The sleepless wretch on whom some trouble has fallen, so long as night
surrounds him, sees his future life as a boundless sea in which he is
sailing round and round like a shipwrecked man, but when the darkness
yields, the new and helpful day shows him a boat for escape close at
hand, and friendly shores in the distance.
The unfortunate Pollux also awoke towards morning with sighs many and
deep; for it seemed to him that last evening he had ruined his whole
future prospects. The workshop of his former master was henceforth
closed to him, and he no longer possessed even all the tools requisite
for the exercise of his art.
Only yesterday he had hoped with happy confidence to establish himself
on a footing of his own, to-day this seemed impossible, for the
most indispensable means were lacking to him. As he felt his little
money-bag, which he was wont to place under his pillow, he could not
forbear smiling in spite of all his troubles, for his fingers sank into
the flaccid leather, and found only two coins, one of which he knew
alas! was of copper, and the dried merry-thought bone of a fowl, which
he had saved to give to his little nieces.
Where was he to find the money he was accustomed to give his sister on
the first day of every month? Papias was on friendly terms with all the
sculptors of the city, and it was only to be expected that he would warn
them against him, and do his best to make it difficult to him to find
a new place as assistant. His old master had also been witness of
Hadrian’s anger against him, and was quite the man to take every
advantage of what he had overheard. It is never a recommendation for any
one that he is an object of dislike to the powerful, and least of all
does it help him with those who look for the favor and gifts of the
great men of the world. When Hadrian should think proper to throw
off his disguise, it might easily occur to him to let Pollux feel the
effects of his power. Would it not be wise in him to quit Alexandria and
seek work or daily bread in some other Greek city?
But for Arsinoe’s sake he could not turn his back on his native place.
He loved her with all the passion of his artist’s soul, and his youthful
courage would certainly not have been so quickly and utterly crushed
if he could have deluded himself as to the fact that his hopes of
possessing her had been driven into the remote background by the
events of the preceding evening. How could he dare to drag her into his
uncertain and compromised position? And what reception could he hope for
from her father if he should now attempt to demand her for his wife. As
these thoughts overpowered his mind he suddenly felt as if his eyes
were smarting with sand that had blown into them, and he could not help
springing out of bed; he paced his little room with long steps, and he
held his forehead pressed against the wall.
The dawn of a new day appeared as a welcome comfort, and by the time he
had eaten the morning porridge which his mother set before him--and
her eyes were red with weeping--the idea struck him that he would go to
Pontius, the architect. That was the lifeboat he espied.
Doris shared her son’s breakfast but, contrary to her usual custom, she
spoke very little, only she frequently passed her hand over her son’s
curly hair. Euphorion strode up and down the room, rummaging his brain
for ideas for an ode in which he might address the Emperor and implore
forgiveness for his son. Soon after breakfast Pollux went up to the
rotunda where the Queens’ busts stood, hoping to see Arsinoe again,
and a loud snatch of song soon brought her out on to the balcony. They
exchanged greetings, and Pollux signed to her to come down to him. She
would have obeyed him more than gladly, but her father had also heard
the sculptor’s voice and drove her back into the room. Still the mere
sight of his beloved fair one had done the artist good. Hardly had he
got back to his father’s little house when Antinous came sauntering
in--he represented in the artist’s mind the hospitable shores on which
he might gaze. Hope revived his soul, and Hope is the sun before which
despair flies as the shades of night flee at the rising of the day-star.
His artistic faculties were once more roused into play, and found a
field for their freest exercise when Antinous told him that he was at
his disposal till mid-day, since his master--or rather Caesar as he was
now permitted to name him--was engaged in business. The prefect Titianus
had come to him with a whole heap of papers, to work with him and his
private secretary. Pollux at once led the favorite into a side room of
the little house, with a northern aspect; here on a table lay the wax
and the smaller implements which belonged to himself and which he had
brought home last evening. His heart ached, and his nerves were in a
painful state of tension as he began his work. All sorts of anxious
thoughts disturbed his spirit, and yet he knew that if he put his whole
soul into it he could do something good. Now, if ever, he must put forth
his best powers, and he dreaded failure as an utter catastrophe, for on
the face of the whole earth there was no second model to compare with
this that stood before him.
