"I want to live ... I want to live!"
Yes, now it was a cry, realized by the voice and the ears, hoarse, it is true, but still loud enough to cause the two friends to jump up in alarm; Plotius rushed over and pushing aside the helpless Lucius he reached the bed with a reproachful: 'This is what comes of it!"
But the clasp was broken, the giant had vanished, the frightful seduction had subsided, and what remained was the usual fever, only the usual fever, which was still like a glowing ice-block, crushing the chest and compressing the breath to a painful rattling, however, so often experienced and so well-known that even the taste of blood rising in the mouth was no longer alarming; one was again in an ordinary sick-room, Lysanias was crouched on top of the table, he likewise was greatly exhausted and looked attentively across the room.
"This is what comes of it. .. this is what comes of it . . ."
It was not easy to decide whether the reproachful grumbling was meant for the sickness, the sick man, or Lucius, and the latter said: "The doctor . . ."
One was again in an ordinary sick-room; Lysanias was present as was proper, but these two old men, Lucius and Plotius, were out of place here, and Mother was missing. Why was Plotius sitting in grandfather's place near the window? Probably because he was as stout and ponderous as the latter. Under his weight the feet of the arm-chair had made a jagged dusty groove in the clay floor and through the window one could see the rolling meadows of the Mantuan landscape in the sunny light of noon. One must call Mother from the kitchen: "Thirsty ..."
Before Lucius could turn around, Plotius, with clumsy agility, had discovered a beaker and had returned with it from the wall-fountain to bring moisture to the expectant lips of the sick man, whose head he supported meanwhile with his other hand. "Are you better, my Virgil?" he inquired, still short of breath and perspiring with excitement.
Speech was difficult to restore. It was possible to thank Plotius only with a nod. And besides the voice of Mother was now audible in the kitchen. "Coming," she called cheerfully, "coming ... my child shall soon have his milk." This meant that Mother was still alive; without altering, she was timeless, and this assurance made for inmost well-being. "Am I still sick, Mother?"—"A little, but soon my child will be out of bed and able to play again." Yes, he would play again on the kitchen floor and out there in the sand of the garden, at Mother's feet But how could Mother approve of such a play that, in forming the clay-like earth, repeated and continued doing what Father had done, and what the god still does? was not this game a crime against the earth that wished to remain unformed, a crime against its primal loam? did it not awake horror and scorn in the knowing mother-goddess? However, it was now impossible to reflect upon it, because of Plotius who was still standing beside the bed; and what he had brought was not milk but water, clear water from the springs of earth.
After a second long gulp, having sunk back into the pillows, speech was again possible; "Thank you, my Plotius, much better, you have restored me ..."
It was a beaker of brown horn, but the figure of a cock was etched upon it. It was the good solid beaker that farmers use.
"I will bring the doctor," persisted Lucius, moving toward the door.
"Why bring the doctor?" It was curious; the doctor was already here, and the somewhat uncertain and nebulous shape in which he was cast seemed to take on solidity with every passing moment.
"We want to ask him," said Plotius, reflectively, "whether or not he will bleed you; how often have I myself had attacks like this, even worse, but after getting rid of a few ounces of blood one finds oneself again in the midst of life and is aware that the whole unpleasant procedure has been most beneficial for one's health."
The doctor, Charondas, combed his beard: "Roman school, Roman method of treatment, we will have none of it; in your case we have not to withdraw any fluids from your body but on the contrary we must add to them ... I bid you drink as much as possible."
"Let me have another drink! …"
"Do you want wine again?" asked Lysanias, lifting the ivory goblet.
"Nonsense," the doctor snapped out at him, "no wine; you have nothing to say here."
Verily, the cool trickling was medicine: "I have recovered; the doctor himself said so."
"Then we want him to confirm it," said Lucius from the door, his hand on the knob.
"We have always to reckon on little relapses," said the doctor and smiled blandly, "this was nothing but a little relapse."
"Stay here, Lucius ... we shall not make a lot of a little relapse; now I must draw up my will."
