From the time of his visit to Olbasanus Lucius Rutilius, who had
previously constantly endeavored to obtain a meeting with his beloved
Hero to cheer the sorrowing girl and induce her to change her desperate
resolve, was completely transformed.
Gifted with a larger share of imagination than of calm, unprejudiced
investigation; endowed with genuine poetic receptivity for all external
impressions, he doubted neither the honesty of the mysterious Chaldean,
nor the truth of what he had heard and seen.
As Caius Bononius was unable to give any natural explanation of the
marvels they had witnessed, his efforts, when he visited his friend the
next day and earnestly endeavored to weaken, as far as possible, the
impressions of the preceding evening, remained unavailing.
Since Rutilius was now convinced that the ardently-desired union with
his beloved Hero would inevitably bring destruction, not only to
himself but to her and her dear father, duty and honor seemed to him
to command that he should not render the unavoidable separation more
difficult by delay and hesitation, but accomplish it at once through
a heroic resolve. Even one more interview--a last farewell must be
avoided--on this point he now agreed with the woman he loved. The
arrows that had pierced so deeply into their yearning hearts must be
torn out by force; only thus, under the merciful protection of the
gods, deliverance might yet be possible; if not for him--for he felt
that without Hero life, even amid all the splendors of the world, would
lack light, and color--perhaps for her, who could forget, who ought and
must forget, though the very thought made the youth tremble.
He therefore wrote to Hero briefly, that he, too, had heard the decree
of the goddess of death and was convinced that the inexorable will of
Fate stood between them--so he would resign her. With what feelings he
did so, he need not explain. As he wished her to regain her peace of
mind, he informed her that he could not remain longer in Rome, where
he should run the risk of meeting her and thus being reminded afresh
of the happiness he had forever lost. He would leave the Capital the
following day, without naming the goal of his journey, that not even
her thoughts should follow him.
Lucius carried out this resolution with the haste of a man who hopes
to fly from himself.
Accompanied only by a single slave, he rode at dawn northward across
the Milvian Bridge--towards Etruria, to pass by Pisae, renowned of old,
to Gaul. He had visited none of his numerous friends before leaving
except Caius Bononius, to whom he named Massilia[5] as the place where
he intended to remain for a few months. He had in that city, in the
person of an Arpinatian knight, a host who would receive him with open
arms.
* * * * *
Meantime Caius Bononius was haunted night and day by the feverish
desire to see clearly into the tangled web of the events he had
experienced.
If the marvellous incidents at the Chaldean enchanter’s house had
been less numerous; if--with all their apparent reality--they had not
borne a certain theatrical impress, Bononius would have been disposed
to enter more seriously than ever into the question: Is there really a
higher spiritual power that rules the souls of the departed, and are
there men who, in consequence of the peculiar nature of their mental
faculties, are capable of entering into mutual relations with this
higher power?
The studies in which Bononius had been engaged contradicted the truth
of such a hypothesis; they did not yield the smallest fact that could
be construed in favor of it. Yet,--it is the brain most free from
prejudice, the brain that has learned how often the impossible proves
true, which is therefore the first to be ready to examine impartially
what is strange and contradictory instead of unceremoniously refusing
it authority with the cheap cleverness of average minds. The true
thinker does not reject what lies beyond the pale of experience, but
simply what is logically inconceivable.
Thus Olbasanus would have obtained undisputed success with Caius
Bononius if instead of _three_ amazing miracles he had displayed only
one. But the instinct that was instantly aroused when Bononius detected
the magician’s triumphant smile gave him no rest; with the zeal of the
investigator who hopes to make a discovery that will move the world,
the young philosopher strove to find the most natural and simple
explanation possible for the bewildering phenomena.... A hundred times
he fancied he had grasped the truth by the wing, but it constantly
escaped him, and the joyous gleam of hope proved illusive.
There were two circumstances that gave him food for reflection.
In the first place, even with the most comprehensive knowledge of all
the powers of nature, it was not to be explained how the answer to
Lucius Rutilius’s question, which Olbasanus did not know, agreed so
exactly with the reply to Hero’s. The second circumstance appeared no
less perplexing. If this Olbasanus was really a juggler, who deceived
his victims for his own selfish designs, what could have been more
opportune than a final compliance with Lucius Rutilius’s wishes? The
Chaldean might have imposed any penance on the sorrowing youth, and
if he had only wanted money, named a very considerable sum by whose
payment to the goddess’s representative the pretended fate could
be averted. But there was nothing of the sort. Olbasanus’s goddess
persisted, with the inexorable severity of Fate, in the prophecy
already made by the writing on the entrails of the victim. This fact
told very decidedly in the sorcerer’s favor. What interest could the
man be pursuing when, against his better judgment, he destroyed a
lover’s hopes, since their restoration undoubtedly promised to be far
more profitable to the soothsayer.
