Chapter VII

ONCE the highest heads in Rome inclined before Acte, the former favorite

of Nero. But even at that period she showed no desire to interfere in

public questions, and if on any occasion she used her influence over

the young ruler, it was only to implore mercy for some one. Quiet and

unassuming, she won the gratitude of many, and made no one her enemy.

Even Octavia was unable to hate her. To those who envied her she seemed

exceedingly harmless. It was known that she continued to love Nero with

a sad and pained love, which lived not in hope, but only in memories of

the time in which that Nero was not only younger and loving, but better.

It was known that she could not tear her thoughts and soul from those

memories, but expected nothing; since there was no real fear that Nero

would return to her, she was looked upon as a person wholly inoffensive,

and hence was left in peace. Poppæa considered her merely as a quiet

servant, so harmless that she did not even try to drive her from the

palace.

But since Cæsar had loved her once and dropped her without offence in a

quiet and to some extent friendly manner, a certain respect was retained

for her. Nero, when he had freed her, let her live in the palace, and

gave her special apartments with a few servants. And as in their time

Pallas and Narcissus, though freedmen of Claudius, not only sat

at feasts with Claudius, but also held places of honor as powerful

ministers, so she too was invited at times to Cæsar’s table. This was

done perhaps because her beautiful form was a real ornament to a

feast. Cæsar for that matter had long since ceased to count with any

appearances in his choice of company. At his table the most varied

medley of people of every position and calling found places. Among them

were senators, but mainly those who were content to be jesters as well.

There were patricians, old and young, eager for luxury, excess, and

enjoyment. There were women with great names, who did not hesitate to

put on a yellow wig of an evening and seek adventures on dark streets

for amusement’s sake. There were also high officials, and priests who

at full goblets were willing to jeer at their own gods. At the side of

these was a rabble of every sort: singers, mimes, musicians, dancers of

both sexes; poets who, while declaiming, were thinking of the

sesterces which might fall to them for praise of Cæsar’s verses; hungry

philosophers following the dishes with eager eyes; finally, noted

charioteers, tricksters, miracle-wrights, tale-tellers, jesters, and the

most varied adventurers brought through fashion or folly to a few days’

notoriety. Among these were not lacking even men who covered with long

hair their ears pierced in sign of slavery.

The most noted sat directly at the tables; the lesser served to amuse

in time of eating, and waited for the moment in which the servants would

permit them to rush at the remnants of food and drink. Guests of this

sort were furnished by Tigellinus, Vatinius, and Vitelius; for these

guests they were forced more than once to find clothing befitting the

chambers of Cæsar, who, however, liked their society, through feeling

most free in it. The luxury of the court gilded everything, and

covered all things with glitter. High and low, the descendants of great

families, and the needy from the pavements of the city, great artists,

and vile scrapings of talent, thronged to the palace to sate their

dazzled eyes with a splendor almost surpassing human estimate, and to

approach the giver of every favor, wealth, and property,--whose single

glance might abase, it is true, but might also exalt beyond measure.

That day Lygia too had to take part in such a feast. Fear, uncertainty,

and a dazed feeling, not to be wondered at after the sudden change, were

struggling in her with a wish to resist. She feared Nero; she feared the

people and the palace whose uproar deprived her of presence of mind;

she feared the feasts of whose shamelessness she had heard from Aulus,

Pomponia Græcina, and their friends. Though young, she was not without

knowledge, for knowledge of evil in those times reached even children’s

ears early. She knew, therefore, that ruin was threatening her in the

palace. Pomponia, moreover, had warned her of this at the moment of

parting. But having a youthful spirit, unacquainted with corruption, and

confessing a lofty faith, implanted in her by her foster mother, she

had promised to defend herself against that ruin; she had promised

her mother, herself and also that Divine Teacher in whom she not only

believed, but whom she had come to love with her half-childlike heart

for the sweetness of his doctrine, the bitterness of his death, and the

glory of his resurrection.

She was confident too that now neither Aulus nor Pomponia would be

answerable for her actions; she was thinking therefore whether it would

not be better to resist and not go to the feast. On the one hand fear

and alarm spoke audibly in her soul; on the other the wish rose in her

to show courage in suffering, in exposure to torture and death. The

Divine Teacher had commanded to act thus. He had given the example

himself. Pomponia had told her that the most earnest among the adherents

desire with all their souls such a test, and pray for it. And Lygia,

when still in the house of Aulus, had been mastered at moments by a

similar desire. She had seen herself as a martyr, with wounds on her

feet and hands, white as snow, beautiful with a beauty not of earth, and

borne by equally white angels into the azure sky; and her imagination

admired such a vision. There was in it much childish brooding, but

there was in it also something of delight in herself, which Pomponia had

reprimanded. But now, when opposition to Cæsar’s will might draw after

it some terrible punishment, and the martyrdom scene of imagination

become a reality, there was added to the beautiful visions and to the

delight a kind of curiosity mingled with dread, as to how they would

punish her, and what kind of torments they would provide. And her soul,

half childish yet, was hesitating on two sides. But Acte, hearing of

these hesitations, looked at her with astonishment as if the maiden

were talking in a fever. To oppose Cæsar’s will, expose oneself from the

first moment to his anger? To act thus one would need to be a child that

knows not what it says. From Lygia’s own words it appears that she is,

properly speaking, not really a hostage, but a maiden forgotten by her

own people. No law of nations protects her; and even if it did, Cæsar

is powerful enough to trample on it in a moment of anger. It has pleased

Cæsar to take her, and he will dispose of her. Thenceforth she is at his

will, above which there is not another on earth.

“So it is,” continued Acte. “I too have read the letters of Paul of

Tarsus, and I know that above the earth is God, and the Son of God, who

rose from the dead; but on the earth there is only Cæsar. Think of this,

Lygia. I know too that thy doctrine does not permit thee to be what

I was, and that to you as to the Stoics,--of whom Epictetus has told

me,--when it comes to a choice between shame and death, it is permitted

to choose only death. But canst thou say that death awaits thee and not

shame too? Hast thou heard of the daughter of Sejanus, a young maiden,

who at command of Tiberius had to pass through shame before her death,

so as to respect a law which prohibits the punishment of virgins with

death? Lygia, Lygia, do not irritate Cæsar. If the decisive moment comes

when thou must choose between disgrace and death, thou wilt act as thy

faith commands; but seek not destruction thyself, and do not irritate

for a trivial cause an earthly and at the same time a cruel divinity.”

