‘And what wilt thou teach me, O singular and fearful man? New cheats—new...’
‘No—I have thrown thee into the abyss of disbelief; I will lead thee now to the eminence of faith. Thou hast seen the false types: thou shalt learn now the realities they represent. There is no shadow, Apaecides, without its substance. Come to me this night. Your hand.’
Impressed, excited, bewildered by the language of the Egyptian, Apaecides gave him his hand, and master and pupil parted.
It was true that for Apaecides there was no retreat. He had taken the vows of celibacy: he had devoted himself to a life that at present seemed to possess all the austerities of fanaticism, without any of the consolations of belief It was natural that he should yet cling to a yearning desire to reconcile himself to an irrevocable career. The powerful and profound mind of the Egyptian yet claimed an empire over his young imagination; excited him with vague conjecture, and kept him alternately vibrating between hope and fear.
Meanwhile Arbaces pursued his slow and stately way to the house of Ione. As he entered the tablinum, he heard a voice from the porticoes of the peristyle beyond, which, musical as it was, sounded displeasingly on his ear—it was the voice of the young and beautiful Glaucus, and for the first time an involuntary thrill of jealousy shot through the breast of the Egyptian. On entering the peristyle, he found Glaucus seated by the side of Ione. The fountain in the odorous garden cast up its silver spray in the air, and kept a delicious coolness in the midst of the sultry noon. The handmaids, almost invariably attendant on Ione, who with her freedom of life preserved the most delicate modesty, sat at a little distance; by the feet of Glaucus lay the lyre on which he had been playing to Ione one of the Lesbian airs. The scene—the group before Arbaces, was stamped by that peculiar and refined ideality of poesy which we yet, not erroneously, imagine to be the distinction of the ancients—the marble columns, the vases of flowers, the statue, white and tranquil, closing every vista; and, above all, the two living forms, from which a sculptor might have caught either inspiration or despair!
Arbaces, pausing for a moment, gazed on the pair with a brow from which all the usual stern serenity had fled; he recovered himself by an effort, and slowly approached them, but with a step so soft and echoless, that even the attendants heard him not; much less Ione and her lover.
‘And yet,’ said Glaucus, ‘it is only before we love that we imagine that our poets have truly described the passion; the instant the sun rises, all the stars that had shone in his absence vanish into air. The poets exist only in the night of the heart; they are nothing to us when we feel the full glory of the god.’
‘A gentle and most glowing image, noble Glaucus.’
Both started, and recognized behind the seat of Ione the cold and sarcastic face of the Egyptian.
‘You are a sudden guest,’ said Glaucus, rising, and with a forced smile.
‘So ought all to be who know they are welcome,’ returned Arbaces, seating himself, and motioning to Glaucus to do the same.
‘I am glad,’ said Ione, ‘to see you at length together; for you are suited to each other, and you are formed to be friends.’
‘Give me back some fifteen years of life,’ replied the Egyptian, ‘before you can place me on an equality with Glaucus. Happy should I be to receive his friendship; but what can I give him in return? Can I make to him the same confidences that he would repose in me—of banquets and garlands—of Parthian steeds, and the chances of the dice? these pleasures suit his age, his nature, his career: they are not for mine.’
So saying, the artful Egyptian looked down and sighed; but from the corner of his eye he stole a glance towards Ione, to see how she received these insinuations of the pursuits of her visitor. Her countenance did not satisfy him. Glaucus, slightly coloring, hastened gaily to reply. Nor was he, perhaps, without the wish in his turn to disconcert and abash the Egyptian.
‘You are right, wise Arbaces,’ said he; ‘we can esteem each other, but we cannot be friends. My banquets lack the secret salt which, according to rumor, gives such zest to your own. And, by Hercules! when I have reached your age, if I, like you, may think it wise to pursue the pleasures of manhood, like you, I shall be doubtless sarcastic on the gallantries of youth.’
The Egyptian raised his eyes to Glaucus with a sudden and piercing glance.
