Quo Vadis - Henryk Sienkiewicz (best ereader under 100 .txt) 📗
- Author: Henryk Sienkiewicz
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interwoven with them.”
“When thou art reading, turn attention to Trimalchion’s feast. As to
verses, they have disgusted me, since Nero is writing an epic. Vitelius,
when he wishes to relieve himself, uses ivory fingers to thrust down his
throat; others serve themselves with flamingo feathers steeped in olive
oil or in a decoction of wild thyme. I read Nero’s poetry, and the
result is immediate. Straightway I am able to praise it, if not with a
clear conscience, at least with a clear stomach.”
When he had said this, he stopped the litter again before the shop of
Idomeneus the goldsmith, and, having settled the affair of the gems,
gave command to bear the litter directly to Aulus’s mansion.
“On the road I will tell thee the story of Rufinus,” said he, “as proof
of what vanity in an author may be.”
But before he had begun, they turned in to the Vicus Patricius, and soon
found themselves before the dwelling of Aulus. A young and sturdy
“janitor” opened the door leading to the ostium, over which a magpie
confined in a cage greeted them noisily with the word, “Salve!”
On the way from the second antechamber, called the ostium, to the atrium
itself, Vinicius said,—“Hast noticed that thee doorkeepers are without
chains?” “This is a wonderful house,” answered Petronius, in an
undertone. “Of course it is known to thee that Pomponia Græcina is
suspected of entertaining that Eastern superstition which consists in
honoring a certain Chrestos. It seems that Crispinilla rendered her
this service,—she who cannot forgive Pomponia because one husband has
sufficed her for a lifetime. A one-man Woman! To-day, in Rome, it is
easier to get a half-plate of fresh mushrooms from Noricum than to find
such. They tried her before a domestic court—”
“To thy judgment this is a wonderful house. Later on I will tell thee
what I heard and saw in it.”
Meanwhile they had entered the atrium. The slave appointed to it,
called atriensis, sent a nomenclator to announce the guests; and
Petronius, who, imagining that eternal sadness reigned in this severe
house, had never been in it, looked around with astonishment, and as it
were with a feeling of disappointment, for the atrium produced rather an
impression of cheerfulness. A sheaf of bright light falling from above
through a large opening broke into a thousand sparks on a fountain in a
quadrangular little basin, called the impluvium, which was in the middle
to receive rain falling through the opening during bad weather; this was
surrounded by anemones and lilies. In that house a special love for
lilies was evident, for there were whole clumps of them, both white and
red; and, finally, sapphire irises, whose delicate leaves were as if
silvered from the spray of the fountain. Among the moist mosses, in
which lily-pots were hidden, and among the bunches of lilies were little
bronze statues representing children and water-birds. In one corner a
bronze fawn, as if wishing to drink, was inclining its greenish head,
grizzled, too, by dampness. The floor of the atrium was of mosaic; the
walls, faced partly with red marble and partly with wood, on which were
painted fish, birds, and griffins, attracted the eye by the play of
colors. From the door to the side chamber they were ornamented with
tortoise-shell or even ivory; at the walls between the doors were
statues of Aulus’s ancestors. Everywhere calm plenty was evident,
remote from excess, but noble and self-trusting.
Petronius, who lived with incomparably greater show and elegance, could
find nothing which offended his taste; and had just turned to Vinicius
with that remark, when a slave, the velarius, pushed aside the curtain
separating the atrium from the tablinum, and in the depth of the
building appeared Aulus Plautius approaching hurriedly.
He was a man nearing the evening of life, with a head whitened by hoar
frost, but fresh, with an energetic face, a trifle too short, but still
somewhat eagle-like. This time there was expressed on it a certain
astonishment, and even alarm, because of the unexpected arrival of
Nero’s friend, companion, and suggester.
Petronius was too much a man of the world and too quick not to notice
this; hence, after the first greetings, he announced with all the
eloquence and ease at his command that he had come to give thanks for
the care which his sister’s son had found in that house, and that
gratitude alone was the cause of the visit, to which, moreover, he was
emboldened by his old acquaintance with Aulus.
Aulus assured him that he was a welcome guest; and as to gratitude, he
declared that he had that feeling himself, though surely Petronius did
not divine the cause of it.
In fact, Petronius did not divine it. In vain did he raise his hazel
eyes, endeavoring to remember the least service rendered to Aulus or to
any one. He recalled none, unless it might be that which he intended to
show Vinicius. Some such thing, it is true, might have happened
involuntarily, but only involuntarily.
“I have great love and esteem for Vespasian, whose life thou didst
save,” said Aulus, “when he had the misfortune to doze while listening
to Nero’s verses.”
“He was fortunate,” replied Petronius, “for he did not hear them; but I
will not deny that the matter might have ended with misfortune.
Bronzebeard wished absolutely to send a centurion to him with the
friendly advice to open his veins.”
“But thou, Petronius, laughed him out of it.”
