4—
Composition
1—
Unity:
Beginning and Ending
Aristotle had taught that unity of action was called for in epic as much as in tragedy;
he had removed the misconception that this unity could be replaced by unity of
person or unity of time; he had, moreover, defined a unified action as one which is
whole, complete in itself, with a beginning, a middle and an end; it may consist of
parts, but only of integrating parts, none of which can be omitted or moved around
without spoiling the whole. That an epic can apparently fulfil these conditions and
yet lack artistic unity is shown by the epic of Apollonius (we will disregard the
episodic aspect for the moment): he has selected the unified action of the voyage of
the Argonauts; he begins, completely in accordance with the rules, with the reason
for the voyage, and ends by returning to the point of departure: he believed that this
was a 
[whole and complete action]. What he did not realize
was that it is not the voyage itself, but its goal, the gaining and keeping of the fleece,
which is the 
[action] upon which the reader's interest is directed; and that
therefore the detailed description of the return journey, taking up several hundred
lines after the fleece has been recovered from Colchis, seems to be an inorganic
appendage, spoiling the unity of the whole rather than completing it. Virgil has
sought to follow Aristotle's rules, and has learnt from Apollonius' mistake. At the
centre of his poem stands the eponymous hero, but it is not he who creates the unity,
but an action: the migration of the Trojans, or the transportation of the Penates from
Troy to Latium. The announcement of the contents in the proem takes Aeneas as its
starting-point: arma virumque cano [of arms and a man I sing]; what is said about
437 him then leads to a mention of the goal which has been set for the action, dum
inferret deos Latio [to bring gods to Latium]; the final words emphasize the import-
ance of the action: genus unde Latinum Albanique patres atque altae moenia Romae
[that was the origin of the Latin nation, the Lords of Alba, and the proud battlements
of Rome]. The starting-point of the action is the capture of Troy.[1] but the finishing-
point is not, as one might perhaps expect from the words of the proem, the
foundation of the city of Lavinium, but the removal of the last hindrance which
stands in the way of a permanent settlement: the death of Turnus; with that the
poetic interest of the material is exhausted. One may doubt whether Aristotle, who
abstracted his rules from the Iliad and the Odyssey , would have thought it justified
to end at this point, and whether he would have allowed the action of the Aeneid to
be called 
[complete];[2] in fact we have to realize that what is happening here
is the bold transference of dramatic technique to the epic. The Iliad and the Od yssey
do contain references to the future experiences of the protagonists, but the action as
such of each poem is narrated right through to its end, including all its direct
consequences. A dramatist is content to have reached the dénouement and to have
indicated the result: in very many cases it is impossible to present the actual result,
for technical or poetic reasons: it is enough that we know that Philoctetes will go to
Troy, that Heracles will die by fire; in Oedipus Rex , Sophocles can even allow
himself to leave his hero's immediate future uncertain, once he has shown him to be
inwardly destroyed, and has thus exhausted the tragic material. This principle is
even more obvious in comedy: it is all over once the father has agreed to the
marriage, or once other obstacles which stood in the way have been removed. It is in
this sense that Virgil set the 
[end] of his action where he did: we know what
Latinus will do after the death of Turnus (12.38), that Lavinia will not refuse the
marriage which her father commands, backed up as it is by divine advice (any more
than any Roman maiden could); finally we have heard from Jupiter's own mouth the
form which the unification of the two nations will take (12.834ff.): the curtain can
fall.[3]
438
2—
The Whole and the Parts
The second requirement is that the separate parts of the epic shall be essential
components of the whole. This does not mean that Aristotle forbids the interruption
of the action by occasional episodes – he himself ( Poetics 23.1459a 35) praises
Homer's numerous episodes, among which he reckons, for example, the Catalogue
of Ships; but he does seem (without saying anything more precise on the subject) to
have required that the episode, too, should arise from the action in a probable or
necessary way, and contribute something to the whole. In any case, he found fault
with any 'episodic' plot (9.1451b 34), that is, one in which the separate sections
follow one another in a way which is neither probable nor necessary; or, to express it
positively, appear to be arranged completely haphazardly or arbitrarily. This is
therefore connected with the requirement of careful motivation, but is not identical
with it; a piece of action may be excellently motivated in itself and yet be an
unconnected episode which interrupts the whole, standing beside the main action
rather than arising from it and leading back into it. If we look at the composition of
the Aeneid in this light,, it is clear that Virgil was attempting to follow Aristotle's
rules.
The main action of the first half of the Aeneid is the journey of Aeneas from Troy
to Latium. Book 2 deals with its cause, Book 3 the first – longer but less interesting
– part of the journey, Books 4, 5 and 6 its last three stages. The main parts of these
three books, Dido's suffering and death, the Games, and the visit to the Underworld,
were conceived as episodes; we see this clearly, in spite of all the art which the poet
has subsequently devoted to concealing the fact; however, he has also attempted to
transform the episodes into essential components of the whole. The love of Dido is
the greatest 'temptation' which the hero faces; he is in danger of succumbing to it
and of forgetting his goal for ever; but he pulls himself together and overcomes it.
So far, the most severe critic would have nothing to find fault with; however, the
nucleus of Book 4 contributes to the main action only during its first half, as long as
439 Dido is still making attempts to keep Aeneas from departing; everything else directs
the reader's attention away from the main action and the main character. And yet
Dido's suffering and death are not narrated for their own sakes: the peak of the
narrative is the curse which Dido hurls upon the further destiny of Aeneas and upon
the future of Rome; the last words of the dying woman ( nostrae omina mortis [the
evil omen of my death]) take it up again, and the reader knows that it will be
fulfilled.[4] Regarded in this way, Dido's suffering and death have an effect not only
on the events narrated later in the epic, but far beyond: what might appear to be an
episode becomes an essential component, not only of the poem, but of the history of
Rome. It is true that it is only the reader of Book 4 who feels this: in the second half
of the poem Virgil has not referred again to Dido's curse, but has given a new
motivation to the sorrows and dangers suffered by Aeneas, in the form of Juno's
hatred; he has even refrained from making Juno refer to Aeneas' offence against
Dido, even in her indignatio (7.293ff.) [indignant speech] or in her hate-filled
speech (10.63ff.). It is easy to see why: Juno herself had arranged the union which
became Dido's tragedy, and therefore it could not be she who avenged it; also she
herself had much weightier reasons to be an enemy of the Trojans; and yet she was
indispensable as an actual driving-force for the whole second half of the poem. So,
from a technical point of view, Dido's curse is to be placed on a level with Creusa's
prophecy at the end of Book 2 and Anchises' predictions at the end of Book 6: they
are significant at the time, opening up the view of the future, but the motifs are
dropped later because the narrative requires different presuppositions.
