University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses

Pastoralism As Archetypal Idea, Concept, And Protest

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Pastoralism As Archetypal Idea, Concept, And Protest

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Xerox University Microfilms 300 North Zeeb Road Ann Arbor, Michigan 48106 { DiPIPPO, Albert Edward, 1927- PASTORALISM AS ARCHETYPAL IDEA, CONCEPT, I AND PROTEST, ! University of Southern California, Ph.D., 1975 | Language and Literature, general I i j j 1 Xerox University Microfilms, Ann Arbor. Michigan 48i os © Copyright by Albert Edward DiPippo 1975 THIS DISSERTATION HAS BEEN MICROFILMED EXACTLY AS RECEIVED. .PASTORALISM AS ARCHETYPAL IDEA, CONCEPT, AND PROTEST by Albert Edward DiPippo A Dissertation Presented to the FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY (Comparative Literature) January 1975 U N IV E R S IT Y O F S O U T H E R N C A L IF O R N IA THE GRADUATE SCHOOL. UNIVERSITY PARK LOS ANGELES. CALIFORNIA 80007 This dissertation, written by ALBERT EDWARD DIEIEEO.............. under the direction of h.is... Dissertation C o m mittee, and approved by a ll its members, has been presented to and accepted by T h e Graduate School, in partial fulfillm ent of requirements of the degree of D O C T O R O F P H I L O S O P H Y Dean TABLE OF CONTENTS Page INTRODUCTION ......................................... 1 Chapter I PASTORALISM: THE ARCHETYPAL SETTING ......... 5 II THE PASTORAL LANDSCAPE..........................32 III PASTORALISM BEFORE AND AFTER THE FALL.........62 IV THE OTHER SIDE OF PARADISE.................... 104 BIBLIOGRAPHY............... 142 APPENDIX...............................................149 ii INTRODUCTION j | i Over the centuries many important authors have I i written works that fall within the pastoral tradition. j i There exists a vast body of commentary, analysis, and crit-! I icism of traditional pastoral literature that extends from the Alexandrian Greeks to the modern European and American critics. Pastorale exhibits a long history of adaptation to changing times and places, and it is probably this char-i acteristic of adaptability that has sustained and augmented the genre through the centuries while maintaining its basic! elements with consistency. The pastoral tradition itself is one element in a far broader pastoral spectrum. While the tradition, gen- ! erally conceded to have been established by Theocritus, has! i been extensively investigated, seldom have commentators I gone far beyond the tradition to its roots and sources. j Pastoral tradition is unquestionably a most significant aspect of the broader "pastoral concept." The concept, in turn, can be examined in.the light of archetypal theory and as such can be more profoundly understood both in itself and according to its historical and psychological implica tions . Pastoralism as archetypal idea requires specifica tion. If it is treated by itself, its sheer breadth makes .1 2 it difficult to manage and control. The archetypal idea exists in the realm of myth and symbol which, "...come from such depths; they are part and parcel of the human being, and it is impossible that they should not be found again in 2 any and every existential situation of man in the Cosmos." As archetypal idea, pastoralism grows from a dim and remote past compounded of myths, dreams, and persistent memories. It shares in the characteristics of all mytho logical symbols which, "...cannot be ordered, invented, or permanently suppressed. They are spontaneous productions of the psyche, and each bears within it, undamaged, the 3 germ power of its source." Historically, pastoralism displays remarkable per sistence. In attempting to comprehend its pre-history, one is driven to the expediency of speculating that perhaps there was a time when men were at peace among themselves and with nature; and there was a later time when the clash between civilization and freedom, town and country, caused to stir within men's veiled consciousness the vague recol lection of a long-forgotten life in a world they thought of as paradise. It is a fact that the myth of a Golden Age mani fests itself historically in many times and places. At the roots of this myth perhaps lies a profound belief in 4 "...the perfection of the beginning of things." 3 Perhaps there is a time in the history of all peoples when each recalls its own individual and group "per fection of the beginning of things.” Perhaps this recol lection is of a time of ancient glory when the people was rising in its youth and vigor to give shape and form to its life. Perhaps each people recalls an ancient vision, be come a dominant mystique, when it was bringing to fulfill ment the possibilities it confronted in a world it hoped to transform. These are some of the constituent elements of man's inchoate recollections or a perfect world, the amorphous and vaguely perceived prototypal image that has often mani fested itself in pastoral forms as the objectifications of, "... the longing for something altogether different from the present instant, something in fact inaccessible or irre- 5 trievably lost: 'Paradise' itself." INTRODUCTION FOOTNOTES A. S. F. Gow, Theocritus (Oxford, 2nd edition, j 2 vols., 1952). A. S. F. Gow, Greek Bucolic Poets (Cam bridge: Cambridge Univ., Press” 1953)” translation with i brief notes. Virgil, Ecologues, Georgies, Aeneid 1-6, i trans. by H. R. Fairclough (Cambridge: Harvard Univ., j Press, London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1932). Brooks | Otis, Virgil (Clarendon Press, 1964). Viktor Poschl, The j Art of Virgil (Ann Arbor: Univ., of Michigan Press, 1962).j William Empson, Some Versions of Pastoral (London: Chatto ; and Windus Ltd., Publishers, 193 8)^ Bruno Snell, "Arcadia:; The Discovery of a Spiritual Landscape," The Discovery of the Mind, Oxford, 1953. Erwin Panofsky, "Et m Arcadia j Ego, " Philosophy and History, Essays Presented to Ernst i Cassirer, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1936). Renato Poggio-j li, "The Oaten Flute," Harvard Library Bulletin, 2, 1957. j Renato Poggioli, "The Pastoral of the Self," Daedalus, Vol.| 88 (Winter, 1959). I 2 ! Mircea Eliade, Images and Symbols, trans. by j Philip Mairet (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1961), p. 25. 3 Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Bollingen Series XVII (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1968; 2nd edition, Princeton/Bollingen Paperback, 1972), p. 4. 4 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1960), p. 40. 5 Mircea Eliade, Images and Symbols, trans. by j Philip Mairet (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1961), p. 17. ; CHAPTER I PASTORALISM: THE ARCHETYPAL SETTING The analysis of events is radicated in man's psy chological drive to discover the most basic causes for his phenomenological experiences. This thrust impels him to seek the unity of multiplicity, or the noumena which under lie phenomena. A significant and instructive example of this quest is afforded by Goethe and his attempts in a pre- Jungian era to apprehend phenomena and to express his dis coveries in strikingly Jungian terms. Concerning his attempt to accommodate both the poetic and the scientific impulse within him, Goethe wrote in 1794, "The conflict which my scientific efforts had brought into my life was as yet by no means resolved; for my dealings with nature began to make claims on all my inner faculties."I His subsequent scientific investiga tions and their synthesis into a series of theories is based on what Goethe calls, "...an Urphanomen, an idea so fundamental to the quality of a group of phenomena that the 2 human mind is ill-advised to penetrate beyond it." Geothe had become preoccupied with Ur-phenomena. In his way of looking at nature, "...always personal, poetic, and 6 anthropomorphic,"® one notes, "...the strategic plan of a man engaged in a campaign for restoring the balance of power between analytical reason and creative imagination."^ The quest for and the purported discovery of the Ur-Gestein, the Ur-Pflanze, and Ur-Poesie testify to the attempted restoration of balance and the poet's, "... imperative need to penetrate to the ultimate origin of things."5 Because of his interest in geology, "He singles out granite and terms it the Ur-Gestein. A s a translator of Macpherson's Ossian, he comes to regard the forgery as, "...part of our oldest poetic heritage. Ur-Poesie to use the German term."7 Friedlander, in his seminal work, Plato, describes a meeting between Goethe and Schiller during which Goethe drew for the benefit of his visitor a symbolic plant. Schiller looked at the drawing and commented, "That is not an experience, that is an Idea."® By "Idea" Schiller apparently meant the expression of a concept that lacked a corresponding sensible counterpart, and Goethe found his comment annoying. "That's a strange business," replied Goethe, "that I have ideas without knowing it, and that 1^ even see them with my own eyes. Goethe's Urpflanze was the expression of a Pla tonic Idea, a plant archetype. Goethe was well aware, as he had written, "...that the eyes of the mind must con- 7 stantly cooperate with the eyes of the body in a living bond, because otherwise there is a danger that we see and still miss seeing."10 His quest for Ur-phenomena may initially seem naive; scientifically it is naive. But the understanding that he sought was an intuitive grasp, "... and what follows is an attempt to recapture the original vision through the power of the Logos. "H Ur, the favored Goethean prefix, expresses, "...an Ur-Erlebnis or primal experience."!2 From an expressive viewpoint Ur may possess the power, "...of being able to conjure up memories and associations to stimulate the imag ination, "11 and to cast over experience the light and dark ness that Goethe calls the Ur-phenomena. Goethe, the poet-scientist, is not far wrong in his attempt to forge a link between science and poetry. His view anticipates that of Camus, who writes, At this final stage you teach me that this won drous and multicolored universe can be reduced... to the electron. All this is good and I wait for you to continue. But you tell me of an invisible planetary system in which electrons gravitate around a nucleus. You explain this world to me with an image. I realize that you have been reduced to poetry: I shall never know.14 And Santayana adds a corollary when he writes: Mind is incorrigibly poetical: not because it is not attentive to material facts and practical 8 exigencies, but because, being intensely atten tive to them, it turns them into pleasure and pains, and into many-coloured ideas.15 Santayana immediately appends the paradox that there is always the possibility, "...for transmuting this poetry into science, because ideas and emotions, being caused by material events, refer to these events and record their order."16 It might be assumed that all science ends in hypo thesis, that there can be many descriptions of parts but no final explanation of the whole, and that the very im possibility of finality argues for the validity of the poetic voice. It is the poets who, "...with hardly an effort...salve from the whirlpool of their own emotions the deepest truths, to which we others have to force our way, ceaselessly groping amid torturing uncertainties. It is within the realm of art that man achieves a significant definition through a liberation of his in stincts . He does this in the play of images and symbols or through "the conscious articulation"^ of the uncon scious. It is art that, "...challenges the prevailing principle of reason: in representing the order of sensu ousness , it invokes a tabooed logic— the logic of gratifi cation as against that of repression."1® The result is a liberation of sensuousness and at the same time a reunifi cation with reason. 9 Many proto-poetic concepts are perceptible as effects and objectifications primarily because they seem to manifest themselves with a historical continuity that is astounding. For example, in the case of pastoralism and its persistence as a mode of poetic expression it might be argued that its importance lies in the fact that it expres ses, "...instincts and impulses deep-rooted in the nature of humanity...(and) plays a distinct part in the history of human thought and...artistic expression."20 The persistence of such objectifications argues for the perduration of their conceptualization and even for their existence on a pre-conceptual level. They are the terms one labels "universal" or "transtemporal" because they seem within man's limited historical perspective to span great stretches of time and space. Human history, bounded firmly by extrinsic time and space, may be charac terized as a continual striving to push aside the veil of intrinsic duration in order to discover the sources of the communia2- * - that man shares with all others of his species. The earth as comforting mother, the child whose wisdom and power confound, the sea as the cauldron of life, the hero seeking eternity and succumbing to time— these are but a few of the signs and images that pervade the literary record of man's brief time on this planet. As Jung expres ses the concepts 10 All the mythologized processes of nature, such as summer and winter, the phases of the moon, the rainy seasons...are in no sense allegories of these objective occurrences; rather they are sym bolic expressions of the inner, unconscious drama of the psyche which becomes accessible to man's consciousness by way of projection— that is, mir rored in the events of nature.22 A significant aspect of "the unconscious drama of the psyche" is expressed in pastoral literature and com prehended by the term "pastoralism." The broad spectrum of pastoralism can be apprehended on three levels or from three distinct viewpoints. Because pastoralism has a his tory, it has a pre-history; this pre-history can be viewed from the aspect of archetypal theory. As archetypal idea, the history of pastoralism provides ample evidence for its continual manifestation and points to the human impulse for integrality of experience expressed most cogently in all literatures. As literary tradition, pastoralism has clearly defined historical parameters. The hypothesis that pastoralism, especially in literature, persists historically as a concept and is embodied in a literary tradition is generally accepted; that it objectifies the pre-conscious content of the minds of those who have dealt with the theme is another way— a Jungian way— of explaining the persistence of pastoralism. Jung's theory of archetypes can be related to the arche typal idea objectified in the concept of pastoralism. The 11 existence and perduration of the archetypal idea may well argue for the pre-existence of the archetype radicated in the collective unconscious. Pastoralism carries with it the possibilities of objectifying profound psychological realities. A signifi cant dimension of pastoralism is that its psychological roots may lie in its opposition to civilization, an approach given form and substance by Freud. If Freud is right, then pastoralism represents man's unconscious oppo sition to civilization as representative of the force that insists upon the repression of instincts. A valid case can be made for this view. The analysis of pastoralism from the viewpoint of its remotest origins to its persistent implications in volves the analysis of causes and effects. A firm hypo thetical basis can be provided for this analysis by employ ing Jung's archetypal theory. From that epis.temological base, the psychological causes and effects of the pastoral phenomenon in history and in literature can be analyzed. The pastoral tradition has been amply analyzed; the sources of that tradition and its implications are now our concern. In order to attempt to throw some light on the possible sources of pastoralism prior to its historical establishment as a literary genre, it seems appropriate to synthesize the basic concepts that govern the formulations 12 of Jung's archetypal theory. Such a synthesis will serve to clarify Jung's terminology and to establish it as the broad conceptual basis upon which the remote sources of pastoralism can be discussed. Any analysis of Jung's theory of archetypes rests initially on a crucial assumption: positively, such an analysis depends on individual, subjective experiences, on intuition, and on subjective perception. Negatively, such an analysis is neither objective, nor scientific, nor empirically verifiable except in the broad sense of offer ing a partial and possible explanation of a wide spectrum of durative human experiences including that characterized by the term pastoralism. Applied to literature, archetypal theory has the advantage of taking every work of literature out of any closed system imposed on it and placing it within the broadest possible context: that of the human condition, "...with its burdens, pitfalls, and problems, with all its essential insecurity, with all the creatural bonds which confine it."23 The task of the critic who would take a work of literature out of a closed system is to take into account the often amorphous and psychologically complex phenomena of the world and to carefully place the literary work within the context of that world. Perhaps a reason able parallel can be drawn between the open-ended critic— 13 and by implication, his criticism— and Auerbach's descrip tion of Montaigne's awakening sense of freedom which was: ...much more exciting, much more of the histori cal moment, directly connected with the feeling of insecurity. The disconcerting abundance of phenomena which now claimed the attention of man seemed overwhelming. The world— both outer world and inner world— seemed immense, boundless, incomprehensible. The need to orient oneself in it seemed hard to satisfy and yet urgent.24 It is this sense of freedom that can motivate the critic not to plow again the old familiar ground of the pastoral tradition, but to attempt to go back in time and space— indeed, to attempt to get outside them— in order to struggle with the fascinating task of Gegen-Konstruktion.25 Thus, instead of remaining inside literature, one attempts to get outside it; and the ultimate outside is fairly represented by the Jungian concept of archetypes. When Jung writes of human consciousness, "It consists of pre existent forms, the archetypes, which can only become con scious secondarily and which give definite form to certain psychic contents,”2® he reiterates a broad range of criti cal literary possibilities. It does not seem inaccurate to say that the word "archetype" has often been used as an amorphous catch-all to signify highly subjective shades of feelings and vague intuitions about the remote past. Among contemporary writers on archetypal theory, the original meanings of 14 Jung have undergone considerable change; "...for the non- Jungian, an archetype may be merely a paradigm, a pattern or outline that accounts for a number of stories."2? In its broadest sense, the notion of archetypes attempts to deal with myths and symbols of both primitive and modern man, "...if not as a superior form of knowl edge, at any rate as the most fundamental form of knowl edge, and the only one that we all have in common."2* * Jung himself is very careful to point out that the notion of archetypes is by no means his exclusive inven tion. Indeed, to anyone familiar with Platonic thought, the notion is already well known. Jung's philosophical predecessors were the Pythagoreans from whom Plato derived his doctrine of ^vauvncns with this basic difference: for the Pythagoreans, recollection had an individual and per sonal basis; for Plato, recollection is essentially imper sonal and in this sense can be closely related to Jung's "collective unconscious" from which the archetype is im mediately derived. For Plato, then, recollection was im personal and transcended personality; it was, "...buried deep in each individual, made up of memories of the time when the soul was directly contemplating the Ideas."^ At this point one confronts the pre-conscious source of perception in Plato and sees an ontological basis for recollection: "...In this Platonic doctrine of Ideas, Greek philosophy renewed and re-valorised the archaic and j the universal myth of a fabulous, pleromatic illud tempus, j which man has to remember if he is to know the truth and participate in Being."^ ! Jung's contribution to the doctrine of recolled- tion is to remove that doctrine from the realm of metaphy- ; sics— i.e., ontology— and set it down within the bounds of psychology. Jung took recollection out of eternity and i placed it in time. For him, too, there is an illud tempus; it is remote beyond imagining and it goes through pre-his- | tory back to the very sources of the human experience on this planet. To follow this Platonic-Jungian distinction j through to its conclusion vis-a-vis the collective uncon scious from which the archetype is directly derived, Plato places 4vayvncris in the world of Ideas, in a contemplative,; perfect world of Ideal Forms that can only be achieved i through vonais. Thus, memory is carried from the world of Ideal Form into time and space as impersonal and inchoate recollection. Such recollection manifests itself during the life of the individual persona as vague longing, as the rare glimpse of a mundus perfectior perceived "through a glass darkly." i Jung's notion of the "perfection of the beginning" is no contemplative world; it is squarely set in this 16 world and the memory of it is carried from the very origins of the species through time into history as the collective unconscious out of which the archetypes are derived. The archetypes correspond to Plato's Ideal Form and to Jung's collective unconscious. In both cases recourse is had to "the perfection of the beginning of things," but with this difference: for Plato a return to the world of Ideal Form is possible for man; for Jung there is no permanent return, only a continuation as recol lection with changes in form. It is in the worlds of both Plato and Jung that the pastoral world is directly radi cated as impersonal, undifferentiated, unindividuated arche type. Jung states that in mythological research the archetypes correspond to motifs; in anthropology these motifs are Levy-Bruhl's representations collectives; in comparative religion they are "categories of the imagina tion."^ But it should be kept in mind that "correspon dence" does not signify "identification." One of the major difficulties in comprehending Jung's term "arche type" seems to consist in determining the precise valence of the sense of the word within a given context. The notion of the archetype, then, rises from that which men possess in common with all other men at various points in time, and one of these common posses- 17 sions is the recollection of a perfect world comprehended by the notion of pastoralism. The history of this myth presents: ...the paradox of being both disjoined from and conjoined with the present. It is disjoined from it because the original ancestors were of a na ture different from contemporary man: they were creators and these are imitators. It is con joined with it because nothing has been going on since the appearance of the ancestors except events whose recurrence periodically effaces their particularity.32 The persistence of the inchoate collective unconscious and of the archetypal ideas derived from it suggest man's, "...obstinate fidelity to a past conceived as a timeless model, rather than as a stage in the historical process. The data expressed by the "timeless model" con stitutes a kind of materia prima common to the human race as pre-conscious psychic residue; from it, the artist selects according to his own inclinations, and renders it "conscious" and perceivable through the creative process in which he objectifies his personal modification of the data from which he works. The impersonal is rendered personal. It should be noted, however, that the myth which embodies the archetype is timeless and universal, not private and personal. As in the case of every myth, so too in the revelation of pastoralism there is the mystery, "...of a primordial event which inaugurated either a constituent 18 structure of reality or a kind of human behaviour.”34 The discovery of the objectifications of the archetypes "...are not to be confused with personally modified symbolic fig ures. Dream is the personalized myth, myth the depersonal ized d r e a m ."35 The dream is modified by the individual traits of the dreamer; "...whereas in the myth the prob lems and solutions shown are directly valid for all man kind."36 Jung's reference to representations collectives is worthy of note because it indicates that in his mind there is a link between the science of anthropology and the theory of archetypes. Both share the necessity of going back in time and space— and ultimately of going outside them— to rediscover and evaluate evidence of man's physical existence on earth and from this evidence to draw reason able conclusions and hypotheses regarding his remote in tellectual and psychic life. The archetype per se is undifferentiated; it "cor responds" to representations collectives; it "means prac tically the same thing."