“That is true, or rather it is not true. I told Nero that if Orpheus
put wild beasts to sleep with song, his triumph was equal, since he had
put Vespasian to sleep. Ahenobarbus may be blamed on condition that to
a small criticism a great flattery be added. Our gracious Augusta,
Poppæa, understands this to perfection.”
“Alas! such are the times,” answered Aulus. “I lack two front teeth,
knocked out by a stone from the hand of a Briton, I speak with a hiss;
still my happiest days were passed in Britain.”
“Because they were days of victory,” added Vinicius.
But Petronius, alarmed lest the old general might begin a narrative of
his former wars, changed the conversation.
“See,” said he, “in the neighborhood of Præneste country people found a
dead wolf whelp with two heads; and during a storm about that time
lightning struck off an angle of the temple of Luna,—a thing
unparalleled, because of the late autumn. A certain Cotta, too, who had
told this, added, while telling it, that the priests of that temple
prophesied the fall of the city or, at least, the ruin of a great
house,—ruin to be averted only by uncommon sacrifices.”
Aulus, when he had heard the narrative, expressed the opinion that such
signs should not be neglected; that the gods might be angered by an
over-measure of wickedness. In this there was nothing wonderful; and in
such an event expiatory sacrifices were perfectly in order.
“Thy house, Plautius, is not too large,” answered Petronius, “though a
great man lives in it. Mine is indeed too large for such a wretched
owner, though equally small. But if it is a question of the ruin of
something as great, for example, as the domus transitoria, would it be
worth while for us to bring offerings to avert that ruin?”
Plautius did not answer that question,—a carefulness which touched even
Petronius somewhat, for, with all his inability to feel the difference
between good and evil, he had never been an informer; and it was
possible to talk with him in perfect safety. He changed the
conversation again, therefore, and began to praise Plautius’s dwelling
and the good taste which reigned in the house.
“It is an ancient seat,” said Plautius, “in which nothing has been
changed since I inherited it.”
After the curtain was pushed aside which divided the atrium from the
tablinum, the house was open from end to end, so that through the
tablinum and the following peristyle and the hall lying beyond it which
was called the cus, the glance extended to the garden, which seemed
from a distance like a bright image set in a dark frame. Joyous,
childlike laughter came from it to the atrium.
“Oh, general!” said Petronius, “permit us to listen from near by to that
glad laughter which is of a kind heard so rarely in these days.”
“Willingly,” answered Plautius, rising; “that is my little Aulus and
Lygia, playing ball. But as to laughter, I think, Petronius, that our
whole life is spent in it.”
“Life deserves laughter, hence people laugh at it,” answered Petronius,
“but laughter here has another sound.”
“Petronius does not laugh for days in succession,” said Vinicius; “but
then he laughs entire nights.”
Thus conversing, they passed through the length of the house and reached
the garden, where Lygia and little Aulus were playing with balls, which
slaves, appointed to that game exclusively and called spheristæ, picked
up and placed in their hands. Petronius cast a quick passing glance at
Lygia; little Aulus, seeing Vinicius, ran to greet him; but the young
tribune, going forward, bent his head before the beautiful maiden, who
stood with a ball in her hand, her hair blown apart a little. She was
somewhat out of breath, and flushed.
In the garden triclinium, shaded by ivy, grapes, and woodbine, sat
Pomponia Græcina; hence they went to salute her. She was known to
Petronius, though he did not visit Plautius, for he had seen her at the
house of Antistia, the daughter of Rubelius Plautus, and besides at the
house of Seneca and Polion. He could not resist a certain admiration
with which he was filled by her face, pensive but mild, by the dignity
of her bearing, by her movements, by her words. Pomponia disturbed his
understanding of women to such a degree that that man, corrupted to the
marrow of his bones, and self-confident as no one in Rome, not only felt
for her a kind of esteem, but even lost his previous self-confidence.
And now, thanking her for her care of Vinicius, he thrust in, as it were
involuntarily, “domina,” which never occurred to him when speaking, for
example, to Calvia Crispinilla, Scribonia, Veleria, Solina, and other
women of high society. After he had greeted her and returned thanks, he
began to complain that he saw her so rarely, that it was not possible to
meet her either in the Circus or the Amphitheatre; to which she answered
calmly, laying her hand on the hand of her husband:
“We are growing old, and love our domestic quiet more and more, both of
us.”
Petronius wished to oppose; but Aulus Plautius added in his hissing
voice,—“And we feel stranger and stranger among people who give Greek
names to our Roman divinities.”
“The gods have become for some time mere figures of rhetoric,” replied
Petronius, carelessly. “But since Greek rhetoricians taught us, it is
easier for me even to say Hera than Juno.”
He turned his eyes then to Pomponia, as if to signify that in presence
of her no other divinity could come to his mind: and then he began to
contradict what she had said touching old age.
“People grow old quickly, it is true; but there are some who live
another life entirely, and there are faces moreover which Saturn seems
to forget.”
Petronius said this with a certain sincerity even, for Pomponia Græcina,
though descending from the midday of life, had preserved an uncommon
freshness of face; and since she had a small head and delicate features,
she produced at times, despite her dark robes, despite her solemnity
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