II

Nearly a week later Horace was dining quietly with Maecenas. It was

during one of the frequent estrangements between the prime minister

and his wife, and Maecenas often sent for Horace when the strain of

work had left him with little inclination to collect a larger company.

The meal was over, and on the polished citron-wood table stood a

silver mixing-bowl, and an hospitable array--after the princely

manner of the house--of gold cups, crystal flagons, and tall, slender

glasses which looked as if they might have been cut out of deep-hued

amethyst. The slaves had withdrawn, as it was one of the first nights

of the Saturnalia and their duties were lightened by a considerate

master. The unusual cold and the savage winds that had held Rome in

their grip for the past few days were forgotten within the beautiful

dining-room. A multitude of lamps, hanging from the lacquered

ceiling, standing around the room on tall AEginetan candelabra, and

resting on low, graceful standards on the table itself, threw a warm

radiance over the mosaic floor and over the walls painted with

architectural designs, through which, as if through colonnades of

real marble, charming landscapes lured and beckoned. One of the

choicest Greek wines in the host's famous cellar had been brought

in for the friends. There was enough snow on Soracte, Maecenas had

said laughingly, to justify the oldest Chian, if Horace could forego

his Italian numbers and his home-brewed Sabine for one night.

"I will leave both my metre and my stomach to the gods," Horace had

retorted, "if you will turn over to them your worry about Rome, and

pluck the blossom of the hour with me. Augustus is safe in Spain,

you cannot be summoned to the Palatine, and to-morrow is early enough

for the noise of the Forum. By the way," he added somewhat testily

and unexpectedly, "I wish I could ever get to your house without being

held up for 'news.' A perfect stranger--he pretended to know

me--stopped me to-night and asked me if I thought there was anything

in the rumour that Augustus has no intention of going to get the

standards back from the Parthians, but is thinking only of the

Spanish gold-mines. 'Does he think to wing our Roman eagles with

money or with glory?' he asked, with what I thought was an insolent

sneer. I shook him off, but it left a bad taste in my mouth. However,"

smiling again as he saw a familiar impassiveness settle upon his

host's face, "for you to-night there shall be neither Parthians nor

budgets. I offer myself as the victim of your thoughts. You may even

ask me why I have not published my odes since you last saw me."

Maecenas's eyes brightened with affectionate amusement.

"Well, my friend," he said, "both money and glory would wing your

flight. You have the public ear already, and can fix your own

royalties with the Sosii. And everybody, from Augustus to the

capricious fair, would welcome the published volume. You should

think too of my reputation as showman. Messala told me last week that

he had persuaded Tibullus to bring out a book of verse immediately,

while you and Virgil are dallying between past and future triumphs.

I am tempted to drop you both and take up with ambitious youth. Here

is Propertius setting the town agog, and yesterday the Sosii told

me of another clever boy, the young Ovid, who is already writing verse

at seventeen: a veritable rascal, they say, for wit and wickedness,

but a born poet."

"If he is that," Horace said, in a tone of irritation very unusual

with him, "you had better substitute him for your Propertius. I think

his success is little short of scandalous."

"You sound like Tullus," Maecenas said banteringly, "or like the

friend of Virgil's father who arrived from Mantua last week and began

to look for the good old Tatii and Sabines in Pompey's Portico and

the Temple of Isis! Since when have you turned Cato?"

Horace laughed good-humouredly again. "At any rate," he said, "you

might have done worse by me than likening me to Tullus. I sometimes

wish we were all like him, unplagued by imagination, innocent of

Greek, quite sure of the admirableness of admirably administering

the government, and of the rightness of everything Roman. What does

he think of Propertius's peccadilloes, by the way? He is a friend

of the family, is he not?"

"Yes," said Maecenas, "and he is doing his friendly duty with the

dogged persistence you would expect. He has haunted me in the Forum

lately, and yesterday we had a long talk. His point of view is obvious.