Acte spoke with great compassion, and even with enthusiasm; and being

a little short-sighted, she pushed her sweet face up to Lygia’s as if

wishing to see surely the effect of her words.

But Lygia threw her arms around Acte’s neck with childish trustfulness

and said,--“Thou art kind, Acte.”

Acte, pleased by the praise and confidence, pressed her to her heart;

and then disengaging herself from the arms of the maiden, answered,--“My

happiness has passed and my joy is gone, but I am not wicked.” Then she

began to walk with quick steps through the room and to speak to herself,

as if in despair.

“No! And he was not wicked. He thought himself good at that time, and he

wished to be good. I know that best. All his change came later, when he

ceased to love. Others made him what he is--yes, others--and Poppæa.”

Here her eyelids filled with tears. Lygia followed her for some time

with her blue eyes, and asked at last,--“Art thou sorry for him, Acte?”

“I am sorry for him!” answered the Grecian, with a low voice. And

again she began to walk, her hands clinched as if in pain, and her face

without hope.

“Dost thou love him yet, Acte?” asked Lygia, timidly.

“I love him.”

And after a while she added,--“No one loves him but me.”

Silence followed, during which Acte strove to recover her calmness,

disturbed by memories; and when at length her face resumed its usual

look of calm sorrow, she said,--

“Let us speak of thee, Lygia. Do not even think of opposing Cæsar; that

would be madness. And be calm. I know this house well, and I judge that

on Cæsar’s part nothing threatens thee. If Nero had given command

to take thee away for himself, he would not have brought thee to the

Palatine. Here Poppæa rules; and Nero, since she bore him a daughter, is

more than ever under her influence. No, Nero gave command, it is true,

that thou shouldst be at the feast, but he has not seen thee yet; he

has not inquired about thee, hence he does not care about thee. Maybe he

took thee from Aulus and Pomponia only through anger at them. Petronius

wrote me to have care of thee; and since Pomponia too wrote, as thou

knowest, maybe they had an understanding. Maybe he did that at her

request. If this be true, if he at the request of Pomponia will occupy

himself with thee, nothing threatens thee; and who knows if Nero may not

send thee back to Aulus at his persuasion? I know not whether Nero loves

him over much, but I know that rarely has he the courage to be of an

opinion opposite to his.”

“Ah, Acte!” answered Lygia; “Petronius was with us before they took

me, and my mother was convinced that Nero demanded my surrender at his

instigation.”

“That would be bad,” said Acte. But she stopped for a while, and then

said,--“Perhaps Petronius only said, in Nero’s presence at some supper,

that he saw a hostage of the Lygians at Aulus’s, and Nero, who is

jealous of his own power, demanded thee only because hostages belong to

Cæsar. But he does not like Aulus and Pomponia. No! it does not seem to

me that if Petronius wished to take thee from Aulus he would use such a

method. I do not know whether Petronius is better than others of Cæsar’s

court, but he is different. Maybe too thou wilt find some one else who

would be willing to intercede for thee. Hast thou not seen at Aulus’s

some one who is near Cæsar?”

“I have seen Vespasian and Titus.”

“Cæsar does not like them.”

“And Seneca.”

“If Seneca advised something, that would be enough to make Nero act

otherwise.”

The bright face of Lygia was covered with a blush. “And Vinicius-”

“I do not know him.”

“He is a relative of Petronius, and returned not long since from

Armenia.”

“Dost thou think that Nero likes him?”

“All like Vinicius.”

“And would he intercede for thee?”

“He would.”

Acte smiled tenderly, and said, “Then thou wilt see him surely at the

feast. Thou must be there, first, because thou must,--only such a child

as thou could think otherwise. Second, if thou wish to return to

the house of Aulus, thou wilt find means of beseeching Petronius and

Vinicius to gain for thee by their influence the right to return. If

they were here, both would tell thee as I do, that it would be madness

and ruin to try resistance. Cæsar might not notice thy absence, it is

true; but if he noticed it and thought that thou hadst the daring to

oppose his will, here would be no salvation for thee. Go, Lygia! Dost

thou hear the noise in the palace? The sun is near setting; guests will

begin to arrive soon.”

“Thou art right,” answered Lygia, “and I will follow thy advice.”

How much desire to see Vinicius and Petronius there was in this resolve,

how much of woman’s curiosity there was to see such a feast once in

life, and to see at it Cæsar, the court, the renowned Poppæa and other

beauties, and all that unheard-of splendor, of which wonders were

narrated in Rome, Lygia could not give account to herself of a

certainty. But Acte was right, and Lygia felt this distinctly. There was

need to go; therefore, when necessity and simple reason supported the

hidden temptation, she ceased to hesitate.

Acte conducted her to her own unctorium to anoint and dress her; and

though there was no lack of slave women in Cæsar’s house, and Acte had

enough of them for her personal service, still, through sympathy for the

maiden whose beauty and innocence had caught her heart, she resolved to

dress her herself. It became clear at once that in the young Grecian, in

spite of her sadness and her perusal of the letters of Paul of Tarsus,

there was yet much of the ancient Hellenic spirit, to which physical

beauty spoke with more eloquence than aught else on earth. When she

had undressed Lygia, she could not restrain an exclamation of wonder at

sight of her form, at once slender and full, created, as it were, from

pearl and roses; and stepping back a few paces, she looked with delight

on that matchless, spring-like form.

“Lygia,” exclaimed she at last, “thou art a hundred times more beautiful

than Poppæa!”

But, reared in the strict house of Pomponia, where modesty was observed,

even when women were by themselves, the maiden, wonderful as a wonderful

dream, harmonious as a work of Praxiteles or as a song, stood alarmed,

blushing from modesty, with knees pressed together, with her hands on

her bosom, and downcast eyes. At last, raising her arms with sudden

movement, she removed the pins which held her hair, and in one moment,

with one shake of her head, she covered herself with it as with a

mantle.

Acte, approaching her and touching her dark tresses, said,--

“Oh, what hair thou hast! I will not sprinkle golden powder on it; it

gleams of itself in one place and another with gold, where it waves.

