3—
Presentation
I—
Narration
1—
The Whole Action and the Detail
A narrator who is striving after clear presentation must try to avoid telling the story
of a large number of people at once. The listener can only identify with a crowd if
they act as a single-minded unit, not as individuals. Otherwise, being faced with a
number of characters will confuse the imagination and blur the picture. Apollonius
often speaks of his Argonauts as a group, who have done this or that, without going
into details. This cannot be avoided if, like Apollonius and Virgil, one has a hero
who is surrounded by a number of followers; but as soon as Virgil reaches such a
passage he makes haste to concentrate on individuals. Apollonius describes, for
example, the funeral feast of Idmon (2.837): 'there they interrupted their journey;
sad at heart they tended the corpse. For three whole days they mourned; on the
following day they embalmed him most excellently, and the people (the Marian-
dyni) together with king Lycus took part in the burial rite; there they slaughtered a
great number of sheep, as is right when someone has died. And a monument has
been raised to this man in that land, with a sign on it, so that even those as yet
unborn will see it, an olive-tree fit for constructing a ship'. Compare this with the
funeral ceremony for Misenus, 6.212ff.; Virgil doubtless had Apollonius' scene in
mind when he wrote it. Virgil, too, begins with a general statement: 'The Trojans
mourned Misenus on the shore, and paid their last respects to his ashes.' But this is
356 followed by a detailed description of the erection of the funeral pyre and an equally
detailed description of the further business, which focusses on individual groups:
p a r s calidos latices . . . expediunt . . . p a r s ingenti subiere feretro . . . [some prepare
warm water . . . some raised the great bier on their shoulders], until we come to
individual people: ossa cado texit C o r y n a e u s , idem etc., at pius A e n e a s
sepulcrum imponit etc. [Corynaeus enclosed the bones in an urn, he also . . . but
Aeneas the true imposed a barrow]. It is the same when they land in Hesperia (6.5):
the young men jump ashore: some of them strike fire from flints, some fetch
kindling from the forest, some look for running water and show others where to find
it. It is the same when they land in Libya. The Trojans go ashore and stretch their
limbs on the beach: Achates lights a fire etc.: then the preparation of the meal: they
dismember the stag, some cut the meat into pieces and stick it on spits, others set
cauldrons to boil etc.
These are accounts of peaceful, everyday activities. The same need to concen-
trate on small groups is more urgent when martial deeds are being portrayed. Here,
if anywhere, Virgil has learned from Homer. In the Iliad , almost without exception,
the narrative moves as quickly as possible from speaking about a group to speaking
about individuals. A general description was unavoidable when the Italic peoples
rose up in arms (7.623). This begins with only one line to sum up the whole
situation: ardet inexcita Ausonia atque immobilis ante [Italy, the quiet land which
no alarm could rouse before, was ablaze]; then, as in the previous examples, the
action divides: pars pedes ire parat campis , pars arduus altis pulverulentus equis
furit [some made ready to march on foot across her plains, some galloped madly in
clouds of dust, riding high on tall horses] (where the epithets set individuals before
us, and the detail gives us a precise picture instead of a general statement like 'they
prepared to fight on horseback'); then five cities are named, which are manufactur-
ing new weapons, and this is described in great detail; finally, when the signal to
advance sounds, we come to individuals: hic galeam tectis trepidus rapit etc. [one
man seizes a helmet from his house with trembling hands], and this is followed by a
list of individually named leaders. Or we may then look at the first assault of the
enemy on the camp (9.25): only one line of general description, then we are shown
individuals; then only one line about the Trojans collectively, then direct speech
from Caicus, calling to arms. Or the situation of the beleaguered Trojans, 10.120ff.:
it is important for us to remember the position, and so more space is devoted to
describing it; however, it is not a general description but a kind of catalogue of the
leaders, which we do not really expect to find here, and which probably would not
357 have come here if the poet had not had this particular purpose. Virgil does the same
thing in the battle-scenes; it is significant that the general description is by far the
longest in the cavalry battle, 11.597-635 (in which there is only one single duel) and
868ff.: the men storm up and chase back in such a compact group that they appear to
be a single unit. But here (624ff.), as in similar cases[1] the very short general description
is backed up by a most appropriate simile; here, too, Homer had shown the way –
remember the three consecutive similes in Iliad 2 when the armies advance.
2—
Narrative and Précis
A summary description of a crowd-scene gathers together all the simultaneous
pieces of action; a précis narrative does the same for a series of events; but clearly a
précis does not allow a full exposition of the material, and so a poet must not make
too frequent use of it. He can do this by concentrating events into the smallest
possible length of time; the more the action is spread out, the more often a précis
will be needed to bridge the gaps between the major scenes, if, that is, the poet has
any interest in maintaining continuity. The most important means to this end is one
borrowed from the Odyssey , by which the action is made to start near the end of the
period taken up by the story, and letting the hero narrate what has happened so far.
We have already seen how, in any case, Virgil likes to squeeze events into the space
of a few days whenever possible; and how, when a longer time would be necessary
in real life he tries to obscure the fact (p. 266f. above). Brevity can most easily be
justified in first-person narrative; the poet can shift the responsibility for it onto his
narrator, and he, in turn, can say that he must consider his audience; the reader
total illumination from him than he would from the poet himself, since the narrator
is himself part of the imagined fiction. Also, it is only in first-person narrative that a
different treatment can be employed as, for instance, in the adventure with the
358 Cicones in Odyssey 9, as compared with the adventure with the Cyclops; the Ci-
cones story in the form in which we hear it from Odysseus would clash with the
style of the whole poem if the poet narrated it. Virgil has made good use of this
possibility, particularly in Book 3: he has Aeneas giving a quick survey of the seven
years of adventures, then selecting a few for detailed narration, choosing those
which are sure to interest his audience. This means that he can pass very quickly
over such things as his departure from his native land and what preceded it –
auguria divum [divine signs], construction of the fleet:[2] he can choose to describe
from the first stage of their exile (the sojourn in Thrace) only the pathos-filled scene
at the tomb of Polydorus; he can pass quickly over their reception in Delos, Anius
and his hospitality etc., up to the death of Anchises ( amitto Anchisen [I lost An-
chises]); nowhere else in the whole Aeneid has Virgil used anything like so much
brief summary.
In other ways, too, he has used précis more freely than Homer did. Homeric style
allows itself précis only in the sub-plots which are to be less prominent than the
main plot,[3] but they too are often narrated in detail. According to Virgil's artistic
principles, précis was essential whenever the listener would otherwise have been
told something that he already knew. Thus, wherever a section which is being told in
some detail reaches the point where one character has to report to others things
which we have already seen take place, they are always summarized. Here it is
supposed that the imagination will simply reproduce the picture it has already seen;
a full repetition would continue the external action, but Virgil's readers are not as
359 patient as Homer's, who are content even when they are not being told anything
new. We therefore find examples of précis when Aeneas tells his companions about
things that we already know (his decision to sail away from Carthage, the vision of
Mercury etc. [4.288]); when Anna has to carry out Dido's errand (4.437); similarly,
after Anchises' dream-appearance (5.746), after Turnus' decision to fight (7.407),
Aeneas' decision to visit Evander (8.79) etc.; almost always, the succeeding nar-
rative is also shortened; in the last example, Aeneas' departure from the camp is told
briefly regardless of the fact that there are important factors that we should know
about (9.40, 172) but are told only later. The reception by Acestes (5.35-41) is
reported by Virgil with quite un-Homeric brevity: here, too, a clear, detailed de-
scription of what we already know would have run into many words. We should also
list here messages of which we already know the contents: 9.692 to Turnus after the
Trojans' sortie, 10.520 to Aeneas after Pallas' death, 11.896 to Turnus after Camilla
has fallen, 12.107 challenging Aeneas to the duel; in these and countless other cases
Homer would not have spared us the full details.
Virgil is totally committed to narrating only things which are important in them-
selves, which are worthwhile for their own sake, and which produce an effect: he
omits where possible anything which is unimportant, which is significant only as
preparation for future events or as the result of past events. This is the same artistic
principle which led the neo-Hellenistic writers to select from their material only the
emotional scenes, discussing the rest with a brief reference, regardless of its import-
ance to the plot. It is a severe infringement of the principle of
tion], which requires important matters and unimportant matters to be treated with
corresponding expansiveness or succinctness.[4] Virgil never omits anything import-
ant; on the contrary, he takes care that everything significant shall also have artistic
360 value so that it is worth telling. However, it does happen, very infrequently, that
circumstances come up in the course of the narrative that are too important to omit
but are mentioned only briefly so as not to spoil the effect of the passage.[5] Even
more infrequently he relegates a really important matter to minor status for artistic
reasons: I cannot think of another example more striking than tandem erumpunt et
castra relinquunt Ascanius puer et nequiquam obsessa iuventus (10.604) [at last the
young prince Ascanius and the manhood of Troy broke out from their camp. The
siege had failed.]. That should really stand at the end of the book: the Latins are
forced to lift the siege of the camp, the sortie achieves their complete defeat. But
Virgil cannot put anything at the end after the death of Mezentius, so the result is
told here in advance, and inserted as a result of Aeneas' fury; but it can only be
mentioned briefly here because the poet is in a hurry to reach Turnus, against whom
Aeneas' angry rage is principally directed. For similar reasons, the description of the
shield at the end of Book 8 must not be followed by anything which might weaken
the effect; Aeneas' discussions with the Etruscans and their embarkation are there-
fore not narrated until later, at 10.148: but nothing is lost thereby, and the poet gains
361 the advantage that, since he is recapitulating, he can be briefer than if he were
narrating the events in their proper place; in that case it wpould have been difficult
to avoid tedious repetitions of the first scenes with Evander – the presentation of
Aeneas, an account of what had been happening etc.
Finally, the description of the union of Aeneas and Dido (4.165) really does
nothing but allude to it, and stands in a class of its own in that the brevity here does
not stem from artistic principles:
speluncam Dido dux et Troianus eandem
deveniunt . prima et Tellus et pronuba Iuno
dant signum ; fulsere ignes et conscius aether
conubiis summoque ulularunt vertice nymphae
[Dido and Troy's chieftain found their way to the same cavern. Primaeval Earth and
Juno, Mistress of the Marriage, gave their sign. The sky connived at the union; the
lightning flared; on their mountain-peak nymphs raised their cry]. That is masterly in
every trait; it is true that here 'modern' sensibility had to use a 'modern style'.[6] But
who can fail to see that the paraphrase here, far from being merely the handmaid of
prudery, truly frees the event from every vulgar overtone, lifting it to the heroic level?
3—
Ethos
Total clarity in narrative can only be achieved by giving quite precise and detailed
information about the outward circumstances of the action which create equally
precise concepts in the reader's mind. Whatever Virgil narrates, he lets us see it
more or less sharply. Further examination will show that in this, too, he was in-
fluenced by his models, and the clearer the picture in his model, the more he strives
after the same effect, although using his own means; a more important, and harder,
task would be to show what Virgil's perception of events was and how he perceived
them, but that lies outside our scope. One thing needs to be said in preparation for
what follows: the outward clarity of the narrative was also influenced by the fact
362 that Virgil was overwhelmingly interested in the psychological side of things, as we
established above. He cares more about his characters' emotions and desires than
about their visible actions; he would rather give the listener the illusion of sharing
the feeling than the illusion that he is physically seeing something. When a host of
visual details are given, this is, in most cases, not for the sake of providing a picture,
but in order to arouse a particular emotion; Virgil knows that the pathos of pity or
fear is most surely aroused when the illusion of reality is achieved.[7]
The most characteristic thing about Virgil's narrative is that it is soaked through
and through with feeling.[8] It is not like later Hellenistic poetry where the poet 's
feelings continually force themselves on us (although, as we shall see, Virgil is
much less reticent than Homer in this respect too); but the feelings of the protagon-
ists are intended to be suggested to us by the narrative, without being expressly
mentioned. Homer's narrative generally leaves it to the reader to guess what emo-
363 tions accompanied the narrated events, with the sole aid of conversations and
monologues; Virgil never narrates without indicating the appropriate emotion, at the
very least by the tone and colours used, and sometimes by an explicit allusion. He
has put himself into the heart of his characters and speaks from inside them; he even
projects emotion into insentient Nature; he wants to make the listener share their
feelings, whether it is a violent passion flaring up, or the steady warmth of a more
restrained mood. I have already mentioned the atmosphere of the Games in Book 5
(above p. 135); as further examples I select, not the narration of exciting and
emotional events where the pathos is obvious, but comparatively unexciting events,
and to this end I must cite some longish extracts.
The departure of the Trojans from their homeland (3.1):
Postquam r e s A s i a e Priamique evertere gentem
i n m e r i t a m visum superis , ceciditque s u p e r b u m
Ilium et omnis humo fumat Neptunia Troia ,
diversa exilia et d e s e r t a s quaerere terras
auguriis agimur divum , classemque sub ipsa
Antandro et Phrygiae m o l i m u r montibus Idae ,
i n c e r t i quo fata ferant , ubi sistere detur ,
contrahimusque viros . v i x p r i m a i n c e p e r a t aestas ,
et pater Anchises d a r e f a t i s vela iubebat ,
litora cum p a t r i a e lacrimans portusque relinquo
et campos , ubi Troia f u i t ; feror e x u l i n a l t u m
cum sociis n a t o q u e p e n a t i b u s e t m a g n i s d i s
['The powers above had decreed the overthrow of the Asian empire and Priam's
breed of men, though they deserved a better fate. Lordly Ilium had fallen and all
Neptune's Troy lay a smoking ruin on the ground. We the exiled survivors were
forced by divine command to search the world for a home in some uninhabited land.
So we started to build ships below Antandros, the city by the foothills of Phrygian
Ida, with no idea where destiny would take us or where we should be allowed to
settle. We gathered our company together. In early summer our chieftain Anchises
urged us to embark on our destined voyage. In tears I left my homeland's coast, its
havens, and the plains where Troy had stood. I fared out upon the high seas, an exile
with my comrades and my son, with the little gods of our home and the great gods of
our race'].
The lines do not give much of a picture, but they do communicate a great variety
of emotions, although only one word – lacrimans [in tears] – expressly refers to
them. We see the fall of Troy through the eyes of Aeneas as a terrible disaster which
has come upon the innocent because of an incomprehensible decision of the gods;
we are made to share the mood of the refugees who are being sent into the unknown,
to inhospitable far-off lands, into exile; who nevertheless, in obedience to the gods,
do not hesitate for one moment and piously accept their fate; we share their sorrow
364 as they pass the site of Troy; their divided feelings are made clear to us in the
concluding words: deep sorrow, and yet they find consolation in what Aeneas is
taking with him: his companions, his son, above all, the gods; the narrative is
rounded off with the weighty spondees et magnis dis [and the great gods], some-
thing to cling to in an uncertain future.
That was Aeneas speaking, but the tone is not very different when the poet
narrates. Let us look at their arrival in Cumae (6.5):
iuvenum manus e m i c a t a r d e n s
litus in H e s p e r i u m ; quaerit pars semina flammae
abstrusa in venis silicis , pars densa ferarum
tecta r a p i t silvas inventaque flumina m o n s t r a t .
at pius Aeneas arces , quibus a l t u s Apollo
praesidet , h o r r e n d a e q u e procul s e c r e t a Sibyllae ,
antrum i m m a n e petit . . .
[A party of young Trojans eagerly darted ashore on to the Western Land. Some
searched for the seeds of flame which lie embedded in the veins of flint. Others
penetrated the forests and raided the tangled shelters of the wild creatures, signalling
when they found a water-stream. But Aeneas the True made his way to the fastness
where Apollo rules enthroned on high, and to the vast cavern beyond, which is the
awful Sibyl's own secluded place] – on the one hand the happy bustle of the young
men – they cannot land quickly enough, to find at last on the Hesperian shore the
aquam et ignem [water and fire] of their new home; on the other hand, Aeneas'
emotions as he approaches a solemnly significant event in pious awe.
Aeneas' journey to Evander (8.86):
Thybris ea fluvium quam longa est nocte tumentem
leniit e t t a c i t a r e f l u e n s i t a s u b s t i t i t unda
mitis ut in m o r e m s t a g n i p l a c i d a e q u e p a l u d i s
s t e r n e r e t aequor aquis , remo ut luctamen abesset .
ergo iter inceptum celerant r u m o r e s e c u n d o ,
labitur uncta vadis abies ; m i r a n t u r et undae ,
miratur nemus insuetum fulgentia longe
scuta virum fluvio pictasque innare carinas .
olli remigio noctemque diemque f a t i g a n t
et l o n g o s s u p e r a n t f l e x u s variisque teguntur
arboribus viridisque secant placido aequore silvas .
sol medium caeli conscenderat i g n e u s orbem ,
cum muros arcemque procul ac rara domorum
tecta vident , quae n u n c Romana potentia caelo
aequavit , t u m res inopes Evander habebat .
o c i u s advertunt proras urbique propinquant .
