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The Limits of Exactitude in Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Literature
and Textual Transmission
Trends in Classics –
Supplementary Volumes

Edited by
Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos

Associate Editors
Stavros Frangoulidis · Fausto Montana · Lara Pagani
Serena Perrone · Evina Sistakou · Christos Tsagalis

Scientific Committee
Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck
Claude Calame · Kathleen Coleman · Jonas Grethlein
Philip R. Hardie · Stephen J. Harrison · Stephen Hinds
Richard Hunter · Giuseppe Mastromarco
Gregory Nagy · Theodore D. Papanghelis
Giusto Picone · Alessandro Schiesaro
Tim Whitmarsh · Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 137
The Limits of Exactitude
in Greek, Roman, and
Byzantine Literature and
Textual Transmission
Edited by
Nicoletta Bruno, Giulia Dovico, Olivia Montepaone
and Marco Pelucchi
ISBN 978-3-11-079651-3
e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-079661-2
e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-079666-7
ISSN 1868-4785

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022942860

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek

The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie;
detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de.

© 2022 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston

Editorial Office: Alessia Ferreccio and Katerina Zianna
Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen
Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck

www.degruyter.com
Preface
The present volume stems from the fourth international conference of Prolepsis
Association, “The Limits of Exactitude”, organized in Bari on December 19th–20th
2019. Given the great success and wide participation in the conference, the gov-
erning board of Prolepsis decided to issue a call for contributions to a volume
connected to the theme of the conference, allowing those who presented their
papers in Bari to explore and discuss this very stimulating topic: Italo Calvino’s
definition of exactitude in the third of his Six Memos for the Next Millennium. We
as the appointed editorial committee have selected, after a double-blind peer-
review process, the following 18 contributions to form this miscellaneous vol-
ume expanding on the original purpose of the conference to further reflect on
the possible applications of the concept of exactitude.
We would like to thank all participants in the conference in Bari and every-
one who supported us with advice and comments in the peer review process.
We particularly extend our gratitude to Jon Arnold, Silvia Barbantani,
Giovanni Benedetto, Mariapaola Bergomi, Francesca Romana Berno,
Margarethe Billerbeck, W. Martin Bloomer, Mauro Bonazzi, Emilio Bonfiglio,
Graziana Brescia, Emma Buckley, Alessandra Bucossi, Francesco D’Aiuto,
Malcolm Davies, Chrysanthi Demetriou, Lorenzo DiTommaso, Tiziano Dorandi,
S. Douglas Olson, Patrick Finglass, Lucia Floridi, Simona Fortuna, Alessandro
Fusi, Fabio Gasti, Stefan Hagel, Maria Haley, Christina Maria Hoenig, André
P.M.H. Lardinois, Jane Lightfoot, Giuseppe Lozza, Angelo Luceri, Gesine
Manuwald, Clementina Marsico, Consuelo Martino, Boris Maslov, Franco
Montanari, Anthony Ossa-Richardson, Rosa Otranto, Pasquale Massimo Pinto,
Luigi Pirovano, Luisa Prandi, Enrico E. Prodi, Antonio Ricciardetto, Massimo
Raffa, Michael D. Reeve, Licinia Ricottilli, Tim Rood, Biagio Santorelli, Claudia
Schindler, John Sellars, Janja Soldo, Alan Sommerstein, Silvia Tessari, Chiara
Torre, Mike Tueller, Anna Maria Urso, Emidio Vergani, Katharina Volk, Antje
Wessels, Gareth Williams.
A sincere thank you to Jennifer Nelson for the precious linguistic review of
the Introduction.
A warm thank you goes out also to the governing board of Prolepsis, as well
as to all members of the association who have made the conference and this
volume possible.
Finally, we wish to thank everyone at Walter de Gruyter, particularly the
General Editors of Trends in Classics – Supplementary volumes, Franco Mon-
tanari and Antonios Rengakos, for their precious support and trust.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796612-202
Contents
Preface  V

Nicoletta Bruno, Giulia Dovico, Olivia Montepaone, Marco Pelucchi

Introduction: “The Crystal and the Flame”. Preliminary Remarks on
Exactitude  1

Part I: Accuratio vel ambiguitas: Historical Narrative and

Rhetorical Strategies
Therese Fuhrer
Discourse Relations and Historical Representation: Tacitus on the Role of Livia
and Agrippina  21

Nicoletta Bruno
Unspoken Messages: Tiberius and the Power of Silence in Tacitus’
Annals  37

Laura Loporcaro
Prescriptive and Performative Aesthetics: “Exactitude” in Quintilian’s Institutio
oratoria  59

Laura Bottenberg
The Limits of Exactitude in Lucian’s Toxaris  83

Part II: Philosophical, Scientific, and Technical Exactitude

Camilla Poloni
When Terence Writes Ambiguously (But He Does It on Purpose): An Analysis of
Donatus’ Commentary on Phorm. 7.2  109

Gabriele Flamigni
Walking at the Same Pace: On the Relevance of Clarity in Epictetus’ Teaching
and Its Models  125
VIII  Contents

Nicola Reggiani
Exactitude in Ancient Pharmacological Theory and Practice, with Cases from
the Greek Medical Papyri  149

Ambra Tocco
Exactitude in Greek Musical Treatises: Meanings, Vocabulary, and
Limits  171

Part III: Quotations and Misquotations: Three Cases from

Greek and Roman Literature

Pietro Berardi
Αἰσχυλαριστοφανίζειν: On the Boundaries of an Aeschylean Quotation
(Aesch. fr. 61 R.)  189

Claudia Gandini
Misquoting, Misplacing, Misusing: Some Observations on Cicero’s
De consulatu suo  207

Max Bergamo
“Always Remember…”: The Role and Character of the Citations of Heraclitus in
Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations  231

Part IV: Choosing Inexactitude: Programmatic and Genre

Ambiguity
Stefano Prignano
Exile or Envoy? Contradictions, Inaccuracies and Ambiguities about
Clearchus  271

Marzia Fiorentini
Between Inaccuracy and Idealization: The concordia fratrum in Claudian’s
Poems  293

Marco Cristini
Cassiodorus’ Variae and the Role of Ambiguity in Ostrogothic Foreign
Policy  321
 Contents  IX

András Kraft
Navigating the Ambiguity of Byzantine Apocalypses: Remarks on Genre,
Exegesis, and Manuscript Transmission  337

Part V: Ambiguities in Textual Transmission

Tommaso Suaria
Sophocles’ Thyestes Plays: How Many Is Too Many?  363

Carmela Cioffi
Titles in Martial’s Manuscripts: Mistakes in Interpretation?  393

Maria-Lucia Goiana
Byzantine Hymnographers Named Θεόδωρος: An Attempt at
Disambiguation  409

List of Contributors  423

Index of Names and Places  425

Index of Sources  433
Index of Material Sources  455
Nicoletta Bruno, Giulia Dovico, Olivia Montepaone,
Marco Pelucchi
Introduction: “The Crystal and the Flame”.
Preliminary Remarks on Exactitude
Italo Calvino’s work Six Memos for the Next Millennium (1988) has never ceased
to elicit debate or stimulate reflection. In describing the third “memo”, Exacti-
tude, Calvino uses the powerful images of the crystal and the flame — borrowed
from Massimo Piattelli-Palmarini’s introduction to Language and Learning1 — to
represent “two forms of perfect beauty […] two categories for classifying facts and
ideas, styles and feelings”, where the geometric, organized perfection of the crys-
tal represents exactitude and the chaos of the flame its contrary, inexactitude.
The dialectic tension between these two opposing trends is a very strong driving
force in literature, and, in fact, a problem already posed in Antiquity.2
The aim of the present volume is to shed new light on the possible definitions
of exactitude, or better yet, the aspiration of reaching exactitude, and the unde-
niable limits to the achievement of this ambitious milestone. As the essays in this
book will show, ancient and medieval authors have been dealing with the prob-
lem of exactitude vs. inexactitude — sometimes openly, sometimes cryptically —
for centuries, and have been able to exploit the ambiguities related to these two
concepts to various ends. These are two sides of the same coin: accuracy, clarity,
and precision on the one side; ambiguity, vagueness, and ambivalence on the
other. The limits may be shifted so as to obtain conceptions and definitions of
exactitude tailored to specific contexts and aims, such as a consciously inexact
definition of a political character in order to create an ambiguous profile or a
boldly ambivalent speech left open to interpretation.
The limits of exactitude can be perceived in misuses and misapplications of
this concept, which becomes an obstacle when, for instance, an excessively me-
ticulous focus on details diverts attention from the essential, either in appear-
ance, on purpose, or accidentally. In addition, exactitude is limited in its appli-
cations even if its opposite is preferred for functions and scopes defined by
ambiguity, vagueness, and ambivalence. This concept is akin to Jean Cocteau’s


1 Piattelli-Palmarini 1980. See also Sbragia 1993, 283–306.
2 The best known example among many is “Longinus”, De sublimitate 33, who warns against
the risk of precision, τὸ γὰρ ἐν παντὶ ἀκριβὲς κίνδυνος μικρότητος. Useful discussion of this pas-
sage in Halliwell 2021, 419–420, who listed additional passages similarly revolving on the am-
bivalent status of ἀκρίβεια.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796612-001
  Nicoletta Bruno, Giulia Dovico, Olivia Montepaone, Marco Pelucchi

remarks in Le Mystère laic (1928), in which Cocteau describes Giorgio De Chirico

as an accurate painter, who borrows from his dream “the accuracy of inaccu-
racy”, the use of truth to endorse falsehood. Metaphysical painting seems to be
nothing but the cognitive reflection of a fictitious sensory perception: it arises
from the ambiguity of the dream world, from its continuous shifting of space and
physical dimension and the ethereal sedimentation of memory, of the experience
of life itself.
In 1970 Dietrich Kurz had already proposed a systematic study on the notion
of exactitude in the Greek world, limiting the analysis of the concept to texts from
the 5th and the 4th century BC: a more general introduction sketches the story of
the term “exactitude” (ἀκρίβεια) from a linguistic and literary perspective with
occasional incursions in texts by sophists, orators, and dramatists, while in the
following chapters, Kurz focused specifically on the texts by Hippocrates, Thu-
cidides, Plato, and Aristotle.3 Moreover, modern studies have devoted their atten-
tion to the similar quality of ἐνάργεια, “vividness”, a notion frequently explored
by ancient rhetoric and literary criticism,4 which resurfaces also in this volume.
Recently, several publications have focused on ambiguity, an antithetical notion
to that of exactitude, especially from a literary and rhetorical point of view.5 This
book examines a recontextualization of this notion and of the variety of other
problems connected to it under the broader title of exactitude as described by
Calvino, also capable of including, alongside literary criticism, textual transmis-
sion, historiography, technical treatises and papyri, within a wide timeframe. The
first definition of exactitude given by Calvino is threefold: “(1) a well-defined and
well-calculated plan for the work in question; (2) an evocation of clear, incisive,
memorable visual images […]; (3) a language as precise as possible both in choice
of words and in expression of the subtleties of thought and imagination”.6 In his
usual style, Calvino corroborates this definition through a rich series of exam-
ples, which range from Giacomo Leopardi to Robert Musil and Leonardo da Vinci,
strengthening this powerful concept and providing images that have stayed with
us ever since, just as he hoped.7 The complexity and longevity of such definition still
prompts us to further explore its versatility and possible applications.


3 Kurz 1970.
4 On ἐνάργεια also Webb 2009, 87–106 and the sketch in Flamigni below. Remarkably, Otto
2009, 76–80 focuses on a passage in Dem. Eloc. 209, where ἐνάργεια is explicitly associated with
exactitude. On this passage cf. also O’Sullivan 1992, 42–49.
5 See for example Vöhler/Fuhrer/Frangoulidis 2021 and de Paulo/Messina/Stier 2005.
6 Calvino 1988, 55–56.
7 “I leave you this image […] so that you may carry it in your memories as long as possible”,
Calvino 1988, 80.
 Introduction: “The Crystal and the Flame”: Preliminary Remarks on Exactitude  

The articles collected in this volume are divided into five sections; they are
not organized in chronological order, but rather in a thematic one, aiming at a
more perspicuous cohesion and a more fruitful dialogue among the essays. Each
section engages with the concepts of exactitude and inexactitude in a different
way. Generally, there is a first main distinction between the use of the concept
under a “modern” point of view — i.e. some articles discuss the validity of exac-
titude or inexactitude as a hermeneutic tool (in literature as well as in philology
or history), employed by modern scholars to deal with ancient texts — or under
the point of view of antiquity — i.e. other articles deal with the inherent exacti-
tude or inexactitude of ancient texts.
Within a single section, various specific aspects of the main concepts are dis-
cussed, and theoretical papers are set alongside more “practical” ones which pre-
sent case studies applying e.g. textual criticism or editorial techniques to ancient
texts. The first section focuses on how, and to what extent, exactitude helps or
hinders, through rhetorical figures or narrative devices of absence and ambigu-
ity, the construction of a text, with a focus on rhetoric and historiography, apply-
ing various methodological approaches such as narratology and intratextuality.
The value, definitions, and scopes of exactitude and accuracy in exact sciences
and technical disciplines are at the core of the second section, combining philo-
logical rigor and a systematic approach in analyzing literary, para-literary, and
documentary sources. The more general focus of this section is on how the an-
cients conceived and thematized exactitude within more technical disciplines.
The third and fourth sections explore the functions and purposes of inexactitude:
the third addresses the peculiar topic of how accurate — or rather more often in-
accurate — quotations are and to what end, focusing particularly on the history
of the interpretations; the fourth section deals with the intentional ambiguity of
a text and employs methodologies that range from historiographical analysis and
Quellenkritik to metaliterary considerations, while discussing the effectiveness of
the notion of exactitude in our approach to certain genres or figures, as well as
the conscious use of inexactitude on the part of ancient authors and texts. The
fifth section moves slightly away from the text in terms of content, language, and
construction of meaning, delving into the modalities of textual transmission, and
questioning how useful the concept of exactitude truly is in the specific context
of philology. More than any other science related to Antiquity, textual criticism
shows a constant striving for exactitude, and is in fact hinged upon a rigorous
precision, being all in all doomed to obtain “at best […] an approximation of the
original”, as well known.8


8 Tarrant 2016, 40.
  Nicoletta Bruno, Giulia Dovico, Olivia Montepaone, Marco Pelucchi

Some approaches and perspectives certainly overlap, overstepping the

boundaries of the sections in which the papers have been presented. Several in-
terconnected questions are woven across the volume: to what extent is exactitude
the goal in ancient and medieval texts? How can the concepts of accuracy and
inaccuracy aid the reinterpretation of an already known text or fact? Can certain
definitions of exactitude be more fruitfully applied to specific contexts, and to
what extent can such definitions be stretched, without turning into inexactitude?
In which contexts and for which scopes can (in)exactitude work as a purposeful
communicative strategy? Are precise language and terminology a necessary con-
dition in order to produce an exact account? The interdisciplinary nature of these
questions gives consistency to the broad collection this volume offers by focusing
the reader’s attention on the shrewdness and aptness of the concepts and defini-
tions proposed by Calvino more than thirty years ago.

