The Last Days of Pompeii

"The Last Days of Pompeii," the most popular of Lytton's

historical romances, was begun and almost completed at Naples

in the winter of 1832-3, and was first published in 1834. The

period dealt with is that of 79 A.D., during the short reign

of Titus, when Rome was at its zenith and the picturesque

Campanian city a kind of Rome-by-the-Sea. Lytton wrote the

novel some thirty years before the excavations of Pompeii had

been systematically begun; but his pictures of the life, the

luxuries, the pastimes and the gaiety of the half-Grecian

colony, its worship of Isis, its trade with Alexandria, and

the early struggles of Christianity with heathen superstition

are exceptionally vivid. The creation of Nydia, the blind

flower-girl, was suggested by the casual remark of an

acquaintance that at the time of the destruction of Pompeii

the sightless would have found the easiest deliverance.

_I.--The Athenian's Love Story_

Within the narrow compass of the walls of Pompeii was contained a

specimen of every gift which luxury offered to power. In its minute but

glittering shops, its tiny palaces, its baths, its forum, its theatre,

its circus--in the energy yet corruption, in the refinement yet the

vice, of its people, you beheld a model of the whole Roman Empire. It

was a toy, a plaything, a show-box, in which the gods seemed pleased to

keep the representation of the great monarchy of earth, and which they

afterwards hid from time, to give to the wonder of posterity--the moral

of the maxim, that under the sun there is nothing new.

Crowded in the glassy bay were vessels of commerce and gilded galleys

for the pleasures of the rich citizens. The boats of the fishermen

glided to and fro, and afar off you saw the tall masts of the fleet

under the command of Pliny.

Drawing a comrade from the crowded streets, Glaucus the Greek, newly

returned to Pompeii after a journey to Naples, bent his steps towards a

solitary part of the beach; and the two, seated on a small crag which

rose amidst the smooth pebbles, inhaled the voluptuous and cooling

breeze which, dancing over the waters, kept music with its invisible

feet. There was something in the scene which invited them to silence and

reverie.

Clodius, the aedile, who sought the wherewithal for his pleasures at the

gaming table, shaded his eyes from the burning sky, and calculated the

gains of the past week. He was one of the many who found it easy to

enrich themselves at the expense of his companion. The Greek, leaning

upon his hand, and shrinking not from that sun, his nation's tutelary

deity, with whose fluent light of poesy and joy and love his own veins

were filled, gazed upon the broad expanse, and envied, perhaps, every

wind that bent its pinions toward the shores of Greece.

Glaucus obeyed no more vicious dictates when he wandered into the

dissipations of his time that the exhilarating voices of youth and

health. His heart never was corrupted. Of far more penetration than

Clodius and others of his gay companions deemed, he saw their design to

prey upon his riches and his youth; but he despised wealth save as the

means of enjoyment, and youth was the great sympathy that united him to

them. To him the world was one vast prison to which the sovereign of

Rome was the imperial gaoler, and the very virtues which, in the free

days of Athens, would have made him ambitious, in the slavery of earth

made him inactive and supine.

"Tell me, Clodius," said the Athenian at last, "hast thou ever been in

love?"

"Yes, very often."

"He who has loved often," answered Glaucus, "has loved never."

"Art thou, then, soberly and earnestly in love? Hast thou that feeling

which the poets describe--a feeling which makes us neglect our suppers,

forswear the theatre, and write elegies? I should never have thought it.

You dissemble well."

"I am not far gone enough for that," returned Glaucus, smiling. "In

fact, I am not in love; but I could be if there but be occasion to see

the object."

"Shall I guess the object? Is it not Diomed's daughter? She adores you,

and does not affect to conceal it. She is both handsome and rich. She

will bind the door-post of her husband with golden fillets."

"No, I do not desire to sell myself. Diomed's daughter is handsome, I

grant; and at one time, had she not been the grandchild of a freedman, I

might have--yet, no--she carries all her beauty in her face; her manners

are not maiden-like, and her mind knows no culture save that of

pleasure."

"You are ungrateful. Tell me, then, who is the fortunate virgin."

