The Last Days of Pompeii

by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton

  Chapter IV

  THE STREAM OF LOVE RUNS ON. WHITHER?

  DAYS are like years in the love of the young, when no bar, no obstacle,is between their hearts--when the sun shines, and the course runssmooth--when their love is prosperous and confessed. Ione no longerconcealed from Glaucus the attachment she felt for him, and their talknow was only of their love. Over the rapture of the present the hopesof the future glowed like the heaven above the gardens of spring. Theywent in their trustful thoughts far down the stream of time: they laidout the chart of their destiny to come; they suffered the light ofto-day to suffuse the morrow. In the youth of their hearts it seemed asif care, and change, and death, were as things unknown. Perhaps theyloved each other the more because the condition of the world left toGlaucus no aim and no wish but love; because the distractions common infree states to men's affections existed not for the Athenian; becausehis country wooed him not to the bustle of civil life; because ambitionfurnished no counterpoise to love: and, therefore, over their schemesand projects, love only reigned. In the iron age they imaginedthemselves of the golden, doomed only to live and to love.

  To the superficial observer, who interests himself only in charactersstrongly marked and broadly colored, both the lovers may seem of tooslight and commonplace a mould: in the delineation of characterspurposely subdued, the reader sometimes imagines that there is a want ofcharacter; perhaps, indeed, I wrong the real nature of these two loversby not painting more impressively their stronger individualities. Butin dwelling so much on their bright and birdlike existence, I aminfluenced almost insensibly by the forethought of the changes thatawait them, and for which they were so ill prepared. It was this verysoftness and gaiety of life that contrasted most strongly thevicissitudes of their coming fate. For the oak without fruit orblossom, whose hard and rugged heart is fitted for the storm, there isless fear than for the delicate branches of the myrtle, and the laughingclusters of the vine.

  They had now advanced far into August--the next month their marriage wasfixed, and the threshold of Glaucus was already wreathed with garlands;and nightly, by the door of Ione, he poured forth the rich libations.He existed no longer for his gay companions; he was ever with Ione. Inthe mornings they beguiled the sun with music: in the evenings theyforsook the crowded haunts of the gay for excursions on the water, oralong the fertile and vine-clad plains that lay beneath the fatal mountof Vesuvius. The earth shook no more; the lively Pompeians forgot eventhat there had gone forth so terrible a warning of their approachingdoom. Glaucus imagined that convulsion, in the vanity of his heathenreligion, an especial interposition of the gods, less in behalf of hisown safety than that of Ione. He offered up the sacrifices of gratitudeat the temples of his faith; and even the altar of Isis was covered withhis votive garlands--as to the prodigy of the animated marble, heblushed at the effect it had produced on him. He believed it, indeed,to have been wrought by the magic of man; but the result convinced himthat it betokened not the anger of a goddess.

  Of Arbaces, they heard only that he still lived; stretched on the bed ofsuffering, he recovered slowly from the effect of the shock he hadsustained--he left the lovers unmolested--but it was only to brood overthe hour and the method of revenge.

  Alike in their mornings at the house of Ione, and in their eveningexcursions, Nydia was usually their constant, and often their solecompanion. They did not guess the secret fires which consumed her--theabrupt freedom with which she mingled in their conversation--hercapricious and often her peevish moods found ready indulgence in therecollection of the service they owed her, and their compassion for heraffliction. They felt an interest in her, perhaps the greater and moreaffectionate from the very strangeness and waywardness of her nature,her singular alternations of passion and softness--the mixture ofignorance and genius--of delicacy and rudeness--of the quick humors ofthe child, and the proud calmness of the woman. Although she refused toaccept of freedom, she was constantly suffered to be free; she wentwhere she listed; no curb was put either on her words or actions; theyfelt for one so darkly fated, and so susceptible of every wound, thesame pitying and compliant indulgence the mother feels for a spoiled andsickly child--dreading to impose authority, even where they imagined itfor her benefit. She availed herself of this license by refusing thecompanionship of the slave whom they wished to attend her. With theslender staff by which she guided her steps, she went now, as in herformer unprotected state, along the populous streets: it was almostmiraculous to perceive how quickly and how dexterously she threadedevery crowd, avoiding every danger, and could find her benighted waythrough the most intricate windings of the city. But her chief delightwas still in visiting the few feet of ground which made the garden ofGlaucus--in tending the flowers that at least repaid her love.Sometimes she entered the chamber where he sat, and sought aconversation, which she nearly always broke off abruptly--forconversation with Glaucus only tended to one subject--Ione; and thatname from his lips inflicted agony upon her. Often she bitterlyrepented the service she had rendered to Ione: often she said inly, 'Ifshe had fallen, Glaucus could have loved her no longer'; and then darkand fearful thoughts crept into her breast.