The Games have become, as we have seen, the setting for the burning of the
ships, which forms on the one hand the last severe test of Aeneas, and leads on the
other hand to the foundation of Segesta, the most important permanent result of
Aeneas' wanderings. To this extent the games must be regarded as a necessary
component, although they have been treated in greater detail than is warranted by
their significance, and have become an independent episode.
The visit to the Underworld has obviously proved the most difficult episode for
Virgil to provide with an organic connection with the main action. It is clear that the
440 decision to take Aeneas into the Underworld was quite independent of the provision
of a motivation for it: here was an unparalleled opportunity to rival Homer, not only
in form but above all in content: in place of the mythos [story] of the Odyssey he
would supply a poetic narrative full of serious and sublime wisdom and full of
enthusiastic patriotism; Odysseus had brought all kinds of strange information back
to the upper world, Aeneas was to be permitted to see the wicked punished, the good
rewarded, to be initiated into the mysteries of life after death, and to gaze upon the
splendour of Rome and of her greatest son, Augustus. In this way, this Book was
made to contribute an enormous amount to the real purpose of his whole poem; but
how could he arrange that it should also serve the action of the poem? Virgil stood
in Homer's thrall: Odysseus is sent by Circe into the Underworld to question the
spirit of Teiresias, who will give him information about the ways and means of
returning home. Teiresias does indeed give him this information, but the whole
prophecy remains without results: what Odysseus hears in the conversation about
conditions at home has already been forgotten directly afterwards, by the time he
speaks with Anticleia; for his homeward journey Circe is able to give much more
accurate information; the later reconciliation with Poseidon is not completed in the
Odyssey . But the motif did seem to Virgil to be usable: in 6.890-2 we have his
provisional attempt at using it: Anchises instructs his son about the wars which lie
ahead of him, about the nations and city of Latinus, about the means of overcoming
all these difficulties. However, Virgil did not keep to this plan; he could see that the
motivation of the future consequences could not be used, any more than it could in
the Odyssey , for if Aeneas knows precisely what is going to happen, he will have no
more doubts, no disappointments, no worries. That is why Virgil transferred the
equivalent predictions to the mouth of the Sibyl;[5] her obscure, cryptic words do not
441 anticipate later developments. He then needed a new motive for the descent of
Aeneas, one which had probably occurred to him during the writing of the first draft,
but which now came to the fore. The new driving-force for Aeneas, which com-
mands him to face even the terrors of the Underworld, is his pietas , the wish to
speak once more to his beloved father, who has been asking for him; to see him not
just in a momentary vision, such as is possible on earth, but to make a real visit and
have a proper, loving conversation. This venture on the part of Aeneas would
certainly help to show his character, but it would not contribute to the main action:
this contribution is made, as I have tried to show above, p. 225, by the protreptic
significance of the visit to the Underworld: Aeneas is to be strengthened and con-
firmed for the more difficult part of his task which awaits him in Latium. In the
poet's opinion, the purpose of all eschatological mythology is to support and
strengthen mankind in their struggle after the Good; it is no different here, where
Aeneas is not merely told, but allowed to see for himself. How far Virgil has
succeeded in making this intention clear is not the question here; we are only
interested in establishing whether we are right to perceive this intention, and, with it,
Virgil's efforts to make Book 6, too, an organic part of the whole.
The action of the second half of the poem runs from Aeneas' arrival in Latium to
the final establishment of the Trojan settlement. Of the larger component parts, one
which we may regard as having been conceived as an episode is the aristeia of
Camilla; to provide the opportunity for it, Aeneas and Turnus have to be removed
from the scene, and the poet returns us to the main action when Camilla's defeat
brings Turnus back to Laurentum, which also thwarts the ambush which would
otherwise have endangered Aeneas. But the motivation of Aeneas' separate expedi-
tion is not carried out entirely satisfactorily, and we are left with the impression that
it is merely an episode. Among the rest, episodes in Aristotle's sense in the second
half are the catalogues in Books 7 and 10, which are perfectly appropriate at the start
of the war; the Evander scenes in Book 8, connected very well with the course of the
main action; the Nisus story in Book 9, which is only significant within the book,
and will be discussed below, as will the description of the shield in Book 8: here,
too, it is obvious that the motivation was added afterwards.
442
3—
Catalogues
What we have said so far about the unity of the book referred to the uninterrupted
course of the action, the logical cohesion of the whole. We have seen that Virgil
strove to achieve this, but could not fully disguise the fact that the separate parts of
the poem had not grown organically from a single unified conception. The real
artistic unity, which means unity both of conception and of effect, is apparent in the
separate parts of Virgil's work; wherever the content of a component part of the
poem makes it complete in itself, Virgil has also presented it as an artistic unity.
We see such unity (to begin with the least important) in lists of names and similar
catalogues, which would seem to resist artistic shaping; if they contain a great
number of items then they soon become monotonous and confused, giving the
impression of a shapeless, haphazard jumble. The simplest means of countering this
is to group the items systematically to produce an orderly, tidy whole; further, where
possible, one can put together things which are related, making it easier for the
audience to perceive the whole as a unity. Minor examples of this grouping are the
list of the men who climbed out of the Wooden Horse (p. 53 n. 28 above), the long
list of names in the aristeiae ( p . 171f. above), and the emuneration of the Latin
colonies, 6.773 (2 × 4); a major example of the principle is best seen in the Parade of
Heroes in 6.[6] Nearly thirty names from the history of Rome are given here, and their
bearers are mostly characterized, briefly or in more detail; if this list were not
divided up it would be monstrous. Virgil creates three groups[7] – the Alban descend-
443 ants of Aeneas down to Romulus, the heroes of the earlier period, what we could
call the time of the Roman city state, and the heroes of the developing world-em-
pire[8] – without feeling bound by the chronology in the details; the second group is
separated from the first and third, not by unpoetic formulae of conclusion and
transition, but by two pictures from the present and the most recent past: after
Romulus we see the alter Romulus [second Romulus], Augustus; after Torquatus
and Camillus, the conquerors of Gaul, we see Gaul's conqueror, Caesar, and his
opponent, Pompey. These inserted figures are lifted out of the crowd by their
position, and at the same time serve to break up the pedantic chronological order,
and to give a touch of haphazardness without spoiling the arrangement of the whole.