"You shall hear, my Clodius. Several months ago I was sojourning at

Naples, a city utterly to my own heart. One day I entered the temple of

Minerva to offer up my prayers, not for myself more than for the city on

which Pallas smiles no longer. The temple was empty and deserted. The

recollections of Athens crowded fast and meltingly upon me. Imagining

myself still alone, my prayer gushed from my heart to my lips, and I

wept as I prayed. I was startled in the midst of my devotions, however,

by a deep sigh. I turned suddenly, and just behind me was a female. She

had raised her veil also in prayer, and when our eyes met, methought a

celestial ray shot from those dark and smiling orbs at once into my

soul.

"Never, my Clodius, have I seen mortal face more exquisitely moulded. A

certain melancholy softened, and yet elevated, its expression. Tears

were rolling down her eyes. I guessed at once that she was of Athenian

lineage. I spoke to her, though with a faltering voice. 'Art thou not,

too, Athenian?' said I. At the sound of my voice she blushed, and half

drew her veil across her face. 'My forefathers' ashes,' she said,

'repose by the waters of Ilyssus; my birth is of Naples; but my heart,

as my lineage, is Athenian.'

"'Let us, then,' said I, 'make our offerings together!' And as the

priest now appeared, we stood side by side, and so followed the

ceremonial prayer. Together we touched the knees of the goddess;

together we laid our olive garlands on the altar. Silently we left the

temple, and I was about to ask her where she dwelt, when a youth, whose

features resembled hers, took her by the hand. She turned and bade me

farewell, the crowd parted us, and I saw her no more; nor when I

returned to Naples after a brief absence at Athens, was I able to

discover any clue to my lost country-woman. So, hoping to lose in gaiety

all remembrance of that beautiful apparition, I hastened to plunge

myself amidst the luxuries of Pompeii. This is all my history, I do not

love but I remember and regret."

So said Glaucus. But that very night, in a house at Pompeii, whither she

had come from Naples during his absence, Glaucus came face to face once

more with the beautiful lone, the object of his dreams. And no longer

was he able to say, "I do not love."

_II.--Arbaces, the Egyptian_

Amongst the wealthy dwellers in Pompeii was one who lived apart, and was

at once an object of suspicion and fear. The riches of this man, who was

known as Arbaces, the Egyptian, enabled him to gratify to the utmost the

passions which governed him--the passion of sensual indulgence and the

blind force which impelled him to seek relief from physical satiety in

the pursuit of that occult knowledge which he regarded as the heritage

of his race.

In Naples, Arbaces had known the parents of Ione and her brother

Apaecides, and it was under his guardianship that they had come to

Pompeii. The confidence which, before their death, their parents had

reposed in the Egyptian was in turn fully given to him by lone and her

brother. For Apaecides the Egyptian felt nothing but contempt; the youth

was to him but an instrument that might be used by him in bending lone

to his will. But the mind of Ione, no less than the beauty of her form,

appealed to Arbaces. With her by his side, his willing slave, he saw no

limit to the heights his ambition might soar to. He sought primarily to

impress her with his store of unfamiliar knowledge. She, in turn,

admired him for his learning, and felt grateful to him for his

guardianship. Apaecides, docile and mild, with a soul peculiarly alive

to religious fervour, Arbaces placed amongst the priests of Isis, and

under the special care of a creature of his own, named Calenus. It

pleased his purpose best, where Ione was concerned, to leave her awhile

surrounded by the vain youth of Pompeii, so that he might gain by

comparison.

It fell not within Arbaces' plans to show himself too often to his ward.

Consequently it was some time before he became aware of the warmth of

the friendship that was growing up between Ione and the handsome Greek.

He knew not of their evening excursions on the placid sea, of their

nightly meetings at Ione's dwelling, till these had become regular

happenings in their daily lives. But one day he surprised them together,

and his eyes were suddenly opened. No sooner had the Greek departed than

the Egyptian sought to poison Ione's mind against him by exaggerating

his love of pleasure and by unscrupulously describing him as making

light of Ione's love.

Following up the advantage he gained by this appeal to her pride,

Arbaces reminded Ione that she had never seen the interior of his home.

It might, he said, amuse her. "Devote then," he went on, "to the austere

friend of your youth one of these bright summer evenings, and let me

boast that my gloomy mansion has been honoured with the presence of the

admired Ione."

