WHAT CAN IT ALL MEAN?
Were the origin of Juba’s madness (or whatever the world would call it) of
a character which admitted of light writing about it, much might be said
on the surprise of the clear-headed, narrow-minded, positive, and
easy-going Jucundus, when he found one nephew substituted for another, and
had to give over his wonder at Agellius, in order to commence a series of
acts of amazement and consternation at Juba. He summoned Jupiter and Juno,
Bacchus, Ceres, Pomona, Neptune, Mercury, Minerva, and great Rome, to
witness the marvellous occurrence; and then he had recourse to the
infernal gods, Pluto and Proserpine, down to Cerberus, if he be one of
them; but, after all, there the portent was, in spite of all the deities
which Olympus, or Arcadia, or Latium ever bred; and at length it had a
nervous effect upon the old gentleman’s system, and, for the first evening
after it, he put all his good things from him, and went to bed supperless
and songless. What had been Juba’s motive in the exploit which so
unpleasantly affected his uncle, it is of course quite impossible to say.
Whether his mention of Callista’s name was intended to be for the benefit
of her soul, or the ruin of Agellius’s, must be left in the obscurity in
which the above narrative presents it to us; so far alone is certain,
though it does not seem to throw light on the question, that, on his
leaving his uncle’s house in the course of the forenoon, which he did,
without being pressed to stay, he was discovered prancing and
gesticulating in the neighbourhood of Callista’s prison, so as to excite
the attention of the _apparitor_, or constable, who guarded the entrance,
and who, alarmed at his wildness, sent for some of his fellows, and, with
their assistance, repelled the intruder, who, thereupon, scudding out at
the eastern gate, was soon lost in the passes of the mountain.
To one thing, however, we may pledge ourselves, that Juba had no intention
of shaking, even for one evening, the nerves of Jucundus; yet shaken they
were till about the same time twenty-four hours afterwards. And when in
that depressed state, he saw nothing but misery on all sides of him. Juba
was lost; Agellius worse. Of course, he had joined himself to his sect,
and he should never see him again; and how should he ever hold up his
head? Well, he only hoped Agellius would not be boiled in a caldron, or
roasted at a slow fire. If this were done, he positively must leave Sicca,
and the most thriving trade which any man had in the whole of the
Proconsulate. And then that little Callista! Ah!—what a real calamity was
there! Anyhow he had lost her, and what should he do for a finisher of his
fine work in marble, or metal? She was a treasure in herself. Altogether
the heavens were very dark; and it was scarcely possible for any one who
knew well his jovial cast of countenance, to keep from laughing, whatever
his real sympathy, at the unusual length and blankness which were suddenly
imposed upon it.
While he sat thus at his shop window, which, as it were, framed him for
the contemplation of passers-by, on the day of the escape of Agellius, and
the day before Callista’s public examination, Aristo rushed in upon him in
a state of far more passionate and more reasonable grief. He had called,
indeed, the day before, but he found a pleasure in expending his distress
upon others, and he came again to get rid of its insupportable weight by
discharging it in a torrent of tears and exclamations. However, at first
the words of both “moved slow,” as the poet says, and went off in a sort
of dropping fire.
“Well,” said Jucundus, in a depressed tone; “he’s not come to _you_, of
course?”
“Who?”
“Agellius.”
“Oh! Agellius! No, he’s not with me.” Then, after a pause, Aristo added,
“Why should he be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I thought he might be. He’s been gone since early
morning.”
“Indeed! No, I don’t know where he is. How came he with you?”
“I told you yesterday; but you have forgotten. I was sheltering him; but
he’s gone for ever.”
“Indeed!”
“And his brother’s mad!—horribly mad!” and he slapped his hand against his
thigh.
“I always thought it,” answered Aristo.
“Did you? Yes, so it is; but it’s very different from what it ever was.
The furies have got hold of him with a vengeance! He’s frantic! Oh, if you
had seen him! Two boys, both mad! It’s all the father!”
“I thought you’d like to hear something about dear, sweet Callista,” said
her brother.
“Yes, I should indeed!” answered Jucundus. “By Esculapius! they’re all mad
together!”
“Well, it is like madness!” cried Aristo, with great vehemence.
