The Death of Virgil

by Hermann Broch

  The converse with the inscrutable! Oh, as long as the invisible cloudy cover stretched between above and below was not pierced, the prayer brought back only its own echo; the god remained unreachable, he vouchsafed no answer.

  But Caesar said: "If by way of such pious conversations, which nobody, not even you, can verify, you want to exempt yourself from your duties to the state and the people to whom you owe your work, I can understand your motive although I cannot approve of it; if, however, your remarks are intended to minimize the hereditary faith and to put Roman piety on an equality with that of the barbarians, then I must remind you that you yourself have characterized the Egyptian gods as monsters ..."

  "There is but one kind of piety, and the barbarian whose piety betokens growth is better than the Roman whose soul shuts itself against growing."

  A little bored, with a sort of bored attentiveness as if to settle the matter, came the answer: "A piety that produces monsters is no piety, a state which worships monsters is no state; piety without the gods is unimaginable, it is unimaginable without the state or the people and can only be exercised within the whole community, for men can be united to their gods only within the whole Roman fatherland which is one with its gods."

  "The organization into a whole would never have taken place had not the individual soul found its immediate connection to the supernatural; only the work intended for direct service to the supernatural serves all earth-bound humanity as well."

  "These are extremely dangerous and novel ideas, Virgil: they are derogatory to the state."

  "Through them the state will perfect itself into a kingdom; from a state of citizens it will become a kingdom of men."

  "You are shattering the structure of the state, you shatter it to a shapeless uniformity, you split up its ordinances, you destroy the firm texture of the people." All fatigue had disappeared from Caesar's manner; these were things that concerned him and the thing had come to a point of vehemence.

  "The order will be a human one . . . the order of human law."

  "Laws? As if We were not more than blessed with them! In nothing is the Senate so fruitful as in the enactment of bad laws ... the people wish for order but certainly not for insidious laws by which they and their state are endangered . . . you speak of things you do not understand."

  "The kingdom increasing in piety does not destroy the state, but surpasses it; it does not annul its folkhood, but surpasses it ... the people, indeed they are entitled to order in the state, but man is entitled to truth; it is this that he serves by his piety, and when he shall achieve perception then the new kingdom will be created, the kingdom within the law of perception, the kingdom graced by its power to ensure creation."

  "You speak of the universal work of creation as though it could be influenced by measures of state. Luckily the Senate would not know what to do with your law of perception . . . if it did, the creation would not endure for long."

  "When men are empty of perception, when they have forfeited the truth, they must go on lacking creation as well; the state can not provide for the creation but when creation is endangered so is the state."

  "I will not wrangle with you over this ... it is a problem the solution of which we shall leave with the gods. On the other hand you must agree that I have done my part; I have ministered to the knowledge of the people as far as lay in my power, and I shall continue to do so. The number of public schools has been increased, not only in Italy but in the provinces, and I am turning my whole attention to that higher education which will procure for us capable physicians, architects and expert canal-builders; furthermore, as you well know, I have founded the Apollonian and Octavian library, and I have not neglected to promote the already existing libraries by donations. Yet this kind of solicitude means little to the people; the masses have no desire to be given perception, they want to see strong images whose unequivocal meaning they are able to grasp."

  "Above all knowledge stands perception itself and the people await it in the great image of the perceptive deed."

  A kind of melancholy flippancy came into Caesar's expression: "The world is full of deeds yet empty of perception."

  "The deed of perception is that of the pledge, Octavian."

  "Well then, I made my pledge when I accepted my office, and whatever I swore to that I have kept. I think that covers your perceptive deed as well . . . what else do you want?"

  Why not answer this vain man as he desired! It would be so simple and rational. And yet something compelled him to controversy and explanation: "Certainly, your work lies in doing the deed you have sworn to, and therefore it will be followed by the perceptive deed, the formative deed of perception, the deed of truth; but, Augustus, this concerns the soul of man and demands patience."—Oh, in spite of the irked protest in Caesar's manner it had to be said, because it was the human soul that was at stake, the human soul and its awakening to the annulment of death—, "yes, your work has extended the peace of Rome over the earth, has founded the unity of the state in symbolic grandeur, and now if actually there be added the deed of truth, bestowing on men a divine perception, shared by all, gathering the citizens into a human community, then, oh, Augustus, the state will have turned into an eternal reality of creation . . . then and only then will come . . . the miracle . . ."

  "So you still insist that the state in its present form is nothing but a windy metaphor . . ."

  "A genuine metaphor."

  "Well then, a genuine metaphor . . . but you insist that it is to win its real stature only in the future . . ."

  "Thus it is, Caesar."

  "And when will your miracle take place? when is this transformation to genuine reality to occur? when?" Insistent and angry, yes, completely aggressive, the handsome face turned toward him.