^7 But not quite. Thus, pastoral ism may be concerned with archetypes that have been modi fied in a particular way. As such: They are no longer contents of the unconscious, but have already been changed into conscious formulae taught according to tradition, general ly in the form of esoteric teaching. This last 19 is a typical means of expression for the trans mission of collective contents originally der ived from the unconscious. But in order to be manifested, the archetypes must be ob- j jectified and personalized. ; The historically persistent thrust towards the j continual discovery of the most fundamental form of knowl- j edge, and "the only one we all have in common," expresses | itself in myths, rituals, dreams, and in the arts. This fundamental commonality might help to explain the persis tence of interest in and concern with fundamental concepts ! that are outside the immediate cultural purview of twenti eth century man, but are an unconscious element of his I pyschic burden that prompts him to objectify and stamp withj his persona the inchoate data of the collective unconscious; insofar as he participates in it. , Following Jung's lead, then, it is possible to i accept the hypothesis that man participates in a collec tive unconscious that he shares with the entire human race ; and is manifested in myth, ritual, and poetry, and is ob- j jectified by certain patterns that we call archetypal ideas. The archetype itself is, "...essentially an unconscious content that is altered by becoming conscous and by being perceived, and it takes its colour from the individual con sciousness in which it happens to appear. "39 Thus, from archetype Jung, moves one step further towards objecti fica- 20 tion by postulating the archetypal idea. The archetype can be distinguished rationally from the archetypal idea in that the former "...is a hypotheti cal and irrepresentable model,"40 derived from the col lective unconscious; the latter designates the archetype as rendered conscious and potentially objectifiable though, "...not yet submitted to conscious elaboration."41 In elaborating his concept of the collective un conscious, Jung makes the distinction, already briefly mentioned, between immediate consciousness and what he calls "...a second psychic system of a collective, univer sal, and impersonal n a t u r e . " 4 2 This nature, Jung hypothe sizes, is the same in all individuals; it does not develop individually but is possessed by all individuals "by in heritance." Jung writes of it, "It consists of pre-exis tent forms, the archetypes, which can only become conscious secondarily and which give definite form to certain psychic contents."43 For purposes of clarification, an analogy can be drawn between the notion of "collective unconscious” and the "substance" of classical philosophy; between "immedi ate consciousness" and "accident" thus: collective unconscious : substance immediate consciousness: accident Collective unconscious signifies the substratum of con 21 sciousness which perdures through time and space as a per sistent/ universal, and unapprehended determinant that is objectified, individuated, and limited by the process of definition in the immediate consciousness of the persona. As substance, the collective unconscious connotes a mode of being that subsists; as substance it also supports the determinations of the subject, or accident, which, con scious of itself, is individuated according to the data of immediate consciousness. Collective unconscious is immediately projected to archetype, "...which is an indispensable correlate of the idea of the collective unconscious."44 The two prime elements that establish the epistemological framework for Jung's archetypal hypotheses are "collective unconscious" and "archetype." It should be kept in mind that an arche type is not an image. Rather, it is, "...psychic energy spontaneously condensing the results of organic and ancestral experiences into images," and as such can be regarded, "...as the paradigm of a series of i m a g e s . " 4 5 Jung makes it clear that the archetype itself, "...is purely formal, nothing but a facultas praeformandi, a pos sibility of representation which is given a priori. "46 In passing, cognizance should be briefly taken of Jung's use of the term "primordial image," which is, "... determined as to its content only when it has become con 22 scious and is therefore filled out with the material of conscious experience."47 jn their objectification through the creative processes, "Primordial images are spoken be fore they are thought, felt vicariously before they are experienced in life. They elicit the peculiarly lyrical A O emotion of possible experience." ° Chardin shares Jung's hypothesis regarding the collective unconscious to the extent that he describes the growth of consciousness in man which became through dura tion the substantial form of the collective unconscious in this way: The human individual does not exhaust in himself the vital potentialities of his race. But fol lowing each strand known to anthropology and sociology, we meet with a stream whereby a con tinuing and transmissible tradition of reflection is established and allowed to increase. So from individual men there springs the human reality; from human phylogenesis the human stems.49 There is a close parallel between this idea of Chardin's and that of Bachelard, whose notion of "the essential mobility of concepts" strongly suggests that archetypes are not static entities, but exist within time and space, sequence, and causality in a continual state of becoming while being. In this sense, images are, "... 1 lived, 'experienced,' 1 re-imagined1 in an act of con sciousness which restores at once their timelessness and their newness."59 Finally, of pastoralism as it manifests itself in i the form of an archetypal idea, concept, or pattern, it 1 i can be reasonably inferred that it corresponds to specific I ancient and recurrent literary concepts, the patterns of j which, "...viewed psychologically, may be described as j j organizations of emotional tendencies, determined partly : I through distinctive experience of the race or community I within whose history the theme has arisen."^ In Jungian terms, then, the ultimate source of pastoralism is the hypothetical collective and totally im- ! personal unconscious which Jung has postulated as the epistemological basis for the subsequent development of archetypal theory. The archetype itself, which can be conceived as an intermediate stage between undetermined | i collective unconscious and the conscious archetypal idea, 1 is the pastoral notion as yet pre-conscious but in potency to consciousness. It can be concluded tentatively that pastoralism as archetypal idea is present and conscious because the ;idea of a perfect life in a perfect world endowed with j ;"the perfection of the beginning of things," despite its widely varied cultural manifestations, displays an essen- i tial commonality which will shortly be demonstrated. The notion of pastoralism, thus, is that of the archetypal idea conceptualized immediately prior to its individuation j 24 ! I through creative process and into literary product. ; ! I From archetypal idea to literary product a pro cess takes place that is necessarily complex and only par- i tially understood. Maritain describes the process as demanding that the creator, "...descend to the roots of being, to an unknown that no idea can circumscribe. 'For I_ j is an other,' said Rimbaud, and could one better define that engulfment in the inhabited subject which is poetic knowledge? It is on this level, the level of "an unknown... no idea can circumscribe," that one confronts the arche type in terms of the collective unconscious stamped and signed with the impersonal, pre-conscious collective experiences of the race and awaiting conceptual objecti fication as archetypal idea. From collective unconscious to literary product there is a further bifurcation since the process can be regarded in two ways: "...as recurring themes or image sequences...and as configurations of forces or tendencies within the responding mind."53 Eliade describes this process in words that are j strongly reminiscent of Jung's and at the same time carry with them obvious pastoral overtones. He notes that: | When a historically conditioned being...allows | himself to be invaded by the non-historical part j of himself Often he is re-entering, by means i of the images and symbols that come into play, a { paradisiac stage of primordial humanity (whatever j 25 its concrete existence may then have been; for this 'primordial man' is admittedly an archetype never fully 'realisable' in any human existence at all). In escaping from his historicity, man... recovers the language, and sometimes the experience, I of a 'lost paradise.'*4 It would seem that man escapes "from his histori city" most definitively when as creator he gives full reign i to his phantasy or imagination. It may be claimed for imagination that it retains the structure of the psyche ; prior to the organization of that structure by reality, and : prior to its individuation. Marcuse, for example, claims for the imagination that it, "...preserves the 'memory' of the subhistorical past."55 From this premise it follows i that imagination operates outside history, hence, outside the order of repression imposed by homo historicus. Imag ination operates as a principle of unification in that, "...it envisions the reconciliation of the individual with I the whole, of desire with realization, or happiness with reason, because it is the artist's imagination that shapes, "...the 'unconscious memory' of the liberation that failed."5^ | | Pastoralism is a manifestation within history of man's struggle to break the bonds of the order of repres- i sion concretized and imposed on him by civilization. The pastoral vision embodies a world that is the idealization of a return to a world conceived of as "the perfection of 26 the beginning of things." For example, when the great poet recollects from the depths of his psyche that earliest of times and gives it voice: ...it is not his individual sensibility alone that he objectifies. Responding with unusual sen sitiveness to the words and images which already express the emotional experience of the communi ty, the poet arranges these so as to utilize to the full their evocative power. Thus he attains for himself vision and possession of the experience engendered between his own soul and the life around him, and communicates that experience, at once individual and collective, to others, so far as they can respond adequately to the words and images he uses.58 It can be concluded hypothetically that the most remote source of pastoralism lies in the primal element of the undetermined, impersonal, collective unconscious. The notion of archetype can be conceived as an intermediate stage between the indeterminacy of the collective uncon scious and the determined, conscious archetypal idea of a condition of human perfection reflected in man's concept of his beginnings. The notion of pastoralism as archetypal idea brings us back to the sources of man's consciousness of himself and points to his strongly felt and continually expressed sense of, "the perfection of the beginning of things." CHAPTER I FOOTNOTES ^Erich Heller, The Disinherited Mind (London: Bowes and Bowes, 1970) , p. fTI 3Ibid., p. 22. 3 Richard Friedenthal, Goeth: His kife an<^ Times (Cleveland and New York: The World Publishing Company, 1965), p. 234. ^Erich Heller, The Disinherited Mind (London: Bowes and Bowes, 1970), p. 20. 5 Richard Friedenthal, Goeth: His Life and Times (Cleveland and New York: The World Publishing Company, 1965), p. 234. 6Ibid., p. 234. 7Ibid., p. 75. | 8 i Paul Friedlander, Plato, trans. by Hans Meyerhoff,j Bollingen Series LIX (New York: Pantheon Books Inc., 1958), p. 21. 9 Ibid., p. 21. ^ Ibid. , p. 21. 11Ibid., p. 21. ^Richard Friedenthal, Goeth: His Life and Times | (Cleveland and New York: The World Publishing Company, j 1965), p. 400. ! i 13Ibid., p. 400. 14 Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus, trans. by Justin O'Brien (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1955), p. 19. "^George Santayana, Some Turns of Thought in Modern Philosophy (Freeport, N.Y. : Books for Libraries Press, Inc., 1933), 1967 reprinted, pp. 22-23. 28 ^Ibid. , p. 23. ! 17 I Sigmund Freud, Civilization and its Discontents, j trans. by Joan Riviere (London: The Hogarth Press Ltd., and The Institute or Psycho-Analysis, 1953), p. 122. j 18 Norman 0. Brown, Life Against Death (Middletown, j Connecticut: Wesleyan Univ., Press, 1959), p. 64. j 19 I Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization (Boston: Beacon Press, 1966), p. 185. ! 20 W. W. Greg, "Pastoral: A Literary Inquiry," fromj Pastoral Poetry and Pastoral Drama, 1905 reprinted by per mission o£ Sidgwack and Jackson Ltd., from Pastoral and Romance, ed. by Eleanor Terry Lincoln (Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: Prentice-Hall Inc., 1969), p. 8. 21 Horace, Ars Poetica, line 128. 22 Carl G. Jung, "Archetypes of the Collective Un conscious," The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, ; trans. by R. f! c! Hull (Princeton: Princeton Univ. , ! Press, 1968; 2nd edition, Vol. 9, one of the collected works of C. G. Jung, Bollingen Series XX), p. 6. 23 Erich Auerbach, "L'Humaine Condition," Mimesis, j trans. by Willard R. Trask (Garden City, New York! Double-i day and Company, Inc., 1957), p. 272 24Ibid., pp. 272-273. 25 Erwin Panofsky, "Et in Arcadia Ego," from Philo- j sophy and History, Essays Presented to Ernst Cassirer, reprinted by permission of the Clarendon Press, Oxford from Pastoral and Romance, ed. by Eleanor Terry Lincoln (Engle- wood Cliffs, New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1969), p. 27.1 26 Carl G. Jung, "The Concept of the Collective Un- ! conscious," The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, trans. by R. W. c! Hull (Princeton: Princeton Univ., Press, 1968), p. 43. 27 David J. Burrows, Frederick R. Lapides, and John T. Shawcross eds., Myths and Motifs in Literature (New York: The Free Press, 1973), p. 2! 28 Claude Levi-Strauss, Tristes Tropiques, trans. by John Russell (Criterion Books) , p! T ~ . 29 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York!Harper and Brothers Publishers. 1960), p. 52. | 3QIbid., p. 52. j I 31Carl G. Jung, Cf. "The Concept of the Collectivej Unconscious," The Archetypes and the Collective Uncon- :scious, trans. by R. F. C. Hull (Princeton: Princeton Univ., Press, 1968), pp. 42-43. ^ O Claude Levi-Strauss, The Savage Mind, English ' trans. by George Weidenfeld and Nicolson, Ltd., London | (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1966), p. 236. 33Ibid., p. 236. 34 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New Yorkl Harper and Brothers Publishers* 1960), p. 16. 35 Joseph Campbell, The Hero With a Thousand Faces, Bollingen Series XVII (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1968; 2nd edition, Princeton/Bollingen Paperback, 1972), pp. 18-19. 36Ibid., p. 19. 37 Carl G. Jung, "Archetypes of the Collective Un conscious ," The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, by R, F. 1968), p C. Hull 5. 38T, Ibid. p. 5. 39 Ibid. p. 5. 40Ibid. p. 5, 41Ibid. p. 5. 42TU., Ibid. p. 43. 43T, . , Ibid. p. 43. 44tU. , Ibid. p. 42. Gaston Bachelard, On Poetic Imagination and Reverie, translated, with an introduction by Colette Gaudinj (Indianapolis and New York: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, j Inc., 1971), p. xvi (Intro.) ! 4 6 ' Carl G. Jung, "Psychological Aspects of the Mother Archetype," The Archetypes and the Collective Un- j conscious, trans. by R.F.C. Hull (Princeton: Princeton Univ., Press, 1968),p . 79. j ^7Ibid., p. 79. I 48 Gaston Bachelard, On Poetic Imagination and Reverie, translated, with an introduction by Colette Gaudin (Indianapolis and New York: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, j Inc., 1971), p. xix (Intro*) 49 Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S.J., The Phenomenon of Man, trans. by Bernard Wall (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1959), p. 178. 50 Gaston Bachelard, On Poetic Imagination and Reverie, translated, with an introduction by Colette Gaudin; (Indianapolis and New York: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc., 1971), p. xix (Intro.) j ^Maude Bodkin, Archetypal Patterns in Poetry (Lon-; don: Oxford Univ. , Press’ ^ 1963; first publication 1934) , pp. 314-315. 52 Jacques and Raissa Maritain, "Concerning Poetic j Knowledge," The Situation of Poetry, trans. by Marshall j Suther (New York: Philosophical Library, 1955), p. 53. j e q Maude Bodkin, Archetypal Patterns in Poetry (Lon-j don: Oxford Univ., Press, 1963; first publication 1934) , p. 70. i 54 1 Mircea Eliade, Images and Symbols, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1961), p. 13. ^Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization (Boston: Beacon Press, 1966), p. 142. 56Ibid., p. 143. 57Ibid., p. 144. 31 c q Maude Bodkin, Archetypal Patterns in Poetry (Lon don: Oxford Univ. , Press', 1963; first publication 1934) , p. 8. CHAPTER II ! I I i i THE PASTORAL LANDSCAPE I I In order to discuss what might be called the psy- j chology of pastoralism, or pastoralism as an objectifica tion of it might be well to go back to its specula- ; tive beginnings for a proper comprehension of the concept. The classification of sensible-become-intellective data is : a necessary function of the mind. The process of classifi-' cation is necessarily reductionist and selective; it delib-; erately rejects most perceived data because the data- handling capacity of the human intellect is severely limit-| ed. Thus, for example, to be insane in some instances con-j sists in the possession of a mind whose classification pro-! cesses are aberrant either in having to deal with too much j i data which it cannot process or in dealing with so little j data that concentration/attention becomes inverted and iso-j lated. Campbell takes cognizance of the human perceptual j problem when he notes: ! ! The apprehension of the source of this undiffer entiated yet everywhere particularized substratum of being is rendered frustrate by the very organs through which the apprehension must be accomplish ed. The forms of sensibility and the categories of human thought, which are themselves manifesta tions of this power, so confine the mind that it 33 is normally impossible not only to see, but even to conceive, beyond the colorful, fluid, infinitely various and bewildering phenomenal spectacle.1 Campbell sees as the only way out of this dilemma recourse to myth and ritual, which make possible the leap 2 past sensible data "by analogy." Varxous hxstorxcal per iods— whatever their validity in the divisions of literary customs and trends— can be said analogically to approach either end of the data-classification spectrum. For ex ample, neo-classicism moves in the direction of data-isola- tion; romanticism in the direction of data-superfluity. But in all circumstances and in whatever applications, there exists the psychological necessity to classify and thus reduce the data of experience in order to render it cognitive. Pastoralism exists as a doctrine— fayos— or process of classification applicable to pre-history, if one accepts the Jungian foundation of the concept of archetypal ideas, and to culture and literature, if one traces the formula tion of the pastoral tradition out of a pre-existent psy chological context. This mode of classification is further justified historically in the continuum that reaches out from the pre-history of nomadic tribes and societies. The Jews, for example, sought and found in their wanderings a "promised land." The invasions of the Hyksos, 34 the Germanic migrations, the Islamic and Mongolian incur sions were all fueled by the hope, sometimes realized, of discovering a new world. If one examines the conceptual framework within which the discovery of the New World by the Spaniards and the Portuguese and their successors took place, he begins to confront the incredible impetus to the extant idea of man living as an integral— hence, peaceful— element of cyclic nature that these discoveries catalyzed. The "new world" as symbol— and as conceived real ity— was an idyllic world, a peaceful kingdom, an unspoil ed, unexploited, free world in which man himself could fully confront his potentialities for living the fullness of life. The idea and the reality are paradoxical in the sense that the quest for a world marked by this pristine freshness left the discoverers with a profound sense of re-discovery, of having found what they somehow already knew within themselves ought to exist or had existed. What is new forms a firm link with what is conceived as pre existent, and the source of the concept takes its origin from a kind of subconscious materia prima awaiting the discovery of a new world for its objectification. This thrust: ...expresses the nostalgia for a mythicized past transformed into an archetype and...this 'past' signifies not only regrets for a vanished time but...all that might have been but was not, the 35 sadness of all existence, which ^is only by ceasing to be something else.3 The discovery of the new worlds of Central and South America, then of North America, did not signify the discoveries of utopias except in this sense: ideas already prevalent among Europeans, derived from idealized and myth ologized accounts of such lands as fabled Cathay and the kingdom of Prester John, were projected onto the New World. These projections do not represent objective assessments of the New World, but highly idealized, sublimated versions of what the European discoverers wanted to see rather than what in fact they saw. Typical, for example, was Columbus who: ...suffered from a nostalgia...for the earthly Paradise? he had sought it everywhere and he be lieved he had found it during his third voyage. Mythical geography still obsessed the man who had just opened up the way to so many real discover ies. Good Christian as he was, Columbus felt him self to be, essentially, constituted by the his tory of his ancestors. if he believed, to the end of his days, that Haiti was the Biblical Ophir, this was because, to him, this world could be no other than the exemplary world whose his tory was written in the Bible.^ Confronted with the harsher realities of the New World, even then there existed a reluctance to part with the preconceived, precious, idealized world and to treat it realistically. In fact, there was a psychologico-intel- lectual necessity to preserve the preconceived reality: 36 "Geographic 'reality1 might give the lie to that paradisiac landscape...but...each one saw only the image he had 5 brought with him." In new worlds, nature was grander and the men who lived there were unspoiled, uncorrupted, and truly noble; in fact, however, the inhabitants of these worlds were as corrupted by their civilizations as were the Europeans who regarded them often with wonder, and sometimes with envy. For example, many of the inhabitants of the New World lived on a level of brute survival within cultures that were ex tremely rudimentary. These cultures were survival-oriented. They depended on hunting and gathering; if they developed, they evolved into societies marked by rigid hierarchical structures of rulers, warriors, artisans, merchants, work ers, and slaves; e.g., the Mayans and the Incas. Yet there was an apparent surface simplicity to the tribal life of many of the inhabitants of the New World that the discover ers from the Old World found enchanting and idyllic. The New World was naturally abundant and naturally productive to a degree inconceivable to most Europeans; for instance, it abounded in minerals such as gold, silver, and copper, in land for crops, in sheer space and innumer able strange people— and all this seemed just waiting to be dominated. The discoverers from the Old World saw unlimit ed possibilities both for exploitation and for living the 37 good life. It should be further noted that those who spearheaded the exploration movement were realists, but they were confronted with an inchoate vastness they could not possibly comprehend. To render it comprehensible, they had to set about Europeanizing it, and that meant conquest, the imposition of rigid social mores, suppression, enslave ment, and the unrestrained exploitation of natural and human resources. It also meant Christianizing the New World, for Christianity was a principle of order in the Old World. The significance of this exemplum finds a direct application to the concept— and practice— of pastoralism. In dealing with the events already described concerning the discovery of the New World, one is confronted with the necessity of reducing to an order that data which is so vast and amorphous that it must be subjected to selection and classification in order to be rendered comprehensible. Classification is necessarily reductionist. Thus, there exists a historical process of classification that is the extension in time of the human psychological necessity to order and render understandable by reducing data to the point where it can be controlled. This psychologico-his- torical parallel lies at the very roots of the pastoral concept. Pastoralism as a human doctrine basically reduces the actual and potential chaos and disorder of life as it is lived to the order and comprehensibility of a world that is balanced, circumscribed, and ultimately idealized. Pas toralism represents the world conceived as it ought to be and human life conceived as it ought to be lived. Because pastoralism is essentially reductionist in its thrust,, it is not perfectly distinct from the world and from life as it is lived. Rather, it selects those elements that seem to embody the ideal, the good life, in a world that is rendered good. There is, in the broad aspect of pastoral ism, the paradox of a world both circumscribed arbitrarily and at the same time capable of fulfilling the noblest aspirations of the human race. The movement of pastoralism, then, is established in the psychology of human cognition that is essentially reducible to the imposition of the same reductionist mode on history and civilization. Its existence and duration argue for the pre-existence of an archetype radicated in the collective unconscious. The archetypal idea exists as potency, awaiting a creator to summon it to act; great works of art, "...originate at the level of unconscious existence— because they are collective, in the first case, and although they are individual, in the second. Poetic creation carries with it the implication that it exists outside time and because it is transtempor 39 al, "...tends towards the recovery of the paradisiac, pri mordial situation of the days when one could create spon taneously, when the past did not exist because there was no 7 consciousness of time, no memory of temporal duration." The pastoral concept comes to man out of the arche type through the poet's work. Individuated by him, the pastoral concept is objectified in terms the underlying significance of which transcend time and space to reveal the collective unconscious that constitutes the substratum of human experience. It should be remarked, moreover, that: The forms we use for assigning meaning are histor ical categories that reach back into the mists of time— a fact we do not take sufficiently into ac count. Interpretations make use of certain lin- * guistic matrices that are themselves derived from primordial images. From whatever side we approach this question we find ourselves confronted with the history of language, with images and motifs that lead straight back to the primitive wonder- world. 