Plotius brought the goblet: "Here you are, Virgil."
"Presently . . . first let me have another pillow." The heart was fluttering and needed to be brought into another position in order to curb it.
In a flash the slave was at hand with the pillow, and stacking it neatly behind the back, he warned softly: "Time presses on.
The fountain drizzled. From somewhere the heavy smell of damp clay, the lighter odor of glazed pottery and earthen jars came floating by on a breath of air, easy to draw into the painful lungs, and grateful to them: somewhere a potter's wheel was buzzing, gentle its high-pitched whirring sound, which came intermittently, almost tonelessly, and finally stopped: "Time .. . indeed, time presses on . . ."
"It doesn't press on at all..." growled Plotius.
"Reality awaits you," said the slave.
Reality towering behind reality; here the reality of friends and their language, behind this an unquenchably lovely memory of a boy at play, further back, that of the caves of misery where Augustus was obliged to live, and beyond these the threatening, brittle and linear entanglement spread out over all existence, over world upon world, behind which was the reality of the flowering groves, oh, and behind this, oh, undiscernible, so undiscernible, the genuine reality, the reality of the never heard, though ever forgotten, ever promised word, the reality of the creation rising anew in the rays of the unbeholdable eye, the reality of the homeland—, and the goblet in the hand of Plotius was of ivory.
Timidly, perhaps confused by the presence of the slave, perhaps intimidated by his stronger will, nevertheless sure in her knowledge, Plotia made herself known, but from the inaudibility of an infinitely remote distance: "You have disdained the homeland of myself; rest now, slumber on to me."
Where was she? Close about him living walls of impenetrable green shot up suddenly as if the leaden prison had been transferred again into the shadowy grotto of leaves which once had been on the point of embracing him and Plotia,—the impenetrable thicket stretched out endlessly, it extended into the infinite distance on every side, but in the midst of its green shone a bush with golden leaves, almost within reach of the hand, although one would have had to grasp across the width of the stream, which unmoving, barely trickling, was now flowing past; the flowing mystery which could not be checked. And from over there, from out the branches of the golden bush Plotia's sibylline voice could be heard, lightly taking farewell.
Alas for the vanished one! alas for her who was already wandering beyond the stream, beyond all desiring, and beyond reach: "Without a wish . . ."
"That is right," said Plotius, "very right that you have no wishes."
"And should you need anything," added Lucius, "that is why we are here ... a while ago you said you had something to ask from us."
Beyond the empty stream! the shoreless stream without source or outlet; impossible to discriminate the place of our emergence from that of our re-immersion, for it was the time-bearing, oblivion-bearing flood of the creaturely, returning without beginning or end—was there a ford in such a stream? certainly, with or without a ford, one was still not permitted to attempt a crossing, and the stream flowed away, disappeared, as the slave, already quite impatient, emphasized the essential: "Do what has become your duty."
Raised up on the pillows, breathing was easier, the cough was looser, and speaking once more became natural; but much remained confused: "I am still without guidance."
"You have left your work in time to guide one through the times; this was the sum of your wisdom, for yours was the divination of light."
Standing near the bed, attentive and motionless, a serving slave uttered these words—; but had he uttered them? Considering the change which suddenly came to pass, this must have been so, for even had the words been mute, they had wrought a change: restored again the first plane of reality's existence, the surrounding things were familiar, familiar the friends; one was no longer a guest in a strange land with a strange language, and even if the image of the true and promised homeland stood fixed before one's eyes, without having become discernible, even here in the midst of earthly things repose had again been granted for a time, though presumably the time was short.
And Lucius corroborated: "Your poem is guidance, and guidance it will remain."
"The Aeneid . . ."
"Yes, Virgil, the Aeneid . . ."
The stream had vanished, the leafy grotto had vanished, only the drizzling went on; but this, it is true, might be coming from the wall-fountain.
"I may not destroy the Aeneid . . ."
"Are you still thinking of that?" The angry distrust welling up in Plotius seemed on the point of breaking out anew.
