sole validity, superior to the influence of every art. . ."
"And I have refuted you ... art lasts longer, negated by no time whatever."
Mysteriously, an empty stream, time flowed on.
"Permit me, Augustus, to draw the most provoking conclusion yet about the things into which you are enquiring."
"Speak up."
"Just the greatest art, that one most conscious of its task of perception, is also aware of the loss of perception and the godlessness through which we have passed; it is constantly confronted by the terror of death's devastations ..."
"I have already reminded you of the Persian wars."
". . . and therefore there are indications in this art that, along with the new order created by you, a new perception must also come to flower, growing up from the depth of our lost perception, growing as high as our loss was deep, for e
lse the new order would be purposeless, the salvation that we have received at your hands would have been in vain . . ."
"Is that all?"—the Caesar seemed quite satisfied—, "is this your final conclusion?"
"Yes ... the more that any art, and before all the art of poetry, shows signs of conscious perception, the clearer one sees that it does not suffice for the new perception, despite all its power of metaphor; it harbors reflections of the coming perception, for this very reason it must withdraw before the stronger metaphor."
"Very well, I have no objections to the new perception, but it seems to me you are making too great a display of art's perceptive task for your own purposes ..."
"It is the very core of the artistic spirit."
"And you deliberately overlook the fact that the oneness of spirit extends even beyond art . . ."
"The counterpart of the new perception lies outside of art; that is the essential thing about it."
"You deliberately overlook the fact that every era that is fruitful for the state is also fruitful for perception, you deliberately overlook the fact that in Athens' greatest period philosophy flowered along with the other arts, and you overlook it, must overlook it, because philosophy fits as little into the queer picture of your unattainable or death-annulling goal of perception as all the other genuinely true facts of life; may you come to see how wrong you are, while I, for the moment, shall rely on philosophy to find the new perception that you demand."
"Philosophy is no longer capable of finding it"—the words came of their own accord, it had not been necessary to think them through or think them over, they had come, so to speak, immediately from eyes to tongue, for back of them—was it here in the palely-shadowed room? was it outside in the pallid pen-sketched landscape? no, still further, much further off, strangely lifted out of time,—the city of Athens was arising, the longed-for city, the city of Plato, the city in which shelter had been denied him, denied by fate, fate which still hung over the city like a cloud of death, hovering there, yet casting no shadow by its leaden light.
"No longer capable . . . ," repeated Augustus, "no longer, no longer! First art, and now philosophy, Virgil! is this another case of too late and too early, and does this 'no-longer' apply to philosophy as well?"
There in the spaceless space of the words the city was arising, it was nothing but a shadowless word-picture, it was just empty twaddle, unstable and evanescent, it was without a symbol, and having forfeited its symbol it had lost its substance^ truly, fate had been kind to him when it had not allowed him to remain there: "Time is unrelenting, Augustus, thinking has reached its limits."
"Men are able to carry thinking as far as the gods, and should be content with this."
"Yes, the human mind is limitless, but when it touches on immensity it is thrown back . . . becoming devoid of perception . . . then death's devastations begin on earth, then come the great floods, the din of arms, the disgraceful rivers of gushing blood
"Philosophy has nothing in common with civil war."
"The time is ripe . . . now the plow must again be turned round in, the furrow."
"With every day time becomes ripe for something or other."
"Without a common ground of perception, without common principles, there is no understanding, no elucidation, no proof, no persuasion; the commonly shared vision of the infinite is the basis of all communication, and without it even the simplest things are incommunicable."
"Well, after all, Virgil, you manage to convey a number of things to me, even now, so our fundamental agreement cannot be said to be in such a bad way; for me, anyway, it suffices."
Ah, Caesar was right—, what sense was there in all this? how did it concern Caesar? it was taxing but nevertheless like a compulsion, happening, it seemed, for the fate of the Aeneid: "Philosophy is a science, it is the truth of the mind, it must be able to prove the need for a ground of perception, and percept ..." —somewhere there was laughter, mute, and boisterous, and complacent.
Was it the slave? or was it the demons, announcing their return by laughter?
"Why do you not continue, Virgil?"
Again Athens appeared, again there was the singular disappointment that Athens had proved to be. Where did the laughter come from? from Athens?
"The ground of perception precedes all things intellectual, all philosophy ... it is the first assumption linking inner and outer things simultaneously . . . you really did bring me back from Athens, Octavian? Isn't that true?"
Mother-of-pearl, the shell of heaven opened over the Adriatic Sea, the boat rocked, the white horses of Poseidon showed their heads, there was laughing and noise in the guest-room, at the stern in the graying light a slave musician began to sing in the voice of a boy.
