I, Claudius - Robert Graves [53]
Sulpicius made a gesture of deprecation: "Gentlemen, gentlemen, this is becoming personal."
Livy was already going away. But Pollio grinned at the retreating back and said in a loud voice for his benefit: "A decent fellow, Livy is, but there's one thing wrong with him. It's a disease called Paduanity."
This made Livy stop and rum round. "What's wrong with Padua? I won't hear a word against the place."
Follio explained to me. "It's where he was born, you know. Somewhere in the Northern Provinces. There's a famous hot-spring there, of extraordinary properties. You can always tell a Paduan. By bathing in the water of the spring or drinking it—and I'm told that they do both things simultaneously—Paduans are able to believe whatever they like and believe it so strongly that they can make anyone else believe itThat's how the city has got such a wonderful commercial reputation. The blankets and rugs they make there are really no better than any other sort, in fact rather inferior, because the local sheep are yellow and coarse-fleeced, but to the Paduans they are soft and white as goose-feathers. And they have persuaded the rest of the world that it's so."
I said, playing up to him: "Yellow sheep! That's a rarity. How do they get that colour, sir?"
"Why, by drinking the spring-water. There's sulphur in it. All Paduans are yellow. Look at Livy,"
Livy came slowly towards us. "A joke is a joke, Pollio, and I can take it in good part. But there's also a serious matter in question and that is, the proper writing of history. It may be that I have made mistakes. What historian is free from them? I have not, at least, told deliberate falsehoods: you'll not accuse me of that. Any legendary episode from early historical writings which bears on my theme of the ancient greatness of Rome I gladly incorporate in the story: though it may not be true in factual detail, it is true in spiritIf I come across two versions of the same episode I choose the one nearest my theme, and you won't find me grubbing around Etruscan cemeteries in search of any third account which may flatly contradict both—what good would that do?"
"It would serve the cause of the truth," said Pollio gently. "Wouldn't that be something?"
"And if by serving the cause of truth we admit our revered ancestors to have been cowards, liars and traitors?
What then?"
"I'll leave this boy to answer the question. He's just starting in life. Come on, boy, answer it!"
I said at random: "Livy begins his history by lamenting modern wickedness and promising to trace the gradual decline of ancient virtue as conquests made Rome wealthy.
He says that he will most enjoy writing the early chapters because he will be able, in doing so, to close his eyes to the wickedness of modern times. But in closing his eyes to modern wickedness hasn't he sometimes closed his eyes to ancient wickedness as well?"
"Well?" asked Livy, narrowing his eyes.
"Well," I fumbled. "Perhaps there isn't so much difference really between their wickedness and ours. It may be just a matter of scope and opportunity."
Pollio said: "In fact, boy, the Paduan hasn't made you see his sulphur fleeces as snow-white?"
I was very uncomfortable"I have got more pleasure from reading Livy than from any other author," I repeated.
"Oh, yes," Pollio grinned, "that's just what the old man of Cadiz said. But like the old man of Cadiz you feel a little disillusioned now, eh? Lars Porsena and Scasvola and Brutus and company stick in your throat?"
"It's not disillusion, sir. I see now, though I hadn't considered the matter before, that there are two different ways of writing history: one is to persuade men to virtue and the other is to compel men to truth. The first is Livy's way and the other is yours: and perhaps they are not irreconcilable."
"Why, boy, you're an orator," said Pollio delightedly.
Sulpicius who had been standing on one leg with his foot held in his hand, as his habit was when excited or impatient, and twisting his beard in knots, now summed up: "Yes, Livy will never lack readers. People love being 'persuaded to ancient virtue' by a charming writer, particularly when they are told in the same breath that modern civilization has made such virtue impossible of attainment. But mere truthtellers