The stream had vanished, but the fields still remained, lying there in the vibrant stillness of afternoon, filled with the chirping of crickets. Or was it the potter's wheel sending up its gentle, whirring song again? No, it was not that—only the drizzling persisted.
"Destroy . . . no, I no longer wish to destroy the Aeneid."
"Now you are really sound, Virgil."
"It may well be so, my Plotius . . . but . . ."
"Well?"
Something still resisted, something lodged there deeply and ineradicably, demanding sacrifices and eager to offer them; and the slave, as though aware of this resistence, said: "Let your hatred fall from you."
"I hate no one . . ."
"At least we hope that you no longer hate your work," observed Lucius.
"You hate things earthly," said the slave.
There was no contradicting this; the slave spoke the truth and one had to bow to it: "Perhaps I have loved them too much."
"Your work . . . ," said Lucius, both elbows supported reflectively on the table, and the pen-holder pressed wistfully to his lips, "your work . . . love that as we love it."
"I will try, Lucius, ... but first of all we must take care of publishing it."
"As soon as you shall have finished it the publishing will follow . . . before that you would hardly want to bother with it . . ."
"You two will have to see to the publishing of the Aeneid."
"Is that what you wanted to ask of us?"
"Yes, that is it."
"Nonsense . . ." Plotius now actually grew cross—"you have to look after your own affairs, although we are willing to help you with them."
"Do you want to exclude entirely the possibility that this task may fall on you two alone?"
Plotius wagged his large round head this way and that: "Nothing can be entirely excluded . . . but in this case, Virgil, consider that we two are rather old fellows; it would seem wiser to look for an executor who is somewhat younger."
"My first choice falls on you two ... it gives me peace of mind, and I want to have everything settled."
"Very well, we have nothing to say against that," agreed Lucius quite readily.
"And you have to take over this task, all the more since I am bequeathing the manuscript to you, oh, not as payment for your pains, but because I like the thought of your having it."
The effect of this communication proved something of a surprise; after a few moments of sheer stupefaction a deep gulp was heard from Plotius, so that it seemed as if he were about to weep again, while Lucius who, although with gratitude, had accepted the legacy of money with composure—at any rate he had remained seated—now sprang up, gesticulating wildly: "Virgil's own manuscript, Virgil's own manuscript . . . really, can you estimate the greatness of your giving?"
"A gift weighed down with obligations is scarcely a gift."
"Oh, ye gods," sighed Plotius, who had pulled himself together to the point of being able to speak again, "oh, ye gods . .. but one must consider the matter carefully, remembering that you can hardly take back the manuscript from Augustus after having surrendered it to him . . ."
"The Aeneid was written in Caesar's honor . . . therefore he must be given the first flawless copy; this is customary, and I shall designate that it be so done, and for this purpose he will deliver the orig
inal without more ado . . ."
This solution seemed plausible to Plotius, and he nodded; however, he had one more objection: "And then, Virgil, there is something else to consider . . . namely ... I am a simple person, I am no poet... the main work as far as the publishing goes will fall back on Lucius, and therefore he seems entitled to the exclusive possession of the manuscript."
"That is right," said Lucius.
"It would be, if you two did not stand for a unit to me in every possible respect . . . besides you will have to bequeath the manuscript with all its burdensome obligations to each other so that the presumptive survivor may take care of it."
"Very wise," agreed Lucius.
"And what is to happen when both of us shall be dead? This too will come to pass sooner or later . . ."
"That, from now on, is something for you to worry about, but no longer for me; but you could appoint Cebes and Alexis as successors, the one as poet and the other as grammarian; both are young . . ."
Again Plotius gulped with emotion: "Oh, Virgil, you shower us with presents, and your presents give pain ..."
"They will pain you in earnest, my Plotius, when you start with your labors, for verse after verse, word after word, yes, actually letter after letter must be carefully gone over . . . that is no work for you, and I could almost rejoice should it please the gods to exempt me from such labor and burden Lucius with it instead . . ."
