A CLASSIC HOST, COOK, AND KITCHEN. APAECIDES SEEKS IONE. THEIR
CONVERSATION.
IT was then the day for Diomed's banquet to the most select of his
friends. The graceful Glaucus, the beautiful Ione, the official Pansa,
the high-born Clodius, the immortal Fulvius, the exquisite Lepidus, the
epicurean Sallust, were not the only honourers of his festival. He
expected, also, an invalid senator from Rome (a man of considerable
repute and favor at court), and a great warrior from Herculaneum, who
had fought with Titus against the Jews, and having enriched himself
prodigiously in the wars, was always told by his friends that his
country was eternally indebted to his disinterested exertions! The
party, however, extended to a yet greater number: for although,
critically speaking, it was, at one time, thought inelegant among the
Romans to entertain less than three or more than nine at their banquets,
yet this rule was easily disregarded by the ostentatious. And we are
told, indeed, in history, that one of the most splendid of these
entertainers usually feasted a select party of three hundred. Diomed,
however, more modest, contented himself with doubling the number of the
Muses. His party consisted of eighteen, no unfashionable number in the
present day.
It was the morning of Diomed's banquet; and Diomed himself, though he
greatly affected the gentleman and the scholar, retained enough of his
mercantile experience to know that a master's eye makes a ready servant.
Accordingly, with his tunic ungirdled on his portly stomach, his easy
slippers on his feet, a small wand in his hand, wherewith he now
directed the gaze, and now corrected the back, of some duller menial, he
went from chamber to chamber of his costly villa.
He did not disdain even a visit to that sacred apartment in which the
priests of the festival prepare their offerings. On entering the
kitchen, his ears were agreeably stunned by the noise of dishes and
pans, of oaths and commands. Small as this indispensable chamber seems
to have been in all the houses of Pompeii, it was, nevertheless, usually
fitted up with all that amazing variety of stoves and shapes, stew-pans
and saucepans, cutters and moulds, without which a cook of spirit, no
matter whether he be an ancient or a modern, declares it utterly
impossible that he can give you anything to eat. And as fuel was then,
as now, dear and scarce in those regions, great seems to have been the
dexterity exercised in preparing as many things as possible with as
little fire. An admirable contrivance of this nature may be still seen
in the Neapolitan Museum, viz., a portable kitchen, about the size of a
folio volume, containing stoves for four dishes, and an apparatus for
heating water or other beverages.
Across the small kitchen flitted many forms which the quick eye of the
master did not recognize.
'Oh! oh!' grumbled he to himself, 'that cursed Congrio hath invited a
whole legion of cooks to assist him. They won't serve for nothing, and
this is another item in the total of my day's expenses. By Bacchus!
thrice lucky shall I be if the slaves do not help themselves to some of
the drinking vessels: ready, alas, are their hands, capacious are their
tunics. Me miserum!'
The cooks, however, worked on, seemingly heedless of the apparition of
Diomed.
'Ho, Euclio, your egg-pan! What, is this the largest? it only holds
thirty-three eggs: in the houses I usually serve, the smallest egg-pan
holds fifty, if need be!'
'The unconscionable rogue!' thought Diomed; 'he talks of eggs as if they
were a sesterce a hundred!'
'By Mercury!' cried a pert little culinary disciple, scarce in his
novitiate; 'whoever saw such antique sweetmeat shapes as these?--It is
impossible to do credit to one's art with such rude materials. Why,
Sallust's commonest sweetmeat shape represents the whole siege of Troy;
Hector and Paris, and Helen... with little Astyanax and the Wooden
Horse into the bargain!'
'Silence, fool!' said Congrio, the cook of the house, who seemed to
leave the chief part of the battle to his allies. 'My master, Diomed,
is not one of those expensive good-for-noughts, who must have the last
fashion, cost what it will!'
'Thou liest, base slave!' cried Diomed, in a great passion--and thou
costest me already enough to have ruined Lucullus himself! Come out of
thy den, I want to talk to thee.'
The slave, with a sly wink at his confederates, obeyed the command.
'Man of three letters,' said Diomed, with his face of solemn anger, 'how
didst thou dare to invite all those rascals into my house?--I see thief
written in every line of their faces.'