  She had not experienced fully the trials that were in store for her,when she had been thus generous. She had never before been present whenGlaucus and Ione were together; she had never heard that voice so kindto her, so much softer to another. The shock that crushed her heartwith the tidings that Glaucus loved, had at first only saddened andbenumbed--by degrees jealousy took a wilder and fiercer shape; itpartook of hatred--it whispered revenge. As you see the wind onlyagitate the green leaf upon the bough, while the leaf which has lainwithered and seared on the ground, bruised and trampled upon till thesap and life are gone, is suddenly whirled aloft--now here--nowthere--without stay and without rest; so the love which visits the happyand the hopeful hath but freshness on its wings! its violence is butsportive. But the heart that hath fallen from the green things of life,that is without hope, that hath no summer in its fibres, is torn andwhirled by the same wind that but caresses its brethren--it hath nobough to cling to--it is dashed from path to path--till the winds fall,and it is crushed into the mire for ever.

  The friendless childhood of Nydia had hardened prematurely hercharacter; perhaps the heated scenes of profligacy through which she hadpassed, seemingly unscathed, had ripened her passions, though they hadnot sullied her purity. The orgies of Burbo might only have disgusted,the banquets of the Egyptian might only have terrified, at the moment;but the winds that pass unheeded over the soil leave seeds behind them.As darkness, too, favors the imagination, so, perhaps, her veryblindness contributed to feed with wild and delirious visions the loveof the unfortunate girl. The voice of Glaucus had been the first thathad sounded musically to her ear; his kindness made a deep impressionupon her mind; when he had left Pompeii in the former year, she hadtreasured up in her heart every word he had uttered; and when any onetold her that this friend and patron of the poor flower-girl was themost brilliant and the most graceful of the young revellers of Pompeii,she had felt a pleasing pride in nursing his recollection. Even thetask which she imposed upon herself, of tending his flowers, served tokeep him in her mind; she associated him with all that was most charmingto her impressions; and when she had refused to express what image shefancied Ione to resemble, it was partly, perhaps, that whatever wasbright and soft in nature she had already combined with the thought ofGlaucus. If any of my readers ever loved at an age which they would nowsmile to remember--an age in which fancy forestalled the reason, letthem say whether that love, among all its strange and complicateddelicacies, was not, above all other and later passions, susceptible ofjealousy? I seek not here the cause: I know that it is commonly thefact.

  When Glaucus returned to Pompeii, Nydia had told another year of life;that year, with its sorrows, its loneliness, its trials, had greatlydeveloped her mind and heart; and when the Athenian drew herunconsciously to his breast, deeming her still in soul as in years achild--wh
en he kissed her smooth cheek, and wound his arm round hertrembling frame, Nydia felt suddenly, and as by revelation, that thosefeelings she had long and innocently cherished were of love. Doomed tobe rescued from tyranny by Glaucus--doomed to take shelter under hisroof--doomed to breathe, but for so brief a time, the same air--anddoomed, in the first rush of a thousand happy, grateful, delicioussentiments of an overflowing heart, to hear that he loved another; to becommissioned to that other, the messenger, the minister; to feel all atonce that utter nothingness which she was--which she ever must be, butwhich, till then, her young mind had not taught her--that utternothingness to him who was all to her; what wonder that, in her wild andpassionate soul, all the elements jarred discordant; that if lovereigned over the whole, it was not the love which is born of the moresacred and soft emotions? Sometimes she dreaded only lest Glaucusshould discover her secret; sometimes she felt indignant that it was notsuspected: it was a sign of contempt--could he imagine that she presumedso far? Her feelings to Ione ebbed and flowed with every hour; now sheloved her because he did; now she hated him for the same cause. Therewere moments when she could have murdered her unconscious mistress;moments when she could have laid down life for her. These fierce andtremulous alternations of passion were too severe to be borne long. Herhealth gave way, though she felt it not--her cheek paled--her step grewfeebler--tears came to her eyes more often, and relieved her less.

  One morning, when she repaired to her usual task in the garden of theAthenian, she found Glaucus under the columns of the peristyle, with amerchant of the town; he was selecting jewels for his destined bride.He had already fitted up her apartment; the jewels he bought that daywere placed also within it--they were never fated to grace the fair formof Ione; they may be seen at this day among the disinterred treasures ofPompeii, in the chambers of the studio at Naples.

  'Come hither, Nydia; put down thy vase, and come hither. Thou must takethis chain from me--stay--there, I have put it on. There, Servilius,does it not become her?'

  'Wonderfully!' answered the jeweller; for jewellers were well-bred andflattering men, even at that day. 'But when these ear-rings glitter inthe ears of the noble Ione, then, by Bacchus! you will see whether myart adds anything to beauty.'

  'Ione?' repeated Nydia, who had hitherto acknowledged by smiles andblushes the gift of Glaucus.

