interrupting the conversation, along the same shaded avenue which Sextus
and myself had already traversed. He and I moved along with them, but a
little in their rear—my companion being still too much abstracted to
bestow his attention on what they were saying; while I myself, being but
little an adept in such mysteries, amused myself rather with the exterior
and manners of the men, than with the merits of the opinions they were
severally defending. The Greeks were attired in the graceful costume of
their country, which was worn, however, far more gracefully by the
Epicurean than his brother,—the materials of his robe being delicate, and
its folds arranged with studied elegance, whereas the coarse garment of
the Stoic had apparently engaged less attention. Nevertheless, there was a
more marked difference between the attire of Capito and that of Pontius
Mamurra; for the former was arrayed in a tunic of the whitest cloth,
beneath which appeared fine linen rollers, swathing his thighs and legs,
to protect them, as I supposed, from the heat and the insects, and a pair
of slippers, of dark violet-coloured cloth, embroidered with silver
flowers; while the other held his arms folded in the drapery of an old but
genuine toga, which left his yet strong and sinewy nether limbs exposed to
the weather, all except what was covered by his tall black sandals and
their senatorian crescents.
As we passed on, our host from time to time directed the attention of his
visiters, more particularly of the two Greeks, to the statues of bronze
and marble, which were placed at convenient intervals along the terraces
of his garden. The symmetry of these figures, and the graceful simplicity
of their attitudes, inspired me with I know not what of calm and soothing
pleasure such as I had never before tasted, so that I thought I could have
lingered for ever amidst these haunts of philosophic luxury. The images
were, for the most part, portraits of illustrious men—Greeks, Romans—sages
and heroes; but beautiful female forms were not wanting, nor majestic
representations of gods and demi-gods, and all the ethereal imaginations
of the Grecian poets. Seeing the name of Jupiter inscribed upon one of the
pedestals, I paused for a moment to contemplate the glorious
personification of might and wisdom, depositing, at the same time, a
handful of roses at the feet of the statue—upon which I could observe that
my behaviour furnished some mirth to the Epicurean Demochares; while, on
the contrary, Euphranor, the disciple of the Porch, approved of what I
did, and rebuked his companion for saying any thing that might even by
possibility disturb the natural piety of an innocent youth. But the Roman
Stoic stood by with a smile of stately scorn; and utter indifference was
painted on the countenance of Capito. At another time, Sextus having staid
behind to examine the beauties of a certain statue of Diana, which
represented the goddess stretched out in careless slumber on the turf,
with a slender grayhound at her feet, the Epicurean began to rally me on
having a taste inferior to that of my friend, whose devotion, he said,
could not be blamed, being paid to an exquisite imitation of what the
great Nature of things had decreed should ever be the most agreeable of
all objects in the eyes of a person of his age.—“Whereas you,” continued
he, “appear to be more occupied with deep-hung eye-brows, ambrosial
beards, and fantastic thunderbolts, and the other exuberances of Homeric
imagination.”
To this reproach I made no reply, but Capito immediately began to recite
some verses of a Hymn of Calimachus, in which both the Greeks joined him;
nor could any thing be more delightful than the harmonious numbers. A
sudden exclamation of my friend, however, interrupted them, and Capito,
looking up a long straight pathway, said, “Come, Valerius, we shall see
whether you or Sextus is the more gallant to living beauties, for here
come my nieces. I assure you, I know not of which of them I am the more
proud; but Sempronia has more of the Diana about her, so it is probable
she may find a ready slave in our Sextus.”
We advanced, and the uncle, having tenderly saluted them, soon presented
us to their notice. Sextus blushed deeply when he found himself introduced
to Sempronia, while in her smile, although she looked at him as if to say
she had never seen him before, I thought I could detect a certain
half-suppressed something of half-disdainful archness—the colour in her
cheeks, at the same time, being not entirely unmoved. She was, indeed, a
very lovely girl, and in looking on her light dancing play of features, I
could easily sympathize with the young raptures of my friend. Her dress
was such as to set off her charms to the utmost advantage, for the bright
green of her Byssine robe, although it would have been a severe trial to
any ordinary complexion, served only to heighten the delicious brilliancy
of hers. A veil, of the same substance and colour, richly embroidered with
flowers of silver tissue, fell in flowing drapery well-nigh to her knees.
