“At the end of last month,” Lucius Rutilius began, “Hero had firmly
resolved to unite her life with mine. I made her acquaintance at Tibur,
where her father had purchased Junius’ Gellius’ villa--it adjoins my
own, you know--after the death of its first owner. Wandering through
the park, I saw the bewitching girlish figure on the opposite side of
the wall that divides Gellius’ grounds from mine. Hero was standing in
the shade of a laurel-bush, her fair hair adorned simply with a rose,
scattering with her dainty little hands crumbs or corn, which she held
gathered in her robe, to a fluttering cloud of sparrows. Concealed
behind the pedestal of a goddess of autumn, I could watch her quietly
without having my presence suspected.
“Ah, my dear Caius, I should vainly try to describe the subtle charm,
childlike innocence, and enchanting grace revealed to me in that
quarter of an hour! How she chatted with her protégés, repelled the
bold and encouraged the timid ones, how she jested and laughed, how
her loose tunic slipped from her snowy shoulder--it was bewitching! In
short, those fifteen minutes decided my fate. For the first time during
a life of twenty-six years I experienced at the sight of a girl who
charmed me a feeling of sacred reserve, a sort of reverence that made
any wanton thought seem a crime. In my ardent dreams, which instantly
twined with eager longing around this lovely apparition, I saw her only
as the presiding mistress of my house, the ruler of my life....”
“It really appears to be a serious matter,” murmured Caius Bononius.
“Does the night-breeze rustling through the boughs deceive me, or what
is it that makes your voice tremble so?”
“Do not doubt!” replied Rutilius. “What I feel for Hero is sacred
enough to fill my heart with the emotions that seize devout worshippers
at the presence of the goddess. Now hear the rest. Wholly absorbed by
one thought, I returned to the house and pondered in solitude over the
problem how I might succeed in reaching the desired goal. Usually--as
you know--I was not embarrassed when in the society of beautiful girls
and women; but here the often-tested art of crafty plans seemed to
leave me in the lurch. After twenty absurdly tasteless ideas I resolved
to ask Agathon--who also lived at Tibur--to take me with him as an
uninvited guest to the next banquet given by her father, Heliodorus.
A pretended desire to talk with him about the sale of a small grove
would serve for an excuse. Agathon cast a strange glance at me when I
informed him of my wish. Perhaps this sort of introduction was not the
best, though I thought it so; for you, too, will some day learn, spite
of all the wisdom that now fills your soul, that love makes even the
most experienced people unskilful.”
“On the contrary,” replied Bononius, “I believe great passions render
us inventive.”
“We won’t argue the point. Inventive perhaps in what is decisive, but
foolish in every other respect.--Agathon consented, and on the third
day the opportunity offered. Heliodorus received me with the manners
of a polished man of the world, greeting me as a neighbor whose
acquaintance he had long desired to make. As to the grove, about which
I incoherently stammered a few words, he would consider the matter, and
if he could really oblige me, would willingly make a sacrifice.
“The banquet passed without my even obtaining a glimpse of the object
of my ardent longing; yet I might well be satisfied. From this hour the
wall between our two estates was as it were demolished; an intercourse
began, which after a short time developed into friendly relations, and
now of course Hero, who had retired from the sight of the guests at the
noisy drinking-bout, was visible at any hour of the day to the neighbor
who came as it were clad in a tunic,[1] to see her father.
“Let me say nothing about how it all happened. A hundred details
gradually wove the certainty that the worthy Sicilian’s daughter
favored me, and one evening in the park, on the very spot under the
laurel-bush where I had first beheld her, I kissed the words of consent
from her quivering lips.
“Those were happy days, Bononius! We still kept our love concealed;
not that we had reason to doubt her father’s consent, but there was an
indescribable charm in this mystery; I might say: we feared to profane
our happiness, if we should draw aside the veil too soon. True, our
relations did not wholly escape the excellent Heliodorus’ notice. More
than once, while wandering by Hero’s side through the colonnades of the
peristyle, I met his sympathizing smile, which seemed to say: ‘Friend,
I see through you, but am not angered by your secret suit.’
“Then one evening--we had formed the resolution the day before to
appear on the following Friday, October 1st, Heliodorus’ birthday,
hand in hand before him and reveal everything--Hero received me with
an agitated expression that greatly alarmed me. Her father had gone
to Rome on business and was not expected to return till late. Hero
had been alone all day with Lydia, a young relative with whom she
was educated, had refused old Septimia, her grey-haired confidante,
admission to her apartments, neglected to eat, and did not dress until
the hour I usually came, when she waited for me on the stone bench
under the colonnade of the peristyle. Lydia--a charming creature, by
the way, only she reminds one a little too much of our highly-painted
fashionable ladies to compare with Hero’s divine simplicity--was
sitting beside her when I entered. My sweet, sorrowful love was holding
a triangular paper in her hand; Lydia, frowning, clenched in her dainty
fist a parchment covered with red letters. After long questioning I
learned the following details.
