V. BEFORE THE KALENDS OF SEPTEMBER.
Ausonius sends greetings to his Paulus.
I wrote to you yesterday about the charming Barbarian child. Child? She
is one no longer. The delicate, yet lovely outlines of her form have
developed into exquisite roundness. And Barbarian? If she ever was one
she has ceased to be so, since Ausonius taught her the pomp of the
Latin language. How shall I describe her to you without drawing, no,
painting her? For it is precisely the charm of her coloring that is so
peerless. If only I had brought with me Paralos, my Ionian slave, who
painted the nymphs so exquisitely--you know--in my little dining hall
yonder, in the villa in the Province Noverus! And the expression--the
vivacity--in those ever varying features, now full of mischievous
wrath, now mirth, now jest, and anon of a sorrowful yearning which to
me is full of mystery.
And the dainty figure! Recently her leather sandals stuck fast in the
mire outside the camp ditch. How white and charming were the little
feet! How can they even support the figure, lightly as it floats along?
The muse which so long has shunned me has again returned in the form of
this Suabian girl: a fairer metamorphosis than ever Ovid dreamed.
Verses well up in my mind ceaselessly. Just listen!
"Nature had dowered Bissula with charms which the greatest of artists
Vainly to picture would strive. Doubtless to full many another
Justice he might do by use of the pigments of red and of white lead:
Coloring like hers, alas! will forever escape him, unless he
should paint
Her face with a lily's lustre, on which the breath of a rose
hath rested."
Ah, my friend, with the feelings that come to me, I am often ashamed of
the half century I bear with me. Fain would I sacrifice something to
Anteros--most willingly my gray hairs!
A short time ago the little maid amazed us all (Saturninus was even
more surprised than I; for I am already beginning to believe her almost
supernatural) by showing strategic insight. It was mentioned that while
making a tour on the southwestern wall I had saved her little hut from
burning, while our cohorts usually flung the torch with eager zeal into
the wooden houses of the Barbarians. Then Saturninus remarked that by
accident another building had been spared, a house with a lofty gable
roof rising on a hill farther toward the southwest. None of our
reconnoitring parties had marched in that direction. My nephew called
one of his men and ordered two of them to ride over the next day and
burn the dwelling down.
Suddenly the girl, with flashing eyes, cried: "How stupid!" and
laughed. Courtesy is not her favorite virtue, and she and my nephew
waste little love on each other. "How stupid!" she repeated, "The
building is very solid, the fence inclosing it very high; it is almost
a citadel like your camp here; and it is between you and the lake--to
which you must fly if my people come. You could fortify yourselves
there again, if you are forced to leave here as the fox darts from its
burrow."
Herculanus laughed sneeringly; but Saturninus cast a glance from the
top of the wall to that hill and the lofty building, and said in the
quiet tone which quells contradiction: "I myself had resolved to have
the dwelling burned to-morrow. But the child is right. The solid house
will not be burned, but perhaps, later, occupied--when the ships
arrive."
If those ships would only come! The eager Tribune is fairly consumed
with impatience for action. Already he has gone across the lake
repeatedly in a wretched rotting boat belonging to the Barbarians,
which we found hidden among the thickest growth of rushes near
Bissula's hut, and urged Nannienus to hasten. But the latter might
truthfully say with Homer: "Why dost thou urge one who is willing?" We
cannot make up in days for the neglect of months. The Emperor's own
miserable officials do him more harm than the Barbarians. And we do not
even know where these strange defenders of the country have vanished.
Ah, that reminds me of another anecdote of the little maid. How
constantly she steals into my thoughts! Of course--in jest and
earnest--we have tried to obtain information about the hiding--places
of the enemy from the only captive of whose possession hitherto we can
boast; but there we "victors" met with small success, as you may guess.
"Where are your heroes hiding?" I asked once laughing, toward the end
of a meal in my tent. "Truly, their heroism is as hard to find as
themselves."
"They will hardly have told this little maid," replied Saturninus. "For
Barbarian women can probably keep secrets no better than Roman ones.
She does not know."
"Yes, she does!" cried the rogue, pouting defiantly.
"Indeed? Then we'll question you," I cried, "on the rack."
"That isn't necessary. I am willing to tell."
"Well, where are they?" asked the Tribune seriously.
She glided out of the tent, thrust her head saucily through the
opening, and laughed mischievously: "They dwell with Odin and the nixie
in the lake. Search for them there yourself!" And she vanished.
Her favorite resting-place is at the foot of a huge pine-tree; it is
sacred, dedicated to a German goddess who, according to the
description, probably corresponds with Isis. I have repeatedly found
her there. Once she was swinging among the branches like a little bird.
