Читать книгу The Oxford Book of Latin Verse - Various Authors - Страница 6

Perhaps no poetry of equal power and range is so deeply infected with rhetoric as the Roman. A principal cause of this is, no doubt, the language. But there are other causes, and we shall most easily penetrate these if we consider what I may call the environment of Roman poetry.

Two conditions in Rome helped to foster literary creation among a people by temperament unimaginative. Of these the first is an educational system deliberately and steadily directed towards the development of poetical talent. No nation ever believed in poetry so deeply as the Romans. They were not a people of whom we can say, as we can of the Greeks, that they were born to art and literature. Those of them who attained to eminence in art and literature knew this perfectly well. They knew by how laborious a process they had themselves arrived at such talent as they achieved. The characteristic Roman triumphs are the triumphs of material civilization. But the Romans were well aware that a material civilization cannot be either organized or sustained without the aid of spiritual forces, and that among the most important of the spiritual forces that hold together the fabric of nationality are art and literature. With that large common sense of theirs which, as they grew in historical experience, became more and more spiritual, they perceived early, and they gauged profoundly, the importance of accomplishments not native to their genius. They knew what had happened to the 'valiant kings' who 'lived before Agamemnon'—and why. The same could easily happen to a great empire. That is partially, of course, a utilitarian consideration. But the Romans believed also, and deeply, in the power of literature—and particularly of poetry—to humanize, to moralize, to mould character, to inspire action. It was this faith which, as Cicero tells us, lay behind the great literary movement associated with the circle of Scipio Africanus. It was this faith which informed the Augustan literature. Horace was a man of the world—or he liked to think himself one. He was no dreamer. Yet when he speaks of the influence of high poetry upon the formation of character he speaks with a grave Puritanism worthy of Plato. These practical Romans had a practicality deeper than ours. The average Englishman, when he is told that 'the battle of Waterloo was won by the sonnets of Wordsworth', is puzzled and even offended. Nothing of Eton and its playing-fields? Nothing of Wellington and his Guards? What have sonnets in common with soldiering? But the Roman knew of himself that sonnets are a kind of soldiering. And much as he admired deeds, he knew that there is no deed greater than 'the song that nerves a nation's heart.'

These are not mere words: and this was not, in the Roman, an idle faith. It was a practical faith; that is to say, he acted upon it. Upon this faith was based, at any rate in the early period of Roman history, the whole of the Roman system of education. The principal business of the Roman schoolmaster was to take the great poets and interpret them 'by reading and comment'. Education was practically synonymous with the study of the poets. The poets made a man brave, the poets made a man eloquent, the poets made him—if anything could make him—poetical. It is hardly possible to over-estimate the obscure benefit to the national life of a discipline in which the thought and language of the best poetry were the earliest formative influences.

The second of the two conditions which favoured literary creation in Rome was a social system which afforded to a great and influential class the leisure for literary studies and the power to forward them. These two conditions are, roughly, synchronous in their development. Both take rise in the period of the Punic Wars. The Punic Wars not only quickened but they deepened and purified Roman patriotism. They put the history of the world in a new light to the educated Roman. The antagonism of Greek and Roman dropped away. The wars with Pyrrhus were forgotten. The issue was now no longer as between Greece and Rome, but as between East and West. The Roman saw in himself the last guardian of the ideals of Western civilization. He must hand on the torch of Hellenic culture. Hence, while in other countries Literature happens, as the sun and the air happen—as a part of the working of obscure natural forces—in Rome it is from the beginning a premeditated self-conscious organization. This organization has two instruments—the school of the grammaticus and the house of the great noble. Here stands Philocomus, here Scipio.