Lucius came back to the table: "Postpone it only until this evening; I promise you we shall finish it before our departure."
No, it had to be done at once; otherwise the giant might believe that the will had been used only as a subterfuge to escape him. Had not the retreat into the earthbound been altogether too cheap? Shame arose in him, a crippling and scourging shame, as crippling and scourging as the freezing heat of the fever which persisted, although there had been only a slight relapse.
Lysanias, now as before atop the table, wanted to dispel it. "The shame lies only in the chance but your path was chance-less, Virgil, and all that you did was necessary."
"He who goes backward on his path feels ashamed."
With a heavy sigh, Plotius sat down on the edge of the bed: "Now what is that supposed to mean?"
"The will is urgent, I cannot put it off."
"Nobody would understand your feeling as shame the postponement of a few hours, and you yourself cannot be in earnest."
"For Augustus' sake I renounced my wishes in regard to the Aeneid ... now, for your sake should I renounce them in regard to my will?"
"We are only concerned with your health."
"And it is this that permits me, aye, even forces me to go forward on my path. I do not want to go backward."
"I have never led you backward," the boy defended himself, "we have always gone forward."
"And whither now?"
Lysanias was silent; he knew not what to answer.
"His guidance reached only to where I was," said Plotia, intruding, "what follows now is our common path, the path of our love."
"Whither? I have to find my way alone."
"You are unjust, Virgil," pouted Plotius Tucca, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed and causing the mattress to bend under him, "you are unjust; nothing warrants you in rejecting our help and our love like this . . ."
Plotius, who was usually so loudly domineering, and was wont to let nothing oppose him, sat there quite helplessly on the edge of the bed, and Lucius, otherwise so secure in his worldly wisdom, seemed quite shaken; it was plain that they had become submissive, both ready for submission to a patient whose impressionability had formerly made him bend almost constantly to their will. What had wrought this change? Were they submissive only to the sovereign power of illness, although formerly they had given little heed to its voice? or were they now beginning to be aware of the greater voice waiting behind the illness? the annunciating voice of love uniting life and death? oh, they must divine it, otherwise they would not oppose so strongly a last will which wanted to prepare for death!
And Lucius said: "I do not wish to oppose you further, but..."
"Do not add a but, my Lucius . . . yonder in the corner is my luggage, and in the traveling bag you will find my writing utensils and everything that pertains to them . . ."
Plotius rocked his head to and fro: "Well, one must let you have your own way as there is no holding you back . . ."
In the face of such docility it was neither appropriate nor pleasant to have to admit to these two that the physical pains were continuing; but there was the danger of an oncoming chill: "Will you just get me a second blanket . . ."
The sulky face of Plotius became worried and the sulkiness increased: "You are taxing yourself far too much."
"Just a second blanket. . . that is all."
"I will get it for you," said Lucius.
But
scarcely had Lucius called for the servants and given them the order before the slave of the impenetrably stern countenance appeared, already equipped with the blanket, no giant he, but just an ordinary lackey who politely and deftly spread the second blanket over the bed, replacing upon it the laurel sprig hallowed by the touch of Augustus, and this happened so swiftly, so obviously prepared for in advance, that one was inclined to ask oneself whether the request for this blanket had been altogether necessary or justified—, had it not just been an excuse to order the slave back? or an excuse for the slave to steal in again? some explanation was needed: "Were you not here just a moment ago?"
"I have been ordered not to leave you any more."
The boy Lysanias slid down from the table and came quite close, no doubt so the slave could not push him away again: "Without being ordered I stayed with you always, and now without orders I mean to stay on."
What the boy said was of no consequence, indeed it was almost like a forgotten, now scarcely understood language, while the words of the other one, despite their curt sound, brought with them a strange kind of confidence: "Why did you not come sooner?"
"You too had to serve before I could serve you."
Plotius felt worriedly for the cold feet beneath the blanket: "They are like ice, my Virgil!"
"I feel quite well now, Plotius."