“The world’s going mad!” answered Jucundus, who was picking up, since he
began to talk, an exercise which was decidedly good for him. “We are _all_
going mad! _I_ shall get crazed. The townspeople are crazed already. What
an abominable, brutal piece of business was that three days ago! I put up
my shutters. Did it come near you?—all on account of one or two beggarly
Christians, and my poor boy. What harm could two or three, toads and
vipers though they be, do here? They might have been trodden down easily.
It’s another thing at Carthage. Catch the ringleaders, I say; make
examples. The foxes escape, and our poor ganders suffer!”
Aristo, pierced with his own misery, had no heart or head to enter into
the semi-political ideas of Jucundus, who continued,—
“Yes, it’s no good. The empire’s coming to pieces, mark my words! I told
you so, if those beasts were let alone. They _have_ been let alone.
Remedies are too late. Decius will do no good. No one’s safe! Farewell, my
friends! I am going. Like poor dear Callista, I shall be in prison, and,
like her, find myself dumb!... Ah! yes, Callista; how did you find her?”
“O dear, sweet, suffering girl!” cried her brother.
“Yes, indeed!” answered Jucundus; “yes!” meditatively. “She _is_ a dear,
sweet, suffering girl! I thought he might perhaps have taken her off—that
was my hope. He was so set upon hearing where she was, whether she could
be got out. It struck me he had made the best of his way to _her_. She
could do anything with him. And she loved him, she did!—I’m convinced of
it!—nothing shall convince me otherwise! ‘Bring them together,’ I said,
‘and they will rush into each other’s arms.’ But they’re bewitched!—The
whole world’s bewitched! Mark my words,—I have an idea who is at the
bottom of this.”
“Oh!” groaned out Aristo; “I care not for top or bottom!—I care not for
the whole world, or for anything at all but Callista! If you could have
seen the dear, patient sufferer!” and the poor fellow burst into a flood
of tears.
“Bear up! bear up!” said Jucundus, who by this time was considerably
better; “show yourself a man, my dear Aristo. These things must be;—they
are the lot of human nature. You remember what the tragedian says: stay!
no!—it’s the comedian,—it’s Menander”——
“To Orcus and Erebus with all the tragedy and comedy that ever was
spouted!” exclaimed Aristo. “Can you do nothing for me? Can’t you give me
a crumb of consolation or sympathy, encouragement or suggestion? I am a
stranger in the country, and so is this dear sister of mine, whom I was so
proud of; and who has been so good, and kind, and gentle, and sweet. She
loved me so much, she never grudged me anything; she let me do just what I
would with her. Come here, go there,—it was just as I would. There we
were, two orphans together, ten years since, when I was double her age.
She wished to stay in Greece; but she came to this detestable Africa all
for me. She would be gay and bright when I would have her so. She had no
will of her own; and she set her heart upon nothing, and was pleased
anywhere. She had not an enemy in the world. I protest she is worth all
the gods and goddesses that ever were hatched! And here, in this
ill-omened Africa, the evil eye has looked at her, and she thinks herself
a Christian, when she is just as much a hippogriff, or a chimæra.”
“Well, but, Aristo,” said Jucundus, “I was going to tell you who is at the
bottom of it all. Callista’s mad; Agellius is mad; Juba is mad; and Strabo
was mad;—but it was his wife, old Gurta, that drove him mad;—and there, I
think, is the beginning of our troubles.——Come in! come in, Cornelius!” he
cried, seeing his Roman friend outside, and relapsing for the moment into
his lugubrious tone; “Come in, Cornelius, and give us some comfort, if you
can. Well, this is like a friend! I know if you can help me, you will.”
Cornelius answered that he was going back to Carthage in a day or two, and
came to embrace him, and had hoped to have a parting supper before he
went.
“That’s kind!” answered Jucundus: “but first tell me all about this
dreadful affair; for you are in the secrets of the Capitol. Have they any
clue what has become of my poor Agellius?”
Cornelius had not heard of the young man’s troubles, and was full of
consternation at the news.
“What! Agellius really a Christian?” he said, “and at such a moment? Why,
I thought you talked of some young lady who was to keep him in order?”
“She’s a Christian too,” replied Jucundus; and a silence ensued. “It’s a
bad world!” he continued. “She’s imprisoned by the Triumviri. What will be
the end of it?”