[Then did Tiber make smooth his heaving flood for the whole length of that night
and withdrew the flow of his now voiceless waves, becoming so still as he levelled
the ripples on his surface that it seemed like a kindly pool or peaceful marsh, on
which no oar need strain. So then the Trojans began their journey and made good
speed, encouraged by what Aeneas had been told. Greased pine-timbers slid by over
shallow water. The very waves wondered, and the woods, strangers to such a sight,
were surprised to see floating in the river the brightly painted ships with the war-
riors' far-gleaming shields. The Trojans rowed tirelessly till a night and a day were
spent. They passed round long bends, and shaded by trees of many kinds they cut
between green forests on the friendly river-surface. The fiery sun had climbed to the
mid-point of the sky's circle when ahead of them they saw walls, a citadel, and
scattered house-roofs; all this Roman might has now exalted to Heaven, but at that
time Evander lived there in poverty. Quickly they turned prows shorewards, and
drew near to the city.]
365 Here we have animation of Nature: the god of the river, who has told them to
make the journey, stops the flow of his current and cannot do enough to help them;
the waves and woods stand amazed, like children of nature, at the unaccustomed
sight; on the other hand, we have the mood of the oarsmen, joyful eagerness as they
notice that their task is being made easier, although it is still difficult and tiring
enough; joy at the many kinds of trees growing thickly along the banks; when these
can no longer shade them from the heat of the midday sun, they find that their
destination is at last in sight, and double their efforts to reach it. There is also
another feeling, one that is not shared by the characters in the poem: the great
contrast between Then and Now, a favourite concern of Virgil's time. Let us com-
pare this with what is said of the Tiber in other places: how the river invites the
Trojans to stay when they arrive and Aeneas laetus fluvio succedit opaco (7.36)
[happily moved up into the shady river]; how Turnus, yielding to superior force,
leaps into the river (9.815):
ille suo cum gurgite flavo
a c c e p i t venientem ac m o l l i b u s e x t u l i t undis
et laetum sociis a b l u t a c a e d e r e m i s i t :
[the river welcomed him to its yellow stream and bore him on gentle waves. It
washed the blood away and carried him back, happy, to his comrades]: it is as if the
god himself could not help admiring the hero, he receives him in such a friendly
way, and something which would endanger the lives of others is only a refreshing
dip for Turnus. It is different when the nymphs, who were ships a moment before,
swim down to the sea (9.124); the onlookers stand horrified –
cunctatur et amnis
rauca sonans revocatque pedem Tiberinus ab alto .
[Even the River Tiber checked with a growling roar and flinched, withdrawing
hastily from the deep.]
It is worth examining the coming and going of messengers: the delegation from
the Trojan ships, threatened by the Carthaginians, concursu magno , templum cla -
more petebant (1.509) [in a great crowd, they made their way amid shouting to the
temple]. Aeneas' messengers to Latinus: since they are going to augusta moenia
regis [the majestic battlements of the king], a hundred hand-picked men are sent;
they go into the unknown, but haud mora , festinant iussi rapidisque feruntur
passibus [having received their orders they obeyed at once and strode swiftly on
their way], with quick and obedient resolve (7.156); they return sublimes in equis
pacemque reportant (285) [on horseback, holding themselves high, and bringing
home the agreement of peace]: the first word gives the entire mood. They were sent
pacem exposcere Teucris [to seek peace for the Trojans]; the Latins come to Aeneas
366 after the battle much more diffidently, veniam rogantes [asking for his indulgence].
Finally the men sent to treat with Diomedes (11.243):
Vidimus o cives Diomedem Argivaque castra
atque iter emensi casus superavimus omnis
contigimusque manum qua concidit Ilia tellus :
[Countrymen, we have seen Diomede and his camp of Argives. We completed our
journey, surviving all its chances; and we have touched that very hand by which the
land of Ilium perished]: first we see their contentment that they have come to the
end of a long and difficult journey; then the feeling known to anyone who has been
privileged to touch the hand of someone truly great.
Enough of examples; anyone can find plenty more for himself. I should just like
to mention here a group of features which belong together and which will allow us
to link up with the observation of an ancient critic. Asinius Pollio stated (according
to Servius on 11.183) that when describing daybreak Virgil always selects a phrase
which is appropriate to the situation at that moment. If the examples given by
Servius go back to Asinius, then the latter has read things into Virgil which the poet
certainly never thought of;[9] however, the idea is worth pursuing, within limits.
Obviously it is not mere chance that Virgil nearly always introduces new turns of
phrase to replace the stereotyped
[when rosy-fingered dawn appeared, child of the morning]:[10] it would go against
367 his usual manner of presentation if he did not strive to evoke a particular mood
wherever possible. The idyllic tone of the scene with Evander is matched by 8.455f.:
Evandrum ex humili tecto lux suscitat alma
et matutini volucrum sub culmine cantus
[the strengthening light of dawn and the morning song of birds under the eaves
368 roused Evander to leave his lowly house]. Similarly, at the beginning of the day
which is to bring the final decision, the magnificent lines (12.114)
cum primum alto se gurgite tollunt
Solis equi lucemque elatis naribus efflant
[when the horses of the sun had just begun to arise out of ocean's depth, breathing
light from their high-held muzzles]; on the happy day of the Games (5.104)
expectata dies aderat nonamque s e r e n a
Auroram Phaethontis equi iam luce vehebant
[the awaited day arrived. In fine weather Phaethon's horses were now already
bringing the ninth dawn]; on the day of the heat of battle (11.182)
Aurora interea miseris mortalibus alma
extulerat lucem referens opera atque labores
[meanwhile Aurora had lifted her strengthening light for pitiful humanity, bringing
back to them their tasks and their toils]. Aeneas, lying awake worrying during the
first night on the Libyan shore, sees the new day as a blessing, since he can now
establish whither the storm has driven them (1.305):
per noctem plurima volvens
ut primum lux a l m a d a t a est exire locosque
explorare novos . . . constituit
[after a night spent in thought, he decided to walk out in the freshness of the dawn to
investigate this new country]. The first white light of dawn is mentioned when Dido,
sleepless on the watchtower, catches sight of the fleet floating on the sea ( ut primam
albescere lucem vidit [4.584] [when she saw the first white gleam of dawn]); it is in
the gleaming rays of the sun that the splendid, happy procession of the hunt forms
(iubare exorto [4.130] [when the brightness arose]); during a pink dawn full of hope,
the Trojans see their new homeland for the first time rising above the horizon
(rubescebat stellis Aurora fugatis [3.521] [Dawn with its first red glow had routed
the stars]); it is in the first full brightness of day that Aeneas and the Tyrrhenian fleet
approach the Latin coast: his shield gleaming in the sunlight and his flashing armour
will signal to his men from far off that rescue is on the way.
It would be easy to fall into a trap here. Pollio can serve as a warning not to credit
369 the poet with too much calculated intention. But taken as a whole, nobody would
argue that it was mere chance that the nuances in these quotations match each
situation. The same is true generally: many of the individual examples are uncertain,
but the main principle will be accepted by all who read any part of the Aeneid from
this viewpoint; and if any hesitation remained, it would vanish if one compared the
corresponding passage by someone like Apollonius.[11] We can learn a lot from this
comparison because it is very probable that Virgil was consciously trying to be
different from Apollonius in this respect. One of the main reasons why the long epic
370 form was rejected by Callimachus and his Greek and Roman successors alike was
that they believed that such a broad stream inevitably carried along with it 'a lot of
sludge'; since the Homeric epic countenanced no omission, no allusion, no abbrevi-
ation, they thought that it could not be copied without 'dead' stretches which arouse
no interest or emotion in the listener. This explains why certain writers of short
poems then adopted a peculiar technique which did not treat even a small-scale
subject in a balanced way. When Virgil, in defiance of warnings from this school of
critics and poets, dared to attempt a large-scale epic, one of his major concerns must
have been to show that it really was possible to keep it interesting and alive all the
way through; in fact he could learn from Apollonius what was to be avoided if he
was to achieve this object. Thus, here too, conformity with contemporary artistic
theory may have helped to strengthen his stylistic tendencies, although of course
their roots drew their main nourishment from the poet's own nature; as the Georgics
relate to the Hellenistic didactic poems of such as Nicander, so does the Aeneid
stand in relation to the Hellenistic epic of Apollonius.
4—
Subjectivity
The process described above is perfectly compatible with a completely objective
stance on the part of the poet: he leads us into the emotions of his characters without
forcing his own upon us. This objective stance, which was strictly observed in
Homer almost without exception, was also consciously adopted in the earlier Hel-
lenistic epic, as far as I can see; it is very noticeable how completely Theocritus, for
example, effaces himself when narrating, in the Hylas , Heracliscus [young Her-
akles], and Castor and Pollux ; even there, in the hymn form, the poet himself does
not speak except infrequently when he addresses the person celebrated; it is hardly
any different in the narratives of the Callimachean hymns; it is true that Apollonius
sometimes steps out in front of the curtain in his rôle as singer; but he very rarely
allows himself to utter his own opinions or sentiments, or reveal his reaction as a
human being to human events.[12] In the only two poems which can give us any idea
371 of the style of the Roman Neoterics (and of the tendency of the Greek poetry of the
time and just before) – Catullus' Ariadne (poem 64) and the Ciris – the situation is
completely different: the narrator pities his heroine, is horrified and worried when
he imagines her sorrows, wishes she had not done this or that, tries to excuse her: in
short, he displays how touched he is by the story which he has to tell, and takes care
that we do not forget him while listening to the story. Virgil has avoided this excited
manner from the start, in the Aristaeus epyllion of his Georgics , where he puts only
occasional indications of his own feelings into the mouth of the narrator Proteus. In
the Aeneid he consciously strives for the same objectivity; but he seems to have
experienced some difficulty in adhering to it. It is significant that the tale of Dido,
which is closest to the nature of Hellenistic art, also contains the greatest number of
infringements of this rule: one example, strictly speaking, is the repetition of infelix
[unhappy][13] and misera [unfortunate], which anticipates further extensions: pesti
devota futurae (1.712) [condemned now to sure destruction], ille dies primus leti
primusque malorum causa fuit (4.169) [on that day were sown the seeds of destruc-
tion and death]; we have, completely in Neoteric style, the exclamation heu vatum
ignarae mentes (65) [how pitifully weak is the prescience of seers]; there are begin-
nings of comments about love: improbe amor , quid non mortalia pectora cogis
(412) [merciless love, is there any length to which you cannot force the human heart
to go?] (this is a very abbreviated reproduction of Apollonius' apostrophe men-
tioned above); quis fallere possit amantem? (296) [who can deceive a lover?]; and
the sympathetic words addressed to Dido quis tibi tum , Dido , cernenti talia sensu?
(408) [what must have been your thoughts, Dido, when you saw all this?].
Other parts of the story are not completely free of such things; but in general the
poet is consistent in suppressing his own feelings, restricting himself as far as
possible to the few occasions where Homer permitted a subjective utterance. When
Patroclus has begged Achilles to send him into battle, the poet cannot refrain from
alluding regretfully to the consequences (2.46): 'So he spoke, pleading, the ignorant
fool: he should have asked straight out for his own death and destruction.' Virgil is
more elaborate, after Turnus has killed Pallas and taken his spoils (10.501): 'Men
372 are truly ignorant of their fate and of the future, and when they are raised up by good
fortune they lose hold of moderation! The time will come for Turnus when he would
give a great deal for Pallas to be unharmed, and he will live to curse these spoils and
this day!' This example is unique, as is the one in Homer, and can therefore be
recognized as a conscious imitation of it. In other places where Virgil feels that he
must speak, he uses a different form. After the death of Nisus and Euryalus he
breaks out with the cry 'You fortunate pair![14] If there is any power in my song, the
day will never come which strikes you from human memory, as long as the sons of
Aeneas live around the immovable rock of the Capitol' (9.446). Lausus' sacrifice for
his father is announced by the poet (10.791): 'Now I will sing of your heroic death,
and of you, unforgettable youth.' In both these examples the poet is speaking as
himself; they are generically similar to the phrases which were used in the cata-
logue, although these had no particular moral: nec tu carminibus nostris indictus
abibis (7.733) [nor will you go without mention in my song] and non ego te ,
Ligurum ductor fortissime bello , transierim (10.185) [I am not one to pass you over,
valiant war-leader of Ligurians], and these, again, are echoes of the formulae of the
proem, as in arma virumque cano [this is a tale of arms and of a man] or dicam
horrida bella (7.41) [I shall tell of a ghastly war], and the latter is also linked with
the Homeric appeal to the Muses:
man] and
'parabasis' for the development of which Homer himself had shown the way when
he inserted a second proem before the Catalogue and spoke in it about himself and
his relationship to his material.[15]
There is also another way in which Homer could provide at least the excuse to
deviate from strict 'objectivity'. With the famous phrase
sort of men who live today] he draws a contrast between himself and his own time
and the narrated past; like a lightning flash this one phrase illuminates the vast
chasm which separates him from that past, since one might otherwise think that his
373 story was set in recent times. The learned epic-writers of the Hellenistic period are
never tempted to produce this illusion and never try to make us forget how long ago
it all happened; that is why Apollonius, for example, in his periegetic sections,
continually breaks the illusion that we are 'living' the story by mentioning later
occurrences, or pointing out the survival of a custom, a foundation or a monument.
The poet of the
decided against the epic form for his own work linking present and past. Virgil does
not go anything like as far as Apollonius; in most cases he is content to let the reader
work out for himself the connections between the story and the present time,[16] but in
the case of genealogical information, for example,[17] or in order to identify localities,
he often mentions later situations: locos qui post Albae de nomine dicti Albani
(9.387) [the spot later called Alban after Alba Longa] and a summo qui nunc
Albanus habetur tumulo (12.134) [from a high crest, a hill known now as Alban];
and so in Aeneas' visit to the site of Rome: Carmentalem Romani nomine portam
quam memorant [the gate which Romans call the Carmental gate]; lucum quem
Romulus acer asylum rettulit [a wood which the forceful Romulus was to adopt as
his sanctuary]; Romano foro [Roman Forum] (8.338, 342, 361)[18] and the thought of
what will rise from these humble beginnings fills him with such excitement that he
lets himself be carried away to speak of the splendid present day (99, 397). Other-
wise, there are only two mentions of the survival of old customs to his own time: at
the lusus Troiae (5.596ff.) and at the solemn declaration of war (7.601ff.): we know
that both were particularly closely connected with Augustus' archaistic nationalism:
thus here Virgil has sacrificed his artistic principles for political considerations.
However, it is obvious that Virgil has allowed this restriction to affect only the form;
in reality Virgil regards prophecy as an opportunity to draw rich material from the
history of recent times down to the present day.
374
5—
Vividness
Apparently closely related to these subjective expressions of feeling, but really quite
different, is the striving to use every possible means to draw the reader towards the
action, or even right into it. Virgil's aim is not like Homer's, who wanted the listener
to experience the action as something past and gone, so that he could remain
independent and survey it from a distance; the more successfully he produces the
illusion in us that we are actually present at the events, the more perfectly Virgil
believes that he has reached his goal. An external feature of his narrative, but a very
characteristic one, is the overwhelming use of the historical present. It is not simply
a convenient replacement for the ponderous forms of the past tenses:[19] it is intended
to paint the happenings for us as truly taking place now. The present tense is also
retained when the protagonist has to make a decision: quid faciat? [what is he to
do?] he says then, or quid agat? , as if we ourselves had to decide how to advise
him.[20] The frequently interpolated ecce! [Look! Lo! Behold!][21] shakes us out of the
comfortable relaxed attitude of someone listening to past history, and forces our
fantasy to imagine that the events are taking place now. Apostrophe was already
used by Homer quite often, but not to arouse pathos; Virgil goes very much further
when he – and the listener with him – steps as it were right up to the corpse of Pallas
and addresses it: o dolor atque decus magnum rediture parenti! haec te prima dies
bello dedit , haec eadem aufert (10.507) [O Pallas, the bitter pain, and the high pride,
which you will bring to your father when you return to him! This day first gave you
to war, and the same day steals you away]. This brings the past into the present; the
parallel to this occurs during the Parade of Heroes when Anchises, overcome with
emotion, sees the future as present, cries to Caesar proice tela manu [fling your
weapons from your hands], and calls for flowers to strew on the grave of Marcellus
(6.835, 883): that is a vision which would not be surprising in a prophet; but the poet
is also a vates : he does not only narrate; sometimes, when he is swept away by the
story, he has visions.
