2—
Invention
I—
Mortals
a—
Characters
1—
Generic Characteristics
Ancient literary theory distinguished very sharply between the characterization of
types and the characterization of individuals. In the Poetics , Aristotle is most inter-
ested in the characterization of individuals, but he does occasionally allude to the
characterization of types; he deals with the latter more fully in the Rhetoric . It is
significant that Horace's Ars Poetica lays particular emphasis on this kind (112-18;
156-78), and passes very quickly over the other, in a way that shows that he believes
that in elevated poetry a mere handful of conspicuous features will provide suffi-
cient characterization of individuals (119-27). This corresponds exactly with the
practice of the post-classical phases of ancient poetry. As early as Aristotle, we find
the opinion that 'more recent' tragedy lacks 
[moral character] (Poetics 1450b
25): it had been pushed into the background by 
[emotion]. In Hellenistic
poetry, subtler touches of individual characterization are restricted almost entirely to
comedy and the less elevated genres (where, it is true, with a few brilliant exceptions,
it became fossilized into 'typical' characterization). Serious poetry was considered
to have other aims; it employed characterization, if at all, only in broad outlines or in
a general way. Callimachus' Acontius and Cydippe, as the recently discovered
papyrus shows, were simply a boy and a girl, a neutrally-coloured ground from
which the splendid blossoms of passionate love, with all their rich hues, can spring.
Apollonius' Jason is a stereotyped heroic youth – in so far as a man of Apollonius'
calibre is capable of conceiving one; his Medea is merely the typical maiden who is
overpowered by the strength of Eros; the only way in which a woman like her could
plausibly have become a Medea ferox [fierce Medea] would have been by means of
266 more individual characterization. Theocritus' Amycus is the stupid, clumsy, foreign
athlete, the opposite of the Hellene Polydeuces, in whom mind and body are equally
well developed.
Virgil's roots were in Hellenistic poetry; but he was too enthusiastic and percep-
tive a reader of Homer and Attic tragedy not to attempt, at least from time to time, to
rise above the level of the Alexandrians.
The main aspects of characterization according to 
[types] are, in the first
place, the differences between the stages of human life, and between male and
female; secondly, the differences that are characteristic of various nations and social
classes, though this last category is irrelevant to the heroic world of Virgil's epic.[1]
We have already mentioned (p. 128) the young Ascanius in connection with the
lusus Troiae [Troy Game]. In the character of Ascanius, Virgil was depicting a
typical young member of the nobility, noble by birth and noble by nature, although,
since he is a heroic youth, he is mature enough to take part in the hunt and in battle
at an earlier age than youths of today. In his case, he had had no mother to care for
him during the long years of his childhoood; he had been taken along on a dan-
gerous voyage that had wandered here, there and everywhere. It is understandable
that ante annos animumque gerit curamque virilem (9.311) [he bore beyond his
years the mind and responsibilities of a man]. But Virgil has nevertheless – and this
is a delicate touch – made use of the fact that Ascanius is no more than a child, by
attributing to him the exclamation heus etiam mensas consumimus [Hullo, we are
even munching our tables!] on the occasion of the prodigium of the tables (7.116), a
piece of schoolboy humour ( nec plura adludens [jokingly; that was all he said])
which Aeneas is immediately able to recognize as a fortuitous omen.[2] Furthermore, I
observe that Ascanius' first action in battle, the bow-shot with which he kills Nu-
manus (9.590ff.), is also the last action of his that we hear of; it is as if he grows
before our very eyes from childhood to young adulthood.
Next to Ascanius in years comes Euryalus;[3] he is already old enough to take part
267 in the young men's foot-race – although childish tears roll down his cheeks when he
realizes that he is not going to win the prize (5.343); and he is already old enough to
take part in the dangers of battle – but he does not yet possess the caution and
experience of a mature warrior; and it is this that leads to his death. Then come the
young heroes Lausus and Pallas, as brave as Euryalus, except that Euryalus' bravery
is characterized as mere hunger for action and honour, whereas that of Pallas is
characterized as resolute and steadfast courage,[4] and that of Lausus, which is shown
in one scene only, the scene in which he meets his death, as self-sacrifice through
pietas ; but the difference here lies in the situation rather than the characterization;
these three young men – and Nisus may be added as a fourth – are presented on the
whole as ideal types of youthful manliness, full of hope; so that it is fitting that, for
the sake of a great cause, they should throw themselves into dangers for which, in
the eyes of their more cautious elders, they are still too young.[5]
The mature men, Turnus, Aeneas, Mezentius, are not given the typical attributes
of men of their age; more particular traits are mentioned.[6]
Typical old men include Ilioneus, Nautes (5.704), Evander and, above all, An-
chises; they speak and act calmly, thoughtfully, dispassionately; they give guidance
to the younger men and offer advice from the rich store of their experience, and they
enjoy talking about the past.[7] Some of them have been granted the privilege of
special insight into the will of the gods and the decrees of fate: Nautes has been
given this power by Pallas Athene (5.704); Anchises interprets the omen when the
Trojans first land in Italy (3.539); he appears as prophet at 7.123, a fragment that
268 survives from an earlier draft. The portrayal of Latinus is also rich in generic
characteristics: but Virgil adds individual touches as well.
As for the women, their generic characteristic is, above all, that they are more
easily excited; in their case, every emotion is much more likely to develop into
passion, and this passion destroys their psychological balance and drives them mad
– the Trojan women in Book 5, Dido, Amata represent the various stages of mad-
ness; and as soon as one woman is seized by madness of this kind, it spreads like an
infection (7.392): sorrow becomes despair, and despair brings death, or turns life
into a cruel torment (e.g. Euryalus' mother 9.473ff.; Juturna at 12.879). All these
were traits which Hellenistic poets were particularly fond of stressing when they
portrayed the nature of women, but they were very common in Roman thought too.[8]
Varium et mutabile semper femina [women were ever things of many changing
moods], Mercury tells Aeneas in a dream (4.569): the Trojan women set fire to the
ships in their despair and fury, but as soon as they have caught sight of the men piget
incepti lucisque (5.678) [they were disgusted at what they had done and ashamed to
be seen in the light of day]; the women of Laurentum ally themselves with Amata
(7.392ff.) to avenge the violation of her rights as a mother, and embrace the cause of
Turnus, and in so doing they are largely responsible for the outbreak of war; but
after the first defeat they curse the cruel war and Turnus' marriage-plans: let him
fight by himself, man against man, to win the kingdom that he claims (11.215). Yet
Amata remains a loyal supporter of Turnus; in taking his side she is setting her own
life at risk. Her behaviour is not motivated by anything special in her character, but
– as Virgil portrays it – it is typical of the way that any woman in her position would
react, except of course that not every woman is driven to extremes by an Allecto.[9]
269 She has selected Turnus, that handsome, noble, splendid young hero, who is more-
over one of her kin, to be her son-in-law; when things turn out differently and her
daughter is to be handed over to a homeless, penniless foreigner, she resists ex-
tremely violently, as might be expected; she is an easy prey for Allecto. First she
pours out her grievances and entreaties to the king, accuses the stranger of being a
'treacherous pirate', and uses bold subterfuges in an attempt to turn the oracle of
Faunus to her own advantage; and all this is solito matrum de more (7.359) [as a
mother well might speak]. When Latinus remains unmoved she becomes a raging
Bacchant; and disaster ensues.
Camilla, the maiden on horseback, belongs to a world outside the normal sphere
of women and is not to be measured by the same yardstick as the others. But in order
to make her perhaps not totally implausible, Virgil has given her one typical fem-
inine characteristic: the gleaming accoutrements of the Phrygian priest catch her
eye, f e m i n e o praedae et spoliorum amore (11.782) [in a woman 's hot passion for
plundering and spoils], she throws all caution to the winds in her pursuit, and falls
victim to her own passionate greed.
All these rather unpleasing characteristics are offset by only one praiseworthy
quality: a woman's unswerving love for her own family. This is of course an
emotion that is also felt by honourable men, but whereas in their case it is regarded
as the fulfilment of a duty and acknowledged as such, it is thought to be just a
woman's nature, and therefore not to deserve any special praise; for a man it is one
obligation among many, for a woman it is her whole existence.[10] A woman's love
for her family can take various forms. Love for her children: Venus is the prime
example, tireless in her concern for Aeneas, as Thetis is for Achilles in the Iliad , but
more passionate and more tender; Euryalus' mother too, who forgets all troubles and
cares in working for her son, and who, when she loses him, no longer has anything
to live for; Andromache who loves in Ascanius the resemblance to her own
Astyanax (3.486) and hopes that Ascanius yearns for his lost mother (341), because
270 she feels that if the same fate had befallen her, she would have survived in the
memory of her Astyanax; Creusa, whose last words to her husband are nati serva
communis amorem (2.789) [guard the love of the son whom we share]. Love be-
tween brothers and sisters: Anna, Dido's unanima soror (4.8) [the sister whose heart
was one with hers], whose first thought when she hears of the death of the sister
'whom I love more than life itself' (4.31) is regret that Dido had not thought her
worthy to share her fate; Juturna, whose immortality becomes a torture to her when
her brother dies. Love between husband and wife: Dido, whose greatest pride lay in
her fidelity to her dead husband, becomes unfaithful when she is fatally infatuated
with Aeneas; she hears the voice of the dead Sychaeus calling her, and resolves to
die, so as to rejoin the husband of her youth in the underworld, and to be united in
love with him again, as in days gone by; and, again, Andromache, coniunx Hecto -
rea[11] [the wife of Hector] even when forced to be wife to another (3.488), who utters
the incomparable Hector ubi est? ['Where is Hector?'] when she thinks that she sees
the shade of Aeneas (312). Finally, when their ancestral home, their fathers, hus-
bands and brothers are in extreme danger, then heroic courage wells up in the hearts
of the women also, and verus amor patriae (11.475, 891) [true love of their home-
land] drives them on to the walls to meet the enemy attack.
In characterizing whole nations, Virgil most often restricts himself to a handful of
outstanding traits which were common currency to his contemporaries and him-
self.[12] Sinon is the very type of the deceitful, resourceful, wily Greek.[13] Venus fears
danger for Aeneas from the Tyrii bilingues (1.661) [deceitful Tyrians]: that is the
conventional Roman view of the Carthaginians, although it is hardly borne out by
the behaviour of Dido and her people. Again, the Etruscans are described by their
own king Tarchon just as the Romans usually imagined them: bent on pleasure,
271 dancing and feasting at lavish sacrifices, hic amor , hoc studium (11.736) [this is
their passion, their interest]; this may be historically justified to some extent, but
there is nothing about Virgil's Etruscans that seems to justify these criticisms;
perhaps the point of this depiction is to offer an explanation of the maiden Camilla's
military successes as being due to the inefficiency of her enemy, which consisted
mostly of Etruscans? Another traditional attribute, the terrible cruelty of Etruscan
pirates, is used to characterize Mezentius 8.485 (see above p. 168). The native
inhabitants of Italy are characterized by Numanus, himself an Italian, as being like
the popular image of the ancient Sabines and so forth (8.603); Numanus also,
surprisingly, characterizes the Trojans as Phrygians, worshippers of Cybele, for this
was how they were best known to the Romans (9.614ff.), and the Numidian Iarbas
has also imagined Aeneas in this way (4.215); of course this description is totally
inapplicable to Virgil's Trojans. All Ligurians are liars:[14] Camilla too has this in
mind when she shouts to the Ligurian opponent who has tried a cowardly trick on
her: nequiquam patrias temptasti lubricus artis nec fraus te incolumem fallaci per -
feret Auno (11.716) ['You were slippery! But it has done you no good to try your
native tricks, for your cunning will never bring you safe home to Aunus your father,
who is a cheat like yourself'].
2—
Aeneas
Thus in the case of the Greeks and the Ligurians, Virgil took a single character and
portrayed him as typical of his countrymen. In the case of Aeneas, he did essentially
the same, although with much richer detail, representing him as the typical Roman
as conceived by the Romans themselves – or, more precisely, by the Romans of the
Augustan age and of the Stoic persuasion. This type is well-known in its main
outlines; and to portray him in full detail and to make him comprehensible as a
product of the outlook of the Augustan age would be an important and attractive
undertaking, but would be appropriate to a history of Roman morality, not to an
account of Virgil's artistic technique. Furthermore, it is impossible to see the signi-
ficance of this typical Roman in the context of the work as a whole until we come to
consider Virgil's treatment of the supernatural (below, 239f.), since the most essen-
272 tial aspect of Aeneas' character lies in his relationship to destiny and the gods. At
this point we must concern ourselves with a different but equally important ques-
tion. It is clear that the character of Aeneas varies considerably from one part of the
poem to another. He has so often been held up as an example of the ideal Roman
whom the younger generation should try to emulate; and so, precisely because he is
such a paragon, he has become an abstract concept without flesh and blood. I must
confess that he does not strike me as much of a paragon in the first half of the
poem,[15] and I believe that Virgil would have agreed with me. Certainly, the Aeneas
who rescues the Penates, his father, and his son, who shows in the night battle in
Book 2 that he does not fear death, may be regarded as courageous and devoted to
his family; but that is not everything. A man who has so little presence of mind
when danger breaks out that he rushes blindly into the fighting, driven by furor
[frenzy] and ira [anger] (2.316), without stopping to make sure that his family is
safe; who is so utterly thoughtless during the flight that he even fails to notice that
his wife is no longer with him until all the others are gathered at the meeting-place;
who – let us not forget his encounter with Venus in Book 1 – breaks out in loud
lamentation about his sad lot, and does not have the courage to trust the comforting
assurances of his divine mother until he is convinced by the evidence of his own
eyes; who allows himself to become so ensnared by the delights of love that he quite
forgets his high destiny, and has to be reminded of it by the stern rebukes of Jupiter;
who, finally, allows himself to become so discouraged by the burning of the ships in
Sicily that, even though Jupiter has obviously answered his prayer, his thoughts
revert to the idea of staying there with his good friend Acestes in peace and quiet,
fatorum oblitus [forgetful of his destiny], and he has to be reminded yet again by the
aged Nautes (5.700ff.) where his supreme duty lies; is a man like that, we ask
273 ourselves, really an ideal Roman, a shining example for the younger generation? Did
Virgil really have no understanding of what a hero is made of? And did he really
believe that the image of his hero would remain untarnished if he kept breaking the
commandment which, as he himself consciously acknowledged, ought to have over-
ridden all others – the command to follow the will of the gods with steadfast
devotion? It is true that each time Aeneas is over-hasty, or displays weakness, Virgil
carefully motivates it from the situation; but a different character would have re-
acted differently to such situations. And if Virgil was unaware of how seriously his
hero fell short of the ideal which Virgil himself had outlined, then how is it that his
hero approaches more and more closely to this ideal as the story unfolds, so that by
the last books hero and ideal are one and the same? We might imagine that this
results from the development of the story, and to some extent this may be true; but
the development of the story is insufficient to explain why, for example, Aeneas'
reactions to the injustice of Fate in Book 5 are so very different from his reactions in
Book 12. I cannot persuade myself that one of the greatest artistic ideas of the work
crept into it by mere chance, without Virgil's knowledge or intention; I regard the
change in the hero as Virgil's deliberate and considered design. In that case, we
should not regard Aeneas as an ideal hero, perfect from the very beginning, but as a
man who learns how to become a hero in the school of fate.[16]
During the sack of Troy, Aeneas displays the best side of his character, as far as
patriotism, devotion and courage are concerned; but not, as we have just seen, from
the point of view of judgement and presence of mind; he himself often says that he
has lost his wits when he most needed them; Venus had to restrain him from a
desperate course which would have brought about his own death and with it the
destruction of his people. During the flight, it is Anchises who takes command and
gives the directions which Aeneas is happy to obey, subordinating himself to the
will of his father, which in turn is subject to the will of the gods. We cannot help
274 feeling that the episode at Carthage would never have occurred had Anchises still
been alive. After Anchises' death Aeneas is the leader of the refugees; after this
severe blow, which happens so suddenly, he is fully aware of his obligations, and
cares for his people; not only does he look after their physical welfare, but he also
consoles them and keeps up their morale. He commends them, just as Anchises
would have done, to the will and command of fate (1.205); God will bring their
suffering to an end. But – and this touch is very characteristic indeed of Virgil – in
the depths of his own heart he does not possess this faith in the gods which he is
trying to instil into his people: curis ingentibus aeger s p e m v u l t u s i m u l a t
(208) [he concealed his sorrow deep within him and his face looked confident and
cheerful ]. This becomes quite clear in the conversation with Venus that follows:
instead of trusting in fate and in divine protection, he complains that he, pius Aeneas
[Aeneas the true], who has never failed to obey the commands laid upon him by
fate, has now been cast into this miserable situation – nec plura querentem passa
Venus (385) [but Venus would not listen to more complaints from him]. He hardly
takes any notice of the comfort which she offers him – his faith is really not very
strong; it is not until he sees the pictures on the temple, with their air of compassion,
that 'his fears are allayed, and he dares to hope for life and to feel some confidence
in spite of his distress' (451). Dido receives him; love ensnares him; he is in extreme
danger of 'lying back' fatisque datas non respicit urbis [and taking no thought for
those other cities which are his by destiny], when Jupiter's command abruptly
rouses him from his life of ease and recalls him to his duty (460ff.); heu regni
rerumque oblite tuarum (4.267) ['For shame! you forget your destiny and that other
kingdom which is to be yours'] exclaims Mercury, rebuking him; and this time, on
Jupiter's orders, he appeals, not to Aeneas' desire to achieve fame and glory, but to
his duty as a father to Ascanius – his speech could hardly be more severe. But at
least his rebuke has results: Aeneas suppresses his personal feelings and his heart's
desire, remains deaf to all entreaties and lamentations, and guiltily abandons the
275 woman he loves, driving her to her death by his faithlessness.[17] We might expect
that by now it would be impossible for Aeneas to neglect the fulfilment of the task
for which he has made such a great sacrifice; but he has still not achieved the
unwavering trust in fate and the gods that befits a man chosen by the gods. The
prayer in which he appeals to Jupiter when his ships are on fire does not display an
unswerving faith (5.691); and even though Jupiter responds to it, Aeneas gives way
to faint-hearted doubt: the aged Nautes has to assume Anchises' rôle and offer him
advice and – this is another characteristic touch – in doing so, he uses exactly the
same words of comfort and encouragement as those that Aeneas had previously used
to address his companions: quo fata trahunt retrahuntque sequamur ; quidquid erit ,
superanda omnis fortuna ferendo est (709) [we should accept the lead which destiny
offers us, whether to go forward or no, and choose our way accordingly. Whatever is
to befall, it is always our own power of endurance which must give us control over
our future]. This advice makes a deep impression on Aeneas ( incensus dictis sen -
ioris amici [719] [the advice from his older friend set his thoughts on fire]), though
it fails to give him total confidence; he only achieves that after Anchises' ghost has
appeared, and after the events that follow: the poet wished to mark a turning point in
this scene:[18] indeed, a turning point in Aeneas' destiny: Anchises proclaims to his
son that Jupiter caelo tandem miseratus ab alto est [from high heaven has had
compassion on you at last] and tandem [at last], which refers back to the vocative
nate Iliacis exercite fatis [son, disciplined by the heavy burden of Troy's destiny]
shows that this does not merely apply to the extinguishing of the fire aboard the
ships but must refer to his destiny as a whole. Anchises then endorses Nautes'
advice, and adds that Aeneas is to seek him out in the Underworld: tum genus omne
tuum et quae dentur moenia disces [you shall learn then all your future descendants
and what manner of walled city is granted to you]. This has an immediate effect on
Aeneas: all at once he appears confident and assured: extemplo socios primumque
arcessit Acesten et Iovis imperium et cari praecepta parentis edocet et quae nunc
animo sententia constet [then, immediately, he summoned his comrades, Acestes
first. He expounded to them Jupiter's command, his dear father's instructions, and
the decision which he had reached in his own mind]. However, what shows more
than anything else that Aeneas has undergone a spiritual transformation and gained a
new strength of character, is his speech after the prophecy of the Sibyl. She has
prophesied that he must endure still greater sufferings than those that he has already
undergone, but instead of complaining and fainting he says with pride non ulla
laborum , o virgo , nova mi facies inopinave surgit ; omnia praecepi atque animo
mecum ante peregi (6.103) ['Maid, no aspect of tribulation which is new to me or
unforeseen can rise before me, for I have traced my way through all that may
happen in the anticipation of my inward thought']. The Stoic Seneca thought that
276 this summed up the attitude of the wise man when threatened by the onslaughts of
fate (Epist . 76.33).[19] The procession of heroes in Book 6, however, is intended to
strengthen this mood – indeed, this is its main function in the general scheme of the
work as a whole: Anchises says that he has long desired to show his son the future of
his family, quo magis Italia mecum laetere reperta (718) [that you might rejoice
with me the more in having found Italy]; he wants to tell him of the fame of his
descendants (757), and when he has reached Augustus, the most famous of them all,
he utters the words which can only be understood in terms of what we may call the
protreptic purpose of the whole passage, and which at the same time, when rightly
understood, pay a more profound homage to Augustus than could be conveyed by
any other method of praise (806):
et d u b i t a m u s adhuc virtutem extendere factis ,
aut metus Ausonia prohibet consistere terra?
