It is useless to conceal it from myself any longer, and what I admit to
myself must also be confessed to you, my Paulus, my second self, at the
same moment. Alas, I fear you read it long ago from these words in
prose and verse.
I beseech you not to shake your cool, cautious head as usual over your
"too youthful" Ausonius: I hope my heart will throb warmly till it
ceases to beat.
I know all you will say--of course against it. For you would speak in
favor only if you had seen her. Yet I rejoice that you are not here: I
have no desire to be warned.
True, it is one thing to toy with the sweet illusion within my own
breast and to the friend who will keep my secret; and quite another to
transfer it to practical reality.
My thoughts are contradictory. I am fifty--ah no; fifty-two years old!
But what happiness it will be for the young girl to share not only my
wealth but the whole Latin civilization with me! She is a pagan. Pshaw!
The baptismal water will no more wash away her charm than it has driven
the pagan Muses from me. She can believe after baptism precisely what
she believed before. And she shall offer sacrifices to golden Aphrodite
and to Hymen!
I hesitate. She is very fond of me, but I often find her dreaming,
gazing out with yearning eyes beyond the walls of the camp: strangely
enough, it is not eastward in the direction of her home, but always
toward the northwest. At that point the wall rises almost to the height
of her huge pine tree, whose branches reach the ground: I again found
her hidden among them yesterday. She climbs so far up among the boughs
that she can look over the wall to the distant hills, and hides among
the dense foliage like a martin.
I discovered her with much difficulty,--twilight was gathering,--and
when at my call she slipped down I thought I saw tears in her eyes. But
the crimson glow of sunset had probably dazzled me; I did not see them
when she stood on the ground by my side, though she looked graver than
usual.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"Liberty," was her swift answer.
Perhaps I looked perplexed or angry, for she went on hastily: "Forgive
me! I was foolish. I know that if you set me free now, before the close
of the war, I might fall into the hands of other Romans before reaching
my people. And I am not ungrateful. How kind you are to me! Yet I often
feel so homesick--for--for--oh, I don't know myself!"
Then I said in jest,--for never before, and even now not seriously, had
the idea entered my mind,--"For a lover?"
She started back like a little red serpent. I have never seen her so
angry, though the hot temper of the little creature boils over often
enough. She stamped her tiny foot, the blood crimsoned her cheeks, and
she vehemently exclaimed:
"A lover? The 'red biting cat'? I have no heart! How should _I_ love?"
Then turning her back on me defiantly she ran off to her tent and did
not appear again that evening. But I am glad to learn from her own lips
that no bond of affection will hold her fast in this Barbarian land, if
I really decide to take her with me to Burdigala.
This possible obstacle to my wishes entered my thoughts rather late,
you will tell me. But it was because I considered her a child so long.
Later I daily felt in my own heart the feeling within growing stronger.
No, no, this girl is a child no longer, but a maiden ready for her
bridal.
The sweet wish--I scarcely repress it--is rapidly maturing. And with
this dear girl I shall be sure of one thing: she will not marry me for
my wealth, which I anxiously fear from our Gallic maidens. As to the
widows, I feel gripes in my stomach whenever I think of them.
I will be cautious not to startle the timid child; for how can the
Barbarian maiden dream of such an honor as even being invited as my
guest to Burdigala? It is inconceivable that she should refuse: now
that she has grown to womanhood. If she does, then--But no, surely it
will not be necessary. And when she has once tasted the rich, beautiful
life there, she will no longer desire to return to this wilderness.
Then ere long I can read aloud to her these verses which now I dare
entrust only to my friend:
"Bissula, fair maid born and reared in the cold land beyond
the Rhine,
Bissula, who bloomed so near the source of the Danube:
Captive of war, thou hast, when released from bondage, made captive
Thy conqueror: his heart became the prisoner's booty.
Of a mother's care bereft, ne'er hast thou suffered a mistress:
When thou a captive wast made, a mistress thou didst become,
Though thou by Roman favor, O German, wast thus transformed.
Still hast thou thine eyes' deep azure, still hast thou
thy hair's red gold.
Dual thou seemest now, and with dual charms adorn
Latium's tongue thy mind, and Suabia's grace thy form."
How do you like them, my dear friend? I hope they are not bad. At least
they please _me_ extremely, and you know I am not vain.
Now imagine how these melodious lines must gratify her--her who is
their inspiration.