A LITTLE SUPPER.
Longa Duilia and her entire household had returned to the capital, and
were installed in the family mansion in the Carinæ.
Happily, as Corbulo had considered it, this house had escaped in the
conflagration of Rome under Nero. This, however, was a matter of some
regret to Duilia, who would have preferred to have had it burnt, so that
it might have been rebuilt in greater splendor and in newer style.
Nevertheless, although externally dingy, it was a commodious mansion
within, and was well furnished, especially with carpets and curtains of
Oriental texture, that had been wrought at, or purchased at the bazaars of
Antioch and Damascus.
The centre of the house was occupied by the _atrium_, or hall, open to the
sky above the water tank in the midst. On each side at the further end
from the entrance extended the “wings” that contained the family portraits
enclosed in gilded boxes or shrines, the doors of which were thrown open
on festal occasions. In the centre, between the wings was the _tablinum_,
the reception-room of the house, and on the right side of the entrance was
the family money-chest, girded with iron.
On the ledge of the water tank before the reception room, smoked a little
altar before an image of Larpater, the ancestor and founder of the family,
regarded as the tutelary deity of the house.
The _penates_, the subsidiary household gods, that had formerly been
retained in the hall, near the altar—curious, smoked, and badly-shaped
dolls, some in rags, some in wood, others in terra cotta—were sometimes
consigned to a family chapel, but in the house of the widow of Corbulo, as
in many another, they had been relegated to a shelf in the kitchen near
the hearth, and a lamp was maintained perpetually burning before them.
In primitive times, when life was simple, the hall had been the common
room of the house, in which the wife cooked the meals at the hearth, and
where also on seats, father, wife, children and domestics partook together
of the common meal. But now all this was altered.
In winter the hall was too cold to be sat in. It was inconvenient to have
the cooking done before all eyes. Consequently a separate kitchen and
separate dining-rooms were constructed, and the smoking altar and the
image by it alone remained in the hall as a reminiscence of the family
hearth that once stood there.
It is more difficult to understand the meals and meal times of the old
Romans, than the arrangement of their houses.
They rose vastly early in the morning, and took a snack of breakfast of
the simplest description, which lasted them till lunch at 10 a. m. But
such as were occupied abroad rarely returned home for this meal. At noon
they bathed, and then came the great feed of the day, the _cœna_, which we
translate “supper,” but which was begun at half-past one in winter and an
hour later in summer.
This lasted the entire afternoon, and even on great occasions into the
night. Some revellers did not break up till midnight, or even prolonged
the orgy to dawn.
It was not till the Goths and Vandals overflowed the classic world, that
the supper was postponed until the evening.
The Roman citizen’s day was from dawn till noon. Then he had his snooze
and his bath, and the remainder of the day was devoted to the mighty meal
and to reading, conversation, and amusement.
“I am so pleased to see you,” said Longa Duilia, stepping forward to
receive the Præfect of Rome, to her little supper.
He was a gray-headed, plain, blunt man, with very ordinary features; he
was attended by two lictors, and by his son, Sabinus.
“I thank you, madam, for the courteous invitation.”
“I could kill myself with vexation not to have made your acquaintance
earlier. You see, for some years I have been at Antioch, with my dearest
husband, whose sword—that sword which drank the blood of Germans,
Parthians and Armenians—excuse these tears—you see it—suspended yonder.
But, as I was saying, we have been from Rome so long, and since my return
I have lived in such seclusion, that we have not met—and yet, considering
our relationship——”
“My dear lady, I was unaware that I was entitled to such an honor.”
“Oh! yes, of course, cousins.”
“Cousins!”
“Through Vespasia Polla, your mother. What a sweet creature she was! So
distinguished in her manner. She had such an intelligent face, and, as I
remember her, the remains of great beauty. Of course I was then quite a
mite of a child.”
“This is indeed flattering.”
“You men have other things to consider beside pedigree. Cousins we
certainly are. And how is that sweet lady, your wife? By all accounts as
frail as the last autumn leaf on an acacia.”
“I am glad to say that, on the contrary, she enjoys rude health.”
“You do not say so! What fibs are told! Your son Clemens is not here? I—I
have heard, does not go into society, a little peculiar in his views. We
are not all made alike. But this, your son Sabinus, is formed like an
Apollo. And your daughter Plautilla—so sorry! infected in the same way.
Will not go to dinners or shows—ah! well it is her loss. It is a pleasure
to reunite family ties. Alas! you know of my irreparable loss. I do not
know whether you saw the sword of my darling. He fell on it. Bathed it
with his blood. Every night I bedew the sacred blade with my tears. Excuse
me—my emotion overcomes me. I would have buried myself at Gabii, clasping
the sword to my wounded bosom for the remainder of my shattered life, had
it not been for the health of my child. A mother’s thoughts are with her
offspring. Well, now to table. A widow’s fare, only a small supper in a
house of mourning—though more than a twelvemonth since the funeral—indeed,
two years since my dear one died—on that sword. Oh! I turn away my eyes!
The sight of that blade. But, come—that is my daughter. Salute her. A
cousin. Give me your hand, Flavius. The table calls us.”
The house of a wealthy Roman at this period had not only a summer
dining-room, open to the air, but one also for winter, well heated by
stoves. Three tables were placed, so as to accommodate nine persons, three
at each, leaving the ends of two and an open square in the middle.
Into this hollow the servants ran the “repository,” a sort of what-not, on
wheels, consisting of a tier of shelves, all laden with dishes; and the
guests put forth their hands and selected such meats as they fancied.