The youth could find no explanation for these things.
One day--about a week after Lucius Rutilius’s departure--he was
walking through the avenues of the Campus Martius. Caius had long
neglected this afternoon exercise of several hours before dinner;
now, when his head was burning from the constant restlessness of his
excited thoughts, he had resumed the old custom, and to-day, for the
fourth time, set out on his usual walk to the so-called Septae, the
place where the ancient assemblies of the people were held, past the
spreading boughs of the double row of maples, whose rustling foliage
already began to assume the brilliant hues of autumn.
Spite of the lateness of the season the air was as soft and mild
as that of spring. A brilliant throng filled the carriage-roads
and bridle-paths. Aristocratic dames were borne in magnificent
litters through the laurel and myrtle groves, followed by a train of
gaily-attired cavaliers--for the white toga of ancient Rome had long
since ceased to be the exclusive costume of these fashionable gallants.
Rich manufacturers from Alexandria rolled in the two-wheeled cisium,
preceded by woolly-haired runners in bright red garments, side by side
with the magnificent carriage of the senator who prided himself on his
noble blood and the glittering pony chaise of the woman of the demi
monde with her towering coiffure--the “Libertina,” of whom Ovid has
sung. Wrestling and throwing the discus were practised on the stretches
of turf; but the combatants merely played clever tricks on each
other--compared with the fierce athletes who had steeled their muscles
here under Tiberius and Caligula--and the discus had grown smaller,
as if intended for boys, a symbol of the increasing degeneracy which
was finally to succumb to the mighty assault of the victorious German
tribes.
Caius Bononius walked through this splendid labyrinth like a
somnambulist. Even here, amid the merry, frivolous population of the
world’s capital, he could not shake off the burden weighing upon his
heart and brain. On the evening he met Rutilius he had been on his way
to detect the vanity of Olbasanus’ arts--and the consequence was that
he found himself more than ever ensnared in the net of uncertainty.
There was a touch of the tragi comical in this condition of affairs.
Bononius, as he paced to and fro, had the vague feeling that he was
playing a somewhat pitiful part before himself and the aristocratic
company assembled under the maples....
Suddenly some one called him by name.
He turned.
“Is it you, Philippus?” he exclaimed, as a stately man about thirty-six
years old approached him from a side-path. The new-comer wore the
military dress of a centurion (captain) of the city prefect; his
features expressed resolute will, combined with unmistakable kindness
of heart and frankness.
“How are you, Bononius?” asked the soldier, offering the young
philosopher his hand. “Are you still alive, or is it only your shade
wandering here? By Hercules! it’s at least three months since I last
had the pleasure of shaking hands with you. What are you doing, you
incomprehensible hermit? Still melting metals on the tripod, or again
busied with Heraclitus’ horrible writings? It must be something
terrible that estranges you so entirely from your best friends.”
“You are right,” said Bononius. “I have been unusually busy during the
last few months. But you see I’m improving.”
They walked on for some distance side by side. The young man liked
to listen to the fresh, kindly talk of the sturdy centurion, who
now criticised a horse, now spoke of the last races and the newest
pantomime, or with blunt originality expressed his admiration of one
of the celebrated beauties who passed reclining among the cushions of
their litters or calashes.
“Look there!” he said suddenly, checking the torrent of his eloquence.
“No, can it be possible? How pale she looks!... Don’t you know
her--Hero, Heliodorus’ daughter?”
Caius Bononius started violently. He had never seen the object of
Lucius Rutilius’ love, much as his thoughts had been occupied with
her during the last week. There was no apparent reason for seeking
her; nay, by going to the Sicilian’s house he would have frustrated
his self-sacrificing friend’s expressed wish. But now, since chance
had caused this meeting, the young man felt as if he had only needed
a glimpse of Hero to obtain a clear insight into all the enigmas that
tortured him. He almost devoured with his eyes the lovely girlish
figure which, wrapped in the folds of a dazzlingly white palla, was
just turning into the elm avenue by the side of a thin young man.