 Accuratio vel ambiguitas: Historical Narrative

and Rhetorical Strategies
In the process of writing history, narrative can be observed as a form of intelligi-
bility that concerns both the production and the reception of the historical text.
Ancient and modern debates about historiographical theory tended to concen-
trate either on referential aspects of narrative or on their rhetorical features,9 but
the fact remains that truth in history seems to be fixed by the ancient and modern
readers of the texts and by their interpretations, which determine authority and
reliability more than any other principle enforced by the author.10 In his analysis
of historiographical texts, Hayden White focused on the narrative construction
that characterizes them above all at the plot level: historians usually present the
events they tell in narrative form, and for this reason they need to decide what
should be the beginning and the end of their narration and, above all, whether it
should be a story of decline or progress, a moralistic or tragic tale, and so on.11
Nevertheless the lack of historical accuracy is often lamented by historians,


9 On rhetoric and historiography see Woodman 1988; Laird 2009; Ash 2017.
10 See Laird 2009. Due to its narrative nature, historiography soon ended up in the field of lit-
erary theory. The beginning of narrativism, conceived by Hayden White, continued its legacy
thanks to Frank Ankersmit, Arthur Danto and Richard Rorty. See Aaron Turner for a concise and
recent survey in Turner 2021. For postmodern historiographical theory see Batstone 2007.
11 White 1978, 60.
 Introduction: “The Crystal and the Flame”: Preliminary Remarks on Exactitude  

especially when the analysis of ancient historiographical texts is obstructed by

gaps and a propensity to focus on apparently non-essential details. As Therese
Fuhrer points out in the opening essay of this section, “the characteristic of Ro-
man Greek historiography is rather that of going beyond the ‘limits of exactitude’
to convince the reader of the validity of a certain point of view, or — and this in
my opinion is actually one of the main objectives of its rhetoric and aesthetics —
to question certain beliefs and generate new discussions about them”.
The present book opens with a section focused on the rhetorical strategies of
accuracy and ambiguity, presence and absence, in historical texts and in the
most significant rhetorical treatise in Roman literature, Quintilian’s Institutio
oratoria. The first two contributions of the section deal with narrative strategies
in Tacitus’ Annals. Therese Fuhrer examines passages from the books on Tiberius
and Nero in the Annals by focusing her attention on the role that Tacitus attrib-
utes to the two historical protagonists, Livia and Agrippina, in conveying infor-
mation in relation to other historical figures. The close analysis of the lexical or
syntactic features used in the text to connect parts of the discourse represents the
bulk of her essay, which focuses on episodes in which Livia and Agrippina play
a certain role (Ann. 1.6.1‒3; 13.2.1‒2; 13.12.1‒2). Fuhrer’s main question is “To
what extent do the conjunction and the sequence of statements about a given
historical event become relevant for the event concerned?”. To answer this issue
Fuhrer introduces a phenomenon that she calls “the micro-economy of infor-
mation provision”, which enables the reader to examine the techniques of giving
information in the factual description of events, the order, the structure or even
the omission of information. Thanks to his choice of vocabulary, syntax and nar-
rative order, Tacitus demonstrates the impossibility of explicitness and the need
for ambiguity that allows for more than one interpretation of the historical events
and the participants depicted in the text.
In Unspoken Messages: Tiberius and the Power of Silence in Tacitus’ Annals,
Nicoletta Bruno examines silent messages as signs of the strong and complex per-
sonality of the emperor Tiberius and their powerful meanings. The significance
of silence in Tacitus’ narrative is potent: it can be eloquent (“speaking silence”)
or remain ambiguous, and it can have the value of the “unspoken message”. Ti-
berius is the protagonist of the essay and the examined passages: he makes absence
and implicit communication the main strategies of his government and silence a
result of a precise political and behavioral choice. Through a narratological analy-
sis, Bruno focuses on three passages from the Tiberian hexad (Ann. 1.12; 2.38;
6.50) and points out that the behavior of the characters is often not clearly ex-
plained, but it allows for different interpretations and judgments on the part of
readers, and the content does not seem to lead to an exact understanding of the
  Nicoletta Bruno, Giulia Dovico, Olivia Montepaone, Marco Pelucchi

historical events, since there is no explicit comment in this passage by the narra-
tor. A rhetorical narrative of uncertainty is that of Tacitus’ Tiberian Annals, where
the mimetic and experiential history of Tacitus ends up being ambiguous and ob-
scure.
In the following essay, Laura Loporcaro reads Quintilian’s Institutio oratoria
through the lens of the concept of exactitude framed by Italo Calvino in his Six
Memos. Appropriate argumentative structure, imagery, and language are Cal-
vino’s criteria for exactitude. How do these criteria fit into the terms of Classical
rhetorical theory? Loporcaro employs them to focalize three aspects of Quintil-
ian’s teaching and self-representation. In this essay she shows how Quintilian
adopts and claims these three key features for his didactic method and writing
style, giving an example of how he performs the aesthetics he prescribes. In each
of these elements — good structure, imagery, lexical precision — Loporcaro high-
lights how Quintilian strikes a balance between full comprehensiveness and im-
mersion in detail, the two poles between which Calvino oscillates in his attempts
at exactitude. Quintilian poses the inevitable limits of the treatise, in which it is
not possible to convey everything that his pupil needs to know, thus pointing the
way towards a deeper conception of what is “exact”: pupils will have to learn to
adapt what they have been taught to each subject and situation. The performative
aspect of his writing enriches his didactic authority, the most powerful and per-
suasive element of the Institutio oratoria.
The essay by Laura Bottenberg, The Limits of Exactitude in Lucian’s Toxaris,
closes the first section of this volume. In Lucian’s dialogue the characters tell sto-
ries about exemplary friends, and the concept of exactitude, a problematic tool
for Toxaris, is part of the characters’ strategies of persuasion. Firstly, Bottenberg
introduces the dialogue, describing its structure and aims, and it defines the dy-
namics and the characters’ need to make their stories persuasive; then, by means
of allusions to and similarities with historiographical works and methods, exac-
titude is introduced as a means of persuasion. Therefore, the rhetorical exhibi-
tions of exactitude (through the characters’ repeated expressions of disbelief) in-
dicates a fictional marker, which is the extra-dialogical perspective. On the other
hand, the intra-dialogical perspective shows that exactitude is limited by the way
that the dialogue performs friendship, built upon belief and trust, although the
characters display doubts about the truthfulness of the stories they have told.
 Introduction: “The Crystal and the Flame”: Preliminary Remarks on Exactitude  

 Philosophical, Scientific, and Technical

Exactitude
The second section explores the different meanings that exactitude, its cognates,
and its opposites might assume in treatises and commentaries. The field of in-
quiry is represented by those disciplines which could be labeled as “exact” and
technical, such as grammar and ancient literary criticism, philosophical educa-
tion, pharmacology, and music.12
Both the genre of the texts analyzed — treatises and commentaries — and the
technical topics under inquiry, seemingly presume and demand exactitude, pre-
cision, and clarity, while rejecting inexactitude, inaccuracy, and ambiguity.
However, the case is quite the opposite; the scenario presented here is a much
more nuanced one, as the concept of exactitude needs to be tailored to fit the
respective disciplines. What holds these papers together and enables a profitable
dialogue among them are questions about the definition and conceptualization
of exactitude in these fields; about how it is perceived and represented; and about
its functions in an exegetical, educational, and scientific context. The first two
papers in particular explore the connections between exactitude, clarity, and am-
biguity, with a specific focus on the modes of communication within a literary
text or for didactic purposes, embracing the perspective of the ancient commen-
tator or of the philosopher. Regardless of the obvious differences between the
topics of the two concluding papers, pharmacology and music, both authors
speculate on similar issues, since both deal with disciplines that are placed at the
intersection between theoretical sciences and practical arts. Here, the reader will
be presented with issues concerning lexical correctness, measures and stan-
dards, ratios and proportions, and the need for correctly evaluating exactitude in
the respective fields.13
Rhetorical and narrative strategies have been highlighted, disentangled, and
unfolded in the first section of the book. These literary and rhetorical devices and
similar ones attracted the attention of ancient commentators as well, as Camilla
Poloni shows us. Starting from a complex scholium from Donatus’ Commentary


12 The topic of “exact” sciences in the Greek and Roman world is, needless to say, extensive;
approaches to it are similarly variegated. Just a quick look at the different disciplines touched
upon in Irby-Massie 2016 should warn the reader that the papers of this section explore a limited,
yet significant, group of them.
13 Going beyond exactitude and ways for assessing it, Provenza 2020 offers insights on other
connections between the fields of music and medicine.
  Nicoletta Bruno, Giulia Dovico, Olivia Montepaone, Marco Pelucchi

on Terence, Poloni delves into ancient reflections on two relevant categories for
commenting on ancient Roman comedy, which are antithetical to the one of ex-
actitude: ambiguitas and perplexitas, the former being a vice and the latter an
innate feature of comedy. Ancient commentators such as Donatus, Poloni shows
us, did not simply point out when ambiguity is a hurdle to communication, but
also recognized its purposeful misuse in a literary text for accomplishing a spe-
cific communicative goal (in this specific case, mockery).
On the contrary, ambiguity might result in a lack of clarity and can therefore
completely undermine communication in texts and contexts where education is
the goal. Shifting the focus to the realm of philosophy, Gabriele Flamigni explores
the link between exactitude and ἐνάργεια with a specific focus on the concept of
communicative ἐνάργεια in Epictetus’ discourse On having dialogues. Unlike the
many inquiries revolving around literary aspects of Epictetus’ stress on clarity as
a tool for effective teaching, in his paper Flamigni intends to lay the foundation
for the analysis of Epictetus’ theory of communication per se. Additionally, the
author aims to disclose the models which had influenced Epictetus’ conceptual-
ization of communicative ἐνάργεια and to show us to what extent Epictetus him-
self exploits the concept in his writing. More than that, the author explores the
tight link between the concepts of clarity, exactitude, unambiguity, persuasive-
ness, and irrefutability, which permeate Epictetus’ didactic writing.
Nicola Reggiani presents us with a definition of exactitude in medical and
pharmacological practice, combining the scrutiny of medical and pharmacologi-
cal treatises with the inquiry of papyrological evidence from the Graeco-Roman
Egypt (3rd BC—7th AD). The status of medicine and pharmacology at the crossroad
between exact sciences and practical arts, as well as the lack of a standardized
measurement system should warn us against expecting the same degree of exac-
titude that would meet modern-day standards. The author retraces some of the
core issues connected to the concept of exactitude in Greek medical and pharma-
ceutical theories: under consideration are the concepts of “measure” and exact
measurement units; the need for precise and unaltered transcriptions of medical
recipes; the necessity for practitioners to balance and integrate theoretical — sup-
posedly exact — knowledge with hands-on practice. Reggiani is able to offer us a
new perspective on “medical” exactitude, which should be conceived as “propor-
tioned balance” and adaptation to the patient’s needs.
Proportions recur also in the paper by Ambra Tocco, which explores the per-
vasive notion of exactitude in the field of ancient Greek harmonics, using Cal-
vino’s threefold definition as a scaffold throughout the paper. The author ad-
dresses core issues of musical theory — the evaluation of musical exactitude and
correctness, and the conceptualization of the relationship between the notes —
 Introduction: “The Crystal and the Flame”: Preliminary Remarks on Exactitude  

by looking at the theorizations by the two main schools of thought, the Aristoxe-
nian and the Pythagorean one. Whereas Pythagoreans decline exactitude in
mathematical and rational terms, the Aristoxenians rather relied on sense-per-
ception. Tocco also tackles lexical aspects of Greek musical theory and sketches
two debates revolving on the possible synonymic relationship between λόγος and
διάστημα and on the definition of the notion of half-tone (ἡμιτόνιον), thus allow-
ing us to touch upon the topic of exactness with reference to vocabulary, specifi-
cally within technical and scientific languages.14

 Quotations and Misquotations: Three Cases

from Greek and Roman Literature
The third section deals with quotations. Three case studies from Greek and Ro-
man literature are considered: a quotation of Aeschylus’ lost play in Aristopha-
nes, some quotations (and self-quotations) from Cicero’s poetic fragments, the
citations of Heraclitus in Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations.
With regard to the question of exactitude, the problem of quotations is par-
ticularly interesting from several points of view. In the quotation process, errors
and inaccuracies may occur at various levels, because citations were more fre-
quently recalled by heart than by a thorough inspection of the original texts: this
exposes indirect tradition to specific kinds of errors. However, this does not mean
that the importance of the indirect tradition should be underestimated. First of
all, the indirect tradition often presents texts that are unknown to the direct me-
dieval tradition. But even in the case of texts transmitted in medieval manu-
scripts, the indirect tradition can preserve the original text, prior to corruptions
in the archetype of the extant tradition.15
Nevertheless, the problems arising with quotations are more complex. The pri-
mary purpose of citations was not to preserve texts as correctly as possible, but
above all to use them for different ends. Intentional misquotations — a kind of


