On the island of Pandataria Agrippina and Psyche still lingered in
imprisonment. The mother, crushed under her latest affliction, lived a
life of savage grief. Her soul trembled with infinite sadness, like the
last falling leaf on a solitary tree. Whether in violent storms, in the
dashing of the waves against the rocks, in the cries of the sea-gulls,
in the fishermen’s songs, or in the Homeric songs of Psyche, she heard
but one word, intensified or softened, “Woe!” Each morning was to her
a new birth of anguish. But Psyche began to brighten under the sunny
skies and the comparative freedom in which she lived. The uncertainty
regarding the fate of her family and of her lover still oppressed
her soul, but she had regained her natural color and had become more
beautiful than ever. Grief had changed the face of youthful beauty to
one of patient and womanly loveliness.
Both women suffered under overwhelming afflictions; but the grief
of Agrippina was vehement, savage, and tragic, while that of Psyche
was calm, quiet, and self-controlled. Agrippina had sustained
calamitous sorrows. Her sufferings comprehended inexpressible torments,
misfortunes without a name, blind struggles, exhausted tears. Psyche
had endured more gentle suffering. Her afflictions were lightened by
the hope that exists in youth, by the purer faith of a young heart,
by the charity that still saw good in others, and, above all, by the
belief in answered prayers. Agrippina was the sad flower of grief;
Psyche was the perfume.
One evening when they had gone to their rooms, and Agrippina had thrown
herself upon her couch, Psyche leaned against the window and looked out
upon the night.
“Canst thou breathe the salt air from where thou sittest, my lady?”
asked Psyche.
“Ay, my child; ’tis refreshing.”
“Dost thou hear a solitary voice singing in the darkness?”
“Ay; ’tis a plaintive song.”
“It seems like a musical breath rising from the sea,” said Psyche,
softly.
“It rests the mind,” Agrippina replied abstractedly.
“How bright are the stars!” exclaimed Psyche. “Their reflection on the
trembling waters looks like happy smiles. What is happiness, my lady?”
“Ah, my dear child, happiness is made of things intangible and
fleeting. ’Tis as light as the feathery thistle-down.”
“Ah! my sweet lady, only in my dreams do I now enjoy happiness.”
“Even in my dreams, gentle child, am I denied solace,” replied
Agrippina. “Ah! from the profundities of grief I have drunk great
draughts. The sleep of that intoxication is filled with bitter dreams.”
“Like a stream that flows and flows, with incessant murmuring, restless
struggling, and furious scoring, has been thy grief, my lady,” said
Psyche, as she left the window and sat down near Agrippina. “In my
impersonations I too have palpitated in the waters of grief. With mine
eyes floating in tears have I suffered the sorrows of Niobe.”
“When I saw thee impersonate Niobe, my sweet child, mine eyes too were
veiled with tears. When, one by one, Niobe loses her children, and
sorrow is added to sorrow, grief to grief, the gradual increase of
anguish thou didst well portray. But, my dear child, like the perfectly
carved statue, beautiful but not living, thou didst lack the power
to portray a mother’s grief. Then I saw it not; but to-day verily do
I believe that no one could perfectly act the part unless she had
suffered as I have.”
“In the mirror of the centuries I have never seen a reflection of
grief truer than thine, my lady.”
“Give me thine hand, dear Psyche,” exclaimed Agrippina. “How warm it
feels!”
“Thy hand is cold, my lady.”
“Ay; so is my heart.”
“Fearest thou further woes, my lady?”
“Ay, my Psyche. Two sons are still left me. Both are in prison. How
long will they be spared?”
“They will not die like Nero,” said Psyche, reassuringly.
“Ah! when my first brother was murdered, I thought the other two
would be spared, but they too fell under the malice of their enemies.
My sister has been banished, my mother starved to death, my husband
poisoned, my friends cruelly murdered; Nero, my beloved son Nero, has
been strangled. Now Drusus is in the dungeon on the Palatine; Caligula
is at Capri. Why, oh, why may I not die before I hear of their tragic
end? Ah, my dear child, I am like a branch burdened with maturing
fruits of grief, broken but living.”
“Words cannot comfort thee, my dear lady; let me sing thee a hymn. ’Tis
the one my mother was wont to sing when she wished to close my childish
eyes in sleep. ’Tis the hymn that has been sung for generations in my
fatherland.”
“Sit thou on my couch, dear child.”
Resting beside her mistress and with the tips of her fingers gently
stroking the extended arm of Agrippina, Psyche sang a sweet melody. It
was a song that had been nourished on the sacred mountain heights of
Greece and had been watered from the immortal fountains of maternal
love. Borne on the soft rhythm of the tune, the words appeared like
flashes of calm light on a river of melody.
“’Tis a peaceful song, my child,” said Agrippina, as Psyche’s voice
died away in a whisper.