But he did not take long to collect himself for the Bithynian’s beauty
filled him with profound feeling and it was with a sort of pious
exaltation that he grasped the plastic material and moulded it into a
form resembling his sitter. For a whole hour not a word passed between
them, but Pollux often sighed deeply and now then a groan of painful
anxiety escaped him.
Antinous broke the silence to ask Pollux about Selene. His heart was
full of her, and there was no other man who knew her, and whom he could
venture to entrust with his secret. Indeed it was only to speak to
her that he had come to the artist so early. While Pollux modelled and
scraped Antinous told him of all that had happened the previous night.
He lamented having lost the silver quiver when he was upset into the
water and regretted that the rose-colored chiton should afterwards
have suffered a reduction in length at the hands of his pursuer. An
exclamation of surprise, a word of sympathy, a short pause in the
movement of his hand and tool, were all the demonstration on the
artist’s part, to which the story of Selene’s adventure and the loss of
his master’s costly property gave rise; his whole attention was absorbed
in his occupation. The farther his work progressed the higher rose his
admiration for his model. He felt as if intoxicated with noble wine
as he worked to reproduce this incarnation of the ideal of umblemished
youthful and manly beauty. The passion of artistic procreation fired
his blood, and threw every thing else--even the history of Selene’s fall
into the sea, and her subsequent rescue--into the region of commonplace.
Still he had not been inattentive, and what he heard must have had some
effect in his mind; for long after Antinous had ended his narrative, he
said in a low voice and as if speaking to the bust, which was already
assuming definite form:
“It is a wonderful thing!” and again a little later; “There was always
something grand in that unhappy creature.”
He had worked without interruption for nearly four hours, when standing
back from the table, he looked anxiously, first at his work and then at
Antinous, and then asked him:
“How will that do?”
The Bithynian gave eager expression to his approbation, and Pollux had,
in fact, done wonders in the short time. The wax began to display in a
much reduced scale the whole figure of the beautiful youth and in the
very same attitude which the young Dionysus carried off by the pirates,
had assumed the day before. The incomparable modelling of the favorite’s
limbs and form was soft but not effeminate; and, as Pollux had said to
himself the day before, no artist in his happiest mood, could conceive
the Nysaean god as different from this.
While the sculptor in order to assure himself of the accuracy of his
work was measuring his model’s limbs with wooden compasses and lengths
of tape, the sound of chariot-wheels was heard at the gate of the
palace, and soon after the yelping of the Graces. Doris called to the
dogs to be quiet and another high-pitched woman’s voice mingled with
hers. Antinous listened and what he heard seemed to be somewhat out of
the common for he suddenly quitted the position in which the sculptor
had placed him only a few minutes before, ran to the window and called
to Pollux in a subdued voice:
“It is true! I am not mistaken! There is Hadrian’s wife Sabina talking
out there to your mother.”
He had heard rightly; the Empress had come to Lochias to seek out her
husband. She had got out of the chariot at the gate of the old palace
for the paving of the court-yard would not be completed before that
evening.
Dogs, of which her husband was so fond, she detested; the shrewd beasts
returned her aversion, so dame Doris found it more difficult than usual
to succeed in reducing her disobedient pets to silence when they flew
viciously at the stranger. Sabina terrified, vehemently desired the old
woman to release her from their persecution, while the chamberlain
who had come with her and on whom she was leaning kicked out at the
irrepressible little wretches and so increased their spite. At last the
Graces withdrew into the house. Dame Doris drew a deep breath and turned
to the Empress.
She did not suspect who the stranger was for she had never seen Sabina
and had formed quite a different idea of her.
“Pardon me good lady,” she said in her frank confiding manner. “The
little rascals mean no harm and never bite even a beggar, but they never
could endure old women. Whom do you seek here mother?”