8 Pastoralism as archetypal idea subsumes both the pastoral concept and the pastoral tradition. Further, the pastoral concept is much more inclusive than the tradition, and the pastoral tradition represents a formalization and limitation of the possibilities inherent in the concept, though certainly not an all-inclusive one. To say "pastoral" is to immediately name the world 40 of the shepherd and his flocks. The word "pastoral" devel ops etymologically from the Sanskrit root £a meaning "food" or "nourishment"; thus, go-pas means "herdsman." The Latin verb form is pasco, pavi, pastum (Greek: TrotTeoyou), mean ing "to cause to eat, to feed, pasture." The Latin noun, is derived from the verb; thus, pastor (paastor)-oris, m., denotes a herdsman or a shepherd (syn. opilio). Lewis and Short cite two examples of the use of the noun: 1) Cato, R. R. 141.3, "Mars pater...pastores pecuaeque salva ser- g vassis"; 2) Caes., B.C. I, 24, "...servos pastores armat." "Pastoral," then, signifies whatever is denoted as appropriate to herdsmen or shepherds; its connotation ex tends itself to whatever pertains to shepherds, pastoral, or bucolic. Bucolicus, the Latin adjectival equivalent of 0ov) koAi kos , is used in its neuter plural form to signify those poems of Virgil.1 s that are written on pastoral themes; thus, ia 0ooKolvKa (Lat. Boucolica, -orum, n.). Lewis and Short cite Columella's use of the term: Bucolj- c6n poema (0ouKoXi<bv Troinya) to signify Virgil's pastoral poetry. As a general and specific literary genre, pastoral may be thus described: Si le genre pastoral englobe toutes sortes d'oeuvres d'inspiration champetre (eglogues, bergeries, pas- tourelles, etc.) la pastorale est proprement une 41 composition de longue haleine (polrae, roman, oeuvre dramatique), ayant pour sujet les amours de bergers et bergeres. The pastoral world of Arcadia, and thus that of traditional pastoral, ...may be identified with the early period before the birth of Jupiter,...a country located not so much in central Greece as in some Utopian space, is a result of the work of Polybius, Ovid, and Virgil. There are many sources in antiquity for the theme: it was especially popular among the Stoics, and it was congenial to Stoic thought because it explained the Law of Nature as a sur vival from the Golden Age.H The conceptual and symbolic contexts evoked by pastoralism are, however, much broader than sheep, shep herds, and those literary conventions and traditions asso ciated with them in Greek, Roman, and Renaissance litera tures. There seems to be a tendency to confine considera tions of pastoralism's remote past to a mythic era with which men feel a vague kinship, but which still remains largely outside the familiar range of intellect and imagin ation. In order to apprehend the concept men rely on a kind of anthropological mode of thought, a vague chthonic intuition. But pastoralism, strange as the artificialities associated with it may seem to the modern mind, is based solidly on fact, and fact not so ancient at that, if one recalls what has already been said concerning the discovery 42 of the New World. It is still difficult to realize how profound were the shock-waves sent through Western civil ization by those discoveries. Levi-Strauss captures some of its implications: The Garden of Eden was found to be true...likewise the ancients' Golden Age, the Fountain of Youth, Atlantis, the Gardens of the Hesperides, the pas toral poems, and the Fortunate Islands... the spec tacle of a humanity both purer and happier than our own...made the European skeptical of the exist ing notions of revelation, salvation, morality, and law. Never had the human race been faced with such a terrible ordeal; nor will one such ever re cur unless there should one day be revealed to us another earth, many millions of miles distant, with thinking beings upon it.12 Careful consideration of this event lifts pastoral ism out of the realm of the speculative, out of the aes thetic realm, and posits it solidly within the confines of recent history. And it is well documented: To recall the essential records: we know that ...the journals of travelers in the newly-discover ed countries were read and appreciated for a very special reason: that they described a blissful humanity, which had escaped the misdeeds of civil ization. . .From Pietro Martire to Jean de Lery to Lofitau, the travelers and learned men outdid one another in praising the goodness, the purity and the happiness of savage peoples. Pietro Martire, in his Decades de Orbe Novo... evokes the age of gold, and embellishes Christian ideology about God and the earthly Paradise with classical rem iniscences; he compares the condition of the savages with the realm of beatitude sung by Virgil— the saturnia regna.13 43 The events described proffer a post factum proof of the existence of a pastoral world that is not nowhere; the discovery of the New World obliterated Utopia as an unreal izable, theoretical, fantastic dream. When one speaks of pastoral as archetypal idea, when he describes it as con cept, he is not talking about an unknown or unknowable event. He is attempting to discover the remote past by following the indications of the recent past. Within the concept of pastoralism are included both the pastoral life and the pastoral world, pastoral peoples and pastoral landscapes. Pastoral meanings are attached to the archetypal ideas of the pilgrimage and the return home, the journey back to the countryside, and the return to the paradise that has been lost or previously rejected. Conno- tatively, the pastoral concept includes the world of nature, all natural things, and their significances in the life of man; it is not restricted to nature's benefits to man, but extends itself to the content of the nature concept in the mind and history of man. As such it includes such general izations as the inevitability of the seasons— one of the basic monomyths— and their rhythms, the death-resurrection cycle, the abundance of nature and nature's power to over whelm, balance in nature reflected in man, peace and soli tude, storms and crowds, cities and countrysides, and the myriad symbols attached to each. 44 The pastoral concept includes the archetypal syzy- gies already suggested along with those of male and female, mother and father, light and darkness, heaven and hell. The "pastor" wanders into the world of the "farmer." The farmer's world is stable, settled, and cultivated. The world of the shepherd is changing, mutable, uncultivated. As Hallett Smith points out in his discussion on the origins of the Elizabethan pastoral, the distinction between farmer and shepherd occurs as early as Genesis and has been commented on by Bacon: We see...an image of the two estates, the contem plative state and the active state, figured in the two persons of Abel and Cain, and in the two simplest and most primitive trades of life: that of the shepherd, (who by reason of his leisure, rest in a place, and living in view of heaven, is a lively image of a contemplative life,) and that of the husbandman: where we see again the favour and election of God went to the shepherd, and not to the tiller of the ground.14 It is interesting to note in passing that one of the marks of the prelapsarian world is the lack of any need to culti vate the soil, cultivation being a vestige of an original sin. In Genesis 3:17-19 we read; ...cursed is the earth in thy work; with labor and toil shalt thou eat thereof all the days of thy life. Thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herbs of the earth. In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till thou return to the earth out of which thou wast taken. 45 Exegesis indicates that, "The passage may reflect the con- j i ditions of two types of life: that of the sedentary farm- j er...and that of the seminomad... the emphasis is on the 15 former." Nature is profoundly involved in the salvation- al history of man. And just as the pastoral concept car-J ries within it a sometimes latent, sometimes expressed pre-! I lapsarianism, so Virgil too promises a time when it will no! longer be necessary, ...telluri infindere sulcos...non 17 rastos patietur humus, non vinea falcem. Within the broad spectrum of pastoralism fall the various terrains associated with the concept. First, the extensive symbolic significance of the soil itself must be remarked. Levi-Strauss, in dealing with The Savage Mind, examines this reverence for the soil in a number of "primi- J tive" societies and synthesizes the notion: Now, this passionate love of the soil is primarily accounted for historically: Mountains and creeks and springs and water-holes are to him (the native) not merely the handiwork of ancestors from whom he himself has descended. He sees recorded in the surrounding landscape the ancient story of the lives and deeds of the immortal beings whom he reveres; beings, who for a brief space may take on human shape once more; beings, many of whom he has known in his own experience as his fathers and grandfathers and brothers, and as his mothers and sisters. The whole countryside is his liv ing, age-old family tree. The story of his own doings at the beginning of time, at the dim dawn of life, when the world as he knows it now was being shaped and moulded by all-'powerful hands. 46 Next, the immense generative powers of the earth and of nature that are seasonally unleashed must be taken into account as an integral element in the pastoral land- I i scape. It must be kept in mind that no matter how peaceful! the pastoral scene, just barely beneath the surface are gathered all the benign and malign forces of nature that are always in potency to breaking forth to create or to destroy. The benign force of nature is powerfully express ed in the opening imagery of Lucretius' De Rerum Natura: ...since through thee every kind of living things is conceived, rises up and beholds the light of the sun. Before thee, goddess, flee the winds, the clouds of heaven; before thee and thy advent; for thee earth manifold in works puts forth sweet smelling flowers; for thee the levels of the sea do laugh and heaven propitiated shines with out spread light. For soon as the vernal aspect of day is disclosed, and the birth-favouring breeze of Favonius unbarred is blowing fresh, first the fowls of the air, 0 lady, show signs of thee and thy entering in, throughly smitten in heart by thy power.19 Lucretius is preeminently the poet of creation. He is also a realist not given to gross exaggeration: "...the I ] freshness and vividness of his painting point rather to his! 20 own observation." "...Venus in the first part of the proem really stands for the creative power of nature, re- 21 suiting from the passion of love." The symphonic opening of the poem resounds in full diapason, not to idealize an essentially chaotic world on which man must struggle to i 47 i impose a meaning, but to celebrate the sheer force of life personified in Aeneadum genetrix, hominum divumque voluptas/j 22 alma Venus. It might be added that, for Lucretius, "Man...is of the same stuff as earth and stars. Genius is i a scintillation of the body. Lucretius* very hexameter... might be defined...as a 'material emanation of the concrete; 23 mystery, matter.'" The pastoral landscape is not necessarily that of summer: calm, peaceful, and benign (an apt description of the landscape of pastoral tradition). It may blast forth, as in Lucretius' proem, with a vernal, almost Dionysian force to describe nature renewing itself. The pastoral landscape, as pastoralism itself, has many faces. The pastoral concept also includes the ideal life as it is conceived in various cultures at various times. Today this life might be objectified in the life of the Amish or in the united labors of a free commune which de liberately rejects many of the amenities of twentieth century technology in order to live a basic life "close to j nature." Among some of the Amazon tribes, to cite another j example, "The ideal life is seen in terms of hunting and farming: the possession of great quantities of manioc and 24 game...is a dream continually cherished." How sacred is the land, the land. A profound sense of its worth runs through the pastoral concept; this sense is not so much literary, though it is expressed in literary] ! terms, as it is deeply human, and carries with it a pro- j found historical, political, and sociological significance.] Moses crosses the desert leading his people on a prodigious journey to a pastoral paradise, the land "flow- > ing with milk and honey." In our own time, Ghandi's pre scription for the ills of India is formulated in pastoral terms: live in the villages (i.e., in the pastoral land scape) ; direct your personal endeavors within the rural community to weaving, herding sheep and cattle, farming. Life in the village means individual and national salva tion. It must not be forgotten, too, that the pastoral I world is a salvational world. The geography of the pas- ( toral world varies from culture to culture. Every liter ary concordance resounds with topographies of mountain and plain, desert and oasis, ocean and island. The broad cleavage that Horace delightfully draws between town and country in Satires II, VI, plays lightly over an often- ; serious theme included within the pastoral concept (and ! extending itself to the pastoral tradition): the corrup tion of the city and the salvational power of the country, or the works of man versus those of nature, or even art versus nature. Horace begins his satire with a prayer that projects the universal desire of mankind for the simple life, whether or not men themselves are always con scious of the desire; This is what I prayed for!— a piece of land not so very large, where there would be a garden, and near the house a spring of ever-flowing water, and up above these a bit of woodland. More and better than this have the gods done for me. I am content. Nothing more do I ask, O son of Maia, save that thou make these blessings last my life l o n g . 25 Men journey from country village to city and lose their souls, but the pastoral setting, even when it is tem porary, provides a balm and a refuge. Richard, commenting on Julien Sorel, writes: In those tranquil summer nights which surround without constricting, and whose darkness, tremulous as lake water, seems to offer the soul some sort of opaque and gentle fluid medium in which to let its reverie drift, feelings come to lose all precise content. The reverie which seizes the being opens it so fully to all the emanations of the night that it creates in the consciousness a kind of pleasing void in which each sensation reverberates delightfully.26 It is in such moments as this that for a while Julien knows peace. In the new world, far from the corrupting influ ences of men, Rene too finds surcease for his tortured soul, though it is only temporary.. And when men move from the city to the pastoral world and its gentle, healing simplicity, they often achieve peace and spiritual salva tion, as does Philip Carey in Of Human Bondage. Philip is 50 the city dweller, bruised and nearly broken; but in the country: It was with no sense of strangeness, but as though he were at home, that Philip followed Sally through the long lines of hops. The sun was bright now and cast a sharp shadow. Philip feasted his eyes on the richness of the green leaves. The hops were yellowing, and to him they had the beauty and the passion which poets in Sicily have found in the purple grape. As they walked along Philip felt himself overwhelmed by the rich luxuriance. A sweet scent arose from the fat Kentish soil, and the fitful September breeze was heavy with the goodly perfume of the h o p s . 27 city is the prison where men are, "...starved light in the cities we live in. It isn't life, imprisonment. Let us sell all we have...and 28 in the country." it is in the world of nature in contradistinc- | tion to the world of sheer intellect that Joseph Knecht, the Magister Ludi, finds his peace in Hesse's Das Glasper- lenspiel. As he moves towards his final destination, and to his inexorable destiny, Knecht, who had left the monas tic world for the world outside the walls of Castalia, i experiences a new sense of communion with nature: i i It was a lovely and exciting journey from the cap- j ital across the foothills to the high mountains. j They drove out of the fast vanishing summer deeper j and deeper into the autumn, and about mid-day be gan the last great climb in broad sweeping curves through the sparse pine forests, skirting the The for sun and it's a long take a farm And 51 foaming, leaping mountain torrents between the gorges, crossing bridges and leaving behind lonely, sturdily built farmhouses with tiny windows, into the stony, starker and ever more barren mountain world, where little flowery paradises seemed to bloom with redoubled charm in the severe, bleak atmosphere. The world of nature is thus identified with the world encompassed by the pastoral concept, but not the world of nature by itself. That world takes on its spe cial, salvational role when it provides a setting, provides the impulse, creates a force-field that surrounds a char acter and makes salvation possible and eventually, even probable. Raskolnikov needs neither introduction nor description. But it should be noted that a careful readingj of Dostoevsky's "Epilogue" to Crime and Punishment places Raskolnikov in circumstances that make his salvation more probable. He is basically a man of the city, and thus sub ject to all the corrupting influences of the city. The man of the city loses his soul there; it is in the city that he; commits his crime. He is sentenced to Siberia and Dostoev-i sky reveals the salvational process gradually. Siberia j l symbolizes remoteness; it evokes feelings of isolation, struggle, asceticism— the kinds of virtues one associates with the pastoral concept and with those who inhabit the pastoral landscape. Raskolnikov has always been locked up within him- 52 self. In Siberia he begins his migration to the outer world. It occurs through the perception of nature and of men within nature: What terrible sufferings and hardships some of them had borne, the tramps, for example! How could one ray of sunlight mean so much to them, or the virgin forest, or a cool spring in some remote and hidden solitude seen once years before, that the tramp dreams of and longs for like a lover's meeting, with the green grass all round it and a bird sing ing in the bushes?30 This perception of men and nature through suffering is a significant experience for the egocentric Raskolnikov. From that point, he comes, through illness, to learn of the love of Sonya. Their climactic meeting, in which Raskolni kov is set firmly on the road to salvation, is set in a scene of natural splendor: Raskolnikov went out of the shed on to the bank, sat down on a pile of logs and looked at the wide, solitary river. From the high bank a broad land scape was revealed. From the other bank, far away, was faintly borne the sound of singing. There, in the immensity of the steepe, flooded with sunlight, the black tents of the nomads were barely visible dots. Freedom was there, there other people lived...it seemed as though with them time had stood still, and the age of Abraham and his flocks was still the present.31 For Raskolnikov the world of nature that engulfs the world j of men takes on an almost mystical significance. And he isj set on the road to salvation at the moment his spirit is | 53 filled with the miracle of nature, quickly to include the miracle of love. : r Pietro Spina, the idealistic hero of Ignazio ; 32 Silone's novel, 11^ seme sotto la neve, finds political refuge and eventual salvation by fleeing from the city and hiding himself in the countryside he had left years before.! The setting works a profound change in Spina and effective-: ly surrounds the message that Silone projects. The symbol-1 ism expressed by the title of the novel is extended effec- ; tively through the text. The seed awaits the sun in order to come to life. The sun that will melt the snow and warm the seed to life is the love of one man for another. But for this to happen, the seed must be planted in the right soil. For Spina, it is the soil of rural Italy. i The struggle to go beyond appearance to the sub stantial reality symbolized by the pastoral landscape con tinually reasserts itself. Man seeks resolution; the reso-l lution is founded on his relationship with nature, and more remotely with that nature subsumed by the archetypal idea j t expressed by pastoralism. At the heart of Tolstoy's doctrines for human ethi cal and moral reform lies the pastoral concept. Just as Pietro Spina's problems are resolved when he lives the pastoral life with peasants, so too, the peasant Platon Karataev, in War and Peace, resolves the intellectual skep- 54 ticism and confusion of the sophisticated Pierre by leading him to confront with gentle simplicity the basic realities. Platon, the man of the soil, does this by living and being j what he believes. Tolstoy describes him thus: Karataev had no attachments, friendships, or love, as Pierre understood them, but loved and lived affectionately with everything life brought him in contact with, particularly with man— not any particular man, but those with whom he happened to be. He loved his dog, his comrades, the French, and Pierre who was his neighbor, but Pierre felt that in spite of Karataev's affec tionate tenderness for him (by which he uncon sciously gave Pierre's spiritual life its due) he would not have grieved for a moment at parting from him...to Pierre he always remained what he had seemed that first night: an unfathomable, rounded, eternal personification of the spirit of simplicity and truth.33 Gerasim, the strong, gentle peasant-servant in The ; Death of Ivan Ilych, lives a life of quiet service to his fellow man— in this case, Ivan— that is totally without pretense. His life has prepared him for his role. He is "...a clean, fresh peasant lad...his heavy boots emitting 34 a pleasant smell of tar and fresh winter air..." Gerasimj brings with him the virtues of the pastoral world. He is an inhabitant of the pastoral landscape and stands in strong contrast to Ivan's family and friends, urban dwell ers all, all literate, cultured, and sophisticated. They are far removed from the world represented by Gerasim, and consequently have little acquaintance with the basic vir tues that are natural to him. It is little wonder that they treat the dying Ivan with impatience, disdain, and disgust; and it is not surprising that Gerasim, endowed with the simple strength of the pastoral world, is able to perform the most disgusting tasks in his care of Ivan with gentility and love. Hesse's Siddhartha leaves the cities and courts of men and eventually finds his answers to the riddle of life at the direction of a holy man by a flowing river. Gilga- ] mesh, his worldly reputation established, goes in quest of ! the plant that will give him eternal life; the plant is the direct analog of the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden. His "barbarian" friend, Enkidu, undergoes a moral degeneration when he makes the transference from the wilds to the cities. In the wilderness, Enkidu flourishes in his primitive element; he is a creature of the wilds and that is where he belongs. When he goes to the city, he is : prey to every temptation and seduced by its: blandishments— ; the very antithesis of the environment out of which he comes. The quest of Gilgamesh might well be symbolic of I life lived with nature; his search may be an attempt to retrieve eternal life within nature by rediscovering his S personal integrality and his identification with nature. j | Man stands fully within the pastoral landscape and it is his presence there that gives that landscape meaning. 56 When a man wants to recover from illness or disease of i body or spirit, he goes home to the countryside. His con- i tinual striving, wherever he may be, is to find his place j in the scheme of things; that is, to achieve an integralityi or resolution with nature. This integrality is not simply i a matter of settling within the pastoral landscape, but the interiorization of the significance of that landscape. The; I struggle to go beyond appearances to an underlying substan tial reality objectifies the process. Norman 0. Brown expresses this resolution in depth and breadth when he writes: Redemptive history (anthropology) is anamnesis; to remember again what we have repressed; to re capitulate the phylogeny; a recollection of pre vious incarnations. 