The youthful Marcellus is the third contemporary to appear, and rounds off the
whole, linked to the third group by his ancestor, the conqueror of Syracuse, who
forms the necessary complement to the figure named last in the third group, Fabius
Maximus.[9]
444 A list in the proper sense is to be found in the two catalogues in Books 7 and 10;
but Virgil took care that they should not be mere lists like the Homeric Catalogue. In
Book 7, Virgil places Mezentius and Lausus at the head, Turnus and Camilla at the
end, so that the less important figures are framed by the few who were to play major
roles in the battle. Starting from these fixed points at the beginning and end, he has
arranged the rest so that the whole presents the following picture: first the places
nearest at hand – Caere and Aventinus, Tibur and Praeneste – then three pairs of
related names covering the wider surrounding area – Faliscans and Sabines, Aurunci
and South Campanians,[10] inhabitants of Aequicula and Marsians – and we finish by
returning to nearby areas: Aricia and Ardea, and finally the Volscian Camilla. We
are intended to receive the impression of a line which runs back to its starting-point,
encircling a closed whole.[11]
4—
Sequences of Scenes
The closest thing to these lists are actions which consist of a series of similar scenes
in sequence. Such actions become an artistic unity if they can be connected in a
logical sequence; where this cannot be done, as for example with the Games, then
symmetrical grouping combined with variation and heightening of interest can help
to avoid the effect of a mere loose assemblage (p. 123f. above). Elsewhere, Virgil
has often successfully overcome the episodic effect that clings to such actions. For
example, the Iliu Persis in Quintus and Tryphiodorus consists of loose episodes: we
are faced with a large number of single events which could be decreased or in-
445 creased or rearranged without affecting the composition. Virgil replaces this with a
tight narrative which strives towards a definite goal, in which the single events –
Panthus, Androgeus, Coroebus' ruse, the rape of Cassandra, the storming of the
citadel, the death of Priam – are necessary components, none of which could change
places with another. Dionysius' account of Aeneas' wanderings is episodic: the only
connecting thread is the geographical one, but if there were half as many stops, or
twice as many, the composition would not be altered. In Virgil, up to the landing in
Italy, each individual stop, with the exception of the brief mention of Actium, is a
necessary stage on the way to the goal which was indicated at the beginning. Many
of Homer's battle-descriptions are episodic: in Virgil, in each of the four books,
each individual part has its definite place in the whole: in each book there is a series
of single events, which is well arranged in itself, and forms a phase of the whole
battle and causes the action to develop in a particular direction; at the end of each
act a definite goal has been reached. Finally, the visit to the Underworld in the
Odyssey is arranged episodically: the sequence of groups – heroines, heroes of the
Trojan War, other dead – appears haphazard; of the great number of conversations
which Odysseus had, he selects the most important, but could tell a great deal more;
out of the great number of people who have been dead for a long time he sees six –
he would have seen many more if he had not run off in terror. What Aeneas sees is
not haphazard; his path leads to Anchises, and on his way he has to pass all the
different areas of the Underworld, and he sees, or hears of, all the different classes of
dead people, from those not yet buried to those who are ready to rise again to a new
life. Nor does he converse with an arbitrary number: from the first group he speaks
to Palinurus, among the victims of unhappy love he speaks to Dido, out of all those
fallen in war he speaks to Deiphobus: in each case the need to speak is motivated in
such a special way that we feel that these are the only ones to whom he really had to
speak.[12] Similarly, in Elysium only Musaeus speaks, in the valley of Lethe only
446 Anchises; we should be clear how very different it would be if not one but two
spoke in any of these places – we should immediately feel that it could have been
more, or fewer: we would lose the sense of necessity.
5—
Unity of Person
In order that an action which forms a whole in itself should also be felt to be a unity,
it must have an obvious centre and concentration of interest. In the majority of the
examples discussed so far, the poet had the advantage that the action is grouped
around one person, Aeneas, and is leading this person to a definite goal. However,
Virgil also used this device in other places, deliberately in order to create a unity. In
the scene of Priam's death (which is made into a separate, independent action for the
reasons given on p. 24), note how skilfully Priam himself is set in the centre, by the
fact that this section of the narrative is cut off from the rest of Neoptolemus' deeds,
that it has Priam as its starting-point, and that it ends with reflective thoughts on his
death; Aeneas himself is left completely out of the picture. Further, we have seen
how the battle-descriptions are almost all presented as aristeiae : the reader's interest
is held for as long as possible by one character, or by an exceptional pair of fighters:
in Book 9 it is Turnus, in Book 10, in succession, Aeneas, Pallas, Turnus, then
Aeneas and Mezentius, who is replaced by Lausus for a short time only; in Book 11
Camilla predominates, in Book 12 Aeneas and Turnus are kept before the observer's
eyes throughout. In this case the interest had to be divided equally between them, for
practical reasons; where that is not required, Virgil prefers to let Aeneas step back,
rather than divide the interest: in Book 8, all the time that Evander is on the stage he
is definitely the main character who leads the action and whose speeches are re-
ported; Aeneas himself speaks only twice, when he greets him, and after the
intervention of the heavenly sign promised by Venus.[13]
447 This aspect must be kept in mind above all when the action divides into two parts
set in different places. If both are given equal treatment the listener is forced to
move continually from one to the other, and the unity of the scene is disturbed. In
such cases, Virgil puts one part firmly to the fore; the other is made smaller by
perspective. We have already seen this in the case of Book 9 when we studied its
narrative form (p. 302f.): in the first part we stand on the Latin side, and see the
Trojan side only momentarily; in the second part, the Nisus episode, we set out from
the Trojan camp and return to it afterwards; it is only in the third part that the two
sides are brought together. In the introductory scenes of Book 4, Aeneas does not
appear at all; in the scenes after Mercury's first errand, Dido is the only protagonist,
we see her suffering develop, and Aeneas' action, which runs parallel to Dido's,
apparently serves only to motivate the separate stages of that suffering. In Book 11
we are led first for a short time into Aeneas' camp, but then the action moves to the
Latin side and remains there until the end; we experience the battle and its results
from the side of Camilla and her followers. Above all, however, it is the composi-
tion of Book 7 which is ruled by this approach. As soon as we have been taken by
the second proem to the side of the Latins, the position from which to view every-
thing which is to come has been given. We are not actually told how Aeneas
encountered cordial goodwill at first, how a sudden change in the situation then
meant that his hopes were dashed, he saw himself embroiled in a fight and, in spite
of all his efforts, felt the war gradually becoming inevitable. On the contrary, we are
told how Latinus, whom prodigies had made anxious about his daughter's future,
448 received an oracle from Faunus, which he saw fulfilled by the arrival of the Trojans;
how then, because of the resistance, first of his wife, then of Turnus, then of all his
subjects, his marriage plans were frustrated, and he himself, incapable of confront-
ing the attack, retired, so that war flared up in Latium where peace had reigned so
long; rex arva Latinus et urbes iam senior longa placidas in pace regebat (7.45f.)
