by John Hersey
Conversation between Seneca and Lucan, on the subject of their common Spanish origins, one month after the latter’s return from Greece six years ago, at Seneca’s villa at Lake Albanus, as overheard, recorded, and submitted shortly afterward by Seneca’s slave Ajax Minor:
S.: We are not Romans, you and I, my dear. To have been highborn in the patrician colony of Cordoba is like having been left a grand villa in a will of doubtful validity.
L.: It seems to me it matters more to whom you were born, than where.
S.: If one must be provincial, it matters where. Those born in Germany are like leather—tough, useful, and apt for cruel purposes. In Britain, weak in the lungs, and cerebral. In France, bibulous, argumentative. But we from Spain—we know the sun, we are shrewd people, we easily laugh and cry. We hold on.
L.: It must have helped to have come from a man like Grandfather. Father told me once that Grandfather could repeat ten thousand names in the right order, without a mistake, after hearing the list read just once. Is that true?
S.: Listen to what I am saying. You and I are from Spain. We can imitate, but never be, “old Romans.” We have the advantage of tenacity, but the weakness of never being quite authentic. Yes, my dear, your grandfather had a frighteningly capacious mind, and you and I are fortunate to own a few odd rags and pennants out of it. But do you follow what I am saying?
L.: Yes, Uncle. You are saying: Take a tight grip and keep looking around.
S.: Good pupil.
Lucan was brought to Rome by Mela at age eight months. Tutored in grammar and in Greek and Latin literature by Arcturus, a slave; endless appetite for Virgil and Ovid, could not stomach Horace. Later studied Stoic philosophy under Cornutus.
The poet Persius, five years Lucan’s elder and his close friend up until Persius’s untimely death, once gave this account (to a Senator who happened to be one of our agents) of Lucan’s early education: “This boy was so facile—I watched his lessons often, Cornutus was also my teacher—so devilish, so swift and sinuous of mind, that one could not say which came first, the self-confidence or the universal applause, the applause or the assurance. Each fed the other, until the boy, not yet fourteen, was insufferably arrogant. What made the arrogance insupportable was the fact that it was so fully warranted. In the end, the arrogance became a kind of charm. During ‘controversies’ he would stand on one leg, twisted, gloomy-looking, forehead wrinkled and perspiring like a cloth being wrung out, with mischief flashing from his eyes and wit from his tongue. Half the time Cornutus had his hand over his mouth to hide his laughter.”
Introduced at court, age fifteen, by Seneca. Minute by the late Burrus: “Lucan introduced. Two years younger than N. Rude young man. Played on N.’s delight in verbal abuse. Set on this dubious course by his uncle? Must discuss with Seneca.”
At eighteen went to Greece; considerable success in contests. Recalled late the next year to Rome and to the court by the Emperor. Received public recognition with his reading of “Praise of Nero” at first Neronia. Two public readings the next year of passages from early books of the Pharsalia. Named to Emperor’s Circle of Friends. Awarded Quaestorship four years before normal age of twenty-five. Appointed the next year a Priest of the College of Augurs.
Quaestorship. This was in the year of Nero’s fourth consulship, and it was clearly and only as the Emperor’s “assistant” that Lucan served. The Emperor’s co-consul, Cornelius Cossus, reports confidentially: “Of the twenty Quaestors, Lucan did the least. This could not have been otherwise, since he did nothing. He was never to be seen either at the Capitol or at the Temple of Saturn. He contributed nothing toward the paving of roads. He contributed nothing for gladiatorial games. If he made a contribution toward the support of the first Neronian Quinquennial Games, it must have been directly into the Emperor’s palm. I have no knowledge of a single act of his on behalf of Rome.”
Augurship. In his first year as Augur, Lucan conducted one auspice: defined his templum at midnight on the crest of one of the Alban hills near Seneca’s villa, pitched his tent, sat in its open side facing south—and drank wine all the rest of the night; saw not a single sign, was very drunk by morning. That was his one and only undertaking as an Augur. Has never memorized the manual of ritual; seems never even to have read the anthology of answers. Yet he does not hesitate in his vanity to wear the priest’s toga, which he greatly fancies because of its scarlet stripes and purple border.