Unconscious of the pollutions of the mansion, of the danger that awaited

her, Ione readily assented to the proposal. But there was one who, by

accident, had become aware of the nature of the spells cast by Arbaces

upon his visitors, and who was to be the humble means of saving lone

from his toils. This was the blind flower-girl Nydia.

Of Thessalian extraction, and gentle nurture, Nydia had been stolen and

sold into the slavery of an ex-gladiator named Burbo, a relative of the

false priest Calenus. To save her from the cruelty of Burbo, Glaucus had

purchased her, and, in return, the blind girl had become devoted to

him--so devoted that her gentle heart was torn when he made it plain to

her that his action was prompted by mere natural kindness of heart, and

that it was his purpose to send her to Ione.

But she cast all feeling of jealousy aside when she heard of Ione's

visit to the Egyptian, and quickly apprised Glaucus and Apaecides of the

fair Athenian's peril.

On her arrival, Arbaces greeted Ione with deep respect. But he found it

harder than he thought to resist the charm of her presence in his house,

and in a moment of forgetful passion he declared his love for her.

"Arbaces," he declared, "shall have no ambition save the pride of

obeying thee--Ione. Ione, do not reject my love!" And as he spoke he

knelt before her.

Alone, and in the grip of this singular and powerful man, Ione was not

yet terrified; the respect of his language, the softness of his voice,

reassured her; and in her own purity she felt protection. But she was

confused, astonished. It was some moments before she could recover the

power of reply.

"Rise, Arbaces," said she at length. "Rise! and if thou art serious, if

thy language be in earnest----"

"_If_----" said he tenderly.

"Well, then, listen. You have been my guardian, my friend, my monitor.

For this new character I was not prepared. Think not," she added

quickly, as she saw his dark eyes glitter with the fierceness of his

passion, "think not that I scorn; that I am untouched; that I am not

honoured by this homage; but, say, canst thou hear me calmly?"

"Ay, though the words were lightning and could blast me!"

"_I love another_!" said Ione blushingly, but in a firm voice.

"By the gods," shouted Arbaces, rising to his fullest height, "dare not

tell me that! Dare not mock me! It is impossible! Whom hast thou seen?

Whom known? Oh, Ione, it is thy woman's invention, thy woman's art that

speaks; thou wouldst gain time. I have surprised--I have terrified

thee."

"Alas!" began Ione; and then, appalled before his sudden and unlooked

for violence, she burst into tears.

Arbaces came nearer to her, his breath glowed fiercely on her cheek. He

wound his arms round her; she sprang from his embrace. In the struggle a

tablet fell from her bosom. Arbaces perceived, and seized it; it was a

letter she had received that morning from Glaucus.

Ione sank upon the couch, half-dead with terror.

Rapidly the eyes of Arbaces ran over the writing. He read it to the end,

and then, as the letter fell from his hand, he said, in a voice of

deceitful calmness, "Is the writer of this the man thou lovest?"

Ione sobbed, but answered not.

"Speak!" he demanded.

"It is--it is!"

"Then hear me," said Arbaces, sinking his voice into a whisper. "_Thou

shalt go to thy tomb rather than to his arms_."

At this instant a curtain was rudely torn aside, and Glaucus and

Apsecides appeared. There was a severe struggle, which might have had a

more sinister ending had not the marble head of a goddess, shaken from

its column, fallen upon Arbaces as he was about to stab the Greek, and

struck the Egyptian senseless to the ground. As it was, Ione was saved,

and she and her lover were then and for ever reconciled to one another.

_III.--The Love Philtre_

Clodius had not spoken without warrant when he had said that Julia, the

daughter of the rich merchant Diomed, thought herself in love with

Glaucus. But since Glaucus was denied to her, her thoughts were

concentrated on revenge. In this mood she sought out Arbaces, presenting

herself as one loving unrequitedly, and seeking in sorrow the aid of

wisdom.

"It is a love charm," admitted Julia, "that I would seek from thy skill.

I know not if I love him who loves me not, but I know that I would see

myself triumph over a rival. I would see him who has rejected me my

suitor. I would see her whom he has preferred in her turn despised."

Very quickly Arbaces discerned Julia's secret, and when he heard that

Glaucus and Ione were shortly to be wedded, he gladly availed himself of

this opportunity to rid himself of his hated rival. But he dealt not in

love potions, he said; he would, however, take Diomed's daughter to one

who did--the witch who dwelt on the slopes of Vesuvius.