A Roman ought to be a soldier, and he ought to marry and beget more

soldiers. Propertius boasts of being deaf to the trumpet if a woman

weeps, and the woman is one he cannot marry. _Ergo_, Propertius is

a disgrace to his country. It is as clear as Euclid. All the friends

of the family, it seems, have taken a hand in the matter. Tullus

himself has tried to make the boy ambitious to go to Athens, Bassus

has tried to discount the lady's charms, Lynceus has urged the

pleasures of philosophy, and Ponticus of writing epics. And various

grey-beards have done their best to make a love-sick poet pay court

to wisdom. I could scarcely keep from laughing at the look of

perplexity and indignation in Tullus's face when he quoted

Propertius's reply. The boy actually asked them if they thought the

poor flute ought to be set adrift just because swelled cheeks weren't

becoming to Pallas! The long and short of it is that he wants me to

interfere, and convince Propertius of his public duty. That public

duty may conceivably take the form of writing poetry is beyond his

grasp."

Horace laughed. "Now, my difficulty," he said, "is just the reverse.

I object to this young man because he is a bad poet."

"Why?" Maecenas asked, rather abruptly.

"Because," Horace answered, "he contorts the Latin language and

muddies his thought by Alexandrian debris."

Maecenas reached for the silver ladle and slowly filled his cup once

more from the mixing-bowl before replying. Then he said in a more

serious tone than he had used hitherto:--

"If you will allow me to say so, Flaccus, that is a cheap criticism

to come from the keenest critic in Rome. Is it not possible that you

are misled by your personal prejudices? You dislike the young man

himself, I know, because he is moody and emotional and uncontrolled,

and because he considers his own emotions fit subjects for discussion.

A boy, self-centred, melancholy, and in love--what do you want of

him?"

"Is that quite fair?" Horace answered. "Tibullus is young and in love,

and a very Heracleitus for melancholy, and you know that I not only

love him as a friend but also value him as a poet, in spite of my

belief that elegiac verse is not a fortunate medium for our language.

His Latin is limpid and direct, his metre is finished, and his emotion

as a lover is properly subordinated to his work as a poet."

"Ah," said Maecenas quickly, "but just there you betray yourself."

He hesitated a moment and then went on as if the words were welling

up from reluctant depths in his own experience. "Flaccus, you have

never loved a woman, have you?"

Horace smiled whimsically. "Not to the extent of surrendering my

standards," he said. "So far Mercury has always rescued me in time

from both Mars and Venus."

But Maecenas went on gravely, "You are, then, incapacitated for

appreciating the force and fervour of a certain kind of genius. I

know that you have never understood Catullus, and I have a feeling

that something of his spirit is reappearing in this boy to-day. If

Propertius lacks his virility and directness, that may well be

because of a heart in which there is a stormier conflict of emotions.

Certainly his passion transcends the vivacious sentiment of poor

Gallus. I tell you, my wary critic, I am almost willing to believe

that through this silly young dandy we are getting a new voice in

our literature. Who knows? who knows? It is un-Roman, yes, incoherent

and moody and subversive of law and order, but is it false to human

life? A man may choose to dwell apart with his own heart rather than

with Lucretius's science or Virgil's nature, or your own practical

philosophy. Certain lines that this boy has written haunt

me--perhaps they will prove true:--

Then you will wonder, and often, at me not ignoble a poet;

Then midst the talent of Rome I shall be ranked in the van;

Then will the youths break silence by side of my grave and be saying:

'Dead! Thou of passion our lord! Great one, O poet, laid low!'"

A silence fell between the friends. Two slaves, their faces flushed

with unusual wine, came in to replenish the small lamps on the table,

and stole quietly out again. Horace watched his friend with grave

affection, knowing well where his thoughts had strayed. Presently

Maecenas shook himself with a laugh.

"Exit Terentia's husband," he said, "and reenter the galley-slave

of the Roman State. I have, indeed, been thinking for some time that

this new talent ought to be deflected into other lines. Its energy

would put vitality into national themes. A little less Cynthia and

a little more Caesar will please us all. I mean to suggest some

historical subjects to the boy. Thinking about them may stiffen up

this oversoft Muse of his."

"You speak hopefully," Horace said, "but you have our Hostia (I

understand the 'Cynthia' is an open secret) to reckon with. She is

not going to loosen her hold on a young man who is making her famous,

and whose sudden success with you is due to poetry about her. We have

to acknowledge that she is almost as wonderful as the young fool

thinks she is."

"Certainly," Maecenas answered, "she has insight. Her favour must

have been won by his talent, for he hasn't money enough to meet her

price."

"And I," scoffed Horace, "think the dice about equal between her

favour and his talent. However, I wish you luck, and shall look for

a crop of songs on Caesar and Carthage and the Cimbrians."

