Once called the “City of the Dead” by Walter Scott, Pompeii has been a subject of worldwide fascination since its first excavations in the 18^th century. Numerous artistic mediums have used it as their setting, becoming inspired by the tragedy that befell the city in 79 CE. How we view and discuss Pompeii in the modern world bears a few similarities with the people of Pompeii and their relationship with art and myth, particularly with their memorializing of Greek myths through fresco panels. Modern interpretations apply this tradition of memorializing to Pompeii itself; however, this portrayal goes beyond that of the epic myth and turns into the sublime, combining the right amount of terror to transfix its audience with an added element of distance to turn it into aesthetic fascination.

Before discussing modern reactions to and interpretations of Pompeii, it is important to look back at the Pompeiians and the way they interacted with art of their own time. For the modern world, the House of the Tragic Poet (VI.8.3, 5) is one of the most famous Roman houses in Pompeii. This fame has much to do with the fresco panels located along its interior, works of art that many visitors to the house would’ve seen, and inspired the house’s name. The frescos found in the atrium of the House of the Tragic Poet can help us begin to visualize the ways in which ancient Romans would engage with art. In her seminal article “The Roman House as Memory Theater,” Bettina Bergmann re-contextualizes these frescos through “their original appearance as an ensemble,” allowing us to see how Pompeiians would’ve experienced them, and providing a basis for her argument around the visual literacy of ancient Romans (Bergmann 226). In the atrium of the House of the Tragic Poet would’ve been six fresco panels, each depicting Greek mythological scenes, three panels on one side of the room, and another three on the other, of which Bergmann does an excellent in-depth analysis of. The first panel showcased Zeus and Hera’s wedding, the second, Patroclus taking Briseis away from Achilles to give to Agamemnon, and the third, Helen, possibly boarding a ship to Troy. The panels that would’ve been on the opposing wall were mostly destroyed, although scholars learned what they depict due to similarities found in other panels that depicted these same Homeric scenes. In the fourth panel we see Aphrodite most likely in the Judgement of Paris, in the fifth, Poseidon’s abduction of Amphitrite, and the sixth, the Achilles, angry by Agamemnon taking Briseis from him. One could find both visual and topical themes throughout these panels. Knowledge of classical Greek myths would’ve been essential to inform the viewer’s understanding of these images, thus allowing for the Roman house and the Roman people to conserve the memory of Greek myth, to bring “images of the past to life” (248-9). One could connect key Homeric scenes, discover the various transitional moments that each portrait with a female figure portrays, or note how different scenes have similar positions, thus changing their meanings from one panel to the next. Either way, the connections are not surface-level, thus suggesting a much more visually literate Roman audience than has been previously assumed (245). Through this analysis, Bergmann illustrates that these programs were designed precisely for the various interpretations they would inspire. Within the context of the domus, the panels would bring forth the memory of similar imagery seen elsewhere, and bring to mind epic verses and scenes to perform, thus actively creating a cheerful and welcoming atmosphere (249). This showcases a form of visual literacy that was constantly being fed, as the frescos “exercised the educated viewer’s memory by unlocking a variety of associations and inviting a sequence of reasoned conclusions” (255). The contrast between the empty spaces of the house and the vibrant imagery found in the frescos of the House of the Tragic Poet would later fuel modern fantasies regarding the houses of ancient Rome.

For the modern world, Pompeii continues to “invite completion and elaboration,” which is a mode of memorializing and mythologizing that we have already seen play out in the ancient world through the recreation and celebration of Greek myths (Bergmann 229). Reproductions of the House of the Tragic Poet have ranged from documentation of remains, to creative re-creations such as in William Gell’s Pompeiana published in 1832, which would reenvision the house as furnished and populated (228). According to Stephen Harrison in his essay “Bulwer-Lytton’s The Last Days of Pompeii: Re-creating the City,” it was this work done by Gell that would inspire Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s famous 1834 novel The Last Days of Pompeii. Harrison relates the novel’s “emphasis on the exposition and reconstruction of ancient city life in Pompeii” to Bulwer-Lytton’s strive towards expanding on Gell’s work (Harrison 76). The novel is set in 79 CE Pompeii, and revolves around the Athenian Glaucus and Greek Ione, who fall in love and face both internal and external obstacles, the former being the Egyptian sorcerer Arbaces—possessive over Ione—and the latter, the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Within the novel itself, one finds scattered the archaeological blueprints of Pompeii, as the author both tries to recreate the city, and make it relatable to his audience. Bulwer-Lytton brings a combination of archaeological and fictional reconstruction to the novel through the association of Glaucus’ house with the House of the Tragic Poet, whilst also making sure to relate it to contemporary readers. A small section within his description of the house portrays this as he showcases how the house “would be a model at this day for the house of 'a single man in Mayfair'” (Bk 1, Ch 3).