Pretty Hero was indeed pale; pale and sad, despite the faint smile
of courtesy that hovered around the small, pouting mouth, and the
impression was increased by her thick, light-brown hair, which in a
simple, waving line framed the symmetrical brow. She gazed without
interest at the motley throng, listened unsympathizingly to the eager
words of her excited companion. Behind her, by the side of a fresh,
blooming girl of fifteen, whom Caius Bononius supposed to be the Lydia
so often mentioned by Rutilius, walked Heliodorus, the father of the
pallid Hero, evidently in an angry mood, for his brows were contracted,
his lips tightly compressed. He seemed to be absorbed in an earnest
conversation with Lydia.
“Is that Hero?” asked Bononius. “And who is the unattractive fellow
talking to her so eagerly?”
“Agathon, a countryman of Heliodorus. I’ve often met him at the city
prefect’s.”
Bononius and Philippus now passed the group. Philippus bowed. Bononius
gazed fixedly now at Hero, now at her companion, Agathon. There was
something in this man’s appearance which seemed familiar, though he
thought he most distinctly remembered that he had never met him before
in his life. So he forgot all regard for courtesy, and when Heliodorus
had also passed with Lydia, Caius Bononius, spite of the city custom
which forbade such things, could not refrain from gazing after their
retreating figures.
When he thus caught a back view of Agathon’s form a recollection
like a revelation suddenly darted through his brain. That was the
same thin figure which, on the evening he was standing with Lucius
Rutilius at Olbasanus’ door, came out of the ostium[6] and walked away.
The bearing, the peculiar movement of the right shoulder, the whole
appearance,--all was unmistakable.
The young man now clearly perceived what had hitherto
been as incomprehensible to him as the wondrous nocturnal
apparitions--Olbasanus’ motives. Everything Olbasanus had predicted to
the unhappy Rutilius and sorrowing Hero was by Agathon’s direction. The
motive that influenced the latter required no explanation. Hero was
young, beautiful, rich,--and Agathon was a suitor for her favor. Caius
Bononius especially emphasized the wealth--it already filled him with
satisfaction to be able to despise the aforesaid. Agathon more heartily
than would have been allowable if his intrigue had been caused solely
by a mad passion for the charming young girl.
True, this discovery did not make the incomprehensible things Rutilius
and Bononius had witnessed in the Chaldean’s house one hair’s breadth
more intelligible; but Bononius had gained fresh courage and energy to
advance, by the employment of every possible means, towards the goal
on which, freed from the last remnants of metaphysical doubts, he now
boldly fixed his gaze. He was now aware that Olbasanus was no fanatic,
no enthusiast who at least partially deceived himself, but a juggler,
who served as the tool of the base selfishness of a malicious sneak.
This juggler must be unmasked--the youth’s determination to do this was
as firm as the devotee’s faith in the mercy of deity.
The centurion had noticed his companion’s agitation and, with his
natural frankness and absence of reserve, asked what there was in the
Sicilian’s appearance to cause so much surprise--had Caius Bononius
discovered in Hero some neighbor at the circus, for whom he had long
sought in vain, or recognized in Agathon a troublesome rival? The
youth was in a mood that renders the heart communicative and desirous
of seeking counsel from others; he had long prized the centurion as
a reliable and discreet man; besides, he thought he perceived that
Philippus also cherished no special regard for Agathon.
One word led to another.
Strolling a little apart from the throng, Bononius at first gave the
centurion some hints and then, after Philippus had sworn by all the
gods to maintain the most inviolable secrecy, told him the adventure at
Olbasanus’s.
The worthy centurion was frantic with indignation. He had never
believed in the conjuror’s fool-tricks; but here the whole thing was
as clear as day: Agathon, the base sharper, had bought Olbasanus!
He, Philippus, knew that Agathon’s money matters were very much
involved. Of course, the extravagant roué thought he could find no
better investment for the few hundred sesterces remaining out of many
millions than to use them in obtaining the immense heritage Hero, as
her mother’s only child, would bring as a marriage dowry. The matter
was as clear as sunlight. But the insolent cheat had not reaped his
harvest yet--and, judging by the expression on Hero’s pretty face,
Philippus considered it doubtful whether he ever would win what he
wished to sneak into so craftily. No matter: Agathon’s probable failure
did not make amends for the harm the abominable conjuror had done poor
Rutilius. He, Philippus, would do everything in his power, in company
with Caius Bononius, to set the affair to rights.
“Come and breakfast with me to-morrow!” he said at last, after
mentioning all these points with excited volubility. “We’ll sketch
the plan of a campaign that will not only restore our worthy Lucius
Rutilius to happiness, but satisfy your ardent curiosity about the
secret powers with which Olbasanus works.”
“Very well,” replied Bononius. “I’ll be there.”
So they parted.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Marseilles.
[6] Passage leading from the door to the atrium.