She begged me not to betray her hiding-place to the others--the Tribune
and my nephew. She often liked to dream there all alone. Well, I
certainly shall not betray her. If _I_ know where to look for her, the
others shall not find her against her will.
IV. BEFORE THE KALENDS OF SEPTEMBER.
I regretted the artist's absence a short time since, and cannot get him
to come here. But perhaps Bissula will go later to the artist, to
Burdigala. How I wished it long ago! Oh, Paulus, if only I could show
her to you! The more I write of her and think of her, the more she
pleases me. Or perhaps the contrary is the case. I will write and think
of her no more.
* * * * *
You will not believe, my dear friend, how much I enjoy the military
life I have not witnessed for so long. I understand little about it,
but the pomp and pride and power of war stir me very strongly.
It is a pleasure to see the rule of a man like Saturninus. He cannot
scan a verse of Alcaeus, but he knows how to arrange a camp according to
the demands and advantages of the location, better than I can write an
Alcaean strophe. Here, on this steep hillside in the midst of the
Barbarian forests, he had applied Frontinus's rules to the given space
most admirably. It would please an old soldier like you to see our
camp, the strength of wall and moat, the arrangement of the spaces
between the tents, the distribution of horse and foot-soldiers,
luggage, and camp followers.
III. BEFORE THE KALENDS OF SEPTEMBER.
And why should you not see it? For what purpose has Athene or the
clever Ph[oe]nicians taught us the art of writing? I begged Saturninus
to dictate to his fat slave scribe a sketch of our whole camp, with all
the points important for defence and the distribution of our troops. I
will put it on the papyrus.
How stately is the entrance! Four squadrons of mailed warriors at the
Porta Decumana, and all the baggage also piled up there. The wall eight
feet high; the ditch five feet deep. The weakest point is the northwest
corner, so the best troops are there: Batavian and spearmen of the
Emperor's Thracian Guard: etc.
I will not repeat here in detail what the inclosure will contain; but
the paper is not yet finished. He has taken it away to make the drawing
more accurate.
II. BEFORE THE KALENDS OF SEPTEMBER.
Ah, what avails dissimulation, playing hide and seek with myself? If
you drive her out with a pitchfork, Nature will always return, says the
Bandusian fellow. I am trying to make you--and myself--believe that my
thoughts are on ditch and wall and mailed soldiers. It is not true. I
think only of the little maid. Her image alone hovers before my eyes
day and night. It is already half decided that you shall see her.
When this expedition is over, I at any rate shall return to Gaul,
perhaps the whole army; for the Emperor Valens seems to be able to deal
with the Goths without needing our aid; he does not ask for us. Then I
can take the little maid as my guest for a short visit to Burdigala.
True, she is still considered the Tribune's slave. It is an odd
caprice of the valiant soldier. No, no, my Paulus! It is not what you
suppose that influences him. I have watched him suspiciously, almost
jealously, as sharply as a father--or can it be a lover? But I did him
injustice--or too much honor? He has nothing in his head except those
invisible Alemanni and our ships, still delayed at Arbor.
* * * * *
Yet why only for a visit? Why should she not remain in my house always
to beautify my advancing years with the roseate dawn of her youth?
Yes. Eos, Aurora: it is a fitting symbol for her. So young, so full of
the dewy freshness of the morning, with her ruddy curling locks
floating saucily around her.
Perhaps, now that she has grown more sensible, she will joyfully accept
the offer I made when she was a child: to go with me as my adopted
daughter.--Daughter? That is not the right word; no longer the right
word: she has blossomed into womanhood: I should not think of lifting
her on my knee, as I did years ago. She has become too mature.
And I am still too young to regard her only as a daughter.--Rather as a
brother, her loving brother who rejoices in her beauty. No, it will not
do.
A short time ago her round arm brushed me (the German women go with
bare arms); a fiery thrill darted through my veins. I can scarcely
doubt it, I---
My feelings for her do not concern other people. I might at any rate
first take her with me--and then adopt her? No matter what the legal
form may be, I am determined to keep her near me always.
I can no longer do without her charming presence; everything would grow
dark and cold. Already I shiver at the thought of again living alone
with the icy-hearted Herculanus.
She has become my muse! A barbarian one, do you scoff? Aha, are these
lines so barbaric?
"Incarnate joy! Caressing bliss! O thou embodiment of
sportive grace!
How the Barbarian maid the fair ones of Latium hath vanquished!
Bissula! Plebeian her name may sound in the ears of aliens:
But to Ausonius it echoes with harmonies sweet and bewitching."