Her hair was almost entirely concealed by this part of her dress, but a
single braid of the brightest nut-brown was visible low down on her
polished forehead. Her eyes were black as jet, and full of a nymph-like
vivacity.
The other, Athanasia, was not a dazzling beauty. Taller than her cousin,
and darker-haired, but with eyes rather light than otherwise, of a clear,
somewhat melancholy gray—with a complexion paler than is usual in Italy, a
demeanour hovering between cheerfulness and innocent gravity, and attired
with a vestal simplicity in the old Roman tunic, and cloak of white
cloth—it is possible that most men might have regarded her less than the
other. A single star of diamonds, planted high up among her black hair,
was the only ornament she wore.
At the request of the younger lady, we all returned to the grotto, in the
neighbourhood of which, as I have already mentioned, our tasteful host had
placed the rarest of his exotic plants, some of which Sempronia was now
desirous of inspecting. As we paced again slowly over those smooth-shaven
alleys of turf, and between those rows of yews and box, clipped into
regular shapes, which abounded in this more artificial region, the
conversation, which the appearance of the cousins had disturbed, was
resumed; although, as out of regard to their presence, the voices of the
disputants preserved a lower and milder tone than before. I must confess,
however, that mild as was the manner of the discourse, I could not help
being somewhat astonished, that a polite Roman could permit such topics to
be discussed in the hearing of females; above all, that he did not
interpose to prevent Demochares from throwing out so many sarcastic
reflections concerning the deities whose statues decorated the garden. A
beautiful Mercury, in particular, which we all paused to admire, elicited
many observations, that I could easily see were far from being agreeable
to the fair cousins. But greatest of all was my wonder at the behaviour of
Capito himself, who, after we had again entered that delightful grotto,
turned himself to me as if peculiarly, and began a deliberate and
ingenious piece of declamation concerning the tenets of his favourite
philosophy;—such as the fortuitous concourse of atoms, the transitory and
fluctuating nature of all things, and the necessity of snatching present
enjoyments, as nothing permanent can be discovered whereon to repose the
mind. With great elegance, indeed, did he enlarge on these golden
theories, nor did he fail to intersperse his discourse with many exquisite
verses from Lucretius and other poetical followers of his sect. Such,
however, was the earnestness of his declamation, that I could not help
believing him to be quite sincere to what he said, and asked him, not
without anxiety, whether he had all his life been an Epicurean, or whether
it was only of late that he had espoused that discipline.
“Valerius,” said he, “the question is not discreditable to your tender age
and provincial education. To be born wise, Fate or Heaven has denied to
the human race. It is their privilege to win wisdom for themselves; the
fault is their own, if they do not die wise. When the stripling enters
upon the theatre of the world, bright hopes are around him, and he moves
onward in the buoyancy of conscious power. The pride of young existence is
the essence and extract of all his innumerable sensations. Rejoicing in
the feeling of the real might that is, it is his delight to think—to
dream—of might existing and exerted as for ever. New to the material, but
still more to the moral world, he believes in the stability of all things
whose transitory nature has not been exhibited before him. New to the
tricks of mankind, he believes that to be said truly, which, why it should
be said falsely, he is unable to conjecture. For him, superstition has
equal potency to darken the past, and illuminate the future. At that early
period, when ignorance is of itself sufficient to produce a certain
happiness, the ambition is too high to admit such doctrines as I have no
shame in avowing. But time moves on, and every hour some tender plant is
crushed beneath his tread. The spirit clings long to its delusions. The
promise that is destroyed to-day springs into life to-morrow in some new
shape; and Hope, like some warring deity of your poets, bleeds and sickens
only to revive again. But disappointment at length gathers to itself the
vigour of an enduring form. The horizon becomes colder around us—the soul
waxes faint and more faint within. It is then that man begins to recognize
the true state, not of his own nature alone, but of all things that
surround him—that having tasted much of evil, he is taught to feel the
value of good—and weaning himself from vain-glorious dreams, learns the
great lesson of wisdom, to enjoy the moments as they pass—to snatch some
solid pleasure, at least, amidst a world of vision and imagination; so, in
a word, as the poet has expressed it, he may not have reason to complain
in the hour of death that he has never lived.