375
6—
Clarity
An essential requirement for clarity is that the narrator shall inform his listeners, in
good time and completely, of the presuppositions which underlie his narrative; in
other words, that he give an adequate exposition of the separate parts of the action
and of the characters. An illustration of this from the Aeneid is in Book 2 where
Aeneas anticipates something which he himself only learned later, so that the fol-
lowing events will be completely clear to the listener (above p. 14f.). We shall see
later that Virgil likes to weave such exposition into the action by having one person
being told the necessary information by another, e.g. Dido's story told by Venus,
Mezentius' history by Evander, Camilla's childhood by Diana. Only rarely does the
poet himself provide the exposition, because this holds up the narrative; he was
unable to avoid explaining the metamorphosis of the ships; less uncertain and
equally necessary was the exposition of the situation in Latium; this acts as a kind of
prologue to the second part of the epic and marks a strong division in the narrative.
Similarly, at the beginning of the whole work, Virgil explains Juno's attitude in an
introductory passage (1.12-33) which one may compare with the prologue to a
drama, while the attitude of the friendly gods, Venus and Jupiter, is explained in a
conversation inserted after the first act of the narrative (223-96). In comparison, the
exposition of the human side of the action at the beginning of the work seems, at
first glance, to have been neglected. The proem (1-7) informs us about the subject;
from the account of the reasons for Juno's anger we learn that the Trojans are still
engaged on the voyage to Latium; at the beginning of the actual narrative we hear
that they have just left Sicily, in good heart, and are on the open sea. That is all – but
it is perfectly adequate: what they had experienced in Sicily and beforehand, how
long they have already been wandering, in fact all further information would only
have weighed down the exposition, without furthering the comprehension of what
follows; it would also have anticipated things which are to be told in their proper
376 context later. The first of these pieces of information is presented as the result of
Juno's hatred, the second gives us the setting of Juno's monologue; this gives the
poet the advantage that he can remain with Juno, who conducts the first part of the
action, without having to jump about to follow the story: an advantage which he
prized greatly, as we shall see. He has the further advantage that he can begin
straightaway with the story, go straight in medias res [into the midst of events],
without delaying the narrative with any introductory remarks: this was an advantage
which was already admired in Homer. The Iliad achieves it by presuming that
everybody already knows the circumstances at the beginning of the story.[22] Apollo-
nius was imitating this when he started his poem by narrating why Pelias sent Jason
out; he does mention the fleece, but gives no further details about this fleece or the
purpose of the voyage: the listener already knows all this. Virgil makes similar
presuppositions about the familiarity of his material in that he narrates nothing specifi-
cally about the Trojan War, Aeneas' flight etc., but he does allude to it all, partly in the
proem, partly in the prologue about Juno's intentions; the little that is required in order
to understand the special situation at the beginning is similarly mentioned only in
passing, apparently by chance.
It is even clearer in the case of the characters that Virgil is consciously imitating
Homeric usage. Naturally it does not occur to Homer to say who Achilles or Aga-
memnon was; that the Menoitiades who enters in Iliad 4.307 is Patroclus, the reader
knows: the poet 'is only following the tradition'.[23] This is how it happens that the
poet who wrote the prologue to the Odyssey does not even name his hero at first; it is
only after 'he' has been mentioned several times that the name Odysseus comes in,
as if accidentally ( Od . 1.21); who the
did not need to be spelt out to any listener. Similarly, in Virgil's opinion, every
Roman would know who the man was, 'who came from Troy to the Lavinian shore
and brought the Trojan gods to Latium'; for the rest, he only mentions the Trojans
377 (30), the king of the Teucrians (38), the race hated by Juno: it is only when Aeneas
himself enters as protagonist that his name appears, in line 92.
This late naming of names occurs so frequently in the case of less important
figures that it cannot be mere chance. Latinus' 'daughter' (7.52) is not named
Lavinia until she takes part in the action; his 'wife' (56) is not called Amata until
Allecto comes to her (343); Juturna is introduced as Turnus' alma soror [guardian-
sister] when she is as it were working from a distance (10.439); her name is only
given by Juno when the nymph herself appears on the stage (12.146); the Sibyl has
been mentioned several times in general terms (3.443; 5.735; 6.10) before we meet
Deiphobe, Glaucus' daughter, at the moment that Aeneas catches sight of her (6.35).
It is as if the listener is not interested in learning someone's name until they appear
in person in front of him. Strangely enough, we find the same thing in Homer on
occasions. In Odyssey 6 Alcinous' wife is often referred to as such and as Nausicaa's
mother; it is only when Odysseus is about to meet her that he (and with him the
listener) learns the name Arete. Odysseus' swineherd is introduced in Odyssey
13.404 and often mentioned thereafter; it is only when he is about to speak himself
(Od . 14.55) that the poet feels the urge to address him as Eumaeus.
However, in Virgil this phenomenon is not restricted to the simple naming of
names; it is almost the general rule that no details are given about a person until they
themselves 'appear', or until they have their main scene to play. One might be
tempted to attribute this to the fact that Virgil did not write his books in order and so
had already given details about a person in later books so that, writing earlier books
afterwards, he thought he only had to mention them briefly. But let us start with an
example where this cannot have happened. In Book 11 when the Latin delegation is
asking Aeneas for an armistice in order to bury the dead, Drances is introduced as
their spokesman, an 'elderly man, sworn enemy of Turnus': we need to know that
much to understand what he says at this point (122). We are further told (220) that
saevus Drances [fierce Drances] stirs up rebellion against Turnus in Laurentium; but
it not until the subsequent assembly that he has his main scene. It is only immedi-
378 ately before his great speech against Turnus that we hear further details about him:
he envies Turnus' fame, because he himself, although rich and articulate, is militar-
ily unfit; his word is respected in the assembly, and he has a large party behind him;
on his mother's side he comes from a distinguished family, but not on his father's
side. We see that the details are meted out to the listener in the measure that suits the
amount of interest aroused by each appearance; without a doubt, this is much better
than if the poet were to empty his whole sack of information at the first mention, so
that the listener would have nothing to wait for. We should bear this in mind when
judging analogous cases. Iarbas is mentioned in Anna's speech only as an unsuc-
cessful suitor of Dido's (4.36); we are told more about him when his prayer to
Jupiter has an important effect on the action (198). In the Harpy adventure (3.239),
Misenus gives the trumpet-signal to attack: to go into his family, his skills, his
earlier life, would have been as out of place here as it is fitting during the narrative
of his death and burial (6.164ff.): Virgil could not have done anything different here,
even if he had written Book 3 before Book 6. Acestes was known to every educated
person as a Sicilian of Trojan descent and first ruler of Segesta; but even someone
who knew nothing about him would learn enough from the two lines when he is first
named in 1.195: vina bonus quae deinde cadis onerarat Acestes litore Trinacrio
dederatque abeuntibus heros [the cargo of wine-casks which with a hero's generos-
ity the kindly Acestes had given them on the beach in Sicily as they embarked]: he
had given the Trojans hospitality in Sicily. In Ilioneus' speech to Dido the situation
gives rise to the mention that Acestes is of Trojan stock and rules over Sicilian cities
(549). It is not until Book 5, when he meets Aeneas, that we see him as a person,
with exact information about his descent, his external appearance etc. Virgil deals in
exactly the same way with Nisus and Euryalus (Books 5 and 9), with Evander, and
many others. For the war-heroes in the second part, the catalogues in Books 7 and
10 supplied a convenient opportunity to introduce them; but here too Virgil wisely
restricted himself, and said no more about the most important characters (Mezentius,
Camilla) than suited the style of the catalogue: we learn more soon enough, later,
when it can have its full effect.
The consistent carrying through of this principle, of which the effect can also be
seen in other aspects of the narrative, does not necessarily go back to theoretical
379 considerations; but it is reminiscent of Horace's rule about lucidus ordo [lucid
arrangement]: the poet iam nunc dicat iam nunc debentia dici , pleraque differat et
praesens in tempus omittat [he should say at present what requires to be said at
present: he should defer much and leave it out for the time being] ( Ars Poetica 43).
7—
Continuity
To keep the listener's attention, the poet has to concern himself with the continuity
of the narrative ; he must not let the thread snap too often. When that happens, when
the narrative makes a leap, to start again in a different place, at a different time, with
different characters, this is a strain on the imagination, which has to build up a new
picture, instead of continuing to develop an existing one. This is most easily avoided
in first-person narratives, though not always; when the author is narrating, and the
narrative is not restricted to the adventures of one person or one group of people, it
is often necessary to jump and make a fresh start, the more often the more the action
spreads out. In ancient epic, the action is divided between heaven and earth, which
in itself gives rise to frequent changes of standpoint. To make this easier, the poet
has two devices which he can use to advantage. Firstly, as far as possible, he will
avoid abrupt transitions; instead, he will build bridges to lead the listener easily from
one thing to another. Secondly, he will not break off during a 'cliff-hanger', as a
novelist does to win the reader's excited attention, but pause only when he reaches
at least a temporary conclusion, or a passage where the further development can
easily be imagined.
After continuity of narrative, a second important consideration is continuity of
action . The poet wants to create the illusion in us that we are 'living' the story; to
this end, since things in real life continually develop and time does not stand still, he
must do the same in the narrative and lead us ever onward; he must not let the action
come to a halt while he recapitulates past events, and he will achieve the desired
380 effect all the more surely if events follow closely upon each other, so that he does
not have to skip over long intervals where nothing happens.[24]
A bridge is particularly necessary when there is a rapid succession of changes of
scene and participants. Virgil has invented several particular devices to fill this need.
In Book 4 there is a danger that between the union of Aeneas and Dido and their
separation there could be a gap, since the poet does not want to give a detailed
account of their life together; to fill the gap he decides to describe the impression
made by the unexpected marriage on those around them – that will be used again
later as a motive for Dido's suicide; then Aeneas has to be reminded by Jupiter of
his duty; that must be preceded by a scene in heaven. In order to join all this together
in one continuous narrative, Virgil introduces the figure of Fama , describes her
nature (visually, with concrete symbols), reports what she is broadcasting among the
people and how she visits Iarbas. There is a pause while he is introduced, then the
action strides forward: rumore accensus amaro (203) [bitterly angry at what he
heard] he addresses his defiant prayer to Jupiter; the latter listens to it, turns his gaze
on Carthage, and sends Mercury to Aeneas; this creates a continuous narrative with
no breaks. In Book 7 the problem is to describe how the dry tinder of war-lust
catches fire in three different places and finally flares up in one huge blaze. It would
seem inevitable that the narrative would have to jump about, but Virgil introduces
Allecto, who hurries from place to place on night-dark wings and, scheming, kindles
rage first in the house of Latinus, then in Ardea and finally over the whole country.
381 Matters are more complicated in the narration of the storm at sea, because it has two
parallel actions – the mortals' and the gods' – and one of these consists of several
separate parts. The analogous scene in the Odyssey , which was Virgil's model, is
available for comparison. It falls into two parts: in the first Poseidon leads the
action, in the second Athena leads the counter-action; the narrative starts with
Odysseus, then passes to Poseidon; but his action is interrupted by Leucothea's
intervention, during which we lose sight of Poseidon completely; like Leucothea,
Athena is not set in any kind of relationship to Poseidon; she intervenes several
times in the second part of the action, but without becoming visible, which would
have implied that she was present all through. Virgil, unlike Homer, has chosen to
narrate from the standpoint of the gods, and has thus been able to preserve the unity
of the scene. We can distinguish three parts in the action: preparation of the storm;
storm; pacification. In the first part the action is directed by Juno (Virgil starts with
her, and only mentions the Trojans in passing at first, p. 298 above), in the third
Neptune is in charge; to lead from the first to the third, the winds are introduced as
persons (p. 44 above), and the poet takes time to describe them during Juno's action,
so that the listener's attention is directed towards them; they are the real heroes of
the second part; what happens on earth is described only as a result of their action:
that is why 102ff. specifies what Aquilo, Notus and Eurus do. They then provide the
transition to Neptune, who notices emissam hiemem [that a storm had been un-
leashed] (125, cf. vicit hiems [122] [the storm prevailed], calls the winds to come to
him and sends them home; then he remains upon the scene and, with his helpers,
wipes out the traces of Aeolus' rampage.
8—
Simultaneous Actions
The passage which we have just discussed can also serve as an example of how
Virgil chooses to narrate two simultaneous actions, which often impinge on each
other: he does not alternate equal chunks of each, but puts one decidedly in the
foreground and gives us, as it were, glimpses of the other, making as few sudden
leaps as possible and preferring to lead carefully from one to the other. This weight-
382 ing of one action is very significant from the point of view of the composition; here
we will mention only the treatment of the transitions. Book 4 is mainly about Dido,
but we must not lose sight of Aeneas; how does the narrator manage the many
transitions from one to the other? (Only once, 554, does he use simple synchron-
ism.) Or in Book 9, how does he move between the attackers and the defenders?
Here the narrative begins with Turnus and stays on his side for all of the first
section; we are only placed inside the camp for a short stretch, 33-46; we see there
the clouds of dust stirred up by the approaching enemy, prospiciunt Teucri [the
Trojans look out]; they prepare armatique cavis expectant turribus h o s t e m [and
under arms in their hollow towers they await the enemy]; this provides an oppor-
tunity to return to the enemy. Further, the poet does not show us the Trojans
themselves trying to protect the ships; we only deduce this activity from the words
of the Great Mother ( ne trepidate meas Teucri defendere navis neve armate manus
[114] [haste not, Trojans, in fear, to defend my ships, neither arm your hands]),
which is heard by Trojans and Latins alike, but we are shown its effect only on the
Latin side (123-7); we thus remain on that side. The Nisus episode interrupts
Turnus' aristeia ; for this we are taken into the camp, 168 ( haec prospectant Troes
[the Trojans are watching this, i.e. the encirclement of the walls]). The episode ends
on the enemy side: once more the result of their action (showing off the heads of the
slain) is seen among the Trojans; we hear the lament of Euryalus' mother; while the
desolate woman is being led aside, the tuba sounds the attack, and now at last the
two sides meet, the reader can see them both at once, and no more transitions are
needed.
9—
Intrusion of a Second Action
There is a very frequent variant of what we have just discussed: one action is
interrupted by another of which the early stages are contemporaneous with the stage
we have reached in the first. The poet has a choice of procedure here. He can
proceed with his narrative until the second action starts, and then insert a recapitula-
383 tory explanation. The disadvantage here is that the action is interrupted while past
matters are caught up with, almost like a footnote. Moreover, the additional material
has to be told in the pluperfect; the composition easily gets out of hand; recapitula-
tion always reports instead of describing, and the visual aspect is lost. Virgil
preferred the alternative: he abandons the first action, switches to the second, and
continues to narrate this to the point where it joins with the first. Thus here the
continuity of the narrative is broken, and the break is usually covered only with an
interea [meanwhile] or suchlike; but there would have been a break in any case,
even with the recapitulatory method, and making a new start has the advantage that
the narrative still moves forward; the listener is not kept waiting in one place while
an explanation describes things which are past and gone. An example is the Nisus
narrative: we leave Nisus and Euryalus on their way to the king's tent (9.223); here
the narrator breaks off and makes an emphatic new start: 'all creation lay in deep
sleep and forgot their troubles and cares; but the leaders of the Trojans were holding
a council of war etc.: then Nisus and Euryalus asked for an audience.' Similarly
further on (366); instead of narrating how the pair suddenly hear and see in the
distance enemy horsemen approaching, and then inserting the explanation: 'it was
three hundred Latin horsemen, who were under Volcens' leadership and supporting
Turnus' etc. – instead of explaining and recapitulating like this and then returning to
the two Trojans, the poet breaks off and narrates: 'Meanwhile there rode to Turnus'
camp from Laurentum three hundred etc.; they caught sight of the two, called to
them and, receiving no answer, divided up to cut off their retreat'; in this way he
returns to the fleeing pair in an unforced way.