“That you shall soon know,” replied Sabina sharply, “what a state of
things, Lentulus, your architect Pontius’ work has brought about. And
what must the inside be like if this but is left standing to disgrace
the entrance of the palace! It must go with its inhabitants. Desire that
woman to conduct us to the Roman lord who dwells here.”
The chamberlain obeyed and Doris began to suspect who was standing
before her, and she said as she smoothed down her dress and bowed low:
“What great honor befalls us illustrious lady; perhaps you are even the
Emperor’s wife? If that be the case--”
Sabina made an impatient sign to the chamberlain who interrupted the old
woman exclaiming:
“Be silent and show us the way.”
Doris was not feeling particularly strong that day, and her eyes already
red with weeping about her son again filled with tears. No one had ever
spoken so to her before, and yet, for her son’s sake she would not repay
sharp words in the same coin, though she had plenty at her command.
She tottered on in front of Sabina, and conducted her to the hall of the
Muses. There Pontius relieved her of the duty, and the respect he paid
to the stranger made her sure that in fact she was none other than the
Empress in person.
“An odious woman!” said Sabina, as she went on pointing to Doris, whom
her words could not escape. This was too much for the old woman; past
all self-control she flung herself on to a seat that was standing by,
covered her face with her hands and began crying bitterly. She felt as
if the very ground were snatched from under her feet.
Her son was in disgrace with Caesar, and she and her house were
threatened by the most powerful woman in the world. She pictured herself
as already turned into the streets with Euphorion and her dogs, and
asked herself what was to become of them all when they had lost their
place and the roof that covered them. Her husband’s memory grew daily
weaker, soon his voice even might fail; and how greatly had her own
strength failed during the last few years, how small were the savings
that were hidden in their chest. The bright, genial old woman felt
quite broken down. What hurt her was, not merely the pressing need that
threatened her, but the disgrace too which would fall upon her, the
dislike she had incurred--she who had been liked by every one from her
youth up--and the painful feeling of having been treated with scorn and
contempt in the presence of others by the powerful lady whose favor she
had hoped to win.
At Sabina’s advent all good spirits had fled from Lochias, so at least
Doris felt, but she was not one of those who succumb helplessly to a
hostile force. For a few minutes she abandoned herself to her sorrows
and sobbed like a child. Now she dried her eyes, and her eased heart
felt the beneficial relief of tears; by degrees she could compose
herself and think calmly.
“After all,” said she to herself, “none but Caesar can command here, and
it is said that he gets on but badly with his spiteful wife, and cares
very little what she wishes. Hadrian let Pollux feel his power, but he
has always been friendly to me. My dogs and birds amused him, and did he
not even do me the honor to relish a dish out of my kitchen? No, no, if
only I can succeed in speaking with him alone all may yet be well,” and
thus thinking she rose from her seat.
As she was about to quit the anteroom the art dealer, Gabinius, of
Nicaea, came in, to whom Keraunus had refused to sell the mosaic in the
palace, and whose daughter had been deprived by Arsinoe of the part of
Roxana. Pontius had desired him to come to the palace and he had made
his appearance at once, for, since the evening before, a rumor had been
afloat that the Emperor was staying in Alexandria, and was inhabiting
the palace at Loehias. Whence it was derived, or on what facts it was
supported no one could say; but there it was, passing from mouth to
mouth in every circle and acquiring certainty every hour. Of all that
grows on earth nothing grows so quickly as Rumor, and yet it is a
miserable foundling that never knows its own parents.
The dealer pushed on into the palace with a glance of astonishment at
the old woman, while Doris debated whether see should seek Hadrian then
and there, or return to her little gate-House, and wait till he should
at some time be going out of the palace and passing by her dwelling.
Before she could come to any decision Pontius appeared on the scene; he
had always been very kind to her, and she therefore ventured to address
him and tell him what had occurred between her son and the Emperor. This
was no novelty to the architect; he advised her to have patience till
Hadrian should have cooled, and he promised her that later he would do
every thing in his power for Pollux, whom he loved and esteemed. On this
very day he was obliged by Caesar’s command to start on a journey and
for a long absence; his destination was Pelusium, where he was to erect
a monument to the great Pompey on the spot where he had been murdered.