'Yet, I assure you, master, that they are men of most respectable
character--the best cooks of the place; it is a great favor to get them.
But for my sake...'
'Thy sake, unhappy Congrio!' interrupted Diomed; and by what purloined
moneys of mine, by what reserved filchings from marketing, by what
goodly meats converted into grease, and sold in the suburbs, by what
false charges for bronzes marred, and earthenware broken--hast thou been
enabled to make them serve thee for thy sake?'
'Nay, master, do not impeach my honesty! May the gods desert me if...'
'Swear not!' again interrupted the choleric Diomed, 'for then the gods
will smite thee for a perjurer, and I shall lose my cook on the eve of
dinner. But, enough of this at present: keep a sharp eye on thy
ill-favored assistants, and tell me no tales to-morrow of vases broken,
and cups miraculously vanished, or thy whole back shall be one pain.
And hark thee! thou knowest thou hast made me pay for those Phrygian
attagens enough, by Hercules, to have feasted a sober man for a year
together--see that they be not one iota over-roasted. The last time, O
Congrio, that I gave a banquet to my friends, when thy vanity did so
boldly undertake the becoming appearance of a Melian crane--thou knowest
it came up like a stone from AEtna--as if all the fires of Phlegethon
had been scorching out its juices. Be modest this time, Congrio--wary
and modest. Modesty is the nurse of great actions; and in all other
things, as in this, if thou wilt not spare thy master's purse, at least
consult thy master's glory.'
'There shall not be such a coena seen at Pompeii since the days of
Hercules.'
'Softly, softly--thy cursed boasting again! But I say, Congrio, yon
homunculus--yon pigmy assailant of my cranes--yon pert-tongued neophyte
of the kitchen, was there aught but insolence on his tongue when he
maligned the comeliness of my sweetmeat shapes? I would not be out of
the fashion, Congrio.'
'It is but the custom of us cooks,' replied Congrio, gravely, to
undervalue our tools, in order to increase the effect of our art. The
sweetmeat shape is a fair shape, and a lovely; but I would recommend my
master, at the first occasion, to purchase some new ones of a...'
'That will suffice,' exclaimed Diomed, who seemed resolved never to
allow his slave to finish his sentences. 'Now, resume thy
charge--shine----eclipse thyself. Let men envy Diomed his cook--let the
slaves of Pompeii style thee Congrio the great! Go! yet stay--thou hast
not spent all the moneys I gave thee for the marketing?'
'"All!" alas! the nightingales' tongues and the Roman tomacula, and the
oysters from Britain, and sundry other things, too numerous now to
recite, are yet left unpaid for. But what matter? every one trusts the
Archimagirus of Diomed the wealthy!'
'Oh, unconscionable prodigal!--what waste!--what profusion!--I am
ruined! But go, hasten--inspect!--taste!--perform!--surpass thyself!
Let the Roman senator not despise the poor Pompeian. Away, slave--and
remember, the Phrygian attagens.'
The chief disappeared within his natural domain, and Diomed rolled back
his portly presence to the more courtly chambers. All was to his
liking--the flowers were fresh, the fountains played briskly, the mosaic
pavements were as smooth as mirrors.
'Where is my daughter Julia?' he asked.
'At the bath.'
'Ah! that reminds me!--time wanes!--and I must bathe also.'
Our story returns to Apaecides. On awaking that day from the broken and
feverish sleep which had followed his adoption of a faith so strikingly
and sternly at variance with that in which his youth had been nurtured,
the young priest could scarcely imagine that he was not yet in a dream;
he had crossed the fatal river--the past was henceforth to have no
sympathy with the future; the two worlds were distinct and
separate--that which had been, from that which was to be. To what a bold
and adventurous enterprise he had pledged his life!--to unveil the
mysteries in which he had participated--to desecrate the altars he had
served--to denounce the goddess whose ministering robe he wore! Slowly
he became sensible of the hatred and the horror he should provoke
amongst the pious, even if successful; if frustrated in his daring
attempt, what penalties might he not incur for an offence hitherto
unheard of--for which no specific law, derived from experience, was
prepared; and which, for that very reason, precedents, dragged from the
sharpest armoury of obsolete and inapplicable legislation, would
probably be distorted to meet! His friends--the sister of his
youth--could he expect justice, though he might receive compassion, from
them? This brave and heroic act would by their heathen eyes be regarded,
perhaps, as a heinous apostasy--at the best as a pitiable madness.