[can we now hesitate to assert our valour by our deeds? Can any fear now prevent us
from taking our stand on Italy's soil?].
In the dangers that follow, Aeneas must show that he can convert his newly-won
confidence into action. This does not mean that he recklessly rushes towards his
goal, cheerfully trusting in the gods to preserve him from every danger, Virgil holds
back his climax until the very end. When threatened by war, we see Aeneas, not
plunged into doubt and despair, but worried and thoughtful,[20] as befits a leader, and
when the embassy to Evander has not achieved the result that Aeneas had hoped for,
and a new uncertainty has arisen, Aeneas sinks again into deep thought. But there
are great differences between this scene and similar situations earlier in the poem:
first, Aeneas no longer needs any human advice and encouragement (as he had done
from Nautes in Book 5), and secondly, he accepts with joy and absolute confidence
both the message that he receives from Tiberinus in a dream, and the sign that Venus
gives him in the heavens. We have only to compare his words at 8.532ff. with his
reaction to the appearance of Venus in human form in Book 1. The words with
277 which he introduces himself to Evander (8.131) are also full of his newly-found
confidence: mea me virtus et sancta oracula divum . . . coniunxere tibi et fatis egere
volentem [my own valour and holy oracles from gods, . . . have joined me to you and
brought me here in willing obedience to my destiny].
It is clear that he has now reached the point where he is being led by his fate
instead of being dragged along by it. But it is not until the battle itself that the hero
shows that he has achieved a height of heroism from which he will not descend
again. In the story, this is shown by the way that divine intervention and support
retreat into the background: Jupiter knows that he can leave Aeneas to his own
resources, to his animus ferox patiensque pericli (10.610) [his own proud spirit,
dauntless in peril]. In his new mood he can still feel deep sorrow at the death of
Pallas, but this does not deflect him from his duty for one moment (11.96); he goes
forth to his duel with Turnus, which he believes he has succeeded in arranging at
last, with total confidence in the fates, and instils the same confidence into his men
(12.110); and when the agreement is broken through treachery and he himself is
wounded and has to keep away from the battle-field, and the enemy has gained the
upper hand, he does not waver for a moment: he gives orders that the arrow is to be
cut out of his wound with a sword, so that he may return to the fight (389). As he
does so, he says farewell to Ascanius, in words which display an unsullied peaceful-
ness of spirit, such as befits the wise man: he renounces the favours of fortune, he is
conscious of his own worth, and he has no doubt whatever that he will succeed in
the end; hence he can present himself as an exemplum to his son.[21]
If we ask what gave Virgil the idea of portraying the development of a character
in this way, it will not be of much use to look among the poets for precedents. Not
that development of character was totally unknown in ancient poetry; what other
278 term can one use to describe the mental processes which the heroines and the
audience experience in Euripides' Medea and Hecuba , to say nothing of the greater
changes in character found in comedy (and perhaps their Roman adapters are guilty
of making them even greater)?[22] But in drama we are presented with the develop-
ment of individual characters, and in the case of tragedy it is quite clear that the
poet's problem was to make a specific and exceptional deed credible. Virgil's
problem is different. He did not envisage his task as one of analysing a particular
psychological case, and his aim was not to characterize Aeneas as an individual by
describing every slight deviation from the straight and narrow, so as to differentiate
him from other heroic figures in myth; for it cannot possibly have been part of his
plan to depict the man chosen by Providence to achieve great things as a fundamen-
tally despondent and weak character. Rather, just as Aeneas the fully developed
hero is a model of the Stoic 'wise man', so Aeneas the developing hero is a perfect
example of what the Stoics termed the 
the man who makes progress in
wisdom and virtue.[23] Even the man chosen by the gods does not attain the highest
level of morality in a single stride. Total control of the emotions, and the ability to
remain as steadfast as a rock before the capricious onslaughts of fortune, is some-
279 thing that is achieved as the result of a grim struggle, a struggle in which a man will
of course sometimes relapse into his former condition of weakness and 'foolish-
ness', and one which none may win without the help of the gods.[24] The
philosophical doctrines concerning the divinity of the world and of the human soul,
and concerning the true goal 
of life and the means of achieving it, had
prepared the ground for a moral regeneration; the clear, unshakeable insight into the
nature of things which is revealed to Aeneas in the Underworld is the result of these
doctrines. This insight is something that must be preserved throughout all the
troubles of life: that is why even Aeneas does not have his crown offered to him on a
plate by Fortune, but has to prove himself worthy of it by winning it from his
enemies in a fair and square battle.[25]
That Virgil has taken the risk of using his portrait of Aeneas to embody the
typical fate of a human soul as it struggles towards its goal – just as his portrayal of
Jupiter embodies the rule of divine providence as taught by the Stoics – is certainly a
matter of great importance; but it must be clear by now that we cannot speak of
individual personal characterization in this context. And what is true of Aeneas is
just as true of the other characters in the work. Not a single person is depicted with a
unique set of characteristics as a man who once walked on this earth, once and once
only; nor is any of them drawn from real life. On the contrary, Virgil depicts
character by starting from an ideal, and one person is distinguished from another by
280 the degree to which he has progressed towards this ideal; he is characterized not by
the qualities which he possesses, but by those which he lacks.
3—
Individuals and the Ideal
We have already discussed Dido as the ideal of the heroic queen: she would have
attained perfection if she had not succumbed in the face of an irresistible temptation.
Camilla represents the ideal of the warrior-maiden: there is only one respect in
which she pays the price for her femininity, and it leads to her death. Latinus
represents the ideal king: pious, considerate, generous, just and mild of heart; he
lacks only one quality, constantia [steadfastness]. He is an old man who has reigned
for many years peacefully over a peaceful nation; he is already nearing the grave
when he is thrust suddenly into a situation where he has to uphold what he perceives
to be right against the onslaught of all his entourage, all his family, and all his
subjects – and that is when his strength deserts him. Priam is the exact opposite: he
has a lifetime of warfare behind him, he remains a warrior right up to the very last
moment, and when his son is killed before his eyes, he forgets that he is weak and
old, and feebly flings his spear at the enemy. Then there is Turnus, the ideal of
strong, decisive manhood in every respect – except, as we have seen above,[26] that he
is consili expers , lacking in commonsense and moderation. Mezentius, endowed
with all the qualities that befit the splendour of a hero, falls short of the ideal only in
that he shows neither respect for the gods, nor that humanitas [sense of humanity]
which is so closely associated with it; this alienates him from his people and drives
him into battle, where he is killed. In his case, Virgil adds an unexpected touch, the
love that he shows for his son, which results in a conflict within his character that
would do credit to Victor Hugo. In the boat-race, Cloanthus is the ideal captain; as
for the other contestants, Gyas loses because of his obstinacy, Sergestus because of
his frantic impetuosity, and Memmius is overtaken at the last moment because he
has failed to secure the support of the gods.
This is sufficient to show the technique that Virgil used to construct his charac-
ters. It is clear that this technique will result in a preponderance of generalized
figures, and an absence of individual traits; and this is a weakness in Virgil's
281 characterization. The majority of critics, certainly, are distressed not to find any
sharply-defined individuals, and have therefore failed to do justice to those aspects
of Virgil's characterization that are comparatively successful. Such aspects certainly
exist; I hope that my earlier discussion of Turnus, for example, has made it clear that
he is a good deal more than a schematized conventional hero; Virgil maintains this
simple basic character, with appropriate nuances, in a wide variety of situations, and
does so in a lively and consistent manner, and his character is put in a clearer light,
with a well-calculated development and many finely observed details, by means of
effective contrasts. All these touches are introduced very subtly and could easily be
missed by a hasty reader. We should also credit the poet with another merit: he
never overdoes things, and never stoops to cheap effects. His intentions would have
been clearer if he had described people's characters directly, but he hardly ever
does, except when the plot requires it, as in the case of Evander's account of
Mezentius; only in the case of a minor figure such as Drances does the poet himself
explain the motivation of an action, when it cannot be deduced from the action itself
(11.336). Furthermore, he certainly makes no attempt to avoid stock characterizing
epithets – pius Aeneas , Mezentius contemptor divum , Messapus equum domitor
[Aeneas the true, Mezentius scorner of the gods, Messapus tamer of horses] being
content to follow traditional epic practice; but he does not merely fob us off with
these epithets; on the contrary, he is careful to illustrate them in the action.
b—
The Action
Superficially, the events in the Aeneid resemble those in the Odyssey and the Iliad .
A closer examination will reveal that Virgil handles the narration very differently.
Virgil lays much more emphasis than Homer on emotions rather than events, the
psychological rather than the physical.
It is true that the Odyssey is more interested in what goes on in the mind of the
characters than the Iliad is; but it gives almost equal prominence and significance to
physical events – bodily pleasure and pain, and bodily suffering and deeds. We enter
into the feelings of the companions of Odysseus as they sit day and night at the oars,
desperately struggling against weariness and exhaustion, or when they see starvation
staring them in the face; we share with Odysseus the sensation of swimming in the
282 open sea, making a superhuman effort to reach the shore, only to be hurled against
the rocks by the breakers, and to fall back into the sea with hands lacerated and
bleeding. Odysseus, 
[struggling to preserve his life] ( Od . 1.5)
as he makes his way home to Ithaca, is presented so clearly that we feel we could
almost reach out and touch him: how frequently he escapes some pitiable death by
the skin of his teeth! He draws the bow with only the slightest effort, though none of
the suitors is able to do so; and then he has to fight against them and overcome them
in a bloody struggle. But physical pleasures have their place too: we are made to
understand what a meal means to a man when he is starving, and a cloak when he is
frozen, and a bath when his skin has been eaten away by salt foam. This effect is
even stronger in the Iliad : the poet shows us in the most powerful way not only the
pain of a wound, but also the enormous physical effort that is required to fight in
heavy armour, and with a heavy shield, for hours on end. In the Aeneid none of these
things gets more than a passing allusion.[27] Only once in the course of the voyage –
during the sea-storm in Book 1 – are Aeneas and his men represented as being in
deadly danger, and their escape is not due to their own efforts. The Harpy threatens
dira fames [terrible hunger]; when it actually occurs in Book 7 it sounds as if it is
little more than a slight hitch in the catering, which means that the Trojans have to
be content with a vegetarian diet. We can hardly imagine a naked, hungry Aeneas
who collapses into deep, death-like sleep after terrifying exertions. What Aeneas
suffers is emotional pain: the loss of his homeland and of his wife, his fruitless quest
for his new kingdom, his separation from the woman he loves, the death of his
faithful companions and so forth. The same is true of all those who take part in the
battles: the worst thing is not the physical rigour of the fight, nor the pain of the
wounds; Mezentius suffers more deeply from the loss of his son than from his
wound; Nisus has to endure the sight of Euryalus slain before his very eyes; Turnus
is ready to kill himself for shame and despair when Juno lures him away from the
battlefield.
We can thus understand why Virgil emphasizes the psychological processes in
the action also. He is not so much concerned with the plot and the succession of
events as with their psychological motivation, or the emotions which accompany
them. Let us imagine how a poet of Homer's time would have tackled, say, Aeneas'
283 departure from Troy. What a wonderful opportunity for an account of brave and
clever achievements in the face of physical obstacles! In Virgil, Aeneas' return to
his household, and their flight, take place without real difficulty. The important
thing is first Aeneas' decision to abandon his city, and then Anchises'. A Helleniz-
ing poet like Tryphiodorus paints a detailed picture of the Trojans pulling the
wooden horse into the city, and of their celebrations; Virgil allots no more than a
few words to it, but employs hundreds of lines to explain the Trojan decision. In
Book 4 we are given only the bare essentials of the way in which the Trojans
organized their departure, but very full details about the way in which Aeneas
brought himself to give the command to leave. The foundation of Segesta in Book 5
is accomplished in the twinkling of an eye, but the decision to found the settlement
is carefully motivated. In Homer's Doloneia our attention is wholly focussed on the
bold and clever execution of the dangerous undertaking, which leads to the slaughter
of Rhesus and the capture of his horses; in the expedition of Nisus and Euryalus, the
psychological processes before, during and after the deed are far more important
than the deed itself. In Homer, when a god rescues a favourite hero from the battle,
that is all there is to it; Virgil is not content with depicting the event itself, but makes
use of it to illustrate one of Turnus' characteristic states of mind. Pandarus' bow-
shot and its consequences are very superficially motivated in Homer, but are
themselves most vividly described down to the smallest detail; in Virgil, as we have
already seen (p. 176f.), it is exactly the opposite. When Virgil, of his own accord,
describes external events in detail, he does not do so for the sake of the events
themselves, or because he enjoys sharing his own lively visualization of things with
the listener, but because he wishes to arouse the emotions of the listener, or (as with
the burial of Misenus) to pay tribute to some ancient local custom.
Similarly, Virgil attributes the fate of an individual, his successes and failures in
the battles of life and of war far less often to his physical strengths and weaknesses
than to the qualities of his character. Furthermore it is clear that the poet was
primarily concerned with ethical matters, since these qualities almost all belong to
284 the sphere of morality rather than to the intellect.
This is most obvious in the battle-scenes. In Homer, a man's destiny is decided in
a moment; at every moment he faces death from some unlucky accident or because
of the superior strength of his adversary. Sarpedon is killed by Patroclus, Patroclus
by Hector, Hector by Achilles; each falls to a stronger opponent, who has a god and
destiny on his side; the poet's main task is to show how the stronger man beats his
foe. There is no question of any guilt on the part of the vanquished or any merit on
the part of the victor. However, when Virgil shows Nisus and Euryalus defeated by
superior force, that is only to be expected, and to be taken for granted; the narrative
lays emphasis, not on the manner of their death, but its cause: that Euryalus ignored
the warnings of his older friend and insisted on undertaking the dangerous mission,
and that, by adorning himself, in the euphoria of his victory, with the shining
helmet, he had betrayed himself to the enemy; that Nisus, who could have saved
himself, forbears to do so because of his love for his friend, but plunges into the
thick of the enemy for his sake. The way in which Lausus and Mezentius are killed
by Aeneas is vividly described; but more important than this is the fact that Lausus
is deliberately sacrificing himself for his father, and that the severely wounded
Mezentius, who has withdrawn to a safe position, nevertheless returns after the
death of his son to risk his own life in an unequal battle. Camilla does not see any
Trojan adversary confronting her: she herself brings about her own destruction
through her fatal enthusiasm. It is Turnus himself who pronounces the solemn oaths
that inaugurate the war to which he falls victim; Juturna tries to prevent him from
engaging in the final duel with Aeneas, but he follows a higher impulse, and enters
into it of his own free will; he is killed, but would have survived if the victor's eye
had not fallen on the spoils which his insolence and impiety had led him to take
from Pallas to adorn his own person. And the same process occurs over and over
again in the case of less important characters: think, for example, of Numanus, of
Tolumnius, of Pandarus and Bitias, of Coroebus and Priam: we are told again and
again that they behaved as they did, out of pride or obstinacy or a surge of noble-
minded anger, and they had to pay for it with their life. It is the same when the
285 competition is not a military one: we have seen how, in the funeral games in Virgil,
unlike Homer's, it is basically moral factors which tip the balance. And this is true
of life in general, that every one prepares his own destiny: Dido and Amata, for
example, are themselves responsible for the consequences of their own actions.
However, actions performed in this world have consequences that extend beyond
the grave; judgement on a man's value or worthlessness is not pronounced on earth.
Death comes even to the noble hero, precisely because of his noble deed; but his
reward is that his name wins a glory that never dies, eternal justice decrees that he
and the sinner dwell apart from each other in the underworld: the noble hero may
wander in the Elysian fields, while the sinner pays for his sins in Tartarus.
c—
Emotions
Virgil generally presents his characters in the grip of some emotion. He does not
keep such states in reserve for the climaxes of the action, but, apart from a few quiet
passages in which he relaxes the tension, he links one emotional scene to another in
an unbroken sequence. It is clear that he believes that only heightened emotional
states should be depicted in epic; more peaceful moods, it seems, are suitable only in
minor episodes. Let us consider the various emotions which Aeneas experiences in
Book 1. When he first appears, he is in the depths of an emotional crisis: he is
terrified of dying, and his soul is in torment; after his fortunate rescue, he is anxious
and concerned about his companions, and while he is consoling them, he is discon-
solate himself; he complains bitterly to his mother; the pictures on the temple at
Carthage arouse painful memories which bring him to tears; he is anxious and tense
when his companions arrive, and full of passionate admiration and effusive gratitude
towards Dido. Now he is safe for a while, but he has not yet achieved peace of mind,
neque enim patrius consistere mentem passus amor (643) [his love for his son would
not let his mind rest]: we see that even his love for his son has become a passion. Or
we may take the emotional scenes in Book 1 in which the gods appear: Juno's
indignant opening monologue; the rebuke delivered by the apparently serene but
inwardly furious Neptune; and finally the behaviour of Venus in her conversations
with Jupiter and Cupid. When Aphrodite intervenes in Homer, he depicts it not as a
benevolent act, but as an entirely matter-of-fact one, by a goddess who cares (but
does not suffer) for her protégé; but in Virgil Venus speaks like a mother who is in
286 agony about her son; her eyes are filled with tears, she feels his sufferings as if they
were her own, and sees herself deprived of the one comfort that remained to her
amidst all her grief at the destruction of Troy; and later she is tortured by anxiety
again and comes to plead with her powerful son Cupid who has so often 'sympath-
ized with her in her suffering' (669).