[King Latinus had been ruling over the cities and farms in serenity for many years of
peace, and he now was growing old] begins the narrative; it ends with the Latins
preparing for war. We are only led back to Aeneas once, at the beginning, where it is
a question of narrating the previous history of the embassy which Latinus receives;
we hear later that the ambassadors leave richly rewarded but do not hear the im-
pression which their message had on Aeneas: we do not return to him until the
beginning of the next book. In this case the completeness of the narrative suffers as a
result of the artistic principle; for we should like to know why Aeneas does not take
up Latinus' invitation, why he does not prevent the first bloody clash, etc.[14]
6—
Unity of Each Book
From looking at the scenes and series of scenes, we move up to the unit next in size,
the book; the reason why this is always treated as a unit has been discussed above
p. 209f.
First, the rule of unity of action holds good for the books, that rule which, we saw
above, was striven after as the ideal requirement for the whole; but with the majority
of the books the conception was already unified, and that is decisive for the unity of
effect. Each book is supposed to contain a piece of the action which is complete in
itself and which leads to a [end] in the Aristotelian sense. However, even the
greatest skill cannot divide a connected epic action cleanly into twelve parts each
complete in itself, without the need for any transitions; these transitions are then
placed at the beginning of the books, as a kind of proem, which precedes the real
[beginning] of the action. In many of the books it is immediately obvious that
they fulfil the requirement: 2: Iliu Persis , 3: Wanderings, 4: Dido, 5: Sojourn in
449 Sicily, 6: Underworld, 7: (with introduction) the outbreak of war in Latium and its
causes, 8: Aeneas' excursion (with introduction), 9: Turnus' feats in Aeneas' ab-
sence, 10: the first main battle, together with preparatory assembly of the gods, 12:
the duel: it is prepared, temporarily frustrated, and carried out. We should note how
in Book 10, for example, the ending is set up in exactly the same way as we noted at
the end of Book 12, which is also the end of the whole poem: Book 10 finishes with
the death of Mezentius; to make this possible, the relief of the camp is anticipated
(p. 289 above), but the results of this victory are kept back until the following book:
Aeneas' address on the following day (11.14ff.) would in all likelihood have been
given on the same day as the battle. How an episodic effect is deliberately and
skilfully avoided in other places can be seen from the examples which follow.
The narrative in Book 6 had to cover not only the visit to the Underworld but also
the death and burial of Misenus, which had no real connection with the Underworld.
But Virgil makes Aeneas visit the Sibyl as soon as he lands; the death of Misenus
occurs while he is absent; the requirement that the body shall be buried and the men
purified is made into a precondition of the journey to Hades, along with the acquisi-
tion of the golden bough. On their return, Aeneas and Achates do indeed find the
corpse: that serves not only as concrete proof of the validity of the Sibyl's power to
predict (189), but also leads directly to the discovery of the golden bough; while
Aeneas is taking this into the temple, his companions build the funeral pyre, and the
funeral has been completed before the summoning of Hecate and, with it, the
beginning of the journey to the Underworld: in this way the Misenus story is given
the strongest connections with the preparations for it.
The description of the shield did not belong to any one place in the action; a poet
who was composing episodes would perhaps have been content to have Venus bring
the weapons at the end of Book 8, or during the voyage in Book 10; Virgil prepares
for it with the prophetic sign from heaven and makes this into an essential part of the
action: Aeneas is disappointed and discouraged by Evander's reply, but the sign
assures him of divine help and he immediately starts organizing the new enterprise,
450 the Etruscan expedition.
The Nisus story comes in the middle of Book 9; it is itself an episode like the
Doloneia, related to the latter not only in its content but also by the fact that its result
seems to have no consequences for the development of the main action. Yet Virgil
did strive after – and achieve – a better integration than the Homeric poet. First, the
episode serves to connect the first and last parts of Book 9, which would otherwise
fall apart: it fills the night between the two days and creates continuity of action.
Secondly, the expedition of the pair has a better and much simpler motivation than
the ancient epic poet achieved. The latter had great trouble making his heroes set
out. First Agamemnon calls an assembly, to find a means of rescuing the Achaeans
and the ships ( Iliad 10.19, 44); then he holds a council to choose between fleeing
and continuing the fight; finally, after everyone has helped check that the guards are
at their posts, it occurs to Nestor that a spy ought to be sent to find out whether the
Trojans plan to stay on the open plain or to return to the city – information which
cannot help much in the rescue of the Achaeans. Odysseus and Diomedes do not
even ask Dolon about it (or at least do not insist on an answer), and when they return
with the looted horses, no more is said about their mission or about the rescue of the
Achaeans. Aeneas has left the camp before the enemy has been sighted; but now the
camp is surrounded, and the coming day will bring a heavy attack: nothing is more
natural than that the Trojan generals should feel an urgent desire to inform the
absent king about the situation, so that he can take measures, hasten his return, etc.;
they are also anxious to know whether his request for support has been successful.