“In me,” he continued, “you behold one that has gone through the
experience necessary to produce an entire acquiescence in these doctrines.
I am one of those, Valerius, who have resolved to concentrate, after this
fashion, the whole of my dreams upon the hour that is. There are not
wanting, indeed, here and elsewhere, persons who profess the same
theories, only in the view of finding excuse and shelter for the practice
of vice. But till it be proved that the practice of vice is the best means
of enjoyment, in vain shall it be asserted that our doctrine is
essentially adverse to virtue. The mistakes or the misdeeds of individuals
must be estimated for nothing; for where is the doctrine that may not be
shewn to have been defended by impure livers? The founder of our sect is
acknowledged, by its most virulent enemies, to have been the most
blameless of men, and they, I must take leave to believe, can never be
sincere friends of virtue, who doubt, that he who is a true worshipper of
pleasure, may also be the worshipper of virtue.”
There was a certain something, as I thought, more like suppressed
melancholy than genuine hilarity, in the expression of the old man’s face,
as well as in the tone of his voice, while he gave utterance to these
sentiments; nor did any of those present appear desirous of protracting
the argument; although I did not imagine from their looks that any of them
had altered their opinion. What, however, I could not help remarking in a
particular manner, was the gentle regret painted in the countenance of the
elder niece, while Capito was speaking. The maiden sate over against him
all the while, her cheek supported on her left hand, with an expression of
tender affection. From time to time, indeed, she cast her eye upward with
a calm smile, but immediately resumed her attitude of pensive abstraction.
Her uncle took her hand in his when he had done speaking, and kissed it
gently, as if to apologize for having said any thing disagreeable to her.
She smiled again upon the sceptic, and walked by herself, (for I could not
help following her with my eye,) down into a dark walk of pines that
branched off at the right hand from the entrance into the grotto. There I
saw her stoop and pluck a pale flower. This she placed in her bosom, and
then rejoined us with a more cheerful aspect; after which, we all walked
towards the villa. Nor did it escape my notice, that, although Sempronia
appeared willing to avoid Sextus as we went, it always happened, by some
accident or other, that he was nearer to her than any other person of the
company.
They were both at a little distance behind the rest of the party, when
Euphranor addressed himself to me, saying, “Is not this youth, your
companion, the same that is under the guidance of a certain
Xerophrastes?”—“The same,” said I, “and a wary, sage-looking Athenian is
his tutor. I believe he also is of the Porch.”—“No doubt,” interrupted
Demochares; “he has a beard that Zeno might have been proud of, and walks
as if he conceived himself to be the chief pillar of the Porch, if not the
Porch itself.”—“Who shall prevent Demochares from having his jest?”
replied Euphranor. “The man is by birth a Thessalian, and his gutturals
still remind one strongly of his native hills.”—I would gladly have heard
more of it, but he was interrupted by the nearer approach of the rest.
_CHAPTER V._
Before the hour of taking the bath, we exercised ourselves for some time
in the tennis-court, where I could not but admire, especially after having
heard Capito philosophise, the vigour and agility displayed by him as well
as his companions. I was then conducted into the baths, where, after being
washed and perfumed in the most luxurious manner, I was arrayed in an
elegant supper-garment by one of the slaves of our host. At table we were
joined again by the ladies, who both reclined on the same couch with their
uncle. Three comely youths attended us, in short tunics, and girt with
napkins of fine linen; but, during the repast, an ancient female slave
stood in silence behind the couch of the young ladies. A small fountain of
alabaster played between two tall candelabra of the same material, at the
farther end of the apartment; and a young damsel stood beside them,
swinging slowly from time to time a silver censer, from which clouds of
delicate odour rolled up to the mirrored roof.
