The Epic - Lascelles Abercrombie
This takes us some little way towards deciding the nature of epic. It
must be a story, and the story must be told well and greatly; and,
whether in the story itself or in the telling of it, significance must
be implied. Does that mean that the epic must be allegorical? Many have
thought so; even Homer has been accused of constructing allegories. But
this is only a crude way of emphasizing the significance of epic; and
there is a vast deal of difference between a significant story and an
allegorical story. Reality of substance is a thing on which epic poetry
must always be able to rely. Not only because Spenser does not tell his
stories very well, but even more because their substance (not, of
course, their meaning) is deliciously and deliberately unreal, _The
Faery Queene_ is outside the strict sense of the word epic. Allegory
requires material ingeniously manipulated and fantastic; what is more
important, it requires material invented by the poet himself. That is a
long way from the solid reality of material which epic requires. Not
manipulation, but imaginative transfiguration of material; not
invention, but selection of existing material appropriate to his genius,
and complete absorption of it into his being; that is how the epic poet
works. Allegory is a beautiful way of inculcating and asserting some
special significance in life; but epic has a severer task, and a more
impressive one. It has not to say, Life in the world _ought_ to mean
this or that; it has to show life unmistakably _being_ significant. It
does not gloss or interpret the fact of life, but re-creates it and
charges the fact itself with the poet's own sense of ultimate values.
This will be less precise than the definite assertions of allegory; but
for that reason it will be more deeply felt. The values will be
emotional and spiritual rather than intellectual. And they will be the
poet's own only because he has made them part of his being; in him
(though he probably does not know it) they will be representative of the
best and most characteristic life of his time. That does not mean that
the epic poet's image of life's significance is of merely contemporary
or transient importance. No stage through which the general
consciousness of men has gone can ever be outgrown by men; whatever
happens afterwards does not displace it, but includes it. We could not
do without _Paradise Lost_ nowadays; but neither can we do without the
_Iliad_. It would not, perhaps, be far from the truth, if it were even
said that the significance of _Paradise Lost_ cannot be properly
understood unless the significance of the _Iliad_ be understood.
The prime material of the epic poet, then, must be real and not
invented. But when the story of the poem is safely concerned with some
reality, he can, of course, graft on this as much appropriate invention
as he pleases; it will be one of his ways of elaborating his main,
unifying purpose--and to call it "unifying" is to assume that, however
brilliant his surrounding invention may be, the purpose will always be
firmly implicit in the central subject. Some of the early epics manage
to do without any conspicuous added invention designed to extend what
the main subject intends; but such nobly simple, forthright narrative as
_Beowulf_ and the _Song of Roland_ would not do for a purpose slightly
more subtle than what the makers of these ringing poems had in mind. The
reality of the central subject is, of course, to be understood broadly.
It means that the story must be founded deep in the general experience
of men. A decisive campaign is not, for the epic poet, any more real
than a legend full of human truth. All that the name of Caesar suggests
is extremely important for mankind; so is all that the name of Satan
suggests: Satan, in this sense, is as real as Caesar. And, as far as
reality is concerned, there is nothing to choose between the Christians
taking Jerusalem and the Greeks taking Troy; nor between Odysseus
sailing into fairyland and Vasco da Gama sailing round the world. It is
certainly possible that a poet might devise a story of such a kind that
we could easily take it as something which might have been a real human
experience. But that is not enough for the epic poet. He needs something
which everyone knows about, something which indisputably, and
admittedly, _has been_ a human experience; and even Grendel, the fiend
of the marshes, was, we can clearly see, for the poet of _Beowulf_ a
figure profoundly and generally accepted as not only true but real;
what, indeed, can be more real for poetry than a devouring fiend which
lives in pestilent fens? And the reason why epic poetry so imperiously
demands reality of subject is clear; it is because such poetry has
symbolically to re-create the actual fact and the actual particulars of
human existence in terms of a general significance--the reader must feel
that life itself has submitted to plastic imagination. No fiction will
ever have the air, so necessary for this epic symbolism, not merely of
representing, but of unmistakably _being_, human experience. This might
suggest that history would be the thing for an epic poet; and so it
would be, if history were superior to legend in poetic reality. But,
simply as substance, there is nothing to choose between them; while
history has the obvious disadvantage of being commonly too strict in the
manner of its events to allow of creative freedom. Its details will
probably be so well known, that any modification of them will draw more
attention to discrepancy with the records than to achievement thereby of
poetic purpose. And yet modification, or at least suppression and
exaggeration, of the details of history will certainly be necessary. Not
to declare what happened, and the results of what happened, is the
object of an epic; but to accept all this as the mere material in which
a single artistic purpose, a unique, vital symbolism may be shaped. And
if legend, after passing for innumerable years through popular
imagination, still requires to be shaped at the hands of the epic poet,
how much more must the crude events of history require this! For it is
not in events as they happen, however notably, that man may see symbols
of vital destiny, but in events as they are transformed by plastic
imagination.