"I hope you are telling the truth," said Lucius, who meanwhile had been arranging the writing utensils and the pad of paper on the table, "and here is everything that you requested."
"Give me the paper."
Lucius was astonished: "What! do you even want to do the writing yourself?"
"I want to look at the paper . .. give it here."
"Do not be so impatient, Virgil, here it is." And Lucius, who had opened the leather portfolio, took from the clean-cut pile of paper the topmost sheets and handed them over.
Oh, it was a good quality of paper, it had that rough, cool surface that is easy on the pen, and it was good to pass over it with padded fingertips as though one were about to write.
And by holding it against the light one could see through its ivory color the brownish network of the grain. Oh, the first stroke of the pen on the clean white fold of paper, the first line drawn toward creation, the first word to enter into imperishability!
It was hard to part from it: "This is good paper, Lucius ..."
"My body is white and smooth and tender," sighed Plotia in a whispering lament, "but you did not care to touch it."
Lucius took back the sheets, then he too stroked the surface with tentative fingers, testing it and holding it against the light: "Yes," he confirmed expertly, "it is good paper." Then he sat down to write.
Plotia had been untouchable, her fate too heavy to be borne, yet light as down, too light to be borne or to be allowed to be borne, and unknown she had vanished into the unknowable, there where no meeting exists; her ring remained, but she did not appear again.
Plotius said: "If it is only a codicil and not a modification of your former will, you can make it extremely brief."
No, Plotia did not appear, other shapes came forth, however, from the shadowy swarm, some of them strangely familiar, some of them difficult to recognize as they were immediately whisked away, all sorts of people, among them many whores with blonde wigs, many drunkards and pot-bellies, also waiters and pleasure-boys. For a moment Alexis was visible, insofar as he was recognizable from his back, for he was standing at a ship's railing and looking down into the water in which all sorts of refuse stewed about. And the boy said, admonishingly, and sadly: "We have gone down all paths together and I have led you through them all; oh, that you might remember . . ."
"I know many . . ."
"Does this belong to your dictation?" asked Lucius.
"I know many . . ." No, no one was recognizable any longer, just a single one, and this was astonishing, for the parting from Octavian had been painful and final, the parting could not be repeated, and, contrary to all mutual understanding, Octavian was here again; he stood near the candelabrum, apart from the shadowy swarm, and though he himself was invisible, his dark eyes glanced toward the slave, giving him leave to speak.
"Speak," directed the slave, "give your permission."
Thereupon the order, which in reality was nothing of the sort, was given by Caesar: "I permit you, Virgil, to dispossess the heirs of your first will in favor of your slaves."
"So shall it be; I will provide for the slaves but along with that I must settle the question of the Aeneid and its publication."
"I shall take care of the poem."
"That is not enough for me."
"Don't you recognize me, Virgil?"
And the boy said: "Look at the rising star, the star of Aeneas, the star that is Caesar's, the one that is blessing the harvests, gladdening the fields with full grain and enpurpling the grapes in the vineyards."
"I see," said Lucius, "you want to make stipulations for the publication of the Aeneid . . . What is still lacking in this respect?"
The boy had lied: There was no star to be seen, least of all that which had been promised to shine in the future ripeness of time, the star of meeting where all cognition and recognition were surrendered, the great revealing mystery which brought the empty stream of time to a standstill by fulfilling it; brought to a new beginning the stream, which could not be stayed,— no, the boy had lied, nothing was to be seen of it, still nothing.
"Not quite here, but yet at hand!" Who had said this? the boy, or the slave? Both of them were looking toward the east, joined in a new concord by their eastward glancing; and the star would rise on the eastern firmament.
"The Julian star shines westward," spoke out of Caesar's invisibility, "and you, Virgil, will no longer see it. . . will your hatred never subside?"
"The Aeneid is lovingly dedicated to Caesar, but the new star ranks still higher."
Caesar answered no more; in silence his voice sank back into the invisible.
"The Aeneid . . ." Plotius puffed a little and ran his hands through the gray wreath of his hair—, "yes, the Aeneid, the Julian star will shine through it forever."