With a smile of mutual understanding the friends pledged each other

in one last draught of Chian, as Horace rose to take his leave.

"How lately have you heard from Virgil?" Maecenas asked while they

waited for Davus to be summoned from the festivities in the servants'

hall.

"A letter came yesterday," Horace answered, "and it troubled me

greatly. He wrote in one of his blackest moods of despair over the

_AEneid_. He says he feels as if he were caught in a nightmare, trying

madly to march along a road, while his feet drag heavily, and his

tongue refuses to form sounds and words. I confess that I am anxious,

for I think his mind may prey too far upon his physical strength.

Only last week Varius told me that he thinks Virgil himself is

obsessed by the idea that he may die before he has finished his work,

he has begged him so often to promise to destroy whatever is left

uncompleted."

A sudden sadness, like the shadow of familiar pain, fell upon

Maecenas's face.

"Flaccus, my Flaccus," he exclaimed, "it is I who shall die, die

before Virgil finishes his _AEneid_, or you your _Odes_. My life will

have been futile. The Romans do not understand. They want their

standards back from the Parthians, they want the mines of Spain and

the riches of Arabia. They cast greedy eyes on Britain and make much

ado about ruling Gaul and Asia and Greece and Egypt. And they think

that I am one of them. But the Etruscan ghosts within me stir

strangely at times, and walk abroad through the citadel of my soul.

Then I know that the idlest dream of a dreamer may have form when

our civilisation shall have crumbled, and that the verse of a poet,

even of this boy Propertius, will outlast the toil of my nights. You

and Virgil often tell me that you owe your fortunes to me,--your lives,

you sometimes say with generous exaggeration. But I tell you that

the day is coming when I shall owe my life to you, when, save for

you, I shall be a mere name in the rotting archives of a forgotten

state. Why, then, do you delay to fulfill my hope? Virgil at least

is working. What are you doing, my best of friends?"

Davus had come in, and was laying the soft, thick folds of a long

coat over his master's shoulders, as Maecenas's almost fretful

appeal came to an end.

Horace, accustomed to his friend's overstrained moods, and

understanding the cure for them, turned toward him with a gentle

respect which was free from all constraint or apology. His voice lost

its frequent note of good-tempered mockery and became warm with

feeling, as he answered:--

"My friend, have patience. You will not die, nor shall I, until I

have laid before you a work worthy of your friendship. You are indeed

the honour and the glory of my life, and your faith in my lyric gift

lifts me to the stars. But you must remember that my Muse is wayward

and my vein of genius not too rich. No Hercules will reward my travail,

so do not expect of me the birth-pangs that are torturing Virgil.

I have time to look abroad on life and to correct tears by wine and

laughter while my hands are busy with the file and pumice-stone.

Before you know it, the billboards of the Sosii will announce the

completed work, and the dedication shall show Rome who is responsible

for my offending."

The look of anxious irritability faded from Maecenas's face, and in

restored serenity he walked with Horace from the dining-room,

through the spacious, unroofed peristyle, where marble pillars and

statues, flower-beds and fountains were blanched by the winter moon

to one tone of silver, and through the magnificent atrium, where the

images of noble ancestors kept their silent watch over the new

generation. At the vestibule door a porter, somewhat befuddled by

Saturnalian merry-making, was waiting sleepily. When he had opened

the door into the street the two friends stood silent a moment in

the outer portico, suddenly conscious, after the seclusion of the

great house and their evening's talk, of the city life

beyond,--hilarious, disordered, without subtlety in desire and

regret, rich in the common passions of humanity. At this moment a

troop of revelers stumbled past with wagging torches in their drunken

hands. Among them, conspicuous in the moonlight, the boy Propertius

swayed unsteadily, and pushed back a torn garland from his forehead.

Horace turned to Maecenas.

"Cynthia's wine," he said. "Do you expect to extract from the lees

an ode to Augustus?"

Maecenas shrugged his shoulders. "Probably," he said, "he will write

me a charming poem to explain why he cannot do what I ask. I know

the tricks of your tribe."

With a final laugh and a clasp of the hands the friends parted company.

Maecenas went back to his library to reread dispatches from Spain

before seeking his few hours of sleep. Horace, finding that the wind

had gone down, and tempted by the moonlight, turned toward the Subura

to stroll for another hour among the Saturnalian crowds.