“The two girls were walking in the grounds just after sunrise, as
they usually did in the morning. Suddenly a hideously-ugly old woman,
dressed in rags, stood before the unsuspecting maidens, called three
times in a shrill voice, with the expression of a Gorgon, a prophetic
‘woe!’, threw a roll at my trembling Hero’s feet, and hastily vanished.
“The girls, as if spellbound by this mysterious apparition, took the
roll from the ground and untied its fastenings. The contents consisted
of a written parchment and a triangular piece of blank paper. The
purport of the parchment was as follows:
“‘Olbasanus the Chaldean, the investigator of the future and warner of
blinded humanity, writes this to Hero, the daughter of Heliodorus. The
gods have announced to us that, inflamed with love for Lucius Rutilius,
you cherish the design of accepting him for a husband. Olbasanus warns
you against this intention, for his eye has read in the stars what
horrible misfortunes threaten you and yours, especially Lucius Rutilius
himself, if you carry out your resolve. As you might not believe my
warning, I send you with this letter a sacred leaf from the book of the
god Amun. Carry the page to the hearth, lay it on the stone flags, but
so that the flames cannot reach it; bow thrice with clasped hands and
await the divine revelation. Amun himself, with invisible finger, will
write upon this page from his book and announce what is impending if
you despise his sacred will.’
“This was the purport of the parchment Lydia convulsively clenched in
her fingers.”
During the last few moments Caius Bononius had pressed his friend’s arm
more closely and showed other tokens of increasing interest.
“Olbasanus?” he now asked, as Lucius Rutilius paused a moment to take
breath. “The Chaldean on the Quirinal?”
“The same. His name had already reached my ears, but I now learned for
the first time his ghost-like influence and his power.”
“Go on! go on!” urged Bononius.
“Well,” continued the other, “this paper had been enough to throw
the two girls into the utmost excitement. Lydia--an exception to her
sex--had hitherto made no attempt to pry into her friend’s secret,
although she, too, had long since perceived our relations. Now, when
the affair was so suddenly and unexpectedly revealed, she forgot the
usual questions, amazement, congratulations. In her heartfelt anxiety
she pressed into the rooms occupied by the head cook, impetuously sent
away all the slaves, and told her friend to do what Olbasanus had
directed. Hero, almost bereft of her senses, bowed thrice over the
mysterious page and, after a few seconds, perceived with mysterious
horror the black characters that were to announce what barred her
happiness. She read: ‘To the father, madness, to the daughter,
blindness, to Lucius Rutilius, death.’”
“Unprecedented!” cried Caius Bononius. “And a strange coincidence!”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Rutilius.
“Afterwards, my dear fellow! Let me first hear the end of your
adventure! True, I scarcely need an explanation of the result of the
affair. What reply did you make when the young girls had shown you the
page from the book of Amun?”
“I tried to doubt--but the spectral letters and my sorrowful Hero’s
troubled eyes spoke only too distinctly. The fact that this was some
strange marvel, an inexplicable miracle, apparently sent by the gods
themselves--never wavered. At first I was painfully moved, but in the
course of our conversation, as Hero seemed to grow calmer, I regained
a certain degree of confidence, and when in the middle of the first
vigil[2] I entered my house, was disposed, spite of the still unsolved
enigma, to regard the whole matter rather as a strange adventure than a
misfortune.
“The next day was to undeceive me bitterly. Going into the street at
the time of the second breakfast, I saw two large travelling-carriages
before the door of the next house. As I was about to ask one of the
slaves who held the horses the object of these preparations, Heliodorus
and the two young girls crossed the threshold. The Sicilian greeted
me and said that he was on his way, with Hero and Lydia, to bid me
farewell. Hero, who, as I knew, was a little tyrant, had suddenly
declared that she detested Tibur from the very bottom of her soul and
longed to go back to Rome, so as it was now so late in the season that
he, Heliodorus, had no real reason for opposing this wish, he had
decided with his usual promptness.
“Of course I knew that Hero’s suddenly awakened longing was connected
with Olbasanus. She wanted to seek him, learn farther particulars about
the strange prophecy, and if possible appease by prayers and sacrifices
the hostile powers that opposed our happiness.
“Ere fifteen minutes had passed the whole party, including old Septimia
and some of the household slaves, were seated among the cushions, and
preceded by three horsemen, rolling along the road to Rome.
“You will not be surprised, dear Bononius, when I tell you that I, too,
left Tibur that very day and returned to the seven-hilled city. With a
heavy heart I approached the next morning the superb Hellenic dwelling
on the northern side of the Caelian Hill, occupied by Heliodorus. The
Sicilian received me cordially and kindly, though with a somewhat
anxious air. Seating myself by his side, I learned that Hero seemed
to be ill. Shortly after her arrival she had entered her litter,
accompanied by Lydia, returning at a late hour with every sign of
agitation. Since then she had lain dejectedly on her couch, scarcely
answering a question, but gazing fixedly, with a pallid face, into
vacancy. Once she had burst into violent sobs, her whole frame shaken
by emotion; then increased depression and exhaustion followed until at
last, long after midnight, she fell asleep.