  'Yes,' replied the Athenian, carelessly toying with the gems; 'I amchoosing a present for Ione, but there are none worthy of her.'

  He was startled as he spoke by an abrupt gesture of Nydia; she tore thechain violently from her neck, and dashed it on the ground.

  'How is this? What, Nydia, dost thou not like the bauble? art thouoffended?'

  'You treat me ever as a slave and as a child,' replied the Thessalian,with ill-suppressed sobs, and she turned hastily away to the oppositecorner of the garden.

  Glaucus did not attempt to follow, or to soothe; he was offended; hecontinued to examine the jewels and to comment on their fashion--toobject to this and to praise that, and finally to be talked by themerchant into buying all; the safest plan for a lover, and a plan thatany one will do right to adopt, provided always that he can obtain anIone!

  When he had completed his purchase and dismissed the jeweller, heretired into his chamber, dressed, mounted his chariot, and went toIone. He thought no more of the blind girl, or her offence; he hadforgotten both the one and the other.

  He spent the forenoon with his beautiful Neapolitan, repaired thence tothe baths, supped (if, as we have said before, we can justly sotranslate the three o'clock coena of the Romans) alone, and abroad, forPompeii had its restaurateurs--and returning home to change his dressere he again repaired to the house of Ione, he passed the peristyle, butwith the absorbed reverie and absent eyes of a man in love, and did notnote the form of the poor blind girl, bending exactly in the same placewhere he had left her. But though he saw her not, her ear recognized atonce the sound of his step. She had been counting the moments to hisreturn. He had scarcely entered his favorite chamber, which opened onthe peristyle, and seated himself musingly on his couch, when he felthis robe timorously touched, and, turning, he beheld Nydia kneelingbefore him, and holding up to him a handful of flowers--a gentle andappropriate peace-offering--her eyes, darkly upheld to his own, streamedwith tears.

  'I have offended thee,' said she, sobbing, 'and for the first time. Iwould die rather than cause thee a moment's pain--say that thou wiltforgive me. See! I have taken up the chain; I have put it on: I willnever part from it--it is thy gift.'

  'My dear Nydia,' returned Glaucus, and raising her, he kissed herforehead, 'think of it no more! But why, my child, wert thou sosuddenly angry? I could not divine the cause?'

  'Do not ask!' said she, coloring violently. 'I am a thing full offaults and humors; you know I am but a child--you say so often: is itfrom a child that you can expect a reason for every folly?'

  'But, prettiest, you will soon be a child no more; and if you would haveus treat you as a woman, you must learn to govern these singularimpulses and gales of passion. Think not I chide: no, it is for yourhappiness only I speak.'

  'It is true,' said Nydia, 'I must learn to govern myself I must bide, Imust suppress, my heart. This is a woman's task and duty; methinks hervirtue is hypocrisy.'

  'Self-control is not deceit, my Nydia,' returned the Athenian; and thatis the virtue necessary alike to man and to woman; it is the truesenatorial toga, the badge of the dignity it covers!'

  'Self-control! self-control! Well, well, what you say is right! When Ilisten to you, Glaucus, my wildest thoughts grow calm and sweet, and adelicious serenity falls over me. Advise, ah! guide me ever, mypreserver!'

  'Thy affectionate heart will be thy best guide, Nydia, when thou hastlearned to regulate its feelings.'

  'Ah! that will be never,' sighed Nydia, wiping away her tears.

  'Say not so: the first effort is the only difficult one.'

  'I have made many first efforts,' answered Nydia, innocently. 'But you,my Mentor, do you find it so easy to control yourself? Can you conceal,can you even regulate, your love for Ione?'

  'Love! dear Nydia: ah! that is quite another matter,' answered the youngpreceptor.

  'I thought so!' returned Nydia, with a melancholy smile. 'Glaucus, wiltthou take my poor flowers? Do with them as thou wilt--thou canst givethem to Ione,' added she, with a little hesitation.

  'Nay, Nydia,' answered Glaucus, kindly, divining something of jealousyin her language, though he imagined it only the jealousy of a vain andsusceptible child; 'I will not give thy pretty flowers to any one. Sithere and weave them into a garland; I will wear it this night: it is notthe first those delicate fingers have woven for me.'

  The poor girl delightedly sat down beside Glaucus. She drew from hergirdle a ball of the many-colored threads, or rather slender ribands,used in the weaving of garlands, and which (for it was her professionaloccupation) she carried constantly with her, and began quickly andgracefully to commence her task. Upon her young cheeks the tears werealready dried, a faint but happy smile played round her lips--childlike,indeed, she was sensible only of the joy of the present hour: she wasreconciled to Glaucus: he had forgiven her--she was beside him--heplayed caressingly with her silken hair--his breath fanned hercheek--Ione, the cruel Ione, was not by--none other demanded, divided,his care. Yes, she was happy and forgetful; it was one of the fewmoments in her brief and troubled life that it was sweet to treasure, torecall. As the butterfly, allured by the winter sun, basks for a littlein the sudden light, ere yet the wind awakes and the frost comes on,which shall blast it before the eve--she rested beneath a beam, which,by contrast with the wonted skies, was not chilling; and the instinctwhich should have warned her of its briefness, bade her only gladden inits smile.