This process is necessary particularly often in the scenes featuring gods which
precede their intervention in the action. It is never reported that this and that hap-
pened because in Olympus such and such a decision was made; it is always done by
making a fresh start. Thus, for example, at 1.656 we do not accompany Achates to
the camp and to Ascanius, only to hear that this was not the real Ascanius but Amor,
whom his mother had asked to act as love's messenger; no, we leave Achates on the
384 way and then visit Olympus for the scene which explains the basis for what follows,
iamque ibat Cupido (695) [now Cupid was on his way].[25]
When the poet decides in such cases to abandon one action and start afresh,
instead of interrupting the action with a recapitulation, then the precondition men-
tioned at the beginning must be fulfilled (and this is also true of the transitions
discussed in the previous section), if we are not to feel that abandoning the first
action creates a violent and arbitrary break: the action has to be brought to a point
where we can see how it will develop, i.e. it must have reached a stage where it will
continue in a balanced way, or develop in a predictable way.[26] Virgil does this
nearly every time. We have seen in our analysis of the battle-scenes, where the
nature of the subject requires frequent changes of standpoint, that Virgil always
takes care to lead the action on the one side to at least a temporary conclusion before
he switches to the description of what is happening simultaneously on the other side.
This is true in every case of a transition from one action to another. In our final
passage for discussion, three actions interweave: the preparations for the banquet in
Carthage: at 1.637ff. they are described as an action proceeding on an even tenor;
then Achates is sent off: we abandon him (656) on his way, iter ad navis tendebat
[he made his way to the ships], and can thus turn our attention to the third action, the
conversation between Venus and Amor. Some further examples: we could not leave
the Games in Book 5 without breaking into an action which is fast, changing and
385 unstoppable: the lusus Troiae , which unrolls peacefully, with no result expected,
provides the suitable moment at which to move over to the Trojan women and the
appearance of Iris. Before the solemn oath-swearing in Book 12 we see the two
peoples advance and take up positions, waiting for the kings: that is the moment
when we can conveniently leave them and listen to the conversation between Juno
and Juturna (134-60). In Book 11, Diana's revenge wrought by Opis on Arruns
should follow immediately on his deed and flight (815), or at least on the news of
Camilla's death (831), but in both cases the action would have been badly inter-
rupted, for the reader wants to know the result of Arruns' shot, and also what effect
Camilla's death had on the course of the battle; Virgil therefore continues with the
main action until a static situation ( crudescit pugna [833] [the battle hardened],
incurrunt [834] [they charge] etc.) permits a quick shift to another place. The scene
between Jupiter and Venus in Book 1 has borrowed its motif from Naevius, if what
Macrobius (6.2) says is true, that Naevius has Venus bewailing her sorrows to
Jupiter during the storm, and being comforted by him. For the plot, this timing is
completely justified, but technically it was unacceptable to Virgil, since he already had
the gods acting during the tempest and could not interrupt again so soon: our interest has
been captured by Aeneas and his men and we want to hear more about them. The scene
with the gods is therefore inserted when the action on earth has reached a point of rest
with everybody asleep; Virgil does not recapitulate ('While Aeneas was in deadly
danger, Venus had turned to Jupiter') but carries the narrative forward, so that we have
to imagine the conversation as taking place by night. It is also in the night, in Book 4, the
night that precedes the fateful hunting expedition, that Juno and Venus forge their plan
(ubi primos crastinus ortus extulerit Titan [118] [as soon as tomorrow's sun rises at
dawn], Oceanum interea surgens Aurora reliquit [129] [meanwhile Aurora rose and left
the ocean]). The night setting has a better motivation in Book 8, the scene between
Venus and Vulcan when everything is at rest; that is also the time when the heavenly
couple meet in the marriage-bed. In all these examples and countless similar ones,
Virgil achieves the added advantage of absolute continuity in the narrative, since it
386 has no gaps even in the nights.[27]
This rule is infringed only once: with the conversation between Juno and Jupiter
during the duel between Aeneas and Turnus (12.791-842). The first two bouts are
over, the combatants stand ready for the third, which is to be the decisive one: then,
at this moment of greatest tension, where if a stable situation has been reached it can
only last for a few moments, we have to leave the scene to follow the poet to the
gods. Virgil's intention is certainly not to create a 'cliff-hanger'; that would go
against his artistic principles: it is just that here these have to take second place to
practical considerations, as explained above p. 179f. Since this case is unique, and
there were exceptional reasons for breaking the rule, the rule itself holds good.
10—
Synchronism in Books 8-10
We need to look separately at the treatment of the simultaneous happenings in
Books 8-10. This is the only place where Virgil has to narrate two longish simulta-
neous actions, which converge only at the end, and which otherwise run their course
without touching each other, one notes with some surprise how difficult he found it
to deal with these simultaneous actions. In Book 8 Aeneas is brought close to Caere,
and the events of the book take up three nights and days counting from the appear-
387 ance of Tiberinus (above p. 265). We leave Aeneas on the third day; after
contemplating the shield he seems about to set out (731) to meet Tarchon. Then the
beginning of Book 9 takes us to Turnus with the words atque ea diversa penitus dum
parte geruntur , Irim de caelo misit Saturnia Iuno audacem ad Turnum [while this
was happening in a distant part of the country Saturnian Juno sent Iris down from
the sky to the fiery Turnus]. According to the normal use of such synchronistic
formulae one would take that to mean 'during the events just depicted', and there-
fore set Iris' visit on the third day, and this fits in perfectly when she says about
Aeneas (9.10) extremas Corythi penetravit ad urbes Lydorumque manum , collectos
armat agrestes [he has pressed right on to those furthest cities of Corythus, where he
musters the country-folk and has a host of Lydians under arms]: where this last
statement taken literally would take us a little further than the end of 8, perhaps
deliberately anticipating events.[28] However it would be strange if Juno delayed her
warning for such a long time and did not command Turnus to attack on the morning
after Aeneas' departure, and this is what Virgil calculated, as the chronology of the
subsequent events shows: on the second day we have the approach of the enemies
and the metamorphosis of the Trojan ships, on the third night we have Nisus'
expedition, on the third day (459) we have the fight for the camp; 10.256 would
refer to the break of the fourth day: thus on that day Aeneas would return and the
first great battle would take place. It is true that Virgil has, then, at the beginning of
Book 9, obscured the chronology when, in order to avoid a recapitulation, he takes
two actions which really happened simultaneously and makes it seem that the
second happened after the first.[29]
If we go on to examine the times given in the first part of Book 10, we come up
against more difficulties. When does the great assembly of the gods take place?
Book 10 begins with panditur interea domus omnipotentis Olympi [meanwhile the
gateway to Olympus, the seat of supreme power, was flung open]: at first interea
[meanwhile] seems to indicate that it is simultaneous with the end of Book 9, i.e.
with Turnus' rescue from the Trojan camp. But that possibility is excluded by
Jupiter's words 107f.: quae cuique est fortuna hodie . . . nullo discrimine habebo
[whatever the fortune enjoyed by individual men today . . . I shall make no discrimi-
nation], where hodie [today] must refer to a new day as opposed to the previous one,
388 and this becomes even clearer in the subsequent description of the encircled Trojans,
which is linked to the gods' assembly with interea 118, when the phrase pulsi
p r i s t i n a Turni gloria (143) [the glory of his previously repelling Turnus] indi-
cates that since Turnus' aristeia a night has passed. In this case, the line quoted
above would, as ancient commentators also understood it to do,[30] paraphrase the
break of day, and also correspond to the first line of Iliad 8,
the same way as the subsequent lines in Iliad 8 are also imitated: for Jupiter's decree
is analogous to that of Zeus in Iliad 8. The interea should then, just as at the
beginning of Book 11, be taken as a loosely linking 'now':[31] however, here, where it
could easily be misunderstood, we can hardly be happy about either this interea or the
paraphrase of the unambiguous Homeric expression.
If, then, the new, fourth day begins with Book 10, how does one explain the lines
which, after the description of the camp mentioned above, return to Aeneas (146):
illi inter sese duri certamina belli contulerant : media Aeneas freta nocte secabat?
[so had the two armies clashed in the close conflict of stubborn war; and Aeneas was
cutting the channels of the sea at midnight]? Is this simultaneous? Impossible;
battles do not take place at midnight. Nor can it refer to the following midnight: it is
obvious that 260ff. is intended to follow directly on from the description in 118-45.
The only remaining option is to assume that Virgil is here, in a most peculiar way,
apparently narrating simultaneous happenings, but really intending us to understand:
'in the morning they were engaged in battle: (a few hours earlier) at midnight
Aeneas was at sea': i.e. before the daybreak mentioned at 10.1, which would then be
identical with the one described at 10.256.[32] Why does he venture to do such a
389 thing? Apparently only in order to avoid several interruptions in the narrative. It
would have been chronologically correct to report Aeneas' night-time voyage before
the assembly of the gods; but – quite apart from the loss of the pathos-filled intro-
ductory scene – there would then have had to be an interruption after the scene with
the nymphs, we would have been led first to Olympus (which would also have
destroyed the connection of the gods' speeches with the events of the previous day),
and then to the Trojan camp – for the hard-pressed state of the besieged had to be
described, so that the thrilling scene when Aeneas' shield flashes out from the sea,
reflecting the dawn rays and promising rescue, can have its full effect – and then
again to Aeneas. This jumping about is avoided, though by rather drastic measures.
However, Virgil now has to turn even further back, to the time before Aeneas'
night-time journey: for there is still a gap between this and the end of Book 8, to be
filled with Aeneas' discussions with Tarchon and the sailing of the fleet. But here
too the poet does not decide on a true recapitulation in the pluperfect, but, with one
leap, carries us back to that point in time, and then narrates in the normal way in the
present tense: namque , ut ab Euandro castris ingressus Etruscis regem adit . . . haud
fit mora , Tarchon iungit opes . . . classem conscendit gens Lydia . . . Aeneia puppis
prima tenet [for, as after leaving Evander and having entered the Etruscan camp he
approaches the king . . . there is no delay: Tarchon joins forces . . . the Lydian nation
embarks on their fleet . . . Aeneas' ship heads the line]. Thus here too the continuity of
action is preserved, although at the cost of the continuity of narration.[33]
390
11—
Past Events
So far, we have seen how carefully Virgil sought to avoid interrupting the narrative
with recapitulatory explanations, preferring to start afresh with a new continuous
narrative. In the case of simultaneous happenings this was achieved by following the
new action until it converged with the old; the matter is less easy when past things
have to be recapitulated, whether they date back to before the beginning of the
whole story, or happened during the story but are only narrated later. Virgil gives
such past events, whenever possible, to one of his characters to narrate, thereby
preserving the continuity of his own narrative and action. Venus' account of Dido's
earlier fate in Book 1 is supplemented in Book 4 by Anna's remarks about the
unsuccessful Libyan suitors (36ff.). Aeneas learns from Tiberinus (8.51ff.) of Evan-
der's settlement; he learns from Evander himself of Mezentius' cruel deeds and the
situation in Etruria (8.477ff.); Andromache (3.325ff.) narrates her sorrowful history
herself, after everything that was necessary to introduce the episode had been given
as briefly as possible by Fama (295-7); and in this way we hear from Achae-
menides' mouth about Odysseus and Polyphemus (623ff.). Thus it is an established
technique, whether it is due to a conscious principle or results from Virgil's artistic
tact in each case. This technique is not self-evident; one can contrast it with Apollo-
nius' treatment of the Phineus story, 2.178. First the poet himself speaks of Phineus'
391 guilt and punishment; then the latter speaks of the plague of Harpies (220-33);
finally we experience this plague ourselves (266-72). Similarly, when the Argonauts
are approaching the island of Lemnos the poet himself freely narrates what has
happened there before their arrival, 1.609, and tells the history of the sons of Phrixus
before they met the Argonauts 2.1095, although Argus then has to repeat most of
this history to them (1125). This is clearly very different from Virgil's technique.
For the stories of the foundation of Italic cities and the legends attached to them,
the two catalogues are a convenient vehicle: here it is not the poet speaking, but the
Muse. Anything which could not be accommodated here, Virgil weaves in with a
special device when the opportunity arises: Venus, speaking to Jupiter, recalls the
example of Antenor, who founded Patavium (1.242): the detail she goes into about
the circumstances of the foundation is perhaps not fully justified by the situation
alone. Diomedes tells the Latin delegates about the transformation of his compan-
ions (11.271): that is very skilfully motivated there, as is Evander's long narrative
about Hercules' fight with Cacus and the establishment of the cult of Hercules,
8.185. Something different again, not direct speech, but also not simply a report
from the poet, is the way in which the story of Daedalus' settling in Cumae, and the
foundation of the temple of Apollo, is introduced, as an ecphrasis [description] of
the sculptures contemplated by Aeneas (6.14).
There are only a few cases where it is not possible to insert past happenings into
the present in this way. Book 7 begins with a description of the present situation;
this description leads imperceptibly back into the past; and the result of what is
narrated, with which the interpolation ends ( Fama per urbes Ausonias tulerat [104]
[Rumour had brought the news among the Italian cities]), is again simultaneous with
Aeneas' landing, to which we then return. Nevertheless, the whole interpolation
interrupts the course of the action, which carries on at 107 directly from 36; since
Virgil was not able to avoid this, he does not attempt a cover-up; on the contrary, he
emphasizes it in 37-44 by giving it its own proem, which marks the beginning of the
new, second part of the work: in such a position a smooth transition is dispensable,
or even not desirable. Similarly in a second case, which should be mentioned here:
at 9.77 the prehistory of the Trojan ships is to be narrated, that is, recapitulated; none
392 of the characters in the poem knows of the conversation between Jupiter and the
Great Mother, so the poet himself has to report it. By calling on the Muses he
indicates that it is something remarkable in every way. One only asks oneself, why
does he move the scene back to the time when Aeneas was on Ida felling the timber
to build the ships? Why does he not have the Great Mother approaching her son with
a request in the usual way, while interea [meanwhile] Turnus is trying to start a fire
and the Trojans are trying to stop him? The reason is obviously not that he felt
bound by any tradition, for he disposes of the tradition quite freely in such cases; but
we must confront the question, why the ships have been exposed to the raging
waters (in Book 1) and raging fire (in Book 5) without any protection, yet at this
particular moment the Great Mother intervenes. The appeal to the Muses, apparently
required by the uniqueness of the occasion, has also the technical significance that it
makes the interruption and recapitulation seem less intrusive.
The second of the eventualities mentioned above was that something which had
happened during the timespan of the action has to be reported afterwards. This may
be in the case of events which happened at the same time as the main action but
which did not seem important enough for the thread of the narrative to be broken for
their sake in the manner described above. We are brought only to the result of the
secondary action, which is itself introduced to explain the situation in hand. This is
the case with the death of Misenus, which occurred during Aeneas' absence, but
which is reported only when Aeneas finds the corpse on his return, 6.162.[34] Out-
wardly quite similar are the cases in which something belonging to the main action
is narrated, after having been omitted at its rightful place: e.g. the arrangements
which Aeneas made when he left the camp (9.40, 172): their rightful place would
have been 8.80, but it is possible that the need for such arrangements did not occur
to Virgil at that point. Similarly, Turnus' exchange of swords, which becomes fatal
during the duel with Aeneas, and is therefore not mentioned until then, 12.735, is
393 not mentioned in 326, because it has no consequences at that point and would seem
unimportant. But these are extremely rare cases, and Virgil himself will have con-
sidered that he was taking liberties in treating them as he did.
Such recapitulation can be avoided here too by the poet having one of his
characters mention the occurrence later. We then learn things which the poet could
have told us earlier from what they say: this happens much less often in Homer, as
far as I can see, than it does in Virgil. At 11.446 we are told very briefly castra
Aeneas aciemque movebat [Aeneas was moving his camp and his battle-front]: the
further details, that Aeneas is sending on the cavalry to an open battle, while he
himself will reach Laurentum by a different route and take it unawares in a surprise
attack – these we learn from what Turnus says to Camilla (511). That Aeneas has
prepared a riding display as a surprise for the Games, we learn from the whispered
instructions that he gives to the paidagogus (5.547). That, after the embarkation
from Caere, the Etruscan and Arcadian cavalry were sent by land and Turnus
prevented them reaching the camp – this information would have weighed down the
short report of the events in Caere (10.148): the poet tells us about it later, in
Cymodocea's words to Aeneas. In these cases there is no doubt that Virgil is
consciously narrating
us deduce from the narrative that something has happened about which we were not
told earlier.[35] It is important that we are able to be certain about this, because in
other cases where a new motif is introduced at a late stage we might not have been
able to tell whether the poet had forgotten to prepare for it in advance, or purposely
omitted it earlier, and (in cases where this preparation would have belonged in an
earlier book) whether its omission can be attributed to the fact that the books have
not been brought into complete agreement with each other. At 4.351 Aeneas, de-
fending himself to Dido, says that Anchises appears to him every night in his
dreams, reminding him of his duty – we should have been told this before Mercury's
394 appearance, but there was no opportunity. At 4.421 Dido says that Aeneas has
always had confidence in Anna (see p. 114 n. 38 above); to have made that clear at
the right place would have required considerable expansion of the narrative. At
6.343 Aeneas refers to a prophecy given by Apollo which applies to Palinurus: the
right place to mention it would have been in Book 3; there is nothing about it there,
but I do not believe that Virgil would have thought it necessary to change Book 6 to
bring it into line with Book 3.