“Of course I guessed what had happened. Hero had been to Olbasanus and
had heard from the soothsayer’s lips the same thing the inscription had
predicted. Nay, it seemed as if the manner of this confirmation had
been far more terrible and demoniac than the first warning by the page
from the book of the god Amun. I was utterly at a loss and, stammering
my regret in incoherent words, left the house, begging the Sicilian to
inform me when his daughter’s health was so far restored that I might
repeat my visit without being intrusive.
“On the next evening,” continued Rutilius,--“it was the very Friday we
had chosen for the disclosure of our secret, but in my excitement I had
entirely forgotten Heliodorus’ birthday--I received a few lines from
Hero that almost drove me to despair.
“‘We must part,’ she wrote, ‘part forever. I had hoped the cruel
warning that terrified me at Tibur was only the expression of some
hidden resentment which might be appeased. But now I know that the
gods themselves bar our way with their destroying curse. I have
visited Olbasanus twice: day before yesterday at the dinner hour and
yesterday at the commencement of the first vigil. This man--do not
doubt it--holds intercourse with the gods, demons, and the dead; he
has been given power over all the realms of spirits! I have heard it
with these ears, seen it with these eyes! When, after manifold proofs
of his omnipotence, I still doubted--alas, only because I shrank from
despair--at a sign from the terrible man the goddess of death, Hecate
herself, appeared to me in the clouds of the night heavens, and in a
voice like the roaring of the storm, repeated the awful words I had
read on the page of Amun. We must part, Lucius, not for my sake--oh!
how gladly would I bear the curse of blindness, if I might win in you
a higher, purer light--but for yours, to whom cruel Hecate predicts
death, and for love of my dear father, whose mind is threatened with
darkness. Farewell, dear Lucius! May you learn to forget more easily
than I!’
“These were the words engraved upon my heart in indelible, torturing
characters, as if written by a red-hot stylus. I now learned from
my slave Gaipor, that Olbasanus was really considered by thousands
of people the most powerful conjurer among all the Chaldeans of the
seven-hilled city. Gaipor himself, before I bought him, had been sent
to the magician by his mistress, a lady from Neapolis, to enquire
about the future, and had beheld with his own eyes, like Hero, the
terrible apparition of Hecate, who, surrounded by flames, soared across
the starry sky. You know, Caius, I am not very credulous. I’ve often
laughed at our augurs[3] and soothsayers, and paid the homage of my
sincere respect to that general in the time of the Republic, who when
the sacred chickens would not eat, flung them into the sea. But here
conviction pressed upon me with such power that I succumbed to its
force....”
“Hecate!” murmured Caius Bononius. “This marvel was attested to me
also, not by one or two persons who had beheld it, but by twenty. Know,
Rutilius, that for months I have been reckoning what this Olbasanus
accomplishes by means of his league with gods and demons.... But you
had not finished your story. Go on, Lucius; but make haste!”
“I have finished,” replied the youth. “There’s only one thing more to
add. Amid the dull, heart-corroding grief that mastered me, the desire
to visit in the hall of his incantations, the man who had destroyed my
future--though with kind intentions--daily became more uncontrollable.
I, too, wished to ask the terrible queen of the underworld a question.
Every effort to see my beloved Hero again was unavailing. Heliodorus,
too, seemed completely transformed--his frank bearing had become so
timid and constrained. The impossibility of speaking to Hero, or even
Lydia, drove me to carry my desire into execution. Nay, I conquered my
repugnance to any contact with the supernatural--and now, oh! Caius,
you behold me on my way to Olbasanus, firmly resolved to see with my
own eyes what the gods have allotted and at least to bear away the
one consolation that lies in the consciousness of immutability and
eternally predestined fate.”
“On your way to Olbasanus!” cried Caius Bononius passionately. “Well,
then, let us not delay! I, too, am about to seek him. I sent my Glabrio
yesterday, and Olbasanus appointed the second hour after sunset....”
“You, too?” asked Lucius in surprise.
“Yes, I, too--though from different motives, my dear Rutilius. I am a
philosopher, you know. For years I have searched and investigated; I
am acquainted with the manifold appearances of animate and inanimate
nature; I don’t believe in this conjuror’s wonderful phantasmagoria.
No matter, the testimony of many truthful men lies before us, I cannot
doubt that they have faithfully and honestly related what they heard
and saw. So a torturing contradiction results. Either I am mistaken in
denying, with Pliny and Lucretius, the interference of demons in the
affairs of men, or all these truthful people deceive themselves and are
the victims of base, unprincipled fraud. Impelled by my curiosity, I
am determined, so far as possible, to decide this question one way or
another. So come, that I may not miss the hour Olbasanus has appointed.”
Lucius Rutilius felt a thrill of joyful fear. A gleam of hope flashed
through his soul, for his friend’s words, spite of their measured
reserve, expressed strong confidence.
“Let us hurry!” he said, trembling with impatience.
So the two friends went back into the house, and passing around the
Viminal Hill by the side of the Tullian wall, turned towards Olbasanus’
dwelling.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The Romans wore the toga on occasions of ceremony.
[2] The Romans divided the time from sunset to sunrise into four
night-watches (_vigiliae_).
[3] Priests paid by the government, who predicted future events.