Nisus knows that everyone wants this; in the silent night, when he looks out from
the wall and sees that in one place the enemy's watchfire has gone out, the idea
comes like a lightning-flash that he could be the messenger. He goes with Euryalus
to the generals, who are discussing this very plan; his offer is immediately accepted
and they leave at once. The feat of Diomedes and Odysseus passes and leaves no
trace: neither friend nor foe hears anything more of it. It is true that we are told how
the Trojans lamented over the slain men (523) after Apollo had wakened Hippo-
451 coon, unfortunately too late: but once the two heroes have returned to the camp,
have washed and fed, everything is past and gone, and Eos rises from her couch by
the splendid Tithonus as if nothing remarkable had happened in the night. Virgil
depicts the Rutulians bringing the fallen Volcens and the looted spoils into the
camp; there is general consternation as the bloodbath which has been inflicted on
the sleeping men is discovered. But the perpetrators have been punished, and when
the triumphant column marches out against the camp at daybreak it carried the heads
of Nisus and Euryalus, stuck on spears and lifted high. The defenders, who were
already disconsolate as they prepare to ward them off, are pierced to the heart by the
sight; the mother of Euryalus fills the camp with heart-rending laments which
undermine the men's morale; to prevent worse happening, Iulus has the unhappy
woman carried into the tent. We see that not only is the outward continuity
preserved, but also the tragic outcome of the adventure helps to convey the mood in
which attackers and defenders begin the new day's battle.
In each book, unity of action is often connected with unity of person; the person
is not always Aeneas. Book 4 starts with Dido and finishes by her corpse; Book 9
starts with Turnus, and ends with him; similarly, Turnus opens Book 12, and it ends
with his death. In Book 5, Virgil has made Anchises the centre of interest; Aeneas
thinks of him as soon as the tempest forces them to enter the Sicilian harbour (5.31),
it is in his honour that Aeneas makes his memorial speech and the sacrifice for the
dead; the Funeral Games are also in his honour (cf. also 550); it is when they think of
him that the Trojan women lament (614, cf. 652); finally, it is his appearance which
introduces the last phase of the sojourn in Sicily, the foundation of Segesta and of the
sanctuary of Anchises.
In the same way as Books 4, 9 and 12 have beginnings and endings which
correspond because the same person dominates both, Virgil has also emphasized the
unity of other books by giving them opening and closing scenes which are contrast-
ing or parallel. At both the beginning and end of Book 5 we find Aeneas at sea –
storm and tempest at the beginning, at the end a most favourable wind and the
calmest of seas; at the beginning, the conversation between Aeneas and Palinurus, at
452 the end, Palinurus falls overboard and Aeneas laments.[15] Book 8 is opened (after the
introduction), and brought to a close by Aeneas in contrasting ways: at the begin-
ning he is full of cares and doubts, at the end he is wrapped in enthusiastic
contemplation of the divine shield, assured of support and victory. In Book 4, after
the exposition, there immediately follows the scene of Anna advising her sister to
agree to the new marriage; immediately before the end we see the counsellor in
despair at the tragic result of her advice. This helps us to understand the composition
of Book 1, where unity is not easy to perceive: it begins with the deadly danger of
the storm, it ends with the banquet where those who were in peril on the sea are
453 gathered safe from cares: a concrete expression of their escape from danger. This
banquet, which also provides the opportunity for Aeneas to tell his tale, must of
course follow directly upon the arrival of Aeneas, and not be separated from it by
other events, as it is in the Odyssey : it would then cease to be the necessary
expression of reaching safety, and would also no longer serve as the keystone which
crowns the unified structure of Book 1.
That leaves only Book 11, the one book without an obvious unity. Continuity of
action is maintained, but the sections do not hang together: it starts with the conse-
quences of the first day's fighting – scenes in the camp of Aeneas, Pallas' funeral
procession, Evander's lament – then, after the armistice, comes the second day of
fighting, introduced by the council meeting in Laurentum. The real heroine of this
second day, Camilla, does not appear until after the middle of the book (498). How
could Virgil have avoided this? He could either have devoted the whole book to
Camilla, putting the consequences of the first battle at the end of Book 10; that book
might have been able to maintain its unity even so, but it would have lost the final
climax of the death of Mezentius. Or he could have done without Camilla, and made
the suggestion of a duel in Book 12 arise directly from the council meeting; Book 11
would then have been much poorer in emotional content, becoming a mere stopgap.
Finally, he could have considered cutting all of the first part; in that case he would
have lost important details in the portrayal of Aeneas and Turnus, and also the whole
[preparation] of the duel. The poet chose the least of these evils and,
in this one case, broke his own rules of composition, finding that it forced him to
lesser concessions in other directions; the principle itself is not obscured by this one
exception.