Yet it has been possible to use history as the material of great epic
poetry; Camoens and Tasso did this--the chief subject of the _Lusiads_
is even contemporary history. But evidently success in these cases was
due to the exceptional and fortunate fact that the fixed notorieties of
history were combined with a strange and mysterious geography. The
remoteness and, one might say, the romantic possibilities of the places
into which Camoens and Tasso were led by their themes, enable
imagination to deal pretty freely with history. But in a little more
than ten years after Camoens glorified Portugal in an historical epic,
Don Alonso de Ercilla tried to do the same for Spain. He puts his action
far enough from home: the Spaniards are conquering Chili. But the world
has grown smaller and more familiar in the interval: the astonishing
things that could easily happen in the seas of Madagascar cannot now
conveniently happen in Chili. The _Araucana_ is versified history, not
epic. That is to say, the action has no deeper significance than any
other actual warfare; it has not been, and could not have been, shaped
to any symbolic purpose. Long before Tasso and Camoens and Ercilla, two
Scotchmen had attempted to put patriotism into epic form; Barbour had
written his _Bruce_ and Blind Harry his _Wallace_. But what with the
nearness of their events, and what with the rusticity of their authors,
these tolerable, ambling poems are quite unable to get the better of the
hardness of history. Probably the boldest attempt to make epic of
well-known, documented history is Lucan's _Pharsalia_. It is a brilliant
performance, and a deliberate effort to carry on the development of
epic. At the very least it has enriched the thought of humanity with
some imperishable lines. But it is true, what the great critic said of
it: the _Pharsalia_ partakes more of the nature of oratory than of
poetry. It means that Lucan, in choosing history, chose something which
he had to declaim about, something which, at best, he could
imaginatively realize; but not something which he could imaginatively
re-create. It is quite different with poems like the _Song of Roland_.
They are composed in, or are drawn immediately out of, an heroic age; an
age, that is to say, when the idea of history has not arisen, when
anything that happens turns inevitably, and in a surprisingly short
time, into legend. Thus, an unimportant, probably unpunished, attack by
Basque mountaineers on the Emperor's rear-guard has become, in the _Song
of Roland_, a great infamy of Saracenic treachery, which must be greatly
avenged.
Such, in a broad description, is the nature of epic poetry. To define it
with any narrower nicety would probably be rash. We have not been
discovering what an epic poem ought to be, but roughly examining what
similarity of quality there is in all those poems which we feel,
strictly attending to the emotional experience of reading them, can be
classed together and, for convenience, termed epic. But it is not much
good having a name for this species of poetry if it is given as well to
poems of quite a different nature. It is not much good agreeing to call
by the name of epic such poems as the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_,
_Beowulf_ and the _Song of Roland_, _Paradise Lost_ and _Gerusalemme
Liberata_, if epic is also to be the title for _The Faery Queene_ and
_La Divina Commedia_, _The Idylls of the King_ and _The Ring and the
Book_. But I believe most of the importance in the meaning of the word
epic, when it is reasonably used, will be found in what is written
above. Apart from the specific form of epic, it shares much of its
ultimate intention with the greatest kind of drama (though not with all
drama). And just as drama, whatever grandeur of purpose it may attempt,
must be a good play, so epic must be a good story. It will tell its tale
both largely and intensely, and the diction will be carried on the
volume of a powerful, flowing metre. To distinguish, however, between
merely narrative poetry, and poetry which goes beyond being mere
narrative into the being of epic, must often be left to feeling which
can scarcely be precisely analysed. A curious instance of the
difficulty in exactly defining epic (but not in exactly deciding what is
epic) may be found in the work of William Morris. Morris left two long
narrative poems, _The Life and Death of Jason_, and _The Story of Sigurd
the Volsung_.