Aeneas' emotional states are varied: in the sack of Troy he is possessed by furor
iraque [fury and anger] or saevus horror [wild horror]; in the Nekyia [descent into
the underworld], tearful sorrow and the tearful joy of being reunited with those he
holds dear are juxtaposed with fear and terror (6.270, 559, 710); in the first battle
after the death of Pallas, his sorrow goes together with thirst for revenge, which
then, uniquely, gives way to a moment of admiration and pity – ingemuit miserans
[he sighed heavily in pity] – at the death of Lausus; the funeral in Book 11 is the
occasion for sorrow and lamentation; before the decisive duel saevus . . . se suscitat
ira [grimly . . . he whipped up his anger] and when the truce is broken, after the
peaceful and solemn scene in which it had been ratified, the wounded Aeneas is at
first tormented by agonizing impatience ( saevit . . . acerba fremens [387, 398] [he
raged . . . growling savagely]) and then breaks out into a wild rage for battle (12.494,
499, 526) and furious joy (700), until he achieves his victory, and, after a brief
episode in a gentler mood, furiis accensus et ira terribilis [his fury kindled, and
terrible in his rage], plunges the sword into the breast of his enemy. What is true of
Aeneas is more or less true of the other characters. We need only think of Dido, who
is overwhelmed by one violent emotion after another, or of Turnus, who is in a
highly emotional state from the moment we meet him right up to the very end, either
with resentment and anger or with jubilant confidence, with feeble cowardice or
furious rage for battle, with ardent love or ardent hate, with shame or with scorn.
The whole action of the Aeneid is designed to call forth the emotions of its
characters, but that was still not enough for Virgil: feelings which generally appear
in a much gentler form are raised to the level of passions as well. For example,
feelings of gratitude are raised to a passionate level in Aeneas' speech to Dido in
Book 1, and in Ascanius' speech to Nisus and Euryalus; similarly Aeneas' love for
his son, in the account that we have just discussed, and his love for his father, not
only before the flight from Troy, when it was a matter of life and death, but also
after his death, when Aeneas stands by his grave and swears a vow of eternal
remembrance (5.51). Turnus' behaviour is the most remarkable example, when Juno
rescues him from death at the hands of Aeneas by means of a mirage (10.668). In a
similar situation in the Iliad , Paris had been very happy to be rescued and felt no
287 shame until Hector rebuked him. How tame his emotions are by comparison with
Turnus' passionate outburst; he would prefer to sink into some chasm of the earth,
or impale himself upon his sword, rather than face his men tainted with the disgrace
of cowardice. When every emotion is presented as a passion, then the poet needs to
be able to move to an even higher level of passion for special occasions: passion
becomes Bacchic frenzy or madness. Andromache for example is amens [out of her
mind] when she catches sight of Aeneas; so too is Nisus when he sees that Euryalus
is in danger, and Iarbas when he hears of Dido's marrage; furor [madness] is the
name that Virgil frequently gives to heightened passion, whether love or anger;
when Dido hears the rumour that Aeneas intends to leave, she storms through the
city like a maenad at some nocturnal Bacchic orgy;[28] and Amata falls into genuine
Bacchic frenzy when her plan to marry her daughter to Turnus is frustrated.
Virgil does not, of course, ascribe this kind of passion indiscriminately to every
character, but what we find is variation of general types rather than of individuals,
and this is consistent with the technique of characterization which we have just
discussed. Virgil is aware that it is the young who generally tend towards
[passion] whereas [moral character] becomes dominant in old age. That is why
Turnus, the youngest of the principal male characters, gives way most easily to
unbridled emotion. By comparison, old men are conspicuously gentler. The aged
Ilioneus speaks in the presence of Dido placido pectore [in calm self-possession],
despite the danger and excitement of the situation; similarly (at the beginning of
Book 11) Latinus addresses the Trojan ambassadors placido ore [with a calm ex-
pression], and after he has heard their message, he does not allow himself to be
carried away by first impressions, but remains for a long time in silent meditation;
when the decision is imminent, he speaks words of appeasement to Turnus, sedato
corde [mastering his emotions], and even if his defeat, and the failure of his offer of
288 help, fill him with deep sorrow, his speech in the assembly is purposefully shaped by
Virgil into a model of thoughtful serenity, which contrasts with the characteristically
passionate hatred of Drances and the equally passionate rage of Turnus. And even
when all around has collapsed, the queen has hung herself, the city has been
stormed, and Lavinia and the others have succumbed to a frenzy of despair, the old
king remains gloomy and silent in his grief. Virgil is also aware that women have
more direct access to the emotions, and that they express them in a different, more
extreme way. Women are very rapidly overcome by emotions; see, for example,
how Andromache succumbs to the sudden emotion of surprise: deriguit visu in
medio , calor ossa reliquit , labitur et longo vix tandem tempore fatur [as she looked,
she stiffened; the warmth left her, she could hardly stand, and it was some time
before she could find words]; and the emotions have a more devastating effect on
them: not only on Dido, Amata, and the Trojan women in Book 5, but also on Silvia
(see above p. 154) and Camilla (above p. 169). But the most remarkable example is
the contrast between the expression of sorrow by the mother of Euryalus (9.475) and
by Evander (11.148), both of whom have lost their only son at a tender age. Eury-
alus' mother has collapsed in total misery: oblivious of her surroundings, and
shrieking, she asks for nothing but a speedy death – in fact she is really mourning for
herself rather than her son. Evander, on the other hand, though he too is lacrimans -
que gemensque [weeping and groaning] is still, despite his misfortune, able to praise
the good fortune of an honourable death, and is capable of thinking of his wife,
whose own early death has spared her the sorrow of this loss, and capable too of
considering the reasons which had inevitably led to such a result; finally, although
he is weary of life, nevertheless, before he dies, he wants to see vengeance taken for
his son's death.
Virgil's characters express their emotions for the most part not in actions but in
words; very often because of the situation their emotions are not capable of leading
to action; this is almost always true with the most common emotion, mental anguish.
It is very different in the Homeric poems; there, almost without exception, an
emotion is mentioned only if it motivates an action; in other words, it is an integrat-
ing component of the narrative. On the other hand, Virgil has in almost every case
avoided what certainly occurred in some of the lesser Hellenistic narratives: he has
not allowed the action to retreat right into the background, or – especially when an
emotion is being expressed – to come to a complete standstill. This is what happens,
289 for example, with Catullus' Ariadne (poem 64), the lament of Carme in the Ciris ,
Horace's Europa, and, in another genre, Gallus in Virgil's own Eclogue 10, whose
laments are admittedly to be classed as elegy, not as an epyllion .[29] In the Aeneid ,
emotion at the very least accompanies the action, even if it does not motivate it; that
is, we learn the feelings of a character during the course of an integral part of the
narrative, and to that extent Virgil obeys one of the requirements of epic style, that
the action should progress without interruption.
The speeches, which in Virgil are largely devoted to the expression of emotion,
will be dealt with later in their proper place, where much else that is significant for
Virgil's characters will emerge from the discussion. But there is one point that I
would like to make now: often, where we might expect the natural expression of
pain, anger etc., the poet offers us instead the results of his analysis of the emotion in
question: he has thought out its component parts or its underlying causes, and sets
them out in great detail and with great care, in a way that could never occur during
an outbreak of emotion in real life. The poet asks himself what would make the
death of Euryalus particularly painful for his mother, and discovers a whole list of
reasons: she is old, he was her only comfort, now she is lonely and isolated; when he
left her he did not say farewell, although he was going on a dangerous mission: that
had been cruel of him; his body lies unburied in a foreign land, so that she cannot
perform the last rites for him; and yet she had been thinking of him day and night,
she had just been weaving a garment for him; she does not even know where his
body lies, whether it has been torn to pieces and disfigured; so this is her reward for
the true love which led her, alone of all the Trojan women, to follow him over land
and sea! Virgil puts all this into the mouth of Euryalus' mother the moment she
hears of her son's death; not in a lengthy speech in which she gradually comes to
mention all these points, but as briefly as possible, compressed into some ten lines.
It is clear that it is not the poor broken mother who is speaking: the poet is speaking
on her behalf: it is the poet who interprets her feelings and expresses them with all
290 the skill at his command. In our next example the speech is not as improbable as that
of Euryalus' mother, but the poet's artifice is equally obvious. He asks himself what
causes Aeneas to feel so grateful to Dido that he is moved to thank her with such
extraordinary warmth. In fact she has done no more than simple humanity requires.
But (1) the Trojans had been in a desperate situation, they had undergone every
imaginable suffering by land and sea, they had lost everything, they were ship-
wrecked on an alien coast. (2) Dido was the only one to take pity[30] on them, and she
had not only taken their side, but had led them into the city, into her own house, not
merely as guests but as friends and equals. (3) She did that, not for any selfish
reasons, but purely out of pietas , from a sense of what was right and proper.
(4) Aeneas is all the more obliged to feel grateful because he has no prospect of ever
being able to do anything to repay her. All this is certainly enough to motivate the
strength of Aeneas' feeling, but, instead of proceeding to a straightforward ex-
pression of gratitude, appropriate to the situation, to the amazement of all present,
Aeneas suddenly steps out of the cloud which enfolds him, and the expression of the
feeling itself is preceded by a long justification of it in Aeneas' words. And then, in
the actual expression of gratitude, every possible element is included: the wish that
the gods may reward her richly; admiration; the promise to remember the noble lady
in the future with respect and praise, always and everywhere.
On the other hand, we must acknowledge that, although he uses this element of
analysis in the expression of emotion, Virgil does avoid branching off in other
possible directions. He keeps strictly to the situation in hand, and does not deviate
into generalizing declamations. He takes hold of the reasons for the emotion which
belong to the particular situation and squeezes out every possible effect, but he
291 avoids intellectual reflection on the emotion. His aim is to appeal to the reader's
feelings, not to use the emotional situation as an opportunity to make sententious
remarks. But that is not a characteristic limited to the emotional speeches. It is
characteristic of Virgil's style as a whole.
II—
The Supernatural[en31]II—
The Supernatural [31]
Introduction:
Theologia Physica, Civilis, Fabularis [Theology – Physical, Civic and Mythical]
The participation of the gods in the action was part of the tradition which Virgil took
as his starting point. We do not know of any ancient epic which failed to meet
Theophrastus' requirement that it should portray gods, heroes and men.[32] But Virgil
regarded the divine as something too serious to use as a mere frill or ornament for
his work. The ancient poets had rightly been criticized for straying too far from the
truth in their portrayal of the gods, and narrating things unworthy of them. Not only
does Virgil wish to avoid this, he wants to use the vehicle of myth to convey as
much positive truth as possible. He regarded the obligation to include the gods as
protagonists not as an irksome constraint, nor as a mere excuse to paint impressive
scenes, but as a welcome means of presenting his views of the final causes of all
happenings, clothed in images which, by appearing to the eye and to the mind, can
present the highest truths much more clearly than can be done by abstract dis-
cussion. And the truth which he had to proclaim is the following.
There is one divinity: Fate, which consists of both providence and reason, present
in the whole of creation. This divinity guides men's destinies, no-one can gainsay its
will, at every moment everyone is at its mercy; a man's duty is to follow his destiny
292 willingly. The individual gods are not separate persons, but merely aspects of the
one all-embracing divinity; they represent its powers, which permeate the realms of
nature and of the mind. There has to be a cult of the divinity. For a Roman this is
only imaginable in the traditional forms of the Roman worship of the gods, and
Virgil envisaged his task as reinstating this worship in as orthodox a form as
possible and observing it as devoutly as possible; this is one of the main ingredients
of piety. Rome became great because of its piety; all misfortune can be attributed to
neglect of the gods; he who pays them due honour is led by them to salvation. The
divinity reveals its will to humanity in many ways, through oracles, dreams, omens;
its will can also be discovered to a certain extent by the use of auspices.
It was somewhat along these lines that Virgil and many like-minded Romans
amalgamated theologia physica with theologia civilis . Now, in the epic, this belief is
to be presented in the garb of theologia fabularis ; Stoic teaching and Roman national
cult join with Homeric myth. The cult was easily dealt with: the oldest discoverable
form of Roman worship was transferred to mythical times, and Virgil has spared no
effort to make this picture as correct and complete as possible. Moreover, it was
completely compatible with the common concepts of the Roman people for the
national cult to be embodied in figures of gods which were regarded as Greek in
origin. It was much harder to reconcile the myth and philosophy. Here there had to
be unavoidable concessions on both sides, and philosophy also had to make con-
cessions to the state religion. One must not expect to find a public confession of
Stoic pantheism in the Aeneid : the poet can naturally not be the one to destroy belief
in the poetic pantheon which he himself has set up, nor can he give the state religion
a slap in the face. He must content himself with referring to the truth in allusions and
hints. These references are obvious enough in the way in which he portrays the
gods, in his attitude to his Jupiter, in the rôle alongside Jupiter which is given to
fatum throughout the work and in the way in which he pays tactful but unmistakable
tribute to the interpretation of myths on physical and moral lines.[33]
293
1—
Jupiter and Fate
Homer's Zeus stands among the gods as primus inter pares [first among equals]; he
is the highest, strongest and greatest, who, it is true, has dominion over the others
because of his greater might, but is otherwise equal to them, and, like them, subject
to passion and weakness. Virgil's Jupiter is the 'almighty'[34] and this attribute is
given to him alone; he is the embodiment of the 'eternal power'[35] which rules gods
and humans and their destinies. The poet has no choice but to depict him as a
person, like the other gods, but he limits the human aspects to a minimum; he looks
down at the earth and mankind, he speaks to the gods, smiles and nods approval,
sends messengers who proclaim his will, and decides the outcome of battles; but
only once does his person appear to us more clearly when, after the end of a council
meeting, he rises from his golden throne and is respectfully escorted out by the gods
(10.116). The Homeric 
[fate] is an intangible power standing alongside the
gods, in no actual relationship to Zeus. Virgil leaves us in no doubt that Fate is really
294 nothing else but the will of the highest god.[36] Understandably, this appears most
clearly when the topic is introduced for the first time, in the conversation between
Jupiter and Venus (1.229ff.). Venus refers to a promise of Jupiter's: the fata (239)
[fates] of Jupiter's promise have reassured her until now whenever she worried over
the unhappy fortunes of Aeneas: but now, when things seem to be turning out
differently, she asks why Jupiter has changed his plan (237). Jupiter reassures her:
his fata have not changed; he has not changed his plan. To reassure her completely,
he reveals the further secrets of Aeneas' fata (262); instead of simply prophesying
what is to happen, for once he expresses it as his own will: his e g o nec metas rerum
nec tempora pono : imperium sine fine d e d i (278) ['to Romans I set no boundary in
space or time. I have granted them dominion without end']; we see that this will is
identical with the predestined future. He also knows that Juno will change her mind
and will love the Romans as he does, and adds sic placitum (283) [I have decided]:
here, too, his decision determines the future. This matches the fact that later, on an
occasion when Venus is speaking, uncertainty about one's destiny seems to be
synonymous with ignorance of Jupiter's Will.[37] As soon as fatum is acknowledged
by the gods as absolutely unchangeable, they no longer think of working against it.[38]
Juno's pride makes her angry at the thought that she, the Queen of Heaven, should
be forbidden by fatum to wreak vengeance on her enemy, when Athena was allowed
it (1.39ff.); she harps on the fact that Jupiter lent his lightning to his daughter,
whereas his sister and wife has to fight in vain. When she then tries to get her own
way with the help of Aeolus, she cannot hope to break fatum (she wishes si qua fata
sinant [1.18] [if somehow the Fates allow it] to transfer to Carthage the world-
dominion which she had heard was destined for Rome); the most she can do is to
hope that Jupiter may yet indulge her, which would mean laying down new fata . She
believes that he has the power to do this. Later she reluctantly assents to the death of
Turnus, but still dares to hope that Jupiter will think better of it: in melius tua , qui
potes , orsa reflectas (10.632) [if only you, who alone have the power, would change
295 the course of your designs to a better end].[39] It is true that she is deceived by this
hope, here as elsewhere; Jupiter himself feels that once something is fatum he is
himself bound by it, and refuses even his mother (i.e. the Magna Mater , the Great
Mother) a wish which runs counter to the eternal laws: he is capable of turning
Aeneas' ships into nymphs, but not of changing them into immortals in their 'mortal
form' i.e. ships: cui tanta deo permissa potestas? (9.94ff.) [what god is permitted
such powers?]. One is reminded of Seneca's words, in which the relationship be-
tween the World-ruler and Necessity is given short sharp expression: irrevocabilis
humana pariter ac divina cursus vehit . ille ipse omnium conditor et rector scripsit
quidem fata , sed sequitur ; semper paret , semel iussit [an irrevocable course of
events carries along human and divine actions equally: even the founder and con-
troller of all things did write down what is fated, but he follows it; he always obeys
it, he ordained it only once]. (Dial. 1.5.8). However, 
[fate] is also 
[will]: Virgil shows us this, right at the beginning of the work, when he describes
how Jupiter has tamed the elemental power of the storms so that they will not
destroy the world, and then shows him surveying land and sea iactantem pectore
curas (1.60, 227) [as he pondered his concerns in his heart].
It is true that it was not possible for the poem to show these doctrines in their
purest form. An all-powerful and all-knowing god, without whom and in opposition
to whom nothing can happen, and who has himself relinquished his freedom to
decide about anything and everything, is – perhaps – just about conceivable, but is
completely unusable in an epic poem. Concessions must inevitably be made; the
only question is, how can they be made as unobtrusively as possible? Firstly, he has
to be allowed some kind of freedom of decision. This was easily done by making the
same concession to cult which the Stoics had done: only the main outlines of what
happens are regarded as laid down by fatum , and the rest is left in the balance for the
time being, so that it is possible for Jupiter to be swayed by human prayers or divine
296 requests.[40] Thus Iarbas' prayer does move him to decide to end Aeneas' sojourn in
Carthage; and the Great Mother does achieve at least a part of what she requested.
Thus Jupiter, victus [overcome], certainly, but also volens [willingly], bends to the
wishes of his wife in nulla fati quod lege tenetur (12.819) [what is not covered by
any law of destiny].[41] And here we have the age-old question being raised: how can
an almighty and loving god desire or countenance all the sorrow and misery which
is so prevalent in the world? One can understand the cases when he sends it as
well-deserved punishment (12.853); but how about the cases when it strikes the
innocent? Where the poet speaks in his own person, he can express his painful
surprise at the incomprehensible decision of the all-loving god;[42] when he speaks as
297 narrator, he has to motivate the incomprehensible, and invents the story that, against
the will and commandment of Jupiter, an enemy god has unchained dissension and
war (10.6-9); Jupiter allows it to continue, sure that fatum will nevertheless find its
way, until things reach a point where they threaten to clash with fatum ; then he
intervenes, and all contradiction is silenced, all resistance melts away.[43]
298 The other gods are all treated by the poet as individual personalities, as in Homer.
As a group they are also, on the whole, like Jupiter, raised to a higher sphere. As far
as possible they are kept untainted by everything base or cheap or frivolous, every-
thing at variance with the Roman idea of divinity, particularly as it was understood
in the Augustan period. We shall say more about this later. But the gods are not
entirely free from human weakness. This is essential for characters in an epic: the
poet, as narrator, makes use of it to motivate the action; at the same time he speaks
in his own person to point out that such weakness is basically incompatible with the
nature of divinity ( tantaene animis caelestibus irae? [1.11] [it is hard to believe
gods in heaven capable of such rancour]), or, on the occasion of a particularly
ungodlike act, such as that of the jealous Triton, he indicates that he doubts the truth
of the tradition ( si credere dignum est [6.173] [if we can believe in such a deed]). It
is worth noting that apart from these cases, the actions of the gods (even if, as in
Dido's case, they bring disaster) have as their final aim to help their protégés, not to
harm others. Even in the motivation of Juno's hatred of the Trojans, the emphasis is
put on her love for Carthage (1.12ff.).