‘I do not understand you,’ said he, coldly; ‘but it is the custom to consider that wit lies in obscurity.’ He turned from Glaucus as he spoke, with a scarcely perceptible sneer of contempt, and after a moment’s pause addressed himself to Ione.
‘I have not, beautiful Ione,’ said he, ‘been fortunate enough to find you within doors the last two or three times that I have visited your vestibule.’
‘The smoothness of the sea has tempted me much from home,’ replied Ione, with a little embarrassment.
The embarrassment did not escape Arbaces; but without seeming to heed it, he replied with a smile: ‘You know the old poet says, that “Women should keep within doors, and there converse.”’
‘The poet was a cynic,’ said Glaucus, ‘and hated women.’
‘He spoke according to the customs of his country, and that country is your boasted Greece.’
‘To different periods different customs. Had our forefathers known Ione, they had made a different law.’
‘Did you learn these pretty gallantries at Rome?’ said Arbaces, with ill-suppressed emotion.
‘One certainly would not go for gallantries to Egypt,’ retorted Glaucus, playing carelessly with his chain.
‘Come, come,’ said Ione, hastening to interrupt a conversation which she saw, to her great distress, was so little likely to cement the intimacy she had desired to effect between Glaucus and her friend, ‘Arbaces must not be so hard upon his poor pupil. An orphan, and without a mother’s care, I may be to blame for the independent and almost masculine liberty of life that I have chosen: yet it is not greater than the Roman women are accustomed to—it is not greater than the Grecian ought to be. Alas! is it only to be among men that freedom and virtue are to be deemed united? Why should the slavery that destroys you be considered the only method to preserve us? Ah! believe me, it has been the great error of men—and one that has worked bitterly on their destinies—to imagine that the nature of women is (I will not say inferior, that may be so, but) so different from their own, in making laws unfavorable to the intellectual advancement of women. Have they not, in so doing, made laws against their children, whom women are to rear?—against the husbands, of whom women are to be the friends, nay, sometimes the advisers?’ Ione stopped short suddenly, and her face was suffused with the most enchanting blushes. She feared lest her enthusiasm had led her too far; yet she feared the austere Arbaces less than the courteous Glaucus, for she loved the last, and it was not the custom of the Greeks to allow their women (at least such of their women as they most honored) the same liberty and the same station as those of Italy enjoyed. She felt, therefore, a thrill of delight as Glaucus earnestly replied:
‘Ever mayst thou think thus, Ione—ever be your pure heart your unerring guide! Happy it had been for Greece if she had given to the chaste the same intellectual charms that are so celebrated amongst the less worthy of her women. No state falls from freedom—from knowledge, while your sex smile only on the free, and by appreciating, encourage the wise.’
Arbaces was silent, for it was neither his part to sanction the sentiment of Glaucus, nor to condemn that of Ione, and, after a short and embarrassed conversation, Glaucus took his leave of Ione.
When he was gone, Arbaces, drawing his seat nearer to the fair Neapolitan’s, said in those bland and subdued tones, in which he knew so well how to veil the mingled art and fierceness of his character:
‘Think not, my sweet pupil, if so I may call you, that I wish to shackle that liberty you adorn while you assume: but which, if not greater, as you rightly observe, than that possessed by the Roman women, must at least be accompanied by great circumspection, when arrogated b
y one unmarried. Continue to draw crowds of the gay, the brilliant, the wise themselves, to your feet—continue to charm them with the conversation of an Aspasia, the music of an Erinna—but reflect, at least, on those censorious tongues which can so easily blight the tender reputation of a maiden; and while you provoke admiration, give, I beseech you, no victory to envy.’
‘What mean you, Arbaces?’ said Ione, in an alarmed and trembling voice: ‘I know you are my friend, that you desire only my honour and my welfare. What is it you would say?’
‘Your friend—ah, how sincerely! May I speak then as a friend, without reserve and without offence?’
‘I beseech you do so.’
‘This young profligate, this Glaucus, how didst thou know him? Hast thou seen him often?’ And as Arbaces spoke, he fixed his gaze steadfastly upon Ione, as if he sought to penetrate into her soul.