He kept his promise; but the entire philtre given to Julia was one which

went direct to the brain, and the effects of which--for neither Arbaces

nor his creature, the witch, wished to place themselves within the power

of the law--were such as caused those who witnessed them to attribute

them to some supernatural agency.

But once again, though less happily than on the former occasion, Nydia

was destined to be the means of thwarting the schemes of the Egyptian.

The devotion of the blind flower-girl had deepened into love for her

deliverer. She was jealous of Ione. Now, for Julia had taken her into

confidence, and both believed in the love charm, she was confronted with

another rival. By a simple ruse Nydia obtained the poisoned draught and

in its place substituted a phial of simple water.

At the close of a banquet given by Diomed, to which the Greek was

invited, Julia duly administered that which she imagined to be the

secret love potion. She was disappointed when she found Glaucus coldly

replace the cup, and converse with her in the same unmoved tone as

before.

"But to-morrow," thought she, "to-morrow, alas for Glaucus!"

Alas for him, indeed!

When Glaucus arrived at his own house that evening, Nydia was waiting

for him. She had, as usual, been tending the flowers and had lingered

awhile to rest herself.

"It has been warm," said Glaucus. "Wilt thou summon Davus? The wine I

have drunk heats me, and I long for some cooling drink."

Here at once, suddenly and unexpectedly, the very opportunity that Nydia

awaited presented itself. She breathed quickly. "I will prepare for you

myself," said she, "the summer draught that Ione loves--of honey and

weak wine cooled in snow."

"Thanks," said the unconscious Glaucus. "If Ione loves it, enough; it

would be grateful were it poison."

Nydia frowned, and then smiled. She withdrew for a few moments, and

returned with the cup containing the beverage. Glaucus took it from her

hand.

What would not Nydia have given then to have seen the first dawn of the

imagined love! Far different, as she stood then and there, were the

thoughts and emotions of the blind girl from those of the vain Pompeian

under a similar suspense!

Glaucus had raised the cup to his lips. He had already drained about a

fourth of its contents, when, suddenly glancing upon the face of Nydia,

he was so forcibly struck by its alteration, by its intense, and

painful, and strange expression, that he paused abruptly, and still

holding the cup near his lips, exclaimed. "Why, Nydia--Nydia, art thou

ill or in pain? What ails thee, my poor child?"

As he spoke, he put down the cup--happily for him, unfinished--and rose

from his seat to approach her, when a sudden pang shot coldly to his

heart, and was followed by a wild, confused, dizzy sensation at the

brain.

The floor seemed to glide from under him, his feet seemed to move on

air, a mighty and unearthly gladness rushed upon his spirit. He felt too

buoyant for the earth; he longed for wings--nay, it seemed as if he

possessed them. He burst involuntarily into a loud and thrilling laugh.

He clapped his hands, he bounced aloft. Suddenly this perpetual

transport passed, though only partially, away. He now felt his blood

rushing loudly and rapidly through his veins.

Then a kind of darkness fell over his eyes. Now a torrent of broken,

incoherent, insane words gushed from his lips, and, to Nydia's horror,

he passed the portico with a bound, and rushed down the starlit streets,

striking fear into the hearts of all who saw him.

_IV.--The Day of Ghastly Night_

Anxious to learn if the drug had taken effect, Arbaces set out for

Julia's house on the morrow. On his way he encountered Apaecides. Hot

words passed between them, and stung by the scorn of the youth, he

stabbed him into the heart with his stylus. At this moment Glaucus came

along. Quick as thought the Egyptian struck the already half-senseless

Greek to the ground, and steeping his stylus in the blood of Apaecides,

and recovering his own, called loudly for help. The next moment he was

accusing Glaucus of the crime.

For a time fortune favoured the Egyptian. Glaucus, his strong frame

still under the influence of the poison, was sentenced to encounter a

lion in the amphitheatre, with no weapon beyond the incriminating

stylus. Nydia, in her terror, confessed to the Egyptian the exchange of

the love philtre. She he imprisoned in his own house. Calenus, who had

witnessed the deed, sought Arbaces with the intention of using his

knowledge to his own profit. He, by a stratagem, was incarcerated in one

of the dungeons of the Egyptian's dwelling. The law gave Ione into the

guardianship of Arbaces. But, for a third time, Nydia was the means of

frustrating the plans of Arbaces.