More important than this process of elevating the gods, and changing their status
in relation to their chief, is the fact that Virgil, if I am not very much mistaken, has
deliberately woven into his work references to the belief that the gods are equivalent
to aspects of the physical world. We should add that these references would only be
noticed by someone who is familiar with this ratio physica [natural explanation]. It
is done so discreetly that the gods remain persons. In many cases the hints do not go
beyond normal usage. The huntsman Nisus, wishing to pray to Diana for a success-
ful throw, looks up at the moon, and addresses the moon and the goddess as one
(9.403). In Homer, Iris is the messenger of the gods, and has no connection with the
rainbow; in Virgil, the thousand-coloured bow is the path down which she runs to
299 earth (5.609), or which appears as she disappears (5.558; 4.15), or there is a descrip-
tion of how, when she flies, a thousand different colours play against the sunlight
(4.700); and so it is not surprising that Turnus addresses her as decus caeli [glory of
the heavens]; i.e. as the rainbow (9.18). In Homer, Poseidon is the god of the sea, it
is true, but only in the sense that this is the realm which is subject to him; he also
appears on Olympus or takes part in the battle. In Virgil he is inseparable from the
sea, and during the storm (1.126) when he is called graviter commotus [much
moved] and yet placidum caput extulit undis [he raised his head serenely from the
waves], it is possible to take the first as referring to the element and the second to
the god. But the most significant example is the treatment of Juno. When Aeolus
believes that he is obliged to her for being put in charge of the winds by Jupiter, the
ancients had already explained this belief by a ratio physica , since Juno is the air
(Servius on 1.78), and in my opinion this method of interpretation is shown to be the
correct one here:[44] it is significant that it is Juno of whom (7.287) it is said auras
invecta tenebat [riding the air on her course], that she is watching the battle (12.792)
fulva de nube [from a glowing cloud] (cf. gelidis in nubibus [796] [among the chill
clouds], aeria sede [810 cf. 842] [on my airy seat]); that she comes down to earth
agens hiemem nimbo succincta (10.634) [girt with a cloud and driving a storm
before her]; in the same way she sends nigrantem commixta grandine nimbum
(4.120) [a black cloud charged with mingled rain and hail], and (5.607) blows winds
to speed Iris on her way. Other closely related matters will be mentioned later.
2—
The Gods and the Action
In Homer, the gods who guide men's destinies participate in the action; they are
individuals like the mortals and are subject to exactly the same laws of psychology.
We are told precisely how Odysseus brings Poseidon's anger upon himself, how
Agamemnon can be blamed for Zeus' ruinous decision; and altogether, particularly
in the Iliad , the actions of the gods are often motivated from their psychology. It is
true that now and then unfathomable Fate is glimpsed in the dim distance; for
instance, we are told that Achilles is fated to fall at Troy, that Odysseus is fated to be
300 free at last of perils at the home of the Phaeacians; but the amount of influence
which Fate has on the action is negligible. In contrast, in the Aeneid it is precisely
fatum , or the will of Jupiter, which directs the whole action, and this fatum stands
right outside the action. We are not told its reasons, nor are we tempted to ask them;
it has been established eternally, and the contents of the poem show only how it
unrolls. In Homer, we have the impression that man hammers out his own destiny;
even Achilles had the option of living a long, inglorious life instead of a short and
splendid one. A man goes his way according to his own wishes and decisions; from
the gods he receives hindrance or help, according to whether he has made friends or
enemies of them. But Aeneas goes his way, not according to his own decisions, but
as a tool in the hand of Fate, which is using him to lay the foundation for the
imperium Romanum [Roman empire]. This is not a difference of artistic principles
but a difference of Weltanschauung [outlook on the world]. It is obvious which is
easier to portray in poetry; but our immediate task is not to evaluate the poetic result
but to show that it is the necessary consequence of the poet's presuppositions –
presuppositions that he had to take as his starting-point if he did not wish to tell tales
alieno ex ore [from another's mouth], but wished to give a poetic garment to the
belief of his own age.
It was the will of the gods that Troy should fall, but that Aeneas and his house-
hold should escape to found a new empire beyond the seas: that is narrated in
Virgil's Sack of Troy. Minerva has lured the Trojans to their ruin; the gods them-
selves destroy Pergamum – Venus shows this to her son and thus persuades him to
accept it, after Hector's appearance in a dream has prepared his mind and given him
the desire to save the Trojan gods. Anchises' refusal, which would have prevented
the exodus, is set aside by Jupiter's augurium ; Aeneas comes to terms with the loss
of Creusa when she reveals it to be the will of the gods, who have destined a new
marriage for him in his new kingdom. It is by divine command that Aeneas and his
household go to sea; stage by stage Apollo reveals to him the destination of his
journey; he follows the divine directives tirelessly. Only once, a slave to love, is he
in danger of forgetting his destiny: but a reminder from Jupiter is enough to make
301 him make the hardest sacrifice; with his heart bleeding he abandons Dido. Soon
afterwards, in Sicily, a new assault by Juno brings him near to despairing of his
destiny; Anchises' shade, sent to him by Jupiter, encourages him to continue to
follow the path of duty; he finally lands on the promised shore of Hesperia. Here, on
the threshold of a new and difficult task, he is strengthened by being shown by
Anchises what the reward of endurance will be: the goal decreed by fatum , the
imperium Romanum , is revealed in the Parade of Heroes.
In Latium, too, there is provision for the will of fatum to become known to men.
Latinus has received the command to await a son-in-law from abroad, whose de-
scendants shall be the founders of a universal empire; the Etruscans are directed to a
foreign chief, who can be none other than Aeneas. But while the Etruscans, and
Aeneas himself, piously subject themselves to the directives of destiny, the Latins
allow themselves to be so far led astray as to disregard the directive, and although
Latinus himself is more perceptive, he is too weak to prevent their making the
wrong choice; they pay dearly for it,[45] and it is over innumerable corpses that fatum
leads the rebellious ones back to join those who had followed it willingly. That is
how the foundation-stone is laid upon which the eternal structure of the imperium
Romanum shall rise.
It must be clear, even from this brief survey, that Virgil's heroes have a com-
pletely different relationship to the gods from Homer's heroes. It does sometimes
happen in Homer that the gods command the mortals to do something which would
certainly not have happened without this command: e.g. in Iliad 3 Aphrodite uses
threatening words to order the rebellious Helen to rejoin Paris; in Iliad 24 Thetis
brings to her son the command of the gods to exchange Hector's body for ransom,
something which he had always refused to do previously. But, in general, the gods
come to mortals as advisers, or sometimes as seducers, and mortals obey them
because the advice seems good, not simply because it is god-given; there is no
question of a moral obligation to follow the advice of the gods. In contrast, to the
question quid est boni viri? [what is the duty of a good man?] Virgil gives exactly
302 the same answer as Seneca: praebere se fato [to offer himself to fate] (Dial . 1.5.8);[46]
the Stoic requirement (which suits the Roman way of thinking so well), sequi
deum[47] [to follow god], is clearly revealed as the primary, not to say the only,
obligation. Aeneas' greatness does admittedly consist likewise in his bravery, but
primarily it lies most clearly in his pietas ; and this is shown more clearly when it
takes the form of submission to the will of god, i.e. when he resigns himself to the
fall of Troy, the loss of Creusa, the separation from Dido, because he has recognized
it as the will of god. We have seen above that he is by no means a champion of the
faith without fear or fault; he has his moments of weakness and cowardice, but he
overcomes them, submits to fatum , and wins his reward. The Latins resist, and are
punished for it: volentem fata ducunt , nolentem trahunt [the fates lead those who
comply, and drag those who resist].
3—
Communication of Fatum
The most immediate consequence of this state of affairs is that the devices by which
the divinity makes its will known have to play a much more significant part in Virgil
than they do in Homer. There are consequently oracles in the greatest variety, also
prodigies, prognosticatory dreams, omens and the like. Before we pass judgement
on the justification for using these devices to help the story along, we must consider
the beliefs of the time. We cannot emphasize too strongly that these devices have
absolutely nothing to do with the conventional machinery of epic presentation bor-
rowed from older poetry, which were merely stop-gaps in the place of purely human
motivation. Nobody would think of confusing with them the countless analogous
303 phenomena in the historians, such as Livy. Has the epic poet, who is dealing with
the very beginnings of history, less right than the historian? But we cannot even say
that both are narrating in the spirit of the past, that they are putting themselves back
(more or less skilfully) into the minds of earlier peoples for the sake of atmosphere.
The old ideas loomed large even in the bright light of Virgil's own time; indeed it
was precisely then that much which seemed to have been driven out now returned
with greater force. For Apollo still gave his oracle by the mouth of the Pythia or by
the leaves of the Sybil, or sent it to those who slept in his temple to await it.[48]
Auspices and prodigies were still most carefully heeded; people still believed in
prognosticatory dreams: the bells on the gable-roof of Jupiter Tonans reminded
every Roman that Jupiter Capitolinus had appeared to Augustus in a dream, to
complain of neglect.[49] Dead men still returned: before Philippi the shade of the
deified Caesar had announced the victory.[50] There can be no doubt that all these
things were believed, not only by simple peasants but also by highly educated men;
their truth was guaranteed not by ancestral tradition alone but also by the teaching of
Posidonius. I see no reason to assume that Virgil himself in the depth of his heart
refused to believe in them; but in any case it makes no difference either way; it is
enough to know one thing: that for his epic he was drawing on the beliefs of his own
time, and when he has the Penates speaking to Aeneas in a dream, or the gods
sending a prognosticatory prodigium , then that is just as credible a motivation for
the action as a purely human motivation would have been. However, for the poet's
purposes, as we have seen, it is precisely this supernatural motivation which is of
supreme importance. It has to become the actual driving-force of the poem if it is to
convince us that the settlement of the Trojan Penates in Latium was performed by
Aeneas and directed by fate. The poet's task was to make sure that all the ex-
304 pressions of divine will, the manifold communications of fatum , should not appear
as accidental, arbitrary or pointless, as would be the case if, for example, the sojourn
in Carthage had been caused by an oracle or something similar. Far from it; Virgil
never uses Jupiter's expressions of his will, or the interpreters of this will, to retard
the action, but always to advance it, to bring it one step nearer to its goal. Also it
might seem unworthy of divine attention if – as so often in late Greek novels – fatum
had to concern itself so many times with the course of one individual's private life;
Virgil is dealing not with Aeneas' personal destiny, but with the mission which he
embodies, and the final goal of this mission was the present fortunate state of affairs
visible to every reader of the Aeneid : the rule of peace in Augustus' universal
empire.
4—
Symbolic Scenes Featuring Gods
The communication of fatum was a necessary part of the story. Very different is the
matter of the actual scenes featuring gods – conversations of the gods among them-
selves, interventions by Venus, Juno etc. which help or hinder, appearances of gods
or their messengers among men. Here we cannot speak of historical truth in the
sense discussed above; it is a question of poetic fiction in the traditional epic style.[51]
The only question is whether, when Virgil portrayed the gods intervening directly in
human wishes and deeds, he was merely playing a poetic game and portraying a
poetic world in which quite different forces are at work from those in our own
world, a world in which all the physical and psychological laws which bind us are
removed to make way for the capricious happenings of fairytale. There is no disput-
ing the fact that Virgil did not completely reject the fairytale elements: he follows
poetic tradition by including Laocoon's serpents, the one-eyed Cyclopes, the ungra-
cious Harpies with their bird-bodies and girl-faces; and perhaps he is freely
inventing along the same lines when he does something like letting the Trojan ships
305 be turned into nymphs in the face of the enemy. But all that has really nothing to do
with the actual intervention of the gods. When we come to that, I am in fact inclined,
much more than most people these days (1903), to assume that Virgil's intention
was to use symbols, that is, consciously to change simple psychological processes
into instances of divine intervention, counting on the fact that the educated reader of
these scenes featuring gods would interpret them 'allegorically'.
That they have to be so interpreted is immediately clear in a figure such as that of
Fama, which has to be described as 'allegorical' in the present-day sense, being no
different from the Discordia of Petronius and Voltaire. Here, Virgil's portrayal
(4.173ff.) puts it beyond doubt that he is not trying to make people believe in the
reality of a goddess called Fama, but merely creating a concrete symbol for 'ru-
mour', which is not itself a visual concept. But is the case of Allecto basically any
different? We have seen above (p. 148ff.) that she is nothing but Discordia personi-
fied, and that Virgil used the traditional type of the Fury to portray her. In describing
her actions, he avoids anything which might weaken the impression of her physical
presence and energy; indeed, to strengthen this effect, he is not content that she
should merely speak, or influence the mind; he invents real actions for her, though
transparent enough in their symbolism: she thrusts the torch in Turnus' breast,[52] and
whips him from his sleep, she sends one of her serpents in changing forms to Amata,
to inject poison deep inside her; she leads Ascanius' hounds onto the deer's scent,
and sounds the alarm-signal from the roof of the house of the Tyrrhidae; in every
case, the result of her action is the rise of hatred and discord, though always from
completely natural causes: with Turnus and Amata it is from hatred of the intruder;
with the country-dwellers, in the mood they are in, it is from anger at the Trojan
prince's apparently insolent transgression. In this last instance, it would need only a
slight modification of the narrative for Allecto to be completely omitted – the
demon from hell could be replaced by an unfortunate accident: in the case of Amata,
306 the psychological development is described in such detail in and alongside the
symbol that the latter only serves to provide the visual picture; it is only in Turnus'
case that psychological development is completely replaced by symbolic action. In
real life, without any supernatural influence, the swing from calm serenity to raging
battle-lust would not be so sudden. However, it would in itself be basically credible
from natural causes,[53] and Allecto's effect on Turnus is far from being that of a
personal divinity, like the effect, for example, of Homer's Aphrodite on Helen in the
scene from Iliad 3 mentioned above (p. 153). As an allegorical figure, Eros had
already appeared countless times before Virgil in Greek and Roman poetry. Virgil
uses him only in Book I, where, at Venus' request, he takes the form of Ascanius to
inflame Dido's love for Aeneas. Psychologically this is a very fine touch; the
symbolism itself is quite transparent; through the conversation between Venus and
Amor the poet has lifted it above the level of colourless allegory, in the same way as
Apollonius used scenes on Olympus to prepare for the intervention of his Eros.
When Jupiter on his throne sends down one of the Dirae , which appears to Juturna
as an omen but to Turnus as a nightbird, terrifying him, the poet himself indicates
which psychological process is being symbolized: 'Jupiter sends the terrifying spirit-
s to frighten poor mortals when he has singled them out for a tenrible death or
illness, or he terrifies sinful cities with the prospect of war' (12.850). When Pa-
linurus is keeping watch at the tiller, he makes every effort to stay awake but is
overcome by sleep nonetheless. When he falls overboard he pulls the steering-oar
with him, since his last waking thought had been to keep tight hold of it. That is how
the historian would report the incident. The poet has Somnus in the likeness of
307 Phorbas calling him to sleep, then shaking twigs steeped in the waters of Lethe over
Palinurus' temples, so that his eyelids droop shut; finally he throws him, together
with the oar, into the sea. Again, nothing miraculous, just a translation of the natural
occurrence into the mythical; the invisible process is transformed into a visual one.[54]
Virgil had in mind representations of Hypnos which show him using a poppy-stalk
to put to sleep those who rest, and if an artist wished to paint a sleeping man falling
overboard, then, like Virgil, he would have to show Hypnos laying a hand on him.
When Nisus (9.184) is suddenly possessed by the idea of the dangerous mission, he
asks his companion dine hunc ardorem mentibus addunt , an sua cuique deus fit dira
cupido? ['Is it the gods who have put into our hearts this ardour for battle? Or do we
all attribute to a god what is really an overmastering impulse of our own?']. We
have there, at one and the same time, the purely human version of the psychological
process on the one hand, and, on the other, its transformation into the mythical.
When the poet narrates that Jupiter has driven Tarchon into battle-anger with no
gentle goad (11.725) or that Venus has given Aeneas the idea of attacking the Latins'
city (12.554),[55] then he is reporting as fact what Nisus can only suspect; what actually
happens is identical in each case. The poet has the same intentions when, say, in Book
5, he has the Trojan women being led by Iris to think of the foolish enterprise of
setting fire to the ships; her words provide what the historian (as Dionysius does in a
similar situation) would have given as pragmatic motivation. Iris appears as Beroe,
she herself throws the first burning torch into one of the ships, then rises on wings
into the sky, pulling a rainbow behind her; that is all part of the poetic clothing, and
cannot and should not be analysed rationally. The poet, we repeat, is not using just
verbal metaphors; he is transforming the scene into a visual depiction in mythical
terms; at the same time he describes the essential content of the scene, the psycho-
logical process, perfectly clearly. The appearance of Mercury in Books 4 and 1 may
serve as a final example. In 1.297 Jupiter sends Mercury to Carthage to make sure
that Aeneas will be made welcome there. Mercury carries out the mission; we do not
hear how, only that he is successful: ponunt ferocia Poeni corda volente deo ; in
primis regina quietum accipit in Teucros animum mentemque benignam [at his
308 divine will the Carthaginians put from them all thoughts of hostility. Especially he
inspired their queen with a tolerance for the Trojans and a kindly intent]. Critics
have rightly commented on the un-epic brevity and lack of visual presentation at this
point;[56] Virgil has probably refrained from giving more details here because a
mission of Mercury's had already been described in Book 4 (238f.) in Homeric
colours, and he dislikes repetition; nor would he wish to interrupt the main action
with a second, longish digression. But we can only understand his brevity com-
pletely when we realize that this god, who works by imposing his will on heart,
mind and spirit, is the 
[reason] which tames men's 
[passions] before
they have a chance of erupting.[57] In Book 4, Mercury is sent to Aeneas to remind
him of his mission; he finds him occupied with the construction of the Carthaginian
citadel, and delivers his message. Aeneas is immediately resolved to leave Carthage:
dulcis terras (281) [the land of his love] says the poet, showing with a single word
how difficult the decision is for the hero. If we think what this scene would be
without the divine intervention, then the natural situation is obvious: instead of the
reminder being delivered by the divine [reason] coming from outside in the
form of a person, one must think of it as coming from the divine which lives
within every man's breast; and it is a very fine touch that the sight of the citadel of
Carthage being erected is what suddenly and irresistibly reminds the hero of the city
309 which he was destined by fate to establish.[58] There is scarcely a better parallel to this
scene than the Homeric one in Iliad 1, where Athena comes suddenly to Achilles
and prevents his anger breaking out, i.e. the hero comes to his senses in good time.