In all things the feast was splendid; but there was no appearance of
useless or vain ostentation. Every thing was conducted in a style of great
calmness and order, without the least formality. The repast interrupted
not the conversation, which went on in a manner to me equally instructive
as entertaining; although I must confess the presence of Athanasia
sometimes rendered me inattentive to what was spoken. I could not divest
myself of the idea, that some unknown circumstance was pressing on the
mind of the fair creature, and that when she smiled upon those who
addressed her, it was sometimes to conceal her ignorance of that which had
been said.
Being asked by Capito, I endeavoured, among other things, to inform him
and his friends, as far as I could, concerning the then condition of this
island, which, more particularly after the exploits of Agricola, had come
to be a subject of some interest. In return, the chief topics which then
occupied the capital were discussed by them, as I perceived, in a great
measure on my account; and I listened with delight to the praises, which
they all agreed on bestowing on the new Emperor. Many anecdotes were
narrated, which tended to strengthen the feelings of admiration, with
which I had already been accustomed to contemplate his character. But
others were told, as the conversation went on, which I could not so easily
reconcile with the idea I had formed of him.
For example, I was somewhat disturbed with what they told me concerning
his treatment of the Christians, who, as we understood in Britain, had
been suffered to live in tranquillity ever since Nerva acceded to the
empire. But now, from the circumstances related, it appeared that the mild
and humane Trajan had taken up, in regard to this sect, the whole aversion
of Domitian; every day some cruel catastrophe was made known of some
person who had adopted their tenets. Being ignorant of the nature of those
tenets, and having heard only in general terms that they were of Jewish
origin, dark, and mystical, I was at a loss to account for the extreme
hatred of the Prince, or rather for his condescending to give himself so
much trouble concerning a matter so obscure and seemingly trifling.
Capito, however, assured me, that although I might have good occasion to
wonder at the steps taken by the Emperor, it would no longer be said by
any one, that the progress of the Christian sect deserved to be considered
as a matter either of obscurity, or of no consequence. “On the contrary,”
said he, “from what you have just heard of the numbers and quality of
those that have lately suffered various punishments, you cannot hesitate
to admit that the head of the empire has been justified in considering it
as a subject worthy his attention.”
“We have adopted the gods of many nations,” said Pontius Mamurra, “nor do
I see why, because the Jews have been unfortunate in a contest with Rome,
we should take it for granted that theirs are unworthy of respect. If,
however, as we have heard asserted, he who embraces this creed becomes an
infidel in regard to the deities of Rome, I say Cæsar does well in
refusing toleration to the intolerant superstition. Domitian was a tyrant,
and a monster of humanity; the late prince was wise and good; and yet it
may be, that, in regard to these Christians, the principle of Domitian’s
conduct was right in the main, and that of Nerva’s wrong. But you, Capito,
regard both sides of the question, I have no doubt, with the same
indifference.”
“I hope,” replied Capito, “I shall never regard with indifference any
question, in which the interest of the empire and the honour of Trajan are
concerned. But if you mean only that I am indifferent about the nature of
this Syrian superstition, you are in the right. I have no knowledge of its
dogmas, nor desire to have. I presume they have their share of that old
eastern barbarity, in the shady places of which the elder Greeks used to
think they could discover the outlines of something really grand and
majestic.”
“It may be so,” said Mamurra; “but if the superstition be found dangerous
to the state, the Prince does well in repressing its progress. That is the
only question of which I spake.”—“There is, indeed, no other,” said
Capito; “I thought of none.”—“And how do you answer it, dear uncle?” said
Athanasia, (lifting herself up, for the first time, to take part in the
conversation.)—“Nay, my love,” said the old man, “to answer that is the
business of Cæsar, and of the Senate. I only regret, that blood should be
shed, and citizens exiled; above all, in the reign of a just and merciful
Prince.—Sempronia,” continued he, “what is that strange story your father
was telling about one of the daughters of Serennius?”
