‘Ione,’ said he, as he pressed her hand, ‘should you hear my name blackened and maligned, will you credit the aspersion?’
‘Never, my brother, never!’
‘Dost thou not imagine, according to thy belief, that the evil-doer is punished hereafter, and the good rewarded?’
‘Can you doubt it?’
‘Dost thou think, then, that he who is truly good should sacrifice every selfish interest in his zeal for virtue?’
‘He who doth so is the equal of the gods.’
‘And thou believest that, according to the purity and courage with which he thus acts, shall be his portion of bliss beyond the grave?’
‘So we are taught to hope.’
‘Kiss me, my sister. One question more. Thou art to be wedded to Glaucus: perchance that marriage may separate us more hopelessly—but not of this speak I now—thou art to be married to Glaucus—dost thou love him? Nay, my sister, answer me by words.’
‘Yes!’ murmured Ione, blushing.
‘Dost thou feel that, for his sake, thou couldst renounce pride, brave dishonour, and incur death? I have heard that when women really love, it is to that excess.’
‘My brother, all this could I do for Glaucus, and feel that it were not a sacrifice. There is no sacrifice to those who love, in what is borne for the one we love.’
‘Enough! shall woman feel thus for man, and man feel less devotion to his God?’
He spoke no more. His whole countenance seemed instinct and inspired with a divine life: his chest swelled proudly; his eyes glowed: on his forehead was writ the majesty of a man who can dare to be noble! He turned to meet the eyes of Ione—earnest, wistful, fearful—he kissed her fondly, strained her warmly to his breast, and in a moment more he had left the house.
Long did Ione remain in the same place, mute and thoughtful. The maidens again and again came to warn her of the deepening noon, and her engagement to Diomed’s banquet. At length she woke from her reverie, and prepared, not with the pride of beauty, but listless and melancholy, for the festival: one thought alone reconciled her to the promised visit—she should meet Glaucus—she could confide to him her alarm and uneasiness for her brother.
Chapter III
* * *
A Fashionable Party And A Dinner A La Mode In Pompeii.
MEANWHILE Sallust and Glaucus were slowly strolling towards the house of Diomed. Despite the habits of his life, Sallust was not devoid of many estimable qualities. He would have been an active friend, a useful citizen—in short, an excellent man, if he had not taken it into his head to be a philosopher. Brought up in the schools in which Roman plagiarism worshipped the echo of Grecian wisdom, he had imbued himself with those doctrines by which the later Epicureans corrupted the simple maxims of their great master. He gave himself altogether up to pleasure, and imagined there was no sage like a boon companion. Still, however, he had a considerable degree of learning, wit, and good nature; and the hearty frankness of his very vices seemed like virtue itself beside the utter corruption of Clodius and the prostrate effeminacy of Lepidus; and therefore Glaucus liked him the best of his companions; and he, in turn, appreciating the nobler qualities of the Athenian, loved him almost as much as a cold muraena, or a bowl of the best Falernian.
‘This is a vulgar old fellow, this Diomed,’ said Sallust: ‘but he has some good qualities—in his cellar!’
‘And some charming ones—in his daughter.’
‘True, Glaucus: but you are not much moved by them, methinks. I fancy Clodius is desirous to be your successor.’
‘He is welcome. At the banquet of Julia’s beauty, no guest, be sure, is considered a musca.’
‘You are severe: but she has, indeed, something of the Corinthian about her—they will be well matched, after all! What good-natured fellows we are to associate with that gambling good-for-nought.’
‘Pleasure unites strange varieties,’ answered Glaucus. ‘He amuses me...’
‘And flatters—but then he pays himself well! He powders his praise with gold-dust.’
‘You often hint that he plays unfairly—think you so really?’
‘My dear Glaucus, a Roman noble has his dignity to keep up—dignity is very expensive—Clodius must cheat like a scoundrel, in order to live like a gentleman.’