"If I am not mistaken, the dedication of the Aeneid to Caesar should be included in the will," said Lucius, and dipped the pen in the ink-well, his face attentive, and waiting for further instructions. He waited, however, in vain. For that was no ink-well in which he held the pen, instead it was the fish-pond in front of the house in Andes, and he was sitting at no ordinary table, since the whole country-seat at Andes was suddenly erected upon it, the estate that from now on would belong to Proculus, and behind it, like a counterfeit in miniature, was the mausoleum, a prison built of leaden blocks, while the waves of the Posilipo crossed, shimmering, the waves of the pond; yes, Lucius was dipping his pen in the pond, soft water-circles were lightly spreading from the place he dipped towards the pond's borders around which the geese and ducks were quacking, doves were cooing on the roosts of the dovecotes; the table, moreover, was surrounded by innumerable people who were waiting for the will; it was understandable that Cebes who was to live on the farm was among them, but on the other hand it was scarcely permissible for Alexis to be hanging around, and to come strolling hither over the double bend of the entrance-path. This gathering for the will was unseemly, and it was with greatest unwillingness that these people let themselves be dispersed by the slave; it took some time before they had all been banished into invisibility, and for the table to stand clear in front of Lucius. "I am ready, Virgil," he announced again, "I am waiting for you . . ."
It was not so simple quickly to find one's way back again, and actually Lucius should have known this: "Presently, Lucius . . ."
"Take your time ... we are in no hurry," said Plotius.
"Listen, my friends, before we begin ... do you recollect the words of Augustus . . . ?"
"Certainly."
"Well, Caesar is familiar with my first will and I feel it is only proper that you, who are assisting me, should know about it to
o . . ."
"We are not alone . . ." broke in Lucius, and pointed to the slave.
"The slave? yes, I perceive him . . ."
Perceiving and perceived—, it was an encounter lasting forever, it was enchainment forever, eternal, simultaneously within and without, an enchainment to him who bore the chain.
"Did you not intend to dismiss the slave before, on account of the will?"
It was odd that Lucius dared to utter this, and it lacked reverence, but nothing came of it; the slave left the room with an unmoved countenance, remaining there at the same time as if having doubled.
Plotius folded his hands with thumbs crossed over his abdomen; "Well, now we are by ourselves."
Quite scornfully and contemptuously, he was rebuffed by Plotia: "Why do you want to be by yourselves? Love needs to be alone; but here you are speaking of money."
"Not my money, no longer my money . . ." It hurt that Plotia could speak thus, for, far away as she was, she must know that never had there been a question of money or property.
"It was your own money that you willed away, and it is your own that you are now willing," objected Plotius, "for you to say anything else is humbug."
Luckily this could be answered without exposing Plotia: "I have received my money through the grace and goodness of my friends, and it is only right and reasonable for me to return it to them . . . consequently, I still harbor some doubts as to whether I am justified in providing as liberally as I did in my first will for my brother Proculus to whom, because of his kindness and straightforwardness, I am quite partial."
"Of course that is just flim-flam."
"Time-honored custom and the prosperity of the state demand that fortunes be kept within the family, there to be cherished and husbanded," said Lucius with a grin.
"To speak seriously," said Plotius, settling the matter, "you may and you should do as you deem best in disposing of your estate; for whatever you may have won, you have finally to thank yourself and your achievements."
"My achievement bears no relation to the prosperity that has flowed to me through my friends, and that is why my first deposition is that my Roman house on the Esquiline as well as my house in Naples should fall back to Caesar, whereas my Campagna estates should be restored to Maecenas . . . Furthermore, I ask Augustus to allow Alexis, who for years now has lived in the house on the Esquiline, to stay on there, and I ask the same favor of Proculus for Cebes, for whom country life has always been beneficial and even necessary because of his poor health, and his poetry, and so I want to secure permanent hospitality for him in Andes ... the best solution would be to let him help a little in cultivating the grounds there . . ."
The Death of Virgil Page 42