From Frontinus Portius, member of the Circle of Friends who came to know Lucan intimately during the period after L.’s recall from Greece: “The man is unpredictable. At times he will sit like a stone through an entire evening; at other times his animation, wit, and charm, though perverse, are overpowering. Even when in high spirits, however, he can be blunt with those he loves most. He forever contradicts, and always says with a fierce shake of his head, ‘I already know that,’ or, ‘Beh, you are mistaken.’ His egoism, even considering that he is a writer, dwarfs Vesuvius. He experiences vivid forewarnings and forebodings, which frighten him. A strange face in the street will remind him of a long-absent friend, whom he is sure he will see shortly; he trembles with terror until, he says, he always does in fact encounter that friend within an hour or two; he is then flooded with relief, though for several days he carries an after-ache of vague disquiet. He is very much afraid of the number seventeen. On occasion he will abruptly take up with a second-rate and vulgar person, a total stranger, and be full of schemes, pranks, whispering. Eats little, gulps that little. I never knew him to sleep yet never saw him sleepy. Loathes exercise and often mocks the Emperor’s mania for musculature. Has a quality of enthusiasm that shines in his poetry. He writes mostly late at night at the speed of the wind in a tempest.”
The volume of his literary output has indeed been almost unbelievable. Before his twenty-fifth birthday he has written: Ten books of lyrics, panegyrics, and pastorals, mostly in hexameters but also some hendecasyllabics and many Sapphics, Alcaics. The Iliacon, an epic of the siege of Troy. The Catachthonion, a descent into Hades. The “Praise of Nero.” An Orpheus. A delicious Adlocutio to his wife Polla Argentaria. A Saturnalia. Epigrams by the cartload; they say he even feeds them to old Seneca. And, of course, as of this date, more than seven thousand five hundred hexameters of his capstone work, the Pharsalia. I have heard he is also working on an account of the fire, and that he has an unfinished draft of a tragedy of Medea.
Many perversities are joyously described in his Saturnalia, but he himself is reported to be inflexibly heterosexual. In general, outwardly chaste. In utmost confidence: According to a member of the Circle (not Frontinus), L. rebuffed approaches by Himself on several occasions. Far from angering Himself, this was said to have further inflamed him. L.’s circumspection thought to be mainly instinct for survival; he was undoubtedly trained to prudence by Seneca.
Lucan’s pride and self-esteem are such that he has no fear or awe of persons in authority. Witness this report by an agent (obviously, you will see, a woman) of a conversation with Agrippina, shortly after Lucan’s return from Greece and only a few months before Agrippina’s death. You and I, Tigellinus, remember what an overpowering personage the Emperor’s mother was. The meeting took place one morning in the lower cypress garden of the Palatinate palace. There, according to the informant, “in the needle-scented autumn clarity strolls Agrippina with two Senators’ wives and a bad-tempered chatterbox of a male dwarf who amuses her. Four Praetorian Guardsmen follow with drawn swords at a ‘discreet’ distance, a leap and a slash away. Here stands in the path an awkward young man. The dowager Empress recognizes him at once.
“ ‘This must be Lucan.’
“Obeisance. ‘I am Lucan.’
“ ‘Are you the one?—I think so—he likes you. I hope not too much.’
“The young man laughs. ‘Spare your nerves, I am not that way. Is your son that way?’
“Agrippina’s smile is like l
ampshine, bright but smoky—artificial light. ‘He is all ways,’ she says. ‘You have had great successes in Greece. My son loves everything Greek. You are good for him.’
“ ‘He should go there and see with his own eyes that this everything he loves is humdrum. Your son can be foolish.’
“ ‘How shrewd. What a delightful young man! Where can we find you?’
“ ‘I am staying with my uncle.’
“ ‘Ah. My son tells me you are beginning a long poem about the civil war.’
“ ‘I didn’t know he knew. I don’t talk about my work until it is ready to be read.’
“ ‘We have ways of knowing things…. You are wise to dream and write about the past.’
“ ‘In which the present was gestating.’
“ ‘Do not disguise my son in your work. In any way. Ever.’
“ ‘He has enrolled me in the Circle. I am promised great delights. Why would I “disguise” him?’
“ ‘Fuh, you’re a poet. Poets don’t make good loyalists—or even good friends, for that matter.’