7—
Unity of the Whole Work
We turn back now from the composition of the single sections to the composition of
the whole, and consider to what extent this was affected by the fact that the books
were each designed to stand separately, in the way that we have shown. Obviously,
the tendency to make each component part complete in itself must have detracted
454 somewhat from the unity of the whole.[16] Instead of letting each part develop from
the preceding one, so as to provide the basis for the following one, there would
naturally be a tendency to cut down on the number of connections between books
except for very general ones, giving only what belonged within each book, only
what had no effect outside the boundaries of the book. That must have happened
most often when the poet composed a book before he had written the earlier one
which would have explained it. The factual contradictions which crept in as a result
of this working method are not its greatest drawback; they could have been
removed, and probably would have been. What was more important was that the
poet was forced to omit in later books motifs which had figured in earlier ones, or
failed to prepare in earlier books for later ones in the way that one would expect in a
narrative with a strict unity; he also let fairly important characters vanish altogether,
or be introduced rather late.[17] In these cases it is extremely difficult to decide
whether it is an involuntary and unconscious result of the manner of composition, or
conscious and deliberate poetic licence. I shall give, first, examples of this treatment
of characters. Drances stands in the foreground in Book 11; one may be surprised
that he disappears completely in Book 12 and makes no attempt to prevent the
breach of the agreement. In Book 1, Amor took the place of Ascanius; in Book 4 we
hear no more about it.[18] On the other hand, Anna is very much in the foreground in
4: one might have expected to hear something about her in Book 1. It is true that
Camilla is already introduced in the catalogue in Book 7; but she vanishes in Books
9 and 10, then dominates the stage in Book 11.[19] In Book 12, Juturna is full of tender
anxiety for her brother; the brief mention granted to her by the poet in 10.439
scarcely seems sufficient preparation for this. In all these cases, introducing the
characters earlier, or keeping them in the foreground later, would hardly have been
an artistic advantage to the books concerned; it would only have added unnecessary
455 complications to the action, and it is possible that Virgil deliberately refrained for
that reason; there is no doubt, however, that it increases the episodic effect of the
whole. It is the same with the treatment of motives. The revelations which are given
to Aeneas in Book 6 by the Sibyl and by Anchises are completely ignored in the
subsequent books: they seem to have no effect at all, either good or bad, on Aeneas'
moods. That certainly helps to isolate Book 6 within the whole work; but we must
ask ourselves how this motive could have been used further without impairing the
interest of the story. When Aeneas leaves Evander, he picks out the ablest of his
men, and sends the others back to the camp in the two ships, to take a message to
Ascanius from his father (548). We hear nothing more about them;[20] but we must
ask when and how this message could have been introduced into Book 9: never
mind the two ships, which would have been greatly disappointed on arrival to learn
that they had just missed being immortalized as nymphs! If one remembers that
Books 8 and 9 were both composed to be recited separately, one can well under-
stand the poet's procedure, even if it was deliberate. It is often more noticeable
when preparatory information is lacking. I pointed out earlier, that Virgil often
leaves us to find out from what his characters say that things have happened that he
could easily have told us himself (p. 308f.); he makes use of this liberty mostly
when the event itself happened before the book in which it is mentioned. In the
Assembly of the Gods at the beginning of Book 10, Jupiter asks in a rage abnueram
bello Italiam concurrere Teucris : quae contra vetitum discordia? [I had withheld
my permission for Italy to meet Trojans in combat of war. Why is there this
rebellion against my prohibition?] That would be quite sufficient, if Book 10 stood
alone; but anyone who reads the whole epic through is bound to wonder when the
prohibition was made. In Book 8, Aeneas refers to a promise by his divine mother,
that if war broke out she would bring him weapons wrought by Vulcan: we are not
able to say when this promise could have been given. But in this and similar cases
456 we see why Virgil used each motive in composing the separate books, and we also
see that to prepare for them in earlier books would have been difficult, or sometimes
impossible, without spoiling the action there. A poet who set great store by a
watertight exposition would have mentioned in Book 3 the oracle about Palinurus
which Aeneas refers to at 6.343 (p. 309 above); by so doing, he would have given
his audience a riddle in Book 3 which would have remained temporarily unsolved;
those listening to Book 6 could not be referred to that passage, and would either not
understand what he was talking about or would have to be told again in full.[21]
The separate composition of each book has also had an effect on the way in
which they are linked. In most cases the poet has been completely successful with
the transition from one book to another; in one case – Books 5 to 6[22] – the new book
is linked so closely with the previous one that when it was recited by itself either the
opening must have been changed, or the recital must have started with the last few
lines of the previous book. In other cases there is a brief recapitulation at the
beginning of the new book (Books 8, 12), but this does not spoil the narrative when
it is read as a whole; in yet other cases however, the link is present, but is so loose
that the continuity of the narrative suffers, although Virgil was so keen on continuity
within each book: the interea [meanwhile] (see p. 306 above) which links Books 10
and 11 with what has gone before bridges the interval of a night which has followed
the day just described, although nightfall was not mentioned: in neither case was it
possible to do so without spoiling the effect of the ending of the book. Finally, Book
3 starts with a formal introduction (1-12),[23] giving a kind of preparation for the new
action, recapitulating the main content of Book 2, the destruction of Troy, but then
457 also taking the narrative forward. The fact that there are some factual irregularities
in this link with Book 2 can be explained by the fact that Virgil was already aware
of the changes that would be necessary in the latter parts of Book 3; the division
between Books 2 and 3 is expressed formally by a pathos-filled (see p. 290 above)
proem; Virgil used this for practical reasons: he had to start Book 3 by narrating
what had happened between the sack of Troy and the exodus, and if he had started
the book by passing over this rather uneventful interval with just a dry report or a
brief summary it would have had an adverse effect on the listener's feelings.
8—
Organization of the Whole Work
For a poem to give the impression of being a unity, we must be able to have a clear
view of it as a whole.[24] We must never lose the thread of the narrative; at every
moment we must have a clear view of the situation; digressions must be avoided;
our gaze should not be wearied by a confusing multiplicity of material, nor ob-
structed by complications in the plot, nor distracted from the main subject by an
annoying amount of less important detail. Clear organization on the one hand,
simplicity and restraint on the other, are the means which lead to these goals.
We have already seen how, in smaller sections which could easily be confusing
because of their content (such things as lists), grouping the items made them easier
to grasp. In contrast, the organization to be seen in complete books is simply what
was demanded by the subject-matter: Book 2 had to fall into three sections (p. 5
above), and the approximately equal length of these sections followed from their
equal importance to the plot, according to the rule of 
[symmetry] which
dictated that things of equal value should be treated in equal detail (p. 288f. above).