I will add, perhaps, barely a sprinkle here and there; but lightly,

lightly, as if a sun ray had freshened it. Wonderful must thy Lygian

country be where such maidens are born!

“I do not remember it,” answered Lygia; “but Ursus has told me that with

us it is forests, forests, and forests.”

“But flowers bloom in those forests,” said Acte, dipping her hand in a

vase filled with verbena, and moistening Lygia’s hair with it. When she

had finished this work, Acte anointed her body lightly with odoriferous

oils from Arabia, and then dressed her in a soft gold-colored tunic

without sleeves, over which was to be put a snow-white peplus. But since

she had to dress Lygia’s hair first, she put on her meanwhile a kind of

roomy dress called synthesis, and, seating her in an armchair, gave her

for a time into the hands of slave women, so as to stand at a distance

herself and follow the hairdressing. Two other slave women put on

Lygia’s feet white sandals, embroidered with purple, fastening them to

her alabaster ankles with golden lacings drawn crosswise. When at

last the hair-dressing was finished, they put a peplus on her in very

beautiful, light folds; then Acte fastened pearls to her neck, and

touching her hair at the folds with gold dust, gave command to the women

to dress her, following Lygia with delighted eyes meanwhile.

But she was ready soon; and when the first litters began to appear

before the main gate, both entered the side portico from which were

visible the chief entrance, the interior galleries, and the courtyard

surrounded by a colonnade of Numidian marble.

Gradually people passed in greater and greater numbers under the lofty

arch of the entrance, over which the splendid quadrigæ of Lysias seemed

to bear Apollo and Diana into space. Lygia’s eyes were struck by that

magnificence, of which the modest house of Aulus could not have given

her the slightest idea. It was sunset; the last rays were falling on the

yellow Numidian marble of the columns, which shone like gold in those

gleams and changed into rose color also. Among the columns, at the

side of white statues of the Danaides and others, representing gods or

heroes, crowds of people flowed past,--men and women; resembling statues

also, for they were draped in togas, pepluses, and robes, falling with

grace and beauty toward the earth in soft folds, on which the rays of

the setting sun were expiring. A gigantic Hercules, with head in the

light yet, from the breast down sunk in shadow cast by the columns,

looked from above on that throng. Acte showed Lygia senators in

wide-bordered togas, in colored tunics, in sandals with crescents on

them, and knights, and famed artists; she showed her Roman ladies, in

Roman, in Grecian, in fantastic Oriental costume, with hair dressed in

towers or pyramids, or dressed like that of the statues of goddesses,

low on the head, and adorned with flowers. Many men and women did Acte

call by name, adding to their names histories, brief and sometimes

terrible, which pierced Lygia with fear, amazement, and wonder. For her

this was a strange world, whose beauty intoxicated her eyes, but whose

contrasts her girlish understanding could not grasp. In those twilights

of the sky, in those rows of motionless columns vanishing in the

distance, and in those statuesque people, there was a certain lofty

repose. It seemed that in the midst of those marbles of simple lines

demigods might live free of care, at peace and in happiness. Meanwhile

the low voice of Acte disclosed, time after time, a new and dreadful

secret of that palace and those people. See, there at a distance is the

covered portico on whose columns and floor are still visible red stains

from the blood with which Caligula sprinkled the white marble when he

fell beneath the knife of Cassius Chærea; there his wife was slain;

there his child was dashed against a stone; under that wing is the

dungeon in which the younger Drusus gnawed his hands from hunger; there

the elder Drusus was poisoned; there Gemellus quivered in terror, and

Claudius in convulsions; there Germanicus suffered,--everywhere those

walls had heard the groans and death-rattle of the dying; and those

people hurrying now to the feast in togas, in colored tunics, in

flowers, and in jewels, may be the condemned of to-morrow; on more than

one face, perhaps, a smile conceals terror, alarm, the uncertainty of

the next day; perhaps feverishness, greed, envy are gnawing at this

moment into the hearts of those crowned demigods, who in appearance

are free of care. Lygia’s frightened thoughts could not keep pace with

Acte’s words; and when that wonderful world attracted her eyes with

increasing force, her heart contracted within her from fear, and in

her soul she struggled with an immense, inexpressible yearning for the

beloved Pomponia Græcina, and the calm house of Aulus, in which love,

and not crime, was the ruling power.

Meanwhile new waves of guests were flowing in from the Vicus Apollinis.

From beyond the gates came the uproar and shouts of clients, escorting

their patrons. The courtyard and the colonnades were swarming with the

multitude of Cæsar’s slaves, of both sexes, small boys, and pretorian

soldiers, who kept guard in the palace. Here and there among dark or

swarthy visages was the black face of a Numidian, in a feathered helmet,

and with large gold rings in his ears. Some were bearing lutes and

citharas, hand lamps of gold, silver, and bronze, and bunches of

flowers, reared artificially despite the late autumn season. Louder and

louder the sound of conversation was mingled with the splashing of the

fountain, the rosy streams of which fell from above on the marble and

were broken, as if in sobs.

Acte had stopped her narration; but Lygia gazed at the throng, as if

searching for some one. All at once her face was covered with a blush,

and from among the columns came forth Vinicius with Petronius. They

went to the great triclinium, beautiful, calm, like white gods, in their

togas. It seemed to Lygia, when she saw those two known and friendly

faces among strange people, and especially when she saw Vinicius, that

a great weight had fallen from her heart. She felt less alone. That

measureless yearning for Pomponia and the house of Aulus, which had

broken out in her a little while before, ceased at once to be painful.

The desire to see Vinicius and to talk with him drowned in her other

voices. In vain did she remember all the evil which she had heard of the

house of Cæsar, the words of Acte, the warnings of Pomponia; in spite of

those words and warnings, she felt all at once that not only must she be

at that feast, but that she wished to be there. At the thought that soon

she would hear that dear and pleasant voice, which had spoken of love to

her and of happiness worthy of the gods, and which was sounding like a

song in her ears yet, delight seized her straightway.

But the next moment she feared that delight. It seemed to her that she

would be false to the pure teaching in which she had been reared, false

to Pomponia, and false to herself. It is one thing to go by constraint,

and another to delight in such a necessity. She felt guilty, unworthy,

and ruined.