“ ‘Poets don’t lend themselves to such silly generalizations as that.’
“ ‘Poets and emperors both believe the universe belongs to them. Poets are just as ruthless as emperors. A poet reduces every aspect of real life to negotiable fabrications. His craft is lying.’
“ ‘Poetry survives. Emperors do not.’
“ ‘You had better write fast.’ A divine pink glow suffuses Agrippina’s cheek. She obviously adores this young man even as she threatens him. ‘You’ve been in Greece too long. In Rome it doesn’t pay to be clever.’
“ ‘Who is this limpcock?’ the dwarf snorts. The exquisite mother emits a relaxed laugh and caresses the young man’s arm.”
Lucan’s ingenuity in mockery knows no bounds; on this fault he will some day trip himself. In the year of his return from Greece he wrote a vicious lampoon of the courts, using the form of two skillful briefs—on both sides of the Octavius Sagitta case. To remind you: Octavius, a wealthy tribune, persuaded Pontia, a married woman, to leave her husband and marry him. Once divorced, however, she met a richer man than Octavius and began to dandle him, driving him wild by her vacillation. He pleaded and menaced; she teased. At last he begged for the gift of one final night with her, which he said would enable him to break the wild spirit of his desire and put a harness on it for the future. She agreed. She had a trusted female slave prepare a room. Octavius entered with a freedman. The servants retired. Alone together, the two violently quarreled (apparently their accustomed mode of mutual stimulation), and their strife ripened into a consummation on a couch. Later she was found stabbed to death on that same couch. The next day the freedman said that he had murdered Pontia because of her tormenting of his patron. The slave girl had also been wounded that night, and when she recovered she accused Octavius of having stabbed Pontia and of having wounded her when she intervened to help her mistress. (At the end of his tribuneship, Octavius was in fact sentenced to death by the Senate.) One of Lucan’s briefs imputed the crime to Octavius; the other maintained that the freedman and the slave girl had murdered Pontia and had arranged between them to have the freedman gain the honor of defending his patron and to have the slave girl then place the blame on the innocent Octavius. It is a brilliant and scandalous work, this double brief, casting doubt on many aspects of our judicial system.
Extremely confidential. From Statius Spurinnus, member of the Circle, formerly close to L.: “The Poet’s Poet—that is what some of us called him—we meant by that, Nero’s Poet—accompanied us one night on one of N.’s street raids. We had to tease him for a long time to persuade him to join us. He has (or then had) a horror of anything athletic, and he had imagined the raids to consist of action for the arena. At any rate, he came.
“We started out about midnight and went down to the area around the Milvian bridge. Threw a pair of drunks in the Tiber. Robbed a vendor. N. was in particularly high spirits, in my opinion because L. was with us. L. rather subdued, disapproving.
“Eventually we went to the alleys near the house of a Senator, Frontinus Sulpicer, where we heard there was a banquet under way. We were well disguised as usual. We waited for the guests to emerge.
“First came that fat imbecile Senator Trebius and his pretty wife, followed by two male slaves. We swooped on them, caught and held Trebius and the slaves, and N. threw the wife to the ground, stripped her naked, except for her many jewels, and then removed the jewels one by one and put them on Himself, saying this was the sort of pendant he had always dreamed of having, this was a delicious earring!
“The second couple that came out, with slaves, happened to be Licinius Afer, the man who some years ago spread the story that Seneca had committed adultery with N.’s sister Julia, and who may indeed have been responsible for Seneca’s being sent into exile; and Licinius’s young wife, his third, whom he had only recently married. Lucan, recognizing Licinius as he came out of the gate in the light of torches, whispered to N. that he wanted the privilege of dealing with the two. N. consented.
“Good. We swooped, trapped the males. L. then danced about in front of the young wife, and he put on the most unusual show. He knew a great deal of slimy gossip about Licinius, which he must have heard from a vengeful Seneca years before, and mimicking Licinius with wicked accuracy, both as to voice and gesture, he poured out a stream of filth for the ears of the young wife that must surely have cut the heart out of whatever relationship she may have had with the old man. What made Lucan’s performance so shocking was that without touching the young woman, with tongue alone, he managed a masterpiece of rape long remembered by all the raiders as more subtle, keen, effective, and brutal, as a more wicked statement of the abasement of all virtue which was—if anything was—the point of our raids, than any act N. ever managed before or after. And we had thought L. so fastidious, so censorious! It is true that he did this from a motive of loyalty to his uncle.”