'In recollection of all former births passed before His eyes. Born in such a place, of such a name, and downwards to His pre sent birth, so through hundreds, thousands, myr iads, all His births and deaths He knew.' Not an objective and distant study of strangers, but dis covering and embracing ourselves; collecting the previous incarnations into a unity with oneself; to constitute the collective self, the Son of Man. To recapitulate the phylogeny is to reconstitute the phylum, the unity of the human race; the atone ment. The atonement of mankind, not the forensic justification of the individual believer.35 Moreover, love and respect for the earth and the things of earth— with a resultant divinization of human life— is the central theme of Chardin. In fact, Chardin continually acknowledges the sacramental nature of this 57 world and those within it. For example, he writes: The phrase 'Sense of Earth' should be understood to mean the passionate concern for our common destiny which draws the thinking part of life even further onward. In principle there is no feeling which has a firmer foundation in nature, or greater power. But in fact there is also no feeling which awakens so belatedly, since it can become explicit only when our consciousness has expanded beyond the broaden ing, but still far too restricted, circles of family, country and race, and has finally discovered that the only truly natural and real human Unity is the Spirit of Earth.3 6 To be "in touch with nature" and, by implication, with oneself, is to be in the country, immersed in nature, j i with a few choice human contacts, in circumstances condu cive to physical well-being. Ideally, intellectual ex change ought to be possible because, unencumbered by city life, the mind ought to be free to contemplate important realities. It puts one in mind of the setting of Cicero's I De Republica or of Horace's Sabine farm. Village or rustic festivals, such as that described in Faust 1^, may provide enjoyable interludes, but solitude, honest physical labor, and a simple diet constitute physical, mental, and spirit ual salvation. At this point in our discussion of the pastoral concept/ the roles of shepherd and farmer come together, overlap, and expand. Each becomes identified with the other and both become symbolic of man's quest for the good life,?— a life lived close to nature within the pastoral landscape. 59 i CHAPTER IX FOOTNOTES 1Joseph Campbell, The Hero with the Thousand Faces, Bollingen Series XVII (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1968; 2nd edition, Princeton/Bollingen Paperback, 1972), p. 258. ^Ibid., cf. p. 258. 3 Mircea Eliade, Images and Symbols, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1961), p. 16. 4 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Harper and Brothers Publish- ers, 1960), pp. 54-55. 5 Mircea Eliade, Images and Symbols, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1961), p. 12. g Claude Levi-Strauss, Tristes Tropiques, trans. by John Russell (Criterion Books), p. 127. 7 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Harper and Brothers Publish ers, 1960), p. 36. O Carl G. Jung, "Archetypes of the Collective Uncon scious," The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, trans. by R. F. C. Hull (Princeton: Princeton Univ., Press, 1968; 2nd edition, Vol. 9, one of the collected works of C. G. Jung Bollingen Series XX), pp. 32-33. q Charlton T. Lewis, Ph.D. and Charles Short, LL.D., A Latin Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1962), p. 1311. "^Grande Larousse Encyclopedique, Vol. 8 (Paris: Libraire Larousse, 1968), pi 228. "^Hallett Smith, "Elizabethan Pastoral," Pastoral and Romance, ed. by Eleanor Terry Lincoln (Englewood cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1969), p. 21. 60 12 Claude Levi-Strauss, Tristes Tropiques, trans. by John Russell (Criterion Books), pp. 78-79. 13 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Harper and Brothers j Publishers, 1960), p. 39. 1^Hallett Smith, "Elizabethan Pastoral," Pastoral and Romance, ed. by Eleanor Terry Lincoln (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1969), p. 12. 15 ^ Raymond E. Brown, S.S., Joseph A. Fitzmyer, S.J., Roland E. Murphy, 0. Carm., eds., The Jerome Biblical Com- j mentary (Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1968), p. 13 (28). "^Cf. Ps. 28 and Isaias, 11:6-9. 17 Virgil, Eclogue IV, lines 33, 40. I 18 Claude Levi-Strauss, The Savage Mind, English trans. by George Weidenfeld and Nicolson, Ltd., London (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1966), pp. 242-; 243. Quoting from pp. 30-31 of T. G. H. Strehlow, Aranda Traditions (Melbourne, 1947). 19 Lucretius, On the Nature of Things, trans. by j H. A. J. Munro (Chicago: Encyclopedia Britannica, Inc., 1952), pp. I, 4-13. Also cf. Lucreti, De Rerum Natura, ed.| by Cyrillus Bailey (Oxonii: Typographeo Clarendoniano, 1959). 20 Cyril Bailey, "Lucretius," Proceedings of the j British Academy, Vol. 35 (London: 1949), p. l5l. ^ Ibid. , p. 153. 22 i Lucretius, On The Nature of Things, trans. by j H. A. J. Munro (Chicago: Encyclopedia Britannica, Inc., 1952), pp. I, 1-2. 23 J. Wight Duff, A Literary History of Rome, ed. by A. M. Duff (New York: Barnes and Noble Inc., 196'3) , p. 211. 24 . Claude Levi-Strauss, Tristes Tropiques, trans. by John Russell (Criterion Books), p. 279. 25 Horace, Satires, Epistles, Ars Poetica, trans. by H. Rushton Fairclough, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge: 61 Harvard Univ., Press, London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1926), Satires II, 6, 1-5, also cf. Q. Horati Flacci, Opera, ed. by Edvardvs C. Wickham (Oxonii: e Typographeo Clarendoni ano, 1959). 26 Jean-Pierre Richard, "Knowing and Feeling in Stendhal," from Stendhal Red and Black, trans. and ed. by Robert M. Adams (New York: W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1969), p. 490. 27 W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage (New York: Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1936) , pT 547. ^ Ibid. , p. 544. 29 Hermann Hesse, Magister Ludi, trans. by Mervyn Savill (New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing Co., 1949) , p. 376. ■^Feodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment, trans. by Jessie Coulson (New York: W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1964), p. 522. ^^Ibid., p. 525. 32 Ignazio Silone, II seme sotto la neve, ed. by Faro (Roma: 1945) . 33 Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace, trans. by Louise and Aylmer Maude, ed. by George Gibian (New York: W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1966), p. 1078. O A Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich, trans. by Louise and Aylmer Maude from The Continental Edition of World Masterpieces, ed. by Maynard Mack, et aTl (New York: W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1959), p. 1639. 35 Norman O. Brown, Love1s Body (New York: Vintage Books, 1966), p. 210. 3 6 Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S.J., Building the Earth (Pennsylvania: Wilkes-Barre, Dimension Books, 1965), pi 3” 3. CHAPTER III PASTORALISM BEFORE AND AFTER THE FALL The pastoral concept is derived from the very well- springs of the human experience, and is manifested in many j literatures, ancient and modern. Pastoralism can be iden- j tified as the source of those symbols based on nature that ; people have lived by for millenia. The symbolic cosmos out! of which pastoralism comes grows out of man's close contact! with the earth, with the seasons, the stars. It rises from his contact with the land and the sea, linked as they are with movement and contingency in nature. Man, as the pil grim passing through this world, is an intimate part of the! constantly changing scene; "...from the very outset man is I a creator of symbols; he constructs his characteristic spiritual-psychic world from the symbols in which he speaks; and thinks of the world around him. As the pastoral theme was "elaborated," the pastor-: al concept became formalized in a literary tradition and in; i a literary genre. The pastoral genre enjoyed a swift and continuous development and Curtius claims for it the great est literary influence, surpassed only by epic. There are I a number of reasons for this: The shepherd's life is found everywhere and at all periods. It is a basic form of human existence; and through the story of the Nativity in Luke1s gospel it made its way into the Christian tradi tion too. It has...a correlative scenery: pas toral Sicily, later Arcadia,..and...constitutes a social microcosm...Finally, the shepherd's world is linked to nature and to love. Arcadia was forever being rediscovered...because the stock of pastoral motifs was bound to no genre and to no poetic form.2 Sources describing the origin of the pastoral tra dition repeat in greater or lesser detail the basic data 3 relating to the tradition. Originally a poem about shep- j herds, the pastoral as a literary genre began with Theocri-: i tus about 270 B.C. In his Idyls, or "little pictures," he included several poems about Sicilian rural life. With Virgil, the pastoral assumes a more formal aspect. Theo- ■ critus' followers, writing in Latin and in the vernaculars of Europe, conventionalized the pastoral. Pastoral presents specific, recurring themes: praise of some personality, a singing match, a courtship, the plaint of a forlorn lover, an elegy for a departed friend. Pastoral is implicitly concerned with the contrast; between rural and urban, simple and complex, natural and artificial, country and court, the world of nature and the world of man. Pastoral themes, characters, and subjects derived from the pastoral tradition manifest themselves in drama (e.g., Shakespeare's As You Like It, Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess), in the long narrative (Spenser's Faerie i j Queene), in the prose romance (Sidney's Arcadia), and in the lyric (Marlowe's "Passionate Shepherd") and pastoral j elegy (Milton's "Lycidas"). Each of the examples cited from English literature can be immediately duplicated in ' the literatures of Italy, Spain, and France: Tasso's Aminta, Guarini's Pastor Fido, Sannazaro's Arcadia, Marini'si Adone, Montemayer's Diana, and d'Urfe's Astree, to name some of the best known. i The pastoral genre continued to live on into the eighteenth century, continually adapting itself to the times, was a vital factor in the rise of Romanticism, and continues today, varied in form but consistent in source. The "pastoral concept," out of which the tradition developed, signifies the force-field of the term, or the generic panorama which the term attempts to comprehend: the world of benevolent and malevolent nature; the prelap- sarian and postlapsarian world? and both these worlds with ; i j man in the center of each. Man's presence gives this world significance. Pastoralism comprehends a vast associative universe. As concept it includes a real and an ideal world; a sub stantial and an accidental world; a world ruled by fate arid by chance; a world of myth, intuition, and revelation; a world the broad perception of which requires a VoncJVs , a kind of liberating vision. The code word or signal word i i for this vision is the term "pastoral concept." I I Documentary manifestations of the pastoral concept j are obviously numerous. They have shown and continue to show that, "...the unconscious of Occidental man (has) not ' given up the old dream of finding contemporary man still j living in an earthly Paradise...it reveals their longing 4 for the conditions of Eden." This longing is attested to by so many images and attitudes that lean towards the idea j of paradise; "...the islands and the heavenly landscapes of the tropics, the blessed nudity, the beauty of native 5 women, sexual freedom..." Documentation of the pastoral concept is extensive, so much so as to require extensive selectivity and the es tablishment of such broad categories as will bear the il- I lustrations of the concept. A vast array of documents pro vides an epigraphical basis for the historical establish ment of the concept. One of the earliest pastoral documents comes in a i Icunieform epigraph, a fragment from a Sumerian epic about the hero Enmerkar, ruler of Erech in the 4th millenium B.C. The tablet, "...describes the blissful and unrivalled state of man in an era of universal peace before he had learned to know fear...® 66 In those days there was no snake, there was no scorpion, there was no hyena There was no lion, there was no wild dog, no wolf, There was no fear, no terror Man had no rival. In those days the land Shubur (East), the place of plenty, of righteous decrees, Harmony-tongued Sumer (South), the great land of the "decrees of princeship" Uri (North), the land having all that is needful, The land Martu (West), resting in security, The whole universe, the people in unison, To Enlil in one tongue gave praise.7 The passage immediately strikes a responsive chord in the symbolic impedimenta of anyone reared in Western Judaeo- Christian culture: the snake is mentioned. First, it is recorded that those animals who often represent the malign forces in nature did not exist. (Could their existence suggest that they came into being after a "fall"?) The animals are concretions of the power to destroy; but the poet moves from concrete to abstract, a significant leap: "...no fear, no terror." Man ruled the world, for he "...had no rival." The time was a period of plenty when men were ruled by law, "righteous decrees" and knew in their lives the stability of order and proper succession, "decrees of princeship." Kramer finds in this passage a close parallel with Genesis XI:1-2: 67 And the earth was of one tongue, and of the same speech. And when they removed from the east, they found a plain in the land of Sennaar, and dwelt in it. Both passages stress the element of "one tongue," which suggests, if we interpret the story of the Tower of Babel, Genesis 11:1-9, that: Primitively only an etiological explanation of the origin of different languages (or of the city of Babel), it now serves to climax the whole prehis tory of mankind... the alienation of man from God [Genesis 3:22-24] and from his fellow man [Gene sis 4:1-16] From sin now results the alienation of all human society from God and men from one another.8 These passages illustrate an interesting aspect of the pas toral concept: that in its earliest manifestations it bears witness to a prelapsarian condition that is strongly reminiscent of the Biblical Eden. With respect to the persistence of these ideas, Panofsky makes the following pertinent observations: There had been, from the beginning of classical speculation, two contrasting opinions about the natural state of man, each of them, of course, a ' Gegen-K.onstruktion' to the conditions under which it was formed. One view, termed 'soft' primitivism in an illuminating book by Lovejoy and Boas, conceives of primitive life as a golden age of plenty, innocence and happiness--in other words, as civilized life purged of its vices. The other, 'hard' form of primitivism conceives of primitive life as an almost subhuman exis tence full of terrible hardships and devoid of all comforts— in other words, as civilized life stripped of its virtues. ^ - 1 68 The idea of pastoralism can be divided into what might aptly be called generic, prelapsarian, and post- lapsarian pastoralism. Man's prelapsarian condition is effectively described in the Old Testament and in many other documents reflecting that treatment. But the idea of a "fall" is certainly not an exclusively Judaeo-Chris- tian notion. The idea also finds expression in modern psychology where, "...the individual itself still is in archaic identity with the species,and, "...the mature ego of the civilized personality still preserves the archa ic heritage of man.But an examination for Freudian "anthropology," for example, does not lead back to a para dise forfeited by man through sin against God. "The 'original sin' was against man"— the revolt of the son against his "earthly father-despot"— "and it was no sin because it was committed against one who was himself guil- 12 ty." On this hypothesis, Marcuse concludes: The memory of prehistoric impulses and deeds con tinues to haunt civilization; the regressed mate rial returns, and the individual is still punished for impulses long since mastered and deeds long since done.13 [Italics mine] Every culture has its own myths of Paradise and each in its own way is different from the others; but they also exhibit certain basic commonalities: 69 ...at that time man was immortal and able to meet God face to face; he was happy, and did not have to work for his food; either a Tree provided him with subsistence, or else the agricultural imple ments worked for him themselves... And apparently in all cultures, primitive as well as ad- | 15 vanced, "... perfection had existed at the beginning." t The earthly paradise is dramatically expressed in ; the Anglo-Saxon poem, The Phoenix. The poem takes the ancient legends of the Phoenix and synthesizes them; then, it expresses the symbolism of the Phoenix in Christian terms. The Christian's resurrected Christ was related with the legend of the Phoenix. The description is essentially pastoral: the landscape is that of summer, nature is totally benign, there is no death in this kingdom, nor wars or sorrows: He created the country. There often to the blessed the delight of harmonies, the door of heaven is set open and revealed. That is a fair field, green forests spread beneath the skies. There neither rain, nor snow, nor the breath of frost, nor the blast of fire, nor the fall of hail...shall do any hurt; but the land lies happy and unharmed...No hills or mountains stand there steeply, nor do stone cliffs rise aloft, as here with us; nor are there valleys, or dales, or hill caves... There is no foe in the land, nor weeping, nor woe, nor sigh of grief, nor old age, nor sorrow, nor cruel death, nor loss of life, nor the coming of a hate- ful thing, nor sin...16 The incessant use of the negative drives home the clear implication that conditions in the earthly paradise are 70 precisely the opposite of those in which live the poet and his fellow inhabitants of the postlapsarian world. Man's postlapsarian condition, and by implication, his prelapsarian condition, is dramatically expressed in the Anglo-Saxon Genesis, which effectively counters the earthly paradise of The Phoenix, and which follows the Biblical Genesis thus: Now hunger and thirst cruelly tear my breast, by both of which we were at all times untroubled before. How shall we live now or dwell in this land, if wind comes here from west or east, from south or north, if a cloud rises, if a shower of hail comes driving from heaven, if frost comes in the midst, which is cold unto men, if at times this bright sun shines hotly, gleams from heaven, and we stand here naked, unprotected by clothes? We have naught before us for defense against storms, nor have we any store set aside for food, but mighty God, the Ruler, is angry in heart at us. 17 The passage is comparable to the Sumerian passage examined j earlier concerning a turning to the four corners of the J world, but in the Sumerian document, which is prelapsarian i in content, these four locations are benign. Compared to i i the passage quoted from The Phoenix, there is the same j emphasis on the weather, and by implication, on survival in a constantly threatening climate. Finally, the Old Testament account of man's fall is unequivocally summarized with "...but mighty God, the Ruler, is angry in heart at us." The world before the fall is a pastoral paradise; 71 I i i I i i I after the fall, it need*not simply exist under the condi- | tions imposed on it by God; the condition does not preclude hope for those who believe they have fallen. For those i unaffected by the fall, or who accept the fall and refuse j to participate in all its consequences, the pastoral world j j need not fade into the ancient mists of an earthly para dise. The experience of the pastoral world may even ap proximate their collective tribal experience. Many secular festivals such as the celebration of the New Year, the feast at the birth of a child or at the completion of a new home express the obscurely felt but nonetheless real need among men for a new beginning, a renewal of some kind. These festivities— and even those attending obsequies— express, "...the yearning for the world to be renovated, that one might enter into a new 1 18 History, in a world reborn; that is, created afresh. ! It is possible to speak of a generic pastoralism that may be postlapsarian but reflects more affirmatively that time in the history of a people when they were in the j earliest stages of tribal consolidation. They look back on that period as one in which they were collectively con- : scious of their strength and their earthly accomplishments ! much more than they were concerned with some remote or iremotely perceived fall; the latter perception comes later : i in their development— if ever they are truly conscious of j 72 it— or if their development leads them to look back upon a past when their vigor was in full spate. The example that suggests itself most readily is j that of ancient Rome. Ennius states unequivocally, "Mori- j i bus antiquis res stat Romana virisque," and Cicero, writing many years later, practically repeats the thought when he says, in the De Republica, "...nostra autem res publica non} unius esset ingenio, sed multorum, nec una hominis vita, 19 sed aliquot constituta saeculis et aetatibus." Augustus, brilliant politician that he was, knew that if he were to succeed in his moral reformation of Rome, he would have to 20 relate it to Rome's mores antiqui. And these ancient customs are solidly founded not in a pastoral paradise, j but in a realistic rustic Roman setting that unites the j earth, with Ceres and Saturn and the Lares and Penates, i with the Roman sense of self, and sense of destiny: the rural people whose mission it is to bring civilization to the world: tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento (haec tibi erunt artes) pacique imponere morem, parcere subiectis et debellare s u p e r b o s . ^ l (Aeneid VI, 851-3) Even to use such terminology as "prelapsarian" and "postlapsarian" places this discussion in a Judaeo-Chris- tian context. When the civilizations of Greece and Rome : are examined, the idea of a "before-and-after-the-fall" requires cautious qualification. In this regard Curtius makes several comments worthy of special note: With Homer the Western transfiguration of the uni verse, the earth, and man begins. Everything is pervaded by divine forces. The gods are they who 'live at ease.' ...Only one dark shadow hangs over this happy world: the doom of death. This world does not yet know the chthonic— or does not speak of it; nor the demonic with its intricate and terrible toils, to the weaving of which 1 the gods themselves lend a hand, tangled skeins of horror which in turn produce fresh horrors, sit uations in which brother slays brother, the son his mother.'^2 In this period, divinity and nature are unified, the one sharing in the other. As for Homer, he, "...prefers the more amiable aspects of Nature: a cluster of trees, a grove with springs and lush meadows. There dwell the Nymphs (Iliad XX, 8; Odyssey VI, 124 and XVII, 205) or Athena (Od. VI, 291)."23 These comments seem to indicate that evidence exists in the Homeric world of a thrust to project the vision of a world as pastoral paradise. Yet, the idea of paradise to be prepared for, in an afterlife, as the ful- I fillment of a previously lost earthly paradise, is lacking. The Greek idea of bftpis, overweening pride, in which condition a man arrogates to himself powers that belong to the gods alone, bears a striking resemblance to "original sin"— that sin of pride in which man presumed to become God-like and subsequently lost paradise, was sub jected to death, and was caused to lead a life of anguish and toil. For the Greek, life was in the present, was | lived in the sunshine, immediately, and not lived in the ! hope of some vague afterlife. Even where Homer, 1 1 ...re- 24 fleets the view of a life of a knightly ruling class" in which the warrior strives for reputation and undying fame, the chthonic element asserts itself. In classical literature, the afterlife, which in Judaeo-Christian tradition parallels life on earth before the fall and represents the restoration of a previous glor ious condition, is a place in the underworld, horrible and 25 miasmic, of unrelieved anguish. For Homer's Achaeans man is always in a postlapsarian conditionf that is in fact the human condition. Thus, Odysseus described his journey to the Underworld: i And now the souls of the dead who had gone below came swarming up from Erebus— fresh brides, un married youths, old men with life's long suffer ing behind them, tender young girls still nursing this first anguish in their hearts, and a great throng of warriors killed in battle, their spear- wounds gaping yet and all their armour stained with blood. From this multitude of souls, as they fluttered to and fro by the trench, there came a moaning that was horrible to hear.26 In this life, a man may opt, as does Achilles, for a short life and undying fame; fame becomes an acceptable kind of eternity when viewed from this life. But when in j the Odyssey, Odysseus encounters Achilles in the next life,! Achilles rejects his previous view of the afterlife and makes the following statement— a startling one in its his torical context: 'My lord Odysseusspare me your praise of Death. Put me on earth again, and I would rather be a serf in the house of some landless man, with little enough for himself to live on, than king of all those dead men that have done with life.'27 j Thus, Achilles "...seems to contradict the man who chose to die young gloriously on the field of battle, rather than 2 8 live out an inglorious life to old age." In Homer, "...the heroic ideal is not conceived tragically, heroes are allowed to feel fear, like Hector, and war is an evil."