In the period of the Punic Wars this organization is only rudimentary. By no means casual, it is none the less as yet uninfected by officialism. The transition from the age of Scipio to the age of Augustus introduced two almost insensible modifications:

(1) In the earlier period the functions of the grammaticus and the rhetor were undifferentiated. The grammaticus, as he was known later, was called then litteratus or litterator. He taught both poetry and rhetoric. But Suetonius tells us that the name denoted properly an 'interpres poetarum': and we may infer that in the early period instruction in rhetoric was only a very casual adjunct of the functions of the litterator. At what precise date the office of the litterator became bifurcated into the two distinct professions of grammaticus and rhetor we cannot say. It seems likely that the undivided office was retained in the smaller Italian towns after it had disappeared from the educational system of Rome. The author of Catelepton V, who may very well be Vergil, appears to have frequented a school where poetry and rhetoric were taught in conjunction. Valerius Cato and Sulla, the former certainly, the latter probably, a Transpadane, were known as litteratores. But the litterator gradually everywhere gave place to the grammaticus: and behind the grammaticus, like Care behind the horseman, sits spectrally the rhetor.

(2) The introduction of the rhetor synchronizes with the transition from the private patron to the patron-as-government-official. And by an odd accident both changes worked in one and the same direction. That the system of literary patronage was in many of its effects injurious to the Augustan literature is a thesis which was once generally allowed. But it was a thesis which could easily take exaggerated expression. And against the view which it presents there has recently been a not unnatural reaction. A moderate representative of this reaction is the late Professor Nettleship. 'The intimacy', says Nettleship5, 'which grew up between Octavianus and some of the great writers of his time did not imply more than the relation which ... often existed between a poor poet and his powerful friend. For as the men of nobler character among the Roman aristocracy were mostly ambitious of achieving literary success themselves, and were sometimes really successful in achieving it: as they had formed a high ideal of individual culture ... aiming at excellence in literature and philosophy as well as in politics and the art of war, so they looked with a kindly eye on the men of talent and genius who with less wealth and social resources than their own were engaged in the great work of improving the national literature.'

There is much here which is truly and tellingly said. We ought never to forget that the system of patronage sprang from a very lofty notion of patriotism and of the national welfare. It implies a clear and fine recognition among the great men of affairs of the principle that a nation's greatness is not to be measured, and cannot be sustained, by purely material achievements. It is true, again, that the system of patronage did not originate with Augustus or the Augustans. Augustus was a patron of letters just as Scipio had been—because he possessed power and taste and a wide sense of patriotic obligation. So much is true, or fairly true. But if it is meant, as I think it is, that the literary patronage of the Princeps was the same in kind as, and different only in degree from, that exercised by the great men of the Republican period—if that is meant, then we have gone beyond what is either true or plausible.

I am not concerned here, let me say, with the moral effects of literary patronage. I am concerned only with its literary effects. Nor will I charge these to Augustus alone. He was but one patron—however powerful—among many. He did not create the literature which carries his name. Nevertheless it seems impossible to doubt that it was largely moulded under his personal influence, and that he has left upon it the impress of his own masterful and imperial temper. Suetonius in a few casual paragraphs gives us some insight into his literary tastes and methods. He represents him as from his youth up a genuine enthusiast for literature: 'Eloquentiam studiaque liberalia (i.e. grammatice and rhetoric) ab aetate prima et cupide et laboriosissime exercuit.' Even upon active military service he made a point of reading, composing, and declaiming daily. He wrote a variety of prose works, and 'poetica summatim attigit', he dabbled in poetry. There were still extant in Suetonius' time two volumes of his poetry, the one a collection of Epigrammata, the other—more interesting and significant—a hexameter poem upon Sicily.6 Moreover Augustus 'nursed in all ways the literary talent of his time'. He listened 'with charity and long-suffering' to endless recitations 'not only of poetry and of history but of orations and of dialogues'. We are somewhat apt, I fancy, to associate the practice of recitation too exclusively with the literary circles of the time of Nero, Domitian, and Trajan. Yet it is quite clear that already in the Augustan age this practice had attained system and elaboration. From the silence of Cicero in his Letters (the Epistles of Pliny furnish a notable contrast) we may reasonably infer that the custom was not known to him. It is no doubt natural in all ages that poets and orators should inflict their compositions upon their more intimate friends. No one of us in a literary society is safe even to-day from this midnight peril. But even of these informal recitations we hear little until the Augustan age. Catullus' friend Sestius perhaps recited his orations in this fashion: but the poem7 admits a different interpretation. And it is significant that we are nowhere told that Cicero declaimed to his friends the speeches of the second action against Verres. Those speeches were not delivered in court. They were published after the flight of Verres. If custom had tolerated it we may be sure that Cicero would not have been slow to turn his friends into a jury.