‘Ha ha!—well, of late I have renounced the dice. Ah! Sallust, when I am wedded to Ione, I trust I may yet redeem a youth of follies. We are both born for better things than those in which we sympathize now—born to render our worship in nobler temples than the stye of Epicurus.’
‘Alas!’ returned Sallust, in rather a melancholy tone, ‘what do we know more than this—life is short—beyond the grave all is dark? There is no wisdom like that which says “enjoy”.’
‘By Bacchus! I doubt sometimes if we do enjoy the utmost of which life is capable.’
‘I am a moderate man,’ returned Sallust, ‘and do not ask “the utmost”. We are like malefactors, and intoxicate ourselves with wine and myrrh, as we stand on the brink of death; but, if we did not do so, the abyss would look very disagreeable. I own that I was inclined to be gloomy until I took so heartily to drinking—that is a new life, my Glaucus.’
‘Yes! but it brings us next morning to a new death.’
‘Why, the next morning is unpleasant, I own; but, then, if it were not so, one would never be inclined to read. I study betimes—because, by the gods! I am generally unfit for anything else till noon.’
‘Fie, Scythian!’
‘Pshaw! the fate of Pentheus to him who denies Bacchus.’
‘Well, Sallust, with all your faults, you are the best profligate I ever met: and verily, if I were in danger of life, you are the only man in all Italy who would stretch out a finger to save me.’
‘Perhaps I should not, if it were in the middle of supper. But, in truth, we Italians are fearfully selfish.’
‘So are all men who are not free,’ said Glaucus, with a sigh. ‘Freedom alone makes men sacrifice to each other.’
‘Freedom, then, must be a very fatiguing thing to an Epicurean,’ answered Sallust. ‘But here we are at our host’s.’
As Diomed’s villa is one of the most considerable in point of size of any yet discovered at Pompeii, and is, moreover, built much according to the specific instructions for a suburban villa laid down by the Roman architect, it may not be uninteresting briefly to describe the plan of the apartments through which our visitors passed.
They entered, then, by the same small vestibule at which we have before been presented to the aged Medon, and passed at once into a colonnade, technically termed the peristyle; for the main difference between the suburban villa and the town mansion consisted in placing, in the first, the said colonnade in exactly the same place as that which in the town mansion was occupied by the atrium. In the centre of the peristyle was an open court, which contained the impluvium.
From this peristyle descended a staircase to the offices; another narrow passage on the opposite side communicated with a garden; various small apartments surrounded the colonnade, appropriated probably to country visitors. Another door to the left on entering communicated with a small triangular portico, which belonged to the baths; and behind was the wardrobe, in which were kept the vests of the holiday suits of the slaves, and, perhaps, of the master. Seventeen centuries afterwards were found those relics of ancient finery calcined and crumbling: kept longer, alas! than their thrifty lord foresaw.
Return we to the peristyle, and endeavor now to present to the reader a coup d’oeil of the whole suite of apartments, which immediately stretched before the steps of the visitors.
Let him then first imagine the columns of the portico, hung with festoons of flowers; the columns themselves in the lower part painted red, and the walls around glowing with various frescoes; then, looking beyond a curtain, three parts drawn aside, the eye caught the tablinum or saloon (which was closed at will by glazed doors, now slid back into the walls). On either side of this tablinum were small roo
ms, one of which was a kind of cabinet of gems; and these apartments, as well as the tablinum, communicated with a long gallery, which opened at either end upon terraces; and between the terraces, and communicating with the central part of the gallery, was a hall, in which the banquet was that day prepared. All these apartments, though almost on a level with the street, were one story above the garden; and the terraces communicating with the gallery were continued into corridors, raised above the pillars which, to the right and left, skirted the garden below.
Beneath, and on a level with the garden, ran the apartments we have already described as chiefly appropriated to Julia.
In the gallery, then, just mentioned, Diomed received his guests.
The merchant affected greatly the man of letters, and, therefore, he also affected a passion for everything Greek; he paid particular attention to Glaucus.