^ (Curtius 185) With Curtius, we may agree that, "Nature shares in the divine," but we have already seen this sharing in the Sumerian fragment previously cited. Homer often depicts a 30 gentle, pastoral world, but it is always really this world at its most benign. In classical civilization, life itself1 must serve, perforce, as a prelapsarian state verging on a j postlapsarian condition. The afterlife is a horror of un relieved despair, a Dantesque inferno with neither a hope- n j ful purgatorio nor a paradiso. ! I It has been said of early Greek poetry that it was:j ! 76 ...in the absence of writing primarily a preserva tive device subserving the cultural requirement j for something like a public Greek record book and j for a 'book' of moral and technical precedent which could then be available to all Greeks for j education in the widest sense.31 i The parallel might be immediately drawn with the pastoral j i concept. It is interesting to note the shifting character I of this concept. Its earliest purpose was to preserve the | memory of tribal origins through the establishment of an j oral tradition which constituted a living mode of histori- i cal documentation in its broadest sense. Its mediate end was to perpetuate tribal continuity through the formation i of a collective tribal psyche founded on a common psychic ( residue. Its end is to preserve the social unit from change or to cause it to adapt to forced or necessary change without losing the tribal recollection of the rich days of a more-or-less distant past. We might call this species of pastoralism "generic pastoralism." It may be described''as that aspect of pastoralism that comes from the tribal oral tradition, the tradition we call "epic" because of its quasi-organic development, and verges into a recorded historical concept. Thus, the ancient Hebrews could fondly recall their blessed times— after the fall, after their historical en slavement— when the Lord God went before them, leading them through the desert as a burning bush, as a pillar of fire, 77 guiding them, feeding them, protecting them. In later years they recalled those times with a profound sense of | awe and longed again for the days when their God was so close and they were so united and secure and blessed in the vigor of their early years of their formation as a people. And the memory of those years was their strength in the hard times that followed. During the years of remembrance the recollection of their pastoral time served j as a bond of union and survival. ! God as a shepherd is a frequent theme in the Old Testament. The pastor "...is bound to his flock by a devo-! tion to which corresponds the confidence of the sheep. j 32 This analogy shows that Yaweh is the protector of Israel." To mention the word "shepherd" in the context of the Bible j is to bring to mind perhaps the best known of all the ! Psalms: The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want In verdant pastures he gives me repose; Beside restful waters he leads me; He refreshes my soul. He guides me in right paths for his name's sake. Even though I walk in the dark valley I fear no evil; for you are at my side With your rod and your staff that give me courage. Note that the Psalm begins with indirect discourse that j imparts to it the hint of an impersonal tone; however, by j the fourth stanza, the sudden shift to direct discourse : indicates that intensity of the poet's feelings. "The vivid metaphors derived from shepherding cover all the con-j tingencies of human life— e.g., the 'rod' for hostile be- j 33 ings, the 'staff for sure guidance." Besides the overt pastoralism operative in the Old ; Testament and in the Odyssey, there are clear traces of generic pastoralism in Greek drama. To cite but one such | instance which is comparable in content and to a limited degree in tone with some of the Old Testament references, j Aristophanes, in The Peace, writes of the blessings of , peace in pastoral terms: Think of all the thousand pleasures, Comrades, which to Peace we owe, All the life of ease and comfort Which she gave us long ago: Figs and olives, wine and myrtles, Luscious fruits preserved and dried, Banks of fragrant violets, blowing By the crystal fountain's side... We have looked and longed for thee • • • • • In the merry days of old, When thou wast out one salvation... Hermes, teach us all the story, ,4 kindest of the heavenly Powers. (The Peace, 11. 570-612 cir.) (also, cf. Euripides' Cyclops, and Electra) It should not be particularly surprising that such refer ences should be mentioned. Although the passages may be banal by themselves and stripped of context, nevertheless. 79 i r i the fact that they occur in Old Comedy itself alludes to I i the Dionysian origins of drama, to ancient fertility rites,j and ultimately to the pastoral concept as archetypal idea. ! Prelapsarian pastoralism is that species of pas toralism that moves not forward to history in time, as does] generic pastoralism, but backward from oral tradition to j the earliest times when the yi30os of the tribe was in the i process of formation and individuation; e.g., as Hellenic, or Mesopotamian, or Hebrew. The very character of myth requires that it perdure; thus, its relevance is immediate. For the Jews, the time of prelapsarian pastoralism is signified by that time when the yi30os of their paradise—f most emphatically not anioux tottos— was in the process of j formation. It should be noted that: ; Thanks to ritual, the 'disjoined' past of myth is expressed, on the one hand, through biological and season periodicity and, on the other, through the 'conjoined* past, which unites from generation to generation the living and the dead...the com memorative or historical rites recreate the sacred and beneficial atmosphere of mythical times— the 'dream age,1...— mirroring its protagonists and their great deeds.35 i i | As we follow the Jews through their history, we might say that their quest for and involvement in the mys tery of their relationship with the Divine deepens. Joseph is the exemplar of the quid-pro-quo relationship between God and man; Job is the exemplar of the just man who suf 80 fers only because God wills it and because man is poten tially deserving of whatever suffering comes his way (how reminiscent of Oedipus' sufferings); and Isaiah calls forthi the mystery of the God-man. The Jewish vision deepens: As he moves forward within his environment, Man takes with him all the positions that he has occupied in the past, and all those that he will occupy in the future. He is everywhere at the same time, a crowd which, in the act of moving forward, yet recapitulates at every instant every step that it has ever taken in the past. For we live in several worlds...Some of these worlds may be apprehended in action, others exist because we have them in our thoughts... Truth lies rather in the progressive expansion of meaning: but an expansion conducted inwards from without and pushed home to explosion-point. The Jewish vision deepens, indeed, but there was a time | when the vision did not have to deepen. It simply was. It existed in a state of profound, perfect, pre-analytic simplicity— a perfect union of God, man, and nature— and existed thus in the purity of its primordial splendor. That is how one might attempt to describe and define pastoralism as prelapsarian. In working back to the ntf0os-formation period to i the period of prelapsarian pastoralism, one is confronted with the idea that man lived with and in nature, not in a dualistic opposition to it. In this period, if such it may i be described, nature functions natura naturans, not natura | | naturata. The latter characterized the postlapsarian per- j : iod. Man's cutting off from God in the fall-ui50os marks the evolutionary pivot in the man-God relationship. Prior to the lapse and in his prehistory, man lived a life of perfection; since then, with the passage of time (another result of the fall), he has grown farther and farther from that state of perfection. Here we confront the evolution ary paradox of science holding for the development of man— even Chardin turns evolution towards an Omega point— and literature, or the history of consciousness, indicating quite the opposite: that man started at an Omega point and has slowly and inexorably grown away from it entropically with the passage of time and the gradual erosion of his innocence; in the beginning, man was truly in-nocens. But man in his racial memory has been left with a generic cortical imprint, so to speak, that has dogged the species throughout its subsequent history and must be reck oned with and dealt with. The racial memory is pervasive. The use of a "cortical imprint" analogy is simply another way of expressing in analogical terms the persistence of that memory or archetypal idea that we call pastoralism. It might reasonably be objected that pastoralism hardly seems appropriate as an evocation of man's prelapsarian existence and of his mythically founded formulation of the ideal life since then. However, since the conceptual basis of pastoralism is being examined, the word itself is a ; 82 i !handy code-word that does possess a force-field of suffi- ! j cient power to attract and sustain this admittedly broad j concept. The memory of a perfect world once lost is strong j and enduring. The myth-recollection of a lost Paradise continues to survive, for example, "...in a paradisiac island or a land of innocence, a privileged land where lawsj 37 are abolished and time stands still." Even when the curses of poverty, disease, anguish, and death are in the forefront of man's individual and collective unconscious and are rendered conscious and active in the process of living, man does not cease to hope in a future that is es- ! sentially a return to the essential perfection he conceives; his beginnings to have been. The Jew, captive in Egypt and: Babylon, did not cease to hope in a Messiah who would re- i create the world as it once had been. The Christian who j witnessed the end of the Roman world, as did Augustine, j held firm to the belief that one day the world would be transformed at a Second Coming and a new civitas Dei would j return the world to its pristine condition. But this kind j i of hope is not unique to the Judaeo-Christian tradition, nor is the return to a perfect life a belief that is at all limited in its cultural scope. In another recently translated Sumerian fragment, the cattle-god Lahar and his sister Ashnan, the grain- j 83 goddess, come down from heaven to earth on a mission that is pastoral in its imagery: In those days Enki says to Enlil: 'Father Enlil, Lahar and Ashnan, They who have been created in the Dulkug, Let us cause them to descend from the Dulkug.' i At the pure word of Enki and Enlil, ! Lahar and Ashnan descended from the Dulkug. ! For Lahar they {Enlil and Enki) set up the sheepfold, j Plants, herbs, and...they present to him; For Ashnan they establish a house, i Plow and yoke they present to her. ; Lahar standing in his sheepfold, A shepherd increasing the bounty of the ! sheepfold is he; Ashnan standing among the crops, A maid kindly and bountiful is she. Abundance of heaven..., Lahar and Ashnan caused to appear, In the assembly they brought abundance, In the land they brought the breath of life, The decrees of the god they direct, The contents of the warehouses they multiply, The storehouses they fill full. In the house of the poor, hugging the dust, Entering they bring abundance; The pair of them, wherever they stand, i Bring heavy increase into the house; The place where they stand they sate, the place where they sit they supply, 3g They made good the heart of An and Enlil. There is an entire classification in literature, pastoral in origin and content, that accepts the fall of man and whatever follows from it as an article of faith, a datum that remains unquestioned. This manifestation of the pastoral concept stresses or implies the element of hope in a return of the once-lost world through some kind of a force, or divinity, at whose coming the world will be j i renewed, and the renewal will make the world what it once ! was. That is a memory that has never been eradicated; it haunted antiquity and even so sophisticated a poet as j Horace, "...thought he saw the purity of patriarchal life i among the barbarians. He suffered for a simple and sane 39 existence in the bosom of Nature." Out of the memory of ; a Golden Age came the myth of the noble savage; The state of innocence and the spiritual blessed ness of man before the fall, in the paradisiac myth, becomes in the myth of the good savage, the pure free and happy state of the exemplary man, surrounded by a maternal and generous Nature. But in that image of primordial Nature we can easily recognize the features of a paradisiac landscape. It should be noted parenthetically that the Stoic doctrine of cyclic conflagration includes the apocalyptic idea that all souls are ultimately dissolved in the fire of the world soul. When everything in the world has been caused to vanish and the process is completed, then the resurrectional force of the world soul asserts its power and a new universe begins; "... and all things repeat them-i selves, every divinity, every person, playing again his 41 former part." The universal renewal comprehends the return, mutatis mutandis, of "the beginning of the perfec tion of things." 85 To say anything yet unsaid about Virgil1s Eclogue IV is difficult, but the work should be noted in passing j i and acknowledged as a prophetic work which employs pastoral! imagery. The eclogue predicts the coming of a new age— really a return to the Golden Age— and the advent of a world that can only be initially described as prelapsarian. Long regarded by Christian apologists, including Augustine, the Church Fathers, and Dante, as the pre-Christian mani festation of divine revelation given to a pagan poet, the poem has now been fairly well stripped of this Christian accretion. Eclogue IV does in fact have pastoral relevance. i In it, Virgil heralds the coming of a new age and he de picts the graces and gifts of the coming age in pastoral ! terms that were familiar to his contemporaries. Virgil ! j makes this connection clear with the first word of the | eclogue: Sicelides. The muses he invokes are Sicilian ] because the source of his inspiration, Theocritus, is a Sicilian Greek, and the opening three lines are so overtly pastoral that they would lead most readers to expect a poem in imitation of one of Theocritus' Idyls: "Sicilian Muses, let us sing a somewhat loftier strain. Not all do the orchards please and the lowly tamarisks. If our song is of the woodland, let the woodland be worthy of a con- With the fourth line, however, there is an abrupt change in tone from the pastoral to the prophetic. The | prophetic tone heralded by Ultima Cumaei harks back to one | of the most ancient of all Roman prophetic centers— the caves of the Sibyls at Cumae, a name bound to evoke dim memories of an ancient past in the Romans. Alluding to the: legend of the Sibyl and Tarquinius Superbus, and to the Sibylline books, Virgil writes: Now is come the last age of the song of Cumae; the great line of the centuries begins anew. Now the Virgin returns, the reign of Saturn returns; now a new generation descends from heaven on high. j Only do thou pure Lucina smile on the birth of the child, under whom the iron brood shall first cease, and a golden race spring up throughout the j world! Thine own Apollo now is k i n g ! ^ 3 I l l When that golden age dawns, with the consulship of Pollio, then "any lingering traces of our guilt shall become void, 4 4 and release the earth from its continual dred." The line, puts one in mind of original sin, the guilt that followed it, and the remission of that guilt in the age to come. That age will see man become one with nature and the earth "untilled will pour forth...her first pretty gifts...the goats shall bring home their udders swollen with milk...the 4 5 serpent, too, shall perish." Such imagery seems related both to pastoralism in classical and pre-classical jvorks, and to the Judaeo-Christian world of Eden— and has, in 87 fact, raised the question of Virgil's exposure to Hebrew scripture. It might be added that Virgil, especially in the j Georgies, reveals the farmer's life as a nostalgic reminder of "the perfection of the beginning of things," a recollec tion that included both that of earliest Rome and her Latin forbears, and a Golden Age. The work was certainly bound to evoke a responsive note among Virgil's contemporaries j who never quite lost their feel for the land and the time of their origins. Those who await a "second coming" often regard nature as the handbook of God, a kind of ancilla fidei. The final step to a perfect identification of God and Nature that characterizes Rousseau and the Romantics is not an isolated act without its historical precedents. Nature, in the God-Nature duality, becomes for some believ ers the basis for prayers of impetration and thanksgiving. This continuity is logical if one considers ancient prayer forms uttered to Mother Earth, to Saturn, Ceres, Dionysos, and the entire pantheon of the gods with whom the bounty ofj the earth is associated. Then, to this pantheon, by way ofj | direct succession, can be added the Yahweh of the Old Test-j ament, the Christos of the New, and man himself. Through j i all time, in all places and cultures, it seems that, "...one of the essential functions of the myth is its provision of an opening into the Great Time, a periodic re-entry into ! i 46 Time primordial." This sense of continuity can be readily perceived in the Bible and in the examples that follow from the "Book of Daniel" and from Francis of Assisi's "Canticle of Creation" which seems to be derived from the Biblical i source. The themes and images of the Old Testament have set the pattern for a great deal of subsequent literature in Western civilization. The poetic cantica, or shirim, elicited by the prophets are even now being related in a broader, more extensive substratum of religious history to the prayers and incantations of the priests and shamans of earlier cultures. Eliade makes this appropriate comment by way of synthesizing the concept: To recall just one example: the imitation of the animals' cries. For more than a century it was thought that the strange cries of the shaman were a proof of his mental disequilibrium. But they were signs of something very different; of the nostalgia for Paradise [italics mine] which had haunted Isaiah and Virgil, which had nourished the saintliness of the Fathers of the Church, and that blossomed anew, victorious, in the life of St. Francis of Assisi.4 7 If this concept of "nostalgia for Paradise" is i I valid, then it can be applied to much of the religious j i poetry of the past. The Old Testament prophets and their j I successors— prophets, poets, seers— exhibit a constant j awareness of and sensitivity to what they regard as the j beatitude of nature. Nature becomes for them a pastoral j world divinized as the speculum Dei, and natural phenomena ! are direct reflections of the Deity, and hence worthy of praise. A brief comparison of the "Canticle of the Three Young Men in the Fiery Furnace" from the Book of Daniel andj Francis of Assisi's "Canticle of Creation" reveals the con-| sistency and continuity of this "nostalgia for paradise" which must necessarily be conceived and imaged forth in perceptions drawn from the world of man and nature. Thus, ; the author (or authors) of the Book of Daniel writes: 52 Blessed are you, 0 Lord, the God of our fathers, praiseworthy and exalted above all forever; And blessed is your holy and glorious name, praiseworthy and exalted above all for all ages. 53 Blessed are you in the temple of your holy glory (refrain) 54 Blessed are you on the throne of your kingdom 55 Blessed are you who look into the depths from your throne upon the cherubim 56 Blessed are you in the firmament of heaven 57 Bless the Lord, all you works of the Lord, praise and exalt him above all forever, (refrain) 58 Angels of the Lord, bless the Lord 59 You heavens, bless the Lord 60 All you waters above the heavens, bless the Lord 61 All you hosts of the Lord, bless the Lord 62 Sun and moon, bless the Lord 63 Stars of heaven, bless the Lord 64 Every shower and dew, bless the Lord 65 All you winds, bless the Lord 66 Fire and heat, bless the Lord 67 Cold and heat, bless the Lord 68 Frost and chill, bless the Lord 69 Ice and snow, bless the Lord I 71 Nights and days, bless the Lord j 72 Light and darkness, bless the Lord ! 73 Lightnings and clouds, bless the Lord | 74 Let the earth praise the Lord: praise and exalt him above all forever. 75 Mountains and hills, praise the Lord 76 Everything growing from the earth, bless the Lord 77 You springs, bless the Lord 78 Seas and rivers, bless the Lord 79 You dolphins and all water creatures, bless the Lord 80 All you birds of the air, bless the Lord 81 All you beasts, wild and tame, bless the Lord 82 You sons of men, bless the L o r d . 48 And Prances of Assisi parallels this ancient canti cle with his "Canticle of Creation" thus: 1 Most high, omnipotent, good Lord, 2 Praise, glory, and honour and benediction all, are Thine. 3 To Thee alone do they belong, most High, 4 And there is no man fit to mention Thee. 5 Praise be to Thee, my Lord, with all Thy creatures,: 6 Especially to my worshipful brother sun, 7 The which lights up the day, and through him dost j Thou brightness give; 8 And beautiful is he and radiant with splendour | great; 9 Of Thee, most high, signification gives. 10 Praised be my Lord, for sister moon and for the stars, I 11 In heaven Thou hast formed them clear and precious I and fair. 12 Praised be my Lord for brother wind 13 And for the air and clouds and fair and every kind of weather, 14 By the which Thou givest to Thy creatures nourish ment. i 15 Praised by my Lord for sister water, j 16 The which is greatly helpful and humble and pre cious and pure. 17 Praised by my Lord for brother fire, 18 By the which Thou lightest up the dark, 19 And fair is he and gay and mighty and strong. 20 Praised be my Lord for our sister, mother earth, 21 The which sustains and keeps us 22 And brings forth diverse fruits with grass and flowers bright. 23 Praised be my Lord for those who for Thy love for give 24 And weakness bear and tribulation. 25 Blessed those who shall in peace endure, 26 And by Thee, most High, shall they be crowned. 27 Praised be my Lord for our sister, the bodily death 28 From which no living man can flee. 29 Woe to them who die in mortal sin; 30 Blessed those who shall find themselves in Thy most holy will, 31 For the second death shall do them no ill. 32 Praise ye and bless ye my Lord, and give Him thanks 33 And be subject unto Him with great humility.49 The honorifics that open each canticle serve as an invocation and establish the hortatory tone of both. Daniel begins with an apostrophe to the Lord; then, he apostrophizes an extensive natural catalogue of elements that reflect the divine glory. Francis, too, begins with an apostrophe to the Lord of creation, but he maintains it up to the final two lines where he directly exhorts his listeners. 