14 Moving away from technical language, the correctness of language more in general attracted
the attention not only of philosophers (cf. Plato’s Cratylus) but also of ancient scholars and gram-
marians. Limiting the focus to the Greek language, on hellenismos, barbarism, and soloecism
one can see the overview in Pagani 2015 and Sandri 2020, 3–49. Additionally, a handy overview
on the formation of technical language with a specific reference to medicine and mathematics is
offered in Schironi 2010 (see also Schironi 2019).
15 On the value of indirect tradition see Canfora 2002, 34–46. On indirect tradition itself see also
the pivotal study provided by Tosi 1988.
  Nicoletta Bruno, Giulia Dovico, Olivia Montepaone, Marco Pelucchi

falsification of the original that can take place either through alterations or manip-
ulations of the text itself or by providing misleading information about the con-
text — are just the most extreme cases.16 More generally, the practice of quotation
inevitably leaves some marks on the quoted text. The picture of authors who have
been transmitted only in fragments is of course conditioned by the sources that
cite them. This is especially true if working with few sources and thus with a
much more evident selection (as in the case of the Middle Comedy, whose frag-
ments are mainly transmitted by Athenaeus).17 If this holds for a grammarian or a
scholiast with a specific interest in metrical and lexical aspects, it does so a forti-
ori also for a playwright, a philosopher or an author who quotes his own poems —
which are precisely the cases analyzed in the articles collected in this section.
The centrality attributed to the context and purposes of the quotations con-
stitute a genuine fil rouge in the articles of this section. Such a perspective makes
it possible to correct some erroneous assumptions, allows for a more conscious
(and nuanced) attitude towards the quoted fragments — especially in the cases of
Aeschylus and Cicero — and illuminates fundamental moments in the reception
of an author, which are particularly evident in the case of the quotations of Her-
aclitus in Marcus Aurelius. So-called fragmentology and reception studies — not
only limited to antiquity, but including to some extent also modern and contem-
porary studies — thus cooperate in a particularly fruitful way.18
The paper by Pietro Berardi deals with a fragment of Aeschylus’ Edonians (61
Radt), the first tragedy of the tetralogy known as Lykourgeia. The fragment is
transmitted in a passage of Aristophanes’ prolog to the Thesmophoriazusae at ll.
134 and following. Berardi’s first aim is to define the exact boundaries of this quo-
tation, a much-debated issue — not uncommon in fragmentary texts.19 Berardi
proposes assigning to Aeschylus solely the words explicitly referred to him in the
scholia; he then discusses and substantiates the possibility that the rest of the
text could have been altered by Aristophanes and could therefore not be taken as
a trustworthy source for the ipsissima verba of the tragedian. Thus, the contribu-
tion devotes special attention to discussing Aristophanes, but also provides a


16 The mechanism of the “ideological misquotation” (or “emendation”) with reference to phil-
osophical texts was firstly described by J. Whittaker: see especially Whittaker 1989 and more
recently Petrucci 2018. On the case of Athenaeus’ quotation of historical works see Pelling 2000.
17 For this aspect see, for instance, Mastellari 2016.
18 On fragmentology and history of classical philology see Lehnus 1992 (= 2012, 427–469) and
Benedetto 1993.
19 On the general problem of establishing the limits of a quotation see Canfora 2002, 39–43. The
question may relate to the beginning or the end of the quotation, or both. For the parallel case of
ps.-Aristippus’ quotation concerning Plato’s epigrams see Dorandi 2007, 163–164.
 Introduction: “The Crystal and the Flame”: Preliminary Remarks on Exactitude  

careful reconstruction of the textual state of the Ravenna manuscript that trans-
mits the scholion in question, addressing the issue of exactitude on multiple lev-
els.
Claudia Gandini analyzes some poetic fragments of Cicero’s De consulatu
suo: fr. 9 Courtney, quoted by Nonius, and some passages of the more extensive
fr. 10, quoted by Cicero himself in the De divinatione, first in its entirety (1.17) and
then in a limited portion (2.45), also mentioned by Lactantius. The lack of exacti-
tude, of which Cicero’s poetry is often accused, is traced back foremost to the
form in which it is preserved, which does not need to coincide with the original.
Negative accounts of Cicero’s poetic qualities derive from a tendentious tradition
which, in the absence of the original work, we can neither deny nor — as the au-
thor believes — confirm and substantiate with evidence drawn from scanty frag-
ments. The errors that occur in the fragments can be traced back to different mo-
ments of a particularly stratified tradition, addressed by the author in her study.
In the fragment quoted by Nonius, errors may be due to the lack of exactitude on
the part of the grammarian or of his source. This is impossible in the case of the
fragments quoted by Cicero himself, where errors must have occurred in the
course of the tradition. A true reuse must be recognized in the case of Lactantius,
who adapts Cicero’s verses to a Christian context.
Max Bergamo’s contribution tackles the thorny problem of Heraclitus’ quota-
tions in Marcus Aurelius, focusing on those passages of the Meditations where
Heraclitus is explicitly mentioned (especially 6.42 = 22 B 75 DK6, but also 4.46 =
22 B 71–74, 763, where the majority of Heraclitean citations is to be found). It is
not clear whether all or some of them are truthful renderings of the ipsissima
verba of Heraclitus, or are instead loose paraphrases. Bergamo approaches the
issue from two points of view. On the one hand, he reconstructs Marco Aurelius’
arguments and topics consistent with the Heraclitean citations. On the other
hand, he investigates the relationship between the references to Heraclitus and
Stoic philosophy by analyzing them in the framework of the Stoic exegetical tra-
dition that predates Marcus Aurelius, in which Heraclitus plays a fundamental
role. Even where clear exegetical conclusions are particularly difficult to draw, it
is clear that the reading of Heraclitus’ quotations cannot do without the highly
authorial mediation proposed by Marcus Aurelius.
The section addresses different problems, adopting distinct methodologies
and perspectives. Nevertheless, all three contributions share some common ele-
ments oriented to re-establish a balance between the quoted text and the context
of the quotation, without neglecting the needs and the problems posed by the
latter. Moreover, all of the essays are characterized by an accurate re-examination
  Nicoletta Bruno, Giulia Dovico, Olivia Montepaone, Marco Pelucchi

of the history of the interpretations of the fragments, which allows them to prob-
lematize and discuss some interpretations that have become vulgatae.

 Choosing Inexactitude: Programmatic and

Genre Ambiguity
This section hosts a variety of texts, contexts, and topics from different genres
and fields, within a wide chronological frame that ranges from Xenophon to Byz-
antine literature. It is dedicated to cases where ambiguity occurs not by chance
but by choice: the author or the genre or the historical figure chooses inexactitude
for a variety of reasons, consciously creating ambivalence, imprecisions, and
misrepresentations, avoiding, at all costs, presenting the audience with an exact
and self-evident picture. The articles in this section clearly demonstrate how
functional and versatile the notion of exactitude — and especially its contrary,
inexactitude — can be in quite a large number of works, particularly in suggesting
new approaches, challenging old interpretations and experimenting with new
methodologies. In an effort to define and categorize all objects posed to our
knowledge, we tend to favor exactness and disregard or attempt to correct inex-
actitude, failing therefore to account for situations when ambiguity stems from a
deliberate action hiding specific intentions, or when it is unavoidable in light of
the nature of the text itself. What the following cases have in common is precisely
the skill of authors and genres in playing with the limits of exactitude, forcing
their public — and now us as interpreters — to a constant questioning and rene-
gotiation of truth and meaning.20
A powerful reevaluation of inexactitude is presented by Stefano Prignano’s
article, which discusses the interesting case of Clearchus and the extant ambigu-
ities concerning this figure in historiography and oratory: through the sources
analyzed by the author, we are made aware of a double layer of inexactitude — the
overall inexact portrait we gather from the sources we possess (therefore our own
ambiguous understanding of the φιλοπόλεμος Clearchus); and the intentional,


20 An interesting example of a Classical genre that deliberately plays with inexactitude and am-
biguity in its own construction is Menippean satire, the “antigenre” par excellence: J.C. Relihan’s
often quoted observation “the lack of taste and artistic unity is an integral part of a genre whose
essence is the shocking juxtaposition of irreconcilable opposites” (Relihan 1993, 26) encapsu-
lates the truly inexact nature of Menippean satire, expressing very well the notion that a lack of
exactitude may be a conscious choice and an essential feature of the genre itself.
 Introduction: “The Crystal and the Flame”: Preliminary Remarks on Exactitude  

more fascinating ambiguity consciously created by the ancient authors acting

with different purposes at different times and in different genres. Ultimately, the
ambiguity is not itself a negative that we must turn into a positive by “untan-
gling” what appears to be tangled and by disambiguating the unclear references
and descriptions: it is considered to be a trait in and of itself, an interesting clue
of authorial intention and ancient perception, a feature worthy of consideration
outside of judgment.
Marzia Fiorentini’s study of Claudian’s works carefully shows how inaccura-
cies, omissions, and ambiguities can serve court politics very well and can be em-
ployed much more subtly than might be expected. The article highlights Clau-
dian’s skillful use of ambiguous narrative and inexact descriptions of events, in
order to convey a specific political message during the complex and delicate pe-
riod at the end of the 4th century AD. As we are guided to observe Claudian’s abil-
ity in his masterful game with the audience, interlacing historical fact with re-
vised narration and mythical comparisons, we grasp how powerful the idea and
perception of exactitude can be when in the right hands.
The world of politics and its conscious, strategic ambiguities also comes to
light in Marco Cristini’s analysis of Cassiodorus’ Variae. Presenting an intriguing
thesis entirely based on the notion of ambiguity, Cristini discusses different epis-
tles that show how Ostrogothic politics shaped itself through the exploitation of
deliberately ambiguous speech, building a careful communication strategy on
ambivalent or inexact expressions, biblical references with a hidden meaning,
and skillful, unexpected combinations of terms. The concept of exactitude/inex-
actitude seems to play a major part in the interpretation of Ostrogothic diplo-
macy, but at the same time held intrinsic value for Cassiodorus himself.
Andras Kraft’s contribution delves into the deepest recesses of the concept of
inexactitude, illustrating the multi-level ambiguity of Byzantine apocalypses.
This study truly exemplifies the use of the notion of exactitude as a hermeneutical
instrument by applying it to language, literary motives, exegesis, and textual crit-
icism: we are presented with an entangled mixture of ambiguous elements, care-
fully extracted one by one and analyzed not with the purpose of removing the
uncertainty altogether, but to establish the intrinsically ambiguous nature of cer-
tain elements, and to exploit it as a means for us to achieve a better understand-
ing of such complex texts. Perhaps the most interesting and powerful use of the
notion of inexactitude is the one applied here to textual criticism: many texts
nowadays clearly challenge the strict boundaries of a traditional, “exact” critical
edition and scholars are required to rework their approach, and ultimately the
edition itself, in order to fit the needs of the more intricate and less straightfor-
ward genres and texts.
  Nicoletta Bruno, Giulia Dovico, Olivia Montepaone, Marco Pelucchi

Ultimately, these contributions clearly demonstrate that our own under-

standing of ancient literature should never rely solely on restricting categoriza-
tions with the purpose of outlining clear-cut borders and forcing precise defini-
tions on what seems to resist an exact characterization, but rather adapt to the
variety and therefore the inexactitude of the object of our study.

 Ambiguities in the Textual Transmission

The last section tackles ambiguities in textual transmission. The contributions
consider three particular cases over a wide chronological span and different gen-
res, ranging from fragmentary Greek tragedy to Latin epigrams and Byzantine
hymnography.
With regard to textual transmission, the limits of exactitude could be identi-
fied in many different ways.21 Bédier’s criticism of Lachmann’s method is a nota-
ble example. Bédier noted that the so-called Lachmann method only appears to
be a purely scientific and mechanical technique for reconstructing a text. In real-
ity, the regular grouping and regrouping of manuscripts into two rather than
three families nearly always makes room for a personal and non-mechanical
choice among variants on the editor’s part. Bédier’s critique, as well as the return
to the method of the codex optimus, must be substantially rejected — especially in
the case of the ancient author tradition and less so for medieval works — but, as
Pasquali and Timpanaro made clear, Bédier’s observations were not completely in-
correct.22 They support philology’s goal of constituting a scientific and sound
method but, at the same time, they also represent the limits of such a claim. Be-
yond the underlying methodological problems, it is plainly true that exactitude
as a philological desideratum holds with a relativity caveat, since transmission is
characterized by non-mechanical — and therefore very often unpredictable — in-
terventions.23
The difficulties posed by tradition are even more striking if the data consid-
ered are not strictly textual, but — one might say — paratextual, as in the case of
titles, lemmata and authors’ names. The contributions collected in this section


21 For some examples about problems related to textual transmission see Bruno/Filosa/
Marinelli 2022.
22 See the considerations proposed by S. Timpanaro, published in the apparently last version
by Most 2006, also for the references to Pasquali and Maas, whose reaction to Bédier’s arguments
was much more severe.
23 See Canfora 2002, 15–24.
 Introduction: “The Crystal and the Flame”: Preliminary Remarks on Exactitude  

concern precisely these latter cases: the titles, in the case of a tragedy by Sopho-
cles; the lemmata (usually referred to as tituli) attached to Martial’s epigrams;24
and the author himself, regarding a case of homonymy in Byzantine hymnogra-
phy. In antiquity, the title was not a clearly codified element of a literary work.25
The lemmata, often lacking precise authorship and written in margins in a minor
character, were also subject to a tacit and constant process of updating, correc-
tion, and innovation.26 The identification of the author could also pose some
problems — the ancient concept of authorship differs from the modern one, as
the many cases of pseudepigraphic works reveal.27 Ambiguity is frequently due to
the presence of homonyms or its possibility: it is often difficult to distinguish
whether the same author composed very different works or whether different au-
thors did (for instance in the cases of Philostratus, Hyginus, etc.).28 It is not sur-
prising that the contributors in this section focused precisely on these “paratex-
tual” elements dealing with the connection between ambiguity and textual
transmission.
Tommaso Suaria discusses the issues of the number of tragedies composed
by Sophocles concerning Thyestes. In the case of fragmentary tragedies, the dif-
ficulty lies in sorting out the indications of titles attested in the grammatical tra-
dition, which was probably due to non-original grammatical interpretations. The
problem is complicated by the fact that tragedies are often transmitted with alter-
native titles. Moreover, as it is well known, tragedians often reworked previous
versions of a text at a later date for a new staging. The case of Thyestes addressed
by Suaria is particularly interesting. If each title-variant attested in the tradition
served as proof of the existence of a different tragedy, there would be as many as
five plays — which justifiably brings about some perplexity. Balancing between
reductio ad unum and multiplication of homonymous works, Suaria substantiates
the hypothesis of three works dedicated to Thyestes. To do so, he considers the
mythographic testimony of Hyginus (88) and two Apulian vase paintings from
the 4th century BC, which both probably refer to the same Sophoclean tragedy.
The paper by Carmela Cioffi deals with the lemmata (or tituli) accompanying
Martial’s epigrams. Critics have mainly considered the tituli attached to Xenia and


24 On the problems involving the content and terminology related to lemmata or tituli of Mar-
tial’s epigrams see Schröder 1999, 176–179, 327–328, and Fusi 2013, 87 n. 55.
25 See Schröder 1999 and now Castelli 2020.
26 Regarding the problems involving marginalia see Fera/Ferraù/Rizzo 2002.
27 On this topic see the papers recently collected in Berardi/Filosa/Massimo 2020.
28 In antiquity the problem was clearly posed by Demetrius of Magnesia, author of a work Περὶ
ὁμωνύμων ποιητῶν τε καὶ συγγραφέων: cf. Zaccaria 2020. For the emblematic case of Simonides
and Semonides see Merisio 2020.
  Nicoletta Bruno, Giulia Dovico, Olivia Montepaone, Marco Pelucchi