The goddess here was interpreted in Virgil's own time as 
[reasoning].[59]
I said 'the divine which lives within every man's breast'; this concept,
which we may assume was Virgil's also (there is no need to look further than
6.730), must have led very easily to using the image of divine intervention to
symbolize what we regard as natural psychological processes. Rationi se subicere
[to submit to reason] and deum sequi [to follow god] as, Seneca, for example, so
clearly teaches, mean virtually the same regarded from this viewpoint, and other
common phrases – deus ad homines venit , immo , quod est propius , in homines venit :
nulla sine deo mens bona est [god comes to men: indeed, he comes nearer than that
– he comes into men: no mind is good without god] ( Ep . 73.16) etc. – are extremely
close to visual presentation of them in mythical terms.
It is true that we can by no means regard all cases of divine intervention in this
light. Venus' appearance in Book 2 could, at a pinch, still be understood as a symbol
of sudden 'enlightenment'; but when she appears in Book 1, and explains to Aeneas
about Dido and her past history, this is impossible, as it also is in Book 8 when she
brings Vulcan's armour to her son. These cases are not very numerous; they also
include, for example, the scene in Book 10 where Juno uses a false cloud-wraith of
Aeneas to lure Turnus out of the battle and onto a ship, which she then looses from
its moorings and dispatches towards Ardea; Apollo's words of praise and warning to
Ascanius in Book 9; Juturna's entrance in Book 12. At the same time we should
310 note that, apart from Aeneas' shield, we can speak of a miracle at all comparable to
the transformation of the ships only in the case of the intervention by Juno. Venus'
words in Book 1 could equally well have been spoken by a real Tyrian huntswoman,
Apollo's words could have been spoken by the real Butes, Camers could have
spoken just as well to the Rutulians in Juturna's place, Metiscus could have steered
Turnus' chariot away from Aeneas, and handed him the sword in the duel. Just as, in
general, Virgil restricted the gods' part in the fighting to a minimum, so he deliber-
ately omitted or toned down the actually miraculous element, which featured so
richly in his model, the battle-scenes of the Iliad . To quote only one example:
compare the miraculous healing of Aeneas by Aphrodite in Book 12 with the
healing of Hector in Iliad 15. In Homer (Iliad 14.409) Ajax has wounded Hector by
hitting him on the chest with a huge stone, which made him plummet to the ground
like an oak felled by lightning; his companions carry him away from the fighting; he
is laid on the ground by the river and water is poured over him, he comes round,
spits blood and falls back again into unconsciousness. Soon after (15.239), he is
feeling somewhat better and is pulling himself together; then Apollo breathes 
[great strength] into him, and he immediately leaps up and, moving his limbs
easily and swiftly, runs back into the fight, like a spirited steed which has torn itself
away from the manger; and of course the Achaeans have every reason to be amazed,
when they see the man they believed dead now unexpectedly restored to full
strength. Aeneas has been wounded in the leg by an arrow, but he can still stand if
he leans on his lance. The arrow will not budge from the wound; then Venus drips
into the water which the doctor has to hand the sap of a healing blood-staunching
herb (not a magic potion) and scarcely has this water wetted the wound when the
arrow slips out, the pain disappears and the bleeding stops. Thus the long, vain
efforts of the skilled doctor are finally and unexpectedly successful; he can only
explain it to himself as divine help, and we know that he is right. Aeneas can return
to the fight, although the wound does hinder him a little in walking (746). We see
how Virgil has taken trouble to make the miracle closer to a natural event, though
without falling into trivial rationalizing.
311
5—
Ways in Which the Gods Appear
The ways in which the gods appear are as varied as in Homer. They work either
invisibly (e.g. Juno 10.633ff., Venus 12.411, 786), or they appear to mortals in their
own form (Venus in Books 2 and 8, Mercury in Book 4, Iris in Book 9) or disguised
as humans (Venus in Book 1, Iris and Somnus in Book 5, Allecto in Book 7, Apollo
in Book 9, Juturna in Book 12): then they are recognized in different ways, by the
person most closely involved, as they disappear (Venus, Iris, Apollo) or – only in
the case of Juturna 12.632 – while they are at work; or, finally, they appear in a
dream (the Penates in Book 2, Mercury in Book 4, Allecto in Book 7, Tiberinus in
Book 8).[60] In Homer I do not think that one can point to any firm principle for the
appearance of gods, nor is one or the other form to be recognized as original or at
any rate older.[61] Virgil felt that the appearance of gods in their own form was the
option which made by far the greatest demands on the reader's credulity, and
therefore only uses it when it is unavoidable; for example, when a command of
Jupiter's is to be delivered to Aeneas with the fullest authority, when Venus wishes
to show her son the activity of the gods who are destroying Troy, and when she
brings him the armour, and, finally, when Iris is sent by Juno to tell Turnus things
that none of his own men can; also, here (9.16), it is left in doubt whether Turnus
fails to recognize her until she is disappearing. In any case, he recognizes her
appearance as a mark of superabundant grace from god, and turns immediately to
vows and prayers. The scene between Venus and Aeneas in Book 8 is narrated so
briefly that we are not even told what Aeneas said; in Books 2 and 4 the divine
312 apparitions have hardly finished talking when they have disappeared, and only the
deepest impression of terror is left behind by the visionary appearance of Mercury
(4.279).[62] Similarly, the vision of the Nymphs (10.219ff.) fades like a watery mirage
before Aeneas has recovered (249) from his surprise. In each case the visionary
nature of the apparition is preserved as far as possible; the divinity never lowers
herself to have a comfortable chat with the mortal, as Athena does with Odysseus in
Odyssey 13, or even, when recognized, to exchange angry words, as with Aphrodite
and Helen in Iliad 3;[63] nor does it occur to the gods to introduce themselves to the
mortals as such, as Poseidon and Athena do in Iliad 21. A deliberately archaizing
poet would perhaps have emphasized such scenes, taking delight in the old naïve
concept of divinity. A poet who was merely thoughtlessly imitating would have
used the scenes indiscriminately. Clearly Virgil was doing neither of these things.
Even when the gods reveal themselves in a different (always human) form, their
true nature is not always completely concealed. They do not actually change into
mortals, they merely put on another shape and clothing like a disguise; in the Tyrian
maiden Aeneas thinks that he recognizes the face and voice of the goddess, and
persists in this belief even when she denies it (1.327, 372); the false Beroe betrays
herself to at least one of the Trojan women (who, it is true, had become suspicious
for another reason) by the gleam in her eyes, and by her voice, gait, in short, all the
divini signa decoris (5.647) [marks of divine beauty]; in the same way in Homer,
Hector recognizes Iris ( Iliad 2.307), and Aeneas recognizes Apollo (17.333),
although they appear in disguise and do not particularly reveal themselves to be
gods by the manner of their disappearing or in any other way. But Venus and Iris do
not intend to remain permanently unrecognized (any more than Apollo does in
9.646): as they disappear they reveal themselves in their true shape, which lends
313 greater weight to what they have said. That is how Achates, 1.585, can appeal to the
goddess' promise; that is how Ascanius learns of the god's loving concern, which
also confirms his high destiny; finally, the Trojan women did not dare to follow a
Beroe although they were desperately keen to do so, but when they realize that it
was a goddess speaking to them they truly become 'possessed of the goddess' (cf.
5.679) and rush with wild enthusiasm to follow the example of their temptress.
Amor's appearance in Book 1 is unique; one would like to know whether it is
Virgil's own invention. In this case, not only does the god take on human shape, he
is put in place of Ascanius, while the latter is temporarily removed by Venus. The
device has the disadvantage that it cannot be thought through to the end; we are not
told when Ascanius is brought back, whether he or Aeneas ever realizes that the
substitution took place, etc. This is totally un-Homeric, and Virgil could only do it
because Book 1 is separated from Book 4 by the two books of Aeneas' narrative, so
that the substitution can be ignored without its being too obvious that this has been
done.
6—
Dreams
The dream-apparitions in the Aeneid (apart from Dido's dreams, 4.465ff.)[64] are not
presented as. natural dreams such as anyone might experience, but rather as oracles
which have been prayed for or wished for. Also, the person who appears to the
sleeper is not, as in Homer, somebody close to him, but a god or – almost the same
thing – someone who has died. The choice of who shall appear has always been
made after careful consideration of each situation. The dream-appearance of the
Penates (3.147) was taken by Virgil from the tradition, where these gods repeatedly
announced their wishes in dreams. Virgil selects the most appropriate time; when it
is a question of which land these Penates are to be carried back to, they themselves
give information about their original home. In this case it is left in doubt whether it
is a dream or a vision. Aeneas believes that it is a real appearance of the gods; he
314 rejects any thought that it might be a deceptive dream.[65] Hector has a unique
vocation to prepare Aeneas for his mission; no other mouth could speak the deciding
words si Pergama dextra defendi possent , etiam hac defensa fuissent (2.291) ['if any
strong arm could have defended our fortress, surely mine would have defended it'].
Mercury's dream-appearance in Book 4 is prepared for by his first appearance,
Anchises' night-time appearance in Book 5 (which should surely be dealt with here
although it is presented as a vision, not as a dream) is required by the mood of the
whole book, as also as preparation for 6.695. The god Tiberinus appears to Aeneas
in Book 8 when he has fallen asleep on his banks and will be carried to Evander the
next day when his waves have been calmed. Here, too, Aeneas has to be made to
trust the apparition unreservedly, although it will cause him to leave his men in a
dangerous position: that is why the dream is immediately endorsed by the prodigium
of the pregnant sow (8.81). Allecto appears to Turnus as a priestess of Juno – et est
oraculum quidem , says Macrobius,[66] cum in somnis parens vel alia sancta gravisve
persona seu s a c e r d o s vel etiam deus aperte eventurum quid aut non eventurum ,
faciendum vitandumve denuntiat [and it is an oracle, when in one's sleep a parent or
some other sacred or important person openly declares, like a priest or even a god,
that something is to happen or not to happen, something is to be done or avoided] -
in order to convince him of the truth of the dream as oracle; she also thereby proves
herself to be a messenger of her divine mistress. But these dreams do not come out
of the blue, as it were, with no preparation, but only when the sleeper has gone to
sleep full of anxiety about the content of the dream, having, as it were, put a
question to the gods in his thoughts;[67] or the dream links up with events which have
greatly troubled the subject's mind the previous day; they link up so closely that it is
clear that the sleeper's mind is still preoccupied with those events. But what the
dream-image proclaims is also psychologically true to the extent that the content
which is new to the dreamer is always linked to things already known, it is never
315 something completely new and unexpected. With the appearances of Hector and
Mercury this needs no further demonstration; Anchises in Book 5 endorses Nautes'
advice and suggests the journey to Hades, which may have already occupied Ae-
neas' yearning thoughts; Tiberinus advises asking Evander for help (and Aeneas
already knows of him, 8.138), and thereby links up with the Sybil's prophecy, via
prima salutis Graia pandetur ab urbe (6.96) [the first path to preservation which
will open before you will start from a Greek city] – it is true that a completely new
addition here is the announcement of the prodigium of the sow ; finally the Penates
indicate their original home, Hesperia, and thereby repeat an oracle of Cassandra's
(which was probably invented for this very purpose), an oracle which was given to
Anchises and thus need not have lain completely outside Aeneas' knowledge. In all
these messages there is sufficient new content to stop one saying that the sleeper
could have thought of it himself while awake; they are deliberately presented as
supernatural 'inspiration'; however, we should realize how very different it would
be if Aeneas were to learn in a dream what Venus tells him about Dido, or if
Tiberinus, not Evander, were to direct Aeneas to Etruria and explain the situation
there. Also, the ritual dream-oracle of Faunus (7.81) is different from those other
dreams: left to himself, Latinus could never have thought of the externi generi
[sons-in-law from abroad] and their noble descendants.
7—
Omens
Omens of many kinds, sent by the gods to warn or to encourage, play a rôle in
Homer, though not a very important one. The Roman Virgil had to allow them more
space. The auspicium maximum , which Anchises receives as an answer to his prayer
before the exodus, has been discussed above (p. 32). When the promised land has
been reached, Jupiter confirms the fulfilment of his commandment with triple light-
ning and thunder (7.141), and he also thunders from the left and sends lightning
from a clear sky when Ascanius prays to him before his first feat of arms (9.630).
Here Virgil is making use of the tradition that this highest auspicium [omen] first
came to Ascanius in the war against Mezentius (Dion. Hal. 2.5). Others named
Aeneas as first recipient (Plut. Quaest . Rom . 78), and Virgil does not ignore this
316 tradition either: thunder and lightning from a clear sky, together with the sound of
the tuba [trumpet] and the clatter of weapons, are the encouraging signs which
Venus sends to her son before the outbreak of war (8.524). Here we see that the
actual auspicium is linked with one of the most common prodigia , which otherwise
only indicate fighting or killing, but here receive deeper significance from the
connection with the arma Vulcania [arms of Vulcan]. Closely related to the
heavenly signs is Acestes' burning arrow (5.522), of which the significance has
already been discussed (p. 133ff.)
The observation of bird-signs seems to have gone out of fashion by Virgil's day.
The repetition of Romulus' vulture-sign when Octavian first took up the consulate
was clearly something quite out of the ordinary.[68] This fits in with the fact that in
Virgil only Venus, once, in the guise of the Tyrian maiden, prophesies from the
flight of birds (1.393),[69] and that the bird-sign interpreted by Tolumnius (12.259) is
false. Haruspicium [inspection of the entrails of sacrificial victims] is similarly (and
significantly) used only by Dido (4.63) and she is also the only one who takes refuge
in the dark powers of magic.
In contrast, prodigies play no small part; this is again in the spirit of Virgil's own
day. The two prodigia taken from the tradition, that of the table and that of the
pregnant sow, differ from the others in that they serve to confirm earlier prophecies;
but the accounts of Dido's frightening signs (4.452ff.) and of the divine warnings
relating to Lavinia (7.58ff.) read just like the lists of prodigia in Roman annals.
Similarly, Virgil also used Roman beliefs to make other 
[signs] comprehen-
sible to his readers. The voice of Polydorus speaking from his grave (3.19ff.) is
treated exactly like a warning prodigium (above p. 81); with the Harpies the Trojans
are not sure whether they are really dealing with goddesses or with dirae volucres
[sinister birds]; oaths and prayers are prescribed to gain the pax deum [approval of
the gods] as one does after prodigies, and as soon as possible the crowd is purified
(3.261, 279). It is in the shape of a bird of misfortune, that is precisely of a dira
volucris , that the Dira sent by Jupiter shows itself to Turnus (12.862). When the
wooden horse comes to a halt four times as it crosses the threshold of the Trojan
317 city-gate, the bewildered Trojans take no notice of the omen (2.242), whereas the
belief in omens is otherwise firmly established (3.537; 10.311).
It is a long way from fatum solemnly proclaimed from a god's mouth, to am-
biguous omens. As we have seen, Virgil does not ignore any stations along this way;
beliefs in supernatural revelations and influences held by his contemporaries all find
their place in the poem. If it is really true, as ancient commentators already felt, that
[respect for the gods] was one of the most fundamental characteristics
of the Roman character, then Virgil's art has made the Aeneid in this area too the
Roman epic 
[par excellence ].
8—
Presentation of Scenes Featuring Gods
The theological basis of Virgil's pantheon, as I have tried to reconstruct it, has not
been without influence on the external form of the scenes involving the gods,
something which we must now examine briefly before finishing our study of this
area.[70] It has been remarked often enough that Virgil's gods do not match Homer's
in poetic realism. Virgil is not consistent in his treatment. Sometimes he describes
the entrance of a god with a rich abundance of detail – as, for example, in the case of
the progress of Neptune in Books 1.142f. and 5.817f., and Mercury's mission in
Book 4.238f. – but these are exceptions. On the whole, the scenes with gods are less
visual than those presenting the actions of mortals. For example, what a patchy
description we have of the situation in Book 1 when Juno is conversing with Aeolus,
compared with something like Thetis' visit to Hephaestus; and this despite the fact
318 that the meeting takes place in a defined setting on earth, in Aeolus' stronghold on
the Lipari Islands. Otherwise, the scenes featuring gods are set simply 'in heaven';[71]
only once does the scholar rather than the poet distinguish between the layer of
cloud nearer the earth and the pure ether (12.792); or the setting is 'the house of
Jupiter',[72] and here again only one single feature, Jupiter's golden throne (10.116)
offers anything to visualize; even when the couple Venus and Vulcan are shown
together there is only the simple indication of scene, thalamo coniugis aureo (8.372)
[her husband's gold marriage-room], and one is almost surprised later (415) to be
given the further detail of the god's 'soft couch'. Or there is the final variant when
nothing at all is said about the setting of the gods' conversation.[73] Now it is true that
Homer is often equally vague; but, in other passages, the Iliad has very detailed
descriptions of the gods' dwellings and activities, and the reader's imagination is
already guided in a certain direction so that it easily supplies its own picture where
the poet omits it. In the Odyssey one can feel a definite difference: the assemblies of
the gods in Odyssey 1 and 5 are described with a Virgilian vagueness; there is also a
Virgilian inconsistency in the treatment of divine entrances. In Odyssey 5 we are
told exactly where Poseidon comes from, where he is when he catches sight of
Odysseus, and whither he then turns his horses, whereas Athena is simply present,
and works not as a person but as an impersonal divine force. There is an equally
sharp contrast between the two types of presentation in Virgil: in Book 4 Mercury
appears, on the Homeric model, as a divine person, described very visually; in Book
1 he works, we are not shown how, purely as the divine [word]. When we
studied the treatment of the human action, we found that Virgil lays most weight on
the psychological processes, and less on physical actions. This is much more clear in
the case of the gods: the psychological motivation is given with great care in
monologue, speech, and action; but where the gods are not intervening directly in
human affairs, so that they have to be treated like humans to preserve the unity of
the style, Virgil is not at all inclined to emphasize the physical embodiment of the
spiritual forces beyond what is absolutely necessary.
III—
The Action
a—
The Structure of the Action
1—
Purposeful Progress
In order to characterize the way in which Virgil deals with the action, I will now
attempt to establish the types of action among which his creative inventiveness
prefers to move. The general difference between Virgil's and Homer's treatment of
319 the action could be summed up by saying that Homer's action is only significant in
itself, whereas Virgil's always has a higher purpose. Reading Homer, one so often
has the impression that the narrator has lost sight of the point of each episode; as
A.W. Schlegel put it,[74] 'he lingers over every detail of the past with total attention,
as if nothing had happened before or would happen after, so that everything is
equally interesting as a living present time'. When this 'epic stillness' does occur in
Virgil, it is the exception; the Aeneid is generally more like drama, where every
scene (in so far as it is aiming at specifically dramatic effects) is directed towards a
precise goal; Virgil intends us never to lose the feeling that the action is moving
forward . Compare the treatment of Menelaus when he is wounded by Pandarus,
with the treatment of Aeneas when he is wounded in Book 12. That the reader may
be excited and tense about the consequences of the treacherous shot does not trouble
Homer in the least (unless one is supposed to credit him with deliberately removing
the tension and excitement); nor does it have any bearing on the subsequent events
whether Menelaus recovers earlier or later; and yet we are made to linger over the
scene as every possible detail is given. In Virgil, everything depends on Aeneas'
being fighting-fit again, or else the enemy will gain the upper hand; the scene has an
energy which directs it towards this goal and gives it point, and the attainment of
this goal is essential for the success of the main action. Virgil does not invent an
action like the 
[Agamemnon's survey of his men], the
[the survey from the walls], or the introduction of the 
[Dolon
episode]. The apparent exceptions prove the rule. It is true that there are scenes
which do not contribute anything to the advancement of the main story, and do not
show any forward movement in themselves; but this is when the interest does not lie
at all in the action and its portrayal but either (as in the Andromache scene) in the
portrayal of an emotion, or (as in the tour of the site of Rome in Book 8) the national
history of Rome.