Despair swept her away, and she wanted to weep. Had she been alone, she

would have knelt down and beaten her breast, saying, “Mea culpa! mea

culpa!” Acte, taking her hand at that moment, led her through the

interior apartments to the grand triclinium, where the feast was to

be. Darkness was in her eyes, and a roaring in her ears from internal

emotion; the beating of her heart stopped her breath. As in a dream, she

saw thousands of lamps gleaming on the tables and on the walls; as in

a dream, she heard the shout with which the guests greeted Cæsar; as

through a mist, she saw Cæsar himself. The shout deafened her, the

glitter dazzled, the odors intoxicated; and, losing the remnant of her

consciousness, she was barely able to recognize Acte, who seated her at

the table and took a place at her side.

But after a while a low and known voice was heard at the other side,--“A

greeting, most beautiful of maidens on earth and of stars in heaven. A

greeting to thee, divine Callina!”

Lygia, having recovered somewhat, looked up; at her side was Vinicius.

He was without a toga, for convenience and custom had enjoined to cast

aside the toga at feasts. His body was covered with only a sleeveless

scarlet tunic embroidered in silver palms. His bare arms were ornamented

in Eastern fashion with two broad golden bands fastened above the elbow;

below they were carefully stripped of hair. They were smooth, but too

muscular,--real arms of a soldier, they were made for the sword and the

shield. On his head was a garland of roses. With brows joining above the

nose, with splendid eyes and a dark complexion, he was the impersonation

of youth and strength, as it were. To Lygia he seemed so beautiful

that though her first amazement had passed, she was barely able to

answer,--“A greeting, Marcus.”

“Happy,” said he, “are my eyes, which see thee; happy my ears, which

hear thy voice, dearer to me than the sound of lutes or citharas. Were

it commanded me to choose who was to rest here by my side at this feast,

thou, Lygia, or Venus, I would choose thee, divine one!”

And he looked at the maiden as if he wished to sate himself with the

sight of her, to burn her eyes with his eyes. His glance slipped from

her face to her neck and bare arms, fondled her shapely outlines,

admired her, embraced her, devoured her; but besides desire, there was

gleaming in him happiness, admiration, and ecstasy beyond limit.

“I knew that I should see thee in Cæsar’s house,” continued he; “but

still, when I saw thee, such delight shook my whole soul, as if a

happiness entirely unexpected had met me.”

Lygia, having recovered herself and feeling that in that throng and in

that house he was the only being who was near to her, began to converse

with him, and ask about everything which she did not understand and

which filled her with fear. Whence did he know that he would find her in

Cæsar’s house? Why is she there? Why did Cæsar take her from Pomponia?

She is full of fear where she is, and wishes to return to Pomponia. She

would die from alarm and grief were it not for the hope that Petronius

and he will intercede for her before Cæsar.

Vinicius explained that he learned from Aulus himself that she had been

taken. Why she is there, he knows not. Cæsar gives account to no one of

his orders and commands. But let her not fear. He, Vinicius, is near her

and will stay near her. He would rather lose his eyes than not see her;

he would rather lose his life than desert her. She is his soul, and

hence he will guard her as his soul. In his house he will build to her,

as to a divinity, an altar on which he will offer myrrh and aloes,

and in spring saffron and apple-blossoms; and since she has a dread of

Cæsar’s house, he promises that she shall not stay in it.

And though he spoke evasively and at times invented, truth was to

be felt in his voice, because his feelings were real. Genuine pity

possessed him, too, and her words went to his soul so thoroughly that

when she began to thank him and assure him that Pomponia would love him

for his goodness, and that she herself would be grateful to him all

her life, he could not master his emotion, and it seemed to him that

he would never be able in life to resist her prayer. The heart began to

melt in him. Her beauty intoxicated his senses, and he desired her;

but at the same time he felt that she was very dear to him, and that

in truth he might do homage to her, as to a divinity; he felt also

irresistible need of speaking of her beauty and of his own homage. As

the noise at the feast increased, he drew nearer to her, whispered kind,

sweet words flowing from the depth of his soul, words as resonant as

music and intoxicating as wine.

And he intoxicated her. Amid those strange people he seemed to her ever

nearer, ever dearer, altogether true, and devoted with his whole soul.

He pacified her; he promised to rescue her from the house of Cæsar; he

promised not to desert her, and said that he would serve her. Besides,

he had spoken before at Aulus’s only in general about love and the

happiness which it can give; but now he said directly that he loved her,

and that she was dear and most precious to him. Lygia heard such words

from a man’s lips for the first time; and as she heard them it seemed

to her that something was wakening in her as from a sleep, that some

species of happiness was embracing her in which immense delight was

mingled with immense alarm. Her cheeks began to burn, her heart to beat,

her mouth opened as in wonder. She was seized with fear because she was

listening to such things, still she did not wish for any cause on earth

to lose one word. At moments she dropped her eyes; then again she raised

her clear glance to Vinicius, timid and also inquiring, as if she wished

to say to him, “Speak on!” The sound of the music, the odor of flowers

and of Arabian perfumes, began to daze her. In Rome it was the custom to

recline at banquets, but at home Lygia occupied a place between Pomponia

and little Aulus. Now Vinicius was reclining near her, youthful,

immense, in love, burning; and she, feeling the heat that issued from

him, felt both delight and shame. A kind of sweet weakness, a kind of

faintness and forgetfulness seized her; it was as if drowsiness tortured

her.

But her nearness to him began to act on Vinicius also. His nostrils

dilated, like those of an Eastern steed. The beating of his heart with

unusual throb was evident under his scarlet tunic; his breathing grew

short, and the expressions that fell from his lips were broken. For the

first time, too, he was so near her. His thoughts grew disturbed; he

felt a flame in his veins which he tried in vain to quench with wine.

Not wine, but her marvellous face, her bare arms, her maiden breast

heaving under the golden tunic, and her form hidden in the white folds

of the peplus, intoxicated him more and more. Finally, he seized her arm

above the wrist, as he had done once at Aulus’s, and drawing her toward

him whispered, with trembling lips,--“I love thee, Callina,--divine

one.”

“Let me go, Marcus,” said Lygia.

But he continued, his eyes mist-covered, “Love me, my goddess!”