  When, oh, ye gods! when, oh, when? oh, when would it come to be, the form-freed creation without chance? Only the unknown, the pledge-protecting god, knew when. The ground heaved no longer, the bark glided on quietly, and even though breathing had become most painful in lungs, throat, and nose, the heart was breathing, and the heart knew within itself the enduring breath of the soul, a breath, merely a breath, but one so strong that one might think it would blow out over the world and sweep away crags. When, oh, when? somewhere there breathed that one who would bring it to pass, somewhere he was already living, still unborn, yet breathing; once there was creation, and there will be creation again, the miracle—chance-delivered! And surrounded by the receding lividness in the utmost distance, the star reappeared, heading toward the east.

  "Some day there will come one who will again live in perception; in his being the world will be redeemed to truth."

  "I wish you would confine yourself to earthly duties; this also is a superhuman task and one for which the time remaining to me is too brief."

  "It is a task for a savior."

  "But you have intended it for me ... or have you not?"

  "The savior conquers death, and you have appeared as death-conquering, in that you have brought peace."

  "That is no answer, for the peace founded and ordained by me was and is earthly in its nature ... or is that your way of saying that you entrust to me only the accomplishment of earthly tasks?"

  "In the son of the idolized one men already see the redeemer who shall deliver them from evil."

  "People are saying that, and so says the populace . . . but what do you say, Virgil?"

  "Even twenty years ago when I began the Georgics and you were still a boy, even then I saw your image in the circle of the zodiac. For you signify the turning of the times."

  "What were your words?"

  "To thee, thou new star, as thou joinest the slow months in their passing, where Erigone leads on the Scorpion, a new space now opens, the fiery scourger himself yields a space in the heavens, withdrawing his claws from thy place in the serving sky."

  "That was written twenty years ago . . . and now?"

  "You were conceived and born in the image of Capricorn, the Ram, who dashes
up the rocky fastnesses to the highest peaks on earth, and you have chosen him as your sign."

  "The earthly peaks ... and the supernal are denied me, eh?"

  "Think of the verses that Horace composed for you, Augustus."

  "Which ones?"

  "In heaven the thunderer, Zeus, is reigning, but on earth you are the visible god, oh, Augustus."

  "You are evasive, Virgil: You cite a time-worn quotation and you quote other people; but you conceal your own opinion."

  "My own opinion?" Augustus was so remote; the words glided hither and thither, their flight was curious but they no longer formed a bridge.

  The slave said: "This should no longer concern you."

  "My own opinion?"

  "Yes, that is what I want to hear and without digression."

  "You are a mortal being, Augustus, though foremost among the living."

  A scornful, malicious glance made it clear that the opinion Caesar had wanted to hear was a different one: "I realize that I am neither a god nor a new constellation, and it is unnecessary to remind me of that fact; I am a citizen of Rome and have never considered myself anything else, so I find you have still not answered my question."

  "Salvation will always come to pass on earth, Augustus, the bringer of salvation is always earthly and mortal, and must be so; only his voice comes from the supernal, thanks to which he is able to call out the eternal in men who wish to be saved. You with your deed, however, have levelled the ground for the divine renewal of the world, and it is your world which will hear the voice."

  "On what grounds do you dispute my fitness for the last step that is yet to be taken? Why do you protest that my work, for all that you concede it of preparatory value, should not be called on to consummate the salvation of the world? why do you claim that the symbol which you constantly see in my work may not already bear in itself the reality? why do you deny that I, who was still the first to posit the deed by my work, may not also be fit for the deed of perception?"

  "I do not deny any of it, Octavian, you are the symbol of the gods and the symbol of the Roman people. You would never have been chosen to be this had not the symbol which you embody borne some traits of the primal image as well. The deed of perception may develop in your person rather than in that of another. Until now even the time for it has not come."

  "Virgil, you are a little too generous with time, but only as it concerns me; you grant much less delay for yourself and your own purposes . . . rather say without more ado that I am not to assume this salvation-business." It was meant to sound cheerful but the grudgingly continuous indignation was unmistakable.

  "Even the bringer of salvation and revelation, even he, is bound in the perceptive web of time; he will come when the time has become ripe."

  Caesar sprang up: "You want to reserve this office for yourself."

  Oh, was Caesar right in this? alas, was he right to an extent he himself could not realize? Was not the wish to be the redeemer a more compelling dream of grandeur in the poet than in other men? Did not Orpheus also wish to rise to that dream even as he tried to draw the animals into his spell in order to redeem them to humanity? But no, and again no: art remained unsuitable for this purpose, as even Orpheus learned to his grief. The sibylline voice that was heard by the poet was that of a Eurydice, of a Plotia; and that he never found the golden bough of redemption was the will of the gods, the will of fate.

  "Oh, Augustus, the writer is not really alive; the redeemer, on the contrary, lives more vigorously than all others, for his whole life is one single deed of perception; his life, and his death."

  In the midst of his indignation Augustus smiled, and it was really a good-natured smile: "You will live, Virgil, you will regain your strength and finish your work."

  "Even should I again recover ... the more perfect the poem would become the further it would be from any deed of redemption, and the more unsuited to it."