Virgil deals with future events very much in the same way: things which will
happen are mentioned in direct speech, and that is sufficient for the poet, who does
not bother to mention them when they do happen: haec in oeconomia praeiudicia
nominantur , quotiens negotii futuri exitus tollitur [these instances in the arrange-
ment are called 'prior judgements', when the outcome of a future action is
presumed], Servius on 11.593, where Diana foretells that she will carry Camilla's
corpse from the battle-field and bury it in her native land. Servius points very
perceptively to Venus' words (to Amor), tu faciem illius noctem non amplius unam
falle dolo (1.683) [you must for no more than one night assume his shape as a
disguise], with which the poet tries to make it unnecessary to give any later state-
ment about the replacement of the false Ascanius by the real one.
This brings us to the treatment of the distant future which lies outside the time-
scale of the whole poem.
12—
Future Events
Things to come play a very important role in the Aeneid : the significance of the
narrated action lies principally in the fact that it lays the foundation for the future.
That is why we need prophecies for Aeneas' own fate; we have to learn how, after
the death of Turnus, the two peoples are united, who the descendants of Aeneas will
be, how Lavinium, Alba and finally Rome, will be founded. But that is still not
enough: the whole mighty history of Rome, the development of the imperium Ro -
manum [Roman empire] to its recently attained pinnacle is pulled into the contents
of the poem, as much as the prehistory of Italy and the prehistory of the Trojans
going back to before the Trojan War and their original home in Italy: Homer, too,
who only described a few days of the Trojan War, had also understood how to
incorporate both past and future events into his poem.[36] Homer also served as a
395 splendid example of how to introduce the future: he did not do it by stepping
forward and explaining that history will run on in such and such a way; he puts a
prophecy into the mouth of one of his characters, about Achilles' death or Troy's
fall or Aeneas' dominion, or whatever else he wants his listeners to learn. The
device was extremely useful in Hellenistic times in the writing of short poems:
where only one episode of a myth is being narrated, the listener has to be told what
the consequences will be: to this end we have prediction, vision or prophecy.[37] We
have also seen that Virgil's Iliu Persis [Sack of Troy], which was conceived as a
separate work, was also rounded off in exactly the same way, with a prophecy which
contains everything of significance in Aeneas' later destiny (p. 36 above). It is true
that the whole Aeneid is really just one episode – granted, one of the most important
396 episodes – from the whole mighty epic of Roman history, of which the final cata-
strophe was the Battle of Actium, and whose last scene of splendour was Augustus'
reign of peace: the episode is therefore extended by the usual means to include
these. That is why the poem starts with Jupiter's comprehensive prediction, which
touches on only the highest pinnacles and brings us to the poet's own time; in the
very centre of the poem there stands the vision in the Underworld, when the heroes
of Rome pass by in a long procession; before Aeneas himself goes to fight he is able
to gaze on the battle-feats of his descendants, pugnata in ordine bella [in order, the
battles which were fought], pictured on the shield sent by Vulcan, who knows
everything about the future; finally, the end of the real action of the poem, which
lies outside the time-span of the narrative, is given in Book 12 in Jupiter's promise
for the future. Thus in none of these cases is the continuity broken: even during the
description of the shield the action does not come to a complete halt since we have
to think of Aeneas contemplating it, who rerum ignarus imagine gaudet [having no
knowledge of the events nevertheless rejoiced in their representation] and then
strides off attollens umero famamque et fata nepotum [lifting onto his shoulder the
glory and the destiny of his heirs].
II—
Description
Narrative depicts a sequence of events, description depicts a state of affairs, a
collection of concrete objects, or even an event if the aim is not to narrate how the
event proceeds but to describe it by a comprehensive survey of its individual fea-
tures. Ancient critics rightly classified this technique – for example the description
of a battle or a fire or a storm – under the heading
The common factor of all kinds of description is that it delays the progress of the
action; the reader stands still and examines the details of a picture. From what we
have said above about the structure of Virgil's action, it is clear that description
cannot loom large in his work; where it does occur, it is made to resemble narrative
as much as possible.
This
397 but not only orators and rhetorical historians, poets too must already have used such
a thing; the good poetry of the earlier Hellenistic period seems to have refrained
from it, as far as I can see, trying to make every description preserve the character of
narrative (unless it was explicitly introduced as the description of a picture or
something like that). This tendency is unmistakeable in Virgil: if one compares, for
example, his description of the tempest in Book 1 with that by Quintus (p. 45f.
above), it is clear what an effort he has made to emphasize a sequence of events.[38]
The Fall of Troy as a subject could tempt a writer to pile up descriptions of single
features, and the later epic-writers wallow in it; Virgil rations himself severely.[39]
Dido's passionate love, a very rewarding subject for detailed description, is
equipped with a number of descriptive features on the Hellenistic pattern (4.68ff.),
but since the passage of time through the day is also described, the progress of the
action also receives its due.
The descriptions of localities, as already mentioned, is restricted to a very few
cases where a mood-setting background is to be supplied for the action. The most
detailed description, eight lines long, is of the harbour on the Libyan coast (1.159);
this is an imitation of a description in the Odyssey and is intended to be recognized
as such; in Virgil, the main purpose of this description is not to help us to visualize
the scene but to make us share the feelings of the survivors of the wild tumult of the
elements as they find refuge in a place protected from every breeze and the pound-
ing of the waves. The late-Homeric description of Alcinous' royal seat ( Odyssey
7.86ff.) may be regarded as paralleled by the description of Latinus' palace (7.170);
Homer gives the visual and attractive picture of expensive buildings and luxuriant
398 nature, Virgil portrays the original form of a Roman atrium , furnished with the
images of the earliest Latin kings; this is primarily of historical interest.[40] The sites
of ancient Rome are portrayed in Book 8, particularly in 337-61, not in a descriptive
from the Ara Maxima to the Forum, i.e. in the form of action. Similarly in the
Underworld, the different landscapes are presented as stations on the way, and
described briefly, but given visual characteristics: we see the Stygian marshy
landscape with its mud and reeds, the secret paths of the shady myrtle-grove in
which the victims of unfortunate love linger, the flame-encircled iron fortress of
Tartarus, and finally sunny Elysium, with its grassy fields and sandy places, exer-
cise-grounds for gymnasts and wrestlers, its laurel-grove of fame by the Eridanus
and, past a little hill, the green valley of the River Lethe: all the scenes stand out
clearly, particularly because they contrast with each other, but they are seen only in
passing.
Compared with this small amount of nature-description it might seem that too
much space is allotted to the description of works of art. Apart from brief depictions
of exceptional pieces of armour,[41] we have at 5.250-7 an embroidered chlamys
[cloak] depicting the rape of Ganymede; 1.466-93: the images on the temple at
Carthage; 6.20-30: the doors of the temple of Apollo at Cumae, which Daedalus has
decorated with his own story; and finally 8.626-728: the shield of Aeneas. Here the
399 form is clearly borrowed from the technique of the Hellenistic poets, who frequently
chose to describe works of art in this way. But although this custom must have
sprung originally from their pleasure in precious and beautiful articles, it had al-
ready often become a pretext to narrate the chosen stories in a descriptive manner;
Virgil has taken this farther, so that the work of art has no importance in itself, but
only in the matter depicted.
If we then look for the reason which led Virgil to include these descriptions, the
one in Book 5 is not necessarily connected with the action: the precious nature of the
prizes given by Aeneas could have been made clear in other ways. But if anywhere
in the Aeneid , such a description, arising from joy over a beautiful object, has its
place in these scenes which overflow with joie de vivre (see 135f. above); the
listener is intended to share the mood of the victor who receives this costly artefact.
Then in Books 1 and 6 the descriptions are of technical importance: Virgil wishes to
compose scenes (p. 253 above) and he has to occupy Aeneas until the queen or the
Sibyl enters; that is the purpose of the pictures which he contemplates. Finally, the
description of the shield springs from the pressure of epic tradition; the shield of
Achilles and of so many other epic heroes must be paralleled, as must the love of
Calypso, and Odysseus' journey to the Underworld.
The difficult problem of how to prevent the action from coming to a halt during
the descriptions was best solved by Virgil in Book 1: there he is really aiming at
giving us the impression that we are not having images described to us but having
Aeneas' changing emotions narrated to us. In Book 6 he makes no such attempt; it is
said only at the end that Aeneas saw the images which have been described ( quin
protinus omnia perlegerent oculis [33] [they would have gone on to survey every-
thing]); indeed the description, as in Book 5, is so brief that one hardly notices the
lack of action. In Book 8, too, the shield is described to us as Aeneas looks at it; but
here the contents are unintelligible to Aeneas and he must be disregarded during the
description. The poet compensates for the lack of action by making his description
400 itself into a narrated action; in the first part it goes rapidly through the earliest
history of Rome, in the second part it gives a connected account of the Battle of
Actium and the subsequent victory-feast, during which the shield and its manufac-
turer are only mentioned for form's sake.[42]
The content of what is represented is always connected with the content of the
poem. This is achieved most successfully in Book 1, where the pictures even have a
rôle in furthering the course of the action (p. 97 above). Here they present scenes
from the Trojan War; the embroidery in Book 5 shows a famous scene from Troy's
earlier history; the pictures in Book 6 provide an opportunity for us to linger over
the story of Daedalus, the founder of Apollo's temple at Cumae, and also tell us the
prehistory of this foundation, which may be regarded as part of the history of early
Italy. In the same way as these images take us back into the past, the description of
the shield leads us into the future: instead of remaining merely a piece of poetic
decoration, it becomes a motif which points forward and, together with Jupiter's
prediction in Book 1 and the Parade of Heroes in Book 6, shows us the distant
culmination of the poem's events, thereby greatly increasing the significance of
what is narrated.
It is only in Book 5 that the depiction can be said to be purely descriptive and
visual. The images in Book 1 are intended to arouse the listener's pity, in the same
way as they bring tears to Aeneas' eyes: that is why the description lingers on the
401 most painful scenes of the war, and passes quickly over the actual fighting, which
contains less pathos. It is very clear that the description in Book 6 is also aimed at
arousing pathos; it mentions the pitiful human tribute paid by Athens to Minos,
Pasiphae's horrible madness, Ariadne's love, so desperate that Daedalus himself
feels sympathy for her; finally, the death of Icarus is not depicted but is mentioned
to make us share his father's sorrow. The description of the shield serves a different
purpose: the journey through Rome's history, from the twins abandoned in the
wolf's lair, to Augustus, triumphant in splendid majesty, is meant to impress upon
the listener the greatness of the Fate which raised Aeneas' race from simple begin-
nings to dominion over the whole world.
Finally, the main aim of the way in which the work of art is depicted is not to
produce an impression of a real artefact. Virgil comes nearest to this in depicting the
separate pictures on the shield, but even here it would be difficult to reconstruct
them, particularly the last picture: there we do have the beginnings of a description
of a picture, but basically it is a description of a festival with no regard to whether
the details can be represented pictorially.[43] It is the same in Book 6: nobody can say
how the scene of Ariadne's thread was depicted; we are told the story. Similarly in
402 Book 1, the description changes into narrative.[44] I do not think that this is because
the poet was not skilful enough to maintain the standpoint of someone simply
describing. Here again he is more interested in the events than their depiction in the
concrete artefact, and he is more interested in reminding the reader of those events
than in creating the impression of a visible object; so that even here, where it
properly belongs, we do not have pure description.
There are also cases where the poet has other characters describing something, or
makes us see something as if through the eyes of others. When Achaemenides
describes the horrible diet of the Cyclops, a tiny detail slips in which does not
belong to the visual description but has crept in from the narrator's own knowl-
edge.[45] The poet himself does the same thing. When the Trojans sail past Circe's
island, we might expect to be told what they saw and heard; we are told to some
extent, but other information is added by the poet himself (7.10-20). When Aeneas,
on the way to Carthage, looks down from a hill at the activities of the builders, what
we are told is basically what he can actually see; but that 'some are selecting the site
for their house' (1.425) can hardly be seen, and I therefore doubt whether the
following line, iura magistratusque legunt sanctumque senatum [they were making
choice of laws, of officers of state, and of a consecrated senate] may be regarded as
interpolated: Virgil believes that this activity was part of the foundation of every
city (3.137; 5.758) and that is perhaps why he had it in his mind here, although it
does not fit into the presentation.[46]
Closely related to description, in one sense, is the detailed list, in so far as it, too,
depicts co-existing things, and brings the action to a halt. I will look at only one such
403 list, where we can again learn much from comparisons: the catalogue of the Latin
auxiliary troops in Book 7. In the Homeric Catalogue, as in Apollonius' catalogue of
the Argonauts (1.23ff.), and as, finally, in Virgil's catalogue, the basic interest is
historical. Whereas the Hellenistic poet stops at that, and Homer, exceptionally for
him, enlivens the list with description,[47] Virgil deliberately and skilfully appealed to
the eye, to make the list come alive: he not only evokes a three-dimensional im-
pression of the leaders[48] but he also describes the appearance, armour and weapons
of the men. But, here too, the description is not the most important thing. The
Homeric Catalogue hardly ever takes notice of the occasion which gives rise to the
catalogue – the need to take up arms and march into battle – and in general Homer is
content to name the number of ships which each provides. Apollonius avoids count-
ing the assembly; he says that this one and that one came;[49] and that is that. In
contrast, Virgil makes an effort to provide real action , as elsewhere; here he de-
scribes the troops marching up to marvel at the splendid sight hunc legio late
comitatur agrestis (681) [he is accompanied by a legion of countrymen from far and
wide], ibant aequi numero regemque canebant (698) [they moved in regular rhythm,
singing of their king], scuta sonant pulsuque pedum conterrita tellus (722) [their
shields clattered, and earth was alarmed by the tread of their feet], insequitur nimbus
peditum clipeataque totis agmina densentur campis (793-4) [he was closely fol-
lowed by a cloud of foot-soldiers, whose bucklered columns clustered thick over all
the plain]; there, the leaders setting out or coming in: agmina in arma vocat subito
ferrumque retractat (694) [suddenly he rallies his troops to arms and handles the
sword again], curru iungit Halaesus equos (724) [Halaesus yokes his horses to his
chariot], Virbius . . . aequore campi exercebat equos curruque in bella ruebat (781-2)
[Virbius . . . drove his horses over the level plain and dashed in his chariot to war],
ipse pedes . . . regia tecta subibat (666-8) [he himself moved up to the royal palace on
foot]; right at the end, he lays special emphasis on the entrance of Camilla, at whose
arrival omnis iuventus turbaque matrum (812) [all the young men and a crowd of
mothers] come streaming out of the houses and from the fields to marvel at the
splendid sight.
III—
Speeches
Virgil's copious use of direct speech is taken over from his most distinguished
404 model, Homer. They both use direct speech throughout the whole narrative; they
both allot to it a rôle which exceeds its real-life one and allows the poet to enter
places where, to be true to reality, he should have restricted himself to describing the
protagonist's feelings. They both construct their scenes featuring gods so that they
consist mainly of direct speech; like Homer, Virgil too has question and answer,
assignment and errand, request and grant, prayers and wishes, prophecy and divina-
tion, all in direct speech. The similarity extends into the particular: when an errand
is carried out and described in almost the same words with which the assignment
was given (4.226 and 270; 232 and 272); when people talk in their sleep with
dream-apparitions (2.281; 7.435); when fighters mock each other or, dying, put a
last request to the victor – that is obvious imitation, intended to give the whole
narrative a Homeric colouring. But, however great the similarity may seem at first
glance, the difference is equally great: here too, Virgil maintains his own style
consistently in the face of Homer's.