The blind girl, when vainly endeavouring to escape from the toils of the

Egyptian, overheard, in his garden, the conversation of Arbaces and

Calenus; and she heard the cries of Calenus from behind the door of the

chamber in which he was imprisoned. She herself was caught again by

Arbaces' servant, but she contrived to bribe her keeper to take a

message to Glaucus's friend, Sallust; and he, taking his servants to

Arbaces' house released the two captives, and reached the arena with

them, to accuse Arbaces before the multitude at the very moment when the

lion was being goaded to attack the Greek, and Arbaces' victory seemed

within his grasp.

Even now the nerve of the Egyptian did not desert him. He met the charge

with his accustomed coolness. But the frenzied accusation of the priest

of Isis turned the huge assembly against him. With loud cries they rose

from their seats and poured down toward the Egyptian.

Lifting his eyes at this terrible moment, Arbaces beheld a strange and

awful apparition. He beheld, and his craft restored his courage. He

stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow and royal features there

came an expression of unutterable solemnity and command.

"Behold," he shouted, with a voice of thunder, which stilled the roar of

the crowd, "behold how the gods protect the guiltless! The fires of the

avenging Orcus burst forth against the false witness of my accusers!"

The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, and beheld,

with ineffable dismay, a vast vapour shooting from the summit of

Vesuvius in the form of a gigantic pine-tree; the trunk blackness, the

branches fire--a fire that shifted and wavered in its hues with every

moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again

blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare. The earth shook. The

walls of the theatre trembled. In the distance was heard the crash of

falling roofs. The cloud seemed to roll towards the assembly, casting

forth from its bosom showers of ashes mixed with fragments of burning

stone. Then the burning mountain cast up columns of boiling water.

In the ghastly night thus rushing upon the realm of noon, all thought of

justice and of Arbaces left the minds of the terrified people. There

ensued a mad flight for the sea. Through the darkness Nydia guided

Glaucus, now partly recovered from the effects of the poisoned draught,

and Ione to the shore. Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her

alone.

While Arbaces perished with the majority, these three eventually gained

the sea, and joined a group, who, bolder than the rest, resolved to

hazard any peril rather than continue on the stricken land.

Utterly exhausted, Ione slept on the breast of Glaucus, and Nydia lay at

his feet. Meanwhile, showers of dust and ashes fell into the waves,

scattered their snows over the deck of the vessel they had boarded, and,

borne by the winds, descended upon the remotest climes, startling even

the swarthy African, and whirling along the antique soil of Syria and of

Egypt.

Meekly, softly, beautifully dawned at last the light over the trembling

deep! The winds were sinking into rest, the foam died from the azure of

that delicious sea. Around the east thin mists caught gradually the rosy

hues that heralded the morning. Light was about to resume her reign.

There was no shout from the mariners at the dawning light--it had come

too gradually, and they were too wearied for such sudden bursts of

joy--but there was a low, deep murmur of thankfulness amidst those

watchers of the long night. They looked at each other, and smiled; they

took heart. They felt once more that there was a world around and a God

above them!

In the silence of the general sleep Nydia had risen gently. Bending over

the face of Glaucus, she softly kissed him. She felt for his hand; it

was locked in that of Ione. She sighed deeply, and her face darkened.

Again she kissed his brow, and with her hair wiped from it the damps of

night.

"May the gods bless you, Athenian!" she murmured "May you be happy with

your beloved one! May you sometimes remember Nydia! Alas! she is of no

further use on earth."

With these words she turned away. A sailor, half-dozing on the deck,

heard a slight splash on the waters. Drowsily he looked up, and behind,

as the vessel bounded merrily on, he fancied he saw something white

above the waves; but it vanished in an instant. He turned round again

and dreamed of his home and children.

When the lovers awoke, their first thought was of each other, their next

of Nydia. Every crevice of the vessel was searched--there was no trace

of her! Mysterious from first to last, the blind Thessalian had vanished

from the living world! They guessed her fate in silence, and Glaucus and

Ione, while they drew nearer to each other, feeling each other the world

itself, forgot their deliverance, and wept as for a departed sister.

* * * * *