He dared, he renounced, everything in this world, in the hope of
securing that eternity in the next, which had so suddenly been revealed
to him. While these thoughts on the one hand invaded his breast, on the
other hand his pride, his courage, and his virtue, mingled with
reminiscences of revenge for deceit, of indignant disgust at fraud,
conspired to raise and to support him.
The conflict was sharp and keen; but his new feelings triumphed over his
old: and a mighty argument in favor of wrestling with the sanctities of
old opinions and hereditary forms might be found in the conquest over
both, achieved by that humble priest. Had the early Christians been
more controlled by 'the solemn plausibilities of custom'--less of
democrats in the pure and lofty acceptation of that perverted
word--Christianity would have perished in its cradle!
As each priest in succession slept several nights together in the
chambers of the temple, the term imposed on Apaecides was not yet
completed; and when he had risen from his couch, attired himself, as
usual, in his robes, and left his narrow chamber, he found himself
before the altars of the temple.
In the exhaustion of his late emotions he had slept far into the
morning, and the vertical sun already poured its fervid beams over the
sacred place.
'Salve, Apaecides!' said a voice, whose natural asperity was smoothed by
long artifice into an almost displeasing softness of tone. 'Thou art
late abroad; has the goddess revealed herself to thee in visions?'
'Could she reveal her true self to the people, Calenus, how incenseless
would be these altars!'
'That,' replied Calenus, 'may possibly be true; but the deity is wise
enough to hold commune with none but priests.'
'A time may come when she will be unveiled without her own
acquiescence.'
'It is not likely: she has triumphed for countless ages. And that which
has so long stood the test of time rarely succumbs to the lust of
novelty. But hark ye, young brother! these sayings are indiscreet.'
'It is not for thee to silence them,' replied Apaecides, haughtily.
'So hot!--yet I will not quarrel with thee. Why, my Apaecides, has not
the Egyptian convinced thee of the necessity of our dwelling together in
unity? Has he not convinced thee of the wisdom of deluding the people
and enjoying ourselves? If not, oh, brother! he is not that great
magician he is esteemed.'
'Thou, then, hast shared his lessons?' said Apaecides, with a hollow
smile.
'Ay! but I stood less in need of them than thou. Nature had already
gifted me with the love of pleasure, and the desire of gain and power.
Long is the way that leads the voluptuary to the severities of life; but
it is only one step from pleasant sin to sheltering hypocrisy. Beware
the vengeance of the goddess, if the shortness of that step be
disclosed!'
'Beware, thou, the hour when the tomb shall be rent and the rottenness
exposed,' returned Apaecides, solemnly. 'Vale!'
With these words he left the flamen to his meditations. When he got a
few paces from the temple, he turned to look back. Calenus had already
disappeared in the entry room of the priests, for it now approached the
hour of that repast which, called prandium by the ancients, answers in
point of date to the breakfast of the moderns. The white and graceful
fane gleamed brightly in the sun. Upon the altars before it rose the
incense and bloomed the garlands. The priest gazed long and wistfully
upon the scene--it was the last time that it was ever beheld by him!
He then turned and pursued his way slowly towards the house of Ione; for
before possibly the last tie that united them was cut in twain--before
the uncertain peril of the next day was incurred, he was anxious to see
his last surviving relative, his fondest as his earliest friend.
He arrived at her house, and found her in the garden with Nydia.
'This is kind, Apaecides,' said Ione, joyfully; 'and how eagerly have I
wished to see thee!--what thanks do I not owe thee? How churlish hast
thou been to answer none of my letters--to abstain from coming hither to
receive the expressions of my gratitude! Oh! thou hast assisted to
preserve thy sister from dishonour! What, what can she say to thank
thee, now thou art come at last?'