But at that moment was heard the voice of Acte, who was reclining on the

other side of Lygia.

“Cæsar is looking at you both.”

Vinicius was carried away by sudden anger at Cæsar and at Acte. Her

words had broken the charm of his intoxication. To the young man even

a friendly voice would have seemed repulsive at such a moment, but he

judged that Acte wished purposely to interrupt his conversation with

Lygia. So, raising his head and looking over the shoulder of Lygia at

the young freedwoman, he said with malice:

“The hour has passed, Acte, when thou didst recline near Cæsar’s side

at banquets, and they say that blindness is threatening thee; how then

canst thou see him?”

But she answered as if in sadness: “Still I see him. He, too, has short

sight, and is looking at thee through an emerald.”

Everything that Nero did roused attention, even in those nearest

him; hence Vinicius was alarmed. He regained self-control, and began

imperceptibly to look toward Cæsar. Lygia, who, embarrassed at the

beginning of the banquet, had seen Nero as in a mist, and afterward,

occupied by the presence and conversation of Vinicius, had not looked at

him at all, turned to him eyes at once curious and terrified.

Acte spoke truly. Cæsar had bent over the table, half-closed one eye,

and holding before the other a round polished emerald, which he used,

was looking at them. For a moment his glance met Lygia’s eyes, and the

heart of the maiden was straitened with terror. When still a child on

Aulus’s Sicilian estate, an old Egyptian slave had told her of dragons

which occupied dens in the mountains, and it seemed to her now that all

at once the greenish eye of such a monster was gazing at her. She caught

at Vinicius’s hand as a frightened child would, and disconnected, quick

impressions pressed into her head: Was not that he, the terrible, the

all-powerful? She had not seen him hitherto, and she thought that he

looked differently. She had imagined some kind of ghastly face, with

malignity petrified in its features; now she saw a great head, fixed on

a thick neck, terrible, it is true, but almost ridiculous, for from a

distance it resembled the head of a child. A tunic of amethyst color,

forbidden to ordinary mortals, cast a bluish tinge on his broad and

short face. He had dark hair, dressed, in the fashion introduced by

Otho, in four curls.

He had no beard, because he had sacrificed it recently to Jove,--for

which all Rome gave him thanks, though people whispered to each other

that he had sacrificed it because his beard, like that of his whole

family, was red. In his forehead, projecting strongly above his

brows, there remained something Olympian. In his contracted brows the

consciousness of supreme power was evident; but under that forehead of

a demigod was the face of a monkey, a drunkard, and a comedian,--vain,

full of changing desires, swollen with fat, notwithstanding his youth;

besides, it was sickly and foul. To Lygia he seemed ominous, but above

all repulsive.

After a while he laid down the emerald and ceased to look at her. Then

she saw his prominent blue eyes, blinking before the excess of light,

glassy, without thought, resembling the eyes of the dead.

“Is that the hostage with whom Vinicius is in love?” asked he, turning

to Petronius.

“That is she,” answered Petronius.

“What are her people called?”

“The Lygians.”

“Does Vinicius think her beautiful?”

“Array a rotten olive trunk in the peplus of a woman, and Vinicius will

declare it beautiful. But on thy countenance, incomparable judge, I read

her sentence already. Thou hast no need to pronounce it! The sentence is

true: she is too dry, thin, a mere blossom on a slender stalk; and thou,

O divine æsthete, esteemest the stalk in a woman. Thrice and four times

art thou right! The face alone does not signify. I have learned much in

thy company, but even now I have not a perfect cast of the eye. But I am

ready to lay a wager with Tullius Senecio concerning his mistress, that,

although at a feast, when all are reclining, it is difficult to judge

the whole form, thou hast said in thy mind already, ‘Too narrow in the

hips.’”

“Too narrow in the hips,” answered Nero, blinking.

On Petronius’s lips appeared a scarcely perceptible smile; but Tullius

Senecio, who till that moment was occupied in conversing with Vestinius,

or rather in reviling dreams, while Vestinius believed in them, turned

to Petronius, and though he had not the least idea touching that of

which they were talking, he said,--“Thou art mistaken! I hold with

Cæsar.”

“Very well,” answered Petronius. “I have just maintained that thou hast

a glimmer of understanding, but Cæsar insists that thou art an ass pure

and simple.”

“Habet!” said Cæsar, laughing, and turning down the thumb, as was done

in the Circus, in sign that the gladiator had received a blow and was to

be finished.

But Vestinius, thinking that the question was of dreams,

exclaimed,--“But I believe in dreams, and Seneca told me on a time that

he believes too.”

“Last night I dreamt that I had become a vestal virgin,” said Calvia

Crispinilla, bending over the table.

At this Nero clapped his hands, other followed, and in a moment clapping

of hands was heard all around,--for Crispinilla had been divorced

a number of times, and was known throughout Rome for her fabulous

debauchery.

But she, not disconcerted in the least, said,--“Well! They are all old

and ugly. Rubria alone has a human semblance, and so there would be two

of us, though Rubria gets freckles in summer.”

“But admit, purest Calvia,” said Petronius, “that thou couldst become a

vestal only in dreams.”

“But if Cæsar commanded?”

“I should believe that even the most impossible dreams might come true.”

“But they do come true,” said Vestinius. “I understand those who do not

believe in the gods, but how is it possible not to believe in dreams?”

“But predictions?” inquired Nero. “It was predicted once to me, that

Rome would cease to exist, and that I should rule the whole Orient.”

“Predictions and dreams are connected,” said Vestinius. “Once a certain

proconsul, a great disbeliever, sent a slave to the temple of Mopsus

with a sealed letter which he would not let any one open; he did this

to try if the god could answer the question contained in the letter. The

slave slept a night in the temple to have a prophetic dream; he returned

then and said: ‘I saw a youth in my dreams; he was as bright as the sun,

and spoke only one word, “Black.”’ The proconsul, when he heard this,

grew pale, and turning to his guests, disbelievers like himself, said:

‘Do ye know what was in the letter?’” Here Vestinius stopped, and,

raising his goblet with wine, began to drink.

“What was in the letter?” asked Senecio.

“In the letter was the question: ‘What is the color of the bull which I

am to sacrifice: white or black?’”

But the interest roused by the narrative was interrupted by Vitelius,

who, drunk when he came to the feast, burst forth on a sudden and

without cause in senseless laughter.