Hadrian, as he passed the old ruined monument on his way from Mount
Kasius to Egypt, had determined to replace it by a new one, and had
entrusted the work to Pontius whose labors at Lochias were now nearly
ended. All that might yet be lacking to the fitting of the restored
palace Hadrian himself wished to select and procure and in this
occupation so agreeable to his tastes, Gabinius, the curiosity-dealer,
was to lend him a helping hand.
While Doris was still speaking with Pontius, Hadrian and his wife came
towards the anteroom. Hardly had the architect recognized the tones of
Sabina’s voice, than he hastily said in a low voice:
“Till by-and-bye this must do, dame. Stand aside; Caesar and the Empress
are coming.”
And he hastened away. Doris slipped into the doorway of a side room,
which was closed only by a heavy curtain, for at that moment she would
as soon have met a raging wild beast as the haughty lady from whom she
had nothing to expect but insult and unkindness. Hadrian’s interview
with his wife had lasted barely a quarter of an hour, and it must have
been anything rather than amiable, for his face was scarlet, while
Sabina’s lips were perfectly white, and her painted cheeks twitched with
a restless movement. Doris was too much excited and terrified to listen
to the royal couple, still she overheard these words uttered by the
Emperor in a tone of the utmost decision.
“In small matters and where it is fitting I let you have your way;
more important things I shall this time, as always, decide by my own
judgment--my own exclusively.”
These words were fraught with the fate of the gatehouse and its
inhabitants, for the removal of the “hideous hut” at the entrance of the
palace was one of the “small matters” of which Hadrian spoke. Sabina
had required this concession, since it could not be pleasant to any one
visiting Lochias to be received on the threshold by an old Megaera of
evil omen, and to be fallen upon by infuriated dogs. But Doris so little
divined the import of Hadrian’s words that she rejoiced at them,
for they told her how little he was disposed to yield to his wife in
important things, and how could she suspect that her fate and that of
her house should not be included among important matters, nay the most
important?
Sabina had quitted the anteroom leaning on her chamberlain and Hadrian
was standing there alone with his slave Mastor. The old woman would not
be likely to have another such favorable opportunity of supplicating
the all-powerful man who stood before her, without the hindrance of
witnesses, to exercise his magnaminity and clemency towards her son. His
back turned to her; if she could have seen the threatening scowl with
which he stood gazing on the ground she would surely have remembered the
architect’s warning and have postponed her address till a future day.
How often do we spoil our best chances by following an urgent instinct
to arrive at certainty as early as possible, and by not being strong
enough to postpone opening our business till a favorable moment offers.
Uncertainty in the present often seems less endurable than adverse fate
in the future.
Doris stepped out of the side door. Mastor, who knew his master well,
and whose friendly impulse was to spare the old woman any humiliation,
made eager signs to warn her to withdraw and not to disturb Hadrian at
that moment; but she was so wholly possessed by her anxiety and wishes
that she did not observe them. As the Emperor turned to leave the room
she gathered courage, stood in the doorway through which he must pass,
and tried to fall on her knees before him. This was a difficult effort
to her old joints and Doris was forced to clutch at the door-post in
order not to lose her balance.
Hadrian at once recognized the suppliant, but to-day he found no kind
word for her, and the glance he cast down at her was anything rather
than gracious. How had he ever been able to find amusement even in this
woeful old body? Alas! poor Doris was quite a different creature in her
little house, among her flowers, dogs and birds to what she seemed here
in the spacious hall of a magnificent palace. This wide and gorgeous
frame but ill-suited so modest a figure. Thousands of good people who in
the midst of their everyday surroundings command our esteem and attract
our regard give rise to very different feelings when they are taken out
of the circle to which they belong.
Doris had never worn so unpleasing an aspect to Hadrian as at this
instant, in this decisive moment of her life. She had followed the
Empress straight from the kitchen-hearth just as she was after passing a
sleepless night and full of her many anxieties, she had scarcely set her
grey hair in order, and her kind bright eyes, usually the best feature
of her face, were red with many tears. The neat brisk little mother
looked to-day anything rather than smart and bright; in the Emperor’s
eyes she was in no way distinguished from any other old woman, and he
regarded all old women as of evil omen, if he met them as he went out of
any place he was in.
