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 grammaticiand 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 grammaticiand rhetoreswas 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 rhetorin 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 Aeneidof 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 Aeneidthat 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 whyis 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 Asiaein 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 superbumadded, and again echoed (3) by humo fumat— fumatgiving a fresh touch to the picture. In 4 diuersa exsiliais reinforced by desertas terras, sub ipsa Antandro(5-6) by montibus Idae(6). In 7 ubi sistere deturechoes 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 auditoriumand ἐт фὸ рбсбчсῆмб, 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 auditoriumis 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.