"It was salutary and proper for me to bring you back from Athens, my Virgil ... or do you imply that now philosophy is exempted from its task, since you were not left uncared-for in the city of philosophers?"
Caesar should rightly be on the other boat and not here: "Philosophy has come to have no base for its perception, it having dropped away . . . deep, deep down into the ocean . . . and having been obliged to grow upward to touch infinity, philosophy's roots do not reach down far enough, even though they also grow into infinity . . . else I should not have traveled home with you, Octavian . . . where the roots fail to grip, there is the shadowless void . . . the ground of perception has dropped away, and there is a great deal of empty chatter on the ship; perhaps you do not notice it as acutely as I, because you have not become clear-sighted through seasickness . . . formerly philosophy still had a ground of perception on which it could establish itself . . . like you, I refused to see it had been lost... I went to Athens, yes, I really went there . . . but today that creatively potent ground in which philosophy was once rooted is definitely lost . . . thinking has become unmasculine."
Indeed, so it was, and it was no laughing matter. Even the god, who recognized the nothingness and wished for it, dared not laugh. And actually, the unwarrantable laughter was silenced. In its stead Plotia spoke: "Acquiescence is silent, needing no confirmation. Return home into the open shell of silence." And this was so soothing to hear that even the progress of the ship slowed down and the water became very smooth, the down-beat of the rowers was now scarcely noticeable, there was scarcely any creaking in the yards, only now and then the clink of a chain was to be heard.
Leaning against the mast of the candelabrum, one hand grasping among the laurel-sails, stood Caesar, the loving husband, traveling as a male to his mate, to Livia who awaited him, and since time traveled with the ship, there was no calculating how long it took before he began to speak; at last he said: "If philosophy has lost its ground of perception its present duty is to regain it."
Caesar must really have been on the other ship, or was still there, since he had not heard that the roots did not reach down far enough; perhaps it was possible to make him comprehend it by other words: "The wood of elms is not suitable for ship-masts; firm and yet flexible, these must stand and grow . . ."
"Do you feel tired, Virgil? would you like to have the doctor again?" Octavian had pushed the chair hastily aside and was bending over the couch, his face very near.
The face was very near, almost as near as Plotia's face had been. And then the fog tore apart: "I feel quite well, Octavian, . . . very well in fact . . . but it may be that I was dizzy for a moment . . ."
"Your words sounded rather obscure . . . though that happens often with you; if one reflects on them afterward they seem to have become wisdom."
"Wisdom? no, never . . . and now it seems to me that I was seeking a suitable example with which to answer you, without being able to find one ... but you, and of that I am certain, were speaking of the perceptive ground of philosophy."
"That is correct, Virgil, and I feel relieved."
"And that philosophy was not in position to produce its own ground of perception . . ."
"That has not yet been made clear . . ." Augustus' mind was not entir
ely on the matter—, "... besides this question is of no importance to us, Virgil."
The seismic swaying still persisted but everything else was clear and without strangeness, clear and natural was the fading of the softly pen-sketched landscape outside, clear and natural the elm-candelabrum; and the bed was no longer a large ship, instead it had shrunk clearly and naturally to a simple skiff in which it was comfortable to journey onward; only Caesar's presence, despite his utterly familiar behavior, seemed neither wholly clear nor natural, at least as long as he must continue these efforts to convince him, to bring him back to reality: "The intellect is incapable of creating its own assumptions, and consequently philosophy is also unable to do so; no one is so generatively efficient that he can make himself into his own ancestor,"—that laughter! had it not sprung a while back from his own throat, from his own breast? that is where he felt it now, and it was mysteriously painful—"forefather and fore-forefather cannot be generated, nor can assumptions; nothing and nobody has ever possessed the Promethean power to surpass the limits proper to each, and no one will ever do so... Untrue!"
Untrue, untrue—, the word had been suggested, whispered out of a nowhere by the slave or by Plotia, he did not know which, more likely by Plotia, for it was she who spoke on: "Love constantly breaks through its own boundaries."—"Oh, yours too, Plotia, yours too?"—"It did and still does; in loving anything one transcends oneself."—"Oh, Plotia!" "Do you feel me? In loving you I feel you intensely."—"Plotia, I feel you near, I realize you."—"Yes, Virgil, yes."—and the borders of their bodies were interlocked, the boundaries of their souls were flowing one into the other, growing and overgrowing their limits, perceiving and perceived.
Astonished, Augustus questioned: "What is untrue, Virgil?"
"One can overstep one's own borders."
The Death of Virgil Page 35
