The Saddest Book – Aeneid 11 -- Page 1 of 11 Aeneid 11: The Saddest Book William S Anderson I have long admired a short essay entitled "The Dullest Book of the Aeneid." It intelligently analyzes Book 3 and the reasons, partly designed by Virgil, partly due to unwise audience expectations, for the sense of boredom and weariness afflicting Virgil's characters and consequently many of the book's readers. In this chapter I shall treat Book 11, which also has few passionate admirers, as the "saddest book of the Aeneid." The word "sad" at the start should have all its connotations, covering the range from genuinely pathetic to artistically and/or practically incompetent. That understanding encourages us to ask some questions. Has Virgil carefully explored the sadness of this war in Italy, the sadness of the com- batants on both sides, and the griefs of the noncombatants, and has he then communicated to us in the audience the prevailing sadness of this kind of warfare, so that we feel his and his characters' sense of sadness, so that the sadness of Book 11 rightly becomes ours? Or is there somewhere an inadequacy that makes this book sadly unsatisfactory? The preoccupation with sadness in Book ii is not my own invention, as even a cursory reading demonstrates. In his recent commentary on this book, K. W. Gransden calls attention to "the most striking example of repetition in Book XI," namely, the dense usage of the Latin word maestus , "sad." 2 He provides statistics for the number of times the word appears in the book and in the entire poem: fourteen times in the first eight books; more frequently, that is nine times, in Books 9, 10, and 12; but most fre- quently, eleven times, in this present book. We should be cautious in what we make of a single word. But it is tempting to infer that Virgil did have the theme of sadness at heart in writing Book 11. We are aware of some scenes that in our experience occasion sadness, which Virgil has emphatically rendered as sad: Aeneas' speech over Pallas' corpse, the description of the funeral cortege, and the lament of the forlorn father Evander. Virgil packs these sad scenes with many words, in addition to maestus , that crowd the contexts with pathos. Characters within the poem-and this is particularly true of Aeneas-weep, groan, and desperately grieve over what has happened to them and their loved ones, and Virgil's famous subjective style quickly engages our feelings too. If Aeneas weeps, with the poet's sympathy, how can we not share the sadness? It is a curious fact, however, that Virgil has concentrated his use of maestus within a relatively short portion of Book 11. Eight of the eleven occurrences come in the space of roughly 160 lines, between 26 and 189 that is, from the first mention of dead Pallas to the description of the general funeral for the Trojan fallen. Six of those are especially concentrated within sixty-seven lines that deal exclusively with the preparations of Pallas' corpse for departure and Aeneas' tearful speech of farewell (2-92) To judge from that distribution, Virgil places predominant stress on the sadness that Aeneas, the Trojans, and their Arcadian allies feel. The three other instances of maestus apply to the Italian situation: the sadness of the legates who return from Diomedes with gloomy news (226); the tearful dismay of Italian fathers at the prospect of more sons' deaths as Aeneas renews his offensive (454); and the hopelessly pathetic appeal of Italian mothers to Minerva to stop Aeneas dead in his tracks (482). But these episodes are not packed with sadness; they involve undistinguished groups of people, and the sadness functions more as The Saddest Book – Aeneid 11 -- Page 2 of 11 foreshadowing than as a comment on a particular corpse or death, such as that of Pallas. Virgil, by his choice of situation and language, seems to have concentrated sadness among the Trojans. Has he thus engaged our bias for their sadness? This leads us to the question of whether Virgil has rigged his narrative and our responses to produce unfair propaganda. In this respect it is useful to make some distinctions. Some situations in this book are intrinsically sad, and Virgil has developed and emphasized them as such: for example, Pallas' funeral. Remember the famous photo of the Frenchman weeping as German troops entered Paris? That image said it all for the sadness of the moment. But there are situations, too, which do not openly state their feelings, which, by their very self-restraint, have the potentiality of stimulating sadness in sensitive observers or readers. Almost any picture of John F. Kennedy, and now of Jacqueline, has that potentiality. We