2—
Strong Openings
Virgil loves to start the action with a sudden strong impetus , rather than slowly and
320 gradually. He wants to catch the listener's interest all at once, not step by step. How
little haste the writer of the Odyssey makes to get to his hero, how much time he
takes with the broad exposition! And when we do finally meet Odysseus, how
calmly and dispassionately the events then unroll before our eyes! The Aeneid
begins, after a short introduction, with a turbulent scene, the tempest. When we see
the hero for the first time he is in deadly danger. It is true that the exposition of this
scene is comparatively calm (Juno's monologue and the conversation with Aeolus)
but Juno's first words already proclaim the doom-laden event and swiftly it speeds
nearer. This same pattern is repeated at every opportunity in the course of the
narrative; I have referred to it repeatedly in my analysis which forms the first half of
this study. In the second book, Aeneas' narrative begins more like a report than a
description. The description starts when Laocoon suddenly enters. After Sinon's
long tale, the entrance of the serpents and Laocoon's death set the action moving
with a sharp impetus. The depiction of the night of terror does not begin with
Aeneas being wakened by the clamour and gradually realizing what is happening,
but with the pathos-laden appearance of Hector in a dream, which suddenly, and all
at once, throws a harsh light on the situation. In Book 4 it is a question of bringing
about Aeneas' departure. Another poet might have chosen to show the situation
gradually becoming impossible, or Aeneas remembering his higher duty after the
lapse of a certain amount of time. In Virgil it is a quite precise event, Iarbas' defiant
prayer, which sets things moving; and Mercury's mission strikes the unthinking
Aeneas like a bolt from the blue. Similarly when he actually sails away: for the story
it would have sufficed for Aeneas to wake up at the first light of day and give the
order to sail away, but this would have made too gentle a start for an action so
fraught with consequences. Virgil makes Mercury enter a second time, and now
Aeneas subitis exterritus umbris corripit e somno corpus sociosque fatigat (4.571)
[was shocked by the sudden apparition: he leapt up and gave his comrades the
alarm]. The real action of Book 6 begins when the Sybil enters; Virgil could have
narrated how Aeneas sought her out, told her his wishes etc. Instead, he chooses to
begin by describing a state of rest – Aeneas sunk in contemplation before the
321 temple-pictures – which is then rudely interrupted; only a few lines later can he
begin to consult the god. One final example: the opening of Book 9 when Iris is sent
to Turnus. Basically, the technical reason for this is that the new action should not
have a flat beginning.
3—
Scenes
Virgil knew from experience that a scene presented dramatically has a stronger
effect than a scene narrated in epic style. He therefore tries to come as near as
possible to composing the separate parts of his narrative as dramatic scenes . I select
for my first example the treaty and its violation in Book 12, a scene which I have
already analysed from a different viewpoint (p. 176f.). As before, we can learn much
by comparing it with Homer. In Homer we watch the whole course of the action
unroll all of a piece. Paris retreats before Menelaus, Hector upbraids him; Paris
himself then suggests the duel; Hector restrains the Trojans from entering the fight,
Agamemnon realizes why and does the same with the Greeks; Hector speaks and
Menelaus answers; the duel is decided upon. Heralds are sent to Ilium and to the
Greek camp. Meanwhile, Helen, driven by Iris, goes onto the ramparts and points
out the Greek heroes to Priam; the herald finds Priam there and the latter goes to the
duelling-place. There oaths are sworn, sacrifices made, Priam returns; preparations
and duel. Aphrodite carries Paris off to Troy, there is a long scene there between her
and Helen, who finally returns to Paris. Meanwhile Menelaus is looking for him on
the battlefield in vain. There follows a long scene on Olympus, resulting in the
abduction of Pandarus by Athena. Menelaus is wounded, there is a long conversa-
tion between him and Agamemnon; the herald enters the camp, delivers his message
to Machaon, returns with him, Menelaus is tended; meanwhile the Trojans are
already advancing to fight, Agamemnon is raising his men's spirits individually. In
Virgil the arrangements have been made the day before; the action begins as day
dawns, as so often in drama. The scene is the plain in front of the city (116); we only
leave this arena once briefly during a break in the action, in order to be present
during Juno's conversation with Juturna (134-60). The characters enter one after
another, so that the audience has time to get to know them; first servants, who erect
turf altars; then the armoured soldiers from both sides; the leaders, clothed in purple
and adorned with gold, rush about; at a given signal, positions are taken up, weapons
are laid down; on the walls and roofs of the city can be seen women, old men and
other non-combatant spectators: everything awaits the main characters. This is
where the above-mentioned break comes. Now, when everything is ready, Latinus
and Turnus, Aeneas and Ascanius enter; with them are the priests; in the case of
these main characters their outward appearance is described, giving a vivid picture
of the scene. There follows the detailed description of the oaths and sacrifices.
Meanwhile, among the Rutulians a feeling of opposition to the duel has already
sprung up; it grows as Turnus approaches the altar praying and showing visible
signs of excitement: here, Juturna intervenes in the shape of Camers; things develop
rapidly until the spear is thrown by Tolumnius and there is turmoil around the altar;
Latinus flees back to the city, Aeneas wants to stay but is wounded and has to be led
back to the camp: now Turnus shouts for chariot and arms, and the regular battle
develops. One could regard the whole narrative as an exact portrayal of a scene as it
would have been acted out in the contemporary Roman theatre, which liked specta-
cular productions: on the stage the one short conversation between Juno and Juturna
would be omitted. A second, very clear example is Aeneas' first meeting with Dido.
The scene is set in Juno's temple in Carthage. Aeneas and Achates enter; they talk
while looking at the pictures. Soon the queen arrives with a splendid retinue; Aeneas
and Achates hide so as to watch the situation unobserved for a time. Dido, sur-
rounded by her guard, takes her place on the throne in the centre of the temple and
delivers commands and judgements. Noise and commotion are heard from outside;
the excited group of Trojan leaders crowds in, surrounded by crowds of Carthagi-
nians; Ilioneus steps forward and speaks with Dido. Scarcely has she expressed her
desire to see Aeneas himself before her when he appears to everyone,, resplendent in
a halo of light. First he addresses the queen with enthusiastic gratitude, then he gives
warm greetings to the companions he had believed lost. Dido recovers from her
323 great amazement and welcomes him and invites him to be her guest; exeunt all in a
merry festive throng (631). All through the Aeneid , at nearly all the high-points of
the action, there are scenes like this which are conceived from the viewpoint of a
dramatist. They are presented using all the means of epic technique, but they retain
as much dramatic effect as possible. I need merely mention the scene by the wooden
horse; the scene at Priam's altar (2.512); the scene before Aeneas leaves Troy
(2.634); the scene at Hector's tumulus (3.304); or at the ara [altar] of Hercules;
Aeneas' arrival at Evander's shore (8.102). Lesser scenes are the meeting of Aeneas
and the Sybil (6.59), the Achaemenides episode (3.588), Aeneas' return to his men
(10.215-75). Finally, I remind you of Virgil's ability to bring the spectators of an
action into the same picture as the protagonists wherever appropriate. We have
discussed this above in connection with the Sinon scene, the boat-race, and the final
duel.
4—
Peripeteia
Pure epic style has a calm, steady development of the action in a single direction,
although it may be delayed at times by hindrances. Dramatic style has a sudden
reversal, a 
. Our analysis in the first part has shown that, wherever he has
the choice, Virgil always prefers to 'break' the action rather than let it unroll
steadily. He starts by making the action apparently head in a different direction from
the real one, and then suddenly turns it around; or, in cases where the right direction
is taken from the start, he is not content with simple hindrances but intensifies them
where possible so that they actually set the action off in a different direction.
Seen from the Greek standpoint, the sack of Troy and its prologue form one
steadily unrolling action, in which Laocoon's entry and warning bring only a
momentary retardation. But as Virgil tells it, from the Trojan standpoint, the action
starts by apparently moving steadily towards the deliverance of Troy. It reaches its
highpoint in the joyful celebration after the horse has been pulled in. The peripeteia
occurs here, and the action rapidly moves in the opposite direction. The night-battle
324 itself is traditionally one long Greek victory; in Virgil, it seems for a while that the
Trojans may triumph; but, only a short time after, fortune takes a different turn.
Odysseus strives to reach his home with a steady, uninterrupted effort. The
sojourns with Circe and Calypso delay his journey but do not change his destination.
In Book 4 of the Aeneid , at first everything seems to indicate that Aeneas will stay in
Carthage permanently: Juno is working towards this end, Dido's love relies on it,
Aeneas himself seems to have completely forgotten his true destiny. Then Mercury
enters, the peripeteia occurs, and the narrative swings unstoppably in the opposite
direction, and Aeneas sails away.
In accordance with the historical tradition, the burning of the ships in Sicily only
serves to explain the Trojan settlement there: Aeneas had to leave behind the crews
of these ships. In Virgil's narrative, where the burning of the ships follows directly
on the funeral games, it is a peripeteia .[75] The scenes of happy gaiety are suddenly
interrupted by an event which the poet deliberately makes more terrible. It is true
that Jupiter soon quenches the fire, but Aeneas' whole enterprise seems jeopardized
(700-4) and it is only Nautes' advice, in combination with Anchises' appearance in a
dream, which brings the action back onto its original path.
According to the tradition, the settlement of Latium took place at first without
any great difficulty. It was only later that Aeneas and Ascanius had to fight re-
peatedly to assert their right to their gains. Virgil's Book 7 is arranged according to
the same plan as the actions we have already examined. At first, everything seems to
guarantee the happy outcome. The prodigium of the tables makes the Trojans sure
that they have at last reached the promised land. The oracle of Faunus has already
disposed Latinus to give the strangers a friendly welcome. The embassy is taking its
course to the entire satisfaction of both parties. Then Juno intervenes, and step by
step everything goes into reverse, until the huge war blazes up and seems to engulf
in its flames everything which has been achieved.
The same principle which is at work on the larger scale is also visible on the
325 smaller scale, in the separate parts of the narrative. I need only remind you that
comparison with Homer's description of the races clearly showed that the unex-
pected peripeteia is Virgil's own. Similarly, in the description of battles, again and
again the plot has the action rising to a definite high point and then suddenly
switching direction. Rather than go through the same group of examples again, I
will adduce some different, isolated ones.
Before Aeneas and the Sibyl find their way over the Stygian waters to the
Underworld itself, they have to overcome the resistance of Charon the ferryman
(6.385ff.). It would be simple retardation if, in reply to Charon's speech, the Sibyl
had pulled rank as Apollo's priestess and Charon had given way to her. Virgil makes
a much more dramatic scene. The Sibyl's reply begins with an attempt to dispel
Charon's fears; she tells him Aeneas' name, praises his pietas , explains the purpose
of his visit – all in vain; Charon persists in his refusal.[76] Then the Sibyl pulls the
golden bough from under her robe: ramum hunc agnoscas ['you must recognize this
branch'] – and there is no need of further words on either side; with quiet respect
Charon steers his boat to the bank. This intermezzo is a miniature drama in itself.
The morning after the festival of Hercules (8.470), Evander answers Aeneas'
request for help. His answer is as favourable as could be: whatever troops can be
raised will be at his disposal; he also holds out the prospect of a considerably larger
contingent of Etruscans; Aeneas could then thank him and joyfully begin the voyage
to Caere. Instead, Evander's speech is phrased in such a way that Aeneas feels it
puts an end to all his hopes, and does not dare to trust the prospect of Etruscan help.
Aeneas and Achates sit with downcast looks, miserably considering the harshness of
fate (520ff.) – then lightning and thunder from a clear sky give a timely sign of good
fortune, weapons gleam and clash in the air. Aeneas knows that his divine mother
remembers her promise, and all care has gone, the preparations for departure are
taken in hand immediately and joyfully.
326 In the storm in the Odyssey , Poseidon's intervention (5.365ff.) does not appear to
be a peripeteia : he himself says right at the beginning that the end of Odysseus'
troubles waits for him on Scheria, and he only tries to delay this. The counter-action
of the helpful goddesses, Leucothea and Athena, splinters into a series of small
actions which gradually, joined with Odysseus' desperate efforts, nullify the effect
of Poseidon's unfriendly intervention. In Virgil, the action starts with the outbreak
of the storm. Step by step, the Trojans come nearer to disaster, one ship has already
sunk, another four are already in danger of going the same way, then Neptune
calmly surfaces from the deep, the winds depart, the clouds disperse, the sea calms
down, the grounded ships float free and make for the safe shore. Thus what we have
here is not an often retarded but always straightforward action with many stages, but
one that has one single energetic break at the peripeteia .
5—
Surprise
A sudden reversal, such as we have just described, will generally mean that one or
all of those concerned are surprised . Such surprise, which results from sudden and
unexpected events, and emphasizes their significance to some extent, plays an im-
portant rôle in Virgil's action, even in places where we can hardly speak of a
peripeteia . Consider how Aeneas' appearance surprises Andromache,[77] Dido,[78]
Acestes,[79] and Evander and his men,[80] or think of Aeneas' own experiences during
the last stages of the sack of Troy: Venus' appearance, his father's refusal, flame-
omens, the heavenly auspice, the sight of the enemy, the loss of Creusa, the vision of
her – it is clear that he tumbles from one surprise to another, and when he finally
327 returns to his household he is also amazed to face a quite different sight from what
he expected.[81] Comparison with Homer again sets this characteristic in a clearer
light. In Iliad 4, when the Trojans advance to fight after the breach of the treaty,
Homer merely says of the Achaeans 
[once more they put on their armour and turned their thoughts to battle]
(Iliad 4.222). How Virgil would have depicted this, one can imagine from a scene in
Book 11 (445ff.). The armistice is over, in Laurentum they must realize that the
fighting will start again, but the scene is described like this:
nuntius ingenti per regia tecta tumultu
ecce ruit magnisque urbem terroribus implet ,
instructos acie Tiberino a flumine Teucros
Tyrrhenamque manum totis descendere campis .
extemplo turbati animi concussaque vulgi
pectora etc.
[and, see, the news now darted swiftly through the palace buildings, spreading
intense excitement and striking keen alarm into the city; the Trojans, marshalled for
battle, and with them the Etruscan contingent, were bearing down on them all over
the plain from the river Tiber. At once the nation was shaken to the heart and thrown
into confusion]. In the Homeric boxing-match when Epeius issues his insolent
challenge, the others all remain silent. 'Only Euryalus went out to meet him . . . . The
son of Tydeus encouraged him to fight' ( Iliad 23.676). When Eryx decides to accept
the challenge (5.400), he throws two powerful caestus [boxing-leathers] into the
ring: obstipuere animi . . . ante omnis stupet ipse Dares [all were astounded . . . but
Dares himself was the most impressed]. A whole group of such events is formed by
the appearances of gods and their subsequent recognition. In Homer, when Ajax
recognizes Poseidon ( Iliad 13.61), Aeneas Apollo (17.333), Priam Hermes (24.468),
no words are wasted on describing the effect. It is unusually explicit when Helen 'is
surprised' when she becomes aware of Aphrodite's presence (3.398). In such cases,
Virgil never forgets to describe to us the terrible astonishment which befalls the
mortal – aspectu obmutuit amens , arrectaeque horrore comae et vox faucibus haesit
(4.279) [he was struck dumb by the vision. He was out of his wits, his hair bristled
with a shiver of fear, and his voice was checked in his throat], or however else it is
expressed.
We mentioned something in section 2 (p. 251f.) which belongs here: the fact that
characters who are to play a significant part in the action enter suddenly and swiftly.
On p. 9f. we looked at Laocoon's entrance from this point of view. There is no
328 better parallel than Camilla's entrance in Book 11, before her aristeia begins. One
might have expected her to take part in the council; she is not mentioned there at all;
Turnus hurries down from the citadel ready for battle (498):
obvia cui Volscorum acie comitante Camilla
o c c u r r i t , portisque ab equo regina sub ipsis
desiluit , quam tota cohors imitata relictis
ad terram defluxit equis
[here quickly Camilla rode up to meet him, her Volscian regiment with her, and hard
by the gates the princess leapt from her horse; and all her band, following her lead,
dismounted, slipping deftly to the ground].[82] We can see the scene. How much more
effective it is than if Camilla and Turnus had already decided on their strategy in the
council-house, and what a bright light it throws on Camilla at the very moment
when she steps to the forefront of the action.
6—
Contrast
The scene of Neptune's intervention in the storm, which we have discussed above
(p. 255), can also serve as an example of how the strong effect of the peripeteia (or
of any sudden event) can be increased by a further basic device of artistic presenta-
tion: contrast . In the storm scene the sudden calm is all the more effective because
of the contrast with the rough wind and waves which have been described just
before – the simile at 1.148f. shows that clearly; elsewhere, too, Virgil likes to
create a new situation with a sudden reversal and set it in sharp contrast with the
previous state of affairs. It can be a contrast of moods: I am thinking of Aeneas'
mood before and after the burning of the ships in Book 5, before and after the
lightning prodigium in Book 8, before and after Mercury's first appearance in Book
4. Or a contrast between complete rest and frantic activity: Turnus is roused by
329 Allecto from deepest slumber to raging battle-lust (7.413, 458); he is sitting in a
sacred grove, i.e. in silent solitude, when Iris makes him jump up: nunc tempus
equos , nunc poscere currus , rumpe moras omnis et turbata arripe castra (9.12)
['now is the moment to call for horses and your chariots of war. Burst a way through
every obstacle; surprise their camp into a panic and swiftly make it yours']. Simi-
larly, it is in the still of the night, when Aeneas and his men are sleeping after the
toils of the last few days in Carthage, that Mercury appears urging him to make
haste, and this is followed by feverish activity, rapiuntque ruuntque (4.554, 581)
[they heaved and they hurried]. Contrast is apparent in many different places: Ae-
neas' pious act, plucking green boughs with his own hands to adorn the altars of the
gods, is contrasted with the horrible subsequent desecration of the grave of Poly-
dorus: parce pias scelerare manus (3.19) [do not stain your righteous hands with
sin]); the Cretan colony is flourishing in every way when it is suddenly destroyed by
plague and drought and crop-failure (3.132); the joyful and voluptuous feasting
when they finally reach land contrasts with the loathsome and terrifying appearance
of the Harpies (3.219); these are three examples which occur very close together. In
all these and similar cases, Virgil started with the second situation: to increase its
effect he invented the first or, where it already existed, he painted it with contrasting
colours.
7—
Intensification
When an action consists of a series of similar scenes, the weakening effect of
repetition is compensated for by introducing some sort of intensification . The prime
example of this is the series of battles in the Sack of Troy. There are detailed
descriptions of the fights in which Androgeus is involved (370-85), the fight for
Cassandra (402-34), the battle for the citadel (453-505), Priam's last fight (505-58).