“Ah, my lady, my father taught us that the music and poetry of Greece
always touch the soul. He also taught us that life is a continuous
song. There are melodies of solitude, of submission, of purification,
of passion, of desolation, and of despairing grief. Some of the music
is discordant to the ear of youth. ’Tis not until we are aged that we
understand the true melody.”
“Ay, in Rome ’tis said that youth sees not that which he has to gain.
The old man dreams of that which he has lost,” said Agrippina.
“Would that we had a copy of Plato, dear lady,” said Psyche, dreamily.
“Then could I read to thee soothing truths for thy soul. But I weary
thee,” she said, as she arose. “May sleep breathe on thine eyes sweet
forgetfulness!”
“The gods watch over thee, my child!” responded Agrippina.
On a perfect day, not long after, the two prisoners were seated upon
the rocks, looking dreamily at the sea.
“Where are thy thoughts, my child?”
“I was thinking,” said Psyche, “how happy must be the spirit of the
sea!”
“Happier than that of the mountains?” asked Agrippina.
“Ay, my lady; the mountains cast shadows,” replied Psyche.
“But the waters, dear child, cover unfathomable abysses.”
“True, O lady. Never until now have I lived by the sea. In my prison
cell alone, with no sound save that of the breaking of the waves
of silence on the shores of meditation, I have sometimes gathered
sparkling objects, sprays of broken thoughts and iridescent dreams. At
other times I have seen living and crawling objects that frightened me.”
“Didst thou have no companionship in the camp, my poor child?”
“I was always alone, my lady. My jailer was a mute, and for months I
heard no words.”
“Then how didst thou pass the weary hours?”
“I would sometimes sing a hymn to the immortal mother of us all. The
melody of hymns in the sea of silence, gentle lady, flashes away like
bright sparkles from a gem.”
“The gods are sometimes deaf to hymns and prayers, my child.”
“Ah, beautiful prayers are never lost, my lady. Yonder where the sun
sets are immeasurable seas. Are they not bordered by a land of promise?
Ah, O lady, the whole world is an ear. Our petitions may seem to fall
like stones into dark waters, but, believe me, they do reach the
divinities. Let us pray to Juno this night that sweet Peace, like a
new-born child, may come to our minds.”
“Speak on, my child. Thy words are gentle. They soothe my soul.”
“From the window of my cell,” continued Psyche, “so intently have
I gazed upon the peaceful Campagna that mine eyes have become
intoxicated. The Campagna seemed the bottom of a sea, the purple
mountains a shore; ’twas an oblivion of peace.”
Agrippina closed her eyes while Psyche was speaking. From time to time
she would move her lips and form silent words.
“Ay, my lady,” continued Psyche, “but I would awaken from that revery.
My life, my grief, would again burden me.”
“Ah, dear Psyche, life is, after all, but a dream between two slumbers.
Mine has been a fantasy of terror.”
“Look, yonder at the provision boat, floating along the water like a
sea-gull!” suddenly exclaimed Psyche.
“See how it leans; the sails are well filled,” replied Agrippina.
“’Tis a land breeze. Perchance it breathes news from Rome,” said
Psyche, hopefully.
“Thou art always hopeful, my child!”
“See how it dips! See how it rises! ’Tis a cheering sight,” cried
Psyche, her eyes sparkling and her lips parting in a pleasing smile.
“Sad news is sometimes borne by smiling faces,” said Agrippina, trying
to restrain the happy flow of Psyche’s spirits.
“Ah, my lady, not on this day! How fresh is the air! How bright are the
skies! The birds fly faster! See the boat dance upon the waters! Ah, I
seem to breathe an aroma that affects me like a happy song.”
“From the clear skies anguish sometimes falls,” again Agrippina sadly
but kindly warned the gentle maiden.
Intently they watched the boat as it gradually drew near the island.
When the anchor had been cast and a small boat had brought some
passengers to the land, a cheer rang out from the soldiers who had
gathered at the landing. Shortly after, the officer who guarded the
prisoners approached them and handed a letter to Psyche.
“A letter for me!” said the dancing-girl, with her eyes opened wide
with surprise.
“Perchance, good news!” said the officer, as he went away.
“Look, my lady!” said Psyche, excitedly. “’Tis Macro’s seal!”
“Let me see, my child,” said Agrippina. “Ah! Macro is prefect! Can it
be that Sejanus is emperor? Hasten thou, my child; read the contents!”
Quickly breaking the seal, Psyche read the first few words. “’Tis from
Gyges!” she screamed with joy. “He is safe! My parents are free! Oh! my
lady, said I not that the boat bore good tidings?”
“Read on, O Psyche!”