Bulwer-Lytton is thus speaking directly to the reader, who, according to the language used, was a wealthy, elite English audience (Harrison 80). The audience thus takes a tour of Pompeii vicariously through Bulwer-Lytton’s writing. By stripping the novel and looking only at its descriptions of Pompeii, one passage jumps out as particularly fantastical in its caricature of the city:

From the heart of the torpid city, so soon to vibrate with a thousand passions, there came no sound: the streams of life circulated not; they lay locked under the ice of sleep. From the huge space of the amphitheatre, with its stony seats rising one above the other—coiled and round as some slumbering monster—rose a thin and ghastly mist, which gathered darker, and more dark, over the scattered foliage that gloomed in its vicinity. The city seemed as, after the awful change of seventeen ages, it seems now to the traveler, —a City of the Dead (Bk 1, Ch 8).

This passage portrays the culmination of Bulwer-Lytton’s attempts at reanimating Pompeii through its emphasis on the impending doom that would befall the city. By viewing the novel as a result of the author trying to create his own history of Pompeii, this passage becomes a testament to his ambition as a writer. As much as he tries to animate the city, to end the novel with the final word being “history” in an attempt to validate his recreation of the history of Pompeii, the one thing he cannot alter is the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Bulwer-Lytton fights back at this inevitability by identifying the various remains that had been found at the time of his writing with his characters, thus attempting to bridge the gap between reality and fiction through his writing. To render the history of Pompeii anew, Bulwer-Lytton had to go to epic proportions and weave a tale of tragedy, the ending of which the world was already familiar with. Through the combination of the romantic excitement of visiting Pompeii, and recent publications of excavations, Bulwer-Lytton would ensure the longevity of his story as the primary modern literary depiction of Pompeii, a depiction that would serve as inspiration for later artistic renditions of the tragic city.

Many artistic reimaginings of Pompeii have The Last Days of Pompeii to thank. One particular rendition that attests to the novel’s power as a seminal work is the sculpture by American sculptor Randolph Rogers titled Nydia, the Blind Girl of Pompeii, which has seen great success within America alone, with four copies of it appearing in Philadelphia collections. In his essay “Experiencing the Last Days of Pompeii in Late Nineteenth-Century Philadelphia,” Jon L. Seydl presents Philadelphia as a case study that attests to the lasting effect of Pompeii on the American imagination (Seydl 215). Modelled on ancient cities, Philadelphia encompasses America’s classicizing fantasies (216). The profound admiration for Rogers’ sculpture within the city comes as no surprise then, especially with the subject matter of the piece. Nydia, the Blind Girl of Pompeii depicts Nydia, a character from Bulwer-Lytton’s novel The Last Days of Pompeii. Nydia is not only remembered as a poor blind girl who falls in love with the main character Glaucus, but more so as the heroic figure who saves our main characters from meeting their ends due to the eruption. Her blindness renders her unaffected by the blinding ash, thus allowing her to lead Glaucus and Ione out into safety. Considering that Rogers chose to depict a character from Bulwer-Lytton’s novel, one realizes why it is this particular character he portrayed. Out of the abundant amount of suffering and destruction showcased both in archaeological findings, as well as in the novel, Rogers chose to represent a heroic figure (220). On her figure he casts the role of Pompeiian hero, her stance portraying her mid-stride, listening to her surroundings. Whether she is going to find Glaucus and Ione, or whether she is already leading them to safety, remains unclear. Seydl argues that the interest in Pompeiian subjects worldwide was increased by Rogers’ sculpture and its success in both America and Rome (221). Through Nydia, Rogers is able to articulate the narrative, drama, and complexity rife within public imaginings of Pompeii, a testament to the chief reason behind its success. Coupling the vast amount of dramatizing literature and art with the limited knowledge of a city buried in ashes provides fertile ground for the addition of the sublime.

