“Pray that you will never forget that without God man is nothing, and all the affairs of his life have no significance and are like the dust of the desert which blows without a destination.”
He was suddenly exhausted. He lay back in his chair and fell at once into a deep sleep. Marcus rose and covered his father with a blanket and put a hassock under his feet and turned the wick of the lamp lower. I will remember, Father, he swore to Tullius and lifted his hand solemnly in the gesture of an oath.
Many years later he was to write, “How can I recapture the surety and the unquestioning knowledge of my youth? The world is too much for us. It not only destroys our youth but destroys our certitude. Nevertheless, I must act as if I still possessed it. God can ask nothing more of us than our intention, for we are essentially weak and must rely upon Him for all things, even our breath.”
The next morning Tullius was very ill, and Phelon applied his potions and his medicines.
“He has been this ill before,” Helvia said. “He will recover.” She put aside her distaff, dismissed her maids, and said to Marcus, “Sit down. I must talk with you. You are a most unworldly young man and you must be sensible.”
Marcus obediently sat down. He looked at his mother, and saw her olive-tinted face flushed with rose as a girl’s. To him, she was young as ever. She has her certitude, thought Marcus. Her hair was bound about her head tightly, that hair so like Quintus’, turbulent and unrestrained and thickly curling and very dark. She was plumper than in her early youth, though she was still but thirty-two. Her massive breast pushed against her yellow chiton, and her waist was thick under its girdle. She looks like Ceres, thought Marcus, the mother of the earth and all that grows.
“Your grandfather and your father have talked with you, and your tutor,” she said. She moved her hand a little as if dismissing the vagaries of men. “Now you must have a woman’s wisdom and rationality. Men have dreams; women have reality. Both are necessary.
“What is a true man? I have heard discussions of this in our household, and sometimes I have become impatient. What would these men do if I left my distaff and my kitchen and sat at their feet? They would have no linen and no wool to cover themselves, and their plates would be empty. In spite of their dreams and their lofty periods, men are tremendous eaters. They eat much more than do women and can become querulous over a sauce or a lack of one, and are very petulant at the table.”
Marcus, in spite of his anxiety about his father, began to laugh. His mother laughed with him, comfortably.
“Your grandfather is all patriotism and declared there is nothing else. But if a slave is neglectful about a seam he flies into a rage. Your father thinks only of God, but if a dish is undercooked he rejects it with distress. One would think such mighty thinkers above mundane little comforts. But a man cherishes his comforts and is offended if they are overlooked. If women ever become philosophers or scientists or artists and neglect the loom and the frying pans, who will raise the loudest plaint, in spite of their previous admiration of female prodigies? Men.”
His mother’s commonsense was like a warmth to Marcus’ heart. “We are creatures of the earth as well as creatures of the mind,” said Helvia. “The grandfather scoffs at what he calls my materialism and preoccupation with daily things. But he is the first to complain if the household does not run smoothly. Your father, when we were young, offered me books of poetry and philosophy, no doubt hoping I would be another Aspasia. But if his boots were not skillfully lined with fur in the winter and his blankets were threadbare and none other available, he would eye me with reproach. What patience women have with these childlike creatures! I wonder not that some women murder their husbands but that more of them do not.”
Marcus laughed again. He said to himself now, Why is it I never really appreciated her before but accepted all she did for me as my due? Did I think my comforts sprang automatically out of the air? Did I think invisible hands wove my garments and cooked my food? He looked about him at the room, which was filled with instruments of industry, looms and distaffs and sewing tables and needles and lengths of linen and wool and cotton. The room had a cheerful and bustling air. Here, thought Marcus, is truly the heart of the household. If Helvia never noticed the changeful greens in a tree nor was never uplifted at the trill of a bird, she moved the house purposefully and presided over it like Juno, the mother of children. A world where women neglected their duties would be a world without neatness and overcome with chaos. Women were the balance wheel of life, and if that balance were no more man would revert to beasthood.