“Oh, Caesar, Great Caesar!” cried Doris throwing up her hands which
still bore many traces of her labors over the hearth. “My son, my
unfortunate Pollux!”
“Out of my way!” said Hadrian sternly.
“He is an artist, a good artist, who already excels many a master, and
if the gods--”
“Out of the way, I told you. I do not want to hear anything about the
insolent fellow,” said Hadrian angrily.
“But Great Caesar, he is my son, and a mother, as you know--”
“Mastor,” interrupted the monarch, “carry away this old woman and make
way for me.”
“Oh! my lord, my lord!” wailed the agonized woman while the slave pulled
her up, not without difficulty. “Oh! my lord, how can you find it in
your heart to be so cruel? And am I no longer old Doris whom you have
even joked with, and whose food you have eaten?”
These words recalled to the Emperor’s fancy the moment of his arrival at
Lochias; he felt that he was somewhat in the old woman’s debt, and being
wont to pay with royal liberality he broke in with:
“You shall be paid for your excellent dish a sum with which you can
purchase a new house, for the future your maintenance too shall be
provided for, but in three hours you must have quitted Lochias.”
The Emperor spoke rapidly as though desirous of bringing a disagreeable
business to a prompt termination, and he stalked past Doris who was now
standing on her feet and leaning as if stunned against the doorpost.
Indeed if Hadrian had not left her there and had he been in the mood to
hear her farther, she was not now in a fit state to answer him another
word.
The Emperor received the honors due to Zeus and his fiat had ruined the
happiness of a contented home as completely as the thunderbolt wielded
by the Father of the gods could have done.
But this time Doris had no tears. The frightful shock that had fallen
in her soul was perceptible also to her body; her knees shook, and being
quite incapable just then of going home at once, she sunk upon a seat
and stared hopelessly before her while she reflected what next, and what
more would come upon her.
Meanwhile the Emperor was standing in a room just behind the antechamber
that had only been finished a few hours since. He began to regret his
hardness upon the old woman--for had she not, without knowing who he
was, been most friendly to him and to his favorite. “Where is Antinous?”
he asked Mastor.
“He went out to the gate-house.”
“What is he doing there?”
“I believe he meant--there, perhaps he--”
“The truth, fellow!”
“He is with Pollux the sculptor.”
“Has he been there long?”
“I do not exactly know.”
“How long, I ask you?”
“He went after you had shut yourself in with Titianus.”
“Three hours--three whole hours has he been with that braggart, whom
I ordered off the premises!” Hadrian’s eye sparkled wrathfully as he
spoke. His annoyance at the absence of his favorite, whose society
he permitted no one to enjoy but himself, and least of all Pollux,
smothered every kind feeling in his mind, and in a tone of anger
bordering on fury he commanded Mastor to go and fetch Antinous, and then
to have the gate-house utterly cleared out.
“Take a dozen slaves to help you,” he cried. “For aught I care the
people may carry all their rubbish into a new house, but I will never
set eyes again on that howling old woman, nor her imbecile husband. As
for the sculptor I will make him feel that Caesar has a heavy foot and
can unexpectedly crush a snake that creeps across his path.”
Mastor went sadly away and Hadrian returned to his work-room, and there
called out to his secretary Phlegon:
“Write that a new gate-keeper is to be found for this palace. Euphorion,
the old one, is to have his pay continued to him, and half a talent is
to be paid to him at the prefect’s office. Good--Let the man have at
once whatever is necessary; in an hour neither he nor his are to be
found in Lochias. Henceforth no one is to mention them to me again, nor
to bring me any petition from them. Their whole race may join the rest
of the dead.”
Phlegon bowed and said:
“Gabinius, the curiosity-dealer, waits outside.”
“He comes at an appropriate moment,” cried the Emperor. “After all these
vexations it will do me good to hear about beautiful things.”