'My sweet Ione, thou owest me no gratitude, for thy cause was mine. Let
us avoid that subject, let us recur not to that impious man--how hateful
to both of us! I may have a speedy opportunity to teach the world the
nature of his pretended wisdom and hypocritical severity. But let us
sit down, my sister; I am wearied with the heat of the sun; let us sit
in yonder shade, and, for a little while longer, be to each other what
we have been.'
Beneath a wide plane-tree, with the cistus and the arbutus clustering
round them, the living fountain before, the greensward beneath their
feet; the gay cicada, once so dear to Athens, rising merrily ever and
anon amidst the grass; the butterfly, beautiful emblem of the soul,
dedicated to Psyche, and which has continued to furnish illustrations to
the Christian bard, rich in the glowing colors caught from Sicilian
skies, hovering about the sunny flowers, itself like a winged flower--in
this spot, and this scene, the brother and the sister sat together for
the last time on earth. You may tread now on the same place; but the
garden is no more, the columns are shattered, the fountain has ceased to
play. Let the traveler search amongst the ruins of Pompeii for the
house of Ione. Its remains are yet visible; but I will not betray them
to the gaze of commonplace tourists. He who is more sensitive than the
herd will discover them easily: when he has done so, let him keep the
secret.
They sat down, and Nydia, glad to be alone, retired to the farther end
of the garden.
'Ione, my sister,' said the young convert, 'place your hand upon my
brow; let me feel your cool touch. Speak to me, too, for your gentle
voice is like a breeze that hath freshness as well as music. Speak to
me, but forbear to bless me! Utter not one word of those forms of
speech which our childhood was taught to consider sacred!'
'Alas! and what then shall I say? Our language of affection is so woven
with that of worship, that the words grow chilled and trite if I banish
from them allusion to our gods.'
'Our gods!' murmured Apaecides, with a shudder: 'thou slightest my
request already.'
'Shall I speak then to thee only of Isis?'
'The Evil Spirit! No, rather be dumb for ever, unless at least thou
canst--but away, away this talk! Not now will we dispute and cavil; not
now will we judge harshly of each other. Thou, regarding me as an
apostate! and I all sorrow and shame for thee as an idolater. No, my
sister, let us avoid such topics and such thoughts. In thy sweet
presence a calm falls over my spirit. For a little while I forget. As
I thus lay my temples on thy bosom, as I thus feel thy gentle arm
embrace me, I think that we are children once more, and that the heaven
smiles equally upon both. For oh! if hereafter I escape, no matter what
peril; and it be permitted me to address thee on one sacred and awful
subject; should I find thine ear closed and thy heart hardened, what
hope for myself could countervail the despair for thee? In thee, my
sister, I behold a likeness made beautiful, made noble, of myself.
Shall the mirror live for ever, and the form itself be broken as the
potter's clay? Ah, no--no--thou wilt listen to me yet! Dost thou
remember how we went into the fields by Baiae, hand in hand together, to
pluck the flowers of spring? Even so, hand in hand, shall we enter the
Eternal Garden, and crown ourselves with imperishable asphodel!'
Wondering and bewildered by words she could not comprehend, but excited
even to tears by the plaintiveness of their tone, Ione listened to these
outpourings of a full and oppressed heart. In truth, Apaecides himself
was softened much beyond his ordinary mood, which to outward seeming was
usually either sullen or impetuous. For the noblest desires are of a
jealous nature--they engross, they absorb the soul, and often leave the
splenetic humors stagnant and unheeded at the surface. Unheeding the
petty things around us, we are deemed morose; impatient at earthly
interruption to the diviner dreams, we are thought irritable and
churlish. For as there is no chimera vainer than the hope that one
human heart shall find sympathy in another, so none ever interpret us
with justice; and none, no, not our nearest and our dearest ties,
forbear with us in mercy! When we are dead and repentance comes too
late, both friend and foe may wonder to think how little there was in us
to forgive!
'I will talk to thee then of our early years,' said Ione. 'Shall yon
blind girl sing to thee of the days of childhood? Her voice is sweet
and musical, and she hath a song on that theme which contains none of
those allusions it pains thee to hear.'
'Dost thou remember the words, my sister?' asked Apaecides.