Not only is the pathos more intense in the second scene compared with the first –
Coroebus' despair at the sight of his betrothed, whom he has been searching for
everywhere; but also, in contrast to the first fortunate outcome, there now comes the
first serious defeat. Also, in contrast with the unknown Androgeus we now have on
the battlefield the chief heroes of the Achaeans, Ajax and the Atrides. Neoptolemus
is reserved for the hardest fighting, which follows, and this in turn intensifies the
action, as the partial defeat in the second scene is followed by the decisive defeat
when the citadel is stormed. Here, again, the finale consists of the greatest possible
330 disaster, the death of the king himself. We have discussed this above on p. 23ff. In
the Dido scenes in Book 4 the climax leading up to the end is provided by the
material itself. In the competitions in Book 5, after the highly dramatic and emo-
tional boxing-match it was hardly possible to intensify the pathos any further.
Instead, for the last competition, Virgil invents Acestes' miraculous feat, thereby
raising the mood to the higher level of the portentous and supernatural Intensification is
carried out most carefully where it is most urgently required, in the battle-descriptions
in Books 9-12; I have referred to this repeatedly in my analysis above (p. 142ff.).
Comparison with the battle-descriptions in the Iliad is particularly instructive here.
Moreover, the principle applies not merely to the individual groups of scenes, but
to the lay-out of the whole work; or at least Virgil intended it to. The first half of the
poem ends with the most sublime passage of the whole work, the Parade of Heroes
and Anchises' prophecies. However, compared with this first half, the second half is
supposed to appear even more elevated and more splendid: maior rerum mihi nasci -
tur ordo , maius opus moveo (7.44) [a graver sequence of events opens before me,
and I now begin a grander enterprise]. In fact, it does not convey this effect, and it is
also doubtful whether Virgil was satisfied that he had achieved his objective. He
was writing from the contemporary standpoint which regarded the celebration of
war as the epic writer's greatest task. Books 7 and 8 are devoted to the preparations
for battle; Books 9 and 10 describe the first battles and culminate in Aeneas' first
great feat, the fall of Mezentius; after the excitement has dipped a little in Book 11,
so that another rise is possible, this leads in Book 12 to the climax of the whole
work, the death of Turnus. On this high spot the long road reaches its ending. It can
never have entered Virgil's head that he should go on to narrate the peaceful
consequences which must have followed Aeneas' victory.
b—
Motivation
1—
Supernatural and Human Motivation
Motivation of the action, that is demonstration of cause and effect, is of course
demanded of every poet at all times. In real life a person often has to be content not
to know the reason for something ('Heaven alone knows'), but in poetry the divine
331 Muse is supposed to be speaking through the poet's mouth, giving the listener the
satisfaction of surveying the whole course of events. However, like all poetic tech-
niques, the kind of motivation and the degree of motivation are conditioned by their
time, and depend on how much insight that time had acquired into the workings of
the world, and of the human soul.
After what we have said about the role of the divine in Virgil's Weltanschauung ,
it is hardly surprising that the initial motivation of every event of any importance is
the intervention of a god. That is also frequently the case in Homer, but Virgil is
more consistent about it; one might almost say that he is obstinate in his consist-
ency.[83] One has the impression that he is not doing it because he wishes to give his
work the ornaments of epic style, but because he wishes to express a particular
doctrine. If anyone had accused him of robbing his characters of their independence
by having the gods constantly intervening, so that they are mere marionettes in the
hands of the gods, he would probably have replied that this is the true state of
affairs, and that he is only depicting this truth. He could point to the truth established
by the philosophers which demonstrates that even unhappy incidents (such as in the
cases of Amata and Turnus) do not happen without the gods' involvement.[84]
The rule holds good both for natural events and for human actions. In natural
events the divine motivation is of course the only one; this only leaves the question
of what motivated the god's decision. This is answered either in a preparatory scene
featuring the gods – Juno's monologue in Book 1 before the storm, the conversation
332 between Venus and Vulcan in Book 5 before the unnatural calm –, or it is made
clear in the course of the action – crop-failure and plague after the colony has been
founded on Crete in Book 3; this is a sign of divine disapproval.[85] In the case of
human actions the god is again revealed as supplying the real driving-force, exerted
either by expressing his or her will, or by proclaiming fatum , which the mortal then
obeys. As we have seen above, this is on the same level as purely human motives.
Or else the god affects the mortal in ways found in myth and poetry; in these cases,
human, psychological motivation is not excluded, but runs parallel to, or is sym-
bolized in, the divine intervention, but in such a way that we can still recognize what
it was. For example, when the psychological motivation of Aeneas' change of heart
in Books 2 and 4 is replaced by the interventions of Venus and Mercury, this is
presented in such a way that we are not faced with an incomprehensible command
stemming from the god's caprice, which would be a completely new force interrupt-
ing the course of the action in a miraculous way; rather, the commands of the gods
supply what, in the natural course of events, would be psychological factors bring-
ing about the mortal's decision. This is even clearer in, for example, the case of the
effect of Iris/Beroe on the Trojan women in Book 5, or of Juturna/Camers on the
Latins in Book 12, because here there is no reversal; all the psychological forces are
already present, so that only a spark is needed to start the blaze; but instead of
presenting these forces in psychological terms, Virgil puts them into the mouth of a
god who gives advice. In other cases, the psychological development is described
independently, in great detail, and the divine intervention only accompanies it as
some sort of visual symbol: thus Amor in the shape of Ascanius; this is the divine
intervention, but there is a separate description of how Dido's love is prepared,
springs up and grows, and, before the lover yields to her beloved, the short conver-
sation with her sister gives an exhaustive account of the emotional forces at work, as
well as her rational reasons for acting as she does. When the psychological pro-
cesses are long and more gradual in developing, the divine intervention is restricted
333 to providing the first impetus: all the rest unrolls before our eyes in the human
psyche, and the poet takes care to show us every stage in the protagonist's own
words. This is how we follow Dido's slowly ripening decision to die, and Turnus'
developing resolve which is set in motion by Allecto and continues gathering
momentum unstoppably to the end: the speeches (12.620, 632, 676) show how the
final decision to face his opponent gradually takes possession of him.
It is the general rule in Virgil that the psychological motivation is explained
either by the words of the adviser, or by the words of the protagonist. It is only in
exceptional circumstances, such as when he is paving the way for detailed motiva-
tion, or where it would have been difficult or artifical to create the opportunity for a
speech, that Virgil himself gives the explanation: this is the case before the above-
mentioned speeches of Turnus (12.616), before Juturna's speech which leads to the
breaking of the treaty (12.216), before Iris' speech to the Trojan women (5.615); on
the other hand, see, for example, the case of Camilla's fateful hounding of Chloreus
(11.778), where Virgil steps out of the role of poet and behaves more like a rationa-
lizing historian, providing a choice of two motives: sive ut templis praefigeret arma
Troia captivo sive ut se ferret in auro [either hoping to fasten arms from Troy as an
offering on a temple wall, or wishing to parade herself in captured gold].
Virgil has this in common with the rationalizing historian – such as Livy – that he
tries to give the reader a complete explanation of human actions. The historian is
generally supplied only with information about actions and events, and has to pro-
vide the motivation himself, often finding that he has to explain mass actions which
cannot be traced back to individual characters. He is therefore inclined not to single
out just one motive, but where possible to combine all imaginable motives, leaving
the reader to judge whether the collective motives or one single one from among
them really tilted the balance. If one analyses the motivating speeches in Livy, one
comes across the same technique again and again: Livy has imagined the situation
and the attitudes of the protagonists and taken trouble not to forget anything which
ever influenced or might influence such people in such a situation; the more motives
334 the better, and the more ways in which a motive can be exploited the more effective
it is.[86] Virgil's technique is very closely related to this. I have shown earlier (p.
102f.) that for Dido's decision to kill herself Virgil does not take one single motive
and deepen and strengthen it so that it has to lead to the deed from psychological
necessity, but piles up a number of equally valid motives, and it is their combined
weight which overcomes Dido. This was an important event, but less important
events are treated in the same way. Here I will point only to the above-mentioned
conversation between Dido and Anna at the beginning of Book 4, or to Pallas'
cohortatio [exhortation] to his men, 10.369; when we discuss the speeches we shall
return to this characteristic technique. As in the Dido/Anna conversation, so else-
where too the motivation frequently works itself out in the course of speech and
reply. The behaviour of Entellus before the boxing-match shows two stages: first
hesitation, then decision; the decision is motivated by Acestes' speech (5.389), the
hesitation is motivated by Entellus' reply; but the poet is primarily concerned with
using the decision to show Entellus' character, and he therefore rejects an obvious
motivation – desire for the victor's prize – and that is also brought about by the
speech and reply. Moreover, the historian feels the obligation to make an unex-
pected decision seem plausible by presenting its gradual development.[87] How
skilfully Virgil does this in the case of the wooden horse, or Dido's suicide, or the
breach of the treaty in Book 12, I do not need to repeat here.
2—
The Structure of the Action
Until now we have been examining how Virgil, in Aristotle's words, 
[he always seeks in character either the
inevitable or the probable] ( Poetics 14); now we must do the same for the
[structure of the action]. The motivation of the main action
can be discussed properly later when we look at the structural composition. How-
ever, there are a few things which we should mention at this point. It makes a great
335 difference whether the material which the poet has to reshape into his narrative is
already a unity, every part connected to another, or whether it consists of several
parts which were originally separate and only later connected. In the latter case of
course the poet finds it much more difficult to provide motivation, and it is even
more difficult if he feels obliged, as Virgil does in the Aeneid , to extend the material
by inserting secondary material which has no organic connection with the main
thread. Aeneas' journey to Latium, as given in the tradition, consisted of a series of
separate episodes which had later been fitted into a geographical context. Virgil
added the sojourn in Dido's city, the Games, and the Nekyia [visit to the Under-
world], none of which had any intrinsic connection with the main story of the
settlement of the Trojan Penates in Latium. He felt obliged to create such a connec-
tion, but the difficulty of having to supply it afterwards has not always been
completely overcome. We can see particularly clearly that work on this difficulty
was a late priority for Virgil because the poem is in an unfinished state, and even
when he had long been sure of the events and their arrangement, he had still not
completely worked out the connecting motivation. We could point out several at-
tempts to motivate Aeneas' journey which contradict the plan actually carried out in
Book 3; the same can be said of the Nekyia. For the second part of the poem the task
was considerably easier; here the tradition already supplied a connected narrative
which could be used without any major additions; there is one episode, it is true, the
description of Aeneas' shield, which has not grown out of the poetic re-working of
the material but has been interpolated, and this shows up in the motivation; Virgil
was certainly aware of this but was still unable to make it seem quite natural.
It is difficult to establish a general rule for the motivation of individual parts of
the action. One may say in general that when the action is progressing normally,
with no external influences coming to bear on it, Virgil pays careful attention to the
causal linking of the separate parts. At the same time we cannot deny that there is
some lack of clarity in minor matters. When Aeneas and Achates, who are walking
through Carthage wrapped in mist, wait for Dido in the temple (without any expla-
336 nation) (1.454),[88] one is justified in asking why they did so since they were in
consequence not in a position to ask for information; we shall never know whether
Virgil himself had a particular explanation in mind. For other examples I direct you
to my analysis of the Sack of Troy or the Funeral Games, and here I will only take
time to remind you of the battle-scenes of Books 9 to 12. I have already shown how
carefully the causal nexus is respected here: naturally not with the technical preci-
sion of a military history, but in accordance with the laws of poetic representation;
so that, with only a few essential details, it creates the appearance of reality. The
basic scheme of the battle-descriptions is that individual feats alternate with crowd-
scenes: they are linked by the fact that the splendid deeds of individuals eventually
have repercussions in the movements of the larger groups, and the counter-effect is
that out of the groups come further individual feats. By the law of poetic causality,
every time an action has reached its highest point, the counter-action begins; this
does not always require special motivation since it is natural for the greater success
of one combatant to spur the other on to greater efforts. The basic situation which
governs everything throughout is the opposition of Aeneas and Turnus. Turnus'
great successes in Book 9 are caused by Aeneas' absence; from the moment that
Aeneas enters the battle we know that their meeting will decide the day, and the poet
then introduces more and more delays which postpone the finale. Divine interven-
tion in these scenes is reduced to a minimum; when, for example, in Book 9 Juno
gives Turnus strength, or in Book 11 Jupiter instils courage in Tarchon, the phrases
used are almost formulaic, as if only intended to remind us that the gods are behind
337 everything that happens. It is only very seldom that this divine intervention repre-
sents a kind of poetic justice: when (10.689), after Turnus' removal, mighty
Mezentius steps forward Iovis monitis [by command of Jupiter], this provides a
replacement for Turnus, to make up the numbers on the Latin side. As an example of
the opposite, an example both of the gods providing separate causation, and of the
poet attempting, but not always achieving, convincing causation, Homer's 
[the interrupted battle] (Iliad 8) may serve. The battle rages until midday, then
Zeus weighs the combatants' fates in his balance; he thunders and sends lightning
down among the Achaeans. They are immediately terrified and run away: only
Nestor is forced to stay behind, since his team of horses is in a tangle. Diomedes
gives him a lift in his chariot, and instead of taking him to the camp, drives at the
enemy and kills Hector's chariot-driver; and the Trojans are immediately close to
disaster, and would have been cooped up in Ilium, if Zeus had not driven Diomedes
off with another shaft of lightning. Now Hector presses on the Achaeans in the camp
and would have burnt their ships ( Iliad 8.217), had not Agamemnon, at Hera's
suggestion, encouraged his men with an address and prayed to Zeus, who sends a
favourable sign: at that, the Greeks throw themselves against the Trojans and,
mainly because Teucer has killed eight of them, force them back as far as the walls
of Ilium (295), until Hector wounds Teucer, and Zeus strengthens the Trojans, at
which the Achaeans flee again over the ditch to the ships; and their great distress
rouses the pity of Athena and Hera. There follow some long scenes featuring gods,
then night falls and fighting is broken off. We can see that the poet's intentions were
similar to Virgil's, but when we compare the results we see that Virgil's mature
artistry makes Homer's work look like the attempt of a child.
It is a different matter when new material is introduced from outside and requires
motivation. Then there are two possibilities: either the motivation has already been
mentioned, and the poet can refer back to it, or it is dealt with at the point of entry.
Now to prepare unobtrusively for a motive which will come into effect later often
requires an effort out of all proportion to the gain achieved; also, Virgil prefers, if
338 possible, not to recapitulate, as we shall see when we examine his narrative tech-
nique. These tendencies frequently lead him to omit the motivation entirely in such
cases, or abbreviate it if possible; the result is a lack of clarity. It is true that this only
happens where the motivation makes no actual difference to the action itself. We
saw a very striking example of this at the beginning of the second Laocoon scene
(2.201); here are some more examples. When the Trojan delegation appears before
Latinus, he addresses them (7.195) as Dardanidae ,[89] and adds, since they must be
surprised that he knows them, neque enim nescimus et urbem et genus , auditique
advertitis aequore cursum [since we had heard of you before ever you turned hither
your course upon the ocean, and we already know both your city and your nation].
For the Trojans that is enough for the time being, they can ask for details later; but
we should like to know how Latinus had this information. To motivate it would have
required inventing an explanation, which would have interrupted the speech badly at
this point, and it would have been difficult to bring it in earlier; Virgil therefore
prefers to pass over it in silence. When Nisus and Euryalus have the enemy camp
safely behind them, they meet Latin horsemen (9.367), who are on the way from the
city to the camp. Virgil does motivate this ride (we have to assume that the troops
are already all united), but lest the narrative be delayed by a lengthy recapitulation,
he does it so briefly that it can hardly be understood.
Virgil displays a certain carelessness here and there in his treatment of less
important characters: they are there when he needs them, without their presence
being explained first. Dido speaks to her sister (4.416), although she has not been
mentioned in the previous scenes. In Cumae (6.9) Aeneas goes to the temple of
Apollo; we only learn later from the fact that praemissus Achates [Achates who had
been sent before] returns with the Sibyl (34) that he was with him; he is also present
339 during the stag-hunt in Book 1, as armiger (188) [arms-bearer], although we had
previously seen him making a fire and had been told only that Aeneas went away.
There are also other places where one does not have to be a pedantic reader to wish
for an explanation. In Book 5 all the men are at the Games and the women are alone
by the ships – that is how it is to be imagined from the way the narrative presents it;
how is it that a certain Eumelus is also there by the ships (665), to bring the news of
the conflagration to Aeneas and his men? The Trojan matres have stayed behind in
Sicily; when we learn later that Euryalus' mother is the only one who dared to
accompany her son (9.217), we will not argue with the poet for not preparing us for
this during the departure from Sicily; but when (11.35) by Pallas' bier the Iliades
crinem de more solutae [ladies of Ilium, their hair thrown free for the ceremony]
lament, this does add a finishing touch to the moving scene, and it is possible, since
famulumque manus Troianaque turba [the company of retainers and crowd of Tro-
jans] precedes, that Virgil, as Servius assumes, was here thinking only of the
ancillulae [serving-maids] as opposed to the matrons: but one might expect to find
this expressed more clearly. If Virgil worried about this at all, he must have relied
on the pathos of the scene taking the listener's mind off the discrepancy; and here, as
in many similar places, he was probably right, as far as the great majority of his
listeners are concerned.
3—
Coincidence
For the main action, Virgil totally avoided the use of coincidence to replace proper
causation. But otherwise, when he is not laying the basis for the main action but
merely aiming at a poetic effect which has no vital importance for the plot, it is
characteristic of him to make use of coincidence. At the very moment that Aeneas
sees Dido for the first time in the temple, the delegation from the lost ships enters.
When Aeneas approaches Helenus' city, Andromache is just at that point making a
solemn sacrifice at Hector's tomb: the mood of the scene depends on this. When the
Trojans come to the shore of the Cyclopes, Odysseus has been there just a short
while before; when they are blown off course from Carthage to Sicily, it happens
precisely on the anniversary of Anchises' burial. Sinon has just reached the end of
340 his long tale: that is when the serpents come from the sea. Just when Turnus has
given his speech to the assembly in favour of war, the news arrives that the enemy
troops are approaching. Just when Nisus and Euryalus believe that they are out of
danger, Volcens' riders block their way.[90] In the majority of these cases the action
would have progressed in more or less the same way without these chance en-
counters, but the effect would have been lost. One will hardly ever find anything
like it in Homer. The epic does not actually need this device for its specific ends; or
if such an encounter is necessary for the action – as with the meeting of Nausicaa
with Odysseus – it can be motivated by divine intervention. Drama, on the other
hand, with its stricter unity of time and content, frequently can barely manage
without this device: Polybus of Corinth has to have died at exactly the right time so
that the news of his death can reach Thebes when Oedipus' doubts are at their
height; Hercules has to arrive at Admetus' house from the Underworld exactly at the
moment when the household have just put on mourning; Aegeus, travelling by
chance to Troezen, happens to pass Corinth just when Medea is looking for a refuge,
etc. It is from drama that dramatically constructed narrative has taken this device for
the sake of heightened effect: when, for example Livy – perhaps using a poetic
source – has the dictator Camillus arrive before Rome at the very moment of the
weighing out of the gold won by the Gauls by a fraudulent agreement (5.49), that is
a genuinely dramatic, or, we may now say, a genuinely Virgilian coincidence.
c—
Time and Place
1. Timetable . Concentration of the action . Days , seasons , years .
General chronology . Description and visualisation of the topography
Let us draw up a table of the action to see how many days it covers and how it is
divided into days.