92 Daniel maintains the suitably distanced respect j one would expect of him in the presence of Yahweh. His j :song is a communal prayer borne along by a cadenced re frain after each laud. Francis1 tone is respectful, but his prayer is both communal and personal, and he mingles respect for the majesty of the Lord with a gentle famil- 50 iarity. For Francis, the Lord may be Altissimu, but he j is also a bon 5ignore. The predictable impersonality of the highly respectful Laudato si1 of formal Italian dis course is neatly balanced by the familiarly respectful mi | | Signore, and the use of the familial Te, in much the same j terms a devoted family servant might address his revered master. Daniel's Yahweh is always and unfailingly majes tic, omnipotent, and cosmic; Francis1 Lord is all these, but is viewed in a human perspective with the distance between infinity and finiteness considerably reduced; after all, each item in Francis1 catalogue is a creatura— a being created— a "child" of God. In Italian creatura is used colloquially to signify an infant, a baby, a very young child. Reading aloud each of the canticles emphasizes the ! tone each carries— even in translation to some degree— of men going out of themselves. In their ^KOTaoxs they ex- j press their experience of a union with the world around them, and through the sensible world, a reaching out toward experiencing what each believes is the creator of the world. Each poet-prophet repeats his apostrophe to the Lord in an incantatory catalogue that seems to approach the "ah!" experience of Zen experiential astringency. A comparison of these two highly lyrical canticles reveals the following linear correspondences: Daniel Francis 52-56 invocation 1-4 57 all creatures 5 62 sun 6-9 62-63 moon, stars 10-11 65, 7 3 wind, air, clouds 12-13 69-70 fair and all weather 13 nourishment 14 77-78 water 15-16 66 fire 17-19 74 earth, sustains 20-21 76 fruits, grass, flowers 22 beatitudes 23—26 death 27-31 j (90) serve the Lord in humility 32-33 j A comparison of the elements that make up the cata-| i logue of creation, as indicated in both texts, show plainlyj that Daniel's is much more extensive. In his panoramic j listing, he includes many more elements than Francis: ! angels (58), heavens (59), "waters above the heavens" (60),j the hosts of the Lord (61), nights and days (71), light and| f i darkness (72), mountains and hills (75) , dolphins and all ! water creatures (79), birds (80), wild and domesticated animals (81: note pecora). What Francis' catalogue lacks in extension it more ! than makes up in its intension. It is not enough for Fran-: cis to mention the sun; he adds, the sun's brightness lightens up the day (7); he is beautiful and radiant with splendor (8), a symbol of the brightness of the Lord (9). The moon and stars are clear, precious, and fair (11), with obvious reference to their similarity to jewels. Fair and every other kind of weather are praised (13) and identified with nourishment (14); the implication is that there is no "bad" weather. Water is appropriately helpful, humble, precious, and pure (16), all with baptismal overtones. Fire, which is the Lord's means of lighting up the dark (18) is fair, gay, mighty, strong (how reminiscent of Homer's Hephaestus!). Mother Earth, who is man's sister, nourishes by bringing forth fruits, grass, and flowers— ! flowers nourish, too (22). j i Then Francis eases gently from nature to man. But he does not make this move without having appropriately prepared. Nature has already been accorded a familiar, 95 familial human dimension. Francis has already addressed I Brother Sun, Sister Moon, Brother Wind, Sister Water, Bro- j ther Fire, and our sister, Mother Earth. He has maintained! a careful balance between those forces in nature he char- j acterizes as feminine and those he regards as masculine, and he has assigned the appropriate masculine and feminine modifiers to those forces. Finally, he turns to Sister Death. Nature, including death, is given a human dimen sion; thus, man is identified with nature and with God because God is the creator of nature. The canticle is prelapsarian or generic in tone until line 23, when Francis paraphrases the beatitudes (23-26) and preaches a brief sermon on preparation for death. He concludes, as does Daniel (90), with a short exhortation to serve the Lord with 9 | humility. The length of Francis' poem,33 lines in all, re minds one of the common medieval symbolism of the Trinity. The language of his canticle is simple, unadorned, and lacks elaborate figures of speech. Yet, in its quite de liberately humble form of expression there is not lacking j that suitability and consonance between idea and expres- j sion that lies at the heart of the poet's art. In this j i respect, Leopardi's poetic diction with its deliberate simplicity is reminiscent of that employed by Francis. | Legend has it that Francis composed this canticle 96 ' two years before his death, amid profound sufferings. While there is an historical basis for the legend, there j i is at least a legendary source for Daniel's canticle. The j prophet praises the Lord through the mouths of the "Three j j Young Men in the Fiery Furnace" who sang as they were being: incinerated— unsuccessfully— by Nebuchadnezzar. Both were uttered amid great suffering; how well the legendary cir cumstances that Daniel narrates symbolically fit II Pove- rello1s historical situation. Prelapsarian pastoralism presents an idealized image of a world purged of chance. This world is peaceful, secure, balanced in a kind of Apollonian stasis, and gener-i ally lacks tension. The postlapsarian world, on the con trary, displays two visages: that of Adam fallen, shameful,j l I subject to every vagary of vengeful nature and a punishing i i God, always living on the verge of annihilation; and that of the celebrant, the man who feels a closeness to God or to the gods, who may or may not acknowledge a fall but in any case celebrates life in a dynamic state of vital ten- j i sion, rejoicing in the good things of his world as he finds it, and dominated in spirit by varying degrees of Dionysian or Christian intoxication with life. The postlapsarian pastoral celebration of rich, vital, and inspiring nature in and of itself, without ref erence to any divinity, is constantly before the reader of 97 early American literature. Inherent to much of this liter-! : i ature are two assumptions: first, that the New World is j distinct and unconnected with the Old World; and second, that the American who has come to inhabit the New World is a new Adam. One of America's early poets, Philip Freneau, in I writing of the glorious expansion of the new America to the: West, uses terms that are not unreflective of Virgil's Eclogue IV: "The world's great age would begin anew, 'those days of felicity*.. .which are so beautifully describ-i 51 ed by the prophetic sages of ancient times." Henry Nash Smith, in Virgin Land, quotes the fol lowing description of the mighty Mississippi River from The Freeman's Journal: or, The North American Intelligen cer (Philadelphia), January 9, 1782: (A thousand rivers flow into the mighty Mississippi,) who from a source unknown collecting his remotest waters, rolls forward through the frozen regions of the north, and stretching his extended arms to the east and west, embraces those savage groves, as yet uninvestigated by the traveller, unsung by the poet, or unmeasured by the chain of the geome trician. ..this prince of rivers, in comparison of whom the Nile is but a Rivulet and the Danube a mere ditch, hurries with his immense flood of waters to the Mexican sea...52 Note that "the Nile is but a Rivulet" and that the Danube j is "a mere ditch." This is indeed a fitting setting for the new Adam. This vast New World comes to be inhabited by a new man who is "...emancipated from history, happily bereft of ancestry, untouched and undefiled by the usual inheritances! 53 i of family and race..." His potentialities are as vast i and as new as the wilderness he will discover and inhabit— j a world "...as yet uninvestigated by the traveller, unsung by the poet, or unmeasured by the chain of the geometri- 54 cian..." R.W.B. Lewis drawsthe conclusion that, "It was not surprising, in a Bible-reading generation, that the new hero (in praise or disapproval) was most easily identified 55 . with Adam before the Fall." In setting forth his analogy! of the American as Adam, Lewis says: ; Adam was the first, the archetypal, man. His moral position was prior to experience, and in his very newness he was fundamentally innocent. The world and history lay all before him. And he was the type of creator, the poet par excel- . lence, creating language itself by naming the elements of the scene about him. j The rejection of the Old World and the genesis of the American Adam in the New World form the basis for the I distinctly American pastoral vision. The reader of Ameri can literature calls to mind the lucid descriptions of nature with which Cooper and Irving celebrate the New World. Both may be regarded as quintessentially American, and were acknowledged such by their European contemporaries. Irving writes in The Sketch Book: 99 I visited various parts of my own country; and had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its grat ification, for on no country have the charms of nature been more prodigally lav i sh ed .57 Irving then goes on to describe the wonders that Chateau briand and a host of others were to duplicate in their own visions of Arcady: Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their soli tudes; her boundless plains, saving with spon taneous verdure; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine— no, never need an American look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery.58 This fairly representative passage celebrates nature for herself and adds a strong note of exaltation. Howard Mumford Jones, commenting on Irving1s panorama, writes, "...but Irving omits something. We can best see what is omitted of we go back to a passage by Jonathan Edwards in the preceding century:" ...when we are delighted with flowers, meadows, and gentle breezes of wind, we may consider that we see only the emanation of the sweet benevolence of Jesus Christ...There are so many things wherein we may behold His awful majesty; in the sun is his strength, in comets, in thunder, in the hovet'ing thunder cloud, in rugged rocks, and the brows of mountains.59 100 CHAPTER III FOOTNOTES Erich Neumann, "Art and Time," Art and the Crea- j tive Unconscious, trans. by Ralph Manheim^ Bollingen Series' LXI (Princeton: Princeton Univ., Press, 1959),.p. 85. j i 2 i Ernst Robert Curtius, European Literature and the i Latin Middle Ages, trans. by Willard R. Trask, Bollingen j Series XXXVI (New York: Pantheon Books Inc., 1952), p. 187. 3 Cf. footnote 1. 4 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams, and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1960), p. 42. ^Ibid., p. 42. | ^Samuel Noah Kramer, Sumerian Mythology (New Ybrk: ! Harper and Row, Publishers, 1961) frontispiece. j 7 Ibid,, frontispiece. j 8 i Raymond E. Brown, S.S., Joseph A. Fitzmyer, S.J., and Roland E. Murphy, O. Carm., eds., The Jerome Biblical ; Commentary (Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, | Inc., 1968), p. 17 (2:49). I 9 i Erwin Panofsky, "Et in Arcadia Ego," Pastoral and Romance, ed. by Eleanor Terry Lincoln (Englewood Cliffs, ; New Jersey: Prentice-Hall Inc., 1969), pp. 26-27. ■^Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization (Boston: Beacon Press, 1966), p. 56. j 11, 12 13 Ibid., p. 58. Ibid., p. 60. Ibid., p. 60. 101 14 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams, and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, I960), p. 43. ^Ibid. , p. 43. "^R. K. Gordon, selector and translator, Anglo-Saxon; Poetry (New York: Dutton, 1954), p. 240. r 17Ibid., p. 110. 18 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams, and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1960), p. 33. 19 Cicero, De Republica, 2, 2. 20 Cf. Ronald Syme, The Roman Revolution (London: Oxford Univ. , Press, 19 63) ,_pp. 459-4 "/fa. 21Virgil, Aeneid VI, 851-853, 2 2 Ernst Robert Curtius, European Literature and the1 Latin Middle Ages, trans. by Willard R. Trask, Bollingen \ Series XXXVI (New York: Pantheon Books Inc., 1952),,p. 185.| 23Ibid., p. 185. | 24 ' Ibid., p. 185. 25 Cf. Odyssey, XI and Aeneid, VI. j 26 Homer, The Odyssey, trans. by E. V. Rieu,.Vol. 11 [ (Baltimore: Penguin Books, 1946), p. 172. 27 Ibid., p. 184. 28 Charles Rowan Beye, The Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Epic Tradition (New York: Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1966), p. 190. 29 Ernst Robert Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, trans. by Willard R. Trask, BoTlingeri ' Series XXXVI (New York: Pantheon Books Inc., 1952), p. 185. 3^Cf. Curtius above. 31 Kevin Robb, "Greek Oral Memory and the Origins of Philosophy," The Personalist. Vol. 51. No. 1 (Winter, 1970), p. 7. 32 Raymond E. Brown, S.S., Joseph A. Fitzmyer, S.J., and Roland E. Murphy, 0. Carm., eds., The Jerome Biblical Commentary (Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey! Prentice-Hall, Inc.,1968), p. 749, 77:75. ■^Ibid., p. 579, 35:40. Also cf. Ps. 79:13, Is. 40:11, Ez. 34:15 ff. 34 Aristophanes, The Peace, lines 570-612. Also cf. Euripides' Cyclops and Electra. 35 Claude Levi-Strauss, The Savage Mind, English trans. by George Weidenfeld and Nicolson, Ltd., London (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1966), pp. 236- 237. 3 6 Claude Levi-Strauss, Tristes Tropiques, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1960), p. 336. 37 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams, and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1960), pp. 33-34. 38 Samuel Noah Kramer, Sumerian Mythology (New York: Harper and Row, Publishers, 1961), pp. 53-54. 39 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1960), p. 40. 4QIbid., pp. 40-41. 4 T Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Bollingen Series XVII (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1968; 2nd edition, Princeton/Bollingen Paperback, 1972), p. 262. 42 Virgil, Eclogue IV, lines 1-3. 4^Ibid. . , lines 4-10. 44Ibid., lines 13-14. 45Ibid., lines 18-25. 46 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1960), p. 34. 103 47Ibid., p. 72. 48 i Book of Daniel/ 3:52-82. j 49 St. Francis of Assisi, "The Canticle of the Sun,"; The Portable Medieval Reader, ed. by James Bruce Ross and | Mary Martin McLaughlin (New York: The Viking Press, 1949),j pp. 517-518. 50 Cf. Appendix 1 for original text. 51 Henry Nash Smith, Virgin Land (Cambridge: Har vard Univ,, Press, 1970), p. 11. i 52Ibid., p. 11. j 53 I R. W. B. Lewis, The American Adam (Chicago: The 1 University of Chicago Press’ ^ 1955) , p. 5 ~ , 54 ' Henry Nash Smith, Virgin Land (Cambridge: Har vard Univ., Press, 1970), p. 11. ' ^5R. W. B. Lewis, The American Adam (Chicago: The ■ Univ., Press, 1970), p. 5^ ^ Ibid. , p. 5. 57 i Howard Mumford Jones, Belief and Disbelief in American Literature (Chicago and London: The Univ., of Chicago Press, 1957) , p. 26. ^ Ibid., p. 26. ^ Ibid., pp. 26-27. ®®Ernst Robert Curtius, European Literature and the| Latin Middle Ages, trans. by Willard R. Trask, Bollingen i Series XXXVI (New York: Pantheon Books Inc., 1952), p. 187.1 61Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New YorJc: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1960), p. 27. CHAPTER IV THE OTHER SIDE OF PARADISE The sheer breadth of the pastoral concept, radi cated in the archetype, is so extensive as to require a reductionist viewpoint for partial comprehension. This horizontal aspect of pastoralism also has its vertical counterpart. In its own mode, with the human condition as essential datum, the archetype objectified operates as a symbolic categorical imperative. When one confronts pas toralism in its broad contexts, he immediately thinks of peace, serenity, delicious solitude, the good and simple life lived within the seasonal rhythms of nature. Pastoralj is also therapeutic. It connotes freedom from those exter nal forces associated with the laws, mores, and social strictures of civilization, that often function as instru ments of repression: governments, civil and criminal law codes, lawyers and judges, bureaucrats and militarists, tax-gatherers, and all the unthinking, inhuman-human ma chinery that reduces man to a number or to a statistic. In the real world, "...man's desire for happiness is in con flict with the whole world. Reality imposes on human beings the necessity of renunciation of pleasures; reality 104 105 frustrates desires."1 In the pastoral world one gives free reign to his desires; the only human contacts one makes and the only actions one need commit himself to are those he freely chooses and freely desires. i i j Further, and even more significantly, pastoralism connotes freedom from those elements within man that make the act of living itself a protracted and utterly contin gent conflict involving anxiety, suffering, bitterness, frustration, antagonism, hatred, and fear of death: Full circle, from the tomb of the womb to the womb of the tomb, we come: an ambiguous, enigmatical incursion into a world of solid matter that is soon to melt from us, like the substance of a dream. And, looking back at what had promised to be our own unique, un predictable and dangerous adventure, all we find in the end is such a series of standard metamorphoses as men and women have under gone in every quarter of the world, in all re corded centuries, and under every odd disguise of civilization.^ Over the pastoral world is cast the benign glow of the Fortunate Isles, Eden, Arcady, the Golden Age, the j Green World, the Magic Circle. How easy it is to forget that this apparently placid world has another side and that this other side provides the most profound of all reasons for the very existence of the concept of a pastoral world. The other side of paradise is irrational, chaotic, debilitating, and death-dealing. Just as the gentle pas toral world reflects the altruism of man, so too, the other 106 side of paradise reflects the dark forces that lie just beneath each man's light veneer of goodness. As Schopen- j hauer expresses it, "There really resides in the heart of j i each of us a wild beast which only waits the opportunity to ! ; j rage and rave in order to injure others, and which, if theyj do not prevent it, would like to destroy them."3 or, as Freud expresses and broadens the parallel concept: What appears...as an untiring impulsion toward further perfection can be easily understood as a result of the instinctual repression upon which is based all that is most precious in human civilization. The repressed instinct never ceases to strive for complete satisfaction, which would consist in the repetition of a primary ex perience of satisfaction. No substitutes or re active formations and no sublimations will suf fice to remove the repressed instinct's persist ing tension.4 The antitheses comprehended by pastoralism are striking, and it is the other side of the pastoral world that perhaps provides us with the soundest reasons and ! promotes those intuitions that offer some of the most basic• psychological imperatives for the existence of pastoralism ; in its innumerable manifestations. What is true of the j primordial world at one end of the pastoral spectrum is equally true of the world surviving in deadly tension at the other end of it; "The Faustian restlessness of man in history shows that men are not satisfied by the satisfac tion of their conscious desires; men are unconscious of 107 their real desires."5 Thus, primordial experiences: ...rend from top to bottom the curtain upon which is painted the picture of an ordered world, and allow a glimpse into the unfathomable abyss of the unborn and of things yet to be. Is it a vision of other worlds, or of the darkness of the spirit, or of the primal beginnings of the human psyche?® Of course, there is danger in overstating the chaotic side of conceived reality and Santayana mitigates this tendency when he writes that: While the conflict of life and the shocks of ex perience seem to bring us face to face with an alien and overwhelming power, reflection can humanise and rationalise that power by conceiving its laws; and with this recognition of the ration ality of all things comes the sense of their beauty and order.7 Another side of the pastoral world is glimpsed when Odysseus, the existential man, rejects the pastoral worlds of Calypso and Circe for the world of "history." Odysseus succumbs periodically to the blandishments of the pastoral paradises he encounters on his journey, but ulti mately he rejects each with appropriately characteristic defiance. Odysseus rejects immortality and accepts death as a corrolary of life. If Nietzsche's dichotomy in the Birth of Tragedy between Apollo and Dionysus is used, both sides of the pastoral coin become more apparent. Dionysus is the symbol 108 of chaos, of darkness, of unrestrained life; he is the leveller and destroyer of inhibitions in whose rites the votary becomes absorbed into nature and into the life force i that the god symbolizes. "Dionysus is not dream but j drunkeness; not life kept at a distance and seen through a \ veil but life complete and immediate."8 Apollo is Phoibos, the bright and radiant one— a luci-fer— who represents balance and control. Td yexpdv — nothing too much, all things in moderation— characterizes Apollo; but for Dionysus the formulae might read, "Every thing in excess and nothing in moderation." Dionysus ex presses the grandeur of a total affirmation of life; he, "...reunifies male and female, Self and Other, life and death."® Regarding this crucial distinction: ...if we assume that life is in itself an object of horror and terror and that pessimism...can be avoided only by the aesthetic transmutation of reality, there are two ways of doing this. One is to draw an aesthetic veil over reality, creat ing an ideal world of form and beauty. This is the Apollonian way. And it found expression in the Olympic mythology, in the epic and in the plastic arts. The other possibility is that of triumphant ly affirming and embracing existence in all its darkness and horror. This is the Dionysian at titude, and its typical art forms are tragedy and music. Tragedy does indeed transmute existence into an aesthetic phenomenon, but it does not draw a veil over existence as it is. Rather does it exhibit existence in aesthetic form and affirm it. 10 Perhaps, Copleston exaggerates when he states his basic 109 assumption; however, he quickly qualifies it and teste experientia it can be agreed that life holds more suffering than joy, more tears than laughter, and that even for the believer in an afterlife, this world remains hoc lacri- marum vale. In any case, whether or not one accepts pre vious speculations and evidence, however tenuous, regard ing the archetypal and conceptual foundations of pastoral- I ism, he certainly tends to associate the pastoral tradi tion, and the pastoral concept in some of its manifesta tions, with an idealized Apollonian world. This phenomenon points to an "aesthetic transmutation of reality," a quite valid description of pastoralism. i It is difficult to see in tragedy that Dionysian world which, "exhibit(s) existence in aesthetic form and | ] affirm(s) it." Nonetheless, in Greek tragedy one finds the! Apollonian and the Dionysian modes extant in a condition of dynamic tension that brings its audience to a profound con frontation with Apollo and Dionysus, with order and chaos. But of the two, tragedy begins with Dionysus. j i Aristotle relates the origin of tragedy to Diony- j i sus and the dithyramb, on which Campbell comments: The word 'Dithyrambos' itself, as an epithet of the killed and resurrected Dionysos, was under stood to signify 'him of the double door'... And we know that the choral songs (dithyrambs) and dark, blood-reeking rites in celebration of the god— associated with the renewal of vegetation, 110 the renewal of the moon, the renewal of the soul, and solemnized at the season of the resurrection of the year-god— represent the ritual beginnings of Attic tragedy.H With the advent of Apollo— or order, moderation, civiliza- j tion— the Dionysian frenzy is itself civilized and ordered in the classic formulations of Aeschylus and Sophocles and i i Euripides. Thence rises the controversy between Plato, who would ban the poets and tragedians from the Republic as perpetuators of passions and prejudices, and Aristotle, who ! propounded the kathartic effect— a purging of the Dionysian j thrust to chaos and threat to the body politic— of poetry ! i and tragedy. Marcuse claims, quite justifiably it appears, that! j Aristotle's position on the kathartic function of art ex- ! i presses its dual role: "...both to oppose and to recon cile; both to indict and to acquit; both to recall the repressed and to repress it again— 'purified'."12 And he 1 adds significantly in this context: People can elevate themselves with the classics; they read and see and hear their own archetypes rebel, triumph, give up, or perish. And since all this is aesthetically formed, they can enjoy it— and forget.it.13 Tragedy, then, represents a reconciliation or uni fication of the Apollonian and Dionysian polarities. Its paradoxical nature is indicated by Campbell's definition of Ill tragedy as, "... the shattering of the forms and of our at tachment to the forms.Both tragedy and comedy are the terms of that simple experience which comprehends both: ...the down-going'and the up-coming (kathodos and anados), which together constitute the totality of the revelation that is life, and which the in dividual must know and love if he is to be purged (katharsis»purgatorio) of the contagion of sin (disobedience to the divine will) and death (iden tification with the mortal form).15 Pastoralism in tragedy is both Apollonian and Dionysian. As quiescent nature in stasis it is Apollonian; as the vehicle for the dark passions of man in a state of ecstacy it is Dionysian. The tragedy that most clearly exemplifies this distinction is Euripides1 Bacchae. Lesky notes that Euripides' work is: ...largely controlled by the intermingling of . elementary emotion and rational thought, which ex presses his personality as well as that of...his contemporaries, who saw everywhere the advance of a new age over the ruins of tradition. The Bacchae as the final creation is symbolic of these tensions within Euripides' work.16 The historical conditions under which the play was created j fully corroborate this view. If the production date of 405 B.C. is accepted, the play was performed one year from i Athen's definitive defeat by Sparta. The psychological climate in the city was one of rage, confusion, and vindic tiveness— all the multiple curses that would be found in 112 | a city that just a few years before had been caught up in dreams of empire and military glory. The twin miracles of Marathon and Salamis had heralded a new and vigorous era that vindicated Athenian rationality— and the favor of the gods— over the dark powers of the East, incarnate in Persia. The exultant note that Pericles sounds when he celebrates a way of life worth dying for turns into a stri dent chord with Athenian military aggression swiftly fol lowed by the catastrophe of the Sicilian expedition and ul timately inglorious subjection to Sparta. All that re mained for Athens was a sense of profound shock, the be lief that the old gods had deserted her, and the confused search for an explanation of the debacle. The production of the Bacchae came within a year of the end, and six short years before democratic Athens found her perfect scapegoat in Socrates. The Bacchae, then, was presented at a time when the old values were obsolescent, when the ancient certain ties were being questioned, and when new cults were making their way into the Greek world from the East. Enter now the spirit of radicalism, mysticism, and ecstacy with Dionysus. Euripides' creation brings into dramatic focus jnot a modern, de-sacralized Dionysus, but a Dionysus who 113 ! I j subsumes the character of the ancient Arcadian deity Pan, the inventor of the shepherd's pipes of pastoral lore. How reminiscent is Dionysus of the ancient Pan, how delicately j balanced in the tensions he creates and plays upon: * The emotion that he instilled in human beings who by accident ventured into his domain was 'panic' fear, a sudden groundless fright. Any trifling cause then...would flood the mind with imagined danger, and in the frantic effort to escape from his own aroused unconscious the victim expired in a flight of dread. Yet Pan was benign to those who paid him worship....yeilding.. .bounty to the