Apophoreta (i.e., Books 13 and 14) and usually deemed them authorial choices on
the basis of Martial’s own testimony (13.3.7–8 and 14.3.3–4). The tituli of the other
books, on the other hand, received little attention: they are undoubtedly inau-
thentic and can be traced back to late antiquity. Nonetheless, Cioffi argues, this
does not make them any less interesting. Despite errors and inaccuracies, they
testify that exegetical work on Martial was particularly rich at least since the 4th
century AD. Some of these tituli are furthermore extremely puzzling and beg for
emendations or explanations. In this context, the paper offers a reassessment of
the lemmata applied to 15 of the 84 epigrams in Book 5. The choice is not acci-
dental: from Book 5 onwards, one of the three families of Martial’s manuscripts
(the so-called recensio Gennadiana, referred to as β) presents tituli of a very dif-
ferent sort than the others. Tackling the discrepancy proves fruitful for recon-
structing the origins and the processes of establishing Martial’s corpus titulorum,
even though the edition seems to evade strict Lachmannian criteria.
Maria-Lucia Goiana tackles Byzantine hymnography, where the aim of deliv-
ering a clear-cut definition of authors and texts is embroiled in anonyms, pseu-
donyms, and multi-authored works. In particular, the author examines a case of
homonymy concerning the name of Theodore, associated with hymns. Many Byz-
antine hymns are transmitted under this name, very common in Byzantium, and
with various specifications. In general, assessing whether homonyms refer to the
same author or two distinct personalities is particularly challenging in the con-
text of Classics.29 The case of Theodore is particularly perilous, because it refers
to authors who devoted themselves to the same genre (in itself stylistically uni-
form) and over a relatively short time span. Goiana offers an up-to-date catalog
of authors with this name, reconstructing an essential status quaestionis with re-
spect to their life and work. Among the hymnographers, the figure of Theodore
the Stoudite stands out: he would seem a good candidate as the identity of the
author of a work transmitted under the name of Theodore. The catalog offered by
the author, however, invites caution in this reductio ad unum, especially since
clear connections based on style and intertextual elements are missing.
Despite the vast chronological and geographical horizon covered by the pa-
pers in this section, shared lines of research are present. Ambiguity is in fact al-
ways related to paratextual elements of difficult definition — titles, lemmata and
authorial indications respectively. This requires closer investigations at several
levels, as well as taking into account clues from very different kinds of sources:
from vascular painting in the case of ancient literature, to grammatical sources


29 See the contributions collected in Pizzone 2014, especially referring to middle Byzantine lit-
erature.
 Introduction: “The Crystal and the Flame”: Preliminary Remarks on Exactitude  

with regard to late antique Latin literature, and to chronologically close manu-
script traditions in the case of hymnography.

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Schironi, F. (2019), “Naming the Phenomena. Technical Lexicon in Descriptive and Deductive
Sciences”, in: A. Willi/P. Derron (eds.), Formes et fonctions des langues littéraires en
Grèce ancienne, Vandœuvres, 227–278.
Schröder, B.J. (1999), Titel und Text. Zur Entwicklung lateinischer Gedichtüberschriften. Mit Un-
tersuchungen zu lateinischen Buchtiteln, Inhaltsverzeichnissen und anderen Gliederungs-
mitteln, Berlin/New York.
Tarrant, R. (2016), Texts, Editors, and Readers. Methods and Problems in Latin Textual Criti-
cism, Cambridge 2016.
Tosi, R. (1988), Studi sulla tradizione indiretta dei classici greci, Bologna.
Turner, A. (2021), Reconciling Ancient and Modern Philosophies of History, Berlin/Boston.
Vöhler, M./Fuhrer, T./Frangoulidis, S. (eds.) (2021), Strategies of Ambiguity in Ancient Litera-
ture, Berlin/Boston.
Webb, R. (2009), Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Prac-
tice, Farnham.
White, H. (1978), “The Historical Text as Literary Artifact”, in: R.H. Canary/H. Kozcki (eds.), The
Writing of History: Literary Form and Historical Understanding, Madison, WI, 41–62.
Whittaker, J. (1989), “The Value of the Indirect Tradition in the Establishment of Greek Philo-
sophical Text, or the Art of Misquotation”, in: J.N. Grant (ed.), Editing Greek and Roman
Texts. Papers given at the Twenty-Third Annual Conference on Editorial Problems, Univer-
sity of Toronto, 6–7 November 1987, New York, 63–95.
Woodman, A.J. (1988), Rhetoric in Classical Historiography. Four Studies, London/Portland, Oreg.
Zaccaria, P. (2020), “Distinguishing Homonymous Writers, Detecting Spurious Works: Deme-
trius of Magnesia’s On Poets and Authors with the Same Name”, in: R. Berardi/M. Filosa/
D. Massimo (eds.), Defining Authorship, Debating Authenticity. Problems of Authority from
Classical Antiquity to the Renaissance, Berlin/Boston, 67–83.

Part I: Accuratio vel ambiguitas: Historical
Narrative and Rhetorical Strategies
Therese Fuhrer
Discourse Relations and Historical
Representation: Tacitus on the Role of Livia
and Agrippina
Abstract: Focussing on passages in the Tiberius and Nero books in the Annals, I
ask by which strategies of conveying information the role of Livia resp. Agrippi-
na is defined in relation to other historical figures: Who is endowed with which
knowledge, which points of view are attributed to whom? To what extent are
these different levels of knowledge relevant for the generation of a “narrative
meaning”? How is an item of factual information, by being recounted at several
different places in the text, charged with meaning and “re-propositionalized”?
My aim is to show that the Tacitean text avoids an unequivocal interpretative
stance and, by means of a carefully ordered narrative, tries to ambiguate the
seemingly unequivocal discourses.

Keywords: Artistic Prose, Transmission of Information, Causality, Tiberius,

Nero, Seneca and Burrus

 Preliminary Remarks: Terminology and

Concepts
Classical Greek and Latin prose that comes under the heading of “belles lettres”
is, in the terms of Eduard Norden, artistic prose (“Kunstprosa”) which looks
beyond the mere communication of thought and aims to produce a calculated
rhetorical effect upon the reader. The language of this prose is not bound by
verse forms or by metre, but by choice of words, word order, stylistic devices,
and elaborate syntax. These literary procedures in classical artistic prose are
shaped by norms and rules developed and communicated in the schools of
rhetoric, rules that are binding for the entire spectrum of text types. Such prose
aims to achieve an aesthetic effect by means of formulations that are appropri-

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110796612-002
  Therese Fuhrer

ate to the subject in question and, as in modern rhetoric, the intention is to

persuasively present facts, ideas, and arguments.1
In this type of writing, the question of objectivity, of the relation to reality,
and even of the exactitude of the presentation of events, has to take second
place. Historians who are naturally interested in the historical facts per se often
complain of the lack of historical precision when analyzing ancient historio-
graphical texts because of the gaps and the tendency to focus on seemingly
(from their perspective) inessential details.2 Yet the characteristic of Roman
historiography is rather to go beyond — with reference to the title of the present
volume — the “limits of exactitude”, in order to convince the reader of the valid-
ity of a certain viewpoint, or — and in my view this is actually one of the main
targets of its rhetoric and aesthetics — to call certain convictions into question
and to generate new discussion about them.
Taking into account that there is also a “content of the form”,3 the question
is therefore how an item of factual information, by being recounted at a specific
place in the text, is charged with meaning: To what extent do the conjunction
and the sequence of statements about a given historical event become relevant
for the event concerned? I call this phenomenon the micro-economy of infor-
mation provision, i.e. I will be looking at the techniques of conveying infor-
mation in the factual description of events, the ordering, structuring or even
omission of information. Or to put it differently: I am interested in the question
of how the representation of historical “facts” can be endowed with a certain
meaning by lexical or syntactic features used in the text to connect parts of the
discourse, i.e. by the text-structuring relations that logically connect two or
more segments of discourse to one another.4


1 On the difference between artistic or belletristic prose (“Kunstprosa”) and scientific or tech-
nical language see Clackson/Horrocks 2011, 215‒222. On Norden’s evaluation of the Tacitean
style cf. Lauletta 1998, 214.
2 See Woodman 1988, 197‒205; Dench 2009, especially 394‒395; Batstone 2009. A hermeneu-
tics for modern historians reading ancient historiography, especially Tacitus, has been devel-
oped by Späth 2000a.
3 According to White 19902. On the function and semantics of historiographical narration in
general see also the excellent survey by Munslow 2009.
4 On the topic of discourse relations see Asher/Lascarides 2003, especially xvi‒xvii and 28‒29.
On the technique of positioning statements that give information about a particular historical
occurrence see my case study in Sallustʼs Bellum Catilinae, Fuhrer 2018.
 Discourse Relations and Historical Representation  

 The Tacitean Style

It is well-known that Tacitus writes in a paratactical style in the Histories und
Annals. This phenomenon is referred to as brevitas, “pithy style” or “epigram-
matic style” in Tacitus scholarship.5 In addition, the late Tacitus avoids syntac-
tical symmetry, often displacing important information to syntactically subor-
dinate or appended elements.6 The juxtaposition of simple sentences,
participles, ablative-absolute constructions, and often also infinitives makes it
possible to connect statements, information, and arguments without closer
adverbial modifiers and without the need to state explicitly what the relation
between these elements is, whether it be causal, antithetical, or concessive.7 As
a result, the process of grasping the meaning in the course of reading is unset-
tled.8 The Tacitean technique of arranging and juxtaposing information,9 often
by throwing the syntactical symmetry off balance, and thereby offering
“weighted” or “loaded alternatives”,10 has been labelled as “art of innuendo”,11
“protean style”,12 “malicious insinuation”,13 “insidious suggestion”,14 “steering
or manipulation of the reader” (“Leserlenkung”).15 This approach runs the risk
of implying that the text (and even more often the author) is suggesting a cer-
tain and specific interpretation, and we have to make guesses about the
Tacitean voice behind any implication and innuendo, which is the usual way of
dealing with the Tacitean “suggestive style”.16 However, the asyndetic stringing
together of information or phrasal discontinuity does not mean that the text can
or should be endowed with a certain meaning. My aim is rather to show that, in


5 See e.g. Oakley 2009, 199−203.
6 On the Tacitean inconcinnitas see Martin 20013, 214‒215 and 220‒221.
7 The classical native speaker of Latin obviously did not require this degree of explicitness. On
the “semantics of information structure” see Devine/Stephens 2019; on word order as a means
to structure meaning and information see Devine/Stephens 2006.
8 On the unsettling effects and disconcertment as strategies of enacting interpretations in
Tacitusʼ Annals see Fuhrer 2019; Fuhrer 2021. See also Batstone 2009, 28‒29; Schulz 2019, 159‒
163.
9 See e.g. Pelling 1993/2012, 64/287: “suggesting juxtapositions”; Devillers 2012, 171; Ryberg
1942, 390.
10 Sullivan 1976; Whitehead 1979.
11 Ryberg 1942.
12 Goodyear 1968/2012.
13 Syme 19673, e.g. 316; cf. Dench 2009, 394‒399.
14 Develin 1983, passim.
15 Hausmann 2009; Teltenkötter 2017; cf. Lindl 2020 (“Leseraktivierung”).
16 See the examples quoted by Fuhrer 2021, 317‒318 with n. 18.
  Therese Fuhrer

the very process of conveying information and, at the same time, ambiguating
causal and intentional structures of meaning, the text invites us to avoid the
adoption of a clearly affirmative or polemic stance and to jettison causalities.

 Tacitus on the Role of Livia and Agrippina

My focus in the following analysis will be on episodes from Tacitus’ Annals in
which female figures play a certain role in the constellation of historical protag-
onists, female personalities who, because of their gender, could not hold politi-
cal office in the Roman Empire.17 In the imperial period, power depended to an
unprecedented degree on dynastic legitimation by marriage and on the public
presence of the female members of the domus Augusta. Although these women
did not hold political office, they nevertheless had a role to play as members of
an influential Roman family. Thanks to their dynastic position within the Julio-
Claudian family tree, they brought certain interests and loyalties into the mar-
riage. Blood relationships with several branches of the imperial family, public
presence at court and at the side of the Emperor, privileges and honors, as well
as the close personal relationship to the ruler were among the main factors in
the political power and influence that could be attained by women. It is there-
fore clear that female figures had a critically important role to play in the histor-
ical analysis of events.
By contrast, the private (or rather: intimate) interactions and the inter-
personal emotions involved — not only between emperors and their wives and
mothers and other relatives, but also in relation to mistresses and lovers — were
the subject of rumors, revelations, or slanted information, and often provided
only after the fall of the persons concerned. Such matters were clearly of interest
to classical historians, not out of mere curiosity or for the sake of scandal-
mongering but because of the light they shed on the explanation of historical
events. They facilitate the demonstration of causalities and other discourse
relations that cannot be captured by purely factual and rational approaches.
Powerful emotions (desires, fears, anger, hatred) and even mere vanity, insults,
and jealousy can be understood as triggers for the actions of a historical person,
actions that it would not otherwise be possible to explain. By means of such


17 On the limited political role of female members in the Julio-Claudian family see Barrett
20192, 115‒145, especially 134: “If Livia is indeed a ‘political woman’ as Mommsen calls her, we
must understand political in a very limited sense”. Späth 2000b, 272 distinguishes between
“female” and “political” power (“weibliche Macht und politische Macht”).
 Discourse Relations and Historical Representation  

motives, causal connections between events can be created or even simply im-
plied.18 This is particularly true of Tacitus’ history of the emperors in which the
imperial women’s excessive behavior and inappropriate involvement in politi-
cal matters runs through the text like a “tonic keynote”.19
In the following section I will juxtapose two female figures in Tacitus’ ac-
count who are comparable in terms of their role at court as mothers of a reigning
emperor: Livia Augusta as the mother of the Emperor Tiberius and Agrippina
the Younger in her role as the mother of Nero. Both women are portrayed quite
differently by Tacitus but are shown to possess claims to power which each of
them realized with varying degrees of success.