Recoiling before that gaze, with a strange fear which she could not explain, the Neapolitan answered with confusion and hesitation: ‘He was brought to my house as a countryman of my father’s, and I may say of mine. I have known him only within this last week or so: but why these questions?’
‘Forgive me,’ said Arbaces; ‘I thought you might have known him longer. Base insinuator that he is!’
‘How! what mean you? Why that term?’
‘It matters not: let me not rouse your indignation against one who does not deserve so grave an honour.’
‘I implore you speak. What has Glaucus insinuated? or rather, in what do you suppose he has offended?’
Smothering his resentment at the last part of Ione’s question, Arbaces continued: ‘You know his pursuits, his companions his habits; the comissatio and the alea (the revel and the dice) make his occupation; and amongst the associates of vice how can he dream of virtue?’
‘Still you speak riddles. By the gods! I entreat you, say the worst at once.’
‘Well, then, it must be so. Know, my Ione, that it was but yesterday that Glaucus boasted openly—yes, in the public baths—of your love to him. He said it amused him to take advantage of it. Nay, I will do him justice, he praised your beauty. Who could deny it? But he laughed scornfully when his Clodius, or his Lepidus, asked him if he loved you enough for marriage, and when he purposed to adorn his door-posts with flowers?’
‘Impossible! How heard you this base slander?’
‘Nay, would you have me relate to you all the comments of the insolent coxcombs with which the story has circled through the town? Be assured that I myself disbelieved at first, and that I have now painfully been convinced by several ear-witnesses of the truth of what I have reluctantly told thee.’
Ione sank back, and her face was whiter than the pillar against which she leaned for support.
‘I own it vexed—it irritated me, to hear your name thus lightly pitched from lip to lip, like some mere dancing-girl’s fame. I hastened this morning to seek and to warn you. I found Glaucus here. I was stung from my self-possession. I could not conceal my feelings; nay, I was uncourteous in thy presence. Canst thou forgive thy friend, Ione?’
Ione placed her hand in his, but replied not.
‘Think no more of this,’ said he; ‘but let it be a warning voice, to tell thee how much prudence thy lot requires. It cannot hurt thee, Ione, for a moment; for a gay thing like this could never have been honored by even a serious thought from Ione. These insults only wound when they come from one we love; far different indeed is he whom the lofty Ione shall stoop to love.’
‘Love!’ muttered Ione, with an hysterical laugh. ‘Ay, indeed.’
It is not without interest to observe in those remote times, and under a social system so widely different from the modern, the same small causes that ruffle and interrupt the ‘course of love’, which operate so commonly at this day—the same inventive jealousy, the same cunning slander, the same crafty and fabricated retailings of petty gossip, which so often now suffice to break the ties of the truest love, and counteract the tenor of circumstances most apparently propitious. When the bark sails on over the smoothest wave, the fable tells us of the diminutive fish that can cling to the keel and arrest its progress: so is it ever with the great passions of mankind; and we should paint life but ill if, even in times the most prodigal of romance, and of the romance of which we most largely avail ourselves, we did not also describe the mechanism of those trivial and household springs of mischief which we see every day at work in our chambers and at our hearths. It is in these, the lesser intrigues of life, that we mostly find ourselves at home with the past.
Most cunningly had the Egyptian appealed to Ione’s ruling foible—most dexterously had he applied the poisoned dart to her pride. He fancied he had arrested what he hoped, from the shortness of the time she had known Glaucus, was, at most, but an incipient fancy; and hastening to change the subject, he now led her to talk of her brother. Their conversation did not last long. He left her, resolved not again to trust so much to absence, but to visit—to watch her—every day.
No sooner had his shadow glided from her presence, than woman’s pride—her sex’s dissimulation—deserted his intended victim, and the haughty Ione burst into passionate tears.
Chapter VII
* * *
The Gay Life Of The Pompeian Lounger. A Miniature Likeness Of The Roman Baths.