  "Well then, we shall not be able to accomplish the redeeming act, neither you nor I, instead we shall leave it to the savior you have in mind but in whom I can scarcely believe. And until his coming we must go on fulfilling our duty, you, yours, and I, mine ..."

  "We must prepare ourselves for his coming."

  "Good, my work signifies preparation for him, anyhow. But yours is also that, and you will have to finish the Aeneid for the sake of your people .. ."

  "I cannot and I dare not finish it... I cannot do it because this would be just the wrong sort of preparation."

  "And how would you accomplish the right one?"

  "Through sacrifice."

  "Sacrifice?"

  "Just so."

  "To what end will you sacrifice? To whom?"

  "To the gods."

  "The gods have stipulated the sacrifices which are acceptable to them, they have given them over to the care of the state, and I see to it that they are punctiliously carried out in the whole empire. There are no sacrifices outside the state's sovereignty."

  Augustus remained stubborn, he knew nothing of the pledge commanded by the unknown god; it was futile to try to convince him: "The forms of religion that you guard are untouchable, but to say they are untouchable is not to say that they are complete."

  "How shall they be completed?"

  "Everyone may be commanded by the gods to sacrifice, and everyone must be ready to be chosen as the sacrifice should it so please the gods."

  "If I understand you, Virgil, you want to exclude the mass of the people from the sacrificial regulations and to have them replaced by the individual who is in some way concerned with the supernal; without doubt this is inadmissible and more than inadmissible. And besides, you refer this to the will of the gods in order to give yourself a semblance of justification and responsibility. Nevertheless, all of this remains vastly irresponsible, and the gods will be the last ones to take over the responsibility for your intentions, because the time-honored cult-forms and the sacrifices proper to them suffice for the gods, as for the people. They should not be exceeded by even half a step."

  "They are being terribly exceeded, Augustus! the people dully sense that a new truth is in preparation, that the old forms will soon broaden out, they sense dully that the ancient rites of sacrifice suffice for no one; and driven by a confused longing toward the new, driven also by a confused longing to sacrifice, they crowd to the places of execution, and to the games which you organize, crowd to the impious sham-sacrifice that is bloodily offered them in death that grows in cruelty, so that in the end only the intoxication with blood and death is satisfied . . ."

  "I have turned brutalization into discipline, unbridled cruelty into games. All this implies just the necessary hardness of the Roman people and has nothing to do with forebodings about the sacrifice."

  "The people have forebodings, more so than the individual. For their total feeling is duller and more ponderous than the meditation of the individual soul, duller and weightier, wilder and more confused is their urge toward a world-redeemer. And faced with the blood-horror at the places of execution and on the sands of the arena they have a shuddering realization that from these the true sacrificial deed will arise, the real sacrifice, which will be the ultimate and decisive form of perception on earth."

  "The profundity of your work often seems like a riddle, and now you are talking in riddles."

  "The bringer of salvation will bring himself to the sacrifice out of love for men and mankind, transforming himself by his own death into the deed of truth, the deed which he casts to the universe, so that from this supreme and symbolic reality of helpful service creation may again unfold."

  The Caesar wrapped himself in his toga: "I have placed my life at the service of my work, at the service of public welfare, at the service of the state. In doing so my sacrificial need found satisfaction enough. I recommend the same to you."

  What passed back and forth between them now amounted to nothing, just empty words, or not even words any more, racing across an empty space that was no longer even space. Ever
ything was an unbelievable nothingness, cut off and bridgeless.

  "Your life has been one of deeds, Caesar, deeds done for the people and public welfare, and you have given yourself without stint. The gods chose you for this sacrificial deed and commanded you to it, and through it you have been nearer to them than any other mortal, as your life shows."

  "What sort of sacrifice do you still want? Any work that is actually accomplished demands the whole man and his entire life; the same has been true in your case as far as I can judge, and you are just as much entitled to call it sacrifice."

  The many layers of existence had faded to an amorphous-ness beyond that of any emptiness; no lines were to be seen any more, not the faintest shadow of a line—, where could one still find the means of recognition? "All I have done was egotism, it was hardly action, to say nothing of sacrifice."

  "Then follow my example, pay off your obligations, give the people that to which they are entitled, give them your work."

  "Like every work, it was born out of blindness . . . out of worldly blindness . . . whatever we are doing . . . nothing but blind work ... we are not humble enough for the true, for the seeing-blindness . . ."

  "And I also? ... my work also?"

  "No more layers of existence . . ."

  "What?"

  It was not worth while talking; one could only repeat oneself: "Your actions took place among the people and became a deed through the people; mine had to be taken to the people, not serving as a deed serves but in order to win recognition and applause."

  "Enough, Virgil,"—Caesar's attitude expressed the utmost impatience now—"if you deem it egotistical to publish the Aeneid, have it published after your death. That is my last suggestion."

  "The poet's search for fame reaches beyond his death."

  "And then, what?"

  "The work must not outlast me."

  "By Jupiter! Why? At last I should like to know why. Give me your real reasons now!"