However, Virgil otherwise refrained from imposing 'symmetry' merely for the sake
of symmetry upon the divisions of a book which arose naturally from the material,
458 or from creating artificial divisions where there were none; thus it did not occur to
him to devote an equal number of lines to the opening and closing scenes of Book 5
just because they are parallel in content, or, in the long journey in Book 3, to point
out the divisions which made the book fall into definite and obvious acts: where
clarity is guaranteed by the straightforward advance of the action no external aids
are needed. On the contrary, one may say that Virgil kept to the principle of
continuity and sought to smooth over the breaks between the sections created by the
material, just as a dramatist would within each act.[25]
The division of the whole work into twelve books is a different matter. The fact
that the action consists of two major parts, equal in content – this is announced in
the proem – had to be reflected in the form. This is done by dividing the material
into two groups of six books, which are then further divided into pairs.[26] The
beginning of the second part is emphasized by the second proem; the parallel
monologues of Juno in Books 1 and 7 and her subsequent parallel actions emphasize
their correspondence even more clearly. In a similar way, Apollonius had used his
first two books to cover the outward voyage of the Argo, his last two books to cover
the adventure in Colchis and the return voyage; and even in the Odyssey anyone
who is determined to find a symmetrical division of the whole by books will do so.[27]
459
9—
Simplification
Much more important than the arrangement of sections is the second of the qualities
mentioned above, simplicity. Simplicity and restraint not only make the work easy
to grasp, they also make it great and noble; this is the essential foundation for the
individuality of Virgil's epic style. It is true that this is more easily sensed than
demonstrated, but I must attempt to analyse what produces this impression.
To start with the most elementary: there is restraint in the number of scenes in
each longish section of the action; I am thinking of the Sack of Troy (compared
with, say, Quintus), the Wanderings (compared with, say, Apollonius) or the Games
and battles (compared with Homer). There is restraint in the number of speeches in a
conversation, as we have shown: a single speech and a single reply create a picture
which makes a deeper impression than a long interchange. There is restraint in the
number of conversations: instead of the many ups and downs of the scenes in the
Iliad in which the gods discuss the fate of the warring parties, Virgil has Jupiter's
promise to Venus at the beginning, Juno's renunciation in Jupiter's favour at the
end, and, in between, the great scene in which Venus and Juno meet before Jupiter:
with these three scenes the principle is, as it were, sucked dry, and the other scenes
featuring the interaction of the gods are only preparation for their intervention in
individual cases.
There is restraint in the number of characters, or, when a great number is inevit-
able, as it is in the battles, a few are selected for ostentatious emphasis, and all the
rest are relegated to static or minor episodic roles; the intention is not only that the
few select characters shall stand out as being obviously more important, but that the
story-line of their actions should remain clean and uncluttered. People have often
mocked at the presentation of fortis Gyas fortisque Cloanthus (1.222 = 1.612)
[valiant Gyas and valiant Cloanthus] who do not manage to come to life. The
sharply drawn silhouettes of the participants in the Games, Sergestus and Cloanthus,
Entellus and Dares etc., show that Virgil was well able to create characters when he
chose to. Thus, when he makes no special mention of any of Aeneas' companions in
460 the first books, and gives very few details even about fidus Achates [trusty Achates],
there must have been a reason. For secondary figures to be characterized there has to
be a sub-plot, or at least a branching and broadening of the main plot; if, for
example, in the storm at sea, Virgil had wanted to show the characters of the
captains of the ships, or if, after the landing, he had wanted to show their different
reactions to misfortune, this would have obscured the clear storyline of Book 1, and
weighed down the simple exposition. Anyone who has understood this will find it
quite in order that, for example, the nurse Caieta is not mentioned until they come to
the place where she died and to which she gave her name (7.1ff.); this, and the fact
that she was nurse to Aeneas, is truly all that the reader needs to know about her. He
will understand when no attempt is made to bring Lavinia into the foreground,
turning her into an active figure; the happenings at the court of Latinus are compli-
cated enough as it is, and the poet happily makes use of the pretext that the early
Roman filia familias [daughter of the family] had no will of her own, and therefore
did not act independently, but allowed her parents to rule her. Lavinia is not sup-
posed to interest the reader as a person but only as the daughter of Latinus, whose
hand in marriage goes with the gift of the kingdom.
There is restraint in the use of detail; it is almost exclusively used where it can
deepen the emotional momentum of the action. If a tragic drama is to move us, it has
to be presented with all the fullness of life: in such cases Virgil does not refrain from
painting in every last detail. But whether the bow which fires a fateful shot is of one
style or another, whether the sceptre carried by a king previously belonged to one
person or someone else, whether the deer which Aeneas shoots for his hungry men
is carried to the shore in one way or another way, are all minor details with no
relevance to the plot, and therefore felt by Virgil to be an intrusion. If the Evander
scenes were an epyllion in the Hellenistic style, as it is sometimes suggested that
they are, how many small, neat touches would have been required to paint the
picture of the old man's simple household! Virgil has done it with a few bold
strokes, making it into a piece of epic action. Of course, the sparser the detail, the
461 more effective is what we have: when the king is wakened by the dawn chorus,
when two hounds run at his side, that would go almost unnoticed in the genre of the
epyllion: but here it adds a great deal to the atmosphere. And, as with these external
touches, so too with the depiction of thoughts and feelings. Of course Virgil was as
capable as anyone of painting a complicated state of mind in the greatest detail, on
the model of the great Alexandrian miniatures which depict emotions; the Eclogues
bear witness to this. In the epic he scorned to do so: whenever he has men and gods
speaking emotionally, it is always to reveal plain and straightforward feelings. I
have attempted above to show how, in the most complicated case, that of Dido, we
are not given a complicated picture, painted in all the colours of the rainbow and
lovingly shaded; we are presented with a well-arranged series of severe and serene
paintings, the epic-writer's fresco, which furthers the action. The Medea of Apollo-
nius, however inventive and charming the description of her maidenly timorousness
at the decisive step, and of her fear during the first rendezvous with Jason, lacks epic
grandeur by virtue of this multiplicity of tiny traits; when Dido is presented in a
similar situation, the poet refrains from decorative detail, and although he does not
manage to avoid falling into the conventional, he does preserve simplicity.