Within Bettina Bergmann’s influential essay comes a quote that best describes the effect Pompeii has had on the modern imagination: “The House of the Tragic Poet is remembered by many today more for what it is missing than for what remains” (Bergmann 232). The vast amount of information modern archaeology has uncovered about Pompeii reminds us of the unbelievably wide chasm of information that we aren’t privy to, particularly due to the destruction left by the eruption. Amidst the dramatization and mythologizing of the town and its inhabitants comes a new mode of interaction with the buried city through a lens of the sublime.

Shelley Hales describes Pompeii in her essay “Cities of the Dead” as “the living grave,” a site that is at once brought to life with every excavation, as well as a host to its dead citizens of 79 CE (Hales 153). She cites Walter Scott’s famous phrase regarding Pompeii “City of the Dead,” which “became a symbol of a romantic response to Pompeii that revels in the possibility of ghostly encounters,” a phrase and sentiment which Edward Bulwer-Lytton would later articulate in his novel (153). What becomes lost then, or repressed, is the world of the dead, igniting a fascination with the site that stems from a unique combination of terror and beauty known as the sublime. In his influential 1757 manifesto on Romantic aesthetics A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, Edmund Burke discusses the sublime in terms of the great unknown, made greater by its uncontainability. He states “When danger or pain press too nearly, they are incapable of giving any delight, and are simply terrible; but at certain distances, and with certain modifications, they may be, and they are, delightful” (Burke 111). The destruction of an entire city is a factor that is very real and catastrophic, but it is easier to distance ourselves from the inhabitants of Pompeii and their lives and practices because we see them as coming from another time, almost another world, which denotes a mythologizing point of view. Burke notes “sublime objects are vast in their dimensions,” showcasing how Pompeii gets put into the sublime state, for it’s not too close to cause actual discomfort or terror, but rather to inspire fascination by its greatness (206). The clear vision we associate with realism falls apart in the sublime. Knowledge is needed in order for something to be recognizable and terrifying, but this is only a partial knowledge, which is fundamental for the aesthetics of terror to operate in terms of its encounter with the world. The sublime is a kind of terror that delights, rather than being simply terrible, and is an accurate term for the modern public’s relationship with Pompeii. Shelley Hales expands on this through her analysis of the 1958 film Curse of the Faceless Man. Amidst the numerous films surrounding Pompeii, most of which are adaptations of Bulwer-Lytton’s dramatic reimagination of Pompeii, comes a film that takes a different, more macabre approach which revolves around the cast of a Pompeiian gladiator coming to life. This conflation of plaster cast and mummy brings up other comparisons, such as that of the necropolis and archaeological site, of Giuseppe Fiorelli’s project in Pompeii and the emerging of suburban cemeteries (Hales 155-157). Hales argues that the plaster casts “helped manifest the unknowableness of death (and the past) as well as satisfy the frisson on gazing on it,” thus describing a method through which the sublime became manifest in conversations surrounding Pompeii (164). Pompeii remains in the sublime without delving into terror precisely because of this aestheticized portrayal, a distancing effect that allows for the display of corpses as artistic objects. Archaeology and empirical science end up fueling, rather than disseminating, the aesthetics and morbidity of Pompeii, rendering the city as a source of fascination for its modern audience.

Pompeii is a city that is figuratively remade through what Hales calls “personal and communal experiences of memorializing,” harkening to Bergmann’s study of the House of the Tragic Poet and the ways in which art enmeshed with the memories of the public (Hales 170). Thus, we see Pompeii become similar to both myth and ghost story in its representations, whilst simultaneously remaining a part of history and a site people can visit today.