WHEN Glaucus left Ione, he felt as if he trod upon air. In the interview with which he had just been blessed, he had for the first time gathered from her distinctly that his love was not unwelcome to, and would not be unrewarded by, her. This hope filled him with a rapture for which earth and heaven seemed too narrow to afford a vent. Unconscious of the sudden enemy he had left behind, and forgetting not only his taunts but his very existence, Glaucus passed through the gay streets, repeating to himself, in the wantonness of joy, the music of the soft air to which Ione had listened with such intentness; and now he entered the Street of Fortune, with its raised footpath—its houses painted without, and the open doors admitting the view of the glowing frescoes within. Each end of the street was adorned with a triumphal arch: and as Glaucus now came before the Temple of Fortune, the jutting portico of that beautiful fane (which is supposed to have been built by one of the family of Cicero, perhaps by the orator himself) imparted a dignified and venerable feature to a scene otherwise more brilliant than lofty in its character. That temple was one of the most graceful specimens of Roman architecture. It was raised on a somewhat lofty podium; and between two flights of steps ascending to a platform stood the altar of the goddess. From this platform another flight of broad stairs led to the portico, from the height of whose fluted columns hung festoons of the richest flowers. On either side the extremities of the temple were placed statues of Grecian workmanship; and at a little distance from the temple rose the triumphal arch crowned with an equestrian statue of Caligula, which was flanked by trophies of bronze. In the space before the temple a lively throng were assembled—some seated on benches and discussing the politics of the empire, some conversing on the approaching spectacle of the amphitheatre. One knot of young men were lauding a new beauty, another discussing the merits of the last play; a third group, more stricken in age, were speculating on the chance of the trade with Alexandria, and amidst these were many merchants in the Eastern costume, whose loose and peculiar robes, painted and gemmed slippers, and composed and serious countenances, formed a striking contrast to the tunicked forms and animated gestures of the Italians. For that impatient and lively people had, as now, a language distinct from speech—a language of signs and motions, inexpressibly significant and vivacious: their descendants retain it, and the learned Jorio hath written a most entertaining work upon that species of hieroglyphical gesticulation.
Sauntering through the crowd, Glaucus soon found himself amidst a group of his merry and dissipated friends.
‘Ah!’ said Sallust, ‘it is a lustrum since I saw you.’
‘And how have you spent the lustrum? What new dishes have you discovered?’
‘I have
been scientific,’ returned Sallust, ‘and have made some experiments in the feeding of lampreys: I confess I despair of bringing them to the perfection which our Roman ancestors attained.’
‘Miserable man! and why?’
‘Because,’ returned Sallust, with a sigh, ‘it is no longer lawful to give them a slave to eat. I am very often tempted to make away with a very fat carptor (butler) whom I possess, and pop him slily into the reservoir. He would give the fish a most oleaginous flavor! But slaves are not slaves nowadays, and have no sympathy with their masters’ interest—or Davus would destroy himself to oblige me!’
‘What news from Rome?’ said Lepidus, as he languidly joined the group.
‘The emperor has been giving a splendid supper to the senators,’ answered Sallust.
‘He is a good creature,’ quoth Lepidus; ‘they say he never sends a man away without granting his request.’
‘Perhaps he would let me kill a slave for my reservoir?’ returned Sallust, eagerly.
‘Not unlikely,’ said Glaucus; ‘for he who grants a favor to one Roman, must always do it at the expense of another. Be sure, that for every smile Titus has caused, a hundred eyes have wept.’
‘Long live Titus!’ cried Pansa, overhearing the emperor’s name, as he swept patronizingly through the crowd; ‘he has promised my brother a quaestorship, because he had run through his fortune.’
‘And wishes now to enrich himself among the people, my Pansa,’ said Glaucus.
‘Exactly so,’ said Pansa.
‘That is putting the people to some use,’ said Glaucus.
‘To be sure, returned Pansa. ‘Well, I must go and look after the aerarium—it is a little out of repair’; and followed by a long train of clients, distinguished from the rest of the throng by the togas they wore (for togas, once the sign of freedom in a citizen, were now the badge of servility to a patron), the aedile fidgeted fussily away.
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