"Do not blaspheme . . ."
"Yes, Lucius will be saddled with a hard task, and therefore in my will I shall request Caesar to recompense it properly."
Lucius parried: "Virgil, this is no work to be paid for; on the contrary, I could even name many persons who would be so glad to undertake it that they would be willing to pay any sum for the privilege . . . and furthermore, you know this yourself."
"No, I know nothing of the sort, because just for a poet like yourself, Lucius, for a poet who has a faculty for improving a great deal or even all of it, and who therefore is sure to find much that is incongruous and in need of improvement, it will be hard to limit himself to merely textual corrections ..."
"I would fight shy of wanting to correct any verse by Virgil . . . not a word should be added, not a word struck out, for I see clearly that this is your wish, and that only in this way can one meet it."
"So it is, my Lucius."
"The abilities of a poet are not needed for such work, rather those of a skilled grammarian, and I may natter myself that there are not many who are better fitted than I for this very task . . . but Virgil, what are we to do about the verses that you once called waiting-stones?"
The waiting-stones, indeed! they were still there, those parenthetical verses which were later to be replaced by perfected ones—, ah, now they would never be replaced! It was not good to think of it, and speech had again become labored: "Leave them as they are, Lucius!"
This did not seem right to Lucius; one could see that he was hurt as much on his own account as for the Aeneid, and his commission seemed somewhat spoiled for him: "Very well, Virgil, very well ... we do not have to go into that now; sooner or later you will change the verses yourself."
"I?"
"Who else? you, of course . . ."
"Never . . ." it was rather the voice of the slave than his own which had said that.
"Never?"—Plotius flared up—"are you only trying to frighten us with this kind of talk? or do you actually want to call down on yourself the indignation of the gods?!"
"The gods . . ."
"Yes, the gods, they will not suffer you to keep on blaspheming . . ." And Plotius, with arms bent like an oarsman, shook his hairy fist.
The gods did not wish him to finish the verses, did not wish him to correct the incongruity, for every human work has to arise from twilight and blindness and therefore must remain incongruous; thus have the gods decided. And yet now he knew it; not only the curse but grace as well was mirrored in this incongruity, not only man's inadequacy but also his closeness to the divine, not only the soul's incompleteness but its magnitude, not only the blindness of the blindly-born human labor —otherwise it would never have been done at all—, but also its divining strength, for in the kernel of all human labor lay the seed of something that reached beyond itself and beyond him who had created it, and in this wise the worker was transformed into a creator; for the universal incongruity of circumstance began only when men became active in the universe— for there was no incongruity in the circumstances of the animal or of the gods—and only in this incongruity was revealed the fearful glory of the human lot which reached beyond itself; standing between the muteness of the animal and that of the gods was the human word, waiting to be silenced in ecstasy, beneath the radiant glance of that eye whose blindness has come in ecstasy to seeing: ecstatic blindness, the confirmation.
"Oh, Plotius, the gods ... I have known their grace and their displeasure, I have encountered benefits and burdens . . . I am thankful for both."
"That is as it should be ... it is always so . . ."
"I am thankful for both . • . life has been rich ... I am thankful also for the Aeneid and even for its incongruities . . . incongruous as it is, may it endure . . . but the will, Plotius, just for this reason it must be finished .. . for the sake of the gods ...
"One cannot argue with a peasant ... so you do not intend to postpone it?"
"It must be done, Plotius . . . and you, Lucius, are you able to write it down as I have given it to you?"
"That is not difficult, my Virgil ... of course it would be more in accord with the rules if you were to dictate your wishes; I hesitate to write down anything about taking a recompense for myself for the publishing job in prospect."
"All right, Lucius; for my part you may settle that personally with Caesar . . ."
"Then you wish to dictate?"
"To dictate ... I shall dictate . . ." —was this task still to be achieved?—, "I shall dictate; but first give me another swallow of water so that my cough will not interfere . . . and meanwhile, Lucius, . . . you may write the date on the document ... as of today . . ."