1—
Comparative Brevity of Virgil's Speeches
The first thing that we notice in Virgil is something negative: the great reduction in
the length of conversations . Great conversation scenes, such as that at the court of
Alcinous (e.g. Od . 11.353ff.), or in the palace of Odysseus (e.g. Od . 17.369ff.), or as
in the assembly in Iliad 1, in which Achilles and Agamemnon, Calchas and Nestor
converse, and even Athena speaks – though she is audible only to Achilles – and
Achilles himself speaks no fewer than eight times; or lengthier duologues as in
Odyssey 1, where there are four exchanges between Athena and Telemachus; or
complicated series of conversations, such as in Iliad 6, where Hector speaks in quick
succession with his mother, with Paris and Helen, with the housekeeper, with An-
dromache, and finally with Paris again – there is nothing like this in the Aeneid . The
most common kind of interchange is between two speakers and takes the form of
405 only one utterance and one response:[50] often the first speaker then replies once more;
the only examples of two utterances and two responses are in Book 1 between
Venus and Aeneas, and in Book 9 between Nisus and Euryalus, if Euryalus' short,
incomplete final words (219-21) are to be counted as a response. Virgil very seldom
goes beyond a duologue, and almost only when depicting assemblies: at the begin-
ning of Book 10, besides Jupiter, Venus and Juno also speak; in the Laurentian
senate (11.243) we have the messenger Venulus, Latinus, Drances and Turnus; in
the Trojan camp – and this is the richest of all these scenes (9.232ff.) – Nisus,
Aletes, Ascanius, Euryalus and Ascanius again. In addition, one may speak of a
series of duologues: in Book 1, Dido replies first to Ilioneus, then to Aeneas who has
just entered; in Book 2 (638ff.), first Anchises and Aeneas converse, then Creusa
speaks to Aeneas, then Anchises and Aeneas speak to each other again; in Book 9,
first Pallas and Aeneas, then Aeneas and Evander; in Book 12 first Latinus then
Amata with Turnus; later (625ff.), first Juturna with Turnus, then Saces with him,
finally Turnus with Juturna again. It can be seen that when Virgil has a series of
conversations he also keeps them remarkably short.
This technique is shown to be deliberate by the fact that Virgil repeatedly inter-
rupts a duologue with certain devices to prevent its extending beyond a single or
two-fold exchange. In Book 3, Aeneas and Andromache have each spoken once:
then (345) Helenus approaches and greets his countrymen. In Book 4, Dido has
replied to Aeneas' response: before he can reply again, she abandons him, multa
volentem dicere (390) [wishing to say much more], and serving-women carry her to
her room in a faint. In Book 6, Deiphobus has answered Aeneas and then put a
number of urgent questions to him: but the Sibyl cuts short the rest of the conversa-
tion (538). In Book 11, Latinus has to break off the meeting of the assembly before a
decision has been reached, when the enemy approach and everything is suddenly
thrown into confusion.
We need to establish the perspectives which led Virgil to keep his duologues, and
all his speeches, so very short; a negative approach will be best here.
Virgil avoids everything which does not directly contribute to the artistic effect
406 or tell the reader anything new, and which would only be included for the sake of
completeness. Whereas the main aim of the Homeric poets is to capture the scene
which they have before their eyes, in all its changing detail, and to place it before the
eyes of their audience, and they achieve this by depicting everything , leaving as
little as possible to the imagination of the audience, Virgil expects every single
component of the narrative to contribute a certain effect, and omits anything which
cannot achieve such an effect by itself.[51] This is his governing principle both in the
presentation and in the choice of speeches. The intense interest of Andromache in
Aeneas and his family, like the amazed admiration of Deiphobus at Aeneas' journey
to Hades, finds expression in their questions: Aeneas, for his part, could not say
anything in reply except what the listener already knows, and that is why he does
not say anything. In Homer, Agamemnon says to the wounded Menelaus ( Iliad
4.190): 'The doctor will heal your wound and soothe the pain with herbs', then to
the herald Talthybius: 'Call me Machaon quickly, to look at Menelaus, who has an
arrow-wound', at which Talthybius goes into the camp, looks for Machaon, sees
him standing with his men, goes to him and says: 'Get up, Asclepiades; Agamem-
non is summoning you to come to see Menelaus, who has an arrow-wound' – there
are three direct speeches: the first announces the errand, the second assigns it, the
third executes it. The equivalent passage in Virgil (12.391) has only iamque aderat
Phoebo ante alios dilectus Iapyx [and now there stood Iapyx, whom Phoebus loved
beyond all others] – that a messenger has been sent to fetch him, and that the
messenger has carried out this errand, can be left for us to deduce. But Virgil does
give messages in direct speech, e.g. at 5.548: Aeneas sends to Iulus to say that the
Troy Game can now begin; this enables the listener to understand the point of the
parade which follows, including the fact that Aeneas has planned it as a surprise for
the other spectators. To name only a few examples in Homer, the message which the
lypso, has been given to them beforehand by Zeus in direct speech ( Iliad 2.8,
24.144; Od . 5.29); this is clearly superfluous since we hear the message again when
it is delivered. In Virgil (5.606 and 9.2), we hear at first only that Juno is sending Iris
407 on an errand; we do not learn what the message is until the same moment when the
mortals concerned receive it. On the other hand, at 4.416 we hear Dido's message to
Aeneas in direct speech at the point of dispatch, not at the point of delivery: here the
more important consideration was to show Dido's state of mind. But on one occa-
sion (4.223), in imitation of the despatch of Hermes in the Odyssey , Virgil does tell
us a message in direct speech although it is given again in direct speech on delivery:
he felt that the detailed depiction of Mercury's preparations for the journey, and the
journey itself, required a broader foundation than a simple misit de caelo [he sent
from heaven], which really covers the journey too. It is normal practice, all through
Homer also, for the messenger to receive the message silently; also, when, for
example, Iris calls the wiinds, they follow without replying ( Iliad 23.212), as when
one hero challenges another to come with him, or despatches him, etc. (e.g. Iliad
10.72, 148; 13.468); on the other hand, it belongs to the nature of the situation that
when a request is directed to an equal or a superior, and its granting is a matter for
doubt, the one who is petitioned has to declare his explicit approval (Zeus and Thetis
[Iliad 1.518], Aphrodite and Hermes [Iliad 14.212], Hephaestus and Thetis [Iliad
18.463]). Virgil does much the same in such cases: Anna and Barce do not reply to
Dido's orders (4.437, 500, 641), nor does Camilla to Turnus' command (11.519); on
the other hand, Aeolus replies to Juno (1.76); Neptune (5.800) and Vulcan (8.395)
reply to Venus. But Amor's answer to Venus' prayer (1.689) and Allecto's to Juno's
(7.341) are suppressed. This was already noticed by the ancient exegetes,[52] whereas
they correctly regarded it as only to be expected that, for example, Opis receives
Diana's command in silence (11.595). The difference is this: Diana commands but
408 Venus and Juno both request, the latter even in very emotional words.[53] But in spite
of the form of these requests,[54] it is clear in both cases that of course they will be
granted: the son cannot refuse his mother's wish – in the same way ( Iliad 21.342)
Hephaestus carries out Hera's request without further ado –, the daemon cannot
disobey the command of the queen of heaven: that is why the poet is able to
dispense with direct speech here. He can also manage without questions, whenever
they do not express a particular ethos [character], or do not elicit information which
we would not otherwise hear; e.g. Agamemnon's question to the embassy returning
from Achilles' tent ( Iliad 9.673) and many similar occasions in Homer. Virgil either
passes over where one might expect questions – take for instance Juno and Aeolus,
or Venus and Vulcan, as compared with the visit of Thetis to Hephaestus ( Iliad
18.424) or of Hermes to Calypso ( Od . 5.87) – or, where the situation makes it
essential to have something of the sort, Virgil gives a brief summary instead of
having someone speak: primus Iulus accepit trepidos ac Nisum dicere iussit (9.232)
[Iulus was first to welcome the excited pair, and he asked Nisus to speak], Latinus
legatos quae referant fari iubet et responsa reposcit ordine cuncta suo (11.240)
[commanded the ambassadors to deliver their messages, requiring of them the de-
tailed answers to all that he had asked]; similarly in the visit to the Underworld,
when Aeneas has to question his guide repeatedly to elicit explanations (318, 560:
here very emotional, like his interrogation of Palinurus, Dido, Deiphobus; 863 to
show the vivid effect on the onlooker of the beautiful but melancholy sight of
Marcellus); there is one place (710) where he reports speech in indirect and abridged
form, to make a strong contrast with the direct question which immediately follows
(719), so that Aeneas' great amazement is emphasized. For the sake of variety,
Virgil uses indirect speech in place of direct in other places too: in the Games in
Homer, Achilles introduces every single contest with the same turn of phrase; Virgil
is deliberately recalling this formulaic usage when he uses almost identical words to
409 introduce two contests, although they do not occur close together;[55] but the invita-
tion to participate in a contest only takes the form of direct speech once: that is on
the occasion of the only dangerous contest, the boxing-match, and it enables ethos to
be put into the challenge; in two other places, indirect speech suffices (291, 485).
Other examples of direct speech are: one occasion when Aeneas himself names the
prizes (309); one occasion when he adjudicates in a doubtful result (348); and one
occasion when he interprets the heavenly omen as signifying victory for Acestes
(533).
2—
Avoidance of Delay
In general, Virgil tries not to interrupt the course of the action with any kind of
discursive insertion, preferring the action to advance steadily towards its goal, ex-
cept when he chooses to delay it for a particular purpose. His striving after
concentrated effect is incompatible with any slowing down of the action such as
takes place when protagonists converse at length, as happens so often in Homer. The
difference can be seen most clearly in the descriptions of battles. While the fighting
rages around the ships, Idomeneus and Meriones meet and hold a long conversation
(Iliad 13.249-94), which contributes absolutely nothing to the outcome of the battle:
this is one example among many of something which Virgil regarded as inad-
missible. The more important of his warriors, meeting on the battlefield, do
exchange words before throwing their spears: but these are brief utterances only a
few lines long;[56] nowhere do they go on as long as, say, the famous duologue
between Achilles and Aeneas ( Iliad 20.177-258). More space is granted by Virgil to
the pleas from a loser to the victor:[57] but even they are never as long as the
410 interchanges between, for example, Achilles and Lycaon ( Iliad 21.71-113), where
the poet has already said something about Lycaon, and Achilles has also already had
the opportunity to speak. It is extremely instructive to see how Aeneas describes the
discussions which took place in his father's house before the exodus (2.634ff.). If
the speeches had been reported in full, they would have taken up a great many lines.
But we do not hear every speech and every response; instead, the three main
characters, Anchises, Aeneas and Creusa, each speak once only, and in each case
this represents an important moment in the action: first, Aeneas meets unexpected
resistance from Anchises; secondly, after trying in vain to overcome this resistance,
he resolves to return to the fight; thirdly, when he has armed himself and is about to
leave the house, Creusa begs him to stay for the sake of his family: this creates the
dilemma from which only the miraculous sign from heaven can rescue him. Aeneas
passes quickly over his own opening words ( genitor , quem tollere in altos optabam
primum montis primumque petebam [2.635] [the father whom I had been hoping to
find, and carry, my first care, high up into the mountains]), for what he has to say
there is already known to the reader, and it would be better to hear his proposals
later during the actual departure (707f.). He also passes over the first part of An-
chises' speech ( abnegat excisa vitam producere Troia exsiliumque pati [he refused
to go on living in exile after Troy had been razed]), in order to be able to allow full
space for the pathos of the piteous final words, without holding up the action with a
long speech. Finally, he passes quickly over his further attempts to make his father
change his mind, and his father's replies, because much of it would inevitably have
been repetitious. In this way Virgil concentrates our interest on the most pathetic
aspects of the action, and strengthens the effect of the pathos.
3—
Speech Used in Characterization
This brings us to another of Virgil's artistic tendencies which causes speech to be
used sparingly. Conversation, whether it runs on without any real result, or is
directed to some sort of end with a greater or lesser degree of purposefulness,
seldom actually furthers the action of an epic: anything required for that could be
presented more concisely in other ways. The purpose of conversation is to bring the
411 characters nearer to the reader by depicting relationships, and by developing, estab-
lishing and altering these relationships before the reader's eyes. Conversation is the
best means of showing traits, individual qualities, and the differences between
people. However, Virgil is not primarily interested in these two advantages: they do
not suit the way in which he sees people and wants us to see them. He does not feel
the need to use conversation to represent the individual traits and emotions of his
characters; he has hardly observed anything of the sort himself, but does not feel that
this leaves a gap in his epic which needs filling with borrowed material. His under-
standing of psychology is enough for him to present clearly what does concern him:
individual morals and emotions. Moreover, it is remarkable how 'atomistic', so to
speak, is the world of men which Virgil depicts in his epic. Homer shows us
countless relationships between his characters; Virgil's characters almost all stand
alone. Even in the case of the greatest relationship of all, how little we are told of the
inner relationship of Aeneas towards Dido! Virgil prepares their love most carefully,
as we have seen, and because of this preparation the reader's imagination can, on
this one occasion, create a well-differentiated picture of this love; but the poet
himself shied away from doing so: as soon as the pair are united, he leaves them to
their fate, and does not bring them before us again until they separate. The mutual
relationships between Aeneas and his men are totally summed up in the one word,
pietas [dutifulness]; just once (12.435ff.) in the whole poem do we hear Aeneas
speak to his son, who has accompanied him on all his journeys: and it is to com-
mend virtus [manly character]. How little Creusa's farewell words (2.776) tell us
about the relationship between her and her husband: nothing, except that he is her
dulcis coniunx [sweet husband], she is his dilecta Creusa [beloved Creusa], and they
shared a love for their son ( nati serva communis amorem [guard the love of the son
whom we share]) – that is more or less what an inscription on a Roman tomb would
say about any parents. Virgil makes no attempt to establish relationships for Aeneas
with Latinus and Lavinia, or Turnus with Amata: and yet the beginning of a friend-
ship could have given him an advantage over Homer here. Finally, towards the
companions who accompany the hero throughout the whole story, Aeneas does
show his pietas in general, but it makes no difference whether it is Achates, Misenus
or Palinurus whom he has with him. It is only towards Pallas that, for one moment
412 (11.45), he feels a special responsibility; but the many opportunities which Book 8
supplies to prepare for this moment or to develop it, are neglected, and the farewell
speech to the dead youth dwells almost exclusively on his feeling of sympathy for
the surviving father. I do not need to extend this observation to cover all the other
characters in the Aeneid : it is clear enough, why elaborate conversational inter-
changes could hardly be of any value to Virgil.
4—
Instead of Conversation
After this, we can understand why Virgil avoids long exchanges of speech and reply
even where they would seem to belong to the nature of the subject. Many another
poet would have written the farewell scene between Aeneas and Dido in the form of
an increasingly emotional dialogue, and the gradual rise in excitement on Dido's
part, contrasting with Aeneas' unchanging, calm resolve, would have been ex-
tremely effective. One might perhaps have expected something of the sort from
Virgil, all the more because it would have had a genuinely dramatic effect, and
Virgil favours this so often in other places. But quite apart from the question of
whether such a verbal exchange (something like that between Agamemnon and
Achilles in Iliad 1, or the repeated exchanges between Telemachus and the suitors)
would have matched his ideal of heroic dignity, any such conversation would have
led to a development, or at least a gradual revelation of the psychological position,
which does not even exist for Virgil: his aim is to present two emotional states in as
interesting and complete a way as possible, and this purpose is served by Dido's two
interconnected speeches before and after her rejection much better than it would
have been by an extended conversation. In the assemblies, both those of the gods
and those of men, a single exchange of speech and the reply to it is Virgil's norm: an
altercatio [debate] with its rapid to and fro of statement and rebuttal, accusations
and justification, would also be stylised by a historian into a connected account of
the arguments on each side: this gives the reader a clearer picture – and that is what
the historian is aiming at, not at an exact reproduction of reality –, and it is only in a
lengthy oratio [speech] that a speaker's skill is displayed in its full splendour. But
413 Virgil did sometimes feel the need to explain why a realistic conversation was not
included. When Aeneas listens to Dido's first speech right through in silence, with-
out protesting, that is not from mere politeness; he needs time to recover, because he
has been violently affected but must keep up an appearance of calm: obnixus curam
sub corde premebat , t a n d e m pauca refert (4.332) [he strained to master the
agony within him, and at last he spoke, shortly]. One might feel surprised that
Turnus the impetuous does not interrupt Latinus' speech, which contains sugges-
tions which are almost insulting: that is why Virgil makes Latinus explicitly silence
him (12.25, see p. 181 n. 7 above), and Turnus' reply is introduced with the words
ut primum fari potuit , sic institit ore (47) [as soon as he could speak, he began to
say . . . ]. These concessions to realism show that Virgil did stop to consider what he
was doing when he selected the forms which suited his style.
