Psyche had passed her second month in solitude in the prison of the
Praetorian Camp. Her first days had been lived under the crushing
effects of her grief. Gradually the hope that throbs in the heart of
youth gave her some consolation. Full of thankfulness for the warning
of Gyges, which had sealed her lips concerning the writing on Gannon’s
tunic, she concluded that she had nothing to fear. There were no proofs
against her that could keep her under restraint for a great length of
time. But the days passed slowly.
Her cell was a rectangular room, with a bed in one corner. There were
no openings except a small grating that looked towards the Campagna.
For hours she would stand and look out of this small window upon the
enormous sweep of cultivated land, bordered by the Sabine Mountains,
that appeared to frown upon the all-powerful city of Rome. On clear
days Tibur would sparkle amidst the purplish-green background of
the mountains, like some little city seen in happy dreams. The Viae
Tiburtina, Nomentana, and Praenestina ran through the farms and
cultivated fields of the Campagna like large light-colored veins on an
enormous leaf.
But there were times when mountains, fields, and even the prison seemed
to the captive Psyche to vanish in a cloud of oblivion. However, the
breaking of the cloud would reveal plaintive and pleasant recollections
of the past. Not as sensations are stimulated by the impulsations along
the five different roads of the senses did these recollections come to
her, but as beautiful and pure thoughts born from the sowing of seeds
in solitude.
She would think of her dear brother, the remembrance of whose words and
acts became clearer since his death. The bright and happy face she saw,
the ringing words of cheer she heard, the laugh that would irresistibly
bring smiles to other lips, the quick movements that kept the watching
eyes alert,--all these things were in her dreams of her brother. “Poor
Gannon!” she would say to herself, “thy life was like the incessant
tremble on a summer sea. Ah! poor, poor Gannon!”
Her home-life had been an experience of unbroken peace. Her mother had
been her only friend in childhood, maidenhood, and womanhood; and her
father had found no pleasures outside of his own family. She recalled
the happy evenings together when they would talk of art, beauty, and
the glorious country of Greece. The songs that were sung after the
evening meals would come floating into Psyche’s memory like sweet
exhalations from rivers of melody.
With tearful eyes she would recall the happy days spent with her
lover. In imagination she would see his strong, quick, and handsome
figure. She would hear whispered words of love that would come to her
like distant music from the doors of a temple. So ardent were her
recollections, that she seemed to feel again his actual caresses. The
last afternoon they had passed together appeared like some sunny day
that would never come again. She would take the necklace he had given
her and fondle it as if she saw in the gems his eyes, and in the little
golden links the visible tokens of the ties which had bound their
hearts together during many happy days. She pictured their lives like
two votive candles, waiting to be lighted upon the altar in the temple
of love.
On the second day of her imprisonment she asked the keeper, “Knowest
thou of a Greek man and wife imprisoned in the camp?”
The keeper made no reply.
“Canst thou tell me whether a young man named Gyges has been arrested?”
There was no reply.
“Tell me, O keeper, when shall I be free?”
Still there was no reply. Her words seemed to die in the air before
they reached him. Again and again she repeated her questions, but
received no satisfaction. Her jailer was deaf and dumb. With gestures
she tried to procure a tablet and stylus; but the jailer worked like
an automaton and she accomplished nothing. With no words to break
the stillness, she became like a daughter of silence surrounded by
profound solitude. In her loneliness she would approach the thrones of
the gods, with offerings and prayers. The ways were quiet along which
her thoughts danced, marched, and fell. Yes, in her world of silence
her spirit would hear celestial melodies and human sobs; it would see
bright thrones of her hopes and dark beds of her sorrows; it would
taste the sweet juices of joy and the bitter acid of torment; it would
breathe the perfume of peace and the exhalation of strife; it would
gently touch a living form and a dead body. But all these things were
the works of imagination. No messages from her loved ones reached her
through the impenetrable and silent walls of her cell. She sat as if
immersed in oblivion.
Harrowed by the uncertainty regarding the fate of Gyges and her
parents, she passed her days in hope, fear, and despair. One morning
she was surprised to hear a commanding voice give an order in
the corridor. These were the first words she had heard since her
imprisonment. When she recognized the voice of Sejanus, she gave a
start. She heard him stop before her door and order that no one should
be allowed to walk in the corridor while he was there. When he had
entered and locked the door, he noticed that Psyche had retreated to
the farther end of the cell.
“Thou fearest me?” he said.
Psyche made no reply. She stood upright and clenched her hands.
“Thou dost not fear me,” he said, answering his own question as he sat
down upon her bed.
Still Psyche remained silent.
“If thou dost not fear, thou must be glad to see me,” he said with an
evil smile.
“What dost thou wish here?” she asked.
“Be not frightened. I am not a severe man. I have even refrained from
torturing thee. I keep thee and thy parents in the camp, on account of
laws that rule me. In my soldier nature, O light-footed dancer, there
runs a vein of kindness. Thy brother was treated well in the camp. I
even promoted him. But in despair at being caught in a dishonest act,
he threw himself from the roof of the barracks. Oh that he might have
given me an opportunity to forgive him!”