Plotius gave him the goblet: "Drink, Virgil . . . and save your voice, speak softly . . ."
The water ran coolly through the throat. And when the goblet had been totally drained, there was renewed breathing, and voice complied to will: "Have you put down the date, Lucius?"
"Certainly ... at Brundisium, the ninth day before the calends of October in the seven hundredth and thirtieth year after the founding of the city of Rome ... is that correct, Virgil?"
"Without doubt, that is the date . . ."
The drizzling continued, the drizzling of the wall-fountain, the drizzling in the leafy shadows, the drizzling of the stream, the uncheckable stream, which, it is true, had become so broad that the other shore could not be reached, aye, it could not even be seen. But it was not necessary to stretch the hand out over the stream for already here on the shore, yes, here upon the cover, within reach of the hand, was a golden shimmer: the laurel shoot! placed there by Augustus, by the gods, by fate, by Jupiter himself! and its golden leaves were shimmering.
"I am ready, Virgil . . ."
And voice complied to will:
"I, Publius Vergilius Maro, today- in the fifty-first year of my life, in full possession . . . , no, do not write full, rather put possessed of sufficient physical and mental health, see fit to add to my former testamentary provisions which have been deposited in the archives of Julius Caesar Octavian Augustus, as follows . . . have you written all this, Lucius?"
"Certainly . . ."
And voice complied to will:
"As by the wish of Augustus, who has bestowed on me many a favor, I have been deplorably restrained ... no, strike out the deplorably and if you have not written it so much the better, . . . now, as through the wish of Augustus who has bestowed on me many a favor, I have been restrained from burning my poems, I designate firstly, that the Aeneid be considered a dedication to Augustus, secondly, however, that the entire bulk
of my manuscripts be passed over in joint ownership to my friends, Plotius Tucca and Lucius Varius Rufus, and that in the event of the death of either, these automatically become the exclusive property of the other. I entrust to these same friends the exacting supervision of my poetical legacy which is herewith given over into their possession; only the most meticulously examined texts shall have validity, and above all, nothing is to be struck out or added to them, and copies for the librarians are to be made from these authorized texts alone, should the librarians desire them. In any case a clean and correct copy is to be delivered immediately to Caesar Augustus. The full responsibility for all this rests on Plotius Tucca and Lucius Varius Rufus . . . have you written it, Lucius?"
"Certainly, my Virgil, and it will be carried out exactly, should it ever come so far."
And still voice was compliant to will:
"In accord with Augustus' permission, I am allowed to set my slaves free; this is to be done directly after my death, and each slave is to receive a legacy of one hundred sesterces for every year spent in my service. Furthermore, I set aside twenty thousand . . . , no, make it thirty thousand sesterces to be distributed as soon as possible toward feeding the people of Brundisium. All further money settlements are to be found in my first will, to which I have already referred; this remains in full force except for the reduction of the bulk of the estate necessitated by the aforementioned new legacies which my principal heirs, namely Caesar Augustus, as well as my brother Proculus, together with Plotius Tucca and Lucius Varius and Gaius Cilnius Maecenas, will indubitably not consider to be unfriendly . . . , that is about all . . . that will suffice, will it not?"
"Be assured, Virgil, it is sufficient . . ."
"It . . . is it? . . . yes, it is sufficient . . ."
And voice no longer complied to will. Even the last words had to be fetched out of an enormous emptiness, and now nothing remained but this emptiness, a wretched, exhausted, and boundless void, endlessly extended, unsurveyable in the large as well as in its intimate recesses, a frightful emptiness, empty of fright, a void of forgetfulness, filled with a curiously grievous, forgotten wakefulness, a void with a whistling fever straying within its shell. But besides the fever there was something else rustling about, something unsaid, something that had to be said without fail, something connected with all that had gone before, and yet not quite connected, so that it too must be found, otherwise what had previously happened would not suffice. It was of no less importance than the verses themselves, which at first were to be destroyed, and must now be preserved.
The Death of Virgil Page 44