Whether Virgil found classical models in narrative poetry for his treatment of
conversation I do not know. He would not have found anything like it in Apollonius:
the third book of the Argonautica , for example, has long conversations between
Hera, Athena and Aphrodite (lines 10-110), between Medea and Chalciope (674-
738), and between Medea and Jason (974-1144). Apollonius' polar opposite,
Theocritus, transfers the semi-dramatic form to heroic narrative in his Idylls and
presents the conversation between Pollux and Amycus in the form of a dramatic
stichomythia (12). Virgil himself was still using short fragments of conversation
when he wrote the Aristaeus story in the Georgics (353, 358, 380, 445), but they are
outweighed by long monologues. It is possible that the intensification of the pathetic
and rhetorical element in neo-Hellenistic poetry combined with a corresponding
development of the form of conversation such as we find in the Aeneid ; it may have
developed from the connected pathetic monologue, which for its part had found a
favourable medium for its development in narrative elegy. In Catullus 64, direct
speech occurs only three times: Ariadne's lament, the message sent by Aegeus
(which Theseus does not answer) and the song of the Parcae. The writer of the Ciris
does not present the conversation between Scylla and her nurse in the way that
realism would require, in the form of short, repeated utterances and responses, but
very much in Virgil's manner (and perhaps actually modelled on Virgil): a single
414 long address from Carme (224-49), a single answer from Scylla (257-82) and a
concluding speech from Carme (286-339). I have just mentioned another literary
source which might be considered as a model for Virgil: the historians, in whose
writings one might in fact find the closest parallels to Virgil's assembly speeches
and ceremonial addresses.
5—
Narrative in Speech
Although Virgil avoided the dramatic element in the parts of his work that we have
examined so far, he reverted to it when he constructed the individual speeches. Once
again it is useful to start with a comparison with Homer. Speech in ancient epic can
be characterized briefly as being infinitely capable of extension,[58] particularly when
it is a question of incorporating additional epic material. Wherever and whenever
the poet chooses, he turns epic speech into narrative, however incongruous it may
seem from a realistic point of view. This peculiar characteristic of epic speech does
not spring merely from the poet's insatiable appetite for story-telling, as people have
been quick to assume; rather, he uses these interpolations as a convenient and
conventional means of explaining the facts underlying his characters' emotions, so
that their actions appear in a clearer light[59] and their relationships with each other
become psychologically deeper. This ability to incorporate extra material is however
only the most noticeable consequence of the stylistic principle which governs both
the monologues and the whole epic work. 'There is no obvious striving towards a
main goal, even when it is present in the content of the speech; each part which
prepares for subsequent development seems to stand only for its own sake; progress
is leisurely, there are long descriptions which are sensuous and enlivening, se-
quences are loosely linked, as in the epic in general'. In all of these regards, Virgil's
use of speech is the exact opposite. Its guiding principle is concentration: each
415 speech is the expression of a single emotion, a single decision or train of thought. In
place of loose links he has strict connections; instead of long descriptions he has
basic expressions of feeling; instead of leisurely progress he has an energetic striv-
ing towards a goal, or leisurely, but equally energetic, dissection of an emotion.
Virgil is well aware that extension of speech by means of narrative insertions is
an essential feature of the epic tone which he is striving to achieve. He therefore
does not avoid it, by any means; on the contrary, he seeks out opportunities to use it;
but he only considers that the opportunity is there when the insertion can be ex-
plained by the context, i.e. when it makes an essential contribution to the purpose of
the speech and therefore to the action; and such opportunities are not exactly plenti-
fu1.[60] There is one place where such epic insertions serve ethopoia [depiction of
character]: when Evander, the old king, in addition to the independent tales of
Hercules and of Saturn, also weaves in other tales – about his meeting with Anchises
(8.157), Mezentius' atrocities (483), his fight with Erulus of Praeneste (561) – this
trait is supposed to remind us of Nestor and thereby define Evander's character; but
unlike Nestor's all these tales are carefully motivated by the context, with the
exception of the last-named, which is intended to make the imitation more
416 obvious,[61] and at the same time Virgil manages to weave in an Italian legend which
did not find a place in the catalogues. This is one deviation from his established
stylistic rule; another, much more remarkable one occurs in Diana's long tale of
Camilla's youth (11.539-84).[62] It is obvious that the motivation for the narrative in
this context is inadequate; one cannot justify it as ethopoia . Add to this the fact that
during the narrative Diana herself, although participating in the action, keeps com-
pletely in the background, and, when she cannot avoid being mentioned, even
speaks of herself in the third person;[63] and finally, if one considers that the picture of
Camilla drawn here bears no resemblance to that given elsewhere,[64] one will no
longer doubt that this is merely a provisional version which was never given a final
revision by the poet.[65]
417
6—
Completeness of the Speeches
However, this avoidance of digressions is only one aspect of speech in Virgil; its
basic character has everything in common with Virgil's epic style as a whole.
Virgil's speeches are free of anything accidental, arbitrary or untidy. His speakers
do not start from a chance position, to reach their goal by various detours, or to be
steered towards it by their interlocutors; he does not select a point arbitrarily, when
others could have served equally well; rather he exhausts all possible material; he
does not leave the point he is dealing with until it is dealt with completely, so that he
does not have to return to it repeatedly; he does not leap suddenly from one thought
to another, leaving a gap for the listener to fill in for himself, but places similar
things next to each other, or develops one thought from another. The psychological
presupposition for this is that each character at every moment is capable of survey-
ing and arranging all the material which has anything to do with his speech: we do
not need to spell out how seldom this can ever happen in real life, least of all in
moments of great emotion: that Virgil does not depart from his rule even here has
already been pointed out above (p. 234); he strives to make his depiction penetrating
and convincing by portraying its causes as completely as possible. He makes his
characters use the same means to persuade each other as he himself does to win over
the reader: if a character is to be won over by pleading or persuasion, it is not
enough to take one argument and make it effective by widening or deepening it; as
418 many arguments as possible are lined up. This is true not only of the longer ad-
dresses, such as that of Venus to Jupiter (1.229ff.) or of Dido to Aeneas (4.305ff.),
but also of quite short speeches. When Magus pleads to Aeneas for his life
(10.524ff.), this is modelled on Homer's Adrestus ( Iliad 6.46); the latter pins his
hopes entirely on his opponent's greed, promising a rich ransom. Magus does not
forget to do the same, but before he does so he appeals to Aeneas' feelings as a son
and as a father, in order to arouse his pity for his own father and son,[66] and finally he
argues that one dead soldier more or less makes no difference to the Trojans'
victory: all this without using many more words than his Homeric model. When
Somnus, in the shape of Phorbas, wishes to send Palinurus to sleep (5.843-6), he
compresses into a few lines a reference to the calmness of the waves, the steady
winds, the steersman's recent exertions and fatigue, and his offer to take over; and
Palinurus' rejection of the offer also takes only a few lines (848-51), dwelling on the
unreliability of that monster, the sea, the deceptiveness of the winds and of the
bright sky; he mentions his own experience in these matters, and points out the
responsibility of his position, since it is Aeneas who has entrusted himself to him.
The numerous shouts of encouragement given by Homer's heroes to their men as
they fight or hesitate usually consist only of a brief appeal to honour or to the
present favourable chance of victory, or the danger of the situation, or the results of
victory and defeat; or else just a few of these motifs are combined; when Pallas
(10.369) encourages his men, he starts by appealing to their sense of comradeship by
addressing them as socii [friends], then his oath per vos et fortia facta etc. [by
yourselves and your brave deeds] reminds them of their own honourable record,
their loyalty to Evander and his previous successes; he mentions his own ambitious
419 hopes, and finally their obligations towards their common homeland and its great-
ness, vos et Pallanta ducem patria alta reposcit (374) [your proud land requires you
and me, Pallas your leader]; there follows an explanation of the present situation: we
are fighting against mortals on an equal footing, not against divine disfavour, we are
equal in number to the enemy; in any case we have to fight and win since flight is
impossible as we are completely surrounded. We see that the Arcadians are sho-
wered with a deluge of arguments, each one indicated so briefly yet fully that a
summary of its contents would not be any shorter than the speech itself. Similarly
Anna's persuasion of Dido (4.31-49): all possible arguments against Dido's remain-
ing single, and in favour of the new marriage, are compressed here – in the Homeric
style these arguments would fill several pages –, and one has the impression that
Virgil never gave a thought to the question of whether it was possible for Anna to
think all this out so quickly, and for Dido to consider all the implications immedi-
ately; rather, the poet uses Anna's speech as a pretext to motivate the psychology of
Dido's action as thoroughly as possible. Finally, to look at just one more example, it
is instructive to compare Latinus' advice to Turnus (12.19ff.) and Priam's advice to
Hector, to desist from combat against a stronger opponent. Priam dwells on two
points: on the fate of his two sons, Lycaon and Polydorus – here he digresses greatly
from the actual purpose of his speech – and the tragic fate which he himself would
face after Hector's death: that is painted at length in cruelly painful detail. Latinus'
words combine the description of what would be left to Turnus after renouncing
Laurentum and Lavinia, with a reminder of the will of the gods, and the tragic
consequences which his neglect of them has already had; the king then shows why
he himself must wish to end the war; finally he refers – obliquely and briefly,
cleverly calculating Turnus' character – to the danger of the undertaking ( respice res
bello varias [43] [think of war's shifting chances]) and adduces as a clinching
argument the respect due to Turnus' aged father. If all that together has no effect
then nothing can.
420
7—
Slanting of Speeches
When Magus and Turnus (12.933) try to reach Aeneas through his love for his
father, when Anna believes that she can round off her speech most effectively with a
reference to Carthage's splendid future, when Latinus, in the warning which we
have just mentioned plays down the danger which Turnus himself is in, all these and
related cases demonstrate a clever regard for the personal qualities of the one
addressed; this is one of the main traits of Virgilian speech: it reveals the character
not only of the speaker but also of the listener. It is certainly a deliberate contrast
when Pallas reminds his Arcadians, the earliest Romans, of their martial honour, but
Tarchon in the same position has to throw biting scorn at his Etruscans to goad them
into holding their position (11.732); and when, on the other hand, Androgeus, in
order to urge his loitering compatriots to make haste, reminds them that the others
are getting all the best plunder ( alii rapiunt incensa feruntque Pergama [2.374] [the
rest are looting and pillaging Pergamum which is in flames]), the poet regards both
him and all the Greeks as condemned by this trait.
This accurate adaptation of each speech to suit the character of the person ad-
dressed is merely one particularly clear illustration of the extremely calculated
nature of each speech as it strives to achieve a particular goal. The masterpiece in
this kind is the great speech by Sinon, which we analysed above (p. 7f.). Further
detailed examples are unnecessary: the alert reader of, for example, Venus' various
requests (1.229; 5.781; 8.374, to which 387f. should also be added) cannot help
noticing the numerous individual artificia [artifices]. But perhaps we should men-
tion how even in the prayers, with many variations, there are attempts to move the
gods to grant the requests by specially adjusting the briefly indicated arguments: an
example of this – apart from the oaths (5.235; 9.625 etc.) – is when Aeneas is praying to
the Magna Mater and refers to himself and his men as Phryges (10.255),[67] and when
421 he reminds Apollo that he has followed his guidance until now (6.59); when Nisus
the hunter reminds Luna the huntress of the hunting-trophies he has dedicated to her
(9.407), and Pallas reminds Hercules of the guest-friendship he has enjoyed in
Evander's house (10.460), and on the other hand Turnus (12.777) tries to win over
Faunus by accusing the Trojans of cutting down his sacred tree which the natives
had always revered. Likewise it is intended to characterize the boastful king Iarbas
with his barbaric conceptions of a god when he uses accusations, containing veiled
threats, against Jupiter, the king of Heaven, to try to make an impression (4.206ff.).
A naïve speaker explains the situation as it appears to him, trusting that the
person addressed will then see it in the same way and draw the same conclusions
which he himself draws and would like to see drawn by others. A calculating
speaker does not start by thinking how he can most clearly express his own feelings,
but he considers what will move the other person away from their own standpoint to
act in the desired way. He therefore tries to present the situation, not in the way that
it appears to him, but in the way that he wants it to appear to the other. He is easily
led to omit facts, to change them or invent them, if he thinks it will help him to
achieve his end.[68] Virgil's speakers are good at such sly insinuations: naturally they
are most used by advocates of a poor cause, i.e. in this case by the enemies of the
Trojans. The masterpiece of this art is, as is only right, Allecto's speech to Turnus
(7.421ff.): how, in a few words, the whole situation is distorted, so that Turnus
appears as the one who is being cheated out of the well-deserved reward of his
efforts which he has been promised, and Latinus as the unprincipled egoist who is
making use of the unsuspecting Turnus and laughing at him afterwards! – that is
422 worthy of the demon from hell. Amata's words inspired by Allecto (7.359ff.) nearly
match it: in both cases any direct untruth is skilfully avoided, and yet the result is
one big lie. How dangerous this weapon can be in political warfare Virgil had been
able to observe only too frequently; it almost goes without saying that Drances, the
very type of the political party leader, will use it against Turnus (11.343): with great
skill he casts him in the role of inconsiderate, egoistical tyrant, who lets no voice be
heard except his own, who is ready to quash by force any resistance, and who scorns
the people as a worthless mob: one knows how often in the battles between parties
in Rome this insult was hurled back and forth, to the annoyance of good republicans.
Turnus defends himself most indignantly against this very formidine crimen acer -
bare (407) [sharpening an accusation with fear]. Such poisoned weapons are
allowed even in the gods' partisan skirmishes. It is true that Venus is only trying to
arouse pity for the Trojans when, against her own better judgement, instead of
crediting Diomedes with an attempt at helping the Latins, she presents Diomedes'
repeated rebellion against the Trojans as fact (10.28); when she then renounces any
prospect of a Trojan empire in Latium, acknowledges Carthage's dominion in Italy
and asks only to be allowed to remove Ascanius to a quiet life without fame, this is
all sly misrepresentation intended to make Jupiter realize the point to which Juno's
hatred has already brought the situation. She goes as far as to end with the request
iterum revolvere casus da pater Iliacos Teucris (10.61) [allow the Trojans to trace
once more the whole cycle of Troy's misfortunes].[69] But when Juno hints in her
reply that the forecast given to the Trojans consisted only of the predictions of mad
423 Cassandra,[70] that is malevolent distortion, just as it is when she presents the Trojans
as wicked thieves, who only pretended to have peaceful intentions and really desired
war (77-80); and when she holds Venus responsible for the metamorphosis of the
Trojan ships into nymphs, that could only have been invented by a poet who in his
youth had stood by the orators' platform every day listening to the coarsest of
calumnies against political opponents – and had seen them take effect. We know
that distortion and veiling of the truth were not even condemned in the theory of
rhetoric, so long as they served one's purpose,[71] even if the fact was not expressed as
crassly as it once was by Servius (in fact in an inappropriate context): in arte
rhetorica tunc nobis conceditur uti mendacio , cum redarguere nullus potest [in
rhetoric we are allowed to tell lies when no-one can contradict].[72] In the last example
the accusation of deception is not really applicable in so far as the true events during
the transformation are in fact as well known to the whole assembly of the gods as
they are to Juno herself: she lets herself be carried away by her feelings, and be led
involuntarily to distort and to exaggerate.[73] When Dido is most agitated she even
believes that she has not only rescued the Trojans from death but also saved their
fleet from being destroyed (4.375); she even believes that she had recognized Ae-
neas as a wicked liar as soon as she met him (597), and as happens here in Dido's
424 case, so too in others: facts appear distorted to the agitated senses, without there
being any intention to impress anyone else. The revenge wrought by Minerva upon
the Greeks takes on vast dimensions for Juno,[74] because it feeds her rage over her
own powerlessness; here Juno is, as it were, her own audience, se suscitat ira [she
rouses herself to anger].