. Livia
Livia appears only at certain points in the Tiberius narrative in the first hexad of
the Annals book 1. It becomes clear at the beginning of Annales 1 that she has
asserted herself vis-à-vis Augustus and the Julian family and has prevailed by
putting her son Tiberius in a strong position to succeed Augustus.20 However,
she remains in the background of the Tiberius hexad as a kind of éminence
grise. Tacitus makes this clear at the end of chapter 5 where he describes how
on the death of Augustus she pulls the strings not just as the wife of the prin-
ceps but also in her new role as Augusta (1.5.3‒4): Tiberius, at the time in Illyri-
cum, is “summoned by a hasty letter from his mother” (properis matris litteris


18 The representation of emotion-driven actions by heroes and rulers and their conflict and
war-generating consequences has been the subject of literature since Homer. Historiographical
literature since the time of Herodotus has portrayed such historical events too, though to a
different extent and from varying perspectives. In Roman historiography, female figures such
as Livy’s Lucretia or Tanaquil can be regarded as a part of the motivational repertoire for dra-
matic changes in the history of the state. See Fuhrer 2020 and, on the parallel between Livia
Augusta and Tanaquil, Rutland 1978, 18.
19 Tacitus’ focus on the moral corruption and aggressive behaviour of female figures at the
Julio-Claudian court has been pointed out by Späth 2000b (Agrippina); Panoussi 2019 (Messa-
lina, Agrippina). Cf. Ginsburg 2006, 113: “The Tacitean account of the Julio-Claudian dynasty
also constructs the women of the imperial dynasty who attempt to usurp masculine power as
duces feminae”.
20 On the role of the historical — i.e. not just the Tacitean — Livia see Barrett 20192, 146‒173,
especially 165: “During Augustus’ reign Livia had been a model of self-effacement. Now that
the regime had changed, she did not take very long to make clear her conviction that as the
Augusta she had certain quasi-legal entitlements”.
  Therese Fuhrer

accitur), whereas, in Rome, Livia’s measures are portrayed as successful and

effective even before the political legitimation of Tiberius’ assumption of power.
Chapter 6 opens with an account of the murder of Augustus’ last living
grandchild Agrippa Postumus, whom Augustus at Livia’s insistence had ban-
ished to the island of Planasia.21 The murder of Agrippa is described as the “first
act in the new principate”, even though Tiberius had not yet been nominated by
the senate (1.6.1‒3):

(1) Primum facinus novi principatus fuit Postumi Agrippae caedes, quem ignarum iner-
mumque quamvis firmatus animo centuria aegre confecit. nihil de ea re Tiberius apud
senatum disseruit: patris iussa simulabat, quibus praescripsisset tribuna custodiae adposi-
to, ne cunctaretur Agrippam morte adficere, quandoque ipse supremum diem explevisset.
(2) … propius vero Tiberium ac Liviam, illum metu, hanc novercalibus odiis, suspecti et
invisi iuvenis caedem festinavisse. (3) nuntianti centurioni, ut mos militiae, factum esse
quod imperasset, neque imperasse sese et rationem facti reddendam apud senatum re-
spondit. quod postquam Sallustius Crispus particeps secretorum (is ad tribunum miserat
codicillos) comperit, metuens ne reus subderetur, iuxta periculoso ficta seu vera pro-
meret, monuit Liviam, ne arcana domus, ne consilia amicorum, ministeria militum vul-
garentur, neve Tiberius vim principatus resolveret cuncta ad senatum vocando: eam con-
dicionem esse imperandi, ut non aliter ratio constet quam si uni reddatur.

[1] The first act of the new principate was the slaughter of Postumus Agrippa, unawares
and unarmed, whom a centurion, despite bracing himself in spirit, dispatched only with
difficulty. Tiberius did not speak about the matter in the senate: he was pretending there
were orders from his father, in which he had written in advance to the tribune assigned to
the guard that the latter should not hesitate in putting Agrippa to death whenever he him-
self consummated his final day. [2] … more likely, Tiberius and Livia — the former through
dread, the latter through stepmotherly hatred — had speeded the slaughter of a suspected
and resented young man [3] But to the centurion’s announcement (in the manner of the
military) that the action which he had commanded had been taken, Tiberius replied that
he had given no command and that an account of the action would have to be rendered in
the senate. When this was discovered by Sallustius Crispus, a partner in the secret (it was
he who had sent the note to the tribune), he dreaded that he might be supplied as a de-
fendant (it being equally perilous whether he produced a fabricated or a true statement)
and he warned Livia that the mysteries of the household, the advice of friends and the
services of soldiers should not be made public and that Tiberius should not dissipate the
essence of the principate by calling everything to the attention of the senate: it was a con-


21 Ann. 1.3.4. On the episode of Agrippa Postumus’s death see Woodman 1995/1998 whose
reading I follow in most parts. But whereas Woodman is mainly concerned with the question
whether Tacitus presents Tiberius as guilty or innocent (cf. Martin 20013, 228), I am interested
in the role attributed to Livia, still in accordance with Woodman’s interpretation (cf. especially
266‒268).
 Discourse Relations and Historical Representation  

dition of commanding that the account would not balance unless it were rendered to a
single individual. 22

After the brief but dramatic account of the brutal murder of Agrippa Postumus
by a centurion (§ 1), we are told that Tiberius did not inform the senate of this
event (nihil de ea re Tiberius apud senatum disseruit). This information charac-
terizes Tiberius from the outset as a princeps who is not willing to respect the
rights of the senate.23 In a discussion with his supporters at court, but not before
the senate, he is said to have referred to Augustus’ “last will”, in which Augus-
tus ordered the tribune who was guarding Agrippa in his exile to kill him imme-
diately after his (Augustus’) death. There follows in § 2 a remark to the effect
that the theory that Tiberius and Livia had ordered the murder was gaining
increasing credibility.24 But then, in § 3 there follows a short scene with a conver-
sation between Tiberius and the centurion, who informs the emperor-to-be of the
execution of the command (quod imperasset); Tiberius replies that he did not
issue this command (neque imperasse sese) and that he will bring the matter up
before the senate (rationem facti reddendam apud senatum). In the narrative se-
quence, this discussion scene in § 3 must have preceded what was said in § 1 —
i.e. that Tiberius had not reported the murder to the senate.25 Only later is an
explanation given for this: Sallustius Crispus,26 who as “a partner in the secret”
(particeps secretorum) informed the tribune guarding Agrippa of Augustus’
death, and perhaps also of the command to murder Agrippa, had prevented
Tiberius’ report to the senate by warning Livia of the danger of escalation
(monuit Liviam); Tiberius therefore should not make the business of the imperial


22 All citations of the Tacitean text are from Heubner 1983, the translations by Woodman
2004.
23 Benario 2012, 107: “The degradation of the Senate and the upper class in offering allegiance
to Tiberius is delineated”.
24 According to Woodman 1995/1998, 261‒264 the missing verb in the phrase propius vero is
neither est (cf. Koestermann 1963, 83) nor erat, but has to be esse, dependent on neque … credi-
bile erat in the previous sentence (§ 2, left out in the quotation above), “nor was it credible
that …: <people said it was> more likely that Tiberius and Livia … had speeded the slaughter”
(quotation from Woodman 1995/1998, 263‒264), i.e. “people thought it more likely that Tiberi-
us was guilty but [adversative asyndeton] in convincing circumstances he denied having or-
dered the murder”.
25 See Woodman 1995/1998, 268‒269 who (following Syme), calls chapter 6 (where the main
narrative of Tiberius begins with primum facinus novi principatus) a “digression” in which “the
non-discussion of the murder in the senate is a flash forwards across the events of chapter 7 to
the first sentence of chapter 8” (8.1 nihil primo senatus die agi passus nisi de supremis Augusti).
26 He is the great-nephew (“pronipote”) of the historian; see Koestermann 1963, 84; Benario
2012, 107.
  Therese Fuhrer

court public and should not endanger the power of the principate “by revealing
everything to the senate” (neve … vim principatus resolveret cuncta ad senatum
vocando). Tacitus then lets Sallust give a brief lesson on the nature and the
advantages of monarchical power.
The courtier Sallust is presented as a character who was involved in the
murder plans, who was aware of Tiberius’ actions (and statements), and who also
played the role of an informer vis-à-vis Livia. Livia herself, as a woman at
court — as the wife of the emperor and mother of the emperor-to-be — does not
appear to have known anything about the actions and statements of her son,
but in the event of problems she is clearly the person to whom others turn in
order to gain influence over the emperor. When Tiberius wishes to act according
to the rules of the principate and to take the senate seriously as a political insti-
tution, he is prevented from doing so through the agency of a senator and by
Livia. Sallust does not turn to Tiberius but to his mother in order to protect the
power of the monarchy and here it becomes clear where and in whose person
power really lies. We merely hear that Sallust warned Livia against Tiberius’
plans. The text provides no account of Livia’s conversation with her son nor of
his agreement, nor does it say anything about his acceptance of the necessity of
restraint in informing the senate. No discourse relation is established between
Sallust’s communication with Livia and Tiberius’ change of opinion. As a result,
Tiberius may come across as immature and easily persuaded.27 At first he seems
to be willing to respect the rights of the senate, but then he appears simply to
have carried out what Sallust convinced Livia of with his argumentation. Since
this information is provided at the beginning of the chapter, in which there is
also an explicit reference to the start of Tiberius’ reign, the consequence of his
bypassing of the senate must be regarded as serious and as momentous in its
consequences.
The question of whether Livia’s role at the imperial court and her influence
on the emperor were positive for the interests of the state, for the stability of
power, and hence for domestic peace and security, remains open, as does the
question of whether Tiberius would have been more friendly towards the senate
without Livia’s behind-the-scenes influence. Right at the beginning of his prin-
cipate Tiberius appears as a personality who does not inform the senate and
who also misleads those around him (§ 1 patris iussa simulabat). He also comes


27 See Woodman 1995/1998, 268: “Thus the significance of the episode of Postumus’ death is
that it portrays Tiberius as dependent on others and influenced by them, a portrait which re-
emerges in his obituary at the end of book 6 (51.3), closing the frame of the Tiberian narrative”.
 Discourse Relations and Historical Representation  

over as weak and impressionable, because this behavior is dictated not by his
own reflections nor by the advice of others but by the influence of his mother.

. Agrippina
Let us now have a look at the other mother of an emperor, Agrippina, who plays
a totally different role than Livia. I am interested here in the structuring of dis-
course relations in Tacitusʼ account of how Agrippinaʼs power was reduced and
how she was finally murdered.
At the beginning of Annals book 13 Tacitus describes Agrippina as the dom-
inant woman after Nero’s assumption of power, not least by ordering a series of
politically and personally motivated murders. She is only stopped when Burrus
and Seneca intervene (13.2.1‒2).28

(1) Ibaturque in caedes, nisi Afranius Burrus et Annaeus Seneca obviam issent. hi rectores
imperatoriae iuventae … iuvantes in vicem, quo facilius lubricam principis aetatem, si vir-
tutem aspernaretur, voluptatibus concessis retinerent. (2) Certamen utrique unum erat
contra ferociam Agrippinae, quae cunctis malae dominationis cupidinibus flagrans habe-
bat in partibus Pallantem, quo auctore Claudius nuptiis incestis et adoptione exitiosa
semet perverterat.

(1) And the general trend was toward slaughter, had not Afranius Burrus and Annaeus
Seneca stepped in. These mentors of the Commander’s youth […] each helping the other so
that they might more easily retain their hold on the slipperiness of the princeps’s age by
permitting him pleasures if he spurned virtue. (2) They both had the same struggle against
the defiance of Agrippina, who, blazing with all the desires of her evil domination, had
Pallas on her side, at whose instigation Claudius had destroyed himself with his incestu-
ous wedding and the ruinous adoption.

The two men are credited with having put an end to the bloodbath right at the
start of Nero’s reign. The “mentors of the Commander’s youth” retain their hold
on the “slipperiness of the princeps’s age” (lubrica principis aetas) “by permit-
ting him pleasures” (voluptates concessae), seeing that he spurned virtutes. For
a Stoic such as Seneca, who in his writings advocated the traditional Stoic posi-
tion that only strict control of emotions could lead to moral perfection,29 the idea
that Nero’s drives could be restrained (retinere, § 1) by allowing him to satisfy
them, must seem false and even dangerous; for the reading public knows from
Tacitus’ following account that this tactic of indulgence had far-reaching con-


28 On this passage see Fuhrer 2021, 320‒321.
29 Especially in De ira, published in the forties or early fifties of the 1st century AD.
  Therese Fuhrer

sequences. But the concession seems comprehensible and justified in the text
by the information in § 2, that the actual target of Seneca’s and Burrus’ striving
(certamen) was Agrippina’s savagery (ferocia).30
In the following I would like to examine a series of passages to see how, i.e.
by which modes of placement, combination and distribution of information the
motives of the principal “actors” in the “drama” of Nero’s matricide, in particu-
lar Seneca and Burrus, and the political relevance and moral quality of their
actions are presented.31

.. The Freedwoman Acte: Agrippina’s Power Dwindles

Right at the start of the following year 55 AD — only a few chapters after the
report of Neroʼs assumption of power in 54 AD — the text informs us that Agrip-
pina’s power has gradually been “broken” (13.12.1‒2):

(1) Ceterum infracta paulatim potentia matris delapso Nerone in amorem libertae, cui voca-
bulum Acte fuit, … (2) ignara matre, dein frustra obnitente, penitus inrepserat per luxum et
ambigua secreta, ne senioribus quidem principis amicis adversantibus, muliercula nulla
cuiusquam iniuria cupidines principis explente, quando uxore ab Octavia, nobili quidem et
probitatis spectatae, fato quodam, an quia praevalent inlicita, abhorrebat, metuebaturque,
ne in stupra feminarum inlustrium prorumperet, si illa libidine prohiberetur.

(1) Be that as it may, the powerfulness of his mother was gradually broken, as Nero had
slipped into love with a freedwoman whose designation was Acte […] (2) With his mother’s
ignorance succeeded by her vain protests, he (Senecio)32 had crept his way in thoroughly
by the techniques of luxuriousness and ambiguous secrecy, unopposed by even the older
friends of the princeps, given that the young woman — without injury to anyone else —
was fulfilling the princeps’s desires, since by some fate (or because the illicit always pre-
vails) he recoiled from his wife Octavia, noble as she was and of demonstrated probity,
and it was dreaded that he might erupt into unlawful sex with illustrious ladies if he were
kept from his lust.