‘You will see, my friend,’ said he, with a wave of his hand, ‘that I am a little classical here—a little Cecropian—eh? The hall in which we shall sup is borrowed from the Greeks. It is an OEcus Cyzicene. Noble Sallust, they have not, I am told, this sort of apartment in Rome.’
‘Oh!’ replied Sallust, with a half smile; ‘you Pompeians combine all that is most eligible in Greece and in Rome; may you, Diomed, combine the viands as well as the architecture!’
‘You shall see—you shall see, my Sallust,’ replied the merchant. ‘We have a taste at Pompeii, and we have also money.’
‘They are two excellent things,’ replied Sallust. ‘But, behold, the lady Julia!’
The main difference, as I have before remarked, in the manner of life observed among the Athenians and Romans, was, that with the first, the modest women rarely or never took part in entertainments; with the latter, they were the common ornaments of the banquet; but when they were present at the feast, it usually terminated at an early hour.
Magnificently robed in white, interwoven with pearls and threads of gold, the handsome Julia entered the apartment.
Scarcely had she received the salutation of the two guests, ere Pansa and his wife, Lepidus, Clodius, and the Roman senator, entered almost simultaneously; then came the widow Fulvia; then the poet Fulvius, like to the widow in name if in nothing else; the warrior from Herculaneum, accompanied by his umbra, next stalked in; afterwards, the less eminent of the guests. Ione yet tarried.
It was the mode among the courteous ancients to flatter whenever it was in their power: accordingly it was a sign of ill-breeding to seat themselves immediately on entering the house of their host. After performing the salutation, which was usually accomplished by the same cordial shake of the right hand which we ourselves retain, and sometimes, by the yet more familiar embrace, they spent several minutes in surveying the apartment, and admiring the bronzes, the pictures, or the furniture, with which it was adorned—a mode very impolite according to our refined English notions, which place good breeding in indifference. We would not for the world express much admiration of another man’s house, for fear it should be thought we had never seen anything so fine before!
‘A beautiful statue this of Bacchus!’ said the Roman senator.
‘A mere trifle!’ replied Diomed.
‘What charming paintings!’ said Fulvia.
‘Mere trifles!’ answered the owner.
‘Exquisite candelabra!’ cried the warrior.
‘Exquisite!’ echoed his umbra.
‘Trifles! trifles!’ reiterated the merchant.
Meanwhile, Glaucus found himself by one of the windows of the gallery, which communicated with the terraces, and the fair Julia by his side.
‘Is it an Athenian virtue, Glaucus,’ said the merchant’s daughter, ‘to shun those whom we once sought?’
‘Fair Julia—no!’
‘Yet methinks, it is one of the qualities of Glaucus.’
‘Glaucus never shuns a friend!’ replied the Greek, with some emphasis on the last word.
‘May Julia rank among the number of his friends?’
‘It would be an honour to the emperor to find a friend in one so lovely.’
‘You evade my question,’ returned the enamoured Julia. ‘But tell me, is it true that you admire the Neapolitan Ione?’
‘Does not beauty constrain our admiration?’
‘Ah! subtle Greek, still do you fly the meaning of my words. But say, shall Julia be indeed your friend?’
‘If she will so favor me, blessed be the gods! The day in which I am thus honored shall be ever marked in white.’
‘Yet, even while you speak, your eye is resting—your color comes and goes—you move away involuntarily—you are impatient to join Ione!’
For at that moment Ione had entered, and Glaucus had indeed betrayed the emotion noticed by the jealous beauty.
‘Can admiration to one woman make me unworthy the friendship of another? Sanction not so, O Julia the libels of the poets on your sex!’
‘Well, you are right—or I will learn to think so. Glaucus, yet one moment! You are to wed Ione; is it not so?’
‘If the Fates permit, such is my blessed hope.’
‘Accept, then, from me, in token of our new friendship, a present for your bride. Nay, it is the custom of friends, you know, always to present to bride and bridegroom some such little marks of their esteem and favoring wishes.’