The formal recitation, recitation as a 'function', would seem to be the creation of the Principate. It was the product in part, no doubt, of the Hellenizing movement which dominated all departments of literary fashion. But we may plausibly place its origin not so much in the vanity of authors seeking applause, or in that absence of literary vanity which courts a frank criticism, as in the relations of the wealthy patron and his poor but ambitious client. The patron, in fact, did not subscribe for what he had not read—or heard. The endless recitations to which Augustus listened were hardly those merely of his personal friends. He listened, as Suetonius says, 'benigne et patienter'. But it was the 'benignity and patience' not of a personal friend but of a government official—of a government official dispensing patronage. Suetonius allows us to divine something of the tastes of this all-powerful official. He was the particular enemy of 'that style which is easier admired than understood'—quae mirentur potius homines quam intellegant. It looks as though the clearness and good sense which mark so distinctively the best Augustan literature were developed to some extent under the direct influence of the Princeps.

The Princeps and his coadjutors may perhaps be not unprofitably regarded as the heads of a great Educational Department. Beneath them are numberless grammatici and rhetores. The work of these is directed towards the ideals of the supreme heads of the Department. How far this direction is due to accident and how far to some not very defined control it would be impossible to say. But obviously among the conscious aims of the schools of many of these grammatici and rhetores was the ambition of achieving some of the great prizes of the literary world. The goal of the pupil was government preferment, as we should call it. And we may perhaps be allowed, if we guard ourselves against the peril of mistaking a distant analogy for a real similarity of conditions, to see in the recitations before the Emperor and his ministers, an inspection, as it were, of schools and universities, an examination for literary honours and emoluments. And this being so, it is not to no purpose that the rhetor in this age stands behind the grammaticus. For the final examination, the inspection-by-recitation, is bound to be, whatever the wishes of any of the parties concerned, an examination in rhetoric. The theme appointed may be history, it may be philosophy, it may be poetry. But the performance will be, and must be, rhetoric. The Aeneid of Vergil may be read and re-read by posterity, and pondered word by word, line upon line. But it is going to be judged at a single recitation. For Vergil, it is true, there may be special terms. But this will be the lot of the many; and the many will develop, to suit it, a fashion of poetry the influence of which even Vergil himself will hardly altogether escape. Moreover, there will be, of course, other patrons than the Princeps, at once less patient and less intelligent.

These effects of recitation we recognize, of course, easily enough in the case of such a poet as Lucan. But we must go back further. Vergil is, no doubt, as little like Lucan as he well could be. Yet he did not sit at the feet of Epidius for nothing: and he did not forget when he wrote the fourth book of the Aeneid that he would one day read it to Augustus. We know that there are several kinds of oratory. But we are inclined, I think, to suppose that there is only one kind of rhetoric—that rhetoric is always the same thing. Yet there are at least two kinds of rhetoric. In the practical world there are two conquering forces—the iron hand and the velvet glove. Just so in rhetoric—which in the spiritual world is one of the greatest, and very often one of the noblest, of conquering forces—there is the iron manner and the velvet manner. Lucan goes home like a dagger thrust. His is the rhetoric that cuts and beats. The rhetoric of Vergil is soft and devious. He makes no attempt to astonish, to perplex, to horrify. He aims to move us in a wholly different manner. And yet, like Lucan, he aims to move us once and for all. He aims to be understood upon a first hearing. I know that this sounds like a paradox. I shall be told that Vergil is of all poets the most indirect. That is perfectly true. But why is Vergil of all poets the most indirect? Just because he is always trying at all costs to make himself clear. Lucan says a thing once and is done with it. Vergil cannot. He begins all over again. He touches and retouches. He has no 'theme' not succeeded by a 'variation'.8 In Lucan everything depends upon concentration, in Vergil upon amplification. Both are trying painfully to be understood on a first hearing—or, rather, to make, on a first hearing, the emotional or ethical effect at which they aim. Any page of Vergil will illustrate at once what I mean. I select at random the opening lines of the third Aeneid:

postquam res Asiae Priamique euertere gentem

immeritam uisum superis, ceciditque superbum

Ilium, et omnis humo fumat Neptunia Troia;

diuersa exsilia et desertas quaerere terras

auguriis agimur diuum, classemque sub ipsa

Antandro et Phrygiae molimur montibus Idae,

incerti quo fata ferant, ubi sistere detur.

The first three lines might have been expressed by an ablative absolute in two words—Troia euersa. But observe. To res Asiae in 1 Vergil adds the explanatory Priami gentem, amplifying in 2 with the new detail immeritam. Euertere uisum (1-2) is caught up by ceciditque Ilium (2-3), with the new detail superbum added, and again echoed (3) by humo fumat—fumat giving a fresh touch to the picture. In 4 diuersa exsilia is reinforced by desertas terras, sub ipsa Antandro (5-6) by montibus Idae (6). In 7 ubi sistere detur echoes quo fata ferant. One has only to contrast the rapidity of Homer, in whom every line marks decisive advance. But Vergil diffuses himself. And this diffusion is in its origin and aim rhetorical.

Yet he did not write, and I do not mean to suggest that he wrote, for an auditorium and ἐς τὸ παραχρῆμα, and not for the scrupulous consideration of after ages. He wrote to be read and pondered. But he is haunted nevertheless by the thought of the auditorium. It distracts, and even divides, his literary consciousness. He writes, perhaps without knowing it, for two classes—for the members of his patron's salon and for the scholar in his study. We shall not judge his style truly if we allow ourselves wholly to forget the auditorium. And here let me add that we shall equally fail to understand the style of Lucan or that of Statius if we remember, as we are apt to do, only the auditorium. The auditorium is a much more dominating force in their consciousness than it is in that of Vergil. But even they rarely allow themselves to forget the judgement of the scholar and of posterity. They did not choose and place their words with so meticulous a care merely for the audience of an afternoon. If we sometimes are offended by their evident subservience to the theatre, yet on the whole we have greater reason to admire the courage and conscience with which they strove nevertheless to keep before them the thought of a wider and more distant and true-judging audience.

I have intentionally selected for notice that rhetorical feature in Vergil's style which is, I think, the least obvious. How much of the Aeneid was written ultimately by Epidius I hardly like to inquire. Nowhere does Vergil completely succeed in concealing his rhetorical schooling. Even in his greatest moments he is still to a large extent a rhetorician. Indeed I am not sure that he ever writes pure poetry—poetry which is as purely poetry as that of Catullus. Take the fourth book of the Aeneid, which has so much passionate Italian quality. Even there Vergil does not forget the mere formal rules of rhetoric. Analyse any speech of Dido. Dido knows all the rules. You can christen out of Quintilian almost all the figures of rhetoric which she employs. Here is a theme which I have not leisure to develop. But it is interesting to remember in this connexion the immense and direct influence which Vergil has had upon British oratory. Burke went nowhere without a copy of Vergil in his pocket. Nor is it for nothing that the fashion of Vergilian quotation so long dominated our parliamentary eloquence. These quotations had a perfect appropriateness in a rhetorical context: for they are the language of a mind by nature and by education rhetorical.