Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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18 M AS M I D Virgil and Lucretius By Ernest Raphael Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas . . . Fortunatus et illc does qui novit agrestes. — Georgics, Book II To live at the birth of a civiHzation is to partake of its uncertainties and vacillations; to live at the decay of a civilization is to share in its chaos and degeneration. But to live at the decay of one civilization and the birth of another is indeed a privilege, for then one is both in a grave and a womb. The mechanical standards of the past disappear, and an ivigorating force takes the helm to guide mankind toward a new light. The feeble philosophies of the past crumble before the onslaught of a powerful Will — the Pres- ent. The narrow morality gives way to a salutary freedom of imagination and idealism. Such was the state of affairs at Rome at the time of Augustus and Virgil. A period of destruction and civil strife gave way to a golden era of peace. Anthropomorphic Jupi- ter, Neptune, and Mars were vanquished by the master swordsmanship of Lucretius. A stagnant religion disappeared before the im- placable Nature of Lucretius and the ethics and morality of Virgil. A consideration of the details of the trans- formation of a civilization would be both interesting and instructive but that would divert us from our primary purpose, which is: the observation of the influence of Lucretius upon Virgil and the latter ' s modification of the Lucretian philosophy. That Virgil was influenced by Lucretius admits no doubt. The similarity of many of Virgil ' s phrases to those of Lucretius is evident to the reader of the two poets. It is moreover, highly improb- able that Virgil ' s mentality should not have been stirred by the highly poetic appeal of Lucretius for that contemplative quietism in life, which constitutes one of the essentials of the Lucretian philosophy. His early train- ing in philosophy under the able guidance of Siron, the Epicurean philosopher, must have impressed itself very deeply upon the poetic soul of Virgil. What is of interest to us then is to see what of the Lucretian or Epicurean philosophy Virgil adopted and what he rejected. Our thesis thus resolves itself into the following four parts: (1) an analysis of Lucretius in his De Rerum Na- tura ; (2) the psychological factors that led Virgil to reject the Lucretian philosophy: (3) Virgils modification of Lucretius as seen in his Georgics and Acneid: (4) and finally a study of the sixth book of the Aeneid. To proceed in order, let us briefly outline the philosophy of Lucretius. For Lucretius, Democritus and Epicurus were the only saviors. Of that he had no doubt. As a re- sult of this pious adherence to the atomic or Democritan theory there vanished the whole supernatural and spiritual world of fancy, to- gether with all the hopes and fears of a future life. The gods, if they existed, ceased to be of any importance to man, as having no interest in him and doing him neither harm nor good. His ideal, says Fowler, seems to be quietism in this life and an- nihilation afterwards. But let Lucretius speak for himself; O genus infelix humanum. talia divis cum tribuit facta, atque iras adiunxit acerbus. (O unhappy race, to ascribe such things to the gods, and to add thereto such bitter wrath). Man must cease to rely upon this cosmic support, but rather pacata posse om- nia mente tueri (be able to survey all things with a mind at peace). In the eyes of Luc- retius, all worship was prompted by fear and based on ignorance of natural law. Man ' s cowardlike nature had invented the gods for his own purpose. Alone in a vast world, man had personified the inanimate forces of nature and made them his companions. Th? gods beat man into obedience and submission by the threat of Hell. That fear of Hell. says Lucretius, which troubles the life of man to its inmost depth, overspreads every- thing with the blackness of death, and per- mits no pleasure to be pure and unalloyed, must be driven out headlong. Man, once freed from this fear of death, argues Lucre- tius, would rise in spirituality, for then he would follow the laws of Nature; quietness, order, and regularity. He would rise to the heights of the gods, as Lucretius himself said:

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M A SMID 17 MY ISLE By Louis I sit and look far, down where still the white winter lingers, where still an unguent of soft, soothing snow covers the silent earth. I look at Gravesend Creek, shrivelled to map size, a trickling, muddy rivulet. I look at a vast stretch of barren land, a frozen coun- try, white and silent, winding westward from the cold shores of Coney Island to the hazy, morning sky-line, and there dissolving with air and earth into one deep, hazy golden sleep. Here and there, in that slumberous haze, beyond the buttes and furthermost foothills of this desolate land, burrowed into the vast unfeatured plain, stand a few odd, weather- beaten shacks. As the dark shadows fade with the passing night and return to their infernal abode, a weary figure leaves a humble hut, and treads these frozen fields, forlorn. Now it stoops, raises something from the cold ground. Now it comes closer and I can dis- cern some human characteristics. From my elevated position I see only relaxed womanly features, topped by a crowd of flowing white hair. Everything else is hazy, but even from the distance I seem to feel a steady, piercing gaze directed from a pair of sinister and pro- vocative eyes — eyes that tell of suffering and sacrifice, poverty and denial. The island is not wanting in these im- poverished slaves of mighty Hunger: the island cries with them. But they are lost from all consideration, all human sympathy. An urban associates the island only with gay lights, only with dance and frolic, only with filth and sin. The outrageous and deplorable condition shadowed by the dark blanket of destiny, he does not see, his heart does not understand . . . Towards the east lies the centre of the isle. Gay lights are now but a memory, for they have faded with the warmth of summer. The island is cold and quiet and only the tired waves break the silence as they meet the wait- ing shore. By day the sea is gilded with an azure flow of sunlight, by night it hides be- neath a blanket of silvery moonlight. By day one can see the slow majestic liners mak- ing their way towards the end of the sky. By night the stars are not the only twinkling Barishnikoff gems — the stately liners, coming into harbor, pass the narrows adorned with distant lights. Though winter rules the isle and the air is sullen and sad, my soul exalts to solemn thought and ethereal musing. When evening comes and a cold wind sweeps the solemnent air, I visit the cherished shores adorned with a winter robe of purest white, and I run along the coast, following with joy the waterline which, as the waters recede, is left stamped on the shore. When summer returns, and the languid sun begins to send from the rosy west her warming rays, the grade of nature fades from the isle. The profound peace is swept from the atmosphere and in place of harmony, comes havoc. The sea no longer holds its sway, and the air no more its peace. But all is not lost — to the west still lies that vast meadow, though its grass is now sere and yellow. The oak and maple trees point long shadowy fingers towards the motherly sky whose gentle breast feeds them fresh, life- giving rain. Though the sun is low, the plain shim- mers in the heat. Nowhere in that vast ex- panse is there a sign of life. You might be looking upon a dead world or a painted can- vas. I find myself a little grove, heavy with shade, and there I rest contented. There I lie, drawing pleasure and delight from the renascent and inspiring shades, and touched by the harmonious perfection of this myster- ious peace I fall to reminiscence — a mood of contemplation and understanding. The landscape seems to accentuate a natural atmo- sphere not yet contaminated by the fetid breath of civilization, a virgin atmosphere not yet seduced by the crushing and alien force of industrialism. Tears from the depth of some divine des- pair now well in my heart and gather to my eyes. Already I see an alien power crushing my isle. My trees are thrown to earth, my grove upset and destroyed. Huge machines, noisy men at work, the clang of shovels, the crash of dynamite — all take part in the orgy of destruction.