I do not think anyone need hesitate to put _Sigurd_ among the epics; but
I do not think anyone who will scrupulously compare the experience of
reading _Jason_ with the experience of reading _Sigurd_, can help
agreeing that _Jason_ should be kept out of the epics. There is nothing
to choose between the subjects of the two poems. For an Englishman,
Greek mythology means as much as the mythology of the North. And I
should say that the bright, exact diction and the modest metre of
_Jason_ are more interesting and attractive than the diction, often
monotonous and vague, and the metre, often clumsily vehement, of
_Sigurd_. Yet for all that it is the style of _Sigurd_ that puts it with
the epics and apart from _Jason_; for style goes beyond metre and
diction, beyond execution, into conception. The whole imagination of
_Sigurd_ is incomparably larger than that of _Jason_. In _Sigurd_, you
feel that the fashioning grasp of imagination has not only seized on the
show of things, and not only on the physical or moral unity of things,
but has somehow brought into the midst of all this, and has kneaded into
the texture of it all, something of the ultimate and metaphysical
significance of life. You scarcely feel that in _Jason_.
Yes, epic poetry must be an affair of evident largeness. It was well
said, that "the praise of an epic poem is to feign a person exceeding
Nature." "Feign" here means to imagine; and imagine does not mean to
invent. But, like most of the numerous epigrams that have been made
about epic poetry, the remark does not describe the nature of epic, but
rather one of the conspicuous signs that that nature is fulfilling
itself. A poem which is, in some sort, a summation for its time of the
values of life, will inevitably concern itself with at least one figure,
and probably with several, in whom the whole virtue, and perhaps also
the whole failure, of living seems superhumanly concentrated. A story
weighted with the epic purpose could not proceed at all, unless it were
expressed in persons big enough to support it. The subject, then, as the
epic poet uses it, will obviously be an important one. Whether, apart
from the way the poet uses it, the subject ought to be an important one,
would not start a very profitable discussion. Homer has been praised for
making, in the _Iliad_, a first-rate poem out of a second-rate subject.
It is a neat saying; but it seems unlikely that anything really
second-rate should turn into first-rate epic. I imagine Homer would have
been considerably surprised, if anyone had told him that the vast train
of tragic events caused by the gross and insupportable insult put by
Agamemnon, the mean mind in authority, on Achilles, the typical
hero--that this noble and profoundly human theme was a second-rate
subject. At any rate, the subject must be of capital importance in its
treatment. It must symbolize--not as a particular and separable
assertion, but at large and generally--some great aspect of vital
destiny, without losing the air of recording some accepted reality of
human experience, and without failing to be a good story; and the
pressure of high purpose will inform diction and metre, as far, at
least, as the poet's verbal art will let it.
The usual attempts at stricter definition of epic than anything this
chapter contains, are either, in spite of what they try for, so vague
that they would admit almost any long stretch of narrative poetry; or
else they are based on the accidents or devices of epic art; and in that
case they are apt to exclude work which is essentially epic because
something inessential is lacking. It has, for instance, been seriously
debated, whether an epic should not contain a catalogue of heroes. Other
things, which epics have been required to contain, besides much that is
not worth mentioning,[5] are a descent into hell and some supernatural
machinery. Both of these are obviously devices for enlarging the scope
of the action. The notion of a visit to the ghosts has fascinated many
poets, and Dante elaborated this Homeric device into the main scheme of
the greatest of non-epical poems, as Milton elaborated the other
Homeric device into the main scheme of the greatest of literary epics.
But a visit to the ghosts is, of course, like games or single combat or
a set debate, merely an incident which may or may not be useful.
Supernatural machinery, however, is worth some short discussion here,
though it must be alluded to further in the sequel. The first and
obvious thing to remark is, that an unquestionably epic effect can be
given without any supernatural machinery at all. The poet of _Beowulf_
has no need of it, for instance. A Christian redactor has worked over
the poem, with more piety than skill; he can always be detected, and his
clumsy little interjections have nothing to do with the general tenour
of the poem. The human world ends off, as it were, precipitously; and
beyond there is an endless, impracticable abyss in which dwells the
secret governance of things, an unknowable and implacable
fate--"Wyrd"--neither malign nor benevolent, but simply inscrutable. The
peculiar cast of noble and desolate courage which this bleak conception
gives to the poem is perhaps unique among the epics.