implicitly feel the sadness of life expressed in the person of someone who, despite all his or her vitality, was doomed to die prematurely. Virgil, I think, can do something similar: use scenes of reduced or even ignored sadness to stimulate the active empathy of the attentive audience. Thus, in its expression of grief for both Trojans and Italians, this is the saddest book throughout. Book 11 opens with dawn, on the day following the battle depicted in the previous book. Virgil divides the presentation into three parts. The first features Aeneas and the mainly sad aftermath of the conflict. Aeneas sends off the cortege of Pallas, and he agrees to a twelve-day truce for the burial of the dead on both sides. Another dawn is noted at 182, which could be the following day or a few days later, when the public funerals are performed. The opening of the second part blends with the end of the first (225), but Virgil has transferred his attention to the Italians and the political assembly called by Latinus. Bad news has come that Diomedes refuses to join them against Aeneas, and the king feels obliged to deter-mine how his leaders now feel about the war. This part features the fierce hostility of Drances, an unscrupulous politician, and Turnus the hotheaded hero. Neither rouses much confidence. Before a decision can be made, however, the assembly proves to be abortive, when the report that Aeneas and his troops are advancing for battle requires immediate action. Apparently, the twelve days of truce are over. The third part covers the resulting battle, which is another disaster for the Italians. Turnus lays an ambush for Aeneas and encourages the Volscian woman-warrior Camilla to lead the cavalry against the Trojan horse. She does so and performs numerous feats before succumbing to a treacherous spearcast; and Turnus leaves his ambush just before he could have caught Aeneas and presumably inflicted much damage. He rushes back to the scene of defeat and plans to engage Aeneas' men, when nightfall ends combat. Virgil may not lavish the adjective "sad" on these events, but it clearly has been a terribly grim day for the Italians. PART I The opening scene of the first part might be viewed as a test case of Virgil's technique of understated sadness. At first view, in the construction of the picture and in the words of the speaker Aeneas, we see and hear only of a magnificent victory, due honor to the gods in ritual that anticipates later Roman practices, and complete confidence about the future because of the victory over Mezentius. The Saddest Book – Aeneid 11 -- Page 3 of 11 Everything is said and seen exclusively from that perspective of Trojan triumph, until finally Aeneas transfers his attention to dead Pallas and the sadness in store for his father and city. Now such exclusive emphasis may seem odd after the memorable way Virgil built up to the ending of Book 10 and the tragic feelings of Mezentius before his death. No matter what Aeneas and the Trojans do or say the next day, can we, after Virgil's presentation of those earlier actions and words, rest content with a unilateral Trojan self-satisfaction? I once claimed about the conclusion of Book 10: "The humbled words of Mezentius have tragic depth (846 if.). At the end, when he welcomes Aeneas' death stroke, he has but one request: to be buried with Lausus (906). Virgil does not report Aeneas' answer. We are left to decide whether the warrior, like the poet, would have been generous." 3 I believe Virgil obliges us to wonder how Aeneas would and should have responded to Mezentius' last words. When we watch and hear Aeneas proudly exult over his victory, with not the slightest notice of his foe, Virgil flagrantly ignores an expectation that he has created. This produces dissatisfaction with Aeneas as well as with the poet; or, to put it differently, with Aeneas because the poet has shown him in ungenerous exultation. But Virgil does more: he reveals what Aeneas' response to the father's appeal must have been through the details he slips in about the armor of Mezentius adorning the proud trophy on display. To produce a Roman trophy, a tree was cut down and worked so that it served a function similar to a modern headless store dummy: the trunk represented the human torso, and two branches, with ends lopped off, served as the site of human shoulders and the beginning of arms. The victor then dressed this tree-dummy in the armor taken from the corpse of his victim and set up the ensemble, now a "trophy," as a display of his prowess and, in some cases, as here, in honor of the war god Mars. The tree trunk replaced the once-vital human being who wore that armor.