'Methinks yes; for the tune, which is simple, fixed them on my memory.'
'Sing to me then thyself. My ear is not in unison with unfamiliar
voices; and thine, Ione, full of household associations, has ever been
to me more sweet than all the hireling melodies of Lycia or of Crete.
Sing to me!'
Ione beckoned to a slave that stood in the portico, and sending for her
lute, sang, when it arrived, to a tender and simple air, the following
verses:--
REGRETS FOR CHILDHOOD
I
It is not that our earlier Heaven
Escapes its April showers,
Or that to childhood's heart is given
No snake amidst the flowers.
Ah! twined with grief
Each brightest leaf,
That's wreath'd us by the Hours!
Young though we be, the Past may sting,
The present feed its sorrow;
But hope shines bright on every thing
That waits us with the morrow.
Like sun-lit glades,
The dimmest shades
Some rosy beam can borrow.
II
It is not that our later years
Of cares are woven wholly,
But smiles less swiftly chase the tears,
And wounds are healed more slowly.
And Memory's vow
To lost ones now,
Makes joys too bright, unholy.
And ever fled the Iris bow
That smiled when clouds were o'er us.
If storms should burst, uncheered we go,
A drearier waste before us--
And with the toys
Of childish joys,
We've broke the staff that bore us!
Wisely and delicately had Ione chosen that song, sad though its burthen
seemed; for when we are deeply mournful, discordant above all others is
the voice of mirth: the fittest spell is that borrowed from melancholy
itself, for dark thoughts can be softened down when they cannot be
brightened; and so they lose the precise and rigid outline of their
truth, and their colors melt into the ideal. As the leech applies in
remedy to the internal sore some outward irritation, which, by a gentler
wound, draws away the venom of that which is more deadly, thus, in the
rankling festers of the mind, our art is to divert to a milder sadness
on the surface the pain that gnaweth at the core. And so with
Apaecides, yielding to the influence of the silver voice that reminded
him of the past, and told but of half the sorrow born to the present, he
forgot his more immediate and fiery sources of anxious thought. He
spent hours in making Ione alternately sing to, and converse with him;
and when he rose to leave her, it was with a calmed and lulled mind.
'Ione,' said he, as he pressed her hand, 'should you hear my name
blackened and maligned, will you credit the aspersion?'
'Never, my brother, never!'
'Dost thou not imagine, according to thy belief, that the evil-doer is
punished hereafter, and the good rewarded?'
'Can you doubt it?'
'Dost thou think, then, that he who is truly good should sacrifice every
selfish interest in his zeal for virtue?'
'He who doth so is the equal of the gods.'
'And thou believest that, according to the purity and courage with which
he thus acts, shall be his portion of bliss beyond the grave?'
'So we are taught to hope.'
'Kiss me, my sister. One question more. Thou art to be wedded to
Glaucus: perchance that marriage may separate us more hopelessly--but
not of this speak I now--thou art to be married to Glaucus--dost thou
love him? Nay, my sister, answer me by words.'
'Yes!' murmured Ione, blushing.
'Dost thou feel that, for his sake, thou couldst renounce pride, brave
dishonour, and incur death? I have heard that when women really love,
it is to that excess.'
'My brother, all this could I do for Glaucus, and feel that it were not
a sacrifice. There is no sacrifice to those who love, in what is borne
for the one we love.'
'Enough! shall woman feel thus for man, and man feel less devotion to
his God?'
He spoke no more. His whole countenance seemed instinct and inspired
with a divine life: his chest swelled proudly; his eyes glowed: on his
forehead was writ the majesty of a man who can dare to be noble! He
turned to meet the eyes of Ione--earnest, wistful, fearful--he kissed
her fondly, strained her warmly to his breast, and in a moment more he
had left the house.
Long did Ione remain in the same place, mute and thoughtful. The
maidens again and again came to warn her of the deepening noon, and her
engagement to Diomed's banquet. At length she woke from her reverie,
and prepared, not with the pride of beauty, but listless and melancholy,
for the festival: one thought alone reconciled her to the promised
visit--she should meet Glaucus--she could confide to him her alarm and
uneasiness for her brother.