Cornelius shook his head, and looked mysterious.
“You don’t mean it?” said Jucundus. “Not anything so dreadful, I do trust,
Cornelius. Not the stake?”
Cornelius still looked gloomy and pompous.
“Nothing in the way of torture?” he went on; “not the rack, or the
pitchfork?”
“It’s a bad business, on your own showing,” said Cornelius: “it’s a bad
business!”
“Can you do nothing for us, Cornelius?” cried Aristo. “The great people in
Carthage are your friends. O Cornelius! I’d do anything for you!—I’d be
your slave! She’s no more a Christian than great Jove. She has nothing
about her of the cut;—not a shred of her garment, or a turn of her hair.
She’s a Greek from head to foot—within and without. She’s as bright as the
day! Ah! we have no friends here. Dear Callista! you will be lost because
you are a foreigner!” and the passionate youth began to tear his hair. “O
Cornelius!” he continued, “if you can do anything for us! Oh! she shall
sing and dance to you; she shall come and kneel down to you, and embrace
your knees, and kiss your feet, as I do, Cornelius!” and he knelt down,
and would have taken hold of Cornelius’s beard.
Cornelius had never been addressed with so poetical a ceremonial, which
nevertheless he received with awkwardness indeed, but with satisfaction.
“I hear from you,” he said with pomposity, “that your sister is in prison
on suspicion of Christianity. The case is a simple one. Let her swear by
the genius of the Emperor, and she is free; let her refuse it, and the law
must take its course,” and he made a slight bow.
“Well, but she is under a delusion,” persisted Aristo, “which cannot last
long. She says distinctly that she is _not_ a Christian, is not that
decisive? but then she won’t burn incense; she won’t swear by Rome. She
tells me she does not _believe_ in Jupiter, nor I; can anything be more
senseless? It is the act of a mad woman. I say, ‘My girl, the question is,
Are you to be brought to shame? are you to die by the public sword? die in
torments?’ Oh, I shall go mad as well as she!” he screamed out. “She was
so clever, so witty, so sprightly, so imaginative, so versatile! why,
there’s nothing she couldn’t do. She could model, paint, play on the lyre,
sing, act. She could work with the needle, she could embroider. She made
this girdle for me. It’s all that Agellius, it’s Agellius. I beg your
pardon, Jucundus; but it is;” and he threw himself on the ground, and
rolled in the dust.
“I have been telling our young friend,” said Jucundus to Cornelius, “to
exert self-control, and to recollect Menander, ‘Ne quid nimis.’ Grieving
does no good; but these young fellows, it’s no use at all speaking to
them. Do you think you could do anything for us, Cornelius?”
“Why,” answered Cornelius, “since I have been here, I have fallen in with
a very sensible man, and a man of remarkably sound political opinions. He
has a great reputation, he is called Polemo, and is one of the professors
at the Mercury. He seems to me to go to the root of these subjects, and
I’m surprised how well we agreed. He’s a Greek, as well as this young
gentleman’s sister. I should recommend him to go to Polemo; if any one
could disabuse her mind, it is he.”
“True, true,” cried Aristo, starting up, “but, no, _you_ can do it better;
you have power with the government. The Proconsul will listen to you. The
magistrates here are afraid of _him_; _they_ don’t wish to touch the poor
girl, not they. But there’s such a noise everywhere, and so much ill
blood, and so many spies and informers, and so much mistrust—but why
should it come upon _Callista_? Why should _she_ be a sacrifice? But you’d
oblige the Duumvirs as much as me in getting her out of the scrape. But
what good would it do, if they _took_ her dear life? Only get us the
respite of a month; the delusion would vanish in a month. Get two months,
if you can; or as long as you can, you know. Perhaps they would let us
steal out of the country, and no one the wiser; and no harm to any one. It
was a bad job our coming here.”
“We know nothing at Rome of feelings and intentions, and motives and
distinctions,” said Cornelius; “and we know nothing of understandings,
connivances, and evasions. We go by facts; Rome goes by facts. The
question is, What is the fact? Does she burn incense, or does she not?
Does she worship the ass, or does she not? However, we’ll see what can be
done.” And so he went on, informing the pair of mourners that, as far as
his influence extended, he would do something in behalf both of Agellius
and Callista.