The Death of Virgil

by Hermann Broch

  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 scenes 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 Jier 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.

  Augustus was uncertain whether he was the son of Octavius or of another, and be believed Virgil could divine this for him, inasmuch as he had known the qualifications of the dogs and horses, as well as their pedigrees. He summoned Virgil into a remote quarter of his residence and asked him privily if he knew who he was, and whether or not he possessed qualities which would confer happiness upon mankind.

  "I know," said Maro, "that you, Caesar Augustus, possess almost the same power to confer happiness as do the immortal gods, if such be your wish."

  "I intend to make you very happy," replied Augustus, "if you can give me the true answer to my question."

  "Oh," exclaimed Maro, "that I may be able to answer you truly!"

  Whereupon Augustus: "Everyone believes me to be the son of another man."

  Maro said, smiling: "It will be easy to tell you this if you order me to speak as I think, without fear of punishment."

  Caesar vowed he would take nothing amiss, and furthermore that Virgil would not be permitted to leave until he had so spoken.

  Thereupon said Maro, looking the Augustus straight in the eyes: "It is comparatively easy to discern the characteristics and lineage of the other creatures by means of mathematics and philosophy; in the case of man it is impossible. But in your case I have a close surmise of the truth, so that I am able to know who your father was."

  Augustus waited attentively for what Virgil was about to say.

  However, the latter: "In so far as I am able to judge," he said, "you are the son of a miller."

  Caesar was astonished, and pondered how this could have come about.

  Virgil interrupted him and said: "Listen, thig is how I came to my conclusion. When I pronounced and foretold what could he known by none hut the most experienced and learned men, you, Lord of the World, ordered time and time again that bread be given me as payment. That was the conduct of a miller and his sons."

  This retort pleased Caesar. "At last," he said, "you will receive gifts not from a miller but from a generous monarch."

  He held Virgil in high esteem.

  Virgil was of stately carriage, dark coloring, rustic appearance and uncertain health, for he suffered constantly with pains in his head and throat; he spat blood frequently; he partook sparingly of food and wine.

  It was said of him that he had a passionate leaning toward young boys. But kindly people thought he loved the youths as Socrates had loved Alcibiades, as Plato his young followers. But most of all he loved Cebes and Alexander. In the Bucolic Eclogues he calls the latter Alexis. Both youths were presented to him by Asinius Pollio, and he discharged neither of them until they were educated; Alexander as a grammarian, Cebes as a poet.

  It was known that he loved Plotia Hieria. But Ascanius maintained that later he took care to tell the youths that while it was true he had been invited by Varius to live intimately with the woman, he had resisted most stubbornly.

  As for the rest, it is certain that in his life, his way of thinking, his appearance, he was so upright that in Naples he was commonly called "Parthenias." And when he appeared publicly in Rome, where he came but seldom, he took care to flee into a neighboring house from those who followed after him.

  When Augustus offered him the estates of an exile, he remained firm in refusing them. He possessed almost a hundred sesterces through the generosity of his friends, and had a house in Rome on the Esquiline near the Maecenas-Gardens. Yet, for the most part, he enjoyed the seclusion of the Campagna and of Sicily. Whatever he asked of Augustus was never refused him.

  Of all his studies, as mentioned above, he continued to give his greatest devotion to medicine, and above all to mathematics."

  This legend apparently derives from the Middle Ages, as may be inferred from the monastical character of the Latin text, and was found by the author in a seventeenth century translation of the Aeneid.

  "The Death of Virgil" contains almost a hundred passages from the Virgilian writings; for the most part they have been incorporated as part of the narrative, many, however, are inserted as distinct quotations. A list of the most important of these follows, with indication of the page numbers in this book:

  137 Easy the pathway that leads down to Hades, and the gate-

  way of Pluto stands ever open . . . Aeneid VI, 126/52

  156 But the Ciconean women, whom he had offended out of

  love for her who was dead, had torn the man into pieces . . .

  Georgics IV, 520/27

  169 Now are the waves of the sea set to foaming, churned by

  the oar-strokes . . . Aeneid VIII, 689/90

  192/97 Charmed is Aeneas, and letting his eyes rove in quick

  admiration . . . Aeneid VIII, 310/69

  238 Lying down on the dry sea sand, wearily we care for the

  body . . . Aeneid III, 510/11

  252 Nevermore shall I sing songs, and no longer am I your

  guardian . . . Eclogue I

  258 Now there arises a new line, one of a loftier order . . .

  Eclogue IV

  262 Twofold the portals of sleep, and twofold 'tis said in their

  nature . . . Aeneid VI, 893/901

  273 Thou shalt not escape me today; whither thou callest,

  there shall I appear! . . . Eclogue III

  283 All that Apollo once sang and Eurotas heard enraptured,

  all of this was sung by that one . . . Eclogue VI

  296 Henceforth let it be the wolf who flees the sheep, let the

  rugged oaks bear golden apples . . . Eclogue VIII

  305 Actium's strand shall be honored by contests at Ilium . . .

  Aeneid III, 280

  307 There on the shield was the bronze-armored fleet in the

  Attic encounter . . . Aeneid VIII, 675/88

  492

  313

  Others, I doubt not, will hammer the flexible bronze to

  soft features . . . Aeneid VI, 847/53

  336 The glory of the ages . . . Eclogue IV

  358 Oh, it was Lucifer rising, and washed by the
waves of the ocean . . . Aeneid VIII, 589/91

  359 Even the moon's shining orb, even the sun's very fire . . .

  Aeneid VI, 725/27

  380 To thee, thou new star, as thou joinest slow months in their

  passing, where Erigone leads on the Scorpion . . .

  Georgics I, 32/35

  381 In heaven the thunderer, Zeus, is reigning, but on earth

  you are the visible god, oh Augustus . . .

  Quoted from Horace Carmina, Book III, 5

  394 Behold Caesar there and his issue, all of the Julian line

  that is destined to mount to the heavens . . .

  Aeneid IV, 789/800

  412 Look at the rising star, the star of Aeneas, the star that

  is Caesar's . . . Eclogue IX

  Confronted with the Latin verses, the translator looked for an English version of the Virgilian writings in dactylic hexameter from which to draw quotations. None that was available suited her purpose, and after consulting with several classical scholars she took the advice of Dr. Werner Jaeger, distinguished professor at Yale University, and made her own versification, relying heavily on Fairclough's prose translation. When incorporated in the narrative, the meter was sometimes ignored, but in most of the larger quotations the translator essayed a contrived hexameter, although fully aware how seldom this meter has found felicitous expression in English poetry, and of its inadequacy when compared to its classic original.