But very few epic poets have ventured to do without supernatural
machinery of some sort. And it is plain that it must greatly assist the
epic purpose to surround the action with immortals who are not only
interested spectators of the event, but are deeply implicated in it;
nothing could more certainly liberate, or at least more appropriately
decorate, the significant force of the subject. We may leave Milton out,
for there can be no question about _Paradise Lost_ here; the
significance of the subject is not only liberated by, it entirely exists
in, the supernatural machinery. But with the other epic poets, we should
certainly expect them to ask us for our belief in their immortals. That,
however, is just what they seem curiously careless of doing. The
immortals are there, they are the occasion of splendid poetry; they do
what they are intended to do--they declare, namely, by their speech and
their action, the importance to the world of what is going on in the
poem. Only--there is no obligation to believe in them; and will not that
mean, no obligation to believe in their concern for the subject, and all
that that implies? Homer begins this paradox. Think of that lovely and
exquisitely mischievous passage in the _Iliad_ called _The Cheating of
Zeus_. The salvationist school of commentators calls this an
interpolation; but the spirit of it is implicit throughout the whole of
Homer's dealing with the gods; whenever, at least, he deals with them at
length, and not merely incidentally. Not to accept that spirit is not to
accept Homer. The manner of describing the Olympian family at the end of
the first book is quite continuous throughout, and simply reaches its
climax in the fourteenth book. Nobody ever believed in Homer's gods, as
he must believe in Hektor and Achilles. (Puritans like Xenophanes were
annoyed not with the gods for being as Homer described them, but with
Homer for describing them as he did.) Virgil is more decorous; but can
we imagine Virgil praying, or anybody praying, to the gods of the
_Aeneid_? The supernatural machinery of Camoens and Tasso is frankly
absurd; they are not only careless of credibility, but of sanity. Lucan
tried to do without gods; but his witchcraft engages belief even more
faintly than the mingled Paganism and Christianity of Camoens, and
merely shows how strongly the most rationalistic of epic poets felt the
value of some imaginary relaxation in the limits of human existence. Is
it, then, only as such a relaxation that supernatural machinery is
valuable? Or only as a superlative kind of ornament? It is surely more
than that. In spite of the fact that we are not seriously asked to
believe in it, it does beautifully and strikingly crystallize the poet's
determination to show us things that go past the reach of common
knowledge. But by putting it, whether instinctively or deliberately, on
a lower plane of credibility than the main action, the poet obeys his
deepest and gravest necessity: the necessity of keeping his poem
emphatically an affair of recognizable _human_ events. It is of man, and
man's purpose in the world, that the epic poet has to sing; not of the
purpose of gods. The gods must only illustrate man's destiny; and they
must be kept within the bounds of beautiful illustration. But it
requires a finer genius than most epic poets have possessed, to keep
supernatural machinery just sufficiently fanciful without missing its
function. Perhaps only Homer and Virgil have done that perfectly.
Milton's revolutionary development marks a crisis in the general process
of epic so important, that it can only be discussed when that process is
considered, in the following chapter, as a whole.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 5: Such as similes and episodes. It is as if a man were to
say, the essential thing about a bridge is that it should be painted.]
IV.
THE EPIC SERIES
By the general process of epic poetry, I mean the way this form of art
has constantly responded to the profound needs of the society in which
it was made. But the development of human society does not go straight
forward; and the epic process will therefore be a recurring process, the
series a recurring series--though not in exact repetition. Thus, the
Homeric poems, the _Argonautica_, the _Aeneid_, the _Pharsalia_, and the
later Latin epics, form one series: the _Aeneid_ would be the climax of
the series, which thence declines, were it not that the whole originates
with the incomparable genius of Homer--a fact which makes it seem to
decline from start to finish. Then the process begins again, and again
fulfils itself, in the series which goes from _Beowulf_, the _Song of
Roland_, and the _Nibelungenlied_, through Camoens and Tasso up to
Milton. And in this case Milton is plainly the climax. There is nothing
like _Paradise Lost_ in the preceding poems, and epic poetry has done
nothing since but decline from that towering glory.