I
1st day: Departure from Sicily, storm at sea, landing in Libya; conversation
between Jupiter and Venus: 1.34-304.
341 2nd day: Sunrise 305; journey to Carthage, meeting with Dido, evening banquet
(726), Aeneas' tale in the night (2.8): 1.305-4.5.
?3rd day: Dido's conversation with Anna, sacrifice, another banquet in the eve-
ning (77), Dido restless in the night, conversation between Juno and Venus: 4.6-128.
4th day: Hunt and thunderstorm: 4.129-68.
Interval of unspecified duration ( hiemem quam longa fovere [193] [they spent the
long winter together]: 4.169-97.
II
?1st day: Iarbas; Mercury and Aeneas; conversation between Dido and Aeneas,
conversation between Anna and Aeneas; erection of the funeral-pyre; in the night
(522) Dido's soliloquy, Aeneas' dream and departure: 4.198-583.
2nd day: Dido's death; voyage to Sicily; reception by Acestes: 4.584-5.41.
3rd day: Proclamation of funeral games for nine days later, and sacrifice for
Anchises: 5.42-103.
12th day: Games; burning of the ships; in the night Anchises' apparition: 5.104–
745.
?13th day: Founding of Segesta: 746-61.
14th–22nd day: Interval lasting nine days of festival: 762.
23rd day: Departure; in the night (835) Palinurus' death: 763-871.
24th day: (daybreak is not mentioned) arrival in Cumae; oracle of the Sibyl; the
golden bough; burial of Misenus; in the night (252) sacrifice to the spirits of the
Underworld: 6.1-254.
?25th day: Nekyia; journey to Caieta: 255-901.
26th day: burial of Caieta; in the night, journey past the land of Circe: 7.1-24.
27th day: in the morning, landing by the mouth of the Tiber: prodigium of the
tables: 7.25-36; 107-47.
28th day: building of the camp; delegation to Latinus: 7.147-285.
342 Interval of unspecified duration: Allecto's activity, preparations for war.
III
1st night: Dream-appearance of Tiberinus (morning 8.67); day: sacrifice to Juno,
preparation for the journey.
2nd night: (86) until midday (97) journey up the Tiber; festival of Hercules:
7.86-368. Turnus' first assault 9.1-158.
3rd night: Venus and Vulcan. Nisus and Euryalus: 9.159-458. Day: in the early
morning (8.455) parley with Evander; Aeneas to Caere, parley with Tarchon
(10.148ff.); Turnus' second assault 8.369-731 (cf. 10.148-56) and 9.459-818.
4th night: Aeneas' journey: 10.146-255. Day: assembly of the gods; a fresh
assault by Turnus; Aeneas' arrival; first battle: 10.1-145; 256-908.
5th day: Pallas' funeral; Latins' delegation; preparations for the burial: 11.1-138.
6th day: (Night: arrival of the funeral procession at Evander's house? 139-81)
1st day of 12-day (133) armistice; burial of the dead: 182-224.
18th day: return of Diomedes' delegation; council-meeting; advance of Trojans
and Latins; Camilla's feats and death; Turnus' challenge: 11.225-12.112.
19th day: Final battle: 12.113-952.
This table immediately tells us one thing: Virgil has made every effort to squeeze
the action into as short a period as possible; apart from the periods when nothing, or
very little, happens, there are only about twenty days in Virgil's narrative. In this he
was not merely following the example of the Iliad and the Odyssey ; his desire for
concentrated effect had to lead to the same result. The faster one event follows upon
another, the more the reader's attention is held, the more he has the impression of
being told everything, the more he can dispense with filling gaps from his own
343 imagination. Virgil was not able to keep to the unity of time as perfectly as the
authors of our Iliad and Od yssey could; he had to allow a longish period for Aeneas'
sojourn in Carthage, in order to give the impression that this sojourn was close to
becoming permanent; and a second period for the preparations for the war: not only
did the Amata story require more than one day, the spreading of the war across Italy,
the gathering of the contingents etc. needed a longish time; however, we have to
work that out for ourselves; the poet avoids any reference to it.[91] From the realistic
standpoint these would not be the only two places where more time would be
needed: another thing that we can see from our table above is that Virgil often
makes more happen in the space of one day than would be possible, or probable, in
reality. It is improbable that between Aeneas' arrival in Carthage and his union with
Dido in the grotto only one day has passed, and although it seems clear that Virgil
planned it like that originally he obviously felt unhappy about it himself later, and
made additions which suggest that we should assume a longer intervening period,[92]
but he has refrained from any direct indication, apparently so that the idea of the
continuity of the action should be disturbed as little as possible. It is exactly the
same with the day on which Mercury appears to Aeneas. It is certainly highly
improbable that all the events leading up to the night before Aeneas' departure
should happen on this one day, and the poet does not explicitly rule out the possi-
bility that they are spread over several days; indeed this is made necessary by the
344 mention of the prodigia which affect Dido's decision;[93] on the other hand, once
again there are absolutely no definite indications, and the narrative runs on in an
uninterrupted flow, clearly showing that the poet wanted to avoid the impression of
a long delay: he prefers to leave the matter uncertain, not least because he does not
wish to spoil the impression that Aeneas is arranging his departure with the greatest
possible haste. Of course one could assume that Virgil has simply forgotten to
consider the timetabling here, but if so this would be the only place in the Aeneid
where he has done (except for minor matters), whereas we shall find more examples
later of events happening at an impossible speed. Servius (on 5.1) already points out
that Aeneas could not have travelled from Carthage to Drepanum in the space of one
day[94] and says that it was in the evening that Aeneas saw the pyre burning and he
then travelled through the night and part of the following day. Virgil himself – who
did not necessarily know the exact distance – gives the distinct impression that the
journey was completed within a day, just as in Book 1 he has the Trojans making the
same journey in the other direction in one day, and landing in Libya in time for
Aeneas to go off on the stag-hunt. Whether the timing was possible or not is
ignored, and the poet takes care not to raise the question by giving any indication of
the time of day – such as the advent of midday or evening. It is exactly the same at
the end of Book 5 with the foundation of the city of Segesta: beforehand and
345 afterwards there are precise indications of the time, so that the reader is led to think
of Anchises' command being carried out on the day after his appearance, without
stopping to think that this is impossible on account of the distance between Drepa-
num-Eryx and Segesta.[95] Less noticeable is the fact that the same thing happens on
Aeneas' Etrurian expedition. As we shall see later, Virgil has given much thought to
the synchronism of Aeneas' adventures and the events in Latium; if we work it out,
Aeneas must have left Evander on the same day that he then arranged the treaty with
Tarchon and sailed out to sea with his new allies, so that we meet them at midnight
(10.147) well into their journey. Again, Virgil does not say anywhere explicitly how
long this took, but he is concerned with giving an impression of speed: according to
Evander, the armed might of the Etruscans is already assembled, the fleet lies by the
shore and everyone is burning to go to war (8.497, 503): when Aeneas comes with
his request, haud fit mora , Tarchon iungit opes . . . tum classem conscendit gens Lydia
(10.153) [there was no delay, Tarchon joined forces . . . now the nation from Lydia
embarked on their fleet].[96]
The landmarks in the story are the sunrises: they are reported regularly in the
346 connected narrative.[97] That the day then ends, night falls, and people go to their rest,
is only expressly stated when something important happens during the night – which
is surprisingly often in the Aeneid ; but even then we often only learn in passing that
it is night-time.[98] Other times of day are only mentioned during the visit to Evander:
there we hear of midday (8.97), evening (280) and nightfall (369): this is charac-
teristic of the idyllic tone of the whole episode, which brings us closer to nature than
the usual elevated epic style likes to do.
As with the times of day, so with the times of year. They are mentioned where
they are needed to motivate the action, but not to lend colour or mood to events. We
are not told the season in which the action of the Iliad unrolls; it is characteristic of
the cosy, bourgeois tone of certain parts of the Odyssey that the wintry situation is
conveyed.[99] The thing most affected by the seasons is seafaring, and this does cause
Virgil to mention the time of year: in Book 4 it is winter, so that Dido has a pretext
to keep Aeneas from leaving,[100] and can later complain that he wants to leave her
despite the winter storms;[101] Virgil has kept to this idea when he has Fama spreading
the tale that the lovers hiemem inter se luxu , quam longa , foveres (192) [are now
spending all the long winter together in self-indulgence]. But outside Book 4 he
forgets that it is winter: in both Books 1 (755) and 5 (626) there is talk of the septima
347 aestas [seventh summer] which the Trojans have already spent on their wande-
rings;[102] when Aeneas has founded Pergamum on Crete, Sirius scorches the barren
fields; the grass becomes withered and the diseased crops refuse to yield (3.141);
that is, it is high summer, to make it possible for the prodigium of the 
[crop-failure] to occur; but when the Trojans set sail and suffer a terrible three-day
storm (203), the poet certainly does not mean that the season of autumnal storms has
meanwhile started.
This leads us to the much discussed question of the chronology of Aeneas'
wanderings. In the case of longish periods where the narrative cannot tell us every-
thing, but only superficial details, it is also best from the poetic point of view that
exact lengths of time should not be specified. It can be important that a longish
period be felt as long: when Dido speaks of the seven years of wandering, she is
only indicating how much she expects to hear, and when the same number of years
is mentioned in Iris' speech to the Trojan women, it is intended to explain their
yearning for rest. But when, in Book 3, it comes to the description of these wande-
rings, neither Dido nor the listener wants Aeneas or the poet to measure out how the
events took up those years, and it would have been boringly pedantic to have
actually worked out a consistent chronology. Thus it is only to be expected that the
indications of time will be vague and underplayed, and this is so. It seems almost
348 deliberate when the poet leaves us in the dark about the duration of the various
sojourns, and we find that he has made as much effort in narrating the main events
as in the detailed linking narrative to give the illusion of short periods of time.
Everything which is told of the sojourn in Thrace (3.16-68), could be imagined as
squeezed into one day: it remains uncertain – and is intended to remain so – whether
the mention of the date of departure (69ff.) means that they have waited for spring,
although on closer study this does seem the most likely (see above p. 81f.). It
remains unclear how long they remained on Crete: it is only from the above-men-
tioned prodigium that one may deduce that a sowing-season and a harvest-season
have passed. One might think that the city of Helenus was well suited for a longer
sojourn, perhaps for hibernation, but as if to demonstrate the Trojans' conscientious
haste, it is made explicit that only a few days were spent here (356). It is therefore
hardly surprising that, of the many attempts to work out the chronology of the seven
years of wandering, not one is convincing, and I should be tempted to put the blame
on poetic licence and rest content with the thought that Virgil himself wanted to
discourage such attempts from the first,[103] were it not that we suddenly come across
the unexpected information that now 'the sun has finished its annual course and the
icy winter-storm stirs up the waves' (284). This information fits so awkwardly into
its context – it is not even clear whether Aeneas then did wait there for the winter to
end, or whether he sailed on regardless – that I cannot believe that this passage is in
its definitive form, and we cannot decide what Virgil intended with this solitary
indication of season; one will hardly assume that this was an abortive attempt to
provide a chronological framework for the whole.
As with the seven years' wandering, so with the one full year that, according to
5.46, lies between Anchises' death and Aeneas' return to Sicily. Here, however,
what concerns the poet is not the length of time which has elapsed, but the fact of
349 the anniversary; he has no interest in explaining exactly how the year is filled by the
events of Books 1 and 4 and the extra events which must be supplied in the narrative
at the end of Book 3. Critics have found it a great stumbling block that in spite of
this period of about a year which lies between the above-mentioned statements by
Dido and Iris, they both name the same number of years – septima aestas . This is
probably simply due to the fact that in both passages – which were possibly written
years apart – the number seven was the one which happened to strike the poet as
appropriate:[104] the difficult problem, whether the poet had any regard to the one
passage while writing the other, and, if so, whether he noticed the contradiction,
and, if so, whether he considered it unimportant or privately planned to straighten it
out later, I must leave to others to solve; and until it is solved it is not right to draw
conclusions about Virgil's art from this supposed contradiction.
Finally, with regard to the general mythical and historical chronology, Virgil did
not let it fetter his imagination at all. He respects the period of 333 years before the
foundation of Rome (1.265), but at the same time he takes over a poetic idea which
has no regard for chronology when he has Aeneas and Dido meet, which puts the
foundation of Carthage at the time of the Trojan War. He includes in his catalogues
all the heroes from Italy's prehistory that he knows of, without asking whether it is
likely that they all lived at the same time. He has Neoptolemus killed by Orestes
before Aeneas meets Andromache, although that death was traditionally placed in
the tenth year after the destruction of Troy, and he has Achaemenides wandering in
350 the lands of the Cyclopes for only three months, although Homer tells us that
Odysseus had already been there in the first year of his wanderings. All this worries
him not a jot,[105] and it was a strange misunderstanding of poetic principles to attempt
to base on these synchronisms a chronology for Aeneas' adventures: e.g. to work out
Ascanius' age from the fact that Andromache (3.491) calls him a coeval of As-
tyanax, when the latter – according to Homer – was still a babe-in-arms in the last
year of the Trojan War: such a calculation would be mistaken even if we did not
happen to know that Virgil thought of Astyanax as definitely not a babe-in-arms
(2.457).
2—
Description of Place
We have already dealt with the question of place as far as distances were con-
cerned.[106] Place as the scene of the action has the same unimportant role in Virgil as
in ancient narrative poetry in general.
places, had, it is true, faint beginnings in Homer which were developed by the
Hellenistic poets; but there it is less a case of giving a local motivation to the action
than providing atmospheric background; that is also to be found, though not very
often, in Virgil. For the rest, he often has to take account of complicated local
connections; it is hard to decide whether he imagined the scene clearly to himself
but was not able to evoke it equally clearly in the reader, or if he just vaguely
thought of a few isolated features of the scene without combining them in his own
mind into a united and definite picture; in any case he does not precede his narrative
with a connected description of a locality – which would have been the surest means
of achieving clarity, but incompatible with his principles – but mentions in the
course of the narrative here a detail, there a detail; which means that the reader who
351 wishes to visualize clearly not only the characters but also the scene of the action is
badly served.[107] Two fairly important examples will illustrate this.[108] In Book 5
Aeneas speaks to his men first from a mound on the shore (43ff.) and then goes with
them to the tumulus of Anchises (76), the position of which is not given any more
precisely than that. On the day of the Games, the people again assemble on the
shore, and the prizes are set out there circo in medio (109) [in the middle of a circle]:
how Virgil imagines this circus cannot be known. The agger [mound] from which
the signal to start the Games is given (113) may be the one previously mentioned
(44). After the boat-race the festive crowds move to a 'grassy place, surrounded with
wooded hills, and in the middle of the valley was a circus theatri ': the gramineus
campus [grassy plain] seems to be identical with the circus , but different from the
previous circus . When the ships then start burning, the news is brought ad tumulum
cuneosque theatri (664) [to the mound and the rows of the amphitheatre], the
tumulus can only be that of Anchises mentioned earlier, and it would certainly be
most appropriate for the Games dedicated to him to take place near his tomb, but we
are only told about this now, rather late in the day. It is possible that the poet thought
of it earlier, for (329) he had Nisus slipping on the blood of slaughtered oxen: this is
modelled on the same occurrence in Homer, where the oxen have been sacrificed at
Patroclus' tomb: it is also possible that this motivation did not even occur to Virgil.
352 Thus all those separate details do not necessarily contradict each other, and it is
possible that they stem from a rounded idea of the scene, but any reader who was
interested in visualizing it would have to piece it together from chance references.
In the second example we may certainly assume that the poet had a clear idea of
the scene, even though he did not enable us to share it. I mean the Trojan camp by
the Tiber, and its surroundings. The camp lies 'near the shore' (8.158), but not right
by the sea: when the enemy attack they have the sea behind them (10.267ff.; cf.
9.238: in bivio portae quae proxima ponto [at the fork of the roads outside the gate
nearest the sea]). But it is right on the river bank, and open on that side, with no
protecting walls: otherwise Turnus would not be able to leap from the camp into the
water (9.815).[109] So far the topography is clear; but now (9.468), when the enemy
approach, Virgil says:
Aeneadae duri murorum in parte sinistra
opposuere aciem – nam dextera cingitur amni –
ingentisque tenent fossas et turribus altis
stant maesti
[the men of Aeneas resolutely ranged their line for resistance along the wall on their
left flank, since their right was girt by the river; and they were sadly lining their
deep moats and taking up their posts on their tall towers]. That is, as Servius rightly
remarks, a preparation for Turnus' retreat: it is supposed to impress on us the
situation on the riverbank. But with a camp, how can one speak of a left and right
side of the walls at all? This is possible with a square Roman camp, which has a
front and a back, and therefore a left and a right side; but here the camp seems to
have only two sides altogether, and if a square camp is protected by the river on one
side, then three are open to attack. Let us suppose that the wall was a level, bow-
shaped area with both ends touching the river: then the side facing the enemy could
be called the left side (if one were facing the same way as the Tiber's current
353 flows),[110] and the side by the river could be called the right side (to be exact, the
right side of the camp, not of the walls): but it is asking a lot of the reader to think
out all this, or some alternative. It is certain that the poet meant something definite
by pars sinistra [left flank] and dextera [right], and wanted to convey it to the
reader: but he does not succeed in doing so. This is a weakness, but to be fair we
must remember how even historians in ancient times failed to describe the topo-
graphy adequately, and how even modern writers who pride themselves on their
detailed scenic descriptions often leave the reader doubtful and confused, so that the
only remedy is to provide a sketch map.
In other cases one is inclined to assume that Virgil did not start by imagining a
precise scene, but introduced each feature for a particular purpose as it was needed:
an example of this is the torrent (10.362) which forces the Arcadian horsemen to
dismount (above p. 192 n. 66), or the extensive marsh which hems in Turnus' flight
(12.745). However, here it is a question of localities which may have been well
known to both Virgil and his readers, and we have to consider the possibility that he
may be linking the action to familiar scenes. If this is so, details which would not
help strangers might fit together to build up a clear picture for local people, as we
can see from the example of the Etruscan camp in Book 8. Evander has begun (478)
his report on Etruscan relationships with the 
[topography] of the urbs
Agyllina i.e. Caere, Mezentius' royal seat; he has given an account of the conquest
of the city by the rebellious Etruscans when, immediately afterwards (497), he
354 reports that all Etruria is now burning to pursue Mezentius, and the fleet is lying
ready by the shore, litore ; then every reader who knows where Caere is situated, will
also know that this litus is that of Palo, and, because of that, he will understand that
hic campus (504) [this plain], where the Etruscan battle force is encamped, is the
campus around Caere. Further when Aeneas gives as his destination the Tyrrhena
arva (551) [Etruscan fields] and the Tyrrheni litora regis (555) [shores of the
Etruscan king], this reader will know exactly what he means; also he will know
where to set the grove prope Caeritis amnem (597) [near the river of Caere], in
which Aeneas receives Vulcan's armour, and which is not far from Tarchon's camp
(603) – not by the upper course of the Caere, which the words could also mean, but
in the neighbourhood of Caere.[111] Finally, he will not be at all surprised to hear later
(10.55) that the army has embarked without delay; but anyone who was ignorant of
the local geography and read the last-mentioned passages in isolation would be
inclined to complain that here, too, Virgil has been vague in describing the scene.