“What is that keg of tallow laughing at?” asked Nero.

“Laughter distinguishes men from animals,” said Petronius, “and he has

no other proof that he is not a wild boar.”

Vitelius stopped half-way in his laughter, and smacking his lips,

shining from fat and sauces, looked at those present with as much

astonishment as if he had never seen them before; then he raised his two

hands, which were like cushions, and said in a hoarse voice,--“The ring

of a knight has fallen from my finger, and it was inherited from my

father.”

“Who was a tailor,” added Nero.

But Vitelius burst forth again in unexpected laughter, and began to

search for his ring in the peplus of Calvia Crispinilla.

Hereupon Vestinius fell to imitating the cries of a frightened woman.

Nigidia, a friend of Calvia,--a young widow with the face of a child

and the eyes of a wanton,--said aloud,--“He is seeking what he has not

lost.”

“And which will be useless to him if he finds it,” finished the poet

Lucan.

The feast grew more animated. Crowds of slaves bore around successive

courses; from great vases filled with snow and garlanded with

ivy, smaller vessels with various kinds of wine were brought forth

unceasingly. All drank freely. On the guests, roses fell from the

ceiling at intervals.

Petronius entreated Nero to dignify the feast with his song before the

guests drank too deeply. A chorus of voices supported his words, but

Nero refused at first. It was not a question of courage alone, he said,

though that failed him always. The gods knew what efforts every success

cost him. He did not avoid them, however, for it was needful to do

something for art; and besides, if Apollo had gifted him with a certain

voice, it was not proper to let divine gifts be wasted. He understood,

even, that it was his duty to the State not to let them be wasted. But

that day he was really hoarse. In the night he had placed leaden weights

on his chest, but that had not helped in any way. He was thinking even

to go to Antium, to breathe the sea air.

Lucan implored him in the name of art and humanity. All knew that the

divine poet and singer had composed a new hymn to Venus, compared with

which Lucretius’s hymn was as the howl of a yearling wolf. Let that

feast be a genuine feast. So kind a ruler should not cause such tortures

to his subjects. “Be not cruel, O Cæsar!”

“Be not cruel!” repeated all who were sitting near.

Nero spread his hands in sign that he had to yield. All faces assumed

then an expression of gratitude, and all eyes were turned to him; but he

gave command first to announce to Poppæa that he would sing; he informed

those present that she had not come to the feast, because she did not

feel in good health; but since no medicine gave her such relief as his

singing, he would be sorry to deprive her of this opportunity.

In fact, Poppæa came soon. Hitherto she had ruled Nero as if he had

been her subject, but she knew that when his vanity as a singer, a

charioteer, or a poet was involved, there was danger in provoking it.

She came in therefore, beautiful as a divinity, arrayed, like Nero,

in robes of amethyst color, and wearing a necklace of immense pearls,

stolen on a time from Massinissa; she was golden-haired, sweet, and

though divorced from two husbands she had the face and the look of a

virgin.

She was greeted with shouts, and the appellation “Divine Augusta.” Lygia

had never seen any one so beautiful, and she could not believe her own

eyes, for she knew that Poppæa Sabina was one of the vilest women on

earth. She knew from Pomponia that she had brought Cæsar to murder his

mother and his wife; she knew her from accounts given by Aulus’s guests

and the servants; she had heard that statues to her had been thrown

down at night in the city; she had heard of inscriptions, the writers

of which had been condemned to severest punishment, but which still

appeared on the city walls every morning. Yet at sight of the notorious

Poppæa, considered by the confessors of Christ as crime and evil

incarnate, it seemed to her that angels or spirits of heaven might look

like her. She was unable simply to take her eyes from Poppæa; and from

her lips was wrested involuntarily the question,--“Ah, Marcus, can it be

possible?”

But he, roused by wine, and as it were impatient that so many things

had scattered her attention, and taken her from him and his words,

said,--“Yes, she is beautiful, but thou art a hundred times more

beautiful. Thou dost not know thyself, or thou wouldst be in love with

thyself, as Narcissus was; she bathes in asses’ milk, but Venus bathed

thee in her own milk. Thou dost not know thyself, Ocelle mi! Look not at

her. Turn thy eyes to me, Ocelle mi! Touch this goblet of wine with thy

lips, and I will put mine on the same place.”

And he pushed up nearer and nearer, and she began to withdraw toward

Acte. But at that moment silence was enjoined because Cæsar had risen.

The singer Diodorus had given him a lute of the kind called delta;

another singer named Terpnos, who had to accompany him in playing,

approached with an instrument called the nablium. Nero, resting the

delta on the table, raised his eyes; and for a moment silence reigned in

the triclinium, broken only by a rustle, as roses fell from the ceiling.

Then he began to chant, or rather to declaim, singingly and

rhythmically, to the accompaniment of the two lutes, his own hymn to

Venus. Neither the voice, though somewhat injured, nor the verses were

bad, so that reproaches of conscience took possession of Lygia again;

for the hymn, though glorifying the impure pagan Venus, seemed to her

more than beautiful, and Cæsar himself, with a laurel crown on his head

and uplifted eyes, nobler, much less terrible, and less repulsive than

at the beginning of the feast.

The guests answered with a thunder of applause. Cries of, “Oh, heavenly

voice!” were heard round about; some of the women raised their hands,

and held them thus, as a sign of delight, even after the end of the

hymn; others wiped their tearful eyes; the whole hall was seething as in

a beehive. Poppæa, bending her golden-haired head, raised Nero’s hand

to her lips, and held it long in silence. Pythagoras, a young Greek

of marvellous beauty,--the same to whom later the half-insane Nero

commanded the flamens to marry him, with the observance of all

rites,--knelt now at his feet.

But Nero looked carefully at Petronius, whose praises were desired by

him always before every other, and who said,--“If it is a question of

music, Orpheus must at this moment be as yellow from envy as Lucan,

who is here present; and as to the verses, I am sorry that they are not

worse; if they were I might find proper words to praise them.”

Lucan did not take the mention of envy evil of him; on the contrary, he

looked at Petronius with gratitude, and, affecting ill-humor, began to

murmur,--“Cursed fate, which commanded me to live contemporary with such

a poet. One might have a place in the memory of man, and on Parnassus;

but now one will quench, as a candle in sunlight.”