30 On Tacitus’s use of ferox and ferocia see Ginsburg 2006, 37‒38: “applied only to women
who aspire to masculine roles”. As Barrett 2013, 70‒71 points out, it is, also from a historian’s
perspective, far from clear when and why Agrippina ceded her power and influence to Seneca
and Burrus.
31 The crucial role of the imperial advisers in Tacitus’ representation of Agrippina’s diminu-
tion of influence on Nero is emphasized also by Ginsburg 2006, 40‒41.
32 I accept the translation of Woodman 2004 who makes Senecio the subject of inrepserat;
according to Koestermann 1967, 25 it should be Acte.
 Discourse Relations and Historical Representation  

The reason given in the text for the start of Agrippina’s loss of power is Nero’s
passion for a woman, the freedwoman Acte.33 By two ablativi absoluti we are
given the information that Agrippina, who at first knows nothing (ignara ma-
tre), then vainly tries to put up resistance, then — following the main-clause
statement about Senecio, one of Neros’s “buddies”, “creeping in” — that “the
older friends of the princeps” (senioribus quidem principis amicis) did not op-
pose the affair, because the paramour Acte served the purpose of satisfying the
emperor’s lusts without detriment to Nero’s immediate social circle (nulla cui-
usquam iniuria cupidines principis explente). There was a worry that he might
attempt to violate married women if he was forbidden to have the affair with
Acte (si illa libidine prohiberetur). With the passage of 13.2.1‒2 in mind (see
above, p. 29), we are clearly meant to attribute this thinking to Seneca und Bur-
rus. Thus, Agrippina’s “loss of power” (infracta potentia) is the result not of
Nero’s love of Acte but — again — of the decision by Nero’s “older friends” not
to permit any resistance by Agrippina (frustra obnitente) in order to check Nero’s
lust. She loses the battle against the seniores amici, and Nero wins it against his
mother.
The process of Nero’s estrangement from his mother depicted in the follow-
ing chapters is now unstoppable. Her confidant Pallas has to go (13.14.1), and
she insults Seneca and Burrus (13.14.3). Her assertion that Britannicus, not Ne-
ro, is the legitimate heir of her husband Claudius, leads to the murder of Britan-
nicus (13.14‒18).34
Yet, the behavior of all the protagonists is not in any way judged or even
condemned; there is no explicit auctorial comment. Causal connections are
implied, but the text does not provide an unequivocal diagnosis of the causes
leading to the matricide. Instead the sequence of information induces us to take
a fresh view of connections or indeed to see these connections for the first time.
Tacitus’ text nudges us towards a critical reading and we are free to draw con-
clusions that make no claims to an unequivocal interpretative stance.35


33 On Claudia Acte, probably one of Claudius’ libertae, Koestermann 1967, 255 and id. 1968, 25.
According to Tacitus, Seneca’s kinsman Annaeus Serenus had to pretend to have an affair with
Acte in order to keep Neros’s involvement secret (Ann. 13.13). “Acte” might be a nickname (cf.
Tacitus’ vocabulum in Ann. 13.12.1) for prostitutes, meaning “lush” (see Longo Auricchio 2019).
This would be an argument for making not Senecio but Acte the subject of inrepserat (13.12.2
penitus inrepserat per luxum et ambigua secreta), see above, n. 32.
34 Cf. Ginsburg 2006, 43‒44 on “Agrippina’s slide into the politics of opposition”.
35 Lindl 2020, 211‒225, especially 214 on Ann. 13.12.1‒2, refers to the narrative technique of
multiperspectivity and comes to a similar conclusion, namely that the reader is constantly
invited to reflect and evaluate different versions of a story.
  Therese Fuhrer

.. Poppaea Urges Nero to Commit Matricide

The passage right at the beginning of book 14 is a prime example of Tacitus

exploiting the possibilities of creating openness by means of syntactic compres-
sion:36 in participial sentences and appended ablativi absoluti, statements can
be made whose connection — or discourse relation — to the overall sentence
statement does not have to be made explicit by adverbial modifiers: In conjunc-
tion with her husband, the playboy Otho, Poppaea has gained influence over
Nero and is urging him to murder his mother (14.1.1).37 In § 3 we hear that every-
one was informed about Poppaea’s goals and of her influence over the emperor,
and they exploited this in their efforts to curb Agrippina’s power (cupientibus
cunctis infringi potentiam matris). But they did not believe (credente nullo) that
Nero’s hatred of his mother would “harden” into murder. Seneca and Burrus
may now appear to be exonerated. However, a sequential and intra-textual
reading invites us to assume that both protagonists were part of the cuncti and
that they were both aware of the seriousness of Nero’s murderous thoughts.38
The narrative order moves to the report attributed to the historian Cluvius
about Agrippinaʼs attempt to bind her son to her by an incestuous offer. This
effort was immediately frustrated by Seneca sending — not Poppaea but — the
freedwoman Acte to Nero, one woman as antidote against another (14.2.1).39
The narrative continues with the information that Nero avoided contact
with Agrippina but then, finding her too burdensome, decided to kill her (14.3.2
postremo … praegravem ratus interficere constituit). And so he did — Tacitusʼ
account of the murder follows immediately in chapters 4−8 of book 14. Seneca
and Burrus appear in the narrative when, after the first assassination attempt,


36 Oakley 2009, 204‒205.
37 On Poppaea as a member in the cabinet of “Nero’s women” see Barrett 2013, 73‒75.
38 The problem that Tacitus attributes to Poppaea a fundamental role in driving Nero to kill
his mother but at the same time says that Nero had long planned the crime (as against e.g.
Bartera 2011, 169) has been discussed by Martin 20013, 170 and 178 and Ginsburg 2006, 47‒48,
yet without reference to the role of Seneca and Burrus.
39 Cf. Ginsburg 2006, 47: “We might well ask why, if Seneca thought the assistance of a female
was needed, he did not turn to Poppaea at this moment”. Here too a sequential reading raises
the question of the motivation behind Agrippina’s murder (see above, n. 38), but the Tacitean
text itself prevents us from answering it by mentioning a different version of the story, offered
by the pro-Senecan but less credited historian Fabius Rusticus, in which it was Nero who
sought the incestuous relationship with his mother (14.2.2). According to Koestermann 1968, 25
Fabius’s version exonerates Seneca of any responsibility for the matricide. According to Lindl
2020, 242‒243 the text also allows the interpretation that Acte is intriguing against Agrippina,
not Seneca.
 Discourse Relations and Historical Representation  

they are summoned by Nero to give advice in this moment of fear. In this situa-
tion the Tacitean text attributes to them the authority to legitimize the matricide
as a political murder in order to protect the emperor (14.7.2−5). But again it is
left uncommented and therefore open to further consideration whether their
presence in the scene at this stage makes them appear guilty or at least partly
responsible for the murder.40

 Conclusions
The features of Tacitus’ syntax and style have often been interpreted in classical
scholarship as a means to mirror the turmoil and intrigues in the political sys-
tem in the early principate, reflecting the perspective of a conservative senator
as well as the role of the senatorial class in a monarchic regime.41 I would ra-
ther — less in opposition than in addition to this explanation — move the dis-
cussion from a political to an epistemological level: I argue that the Tacitean
text shows time and time again that the course of events in history is dependent
on highly complex constellations of motives. The representation of historical
events and “facts” cannot be accomplished by making straightforward and
unambiguous statements and by establishing a clear-cut discourse structure.
With his choice of vocabulary, syntax and narrative order, Tacitus demonstrates
the impossibility of explicitness and the need for ambiguity that allows more
than one interpretation of the historical events and the participants depicted in
the text. By opening up the “limits of exactitude” in the representation of Ro-
man history, the Tacitean text creates space for further questioning and inter-
pretation.42


40 On this scene see Fuhrer 2019, 218‒222; Fuhrer 2021, 323‒325. Luke 2013 emphasizes the
constructive role of Burrus and Seneca in the aftermath of Agrippina’s murder.
41 See e.g. Martin 20013, 226‒229; Benario 2012. Cf. the critical remarks by Dench 2009,
402−404.
42 This article has benefited greatly from my stay as a visitor at the Maimonides Centre for
Advanced Studies at the University of Hamburg in the summer of 2019; I am deeply grateful to
my hosts and fellows for their friendly and professional support and for stimulating discus-
sions. I would also like to thank Paul Knight and Angela Zerbe for translating this article from
German.
  Therese Fuhrer

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Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Mlle de Trivières avait négligé d’allumer l’électricité tant elle était
pressée de lire sa lettre aux derniers reflets du jour.
Il faisait complètement nuit quand elle eut achevé sa lecture ;
malgré l’obscurité, elle demeura longtemps à cette place, le front
appuyé à la vitre du jardin où les branches des lilas tournoyaient en
gémissant sous les rafales du vent.
Un quart d’heure plus tard, entendant sonner la cloche du dîner,
elle s’éveilla comme d’un songe, baigna longuement ses yeux rougis
et descendit au salon.
En voyant entrer sa fille, Mme de Trivières lui dit d’un ton sec :
— Tu t’es fait attendre, Diane. Je désirais te parler avant le dîner.
Maintenant il est trop tard.
— C’est inutile, maman. Je n’ai plus besoin d’entendre ce que
vous aviez à me dire…
— Comment, c’est inutile ! Tu profites de la faiblesse de ton
tuteur à ton égard pour me faire arracher mon consentement à un
mariage ridicule et tu ne t’inquiètes pas de connaître ma réponse !
Tu t’imagines sans doute que je vais m’estimer très heureuse de
donner ma fille et ses millions à un intrigant qui devait savoir
parfaitement en te faisant la cour que…
— Ma mère ! interrompit la jeune fille.
Son cri était si douloureux qu’on eût dit que ces paroles l’avaient
blessée.
La marquise remarqua alors les traits bouleversés de sa fille.
Celle-ci, pour toute réponse, lui tendit un papier d’un geste brisé.
— Voyez, lisez, dit Diane d’une voix contenue, comme vous avez
peu sujet de l’accuser…
Quand Mme de Trivières eut fini la lecture de la lettre, elle resta
un moment sans rien dire, la feuille entre les mains, confondue par
la preuve d’un désintéressement qui lui avait paru impossible.
Puis, par l’effet d’un de ces revirements dont elle était
coutumière, la marquise courut à sa fille qu’elle prit entre ses bras et,
appuyant la belle tête brune sur son épaule, elle la baisa avec
tendresse.
— Dianette, ma chérie, dit-elle, retrouvant l’appellation qu’elle lui
donnait dans son enfance, pourquoi n’as-tu pas eu confiance en ta
mère ? Pourquoi ne m’as-tu pas parlé plus tôt ?
— Oh ! maman, vous aviez toujours tant de choses à penser ! Et
puis, savais-je moi-même avant-hier que nous en arriverions là ?…
Vous m’aviez permis d’aller chez sa grand’mère. C’est là que je l’ai
rencontré…
— Et tu lui as écrit pendant un an sans que je m’en doute ?
— Moi non plus, maman, je vous assure.
Je croyais écrire à Hubert ; vous-même m’aviez donné l’adresse.
— C’est vrai ! C’est ton original de tuteur qui est cause de tout
avec ses idées romanesques. Il a bien réussi ! Et nous voilà bien
avancées ! Tu n’épouseras pas son neveu, dont tu ne voudrais
pas… et tu n’épouseras pas davantage ce monsieur qui ne veut plus
de toi…
Te refuser, toi, ma fille ! Cela, c’est trop fort. Ce petit lieutenant a
bien de l’audace !
— Mais, maman, vous lui reprochiez tout à l’heure d’oser
prétendre à ma main et vous lui reprochez maintenant de se retirer !
— Tiens ! ne parlons plus de tout cela ! Je me suis déjà mise en
colère avec ton tuteur. Oh ! je ne lui ai pas caché ma façon de
penser. C’est assez pour un jour. Allons dîner.
Que dirais-tu d’un petit voyage à Vauclair ? Nous serons bientôt à
Pâques.
— Oh ! oui, oui. Allons-nous-en, partons d’ici… Et à Vauclair plus
qu’ailleurs.
J’y retrouverai mes malades, mes occupations. Cela
m’empêchera de trop penser, de trop me souvenir…
Et elle ajouta en elle-même :
« De trop souffrir… »
 CHAPITRE III