“I will speak of men,” said Helvia, “and in this I include women for we are part of mankind, and perhaps the most important part. The male gods disport themselves; one discounts Venus, who caters only to the passions of men. Wisdom is with women, as it is with Minerva. Self-control is with women, as it is with Diana. The care of men and children is with women, as it is with Juno. You will observe that those goddesses most preoccupied with the passions of men, and the satisfying of those passions, are the unproductive goddesses. They contribute nothing to the orderliness of life. They are disrupting forces. A woman never stepped into a man’s shoes without throwing life into upheaval. There is a place for everything, including the roles of men and women. You will observe the order of life, each thing in its place and doing its duty. Only man is disorderly, with his inordinate demands. He will bend even God to his will, if he can. That is not true of women.
Women are the servers of God. We are the dutiful.” Marcus was amazed. From what source did his mother derive her wisdom?
“The modern Roman woman,” said Helvia, reaching for a length of linen and beginning to apply her busy needle, “has been seduced by men into the belief that she must take a part in the affairs of men. With what result? Modern woman has become as full of vagaries as men are. She has taken on the evils of men, and the trivialities. She has not absorbed the loftiness of some men. She has absorbed only their childishness. She is demanding, insistent, vengeful, enamored with her body which appeals to lust. In all ways she has become a slave, not an emancipated woman as she believes. She is a toy, and a boresome one after her first youth, and not the Aspasia she thought. Once her youth has gone, and her charms, what is left? She has no household arts, she is no comforter. She is an aging harpy. If she meddles in politics, it is with disaster. She corrupts, does not uplift. She neglects her children for games and sports and the market place. Her children reflect her disorder and her silly crimes. They have no respect for her, for she does not deserve respect. Her husband dishonors her, for she was never a wife.”
“But surely there are wise women,” said Marcus.
“Certainly, there are wise women,” said Helvia, biting off a thread. “They are those who no matter where life throws them remember always they are women. Let us consider Aspasia again. She was beloved of Pericles, and he consulted her because he was a wise man and needed the sound wisdom of a woman. Never did she forget that she was a female, unlike modern women, who have created only misery. She gave to Pericles, and did not demand things beyond her nature. She was always a woman. But how many are there like Aspasia in Rome?”
“You, Mother, are interested in business and investments,” said Marcus.
“So I am. When was a woman not interested in money? That is not invading the interests of men, who are frequently gamblers and improvident. Men are taken with flights of fancy, even your grandfather. I invest prudently, for I am a conserver. I prefer a small sound return to promises of fools’ gold. It is no accident that Aspasia was a mathematician. Women are always for totals and balances. They have orderly minds. Did Aspasia die on the streets? No. One can be sure she had sound investments.
“My son, when I advise you concerning your future it will be well if you listen. A true man is known by his control of his appetites. He is characterized by devotion to family and family affairs, does not lose his temper easily, honors money because it represents labor and confers honor on the possessor, rejects
all things which reflect badly on his country, his gods and his family. He has endless patience and calm, and always brings matters to a satisfactory conclusion, good for himself and his family. He is a good husbandman, careful in all things, long-suffering and indifferent to pain. He is never disillusioned because he has never suffered illusions and false fantasies and improbable dreams. He does his duty. Above all, my son, he does his duty, prudently and after long thought.”
She then dismissed him. There was work to do.
Years later Marcus wrote, “I received different advice from my tutor, my grandfather, my father and my mother. Yet, like the four petals of the sweet-smelling wild rose, they were one, and made a perfect flower. In all essentials, they did not disagree. Blessed is that man who had a wise tutor, a stern grandfather, a spiritual and tender father, and a prudent mother!”
*Thoreau quoted this often.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There will never be a place so lovely to my heart as this island, thought Marcus as he stood on the bank and looked at the rivers and the illuminated distant view of the hills.