The temptation to depict psychological conflicts is resisted by Virgil, both in
Dido's case and elsewhere. One may be surprised at this; one might have thought
that the poet would have followed the example of drama and of Hellenistic nar-
rative; the contemporary elegy also undertook to express the battle between
conflicting emotions. Was Virgil not tempted to depict a battle between love and
duty in Aeneas' breast, giving a psychological motivation to the victory of duty? Or
to paint in detail the scruples of conscience displayed by King Latinus? Or to show
how Turnus' love and wounded honour overwhelm his sense of right and his good
sense in the heat of battle? Virgil makes us vaguely aware that such inner conflicts
are taking place; but he conceals them by using the symbol of a supernatural
intervention or, as in the case of Latinus, showing them to us only in an allusive
462 chiaroscuro. That Virgil was not naturally predisposed to such psychological prob-
lems is certain; but the same is surely true of the battle-scenes, and yet he did not
avoid these, because he felt that the plot demanded them; one will have to assume
that he regarded an intensive study of psychological conflicts as unsuitable for the
epic style.
10—
Variation
Restraint resulted from another factor in addition to the ones we have mentioned:
fear of repetition, or, expressed positively, striving after variety, variatio .[28] In the
same way as Virgil avoids the monotony of stereotyped turns of phrase in his
expressions,[29] and avoids having an errand carried out in the same words with which
it was given,[30] he also avoids repeating motifs where possible. Anius, the prophet of
Delos, is not allowed to prophesy, because Helenus will; the greeting of Aeneas and
Helenus is dealt with in one word, because the greeting of Aeneas and Andromache
has just been described; the sacrifice at the consultation of the Sibyl in Book 6 is
mentioned only very briefly, because the description of a more important sacrifice is
to follow;[31] and in the same way in many other cases too we could establish the
reason why something is not narrated. However, the old epic motifs of the plot had
to be used repeatedly: dreams and divine apparitions, scenes on Olympus and
prophecies, storm at sea and hospitable reception; in the descriptions of battles, too,
types and typical events recur several times. In these cases, Virgil has only avoided
putting the repetitions too close together; instead, he spreads them out fairly regu-
463 larly through the whole work;[32] also, where he could, he raised each example out of
the typical by giving it an individual shaping,[33] which resulted in variety. Variation
is particularly necessary where the action consists of a series of similar events. The
action in Book 3 depends on repeated prophecy; the process takes place each time in
completely different circumstances.[34] The Games in Book 5 are made to vary as
much as possible in the number and the kind of participants as well as in the nature
of the competition itself and its result.[35] In the battles in the last four books, the
aristeiae are alternated with general fighting, and culminate in the duels; the situ-
ation and the goal of the battle are completely different in each of the four books.
Variation is also sought after in the description of wounds: the group discussed on p.
163f. may serve as an example.
Virgil had variation in mind as soon as he began the first draft of the whole work.
Books 2, 4 and 6, each in different ways, represent a high point of pathetic or
sublime effect; they are separated by the more peaceful books, 3 and 5, and it is
obvious how important it is from this point of view that 5 should not follow immedi-
ately on 3, and 6 on 4. The pathos-filled Allecto scenes and the preparations for war
are separated from the outbreak of war by the peaceful Evander scenes. The battle-
descriptions in Books 9 to 12 are regularly interrupted with council scenes, at the
beginning of Books 10, 11 and 12. In the same way as confident optimism and
anxious worries alternate within books, for example in Book 3,[36] throughout the
whole work excitement and calm succeed each other in turns: the excitement is not
to be blunted by being sustained for too long.
464
11—
Enrichment
Variation can only be achieved by diversity; restraint requires a corresponding
enrichment if it is not to result in plainness. As far as possible, each motif is only to
appear in the same form once; but all available motifs are to be used, and the effect
of each is to be intensified.
Aristotle distinguished four main types of drama, corresponding to the types of
plot (Poetics 18): the 'interwoven' kind, which rests on a basis of peripeteia [rever-
sal] and recognition, the tragedy of pathos, of character, and the miraculous: he
taught that the best was a combination of them all. Virgil probably believed that he
had achieved this in his epic: even if it is predominantly 'pathetic', it is lacking
neither in peripeteia nor in 'recognition',[37] neither in character nor in the miracu-
lous:[38] it combines the characteristics of the Iliad and the Odyssey .[39] It also
combines essential elements of the story of both poems, supplementing it with new
motifs taken from drama or from later narrative poems: the result is richer and more
varied than any earlier poem. And it does not restrict itself to narrating for entertain-
ment: it also teaches and uplifts, combining the utile [useful] with the dulce
[pleasant]. There is an unmistakeable striving after completeness: one will realize
this if one considers, for example, the many different forms in which the super-
natural makes an appearance in the Aeneid : every possibility is utilized. Minor
things are dealt with in the same way. We are shown something simple, the focus is
on a narrowly delimited area, but this small circle is then criss-crossed with every
465 possible diameter. The speeches go straight to their goal, but the single thought
which each expresses is looked at from this side and that until nothing more could
be said. The states of mind are simple and uncomplicated; but every single mood,
every single emotion has all possible value extracted. Think of the state of mind of
the Trojans as they leave their native land; it is certainly not made artificially
complex, but it is unfolded in every direction;[40] or the various stages of Dido's
suffering are exhausted one by one. The actions of the gods and men are simple, the
motives are obvious and straightforward; but we are intended to have the fullest
possible view of them at every moment.[41] Complicated situations are avoided as far
as possible; instead, we are shown a situation from every angle until we know it
through and through.[42] Virgil does not remain on the outside of events; he intensifies
the effect by revealing the feelings of the protagonists; he enriches the action
outwardly by introducing peripeteia [reversal] and surprise, and inwardly by depict-
ing psychological processes. One example may suffice: we have seen plenty of
others during our examination. Compare the Palinurus scene in Book 6 with the
corresponding Elpenor scene in the Odyssey : in Homer we see on the one hand the
grief of Odysseus, on the other the straightforward account and plea for burial of
Elpenor, Virgil starts with the sudden light thrown on the ambiguous oracle and has
then, in Palinurus' speech, the ethos of the faithful servant (351), the pathetic,
piteous narrative and description of his present sufferings, the prayer to take him
with them across the Styx; this prayer is refused by the Sibyl, but he is given instead
the comforting prospect of burial and eternal remembrance; this brings a change in
Palinurus' mood: his dictis curae emotae [his cares were banished by her words] etc.
One has the impression that every possible aspect of the situation has been utilized,
giving an effect of completeness.