“What dishonest act did he perform?”
“He read my private letters.”
“Art thou sure, O Sejanus?”
“Ay; thy parents have confessed that he did.”
“Where are my parents?”
“They still live in the barracks, prisoners, as thou art.”
“And Gyges, O Sejanus, where is he?”
“He escaped; but shortly he will also be a prisoner.”
“I thank the gods that he is free. But why dost thou keep me here?”
“Thou hast told me that thou didst not read the writing on thy
brother’s tunic. I believe thou didst read it.”
“I can say no more than I have not, O Sejanus. Is it just to imprison
innocent people?”
“Thou findest life a burden here? Thou wishest to be free?”
“Ay, O Sejanus. Why am I kept here? Why are my parents prisoners? Why
is Gyges to be arrested?”
“I cannot tell thee, my graceful creature. Pray be calm. Sit thou down
near me.”
Psyche still remained in the corner of the cell. She was frightened at
the familiar tone of her oppressor. She asked, “What dost thou wish
here?”
“I have come to relieve the monotony of thy solitude.”
“Then leave me. I prefer to be alone,” she pleaded.
“So thou art the dancing-girl who delightedst the people with thy
impersonations?” he asked, disregarding Psyche’s trembling appeal. “I
have seen thee dance. Truly thou hast mastered well that art.”
“I am a dancing-girl. ’Tis an honest profession.”
“Ay; all professions are sometimes honest.”
“The life of a dancing-girl is sometimes misunderstood,” she replied.
“Nay, O pretty one, not by me. The lives of dancing-girls are never
monotonous. A lover is always at hand. Presents brighten their fleeting
days. Loving words and tender glances cheer their lives. Art thou not
lonely in this cell?”
Psyche knew not what reply to make. His voice had become soft and
enticing. She said: “When can I see my parents? Persecute me no longer,
O Sejanus! I am innocent.”
“Thou art not persecuted, O pretty maiden! Thy cell is bright; we have
darker ones below the ground. Thy food is good; we sometimes only
give bread and water. Thou art lonely and I have come to relieve thy
solitude.”
“Then leave me,” said Psyche, in a commanding tone.
“Leave thee? Why, I too am often lonely. This day I feel the need of
some one to share that loneliness with me. Come, sit thou down.”
“Leave me, I pray thee!”
“Thou art a dancing-girl and hungerest after love.”
“Leave me, I say, I understand thee not,” she cried.
“Dancing-girls need little instruction in the art of love.”
“I have told thee that they are misjudged.”
“I have told thee that they are not misjudged by me. Come, confess thy
thoughts to me.”
“I have nothing to confess.”
“Confess that thou dost love.”
“Love! Whom?” she asked.
“Love me,” he replied with a wicked smile. “Confess that thou wishest
to love me, as thou didst love the youths at the theatre. Prison life
will soon lose its dulness if thou wilt love me.”
“I do not understand thy meaning!” said Psyche, white with fear.
“Cell life has dulled thy senses. Come, sit thou down. I ask not for
thy respect, but for thy love.”
“Respect! Love! Art thou mad? Thou, the murderer of my brother; thou
who art tormenting my parents; thou who wouldst thrust into thy dungeon
an innocent man,--thou now comest before me, before one whose heart is
torn and whose wounds are still fresh, and, villain that thou art,
thou askest for love! Thou mayest be the emperor’s minister, but there
is a limit to thy power! I detest thee! Leave me!”
“Hold, my pretty one! Thou sayest that I am powerful. Ay; that is true.
My power can and will win thee. I have come here to love thee and I
will not leave without that satisfaction.”
With intense fear the poor maiden threw herself on her knees and,
looking up to heaven, cried in tragic accents: “O Mother of God,
Celestial Rhea, hear the prayer from virgin lips! Deliver me from the
power of this fiend! Grant me death rather than defilement! Protect thy
persecuted child! Save! Oh, save!--”
“The gods hear no prayers in the Praetorian Camp,” jeered Sejanus, with
an infernal smile on his lips.
He approached her and caught her in his arms.
“O Gyges, Gyges!” she screamed, struggling against him with all her
might.
“Struggle, scream, ay, yell! Thy cries fall on deaf ears. No one can
save thee.”
Although excitement gave her unnatural strength, yet in the arms of
Sejanus she was powerless. He kissed her cheeks, though she tried to
avoid his caress by leaning backwards. He whispered words of love, but
she spat in his face. She clutched his head in her hands and tore his
hair. But this nervous force soon spent itself, and she grew weak.
She sobbed, pleaded, and struggled; she called upon the gods, but
with no avail. Sejanus, like an enraged beast, threw her on her straw
mattress--but a loud knock on the door arrested him. Infuriated by the
interruption, and fully prepared to fell the man who had broken his
strict orders, he opened the door, and saw standing in the corridor his
master--the Emperor.