“Sejanus is dead! Oh! my lady, our enemy has at last received his
punishment. Papers for my release have gone to the emperor for his
signature! O ye celestial gods, I thank thee! I thank thee!”
“Says Gyges nothing more, my child?” asked Agrippina, moved to unwonted
cheerfulness by the excessive joy of Psyche.
“Ay, my lady! I am so happy I know not what to do!”
She continued reading. Her face was radiant, and her black eyes danced
as she looked at the letter. Suddenly she uttered a scream. Her face
grew white, her eyes frightened. A terrible revulsion of feeling had
seized her.
Agrippina quickly asked, “What has happened, my child?”
“O my sweet lady, I love thee. I have tried to lighten thy burden of
grief. Yet I had to be the bearer of the news of Nero’s death. Tell me
that thou lovest me.”
“Dear child, I know not what thou meanest. We have lived together many
days. We have been more than friends. Why dost thou speak so wildly?”
“I am now calm,” said Psyche, breathing a deep sigh. “The path of joy
along which I so quickly ran ended on the edge of an abyss.”
“Thy parents are not crazed by confinement?”
“Nay, my lady,” said Psyche, and then relapsed into silence.
“Ah, my child, I begin to understand thee. The abyss is news of fresh
anguish for me. Said I not that from the clearest skies anguish
sometimes falls? What--what has now happened to my family?”
“Forgive me, my lady, forgive me! Drusus is no more!”
“They have killed him!” cried Agrippina, bewildered.
“He was starved to death, my lady. Oh, let me shed tears for thee, for
thine eyes are dry,” said Psyche, as she threw her arms around the
neck of her companion and sobbed aloud.
For some time Agrippina uttered no word. Her face had become rigid, her
eyes wild. Finally she rose and said: “Come, Psyche, I have been taught
how to die. Come, come, come!” The last word was whispered with an
indescribable moan.
“Whither goest thou?”
“I too will die.”
“Oh! my sweet lady! nay! Speak not such words!”
“Ay, dear child; my mother was starved, Drusus was starved--I too will
starve.”
Supported by Psyche, she went into the building, into her room. She
then prepared for bed, as if it were night. She laid herself upon her
couch with eyes closed. She said nothing, but groaned incessantly.
A day passed by--two days--without her eating or drinking anything. She
resolutely refused food and drink, notwithstanding the pleadings of her
companion.
On the third day the officer presented himself before Agrippina and
commanded her to eat and drink.
“That will I not do,” said Agrippina.
“I am ordered to make thee eat,” said the officer.
“From whom comes that order?”
“From the emperor.”
“Tell him that I refuse.”
The officer withdrew. He sent a letter to Capri, asking for further
instructions. The answer was borne by a new officer, the previous one
having been arrested for disobedience.
The new officer was a man with a brutal face. He spoke with a growl. He
entered Agrippina’s room, accompanied by two soldiers equally brutal
in appearance. He said to Agrippina: “The old officer has lost his
position for disobedience. That wrong is punishable by death at Capri.
I have been ordered to make thee eat.”
“Does the emperor think that he can force me?” asked Agrippina.
“Ay; and I have brought thee some bread and water.”
Agrippina made no reply.
“I insist that thou shalt eat.”
“I refuse.”
“Again I insist,” said the officer, becoming angry.
“Again I refuse.”
“In the name of the emperor, I command thee to eat.”
Agrippina made no reply.
“Bind her and force open her mouth!” shouted the officer.
Psyche tried to interfere, and called for help.
One of the soldiers held Agrippina’s head; the other, with his sword,
tried to pry open her mouth. The officer stood leaning over her, with
some bread soaked in water. So roughly did the soldier use his sword
that it slipped, and, tearing Agrippina’s lip and cheek, gouged out
her eye. At this sickening sight Psyche swooned. Finally the brutes
succeeded in opening her mouth, and the officer forced some bread down
her throat. This frightful ordeal ended, the women were then left alone.
When Psyche returned to consciousness, her mind seemed paralyzed with
horror, but her tender heart prompted her to relieve the suffering
of the tortured woman. She tied a bandage over the wounded eye of
Agrippina, and procuring a basin of water, bathed the torn lip and
cheek of her mistress.
“Dost thou suffer much pain?” softly whispered Psyche.
“My body pains, my dear child. My mind is dead,” she answered in a
hollow voice that sounded like a whisper from a tomb.
“What is there that I can do for thee, my lady?”
“Nothing, my child. They may try to force me again, but I am resolved
to die. Speak to me no more, I pray thee.”
Through the remaining hours of that day and all that night Psyche never
left her mistress. The next morning the dancing-girl was cruelly forced
to leave Pandataria and go to Rome.
Two days later, the long tragedy was ended. The heroic sufferer had
gained her point and had starved herself to death. Her tragic sorrows
were over and her triumph had come. She had conquered the emperor.