Petronius, who had an amazing memory, began to repeat extracts from

the hymn and cite single verses, exalt, and analyze the more beautiful

expressions. Lucan, forgetting as it were his envy before the charm of

the poetry, joined his ecstasy to Petronius’s words. On Nero’s face were

reflected delight and fathomless vanity, not only nearing stupidity, but

reaching it perfectly. He indicated to them verses which he considered

the most beautiful; and finally he began to comfort Lucan, and tell him

not to lose heart, for though whatever a man is born that he is,

the honor which people give Jove does not exclude respect for other

divinities.

Then he rose to conduct Poppæa, who, being really in ill health, wished

to withdraw. But he commanded the guests who remained to occupy their

places anew, and promised to return, In fact, he returned a little

later, to stupefy himself with the smoke of incense, and gaze at further

spectacles which he himself, Petronius, or Tigellinus had prepared for

the feast.

Again verses were read or dialogues listened to in which extravagance

took the place of wit. After that Paris, the celebrated mime,

represented the adventures of Io, the daughter of Inachus. To the

guests, and especially to Lygia, unaccustomed to such scenes, it seemed

that they were gazing at miracles and enchantment. Paris, with motions

of his hands and body, was able to express things apparently impossible

in a dance. His hands dimmed the air, creating a cloud, bright, living,

quivering, voluptuous, surrounding the half-fainting form of a maiden

shaken by a spasm of delight. That was a picture, not a dance; an

expressive picture, disclosing the secrets of love, bewitching and

shameless; and when at the end of it Corybantes rushed in and began

a bacchic dance with girls of Syria to the sounds of cithara, lutes,

drums, and cymbals,--a dance filled with wild shouts and still wilder

license,--it seemed to Lygia that living fire was burning her, and that

a thunderbolt ought to strike that house, or the ceiling fall on the

heads of those feasting there.

But from the golden net fastened to the ceiling only roses fell, and

the now half-drunken Vinicius said to her,--“I saw thee in the house of

Aulus, at the fountain. It was daylight, and thou didst think that

no one saw thee; but I saw thee. And I see thee thus yet, though that

peplus hides thee. Cast aside the peplus, like Crispinilla. See, gods

and men seek love. There is nothing in the world but love. Lay thy head

on my breast and close thy eyes.”

The pulse beat oppressively in Lygia’s hands and temples. A feeling

seized her that she was flying into some abyss, and that Vinicius, who

before had seemed so near and so trustworthy, instead of saving was

drawing her toward it. And she felt sorry for him. She began again to

dread the feast and him and herself. Some voice, like that of Pomponia,

was calling yet in her soul, “O Lygia, save thyself!” But something

told her also that it was too late; that the one whom such a flame had

embraced as that which had embraced her, the one who had seen what was

done at that feast and whose heart had beaten as hers had on hearing the

words of Vinicius, the one through whom such a shiver had passed as had

passed through her when he approached, was lost beyond recovery. She

grew weak. It seemed at moments to her that she would faint, and then

something terrible would happen. She knew that, under penalty of Cæsar’s

anger, it was not permitted any one to rise till Cæsar rose; but even

were that not the case, she had not strength now to rise.

Meanwhile it was far to the end of the feast yet. Slaves brought new

courses, and filled the goblets unceasingly with wine; before the table,

on a platform open at one side, appeared two athletes to give the guests

a spectacle of wrestling.

They began the struggle at once, and the powerful bodies, shining from

olive oil, formed one mass; bones cracked in their iron arms, and from

their set jaws came an ominous gritting of teeth. At moments was heard

the quick, dull thump of their feet on the platform strewn with saffron;

again they were motionless, silent, and it seemed to the spectators that

they had before them a group chiselled out of stone. Roman eyes followed

with delight the movement of tremendously exerted backs, thighs, and

arms. But the struggle was not too prolonged; for Croton, a master,

and the founder of a school of gladiators, did not pass in vain for the

strongest man in the empire. His opponent began to breathe more and more

quickly: next a rattle was heard in his throat; then his face grew blue;

finally he threw blood from his mouth and fell.

A thunder of applause greeted the end of the struggle, and Croton,

resting his foot on the breast of his opponent, crossed his gigantic

arms on his breast, and cast the eyes of a victor around the hall.

Next appeared men who mimicked beasts and their voices, ball-players

and buffoons. Only a few persons looked at them, however, since wine had

darkened the eyes of the audience. The feast passed by degrees into a

drunken revel and a dissolute orgy. The Syrian damsels, who appeared

at first in the bacchic dance, mingled now with the guests. The music

changed into a disordered and wild outburst of citharas, lutes, Armenian

cymbals, Egyptian sistra, trumpets, and horns. As some of the guests

wished to talk, they shouted at the musicians to disappear. The air,

filled with the odor of flowers and the perfume of oils with which

beautiful boys had sprinkled the feet of the guests during the feast,

permeated with saffron and the exhalations of people, became stifling;

lamps burned with a dim flame; the wreaths dropped sidewise on the heads

of guests; faces grew pale and were covered with sweat. Vitelius rolled

under the table. Nigidia, stripping herself to the waist, dropped

her drunken childlike head on the breast of Lucan, who, drunk in like

degree, fell to blowing the golden powder from her hair, and raising

his eyes with immense delight. Vestinius, with the stubbornness of

intoxication, repeated for the tenth time the answer of Mopsus to the

sealed letter of the proconsul. Tullius, who reviled the gods,

said, with a drawling voice broken by hiccoughs,--“If the spheros of

Xenophanes is round, then consider, such a god might be pushed along

before one with the foot, like a barrel.”

But Domitius Afer, a hardened criminal and informer, was indignant at

the discourse, and through indignation spilled Falernian over his whole

tunic. He had always believed in the gods. People say that Rome will

perish, and there are some even who contend that it is perishing

already. And surely! But if that should come, it is because the youth

are without faith, and without faith there can be no virtue. People have

abandoned also the strict habits of former days, and it never occurs

to them that Epicureans will not stand against barbarians. As for him,

he--As for him, he was sorry that he had lived to such times, and that

he must seek in pleasures a refuge against griefs which, if not met,

would soon kill him.