Le printemps à Vauclair.
Un printemps coupé d’averses, de gelées, de rafales, mais le
printemps quand même.
Autour de l’hôpital, les crocus et les primevères apparaissaient
sous l’herbe mouillée, les premières violettes sortaient leurs boutons
corsetées de vert tendre et, dans les parterres du château, les beaux
lis blancs, au cœur d’or, sonnaient les alléluias triomphants des
dimanches de Pâques.
Diane de Trivières passait indifférente aux merveilles du
renouveau ; elle ne regardait qu’en elle-même.
Elle y retrouvait sans cesse l’image mélancolique de deux yeux
fiers au regard pénétrant.
Malgré qu’elle eût repris ses multiples occupations d’infirmière,
qu’elle eût revu avec plaisir son œuvre agrandie, en plein essor, rien
ne parvenait à rompre le sortilège malfaisant qui retenait son âme
enchaînée dans un cercle de sombres pensées.
Comme autrefois, elle allait encore du château à l’hôpital aux
mêmes heures ; sa blouse blanche passait dix fois par jour le long
des salles qu’elle inspectait d’un œil vigilant, mais, comme le disait
Rose avec tristesse :
« C’était mademoiselle et ce n’était plus elle : on croyait qu’elle
était là, mais son cœur n’y était plus ! »
Quant à Mme Rose Plisson, elle y était bien certainement et
plutôt deux fois qu’une !
Sa petite personne était devenue fort encombrante, mais on
comprenait que c’était par une cause momentanée.
 Sa figure brunie par les intempéries, ses joues fraîches et
rebondies, ses bras potelés, ne rappelaient que de très loin
l’ouvrière parisienne, la petite fleur du pavé de Montmartre, mièvre et
pâle.
Aujourd’hui, c’était l’églantine des bois, dont le parfum était la
franche gaieté qu’elle répandait autour d’elle, et il était clair que la
fleur épanouie allait porter son bouton.
L’événement arriva précisément une nuit du commencement
d’avril, pendant le séjour des châtelains à Vauclair.
On prévint au matin Mlle de Trivières de la naissance du bébé.
Avant d’entrer à l’hôpital, Diane alla faire une petite visite à sa
protégée.
C’était touchant de voir les précautions que prenait Victor pour
éviter de frapper le plancher avec sa jambe de bois.
Il avait l’air d’un gros corbeau sautillant et maladroit, lorsqu’il
essayait de glisser sur un seul pied en se rattrapant à l’armoire qui
gémissait sous son poids, ou lorsqu’il prenait dans ses grosses
mains le fragile fardeau… Rose le suivait des yeux avec inquiétude
et le suppliait, au nom du ciel, de s’asseoir et de ne rien faire.
Diane trouva la jeune maman allongée, son bébé dans ses bras.
C’était un joli spectacle de la voir à demi soulevée sur son lit
blanc, ses mains pâles sortant de sa camisole festonnée et ses
cheveux bouffants emprisonnés dans un coquet bonnet orné d’un
ruban bleu.
Quand nous disons : « ses cheveux », il est bien entendu que les
frisettes font exception.
Ces folles bouclettes se moquaient de toutes les barrières et de
toutes les prisons. Elles s’épanouissaient sur l’oreiller, s’en donnant
à cœur joie de sautiller de droite et de gauche ! Ici, du côté du papa,
là-bas du côté du bébé, elles formaient, autour du front de Rose, une
charmante auréole, qui accompagnait sa rayonnante maternité.
— Mademoiselle, dit la lingère, je vous avais promis un filleul,
mais ce sera pour une autre fois ! Il faudra vous contenter d’une
filleule.
— Je suis très contente d’avoir une filleule, répondit Diane. Nous
profiterons de ce que je suis à Vauclair pour la baptiser. Avez-vous
arrêté un nom ?
Cette question s’adressait aussi bien au père qu’à la mère.
Ceux-ci se regardèrent l’un l’autre, en souriant.
— Justement, nous en causions et nous nous disputions pour ce
nom quand mademoiselle est entrée.
Victor voulait à toute force qu’elle s’appelle Rose, comme moi. Il
disait, ce grand nigaud, — n’écoute pas, tourne-toi ! — il disait qu’il
n’y aurait jamais trop de Rose Perrin et que, de cette façon-là, ça lui
en ferait deux !
— Il n’y a plus de Rose Perrin, dit Diane.
— Oh ! pourtant, mademoiselle, fit la jeune femme en baissant la
voix, à ma connaissance il y en a déjà eu deux : que mademoiselle
se rappelle !
— Ne parlons plus de cela ; c’est du temps passé !
Et vous ? Comment désirez-vous appeler votre fille ?
— Moi, je voudrais l’appeler comme son père ; cela ferait
Victorine ; c’est un joli nom !
Mlle de Trivières fit la moue, puis elle décida :
— Puisque je suis la marraine, il me semble que j’ai voix au
chapitre. Voulez-vous que nous la baptisions Victoire. C’est un beau
nom de guerre.
Rose battit des mains, au risque de réveiller le poupon.
— Victoire ! c’est très joli. Qu’en dis-tu, Totor ?
Totor était le petit nom d’amitié de Rose à son mari.
L’ex-soldat souriait béatement en approuvant de la tête. Il n’était
guère plus habile à faire des phrases qu’à glisser sur le parquet sans
sa jambe de bois ; mais il était bien heureux, c’était évident ; il voulait
tout ce que voulait sa petite femme ; c’était à elle de décider…
 — Allons ! mademoiselle Victoire, dit Rose, en tournant le bébé
du côté de Diane, regardez votre marraine, votre belle marraine,
vous pouvez en être fière ! Ça n’est pas comme… — elle jeta un
coup d’œil du côté de Victor — comme certaines personnes qui ont
des marraines à revendre, des marraines à la douzaine ; tu n’en
auras qu’une, toi, ma jolie, mais une bonne et une belle !
A cet instant, le papa de la jeune Victoire fut pris d’une quinte de
toux qui l’obligea d’aller prendre l’air sur le seuil de la porte.
Pendant qu’il se calmait, Diane dit d’un ton de reproche :
— Je croyais, Rose, que vous lui aviez pardonné. Pourquoi
réveillez-vous les mauvais souvenirs ?
— Oh ! il faut qu’il se souvienne, mademoiselle. J’ai pardonné,
oui, c’est vrai. Mais, quand on a été trompée une fois, il n’y a plus la
même confiance !… Non, non, il faut qu’il se souvienne.
— Ne vous agitez pas. Je vais dire à votre mari de rentrer et je
me dépêche d’aller à l’hôpital. Vous recevrez, ce soir ou demain, un
petit cadeau pour ma filleule.
Victor entrait à ce moment, osant à peine regarder du côté du lit,
mais Rose eut un geste vers lui, avec un sourire si doux qu’il
s’avança sans nul égard pour le tac-tac de sa jambe de bois.
Avant de sortir, Mlle de Trivières eut le temps de le voir mettre un
baiser maladroit entre les boucles folles, un baiser timide qui
sollicitait un pardon que le sourire de Rose avait accordé d’avance.
Et Diane tira la porte avec un soupir sur ce joli bonheur qui était à
moitié son œuvre.
Elle prit lentement l’allée des sapins. Une buée obscurcissait ses
yeux.
Même cet humble bonheur ne serait point à sa portée ! Elle
haïssait sa fortune qui, d’une façon comme de l’autre, la privait du
seul bien dont son cœur souffrait le besoin.
« Je ne me marierai pas, se dit-elle. Je me consacrerai aux
œuvres, à mon hôpital, aux enfants abandonnés… Puisque ma
fortune m’empêche d’être heureuse, je leur donnerai tout…, tout ! »
 Elle monta comme à l’ordinaire dans la salle vaste et claire où les
malades la regardaient passer dans un silence respectueux ainsi
qu’une lumineuse apparition.
Après son passage, ce jour-là, ils firent entre eux la réflexion que
mademoiselle avait l’air moins triste. Elle les avait regardés avec une
expression très douce, toute nouvelle, et cela les consola un peu de
ne pas voir apparaître la frimousse de Rose, qui chassait toujours la
mélancolie, et de ne plus entendre sa voix fausse qui égrenait, dans
les escaliers et les couloirs, le refrain du Temps des cerises.
Mlle de Trivières se donna chaque jour davantage à sa tâche
charitable.
Elle voulait contraindre son mal à céder, à se fondre dans la
douceur de se donner, de n’être plus que la sœur compatissante des
êtres souffrants, des mutilés de la gloire.
Elle y réussissait à de certaines heures. Mais à d’autres, quand
la solitude la rendait à la vie intérieure, elle retrouvait sa peine aussi
cuisante, son fardeau aussi lourd ; et elle se demandait avec effroi si
elle devrait vivre ainsi des années dans l’amertume de stériles
regrets.
Dans cette lutte secrète où l’âme de la jeune fille s’anoblissait en
se purifiant, son corps perdait de ses forces. Le sommeil fiévreux,
l’appétit languissant, Diane changeait de jour en jour d’une manière
très sensible.
La marquise de Trivières, dont la tendresse maternelle avait été
mise en éveil, remarquait ce changement et s’en désolait.
L’expression résignée du beau visage, les cernes bleus qu’elle
remarquait sous les grands yeux tristes remplissaient la mère
d’inquiétudes qu’elle voulait dissimuler.
Connaissant sa fille pour ce qu’elle était, si absolue dans ses
sentiments, si ferme dans ses volontés, la marquise se demandait si
elle n’eût pas mieux fait d’aider de tout son pouvoir à la réalisation
de ce mariage, y consentir du moins de bon cœur, au lieu de se
réjouir secrètement de la défection du jeune homme.
 C’était trop tard !
Les tourments qui dévoraient Diane avaient encore d’autres
causes que son amour déçu.
Bien qu’elle eût pris la résolution d’éviter tout ce qui pouvait la
ramener au souvenir d’Hervé, elle suivait avec un tremblement les
communiqués de la guerre se rapportant à l’offensive de
Champagne.
Elle lisait chaque matin la liste des tués ou disparus, tremblant
d’y voir le nom du lieutenant de Kéravan. Elle savait que son
régiment prenait part à l’attaque déclenchée entre Soissons et
Reims.
Les mots des communiqués relatifs à cette partie du front étaient
les seuls qu’elle voyait. « Le Chemin des Dames, le mont Cornillet,
Moronvilliers », ces noms se détachaient sur les autres en lettres
capitales, et le cœur de la jeune fille battait à soubresauts violents,
tandis qu’elle songeait : « Il était ici, il a marché à l’assaut en avant
de ses hommes, il a dû traverser ces tirs de barrage meurtriers, c’est
lui qui a pris cette tranchée, qui a poursuivi l’ennemi en déroute,
sous un déluge de balles, dans des flots de sang… Hervé ! » Son
amour s’exaltait à ces visions.
Et le pire était encore de ne rien savoir.
Sans être ni épouse, ni mère, ni fiancée, elle vivait la vie
angoissée de celles qui attendaient en tremblant, dont l’espoir
vacillant était à la merci d’une lettre… d’une nouvelle.
Un matin, qu’auprès de Rose convalescente, non loin du chalet,
Diane causait avec la jeune femme assise sous le gros chêne, Rose
tenait son enfant sur ses genoux et surveillait de loin son mari
occupé devant le chalet. Celui-ci, grimpé à une échelle — par quel
miracle d’équilibre ? — debout sur un seul pied, taillait les clématites
et le rosier de la façade.
Rose dit à mi-voix :
— Il va tomber… c’est sûr ! Et après, comment fera-t-on pour le
ramasser ? Mademoiselle l’entend siffler d’ici ? C’est qu’il est
content ! Il a reçu ce matin une lettre d’un camarade de son
régiment. Ça lui a fait plaisir d’avoir des nouvelles.
Mlle de Trivières avait des raisons personnelles pour s’intéresser
au régiment de Victor, puisque c’était le même que celui de certain
lieutenant.
— Quelles nouvelles a-t-il reçues de son régiment ? A-t-il été très
éprouvé ? Était-il aux dernières affaires ?
— Oh ! oui, mademoiselle ! Et ils ont joliment écopé !… Pardon !
c’est des mots de Paris qui me reviennent… Il paraît que c’est leur
régiment qui est entré le premier dans Noyon, pour en chasser les
Boches ; et ils les ont poursuivis jusqu’à une autre ville qu’on appelle
Ham… Il dit, ce camarade de Victor, que c’est un lieutenant de sa
compagnie, un grand, qui a planté le drapeau français sur une
forteresse qu’il y a là et, à cause de cela, on a donné à tout le
régiment le droit de porter la fourragère. Victor m’a expliqué que
c’est un cordon vert et rouge avec des aiguillettes d’or au bout qu’ils
portent sur l’épaule… Et je me demandais si Victor aurait le droit de
la porter, lui qui n’y était pas. Il est vrai qu’aussi, il aurait pu y être, et
qu’il ne serait pas arrivé le dernier !
Rose se rengorgeait d’orgueil ; elle prit sa fille pour l’allaiter.
Une question brûlait les lèvres de Diane. Elle ne pouvait se
décider à parler.
— Seulement, continua Rose, il en est resté sur le terrain ! Ah !
mademoiselle, c’est le cas de dire qu’on ne fait pas d’omelette sans
casser des œufs !… Il dit qu’il n’en est revenu pour ainsi dire pas !…
surtout les officiers.
— Quelques-uns, pourtant ?
— Oui, plus ou moins abîmés. Il n’y a que le lieutenant de
Louvigny, un ancien de mon mari, qui n’a rien eu ; mais, lui… ses
soldats disent qu’il est « verni ». Ils l’aiment bien.
Celui qu’ils aiment le mieux c’est un Breton.
Justement, m’a dit Victor, celui qui a planté le drapeau sur le fort.
— Comment se nomme-t-il ?
 — Le lieutenant de Ki… Kér… enfin, un nom breton dans ce
genre-là !
— De Kéravan, peut-être ?
— Oui, mademoiselle, Kéravan, c’est bien ça ! Le pauvre jeune
homme ! C’était un brave, mais il l’a payé cher !
— Comment cela ? Est-ce qu’il est… il est ?
— Mort ? S’il ne l’est pas à cette heure-ci, il n’en vaut guère
mieux ! Le camarade dit qu’il a reçu un éclat d’obus dans la tête et
un autre dans le côté… On ne sait pas s’il est mort ou vivant.
Diane se leva ; elle manquait d’air.
Elle essaya de marcher, ses oreilles bourdonnaient. Tout à coup
ses jambes fléchirent et elle tomba à la renverse avec un cri étouffé.
— Victor ! Victor ! cria Rose, appelle vite la sœur des Anges.
Mademoiselle vient de se trouver mal.
Une heure plus tard, Mlle de Trivières, transportée au château,
voyant au pied de son lit la marquise en larmes, lui dit doucement :
— Maman, ne pleurez pas…, venez près de moi.
Voyez-vous, la vie est si triste que je voudrais mourir. Au ciel on
ne doit plus souffrir !
— Diane, mon enfant adorée, que dis-tu ?
Si tu te sentais malade, pourquoi ne me l’as-tu pas dit plus tôt ?
La jeune fille secoua la tête tristement.
— Je ne me sens pas malade… J’ai de la peine.
— Je le sais, ma Dianette, toujours la même cause. Mais, mon
Dieu ! qu’y faire ?
— Rose ne vous a pas dit ce qu’elle venait de m’apprendre, là-
bas, tout à l’heure ?
— Non, elle a dit seulement que vous parliez de la guerre et que
tu t’étais trouvée mal tout à coup.
— Rose venait de dire qu’« il » a été blessé, mortellement
blessé… Oh ! maman… je voudrais savoir.
 — Nous le saurons, ma Dianette, je t’en supplie, reste calme ! Je
vais faire rechercher où ce jeune homme a été soigné. Bon ami est à
Paris, il s’informera… Je lui écris à l’instant…
— Vous ne me cacherez rien ?
— Non, à la condition que tu seras courageuse.
Tiens, voici ce bon docteur qui vient te voir.
Bonjour, docteur ! je vous attendais avec impatience.
Le vieux médecin de Vauclair, qui avait vu naître la jeune fille,
comprit à demi-mot ce qu’on ne lui disait point.
De l’anémie, de la tension nerveuse, des points au cœur ; il
prescrivit beaucoup de calme, une potion et des distractions.
Il partit en affirmant à la marquise qu’il ne voyait rien d’inquiétant
dans l’état actuel de sa fille, mais que, cependant, il serait prudent
de ne pas laisser se prolonger cette situation.
Mme de Trivières écrivit au général d’Antivy pour le prier
instamment de faire toutes les recherches possibles afin de
retrouver les traces du lieutenant de Kéravan.
Elle terminait en disant : « Et quand vous aurez retrouvé ce jeune
homme, cet oiseau rare qui se permet de refuser deux millions et
une fille comme la mienne, j’espère, général, que vous saurez lui
faire entendre — si le pauvre garçon est toujours de ce monde ! —
qu’il se doit au bonheur de cette enfant dont il s’est fait aimer…
Hélas ! où est le temps où vous compariez Diane à certaine idole
hindoue !… Elle souffre maintenant d’avoir le cœur trop sensible, oui,
trop sensible !… Ma pauvre chérie, général, elle vous ferait pitié !
Prévenez-nous vite par un mot si vous avez des nouvelles. »
Dans la soirée, la malade reçut une autre visite qui lui fit du bien.
Ce fut celle du bon curé de Vauclair, qui venait, de lui-même,
prendre des nouvelles, ayant appris l’indisposition de Diane par le
médecin.
C’était un prêtre rustique dont la simplicité n’excluait point une
grande finesse naturelle et une connaissance approfondie des âmes
qu’il avait puisée dans son long sacerdoce.
 Celle de cette jeune fille, qu’il avait jugée longtemps énigmatique,
l’avait, depuis un an, rempli d’étonnement d’abord, puis d’une
profonde admiration.
Pas à pas, il avait suivi son évolution, et il avait été heureux de
constater dans cette âme pure, mais longtemps fermée à la charité,
une floraison éclatante de vertus que la guerre avait fait éclore.
Suivant avec intérêt le développement de l’œuvre de la Biche-au-
Bois, il s’en était institué l’aumônier volontaire et il n’était guère de
jour où il ne passât y faire une petite visite.
Sa conversation fit le plus grand bien à Diane, qui passa une
soirée et une nuit assez calmes.
Le lendemain, vers midi, Mme de Trivières reçut un télégramme
ainsi conçu :

« Trivières. Vauclair. Sarthe.