“They only allege,” replied Sempronia, with a smile, “that Tertulla had a
flirtation with a handsome young Greek, and the Greek happened to be a
Christian,—and she was converted by the Greek,—and she was found out in
going with him to some secret assembly of these people, in a vault by the
Vatican Hill,—and her father has been glad to send her to Corsica, partly
to escape the lawyers, and partly, I suppose, in hopes that the quietness
of the island, and the absence of handsome young Christians, may perhaps,
in time, restore poor Tertulla to her right mind—This is all. Do you think
that a strange story, uncle?” “Not, if it be exactly as you have told it,
Sempronia. What says Athanasia?” Athanasia answered gravely, that she was
sorry for Tertulla, and had never heard any thing of the young Greek
before.
By this time, the increasing darkness of the chamber had warned me that we
ought to be thinking of our return. I had more than once looked towards
Sextus, but he refused to meet my eye. When I was on the point of
speaking, Sempronia, starting from her couch, exclaimed, that she was sure
there was thunder in the skies; and presently flash after flash gleamed
along the horizon. All sat silent, as if awe-struck; but Sempronia was the
only one that seemed to be in terror from the tempest. Nevertheless, my
eyes rested more on Athanasia, who looked paler than she had done,
although her countenance preserved its serenity. “How awful,” said I, “is
the voice of Jupiter!” Athanasia folded her arms upon her bosom, and
lifting her eyes to heaven, said in a whisper,—“How awful is the voice of
God!” She then dropt her hand on the end of her couch, and half
unconsciously taking hold of it in mine, I asked her if she was afraid.
“No,” said she, “I am not afraid, but the heaviness of the air makes me
faint, and I never can listen to thunder without feeling something
extraordinary within me.”
Capito said, he could not think of our going into the city that evening,
and that we must all make up our minds to remain in the villa. The
countenance of Sextus brightened up, and he looked to me as if to ask my
assent. I was easily persuaded, and our host despatched a messenger to
inform Licinius of the cause of our absence. The old man then led us into
another apartment, which was richly furnished with books and paintings.
Here he read for some time out of one of the poets, to a party, none of
whom, I am afraid, were very attentive in listening to him, till, the hour
of rest being come, we were conducted to our several apartments, Sextus
and myself, indeed, being lodged in the same chamber.
We were no sooner left alone than I began to rally my friend on the beauty
of his mistress, and the earnest court he had been paying her. The youth
listened with blushes of delight to her praises, but seemed not to have
the least idea that he had been so fortunate as to make any impression on
her mind. On the contrary, he scarcely appeared to be aware of having done
any thing to attract attention from her, and expressed astonishment when I
assured him, that his behaviour had been such as could not possibly admit
of more than one explanation in the eyes of a person so quick and
vivacious as the lovely Sempronia.
After we had both retired to our beds, and the lights were extinguished,
we still continued for some time to talk over the incidents of our visit,
and the future prospects of Sextus and his love; until at length sleep
overpowered us in easy bonds, and agreeable dreams followed, I doubt not,
in the hearts of us both, the thoughts and sights of a delightful day.
Mine surely were delightful, for they were all of Athanasia. Yet, even in
the visions of the night, I could never gaze on her face without some
strange impression of mystery. I saw her placid smile—I heard the sweet
low cadence of her voice—but I felt, and I could not feel it without a
certain indescribable anxiety, that her deep thoughts were far away.
_CHAPTER VI._
I awoke early, and drew near to the bed of Sextus; but seeing that he was
fast asleep, and that a quiet smile was on his lips, I could not think of
awakening him. The sun shone bright into the apartment, and I resolved to
walk forth and breathe the balmy air of the garden.
The moisture was still heavy on the green paths, and the birds were
singing among glittering leaves; the god-like statues stood unscathed in
their silent beauty. I walked to and fro, enjoying the enchantment of the
scene;—a new feeling of the beauty of all things seemed to have been
breathed into my soul; and the pensive grace of Athanasia hovered over my
imagination, like some presiding genius of the groves.