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M A SM ID 19 quare religio pedibus subiecta vicissim opteritur nos exaequat victoria caelo (Wherefor religion is now in her turn cast down and trampled under foot, whilst wc by the victory are raised to heaven). What happens then to the gods? Gone are the wise and loving gods to whom man could appeal in prayer; gone are the great deities from the world of man. The scene of human life becomes an insignificant part of an infinite cosmic totality. As to the Greek Stoics, so to Lucretius the familiar Universe seemed a strange place, terrifying in its enor- mous magnitude — the earth stretching into regions of unexplored possibilities, moved and shaken by inhuman forces. Amid this cosmic silence they (human beings) awoke. as it were, to find themselves lost in the streets of a huge strange city. (E. Bcvan). Coming to our second point in order, we become, once we fully realize the meaning and implications of the Lucretian philosophy, dubious whether Virgil could accept in a wholesale fashion the philosophy of Lucre- tius. Virgil, whose heart and soul went out to the farmer, whose sympathy and kindness were for the shepherd, whose love and ten- derness were given over to the lowly laborer in the field, could not conceive so purposeless and inhuman a universe as Lucretius de- scribed. The nature of Virgil ruled by sweet, calm feelings, full of sympathy and full of hope could not admit the existence of the inanimate mechanistic cosmos of Lucre- tius. The poet in Virgil, says Glover, cried out against a universe of no content and no meaning, where the only reality was the in- dividual, and he is even incomplete. Virgil ' s heart warmed with pity at the sight of suf- fering of man and animal alike. For this we need no greater proof than the nightingale robbed of her young: quern durus arator observans nido implumes detraxit: at ilia flet noctem, ramoque sedens miserabile carmen in- tegral et maestis late loca questibus implet; (which some unfeeling ploughman noticing in the nest has stolen unfledged; but she la- ments the night, and perched upon a branch renews her doleful notes, and far and wide fills every region with her mournful plaints). Numerous passages might be quoted to show Virgil ' s tenderness and humaneness toward the animal kingdom, but for our purpose the passage just quoted is sufficient to illustrate the point in question. It follows then, most obviously, that he who could so feel to- ward animals must needs have a soul of pity for man. It was then a powerful love for man, his hopes, his gods that compelled Vir- gil to depart from the shores of the Lucre- tian world. His mind and his reason go with the philosopher (Lucretius) , says Glover, speak- ing of Virgil; his heart turns to the faith of the past. In its underlying spirit the statement is true, but on account of its epig- rammatic terseness, it is somewhat mislead- ing. The hasty reader might be led to con- clude that Virgil, fully understanding the Lucretian philosophy, realized its shortcom- ings by the consciousness of reason, by an analysis of life ' s realities and their potential concomitants. But nothing could be further from the truth. To express such belief is to destroy that which is most eloquent and beautiful in Virgil — the poet ' s affinity with that which is aesthetic and noble in nature and loving and tender in man — an affinity approaching self-identification. Virgil was no more aware of his great love and mission than the flower is of its fragrance and beauty. They were in the very fibre of the man, the very essence of the man. But Virgil ' s soul was not entirely unaffect- ed by Lucretian thought. The master-poet could not help being touched by the dispas- sionate eloquence of Lucretius. The similar- ity of many of the phrases of the poets is suf- ficient evidence of the tribute that Virgil paid to this philosopher-poet. But perhaps the most permanent influence of Lucretius upon Virgil might be best made evident by a con- trast of the underlying spirit of the Eclogues with that of the Georgics. The Eclogues are at best pastoral poems describing the life of shepherds after the manner of the Idylls of Theocritus. But what is most noteworthy for a true under- standing of the Eclogues — apart from the delicacy of their language and the music of their verse — is the complete absence of real- ity, and the marked presence of an agrarian religious naivete. The characters seem to move in a Utopian dreamland, in a country more the product of a sublime imagination than that of actual observation. Tytirus and Meliboeus are not familiar rugged shepherds but rather voices from the land of fantasy.