When he had said this, he drew toward him a Syrian dancer, and kissed

her neck and shoulders with his toothless mouth. Seeing this, the consul

Memmius Regulus laughed, and, raising his bald head with wreath awry,

exclaimed,--“Who says that Rome is perishing? What folly! I, a consul,

know better. Videant consules! Thirty legions are guarding our pax

romana!”

Here he put his fists to his temples and shouted, in a voice heard

throughout the triclinium,--“Thirty legions! thirty legions! from

Britain to the Parthian boundaries!” But he stopped on a sudden, and,

putting a finger to his forehead, said,--“As I live, I think there are

thirty-two.” He rolled under the table, and began soon to send forth

flamingo tongues, roast and chilled mushrooms, locusts in honey, fish,

meat, and everything which he had eaten or drunk.

But the number of the legions guarding Roman peace did not pacify

Domitius.

No, no! Rome must perish; for faith in the gods was lost, and so were

strict habits! Rome must perish; and it was a pity, for still life was

pleasant there. Cæsar was gracious, wine was good! Oh, what a pity!

And hiding his head on the arm of a Syrian bacchanal, he burst into

tears. “What is a future life! Achilles was right,--better be a slave

in the world beneath the sun than a king in Cimmerian regions. And

still the question whether there are any gods--since it is unbelief--is

destroying the youth.”

Lucan meanwhile had blown all the gold powder from Nigidia’s hair, and

she being drunk had fallen asleep. Next he took wreaths of ivy from

the vase before him, put them on the sleeping woman, and when he had

finished looked at those present with a delighted and inquiring glance.

He arrayed himself in ivy too, repeating, in a voice of deep conviction,

“I am not a man at all, but a faun.”

Petronius was not drunk; but Nero, who drank little at first, out of

regard for his “heavenly” voice, emptied goblet after goblet toward the

end, and was drunk. He wanted even to sing more of his verses,--this

time in Greek,--but he had forgotten them, and by mistake sang an ode of

Anacreon. Pythagoras, Diodorus, and Terpnos accompanied him; but failing

to keep time, they stopped. Nero as a judge and an æsthete was enchanted

with the beauty of Pythagoras, and fell to kissing his hands in ecstasy.

“Such beautiful hands I have seen only once, and whose were they?” Then

placing his palm on his moist forehead, he tried to remember. After a

while terror was reflected on his face.

Ah! His mother’s--Agrippina’s!

And a gloomy vision seized him forthwith.

“They say,” said he, “that she wanders by moonlight on the sea around

Baiæ and Bauli. She merely walks,--walks as if seeking for something.

When she comes near a boat, she looks at it and goes away; but the

fisherman on whom she has fixed her eye dies.”

“Not a bad theme,” said Petronius.

But Vestinius, stretching his neck like a stork, whispered

mysteriously,--“I do not believe in the gods; but I believe in

spirits--Oi!”

Nero paid no attention to their words, and continued,--“I celebrated the

Lemuria, and have no wish to see her. This is the fifth year--I had

to condemn her, for she sent assassins against me; and, had I not been

quicker than she, ye would not be listening to-night to my song.”

“Thanks be to Cæsar, in the name of the city and the world!” cried

Domitius Afer.

“Wine! and let them strike the tympans!”

The uproar began anew. Lucan, all in ivy, wishing to outshout him, rose

and cried,--“I am not a man, but a faun; and I dwell in the forest.

Eho-o-o-oo!” Cæsar drank himself drunk at last; men were drunk, and

women were drunk. Vinicius was not less drunk than others; and in

addition there was roused in him, besides desire, a wish to quarrel,

which happened always when he passed the measure. His dark face became

paler, and his tongue stuttered when he spoke, in a voice now loud and

commanding,--“Give me thy lips! To-day, to-morrow, it is all one! Enough

of this!

“Cæsar took thee from Aulus to give thee to me, dost understand?

To-morrow, about dusk, I will send for thee, dost understand? Cæsar

promised thee to me before he took thee. Thou must be mine! Give me thy

lips! I will not wait for to-morrow,--give thy lips quickly.”

And he moved to embrace her; but Acte began to defend her, and she

defended herself with the remnant of her strength, for she felt that she

was perishing. But in vain did she struggle with both hands to remove

his hairless arm; in vain, with a voice in which terror and grief were

quivering, did she implore him not to be what he was, and to have pity

on her. Sated with wine, his breath blew around her nearer and nearer,

and his face was there near her face. He was no longer the former kind

Vinicius, almost dear to her soul; he was a drunken, wicked satyr, who

filled her with repulsion and terror. But her strength deserted her

more and more. In vain did she bend and turn away her face to escape his

kisses. He rose to his feet, caught her in both arms, and drawing her

head to his breast, began, panting, to press her pale lips with his.

But at this instant a tremendous power removed his arms from her neck

with as much ease as if they had been the arms of a child, and pushed

him aside, like a dried limb or a withered leaf. What had happened?

Vinicius rubbed his astonished eyes, and saw before him the gigantic

figure of the Lygian, called Ursus, whom he had seen at the house of

Aulus.

Ursus stood calmly, but looked at Vinicius so strangely with his blue

eyes that the blood stiffened in the veins of the young man; then the

giant took his queen on his arm, and walked out of the triclinium with

an even, quiet step.

Acte in that moment went after him.

Vinicius sat for the twinkle of an eye as if petrified; then he sprang

up and ran toward the entrance crying,--“Lygia! Lygia!”

But desire, astonishment, rage, and wine cut the legs from under him.

He staggered once and a second time, seized the naked arm of one of the

bacchanals, and began to inquire, with blinking eyes, what had happened.

She, taking a goblet of wine, gave it to him with a smile in her

mist-covered eyes.

“Drink!” said she.

Vinicius drank, and fell to the floor.

The greater number of the guests were lying under the table; others were

walking with tottering tread through the triclinium, while others were

sleeping on couches at the table, snoring, or giving forth the excess

of wine. Meanwhile, from the golden network, roses were dropping

and dropping on those drunken consuls and senators, on those drunken

knights, philosophers, and poets, on those drunken dancing damsels and

patrician ladies, on that society all dominant as yet but with the soul

gone from it, on that society garlanded and ungirdled but perishing.

Dawn had begun out of doors.