farmers, herders, and fisherfolk who dedicated their first fruits to him... Also wisdom, the wisdom of Omphalos, the World Navel, was his to bestow; for the crossing of the threshold is the first step into the sacred zone of the universal source.17 The character of Dionysus is also reminiscent of j ! i that of Orpheus, "...the archetype of the poet as liberator I j and creator,"18 who establishes in the world an order with-j out repression and who pacifies man through song and play. Orpheus is the symbol of the reunification of art, freedom, | and culture. "He is the poet of redemption, the god who | brings peace and salvation by pacifying man and nature not i through force, but through song..."l® In The Bacchae^® pastoral images and pastoral scenes abound. Early in the play, for example, the chorus isings of Dionysus and his devotees thus: Leader of our dance. The ground there flows with milk- and 114 Flows with wine and flows with Honey from the bees. Fragrant as the Syrian Frankincense, the pine fumes From the torch our spellbound leader holds High: its ruby flames Flaring as he runs— (142-147) And all the while, the holy Honey-throated flute Holily invents Its piping gaiety (160-163) Then the bacchanalian girl Is full of happiness and gambols Lightfooted as a filly Round its mother in the pastures. (166-170) There is nothing threatening in this scene, except that the j pace of the lines suggests violent movement barely re strained, and the picture of the girl as a filly is de lightful . such, he turns back time and rejuvenates his followers. The first episode of the play, pleasant and sinister at the time, depicts the aged sires Teiresias and Cadmus. Cadmus says, "Oh, how lovely to forget/Just how old we are I'] (187-188) The Ancient prophet adds, "My feelings too. I'm young again./I too am going to try the dance." (189- 190) The scene is humorous, but before long, Teiresias presents an assessment of the human condition that takes the humor out of the situation. There is a deadly seri-J The god is youthful and a bringer of youth. As ousness in what he says to Pentheus: I tell you, young sir, mankind has two blessings: Demeter is the one, the goddess (Earth, that is— call her what you will), who keeps men alive with solid food; the other is Semele's son, who came afterward and matched her food with wine. He it was who turned the grape into a flowing draft and proffered it to mortals So when they fill themselves with liquid vine they put an end to grief. It gives them sleep which drowns the sadness of each day. (272-282) Then, Teiresias goes on to describe the various powers of Dionysus: "He is a god of prophecies" (296), he grants "clairvoyant powers" (299), "He has assumed some of Ares' duties" (302). Teiresias predicts, "All through Greece his name shall be extolled." (308) The leader of the chorus adds to Teiresias accolade, "Your argument, old man,/does no dishonor to Apollo." (326-327) The play presents peace and frenzy juxtaposed. "Euripides saw the Dionysiac element as a mirror of nature, perhaps even more as a mirror of all life in this polarity of peace and tumult, of smiling charm and demoniac destruc tion. "21 The polarity exists within the god himself; the forces pitched one against the other. One may speak of peace in Dionysian terms, but this peace differs from the peace that is attributed to Apollo. .... ±16 The women of Thebes have gone to the mountains to worship Dionysus. The picture Euripides presents is one j of pastoral peace and harmony, and in fact places the scenej within a pastoral setting with the words of the Herdsman: j Our pasturing herds had just begun to climb the uplands at the hour the sun's first rays break their warmth upon the ground. (677-679) The women are all asleep, "Some lying on their backs upon the piney needles/others pillowed on the oak-leaved floor— / All modestly." (684-686) As the women awaken at the call j j of Agave, they present, "A sight more strangely orderly andj beautiful." The gentle pastoral details of the scene are truly striking. Some fondled young gazelles or untamed wolf-cubs in their arms and fed them with their own white milk: those, that is, who were young mothers with babies left at home and breasts that burgeoned. Then they wreathed their heads with ivy, oak, and bryony in flower. One of them took up her thyrsus, struck the rock, and water gushed from it as fresh as dew. Another hit her rod of fennel on the ground, and the god for her burst forth a fount of wine. Anyone who fancied liquid white to drink just scratched the soil with fingertips and had herself a jet of milk? while from their ivy-crested rods sweet streams of honey dropped. (698-712) But at the call to rise and worship the god, the scene changes swiftly and violently: 117 At a certain hour j the maenads shook the thyrsus for the bacchic dance j and with a common throat called out: "Iacchus, son of Zeus, great Bromius!" | Then the whole mountainside became convulsed and god-possessed even the animals: ! nothing but it moved with the mystic run. (722-729) There follows a scene in which the spying shep herds flee for their lives, "escaping being torn to pieces/j by these god-struck maniacs" (734-735) who then go wild in an orgy of blood lust, tearing heifers and calves and even i bulls to pieces in their Dionysian frenzy. There are two sides to Dionysus; one is peaceful, the other violent and chaotic and irrational. Peace can turn to violence in a second; order can be immediately overturned. That is the nature of the god. Even in the most peaceful pastoral setting, there lurks beneath the surface a force of nature that can be summoned into act by the god and then can be turned loose to rip and tear and destroy with an unearthly strength. The peace that Apollo represents is in no way comparable to that of Dionysus. Apollo, as the incarnation of balance, reason, order, and calm, does not shift swiftly to violence. The order and peace that he represents is the pastoral world as an idealization which the forces of dissolution violence large ly ignored. To live in Apollo's world is to live in a world governed by reason and to shut out those chaotic 118 forces that constantly threaten to destroy with irrational frenzy the ordered Apollonian cosmos. One of the themes of The Bacchae is expressed in the following terms: Progress and reason must be balanced with some thing deeper, some subliminal wholeness. Those who divorce themselves from the vibrant potency of nature are the very ones in greatest danger of losing their reason, which is the control that keeps the supernatural in its context precise ly by recognizing it.22 The pastoral world, from the Apollonian viewpoint, is a world which, as Nietzsche says, "...through its potent dazzling representations and its pleasurable illusions, must have triumphed over a terrible depth of world-contem- plation and a most keen sensitivity to s u f f e r i n g . "23 That same world, from a Dionysian viewpoint, is a world always on the verge of violent destruction, no matter what facade it presents to men and to the world. The Apollonian world may be characterized as an idealized world, that of Dionysus as a realized world. One depicts the world as it perhaps should be; the other as it really is. Freud writes: The hermit turns his back on this world; he will have nothing to do with it. But one can do more than that; one can try to recreate it, try to build up another instead, from which the most un bearable features are eliminated and replaced by others corresponding to one's own w i s h e s . 24 119 i I Man requires the ordered scene that his illusions conjure j up. His intellect is an instrument that has been turned in j the course of his development to the reduction of the realities he confronts to a cognitive order. He classi- ! fies, defines, limits, and out of the process, creates il lusions that help him to whip life and the world into some kind of order. But beneath the appearances, man knows there are other forces at work, and that what so often con stitutes for him his own personal reality— reality, one might say, as a principium individuationis— is merely an extrapolation of reality developed for purposes of compre hension and survival. Reality, the world, mankind is de facto broader than any definition, classification, or limitation. Nature is in fact chaotic, overwhelming, des tructive, and utterly irrational. Pastoralism, viewed within these distinctions, becomes in the Apollonian sense a compromise with reality? in the Dionysian sense, it com- i prises a potential confrontation with reality because even at its most peaceful, it recognizes the underlying chaos of nature and while it tends to cling to individuation, it j knows that in the Dionysian order, man is one with nature | and that his life between birth and death is only a tempor ary individuation during an endless process of total absorp-f tion in that primal unity objectified in nature. A case could also be made for drawing a distinc- tion between the Apollonian nature of prelapsarian pastoral ism and the Dionysian nature of postlapsarian pastoralism. The one is divine, the other satanic; the one represents a | perfect world, tne other an imperfect world in which man i must exert his wiles to survive. The former is a world of stasis; the latter functions in the order of exstasis. Santayana crystallizes the idea neatly: I j Yet in our alertest moment the depths of the soul are still dreaming; the real world stands drawn in bare outline against a background of chaos and unrest. Our logical thoughts dominate experience only as the parallels and meridians make a check- board of the sea. They guide our voyage without controlling the waves, which toss forever in spite of our ability to ride over them to our chosen ends. Sanity is a madness put to good uses; waking life is a dream controlled.25 One cannot help but be struck by the modernity of the Bacchae. With Freud came a redefinition of man that saw the species as essentially diseased: to be human is to be sick. To be in the world is to be in a sick world that requires of its human inhabitants only that they "adjust." The pastoral forms in their various species symbolize this adjustment; pastoralism presents a "transmutation of reality" that necessarily defines an illusion of what might be, based on what is. Still, the belief persists that what might be is potentially so close to what is, that pastoralism continues throughout history because it seems always to be a tantalizing and real possibility. j 121 Lucretius, in the well-known passage on the rise j of civilization in Book V of the De Rerum Natura, cites thej pastoral life as a significant step in this development. In his depiction of the rise of man from a state of savage-j ry, he evokes with poetic simplicity both the pastoral con cept and the sources of the pastoral tradition: Then bit by bit They learned sweet plainings, such as pipe out-pours, Beaten by finger-tips of singing men. When heard through unpathed groves and forest deeps And woodsy meadows, through the untrod haunts Of shepherd folk and spots divinely still. And often, lounging with friends in the soft grass Beside a river of water, underneath A big tree's branches, merrily they'd refresh Their frames with no vast outlay— most of all If the weather were smiling and the times of the year Were painting the green of the grass around with flowers. Then jokes, then talk, then peals of jollity Would circle round; for then the rustic muse Was in her glory; then would antic Mirth Prompt them to garland head and shoulders about With chaplets of intertwined flowers and leaves, And to dance onward, out of tune, with limbs Clownishly swaying, and with clownish foot To beat our mother earth...2® On the surface this is a delightful picture of the simple pastoral life. But when the passage is placed in context, one must acknowledge the fact that Lucretius is not simply describing an idealized pastoral world. Rather, the pastoral world as he depicts it is simply one of a se- 122 quence of stages in the development of civilization. In fact, Lucretius is describing an evolving world and early man lives in a world denoted by the term "hard" primiti- j vism. The world evolves in stages from a state of savageryj i to that of civilization, and the evolutionary pattern ap pears highly deterministic. In this world that Lucretius depicts— and the poet speaks on the basis of ancient tra dition— pre- and postlapsarianism have no significance. Lucretius' pastoral world is simply one more step in what seems to be an inevitable process— a processus ad infinitum. Freud might well be presenting a realistic assessment of Lucretius' evolutionary presentation when he says: ...so-called civilization itself is to be blamed i for a great part of our misery, and we should be j much happier if we were to give it up and go back to primitive conditions. I call this amazing be cause— however one may define culture— it is un deniable that every means by which we try to guard ourselves against menaces from the several sources of human distress is a part of this same c u l t u r e . 2 7 Yet the disjunction between civilization and primitivism is} tenuous and necessarily incomplete if one accepts the psy chic continuity that Jung propounds or if one holds with Freud that civilization is "...determined by its archaic heritage,1 1 which includes, "...not only dispositions, but also ideational contents, memory traces of the experiences 123 ' I of former generations."28 | l ! However tenuous the abhievements of civilization, man does turn back to the primitive world— for example, that described by Lucretius— as a reaction to civilization.! The latter often turns out not to be a blessing, but a form; of enslavement, and in the context of civilization, the pastoral world comes to represent a world that is lost, but for which man guests with undiminished appetite. Thus, pastoralism, both as concept and as tradition, represents a reaction against civilization and a return to "soft" primitivism. The polarity and antithesis are sharply drawn: nature versus civilization. The distinction between Apollo and Dionysus ob viously is capable of a vast metaphorical extension. One of the most obvious of these extensions is to equate civi lization with Apollo and nature with Dionysus. To further extend the metaphor; Civilization is a complex system of dams, dykes, and canals warding off, directing, articulating the influx of the surrounding fluid element; a fertile fenland, elaborately drained and pro tected from the high tides of chaotic, unexer cised, and inarticulate experience.29 : i Civilization represents a concept of order; and the con- | cept implies sequence, definition, classification, and limitation. But need it do so necessarily? Perhaps the antithesis between civilization and nature will cease when order becomes, "an order that embodies the incalculable and unpredictable, transcending our rational grasp precisely where it meets the reasons of the heart."30 A comparatively mild form of this antithesis is expressed in the distinction between country life and city life drawn by Horace in the classic fable of the country mouse and the city mouse. The gentle Satire VI^l begins - with a prayer that is elicited by a practical pastoral desire: This is what I prayed for!— a piece of land not so very large, where there would be a garden, and near the house a spring of ever-flowing water, and up above these a bit of woodland. More and better than this have the gods done for me. I am' content. Nothing more do I ask, 0 son of Maia, save that thou make these blessings last my life long. (11.1-5) Compared to life in the city, country life is healthy: "Here no...leaden scirocco, nor sickly autumn, that brings gain to hateful Libitina." (18-19) After recounting the old fable of the country mouse and the city mouse, at its conclusion Horace says, quoting the country mouse, "No use have I for such a life, and so farewell: my wood and hole,i secure from alarms, will solace me with homely vetch." (115-117) The conclusion is simple, obvious, and inevi table . i | Horace's satire is a gently expressed form of the j antithesis that one encounters in much literature; for 125 I example, in the ancient Song of Solomon, city and court j clearly represent enslavement, no matter how silken, and j the desert represents freedom and the fullness of life. Horace puts into mildly satiric form what so many writers j seem always to have professed: that life in the country is better and more natural than life in the city, an artifi cial creation. It might be objected, in passing, that this: certainly was not the case in Fifth Century Athens; her citizens believed in the quasi-sanctifying role of the polis. Yet, those Athenians who could afford it maintained farms and country estates outside the city both for food supply and as a refuge from life in the city and its pres sures . At this point one recalls the standard loci for J the depiction of"the exacerbation involved in the contrast between city and country. For Juvenal, Satire III, the city is a wild, threatening place of mass confusion in j which men are necessarily brutalized. Samuel Johnson's "London" is drawn from Juvenal. In neither case is the city treated with levity. The city is the symbol, the fo- ; i cal point of civilization, the place where the cives con gregate, and it is an evil to be positively rejected. Neo-classicists equate "nature" with "reason." Rousseau turned the meaning of "nature" and destroyed its earlier identification with the natural world. For 126 Rousseau, "...nature is the human heart...it is man's good and benevolent Mother, who created him pure and happy..."33 Civilization is evil, but nature is good and man has but to return to nature to be saved, Rousseau's doctrine can thus) be summarized: ! ...nature made man good, society has made him bad; nature made man free, society has made him a slave? nature made man happy, society has made him miserable.33 In Civilization and Its Discontents, Freud ad- equates the role of society, or civilization, with that of > repression. He stresses the point that in order to com- | prehend the nature of civilization, one must not "...ignore; i the extent to which civilization is built up on renuncia- } ; \ tion of instinctual gratifications."3^ And despite the j conquest of nature that has characterized the development i of civilization, even this, "...fulfillment of age-old longings, has not increased the amount of pleasure...(men) can obtain in life, has not made them feel any happier."35 i | Hassan, extrapolating from Freud and Norman O. j Brown, says, "...repression begets civilization, civiliza- ;tion begets more repression, more repression begets ab straction, and abstraction begets death."3® When Hassan speaks of abstraction, he uses it to mean the process by which man approaches pure intelligence, a total withdrawal from reality into the world of perfect order represented by 127 abstraction— Apollonianism driven to its logical, or illogi- ; | cal, ultimate. Hassan quotes Brown to the effect that for j human beings, a great work of transformation in their per sonal development requires that they face the Dionysian reality: ...the Apollonian preserves, the Dionysian des troys, self-consciousness. As long as the struc ture of the ego is Apollonian, Dionysian experience can only be bought at the price of ego-dissolution. Nor can the issue be resolved by a * synthesis' of the Apollonian and Dionysian ego...37 Might not the persistence of pastoralism argue for; the continual attempt on the part of man— conscious, or ! I more often subconscious— to return to the nature of the order of Dionysus? Man's attempted reunification with nature is one that in Freudian terms equates life and death. Man as the historical animal separated from nature lives his history as neurosis. Human history, or the his tory of humans, presents a "...search for instinctual O Q ’ satisfaction under conditions of instinctual repression."00 Mankind thus condemns itself to an endless search, "...for ! a quality of experience denied to it under conditions of repression."39 To regard man in this way is to see history as neurosis and to see man as, "...pressing restlessly and j unconsciously toward the abolition of history and the at- j i i tainment of a state of rest which is also a reunification j with nature."40 _ _ J ; 128 Thus, if pastoralism is seen as one aspect of man's expression of his struggle for reunification with nature, a "...deep-rooted, passionate striving for a posi tive fulfillment of happiness, then pastoralism becomes a manifestation of homeostasis, or "...the activity of all organisms and also of the human mind...directed at getting rid of tensions and attaining inactivity."42 What Brown calls, "...the search for psychic health under conditions of psychic disease,"43 validates the concept of man the maker of history, the Faustian man. "If repression were overcome, the restless career of Faustian man would come to an end because he would be satisfied.. "44 This strongly suggests the Faustian notion that if man loses his desire to struggle, then he is at the point of death, and the devil may claim his soul. At this point, Freud's aphorism, "The goal of all life is death," is realized and it becomes possible to adequate pastoralism with death. Much that Freud says about civilization pushes the formulation of the pastoral concept to the forefront. In his analysis of suffering, Freud points to three sources; suffering comes: ...from our own body, which is destined to decay and dissolution, and cannot even dispense with anxiety and pain as danger signals; from the outer world, which can rage against us with the most powerful and pitiless forces of destruction; and finally, from our relations with other m e n . 45 129 : t Each of these three sources of suffering finds some sort ofj apparent remedy in a particular aspect of pastoralism. | Thus, faced with the necessity of coming to terms with ’ death, men create a pastoral world into which death may obtrude, as in elegiac pastoral, but death enters that world as a contingent phenomenon that is immediately sur- i rounded by nature, submerged in natural events, sublimated,I sanctified, and apotheosized. This pattern is evident, for example, in Virgil's "Eclogue V," in which Mopsus mourns the death of Daphnis, a shepherd, and Menalcas pro- ! claims his divinity. Spenser, too, exploits the pastoral elegy with brilliance in "November" of The Shepherd1s Calendar.^6 jn "November," Spenser, "...bewaileth the death of some maiden of great blood, whom he called Dido." Death comes and one of the narrators, Colin, laments: Ay me that dreary Death should strike so mortal strokev, That can undo Dame Nature's kindly course: The faded locks fall from the lofty oak, The floods do gasp, for dried is their source, And floods of tears flow in their stead perforce The mantled meadows mourn, J Their sundry colours turn. | 0 heavy herse, j The heavens do melt in tears without remorse. 0 careful verse. (11. 123-132) j But when all nature has duly lamented, then: Dido is gone afore (whose turn shall be next?) j There lives she with the blessed Gods in bliss, j ----- 1 130 There drinks she Nectar with Ambrosia mixt, And joys enjoys, that mortal men do miss. ! The honour now of highest gods she is, I That whilom was poor shepherds' pride, | While here on earth she did abide. O happy herse, Come cease now my song, my woe now wasted is, O joyful verse. (11. 193-202) The conclusion is simple, direct, and practical: j i Now Colin up, enough thou mourned hast, Now gins to mizzle, hie we homeward fast. (11.207-208) The same pattern is evident in Theocritus' "Idyl I," Bion's "Lament for Adonis," to some extent in Virgil's "Eclogue X" (Gallus), and in the English elegies of Keats, Shelley, and Arnold. In some pastoral worlds— for example, the world of comedy— death may not enter at all. It may lurk on the fringes of the magic circle, but j it has no place in the artificial mundus perfectior of comedy, and of nature. Man also finds surcease from the afflictions of the "outer world" in the realm of the pastoral. "Outer world" may be equated with the real world or even with the j world of malign nature. In the pastoral world of prelap- | ; sarian innocence and in the world of pastoral tradition, nature is benevolent and benign. Tibullus^? carries the : pastoral world of nature into the Elysian fields and iwrites: | 131 There never flags the dance and song. The birds fly here and there, fluting sweet carols from their slender throats. Untilled the field bears cassia, and through all the land with scented roses blooms the kindly earth... There are all on whom Death swooped because of love; on their hair are myrtle garlands for all to see. (11. 