It was near sunset. He gazed at Arpinum. It was a rising line of broken, golden radiance, brilliantly gold, brilliantly light, against the shining bronze mountain on which it lay. The time was early autumn, with all the trees burning red or gold or copper on the island; the rivers were blazingly blue. The waters chattered busily, or murmured against the bank on which Marcus stood. The birds conversed; the wind was sweet with brazen grass and ripening fruit and heavy grain. Blue haze enveloped distant trees and distant water. A heron paused on its stilts to look at the youth, then fished in the water. Three crows, gossiping merrily, laughed among themselves on a branch. A cow lowed; a sheep called to her young. Somewhere goats exchanged a burst of mirth. Why do all things laugh innocently, except man? thought Marcus.
He saw the bridge leading to the mainland. No one had been there before, as it arched over the waters, for this was a private island owned by the grandfather. But now a figure stood on it, looking down at the rushing river, the figure of a maiden. A slave from the household? thought Marcus. A wanderer from Arpinum? But girls of discreet family did not wander. They were always chaperoned, and slaves from the household were kept busy by Helvia. It was approaching the hour of dinner. Curious, Marcus sauntered diffidently toward the figure, squinting his eyes against the red sun.
He reached the approach to the bridge. The young girl; who was leaning on the stone ledge, turned to look at him idly, and without apparent curiosity. She did not speak. Marcus hesitated. Should he tell her that the bridge was private, as was the island? But she did not stir in confusion, nor remove her folded arms from the parapet. It was as if he, not herself, was the intruder.
“Greetings,” said Marcus at last, setting foot on the bridge.
“Greetings,” she responded in the softest and clearest voice. She looked down at the river then at the island, then at Arpinum. “It is beautiful,” she said.
Marcus slowly approached her. She smiled at him without shyness. She was tall and graceful, almost as tall as himself, and near his age. She wore a green chiton and a filmy white palla, and from her dress and her ornamented sandals he guessed she was no servant girl. She had an air of assurance and simple dignity. Then he could see her more clearly, and he thought he had never seen a girl so lovely. She was like spring, exquisitely formed and budding. Auburn hair flowed far below her waist, burnished in the setting sun, and rippling like water. It seemed to catch fire around her face, which was luminously pale. She had eyes of so deep a blue that the color overflowed, and her lashes were as auburn as her hair, as were her brows. Her nose was fine and slender and like marble, and so were her chin and throat. Her mouth was sweet, as full and fresh as raspberries, with a deep indentation on her lower lip as if laughter had kissed it.
“I am Marcus Tullius Cicero,” said Marcus. He could not look away from this entrancing creature, and stared openly.
Her face changed, but only a little. She smiled; she had teeth like shining porcelain. “I am Livia Curius,” she said. “I am visiting family friends in Arpinum. This is your island, is it not?”
“It is my grandfather’s,” said Marcus. He wondered why the girl’s face had changed so subtly when he had told her his name. “Did you not know?”
“Yes,” she said. She turned her profile to him and studied the river. “But, is beauty forbidden? Do you feel offended that I am here?”
There was spirit in her voice. “No,” said Marcus. Her name hung on his thoughts. Then he remembered. Quintus Curius, the formidable, dark and intellectual youth who was the friend of Lucius Sergius Catilina, the sullen and hateful youth who was his, Marcus’ enemy, solely because Lucius was his enemy!
“Is Quintus Curius your cousin, Lady Livia?”
The girl shrugged lightly. She still contemplated the river. “A distant one,” she said. “I am the betrothed of Lucius Sergius Catilina. I believe you were schoolmates?”
What else has she heard about me? thought Marcus, disturbed. He wanted the girl to look at him, to see him as he was. Then he thought: Betrothed!
“Is Lucius here also?” he asked.
“No. He is again in Greece.” Her tone was indifferent. “Do you not correspond?” Now she looked at him fully and the blue of her eyes lilted.