« Mea culpa. Commence recherches. Aurez bientôt nouvelles. —
d’Antivy. »
 CHAPITRE IV

Jacques de Trivières était venu attendre sa mère et sa sœur à la

sortie de la gare Montparnasse.
Très grand dans son costume de saint-cyrien, il s’était
étonnamment fortifié durant son année d’école. Ses traits avaient
pris une expression virile que complétaient son regard sérieux et sa
fière tenue.
La génération des hommes très jeunes, au début du plus
effroyable cataclysme qu’aura connu l’humanité, a été mûrie par les
circonstances.
Les préoccupations qui s’agitent sous les fronts de vingt ans sont
si différentes de celles que connurent leurs aînés, qu’on peut dire
que cette époque aura vu des adolescents posséder le jugement et
le tranquille courage des hommes faits, tandis que des jeunes
hommes ont acquis l’expérience de vieillards.
En voyant paraître Diane auprès de sa mère, dans son costume
de voyage en drap sombre qui accusait sa pâleur, Jacques fut
frappé du changement qui s’était opéré en sa sœur depuis leur
dernière rencontre.
Il s’en inquiéta, mais la jeune fille répondit hâtivement qu’elle
n’était pas malade, qu’elle se portait très bien et s’informa de suite
si, depuis sa sortie, le saint-cyrien avait revu leur tuteur.
Jacques l’avait manqué la veille, étant allé chez lui pendant que
le général se présentait à l’hôtel de Trivières et demandait ces
dames.
— Il n’a rien laissé pour nous ?
— Il a laissé dire qu’il reviendrait demain matin et a paru content
d’apprendre que vous rentriez ce soir.
 Après une nuit passée dans l’anxiété, Mlle de Trivières se leva
avec la certitude que cette journée ne s’écoulerait point sans lui
apporter la réponse qu’elle désirait et redoutait à la fois.
Vers dix heures, le général se fit annoncer. La marquise n’était
pas encore sortie de sa chambre.
Diane descendit seule au salon.
Quand il la vit paraître, mince et blanche comme un lis, son
visage torturé par la pensée intérieure qui brûlait comme une flamme
dans ses yeux ardents, le vieillard lui trouva une physionomie
tragique, un air de douleur résignée, dont la grâce touchante lui alla
au cœur et le remplit de remords.
Pour un peu, il se fût pris pour un assassin en face de sa victime.
Il vint à elle, lui saisit les mains, mais elle ne le laissa pas parler.
— Vous savez… bon ami ?
— Oui, je l’ai retrouvé.
— Vivant ?
— Vivant !
Si le général avait encore douté des sentiments de sa pupille, il
les eût compris à ce moment.
Il la conduisit à un fauteuil, car elle se soutenait avec peine.
Elle dit très bas et vite :
— Parlez ! parlez, bon ami ! Est-il gravement blessé ? où est-il ?
— Il est ici, à Paris. Oui, son état est très grave. Mais… Allons !
allons ! ma petite fille, fit l’excellent homme, en tapotant les cheveux
de Diane qui pleurait sur son épaule, sois forte, que diable !
Comment pourrai-je te dire le reste, si tu…
— Le reste ? Ce n’est pas tout ?
Le général ne répondit pas.
Comme lorsqu’il était ému, il fit un tour dans le salon, les bras
croisés derrière le dos, l’air sombre.
 Enfin, il eut pitié des grands yeux qui renfonçaient leurs larmes
pour l’interroger.
Il revint à la jeune fille, et lui prenant de nouveau les mains, il les
serra avec force.
— Diane, mon enfant, puis-je compter que tu seras plus qu’une
femme courageuse…, que tu auras la fermeté d’un homme ?…
Ses lèvres blanches articulèrent avec peine :
— Oui, bon ami !
— Eh bien ! va mettre un chapeau. Je t’emmène ; nous allons le
voir !
Diane jeta un petit cri qui était presque de joie et retrouva des
forces pour courir à la porte.
— Et maman ? dit-elle en se retournant.
— Je préfère que tu viennes seule d’abord ; ta mère viendra plus
tard… si tu le désires.
L’auto roulait vers un quartier lointain de Paris : Cours-la-Reine,
le long du fleuve tranquille, boulevard Saint-Germain, où Diane
s’étonna de voir des gens à l’air paisible marcher, parler sans émoi,
alors que son cœur, à elle, battait à lui faire mal.
Maintenant la rapide voiture montait la pente du boulevard Saint-
Michel jusqu’à une petite rue que Diane reconnut : la rue du Val-de-
Grâce, avec l’hôpital militaire de face, au fond.
Tandis qu’ils descendaient cette rue, le général, qui n’avait guère
parlé pendant le trajet, dit, avec inquiétude, en regardant les yeux
secs et brillants de sa pupille :
— Tu seras courageuse ? Tu sauras maîtriser tes nerfs ? Je l’ai
vu hier. Je connais son état. Souviens-toi qu’il n’est pas hors de
danger, et qu’une émotion trop violente le tuerait…
Diane baissa la tête sans répondre.
Le général ajouta :
— Ce que nous faisons-là était défendu… Il ne devrait voir
absolument personne !
 Mais, à cause de toi, j’ai insisté auprès du médecin en chef. On
nous permet d’entrer pour dix minutes seulement.
Ils descendirent devant la grille.
Diane se souvint de l’avoir franchie une autre fois au côté de
l’officier, du héros, qui, peut-être à cette minute, agonisait derrière
ces murs.
Déjà un an. Comme ses sentiments pour lui avaient changé !…
Mais non, il lui parut qu’elle l’avait toujours aimé ; elle ne se
souvenait plus de rien de ce qui n’était pas lui.
Appuyée au bras de son tuteur, elle se laissa guider à travers les
couloirs compliqués ; ils arrivèrent enfin devant une salle dont elle
reconnut l’entrée.
C’était celle où Diane avait entrevu le malheureux Jacquet, le
camarade d’Hervé.
Elle croyait comprendre la nature de son mal. Si on l’avait mis
dans cette salle où l’on soignait les maladies de la face, c’est qu’il
était défiguré.
C’était cela que bon ami redoutait pour elle ; pour cela qu’il lui
recommandait du courage ! Ah ! qu’était-ce auprès de la douleur de
le perdre pour toujours !
Qu’il vécût seulement !
Qu’importait la beauté de son visage si son cœur n’avait point
changé !
Mais Hervé n’était pas dans cette salle.
Bon ami alla un peu plus loin. Il s’arrêta devant une petite porte
vitrée recouverte à l’intérieur par un rideau blanc.
Là ils durent parlementer.
M. d’Antivy présenta à l’infirmier une carte d’admission écrite de
la main du major-chef. L’infirmier s’inclina et tourna doucement le
bouton de la porte.
Le général dit à voix basse :
— Veux-tu entrer seule ? Si tu le préfères, je t’attendrai.
 — Peut-il me comprendre ? Me reconnaîtra-t-il ? demanda-t-elle.
— Oui, madame, répondit l’infirmier. Il n’y a que douze jours qu’il
a été trépané ; il ne parle presque pas, mais il reconnaît ; il y voit un
peu. Surtout, ne restez pas longtemps et appelez-moi si quelque
choc n’allait pas.
Diane se tourna vers son tuteur :
— J’entre seule… Voulez-vous m’attendre ?
Le regard qu’elle jeta à son vieil ami était si beau d’espoir, de
tendresse, de pitié, que ce dernier, pourtant bronzé par des mois de
campagne, se détourna soudain vers la petite fenêtre ouvrant sur les
jardins et ne put prendre sur lui de retourner la tête tout le temps que
dura la visite.
Diane s’était glissée sans bruit dans la chambre presque
obscure.
Le lit étroit, tout blanc, faisait tache au fond.
Elle s’en approcha en retenant son souffle.
Le silence l’oppressait et aussi la vue de ce long corps étendu,
dont elle ne voyait que deux mains exsangues, aussi pâles que le
drap, et le bas du visage immobile dont toute la partie élevée
disparaissait sous des linges.
A voir cette immobilité, elle se crut en présence d’un cadavre.
Était-il vraiment mort ?
Le lui avait-on caché jusqu’à ce moment ?
Non… une telle cruauté ! Bon ami n’aurait pas fait cela !
Elle éprouvait le besoin de se rassurer et, n’osant appeler, elle
toucha légèrement la main du blessé.
Il fit un mouvement. Elle respira.
Puis il se tourna un peu, très peu de son côté.
Alors, elle s’aperçut que la moitié seulement de la face était
cachée par le pansement. Sauf dans le haut où le bandage faisait le
tour de la tête et encerclait le front.
 Il fixa sur la jeune fille son œil unique, fixe, qui paraissait sans
pensée…
Cela dura un certain temps… Diane n’osait bouger.
Peu à peu, la fixité du regard se détendit, l’intelligence y reparut
comme un rayon de clarté au-dessus d’une eau trouble et, sans
étonnement, le blessé prononça son nom :
— Diane…
C’était la première fois qu’elle le lui entendait dire. Ce nom — son
nom ! — dans sa bouche, à cette heure, elle le reçut comme l’aveu
du plus brûlant amour…
Des larmes emplirent ses yeux pendant qu’elle parlait tout bas :
— C’est moi, Hervé, vous me reconnaissez ? Je suis venue…
— Diane !
— Je suis venue pour vous guérir et vous consoler… parce
que… je vous aime !
Il ferma cet œil pitoyable où l’on entrevoyait, telles des ombres,
se disputer la mort avec la vie…
Sa pauvre bouche disloquée essaya un sourire. Il pressa
faiblement la petite main qui avait pris la sienne ; elle lui dit
doucement :
— Je vous fatigue… Ne pensez pas !
— Je ne pense pas… Je suis heureux !
Une grosse larme coula le long de sa joue. Il tourna sa tête avec
effort du côté opposé et dit d’une voix lente, embarrassée :
— Diane…, si vous voyiez ! Je n’ai plus… figure humaine !… Je
suis hideux !
— Vous êtes, répondit-elle en se penchant au-dessus du lit, vous
êtes celui qui m’aime… et que j’aime, le fiancé, l’époux que j’ai
choisi !
— Je vous… ferais horreur !
 — Non… Je ne désire qu’une seule chose : c’est que vous viviez,
et que je puisse me dévouer à vous toujours.
Avant qu’elle ait eu le temps de prévoir son mouvement, il avait
écarté le bandage et découvrait une affreuse plaie à peine cicatrisée
partant du front, traversant la paupière droite et descendant sur la
joue, du côté de l’oreille où elle finissait.
— Regardez !
Diane ne tressaillit pas ; elle regarda en face l’horrible cicatrice
rouge, à peine fermée et, sans rien dire, elle se pencha davantage,
elle appuya lentement ses lèvres sur la plaie…
En se relevant, elle répéta, les yeux rayonnants d’amour :
— Je vous aime, Hervé. C’est pour la France que vous avez
souffert. Vous serez toujours, à mes yeux, le plus noble et le plus
beau. Hervé, c’est moi qui vous le demande humblement : m’aimez-
vous ?
— Oui… Diane, je vous aime !
Le silence était très profond dans la petite chambre. Avant d’y
entrer, le général toussa doucement, puis il s’approcha à petits pas.
Il ne savait trop, dans l’obscurité, de quel côté se tourner, quand
la voix de sa pupille dit près de lui :
— Venez, bon ami, que je vous présente mon fiancé.
La guérison miraculeuse du lieutenant de Kéravan fut un
étonnement pour le corps médical qui n’y comptait plus.
Les médecins l’attribuèrent à une nouvelle méthode qu’ils avaient
expérimentée à cette époque. Nous croyons plus simplement que
Diane et Hervé rééditèrent la jolie aventure de l’Amour médecin, ou
que Dieu voulut conserver au monde une noble figure de héros.
On prétend que les Bretons ont la tête dure. Le fait est que le
trépané s’en tira à peu de frais. La balafre qui lui barrait le visage
n’intéressait pas directement l’œil droit. Il put bientôt l’ouvrir et y voir
presque aussi bien que de l’autre. Enfin, la cicatrice elle-même,
traitée par la nouvelle méthode qui fait revivre les tissus, ne servit
bientôt plus qu’à parer son mâle visage et à le marquer d’un
souvenir glorieux.
Il arriva un moment où Diane retrouva complètement la
physionomie grave et douce, le regard profond qu’elle aimait tant.
Trois mois après sa sortie de l’hôpital, le lieutenant de Kéravan et
sa jeune femme partaient pour Vauclair, où ils allaient passer leur
lune de miel et célébrer la Victoire.
Quinze jours plus tard, ils voyaient arriver la marquise de
Trivières, qui déclarait ne plus pouvoir se passer de son gendre,
Mme de Kéravan et sa fidèle Corentine, puis le général d’Antivy et
son neveu Hubert de Louvigny, — le vrai ! — en congé de vingt
jours. Il devait repartir avec les troupes d’occupation.
Ce dernier se jeta avec effusion dans les bras de son ami :
— Ai-je besoin, demanda Hervé, de te présenter à ma femme ?
— Nous nous connaissons déjà, dit Louvigny, mais notre
connaissance date de loin.
— Pas tant que cela, plaisanta la jeune femme. Oubliez-vous,
monsieur, qu’une certaine Rose Perrin vous écrivit une charmante
lettre que vous avez dédaignée ?
— Me le pardonnez-vous, madame ? demanda le jeune homme,
d’un ton malicieux.
Diane rougit, et souriant à son bien-aimé, elle répondit :
— Rose Perrin ne vous le pardonne pas…, mais Diane de
Kéravan vous en remercie.

FIN

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