  'Thou hast beautiful locks,' said Glaucus. 'They were once, I weenwell, a mother's delight.'

  Nydia sighed; it would seem that she had not been born a slave; but sheever shunned the mention of her parentage, and, whether o
bscure ornoble, certain it is that her birth was never known by her benefactors,nor by any one in those distant shores, even to the last. The child ofsorrow and of mystery, she came and went as some bird that enters ourchamber for a moment; we see it flutter for a while before us, we knownot whence it flew or to what region it escapes.

  Nydia sighed, and after a short pause, without answering the remark,said: 'But do I weave too many roses in my wreath, Glaucus? They tellme it is thy favorite flower.'

  'And ever favored, my Nydia, be it by those who have the soul of poetry:it is the flower of love, of festival; it is also the flower we dedicateto silence and to death; it blooms on our brows in life, while life beworth the having; it is scattered above our sepulchre when we are nomore.'

  'Ah! would,' said Nydia, 'instead of this perishable wreath, that Icould take thy web from the hand of the Fates, and insert the rosesthere!'

  'Pretty one! thy wish is worthy of a voice so attuned to song; it isuttered in the spirit of song; and, whatever my doom, I thank thee.'

  'Whatever thy doom! is it not already destined to all things bright andfair? My wish was vain. The Fates will be as tender to thee as Ishould.'

  'It might not be so, Nydia, were it not for love! While youth lasts, Imay forget my country for a while. But what Athenian, in his gravermanhood, can think of Athens as she was, and be contented that he ishappy, while she is fallen?--fallen, and for ever?'

  'And why for ever?'

  'As ashes cannot be rekindled--as love once dead can never revive, sofreedom departed from a people is never regained. But talk we not ofthese matters unsuited to thee.'

  'To me, oh! thou errest. I, too, have my sighs for Greece; my cradlewas rocked at the foot of Olympus; the gods have left the mountain, buttheir traces may be seen--seen in the hearts of their worshippers, seenin the beauty of their clime: they tell me it is beautiful, and I havefelt its airs, to which even these are harsh--its sun, to which theseskies are chill. Oh! talk to me of Greece! Poor fool that I am, I cancomprehend thee! and methinks, had I yet lingered on those shores, had Ibeen a Grecian maid whose happy fate it was to love and to be loved, Imyself could have armed my lover for another Marathon, a new Plataea.Yes, the hand that now weaves the roses should have woven thee the olivecrown!'

  'If such a day could come!' said Glaucus, catching the enthusiasm of theblind Thessalian, and half rising.--'But no! the sun has set, and thenight only bids us be forgetful--and in forgetfulness be gay--weavestill the roses!'

  But it was with a melancholy tone of forced gaiety that the Athenianuttered the last words: and sinking into a gloomy reverie, he was onlywakened from it, a few minutes afterwards, by the voice of Nydia, as shesang in a low tone the following words, which he had once taught her:--

  THE APOLOGY FOR PLEASURE

  I

  Who will assume the bays That the hero wore? Wreaths on the Tomb of Days Gone evermore! Who shall disturb the brave, Or one leaf on their holy grave? The laurel is vowed to them, Leave the bay on its sacred stem! But this, the rose, the fading rose, Alike for slave and freeman grows.

  II

  If Memory sit beside the dead With tombs her only treasure; If Hope is lost and Freedom fled, The more excuse for Pleasure. Come, weave the wreath, the roses weave, The rose at least is ours: To feeble hearts our fathers leave, In pitying scorn, the flowers!

  III

  On the summit, worn and hoary, Of Phyle's solemn hill, The tramp of the brave is still! And still in the saddening Mart, The pulse of that mighty heart, Whose very blood was glory! Glaucopis forsakes her own, The angry gods forget us; But yet, the blue streams along, Walk the feet of the silver Song; And the night-bird wakes the moon; And the bees in the blushing noon Haunt the heart of the old Hymettus. We are fallen, but not forlorn, If something is left to cherish; As Love was the earliest born, So Love is the last to perish.

  IV

  Wreathe then the roses, wreathe The BEAUTIFUL still is ours, While the stream shall flow and the sky shall glow, The BEAUTIFUL still is ours! Whatever is fair, or soft, or bright, In the lap of day or the arms of night, Whispers our soul of Greece--of Greece, And hushes our care with a voice of peace. Wreathe then the roses, wreathe! They tell me of earlier hours; And I hear the heart of my Country breathe From the lips of the Stranger's flowers.