8—
Arrangement of Speeches
After all that we have said, one would expect the arrangement of the speeches in
Virgil to show a similar amount of deliberation and calculation. One who has found
how very much the effect of a speech depends on the arrangement of its parts will
automatically follow the rules of the art here too. An example is Numanus' scornful
speech (9.598ff.), where one thought follows another very logically: he wants to
entice the Trojans out of their entrenched position, so he starts by accusing them of
cowardice: 'Are you not ashamed?'. That leads to the scornful utterance: 'To think
that these are the people who are crazy enough to want to bully us out of a marriage
by force! We, who have much more significance than the Greeks, and they have
already beaten them.' He proceeds to expand on who 'we' are and describes Italic
life according to the different generations: infants, youths, men, old men. 'And what
can you offer? You adorn your bodies and live an idle, vain existence.' Logical
conclusion: 'Go home to your Phrygian orgies and leave the field to us real men':
finishing with the worst insult: o vere Phrygiae neque enim Phryges [you who are
really women of Phrygia, not Phrygian men] and sinite arma viris [leave arms to
425 men].[75] The emotional speeches have the same characteristics. Aeneas' lament over
Pallas' corpse refers, in order, to the dead man (11.42-4), Evander (45-57), the
future of the realm and its ruler, Iulus (57-8); in speaking of Evander he refers first
to the past, then comments on the present, then predicts the future; finally he
anticipates the consolatio [consolation]. Aeneas does not put himself to the fore, and
says nothing about the direct effects on himself of the loss of Pallas: the indirect
effect is that he realizes that the dead youth's pleasures which are now made vain
were the same as his own (42f.), that he felt responsible to the father for the son
(45ff., 55) and – something which goes without saying – that he is deeply concerned
about the future of his family. Dido's first speech to Aeneas on his departure falls
into two parts: accusation ( indignatio ) (4.305-13) and pleading (miseratio ) (314-30);
the transition from one to the other is very natural: 'You are in such a hurry to run
away, that you don't even give a thought to the winter storms, and it is not even as if
you are anxious to reach home – you are going to a strange land', this leads of itself
to the thought of what he is giving up: mene fugis? ['Is it from me you are trying to
escape?']. The pleas are based on the past (315-18), the present (320-3) and the
future (324-6); the finale is formed by the lament, arising directly from her thoughts
of the future, that she will not even have an image of her beloved in the shape of a
little son: if anything might move the hard-hearted man and force him to remain
then it would be this last argument.[76] How Aeneas for his part briefly meets the
426 accusations one after the other, and then explains in detail, point by point, that his
departure is not voluntary, I do not need to tell you.
In these three examples, which will suffice to represent many others, the poet has
arranged his material with a sure touch. At the same time, he has avoided making
this arrangement too obvious: he elides the divisions between sections rather than
drawing attention to them. It is unnatural for a violently upset person to give vent to
his feelings in a well-ordered way; with great art Virgil makes it seem as natural as
possible, clothes the skeleton of the speech and smooths out the transitions so that
we seem to see not a framework of bones but a living body. He therefore starts not
with a cool propositio [exposition] but with a leap in medias res [into the midst of
the matter], starting from the thing nearest to hand; no announcement of, or em-
phasis on, each new section,[77] no explicit formulae at the conclusion; trains of
thought which are psychological rather than logical, perfectly in tune with the
purpose of the speech, which Virgil intends should work overwhelmingly upon the
feelings, not upon the mind. That is true even of the speeches which come closest to
the oratio [formal speech] as found in the art of rhetoric, the speeches made in the
assembly by Venus and Juno in Book 10, by Drances and Turnus in Book 11: they
argue, and on both occasions the reply refers as closely to the previous speech as
only a reply in the senate or a court of law does, even quoting verbatim from the
opponent; at the same time they remain full of pathos, every part calculated to affect
their emotions, and it is only in Turnus' speech that one finds anything like a
rhetorical emphasis on its arrangement:[78] this is intended to make a clear-cut divi-
sion between the well-considered oratio deliberativa [deliberative speech] and the
heated invectiva [accusation] of the first part of the speech.
427 The poet is so accustomed to arranging his speeches in this way that he does not
even change completely when, as with the lament of the mother of Euryalus (9.481-
97), he wishes to use the form and the content to give the impression of a person
completely beside herself; there is only one occasion where he ventures to use
broken utterances to express crazed agitation, and that is in Dido's outburst of anger
when she sees the fleet sailing away (4.590ff.): but even here the effect depends
more upon the form of the speech – loud exclamations and questions – and its
content, which is close to sheer insanity – than upon any disturbance of the normal
sequence of thought.
9—
Monologues
Virgilian monologue is very different from the Homeric. Homer[79] uses direct speech
all the way through his narrative, to enliven it, and to reveal the inner thoughts of his
characters, and he even uses it when a dialogue is impossible because the character
is unaccompanied; in such a case, either he puts the speech into the form of a prayer,
which can develop into a monologue,[80] or he presents his character's feelings or
thoughts, not summarizing their content himself (except in a very few straight-
forward cases),[81] but in direct speech, which he introduces as an address to the
[heart], without suggesting that there is actually a dialogue between the two halves
of the divided self. The formula at the end usually denotes this solitary speech by the
phrase
heart] so that it remains uncertain whether we are to think of it as spoken aloud. In
the Iliad , monologues which present the conflict of two desires and then motivate
the victory of one occur only in one standard situation: a hero finds himself isolated
during the fighting and wavers between holding his ground and retreating.[82] There
are also, very infrequently, monologues which are intended to present the effect
428 which a painful, unexpected happening has on a solitary hero better than the poet
could from his own mouth;[83] inner agitation is present here in every case, but the
poet makes no attempt to achieve the effect of a sudden overwhelming emotion
which bursts involuntarily into a stream of words; the phrase
[thinking in his heart] includes calm expression of fears and other considerations, as
well as explanation of the situation.[84]
In the Odyssey , the reason for the monologues in the Homeric style is Odysseus'
solitary state in the period between his farewell to Calypso and his meeting with
Nausicaa, and then again after waking up on Ithaca; we do not find decision-making
monologues here, although reflection may lead to a decision. It also matches the
second type in the Iliad when Poseidon's involuntary surprise at the sight of Odys-
seus sailing home is expressed in a monologue – here Poseidon stands alone, away
from the other gods: strictly speaking this is the only monologue spoken by a god in
Homer.[85] It is just this peculiar type of conversation with oneself that Virgil has
taken over, together with the lay-out of the whole scene in Book 1, and repeated in a
heightened way in Book 7, as we have described above (p. 148).[86] In both cases,
429 Juno's words are a preparation for the subsequent action: this introductory function
is emphasized so strongly, compared with Poseidon's monologue, which is fitted
into the narrative, that one could well call them prologues, comparable with the
prologues spoken by the gods in tragedy, such as the prologue of the Hippolytus .[87]
The tone of the two Virgilian monologues is also very different from the Homeric
ones: Virgil gives, as it were, Juno's conversations with herself, in which she goes
over, not the plain facts, but the reasons why she is angry, and about what, and why
she must continue to be angry ( se suscitat ira [she rouses herself to anger]);[88] in
Book 7 he adds the threat, swelling into thirst for revenge, a powerful heightening of
Poseidon's words prophesying doom. Drama, and also Hellenistic narrative poetry,
has made Virgil so familiar with the pathetic monody which wallows in pain or
anger in order to arouse
must have seemed flat and ineffectual to him.
Apart from this one characteristic development, Virgil refrained from using the
Homeric type of monologue.[89] The only other monologues which he gives are those
of Dido when she is alone: here there is no connection with Homer, and even if they
may have been inspired by Medea's monologues in Apollonius,[90] Virgil has moved
far away from his model and closer to the dramatic monologue on the one hand (see
above p. 100) and, on the other to the short, emotional poems of pathos of the
Hellenistic period.
Otherwise, Virgil makes a sharp division:[91] if there is no pathos exerting a direct
430 effect, he reports his hero's thoughts, sometimes in more detail than Homer allows
himself in such a situation; or he makes it obvious that violent emotion is forcing the
character to speak aloud. Thus, in place of the partly descriptive and deliberative
words of Odysseus at the outbreak of the storm at sea, he puts the much shorter,
emotionally heightened speech of Aeneas (1.94-101), an ejaculatory prayer rather
than a monologue, which makes it closer to Achilles' groan
duplicis tendens ad sidera palmas [raising both hands to heaven] –
[Father Zeus, etc.] ( Iliad 21.272f.) – when he was afraid of drowning in the Sca-
mander, than to those words of Odysseus. The equivalent of Achilles' anxious
thoughts when he sees the Achaeans fleeing for a second time (18.5-14), is the short
exclamation of surprise which Turnus emits (12.620f.): ei mihi quid ( =
tantus diversa clamor ab urbe ? [Ah me, why are the ramparts loud with these
sounds of confusion and mourning? What means this noise of outcry streaming here
from the city, so far away?], but before he can think further, Juturna speaks to him.
Aeneas' desire for the promised bough is expressed in a monologue (6.186) but is
explicitly designated a prayer, as are the pleas to the doves and to Venus which
immediately follow (194ff.); there the function of the short monologue is really
technical: it serves as a cue for the doves which appear directly after, since their
significance would otherwise not be immediately obvious. Virgil also gives the form
of a prayer to the cries of distress uttered by Turnus when Juno carries him away on
the boat (10.668ff.): at first, he hurls accusations at Jupiter, and at the end, pleas to
the winds; on the other hand, his subsequent anxious thoughts are reported by the
poet himself. I showed above (p. 103) how in Dido's case, Virgil likewise sought to
avoid plain monologue by using other forms – presenting first Dido's simple
thoughts, and then Dido herself speaking aloud, with special motivation.
Lament for the dead, as Homer shows very clearly,[92] is not really monologue,
since it is intended to be heard: the original involuntary loud outbursts of grief have
431 become a standard part of the
der (9.152), Aeneas (11.42), Euryalus' mother (9.481) and of Anna (4.675):[93] but
whereas Aeneas speaks his words of farewell in a composed fashion, and Evander,
after lengthy, silent weeping, voices a conventional lament, the words of the two
women are intended to portray a genuine outburst of emotion: that, too, is the
manner of drama, not of ancient epic. Virgil did the same with the lament of Juturna
(12.872), who has to leave her brother struggling with death; she does address
Turnus, having stood by him until this moment in the shape of Metiscus, but Virgil
cannot have meant that her lament really reached his ears; this is the established
standard form of monodic lament used in the wrong place.
10—
Rhetoric
This is the most suitable place for a few words on the relationship of Virgil's art to
rhetoric; 'a few' because the studies which have been made so far do not provide
sufficient basis for a comprehensive survey. Moreover, the most interesting aspect,
the amount that Virgil and Horace and their fellow-writers owed to rhetorical train-
ing, lies outside our scope: I mean the art of oratory, which consists of care and tact
in the selection and placing of words, clarity and precision, brevity or fullness of
expression, freedom and regulation of the sentence-structure – all matters which we
can now begin to appreciate since Norden has opened the path to this study.[94] As for
432 description, presentation and composition, the influence of rhetoric on the early
Augustans has, in my view, been exaggerated rather than understated.[95] It is custom-
ary to include under the heading 'Rhetoric' everything which a comparison with
other poets and prose-writers shows to be standard usage, and which could therefore
be attributed to the observation of precise rules of rhetoric: it is possible to find
plenty of examples, particularly among the rhetors of the imperial period, if you set
about it in this way. However, at the same time one would find a great deal which
could equally well, or perhaps better, be attributed to the rules of poetics, which did
draw on the fount of rhetoric but also went its own way, often in advance of rhetoric.
I should not trouble to object to this simplistic mode of categorizing it, were it not
that wherever 'rhetorical' influences are perceived, one has the feeling that poetry
has been estranged from its own nature: whereas a poet who uses observations and
poetic rules drawn from classical poetry does not leave his own proper ground.
Moreover, scholars frequently undervalue the influence of the poetic tradition,
which could lead to technical devices being repeated without the imitator being
aware that he is following any 'rules'. Finally, if one takes rhetorical theory as one's
starting point, it is easy to suspect its influence whenever a poetic motif more or less
fits a rhetorical rule which is known to us, whereas the poet may have been led to it
by necessity, from the nature of his material. If we consider all this and whittle down
accordingly the number of features in Virgil which might at first glance be claimed
433 to be 'rhetorical', not very many examples of rhetorical technique will remain.
Virgil may appear to be influenced by the schemata [figures] of certain genres of
rhetoric when he touches on the field of epideictic oratory. Thus, after Marx per-
ceived in the 4th Eclogue the schema of the
Norden tried to show that the great epideixis [display] of Anchises in the visit to the
Underworld refers to the
gyric] in the eulogy of Augustus (6.791ff.), of the
in the lament for Marcellus (868ff.), and of the
in the epilogue to the Pageant of Heroes (847ff.).[96] Further, in, say, the words of
farewell which Aeneas addresses to Helenus (3.494ff.), one may find the rules of the
example cited by the rhetors ( Od . 13.38ff.); the strange interjection with which
Turnus interrupts himself in a cohortatio [exhortation] (sed periisse semel satis est
[9.140] [a single destruction of their race is enough]) and proceeds to rebut, may be
traced back to a not altogether timely memory of the
required by the rhetors; indeed, one could perhaps apply these observations to more
than epideictic oratory, and to find, for example, in Anna's persuasive reply to Dido
the
the speeches in the Latin assembly in Book 11 (p. 325 above), and analyse Sinon's
great speech (2.77-144) as a prime example of a purgatio [justification] and depre -
catio [prayer for pardon]: but one will not get very far in applying these technical
terms to Virgil if instead of aping the later Latin rhetors, who illustrate rhetorical
devices with examples from Virgil, one proceeds in the reverse direction, trying to
explain Virgil by means of the doctrines of rhetoric.[97] More important than these
details, and more indicative of the influence which his childhood schooling and the
434 rhetoric-soaked life of his time had on Virgil, it seems to me, is the general nature of
his speeches: almost everything which I pointed out in the earlier sections of this
chapter as characteristic of Virgil, particularly when compared with Homer, brings
them closer to the oratio [formal speech] of the rule-book: avoidance of dialogue
which develops by means of brief speeches and replies; refraining from deliberate
digressions; exhausting all possible arguments; calculation of the effect on the
listener; and well-considered, lucid disposition. These are all qualities which are in
complete harmony with Virgil's total technique, and which the example of poets or
historians may have inspired him to cultivate, but they will certainly have received
some of their final polish as a result of these rhetorical influences.
However, Virgil remained well aware of the boundaries between poetry and
prose; he was not like Ovid, who did not hesitate, in fact was proud, to show at
every opportunity that he was a poet who had been trained in rhetoric. Virgil does
not seek out excuses to parade his rhetoric, and the poetic shell which he has built up
over his epideictic
schema [formulaic character] of his invention; also, as we have seen, he veils the
structure of his speeches, rather than emphasizing it. Whereas at the time that Virgil
was working on his Aeneid the young Ovid was listening passionately to the siren-
tones of the modern declamatio [declamation], and inaugurating in his Heroides the
genre of poetic declamatio , Virgil remained untouched by this latest trend in
rhetoric: as a youth he had already felt irritated by the inanes rhetorum ampullae
[empty mouthings of the rhetoricians]. Compared with the hysterical pathos of those
declamatores [declaimers], even compared with Ovid's rather more tasteful tirades,
Virgil's pathos even seems moderate to us, although it does go further than we like
435 our modern poets to go – Schiller's time felt differently –, and surely Virgil is, here
too, revealing his rhetorical training: that is where he developed the ability to play
upon the feelings of his Roman audience like a familiar instrument, so that he
always had effortlessly to hand the right form in which to cast his emotion so that it
would arouse the emotions; for the arousing of
epic poetry, was also one of the chief aims of trained prose oratory. However, we
must be careful not to overvalue the 'rhetorical' element here too: I do not doubt that
Virgil's treatment of pathos, far though he was from striving to be realistic or true to
nature, nevertheless comes a good deal closer to real life than is acceptable to the
modern (particularly North European) reader. Virgil's heroes are ancient Italians,
easily moved by emotion of every kind, and not accustomed to bear it in silence but
to express it in an easy flow of words. Where that is habitual, certain forms of
speech naturally develop and are available at all times to the emotionally excited
person, helping him to express his feelings with a completeness, strength, order and
clarity which can seem unnatural to a listener who hardly ever lets himself be moved
to express an emotion in words. We may be sure that Virgil's public thought they
were hearing the natural, if somewhat ennobled, expression of true feeling, in places
where modern critics shake their heads over unnatural, unrealistic 'Rhetoric'.