Stormy relationships with and between his parents. Source Sulpicio, a freedman of Lucan’s: “Lucan’s mother Atilla is a chestnut burr, or perhaps rather a nettle. Do not touch: prickles and stings. She has an agile mind and an infuriating habit of anticipating what you intend to say and of scornfully finishing your sentences for you before you can get them out, as if to suggest that she has known your thoughts all along and has judged them trivial. She looks at your lips rather than your eyes, and her expression is haughty and disapproving. Mela, Lucan’s father, moved to a comfortable villa overlooking the sea at Misenum to get away from her. Living with Mela there is Epicharis, his mistress, a woman with large brown eyes and a satin skin, who dusts the house beside the slaves. Lucan can scarcely talk to either his father or his mother. His father’s calm self-containment drives Lucan wild. Lucan has a full measure of his mother’s sharp points, little of his father’s melancholy serenity. Lucan has developed a warm fondness for Epicharis, and when he visits his father’s villa he walks endlessly in the garden, and sometimes outside, with her.” So much for Sulpicio. We have not developed anything new so far on Lucan’s “fondness” for Epicharis but have set a watch on it.
Lucan’s Adlocutio to Polla. Again from Frontinus Portius: “Polla works day and night at being Lucan’s wife. Her endless entertainments are particularly revealing. She began by inviting anyone and everyone who might be useful to Lucan—influential men, carefully selected poets and artists whose presence in Lucan’s house would color his reputation with tones reflecting their various special gifts; but her greed for him and basically for herself gradually dulled her critical taste, and she ended by inviting simply anyone and everyone. The result is that the poet’s house is nightly crowded by cultural leeches, creaky poetical praying mantises, cockroaches of state, moths where once great butterflies swarmed. Especially since Lucan’s proscription many of the best men prudently stay away. All who do come tell Polla that she is b
eautiful, dutiful, and talented (she writes nauseating tragedies). Indiscriminate praise has made her indiscriminating. Lucan knows very well who these people are. He is in a rage every night, yet he does not put an end to the ritual, which revolves, after all, around him. This by way of background for his transparent Adlocutio to his wife.
“The poem takes the form of an address to her by him at the end of an evening of revelry in their home. He praises her with clashing salutes, but it is clear (to everyone, one supposes, but Polla) that the cymbals are made of tin. One sees in this poem that Lucan has begun to realize that he married a pale shade of his terrible mother. The flattery grinds on, one almost hears the son-husband gnash his teeth in writing it, and at the end of the poem it is obvious that the poet and his wife are now to retire to the couch together for embraces of ambiguous passion, each wishing the partner were someone else.”
From his freedman Sulpicio: “Lucan is totally lacking in senses of orientation and recognition. He can stand in front of the Capitol and ask the direction to the Capitoline Hill. I have often been sent out late at night to find him, and I have often found him turning away from his own gate to look for his own gate. He has a lightning memory, but faces are to him like empty plates, he cannot tell one from another unless there is, so to speak, food on one and not on the other. He frequently insults old acquaintances by not recognizing them.”
His greatest weakness is his compulsion to quarrel with those he loves. Again from Sulpicio: “I can tell six hours beforehand when he is going to get into a quarrel. He is at that point agreeable but emits from time to time a quick, raucous laugh disproportionate to the humor that caused it; his hands tremble, as if with eagerness; he drops things on the floor and curses them, as if they had willfully tricked him; sends slaves on a hundred invented errands; and is exceptionally forgetful. Then, as the evening comes on, you can see him work up to it. He seems to have selected his adversary long in advance. In a crowd he seeks the company of this person, talks with him soberly and with hooded eyes, looking downward. Then he begins to interrupt, to correct ‘errors’ which are often not errors at all. He becomes formal. ‘Please excuse me, but you are grossly mistaken.’ He is positive. The friend defends his veracity, sometimes his honor. It ends with shouting. Lucan’s aim—at the very core of his adversary’s most tender uncertainty—is terrifying. The next day he is rueful. Keeps saying he had too much to drink the night before.”