But it will be convenient not to make too much of chronology, in a
general account of epic development. It has already appeared that the
duties of all "authentic" epic are broadly the same, and the poems of
this kind, though two thousand years may separate their occurrence, may
be properly brought together as varieties of one sub-species. "Literary"
epic differs much more in the specific purpose of its art, as civilized
societies differ much more than heroic, and also as the looser _milieu_
of a civilization allows a less strictly traditional exercise of
personal genius than an heroic age. Still, it does not require any
manipulation to combine the "literary" epics from both series into a
single process. Indeed, if we take Homer, Virgil and Milton as the
outstanding events in the whole progress of epic poetry, and group the
less important poems appropriately round these three names, we shall not
be far from the _ideal truth_ of epic development. We might say, then,
that Homer begins the whole business of epic, imperishably fixes its
type and, in a way that can never be questioned, declares its artistic
purpose; Virgil perfects the type; and Milton perfects the purpose.
Three such poets are not, heaven knows, summed up in a phrase; I mean
merely to indicate how they are related one to another in the general
scheme of epic poetry. For discriminating their merits, deciding their
comparative eminence, I have no inclination; and fortunately it does not
come within the requirements of this essay. Indeed, I think the reader
will easily excuse me, if I touch very slightly on the poetic manner, in
the common and narrow sense, of the poets whom I shall have to mention;
since these qualities have been so often and sometimes so admirably
dealt with. It is at the broader aspects of artistic purpose that I wish
to look.
"From Homer," said Goethe, "I learn every day more clearly, that in our
life here above ground we have, properly speaking, to enact Hell." It is
rather a startling sentence at first. That poetry which, for us, in
Thoreau's excellent words, "lies in the east of literature," scarcely
suggests, in the usual opinion of it, Hell. We are tempted to think of
Homer as the most fortunate of poets. It seems as if he had but to open
his mouth and speak, to create divine poetry; and it does not lessen our
sense of his good fortune when, on looking a little closer, we see that
this is really the result of an unerring and unfailing art, an
extraordinarily skilful technique. He had it entirely at his command;
and he exercised it in a language in which, though it may be singularly
artificial and conventional, we can still feel the wonder of its
sensuous beauty and the splendour of its expressive power. It is a
language that seems alive with eagerness to respond to imagination. Open
Homer anywhere, and the casual grandeur of his untranslatable language
appears; such lines as:
amphi de naees
smerdaleon konabaesan ausanton hup' Achaion.[6]
That, you might say, is Homer at his ease; when he exerts himself you
get a miracle like:
su den strophalingi koniaes
keiso megas megalosti, lelasmenos hipposunaon.[7]
It seems the art of one who walked through the world of things endowed
with the senses of a god, and able, with that perfection of effort that
looks as if it were effortless, to fashion his experience into
incorruptible song; whether it be the dance of flies round a byre at
milking-time, or a forest-fire on the mountains at night. The shape and
clamour of waves breaking on the beach in a storm is as irresistibly
recorded by Homer as the gleaming flowers which earth put forth to be
the bed of Zeus and Hera in Gargaros, when a golden cloud was their
coverlet, and Sleep sat on a pine tree near by in the likeness of a
murmuring night-jar. It is an art so balanced, that when it tells us,
with no special emphasis, how the Trojans came on with a din like the
clangour of a flock of cranes, but the Achaians came on in silence, the
temper of the two hosts is discriminated for the whole poem; or, in the
supreme instance, when it tells us how the old men looked at Helen and
said, "No wonder the young men fight for her!" then Helen's beauty must
be accepted by the faith of all the world. The particulars of such
poetry could be enumerated for pages; and this is the poetry which is
filled, more than any other literature, in the _Iliad_ with the nobility
of men and women, in the _Odyssey_ with the light of natural magic. And
think of those gods of Homer's; he is the one poet who has been able to
make the dark terrors of religion beautiful, harmless and quietly
entertaining. It is easy to read this poetry and simply _enjoy_ it; it
is easy to say, the man whose spirit held this poetry must have been
divinely happy. But this is the poetry whence Goethe learnt that the
function of man is "to enact Hell."