Knives they had, but no forks. In place of these latter they were
furnished with spoons, having the extremity of the handle turned down as
claw or hoof, or sharpened to a point, so as to serve to hold the meat
whilst it was being cut. When so employed, the bowl of the spoon was held
in the hollow of the hand; but when used as a spoon, then the end was
reversed.
A sideboard was piled up with silver and gold plate. In addition in a
corner stood a round table with three feet; on which were laid napkins
neatly tied up with blue and red bands. These napkins contained trinkets,
rings, brooches, comfits, mottoes, and were to be given to the guests
along with the dessert. Our presentation of Christmas crackers is a
reminiscence of the old Roman custom of making presents to the guests at
the close of a banquet.
The males lay at table on couches, with their legs extended behind them,
their left elbows reposed on pillows. It was against ancient Roman custom
for ladies to recline, but recently some empresses had broken through the
rule, and when they set the example of lounging, others followed. Duilia,
however, was a stickler in some things, and she somewhat affected archaic
usages, as a mark of distinction, as a token of the antiquity of the
family, whose customs had acquired an almost sacred sanction. Ladies sat
on stools.
The couches and seats were sumptuous, inlaid with mother-of-pearl,
tortoise-shell and silver, and were covered with Oriental carpets.
Every guest was attended by a slave, bearing an ewer and napkin, so that
he might cleanse his fingers directly they became greasy—a necessity of
constant recurrence, on account of the absence of proper forks.
A baldachin of embroidered silk was stretched above the table, and the
heads of the banqueters. This was done for the purpose of cutting off the
draught, as immediately above, in the ceiling, was the _lacunar_, an
opening through which the steam and savor of dinner might escape, and
through which, when the canopy was not spread, rose-leaves, violets, a
spray of scent, even garlands were scattered over the revellers.
A Roman dinner began, like one in Russia at the present day, with a
_gustus_, a snack of something calculated to stimulate the appetite or to
help digestion.
Then came in soft-boiled eggs, the invariable first dish, just as
invariably, the meal closed with apples.
With the eggs were served salads and sauer-kraut, cabbage shredded in
vinegar, Brussels sprouts boiled with saltpetre to enhance their green,
turnips and carrots in mustard and vinegar. Melons were eaten with pepper,
salt, and vinegar; artichokes were consumed raw, with oil; mallows and
sorrel, olives, mushrooms and truffles were favorite vegetables, and were
eaten along with large snails, oysters, sardines, and chopped lizards.
All this was preparatory.
Now entered the repository, groaning under meats and fish. At the same
moment a slave produced and handed round a menu card. But before eating, a
benediction was pronounced, the household gods were invoked and promised a
share of the good things from the table.
It is unnecessary to catalogue the solids and _entrées_ sent up at such a
supper. Pork was a favorite dish, and there were fifty ways in which a pig
could be served up. Octopus was much relished, as it is to this day in
Italy. Wild fowl was stuffed with garlic, mutton with asafœtida, and some
meats were not considered in condition till decomposition had begun.
The strong savor produced by those dishes was dissipated by servants
holding large fans, and counteracted by the diffusion of aromatic smoke,
and the sprinkling of guests and table with essences.
A supper consisted of several courses, but a considerable interval elapsed
between each, which interval was filled in with conversation, or enlivened
with the antics of buffoons, or with music, or the recitation of poetry.
Nothing in the smallest degree unseemly was allowed in the house of Longa
Duilia, at such entertainments.
We read a good deal, in the ancient authors, of the license allowed at
such times, but this was not general, certainly was not suffered except in
very “fast” houses, and such were attended by none who respected
themselves.
The widow knew how to make herself agreeable. Flavius Sabinus, the
præfect, was a great talker, and there was a little rivalry between the
two as to which should lead the conversation. Domitia hardly spoke, but
the guests generally entertained themselves heartily.
Lamia was there, and near his betrothed, but found it difficult to carry
on conversation with her. Since the questioning of Ishtar in the Temple at
Gabii, she had been haunted by the visions presented to her inner sight,
and she was unable to shake off the oppression of spirits and distress of
mind, they had caused.
When supper was ended, previous to the dessert, all rose, a grace was
said, and again the household gods were invoked.
All were thus standing, in solemn hush, whilst a portion for the deities
was being taken away, when the curtain before the door was roughly drawn
aside, and a young man ran in—then halted, bewildered by the lights and
the company, and hesitated before advancing further.
A faint cry escaped the breast of Domitia; and she staggered back, and
caught Lamia convulsively by the wrist.
Then Flavius Sabinus said apologetically to his hostess:
“This youth is my nephew, Titus Flavius Domitianus, the younger son of my
brother Vespasian. Pardon his lack of breeding, lady—I bade him find me
here, if matters of importance demanded my attention. Excuse me, I pray,
if I retire with him and hear what news of weight he bears.”
Duilia bowed, and the præfect, leaving his place, went to meet his nephew.
Lamia felt that Domitia was trembling. He looked in her face and it
alarmed him. With wide eyes she was staring at the intruder; her lips were
slightly parted, every trace of color had deserted them; and between them
gleamed her teeth.
Not till the curtain had fallen, and hidden the form of the young man, as
he left with his uncle, did she breathe freer.
Then she heaved a long sigh, and said in a faint voice:
“It is he—the eighth crowned head—the fifth come again—the new Nero. O
Lamia! Terrible is Fate!”