59-66) The real or "outer world" threatens man and eventually des troys him? the ideal or "inner world" circumscribed by pastoral consoles and nourishes man, and provides him with : an imaginary escape from an essentially destructive life- situation. Thus, ultimately, pastoralism becomes a kind of conceptual hedge against all the destructive forces of civilization, including relationships with other men. Thoroughly antithetic to the Hobbesian view of human na- j ture and human relationships, the pastoral world presents human contacts that are limited and of such a nature as seldom to offer a threat. There is a simplicity and unanimity that characterizes relationships in the pastoral I world of tradition, and these relationships are formed and developed within an essentially benign natural setting. Modern adaptations of the pastoral phenomenon j range from the pastoral paradises of the Romantics who suffused their creations in an other-worldly grandeur, such as Chateaubriand, to nostalgia for a pastoral world that is hard but natural and inhabited by the truly noble common man of Thomas Gray and Wordsworth. This modern continuance of an ancient idea, the nostalgia for "the [ perfection of the beginning of things," makes of pastoral- j I ism a concept that is ever relevant as ideal and reality. j f Symptomatic of the phenomenon is Goldsmith's lament for j the destruction of pastoral England and the natural rhythmsi that characterized it; implicit in the lament is the age- old condemnation of the city. One wonders if Goldsmith were even remotely aware of how profound the change being [ worked on England and the world by the Industrial Revolu tion really was. Perhaps with a poet's intuition he saw and expressed more than he consciously realized in The Deserted Village. Present-day pastoralism is equally symp-; tomatic of the universal malaise which changes its guise j i but persists— the sense of alienation from nature that | civilization consistently represents. Today, many men feel this alienation both from nature and from their own history; i Without rehearsing William Empson's treatment of pastoral as proletarian literature, nonetheless there exists today a clearly social dimension to pastoralism. Such modern movements in America as the universal concern for the environment, the development of the National Park System, the return to the rural life of the communes, and the widespread interest in natural foods stand as clear manifestations of the American craving for the good life lived close to nature— or pastoralism today. 133 The realities symbolized by pastoralism have been rendered by many modern writers. Silone, for example, started by writing an anti-pastoral, Fontamara, in 1924. Of it, he writes: Now two points. This story will seem loud in its contrast with the picturesque image that southern Italy frequently assumes in literature. In books, as is well known, southern Italy is a blessed and very lovely country, where peasant men go to their work singing songs of gladness, where peasant las ses in the daintiest of traditional costumes send their songs ringing in answer, while nightingales warble from the nearby wood. This has unfortunately never occurred at Fontamara... There is no wood near Fontamara; the mountain is as dry and desolate as the greater part of the Appenines. There are few birds. There are no nightingales; in the dialect there is not even a word for nightingale.48 But in the two novels that followed Fontamara, Bread and Wine, and The Seed Beneath the Snow, Silone works out the salvation of one Pietro Spina who had lost touch with his family, his roots, and his life in the village. He achieves salvation only because he returns to his sources, and they are in the country where the people are good, j ! where the work is healthful, and where the life is close to nature. The same pastoral realities with which Silone contends have been rendered by such other writers as Hesse, Bachelli, Sholokhov, Steinbeck, Undset, and Kaz- antzakis, to name but a few. 134 Unquestionably, pastoralism versus urbanism, the city against the country, civilization as the antithesis of nature, continues to function as a significant and abiding symbol in modern literature. Nowhere are the themes better illustrated than in Paton1s Cry, the Beloved Country. The opening of the novel effectively synthesizes the sacral character of the land, as it stands in stark and brutal contrast with the city: There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond the singing of it...and from there, if there is no mist, you look down on one of the fairest valleys in Africa. About you there is grass and bracken and you may hear the forlorn crying of the titihoya, one of the birds of the veld... The grass is rich... Stand unshod upon it, for the ground is holy, being even as it came from the Creator. Keep it, guard it, care for it, for it keeps men, guards men, cares for men. Destroy it and man is des troyed. 49 This perception of the power of the land is not simply African— it is universal. Societies have been destroyed throughout history by the impact of civilization. Today African tribal order and mores, customs, conventions and traditions are in the process of being destroyed as men ileave their ancestral lands and move to the cities. The nostalgia for life in the country, close to nature is carried by men with them to the cities. Why, then, do they go to the cities? Again, the seductions of tech- 135 nology are centered around human vice and greed, are ■ i focused on postlapsarian, fallen man. And man falls, but he does not forget his roots. i In Paton's novel, these conflicts are vividly dra-| matized. Civilization has been the great destroyer; but | back on the land there is hope. On the land there exists ! a simple social structure within which people can live securely and relatively free from the anxieties and aliena-i } tion of rootlessness. That is one of the reasons the pas- ; toral idea persists: there is strength to confront life ' i both in the real and in the ideal order. To live an approx-* imation to the pastoral life, to achieve occasional contact! with the natural world, or to experience it vicariously ! through literature helps to put man again in direct contact) with himself, within an ambience that makes this contact possible, if not inevitable. In our discussion of pastoralism, we have placed its origins in the infancy of the species. The archetypes j are not subject to process as such; they are neither activej nor passive. It can simply be stated of them that they j i seem conceptually to perdure as ideas. The subject-object relationship is phenomenal. By emphasizing, not the nature of the concept itself, but its objectification and manifes tation in pastoralism as concept, the analysis of the lat ter argues in retro for the substantial archetype that underlies the accidental forms in which the pastoral con- j cept is expressed and communicated. ' i I Ultimately, the archetypal idea and the concept perdure amidst changes in condition, form, emphasis, and in history as significantly literary, sociological, political,: philosophical, and psychological. This spirit of human renewal and of continuity with the human past is effective-; ly synthesized by Santayana when he writes of man that: He hears voices on all occasions; he incorporates what little he observes of nature into his verbal dreams; and as each new impulse bubbles to the surface he feels himself on the verge of some in expressible heaven or hell.5° Yet seldom does man plunge over this verge on which he stands poised. He is adept at rationalizing himself out of the plunge, at postponing the existential choice, at creating protected worlds outside and within himself that free him in the slavery of choicelessness. Firmly set within the protections of civilization, however, he cannot still the siren voice that calls to him from out of the past: He needs but to abandon himself to that seething chaos which perpetually underlies conventional sanity— a chaos in which memory and prophecy, vision and impersonation, sound and sense are inextricably jumbled together— to find himself at once in a magic world, irrecoverable, largely unmeaning, terribly intricate, but, as he will 137 conceive/ deep, inward, and absolutely real. He i will have reverted, in other words, to crude ex- j perience, to primordial i l l u s i o n . 51 j Pastoralism is broad enough to encompass both the j prelapsarian and the postlapsarian world; it includes j Apollo and Dionysus, played off against one another ever in tension, never in a state of reconciliation. They are I the poles between which man is stretched and his very an- j guish expresses the human condition. In its ideational j breadth, pastoralism might be validly regarded as another touchstone for an understanding of the record of man on j earth, and beyond that as a concept that clearly indicates, i "...the essential human condition precedes the actual human CO condition." This postulate argues for the continuity of ; pastoralism because it stresses the existential fact that, all analysis and speculation notwithstanding: ...man is obliged to return to the actions of his ancestors either to confront or else repeat them; in short, never to forget them, whatever way he may choose to perform this regressus ad originem. Never to forget the essential deed...to make it present, to re-live it.53 138 CHAPTER IV FOOTNOTES i jL 1 Norman O. Brown, Life Against Death (Middletown, ! Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 1959), p. 8. j 2 1 Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, t Bollingen Series XVII (Princeton, Mew Jersey: Princeton j University Press, 1968; 2nd edition, Princeton/Bollingen Paperback, 1972), pp. 12-13. 3 Frederick Copleston, S. J. , A History of Philosophy, 1 Vol. VII, Part II (Garden City, New York': Doubleday and i Company, Inc., 1965), p. 47. j 4Norman 0. Brown, Life Against Death (Middletown, j Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 1959), p. 19. ^Ibid., p. 18. C . Carl G. Jung, "Psychology and Literature," The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature, trans. by R. F. C. Hull; Bollingen Series XX (Pantheon Books, 1966), p. 90. George Santayana, Essays in Literary Criticism, | ed. by Irving Singer (New York: Charles 'Scribner's' Sons, 1956), p. 226. 8 Norman O. Brown, Life Against Death (Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, T9£>9) , pp. 174- 175. ^Ibid., p. 175. ■^Frederick Copleston, S.J., A History of Philoso- j phy, Vol. VII, Part II (Garden City, New York: Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1965), p. 171. Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Bollingen Series XVII (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1968? 2nd edition, Princeton/Bollingen Paperback, 1972), pp. 142-143. 12 Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization (Boston: Beacon Press, 1966), p. 145. 139 ^ Ibid. , p. 145. ^Joseph Campbell/ The Hero with a Thousand Faces/ Bollingen Series XVII (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1968; 2nd edition, Princeton/Bollingen j Paperback, 1972), p. 28. 15Ibid., p. 28. | 16Albin Lesky, A History of Greek Literature, trans: by James Willis and Cornelius de Heer (London: Methuen and: Co., Ltd., 1966), p. 398. 17 i Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, j Bollingen Series XVII (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1968; 2nd edition, Princeton/Bollingen Paperback, 1972), pp. 81-82. 18 Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization (Boston: Beacon Press, 1966), p. 170. 19Ibid., p. 170. 2 0 Euripides, The Bacchae from Three Plays of Eurip-' ides, trans. by Paul Roche (NewYork: W. W. Norton and ! Company, Inc., 1974). 21 Albin Lesky, A History of Greek Literature, trans.! by James Willis and Cornelius de Heer (London: Methuen and* Co., Ltd., 1966), p. 399. 22 Euripides, Three Plays of Euripides, trans. by Paul Roche (New York: W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1974), p. ix. 23 Friedrich Nietzsche, The Philosophy of Nietzsche i (The Modern Library ed.) (New York: Random House, Inc., 1927), p. 964. j 24 1 Sigmund Freud, Civilization and its Discontents, trans. by Joan Riviere (London: The Hogarth Press Ltd., and The Institute or Psycho-Analysis, 1953), p. 36. 25 George Santayana, Essays in Literary Criticism, ed. by Irving Singer (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1956), pp. 286-287. 26 Lucretius, Of the Nature of Things, trans. by j William Ellery Leonard (New York: E.P. Dutton and Co., j Inc., 1957), p. 243. j 140 27 Sigmund Freud, Civilization and its Discontents, trans. by Joan Riviere (London: The Hogarth Press Ltd., j and the Institute or Psycho-Analysis, 1953), p. 44. j 28 Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization (Boston: Beacon Press, 1966), p. 56. 2 9 ■ Erich Heller, The Disinherited Mind (London: Bowes and Bowes, 1970), p. 279. 30Ibid., p. 299. 31 . Horace, Satires, Epistles and Ars Poetica, trans.j by H. Rushton Fairclough, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge: Harvard Univ., Press, London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1926)! Satires II, 6. 32 Erich Auerbach, Romance Languages and Literature, trans. by Guy Daniels (New 'York: Capricorn Books, 1961), ! p. 227. 33Ibid., p. 227. 34 Sigmund Freud, Civilization and its Discontents, trans. by Joan Riviere (London: The Hogarth Press Ltd., and the Institute or Psycho-Analysis, 1953), p. 63. ; 33Ibid., p. 46. 3 6 Ihab Hassan, The Literature of Silence (New York:j Alfred A. Knopf, 1967), p. 25. 3^Ibid., p. 25. ! 38 Norman O. Brown, Life Against Death (Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 1959), p. 90. | 3^Ibid., p. 90. i 40Ibid., p. 91. 41 Sigmund Freud, Civilization and its Discontents, trans. by Joan Riviere (London: The Hogarth Press Ltd., and the Institute or Psycho-Analysis, 1953), p. 37. 42Norman O. Brown, Life Against Death (Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 1959), p. 89. 43Ibid., p. 90. | 141 ^ Ibid. , p. 90. j ^Sigmund Freud, Civilization and its Discontents, j trans. by Joan Riviere (London: The Hogarth Press Ltd. , and the Institute or Psycho-Analysis, 1953), p. 28. i 4 6 R. G. Barnes, "November," Episodes in Five Poetic; Traditions, p. 96 ff. 47 J. P. Postgate trans., Tibullus from Catullus, Tibullus, and Pervigilium Veneris (Loeb Classical Library) (Cambridge: Harvard Univ., Press, London: William Heine- ; mann Ltd., 1962), p. I, 3. 48 Ignazio Silone, Fontamara, trans., by Michael | Wharf (New York: Harrison Smith and Robert Haas, Inc., 1934), pp. xvi-svii. 49 Alan Paton, Paton:' s Cry, the Beloved Country: the Novel, the Critics, the Setting, e<H by Sheridan Baker ! (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1968) , p. 7. 50 George Santayana, Essays in Literary Criticism, ed. by Irving Singer (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1956), p. 318. 51Ibid., p. 318. ■ ■■- t 52 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams and Mysteries, trans. by Philip Mairet (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1960), p. 54. ^Ibid. , pp. 54-55. , BIBLIOGRAPHY Aristophanes. The Peace. i Auerbach, Erich. "L'Humaine Condition." Mimesis, trans lated by Willard R. Trask, Garden City, New York: ] Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1957, p. 272. ________ . Romance Languages and Literature. Translated by Guy Daniels, New York: Capricorn Books, 1961. Bachelard, Gaston. On Poetic Imagination and Reverie. Translated with an introduction by Colette Gaudin, , Indianapolis and New York: The Bobbs-Merrill Com- 1 pany, Inc., 1971. I Bailey, Cyril. "Lucretius." Proceedings of the British Academy, Vol. 35, London: 1949, pT 151. Barnes, R. G. "November." Episodes in Five Poetic Tradi tions . San Francisco! Chandler Publishers, 1972, j pp. 96-103. Beye, Charles Rowan. The Iliad, The Odyssey, and The Epic , Tradition. New York: Doubleday and Company, Inc.,; 1966. Bodkin, Maude. Archetypal Patterns in Poetry. London: Oxford Univ., Press, 1963. Brown, Norman O. Life Against Death. Middletown, Connect icut: Wesleyan Univ., Press, 1959. ________ . Love1s Body. New York: Vintage Books, 1966. Brown, Raymond E. S.S.; Fitzmyer, Joseph A. S.J.; and Murphy, Roland E. O. Carm., eds. The Jerome Bibli cal Commentary. Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1968. Burrows, David J.; Lapides, Frederick R.; and Shawcross, John T., eds. Myths and Motifs in Literature. New York: The Free Press, 1973. 142 Campbell# Joseph. The Hero With a Thousand Faces. Bollin-1 gen Series XVII, Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton j Univ., Press, 2nd edition, 1968, Princeton/Bollin- j gen Paperback, 1972. i Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus. Translated by Justin; O'Brien, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1955. Cicero. De Republica. Copleston, Frederick, S. J. A History of Philosophy. Vol.i 8, Part 2, Garden City, New York: Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1965. Curtius, Ernst Robert. European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages. Translated by Willard R. Trask, Bol- lmgen Series XXXVI, New York: Pantheon Books Inc.,1 1952. Dostoevsky, Feodor. Crime and Punishment. Translated by Jessie Coulson, New York: W. W. Norton and Company,1 Inc., 1964. Duff, J. Wight. A Literary History of Rome. Translated by: A. M. Duff, New York: Barnes and Noble Inc., 1963. Eliade, Mircea. Images and Symbols. Translated by Philip Mairet, New York: Sheed and Ward, 1961. _________. Myths, Dreams and Mysteries. Translated by Philip Mairet, New York: Harper and Brothers Pub lishers, 1960. Empson, William. Some Versions of Pastoral. London: Chatto and Windus Ltd., Publishers, 1938. Euripides. Cyclops and Electra. ________ . The Bacchae. Three Plays of Euripides, trans lated by Paul Roche, New York: W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1974. Freud, Sigmund. Civilization and its Discontents. Trans lated by Joan Riviere, London: The Hogarth Press j and the Institute or Psycho-Analysis, 1953. j Friedenthal, Richard. Goethe: His Life and Times. Cleve land and New York: The World Publishing Company, 1965. 144 Friedlander, Paul. Plato. Translated by Hans Meyerhoff, Bollingen Series LIX, New York: Pantheon Books Inc., 1958. Gordon, R. K., trans. Anglo-Saxon Poetry. New York: Dutton, 1954. Gow, A. S. F. Greek Bucolic Poets. Cambridge: Cambridge Univ., Press, 1953. ________ . Theocritus. Oxford, 2nd edition, 2 vols., 1952. Grande Larousse Encyclopedique. Vol. 8, Paris: Libraire Larousse, 1968. Greg, W. W. "Pastoral: A Literary Inquiry." Pastoral Poetry and Pastoral Drama, Reprinted by permission of Sidgwick and Jackson Ltd., 1905, p. 8. ________ . Pastoral and Romance. Edited by Eleanor Terry Lincoln, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: Prentice- Hall Inc., 1969. Hassan, Ihab. The Literature of Silence. New York: Alfred h ~ . Knopf, 1967. Heller, Erich. The Disinherited Mind. London: Bowes and Bowes, 1970. Hesse, Hermann. Magister Ludi. Translated by Mervyn Savill, New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing Co., 1949. Homer. The Odyssey. Translated by E. V. Rieu, Baltimore: Penguin Books, 1946. Horace. Ars Poetica. ________ . Satires, Epistles, Ars Poetica. Translated by H. Rushton Fairclough and Loeb Classical Library, Cambridge: Harvard Univ., Press, London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1926. Jones, Howard Mumford. Belief and Disbelief in American Literature. Chicago and London: The Univ., of Chicago Press, 1967. 145 Jung, Carl G. "Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious." j The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, i translated by R. F. C. Hull, 2nd edition, Vol. 9 | of the collected works of C. G. Jung Bollingen ! Series XX, Princeton: Princeton Univ., Press, 1968,| p. 6. I "Psychological Aspects of the Mother Archetype."! The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, translated by R. FI Cl Hull, Princeton: Princeton : Univ., Press, 1968, p. 79. _________. "The Concept of the Collective Unconscious." The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, translated by R. FI Cl Hull, Princeton: Princeton i Univ., Press, 1968, p. 43. _________. "Psychology and Literature." The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature, translated by R. F. C. Hull, Bollingen Series XX, Pantheon Books, 1966, p. 90. S Kramer, Samuel Noah. Sumerian Mythology. New York: Harper and Row, Publishers, 1961. Lesky, Albin. A History of Greek Literature. Translated by James Willis and Cornelius de Heer, London: Methuen and Co., Ltd., 1966. Levi-Strauss, Claude. The Savage Mind. Translated by George Weidenfeld and Nicolson, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1966. Tristes Tropiques. Translated by John Russell, New York: Criterion Books, 1961. Lewis, Charlton T. Ph.D., and Short, Charles LL.D. A Latinj Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1962. Lewis, R. W. B. The American Adam. Chicago: The Univer sity of Chicago Press, 1955. Lucretius. Of the Nature of Things. Translated by William Ellery Leonard, New York: E. P. Dutton and Co., Inc., 1957. On the Nature of Things. Translated by H. A. J. Munro, Chicago: Encyclopedia Britannica, Inc., 1952. 146 Marcuse, Herbert. Eros and Civilization. Boston: Beacon j Press, 1966. i | Maritain, Jacques and Raissa. "Concerning Poetic Knowl edge." The Situation of Poetry, translated by Marshall Suther, New York: Philosophical Library, 1 1955, p. 53. Maugham, W. Somerset. Of Human Bondage. New York: Doubile- day and Company! Inc., 1936. Neumann, Erich. "Art and Time." Art and the Creative Unconscious, translated by Ralph Manheim, Bollingenj Series LXI, Princeton: Princeton Univ., Press, 1 1959, p. 85. | Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Philosophy of Nietzsche. The Modern Library Ed. New York: Random House, Inc., 1927. Otis, Brooks. Virgil. Clarendon Press, 1964. Panofsky, Erwin. "Et in Arcadia Ego." Philosophy and His-' tory, Essays Presented to Ernst Cassirer, reprinted; by permission of the Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1969,; p. 27. ________ . Pastoral and Romance. Edited by Eleanor Terry Lincoln, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: Prentice- Hall, 1969. Paton, Alan. Paton's Cry, the Beloved Country: the Novel, the Critics, the Setting. Edited by Sheridan Bakex; New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1968. Poschl, Viktor. The Art of Virgil. Ann Arbor: Univ., of : Michigan Press, 1962. j i Postgate, J. P., trans. "Tibullus." Catullus, Tibullus, and Pervigilium Veneris, (Loeb Classical Library), Cambridge: Harvard Univ., Press, London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1962, Part I, p. 3. Richard, Jean-Pierre. "Knowing and Feeling in Stendhal." Stendhal Red and Black, translated and edited by Robert M. Adams, New York: W. W. Norton and Com pany, Inc., 1969, p. 490. 147 Robb, Kevin. "Greek Oral Memory and the Origins of Philo sophy. " The Personalist, Vol. 51, No. 1 (Winter, 1970), p. 7. Santayana, George. Essays in Literary Criticism. Edited j by Irving Singer, New York: Charles Scribner's | Sons, 1956. ; _________. Some Turns of Thought in Modern Philosophy. Freeport, N. Y.: Books for Libraries Press, Inc., j 1933, reprinted 19 67. j Silone, Ignazio. Fontamara. Translated by Michael Wharf, New York: Harrison Smith and Robert Haas, Inc., 1934. II seme sotto la neve. Edited by Faro, Roma: 1945. Smith, Hallett. "Elizabethan Pastoral." Pastoral and Romance, Edited by Eleanor Terry Lincoln, Englewood; Cliffs, N. J.: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1969, p. 21. Smith, Henry Nash. Virgin Land. Cambridge: Harvard Univ.,! Press, 1970. St. Francis of Assisi. "The Canticle of the Sun." The Portable Medieval Reader, Edited by James Bruce Ross and Mary Martin McLaughlin, New York: The Viking Press, 1959, pp. 517-518. Strehlow, T. G. H. Aranda Traditions. Melbourne, Aus tralia: 1947. Syme, Ronald. The Roman Revolution. London: Oxford Univ., Press, 1963. Teilhard, Pierre de Chardin, S.J. Building the Earth. Pennsylvania: Wilkes-Barre: Dimension Books, 1965. The Phenomenon of Man. Translated by Bernard Wall, New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1959. Tolstoy, Leo. "The Death of Ivan Ilyich." The Continental Edition of World Masterpieces, translated by Louise and Aylmer Maude, edited by Maynard Mack, et al., New York: W. W. Norton and Company, Inc. , T9"59, p. 1639. 148 ________ . War and Peace. Translated by Louise and Aylmer Maude, edited by George Gibian, New York: W. W. Norton and Company, Inc.,1966. Virgil. Aeneid VI. ________ . Eclogue IV. Eclogues, Georgies, Aeneid 1-6. Translated by H. R. Fairclough, Cambridge: Harvard Univ., Press, London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1932. APPENDIX A II Cantico delle Creature Altissimu, onnipotente, bon Signore, | tue so le laude, la gloria e l'onore e onne benedizionej A te solo Altissimo, se confanno e nullu omu ene dignu Te mentovare. 5 Laudato si', mi Signore, cum tutte le tue creature, spezialmente messer lu frate Sole, lo quale lu iorno n'allumeni per lui; j et ellu e bellu e radian te cum grande splendore; j de Te, Altissimu, porta significazione. ! 10 Laudato si', mi Signore, per sora Luna e le stelle; in celu l'ai formate clarite e preziose e belle. Laudato si', mi Signore, per frate Vento e per aere e nubilo e sereno e onne tempo, per le quale a le tue creature dai sustentamento. 15 Laudato si', mi Signore, per sor Acqua, la quale e multo utile, e umele, e preziosa e casta. ; Laudato si', mi Signore, per frate Focu, per lo quale n'allumeni la nocte, e ello e bellu, e jucundo, e robustoso e forte. 20 Laudato si', mi Signore, per sora nostra matre Terra, la quale ne sustenta e governa, e produce diversi frutti, e colorati fiori e erba. I Laudato si', mi Signore, per quilli che perdonano per lo tuo amore e sostengo infirmitate e tribulazione. 25 Beati quilli che le sosterrano in pace. ' Ca de Te, Altissimo, sirano incoronati. Laudato si', mi Signore, per sbra nostra Morte cor- | porale, da la quale nullu omo vivente po scampare. Quai a quilli, che morrano ne le peccata mortali. j 30 Beati quilli, che se trovara ne le tue santissime volun-! tati; ca la morte secunda no'li fara male. Laudate e benedicete mi Signore, e rengraziate, e serviteli cum grande umilitate.l Giuseppe Morpurgo, "II Cantico delle Creature," Antologia Italiana, XIV Edizione (Verona: Arnoldo Monda- dori, 1966), pp. 5-6.

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Creator Dipippo, Albert Edward (author)

Core Title Pastoralism As Archetypal Idea, Concept, And Protest

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Comparative Literature

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag Literature, General,OAI-PMH Harvest

Language English

Contributor Digitized by ProQuest (provenance)

Advisor Armato, Rosario P. (committee chair), Buscaglia, Leo F. (committee member), Cody, [June] (committee member)

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c20-552796

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