‘Julia! I cannot refuse any token of friendship from one like you. I will accept the gift as an omen from Fortune herself.’
‘Then, after the feast, when the guests retire, you will descend with me to my apartment, and receive it from my hands. Remember!’ said Julia, as she joined the wife of Pansa, and left Glaucus to seek Ione.
The widow Fulvia and the spouse of the aedile were engaged in high and grave discussion.
‘O Fulvia! I assure you that the last account from Rome declares that the frizzling mode of dressing the hair is growing antiquated; they only now wear it built up in a tower, like Julia’s, or arranged as a helmet—the Galerian fashion, like mine, you see: it has a fine effect, I think. I assure you, Vespius (Vespius was the name of the Herculaneum hero) admires it greatly.’
‘And nobody wears the hair like yon Neapolitan, in the Greek way.’
‘What, parted in front, with the knot behind? Oh, no; how ridiculous it is! it reminds one of the statue of Diana! Yet this Ione is handsome, eh?’
‘So the men say; but then she is rich: she is to marry the Athenian—I wish her joy. He will not be long faithful, I suspect; those foreigners are very faithless.’
‘Oh, Julia!’ said Fulvia, as the merchant’s daughter joined them; ‘have you seen the tiger yet?’
‘No!’
‘Why, all the ladies have been to see him. He is so handsome!’
‘I hope we shall find some criminal or other for him and the lion,’ replied Julia. ‘Your husband (turning to Pansa’s wife) is not so active as he should be in this matter.’
‘Why, really, the laws are too mild,’ replied the dame of the helmet. ‘There are so few offences to which the punishment of the arena can be awarded; and then, too, the gladiators are growing effeminate! The stoutest bestiarii declare they are willing enough to fight a boar or a bull; but as for a lion or a tiger, they think the game too much in earnest.’
‘They are worthy of a mitre,” replied Julia, in disdain.
‘Oh! have you seen the new house of Fulvius, the dear poet?’ said Pansa’s wife.
‘No: is it handsome?’
‘Very!—such good taste. But they say, my dear, that he has such improper pictures! He won’t show them to the women: how ill-bred!’
‘Those poets are always odd,’ said the widow. ‘But he is an interesting man; what pretty verses he writes! We improve very much in poetry: it is impossible to read the old stuff now.’
‘I declare I am of your opinion, returned the lady of the helmet. ‘There is so much more force and energy in the modern school.’
The warrior sauntered up to the ladies.
‘It reconciles me to peace
,’ said he, ‘when I see such faces.’
‘Oh! you heroes are ever flatterers,’ returned Fulvia, hastening to appropriate the compliment specially to herself.
‘By this chain, which I received from the emperor’s own hand,’ replied the warrior, playing with a short chain which hung round the neck like a collar, instead of descending to the breast, according to the fashion of the peaceful—’By this chain, you wrong me! I am a blunt man—a soldier should be so.’
‘How do you find the ladies of Pompeii generally?’ said Julia.
‘By Venus, most beautiful! They favor me a little, it is true, and that inclines my eyes to double their charms.’
‘We love a warrior,’ said the wife of Pansa.
‘I see it: by Hercules! it is even disagreeable to be too celebrated in these cities. At Herculaneum they climb the roof of my atrium to catch a glimpse of me through the compluvium; the admiration of one’s citizens is pleasant at first, but burthensome afterwards.’
‘True, true, O Vespius!’ cried the poet, joining the group: ‘I find it so myself.’
‘You!’ said the stately warrior, scanning the small form of the poet with ineffable disdain. ‘in what legion have you served?’
‘You may see my spoils, my exuviae, in the forum itself,’ returned the poet, with a significant glance at the women. ‘I have been among the tent-companions, the contubernales, of the great Mantuan himself.’
‘I know no general from Mantua, said the warrior, gravely. ‘What campaign have you served?’
‘That of Helicon.’
The Last Days of Pompeii Page 29