“No,” said Marcus. “We are enemies.”
He knew he was blunt. He stood near the girl and stared at the river. “You must know that, Lady Livia.”
“Yes. I know. Even if I also know that Lucius is a liar.” She spoke calmly. “But a delightful liar. He is marrying me because I am an heiress. Let us talk of pleasanter things.”
Marcus was silent. Was it his imagination only that the colors of land and air became suddenly more vivid and brighter and warmer? He let his glance move sideways. He saw the white and dimpled arms of the girl lying on the arched parapet. He saw her dainty hands and the rings upon them, and the bracelets and the colored fingernails. The wind lifted her veil and it blew across his face. It seemed to have a natural scent of its own, as sweet as spring.
“Why are you marrying Lucius?” he asked, understanding he was rude, but an urgency was upon him. “You say he is a liar.”
“But a delightful liar.” She turned her head and looked at him and she was laughing. “And, is he not marvelous in his appearance?”
“Fascinating,” said Marcus, wryly. “But something more is required in a husband.” The girl’s smile was a little mocking as she surveyed him.
“Show me your island,” she said, with a quick maidenly hauteur.
“It is sunset,” he said.
He hated himself for being so abrupt, but he wondered where the guardians of the girl were, and why she moved about so freely. Now she was openly laughing at him, and dimples flashed about her mouth. “I heard you were very circumspect,” she said. “Lucius and my cousin do not speak of others often, but they spoke of you, as if you were irritating them constantly.”
“I was not brought up to hate, but I hate them,” said Marcus, and he disliked her laughter which seemed directed at him.
Her face changed again. “I dislike my cousin, Quintus,” she said. “A sour and savage youth. I am not offended by what you have said. And, as you said yourself, Lucius Catilina is fascinating. Moreover, my guardians have arranged and approved the marriage, and what have I to say? I exchange money for a great name. It is a fair exchange.”
A sensation of calamity came to Marcus. He wanted to seize the girl’s arm and shake her and tell her she must not marry Lucius. But she was gazing at him with coolness as if affronted. “Show me your island,” she said again to him.
Before he could say another word she had run behind him and was racing down the bridge to the island, her palla floating behind her like a sunlit cloud. Her spirit, her quick changes of mood, her subtle expressions, dazed Marcus. He followed her more slowly. She stood on the bank as if with impatience at his delay. “Look at that heron!” she cried, and wav
ed her hand at the silent and impassive bird. “He is not afraid of us.”
“Why should he be afraid? He knows I will not hurt him,” said Marcus.
The girl was still again. The blue of her eyes dwelled on his face thoughtfully. Then, just as he believed that he had made her understand she laughed merrily at him, and ran back from the bank like a flash of quicksilver. She made hardly a sound; she was like an unpredictable wood nymph, illusive at one moment, too open and free the next, quiet for an instant, then mocking. Marcus followed the faintly fragrant movement of her into the small forest of the island. She was nowhere in sight. Had he dreamed that he had seen her and had talked to her? He looked about him through the dim aisles of poplars and oaks. Behind him the waters plashed and revealed themselves like blue and racing light, but here it was dusky, the silence broken by the rushes of forest creatures and the slow falling of vivid leaves.
“Livia?” he called.
There was no answer. Had this baffling girl circled, returned to the bridge and crossed it, forgetting him or dis-dismissing him as of no consequence?
“Livia?” he called again, less surely now. Why did the forest aisles appear so empty now, so alien, as they had never appeared before? Why was the fragrance of autumn less, and the wind cooler?
A piece of bark fell smartly on his head, and he uttered an exclamation. He looked up at the tree and saw Livia perched as agilely as Quintus on a high branch, laughing down at him like a wood nymph indeed, her green dress vivid against the scarlet leaves, her palla like mist floating about her, her lovely face shining with beauty.
A Pillar of Iron: A Novel of Ancient Rome Page 10