through eight or ten galleries, until at length a curtain being withdrawn,
which had covered the space between two pilasters, we found ourselves in a
spacious apartment, which, from the courteousness wherewith he bowed us
into it, there could be no difficulty in perceiving to be the customary
sphere of his own exertions. It was not altogether deserted even when we
entered, but the removal of the curtain attracted more of the loungers of
the baths, and ere Sextus was fairly fixed before the table of the
painter, the modest youth had the mortification to find himself surrounded
with a very crowd of knowing and curious physiognomies. The presence of
these, however, appeared not unwelcome to the master. On the contrary,
there arose between the little man, as he was preparing his brushes, and
those who had come to survey him at his work, such a gabble of
compliments, remarks, and disquisitions, that it seemed to me as if he
would have been disappointed had he not been favoured with their
attendance.
“How noble,” cries one, “is that portrait you have just been finishing of
Rupilius!—Heavens! with what felicity you have caught the air! Methinks I
see him about to enter the Basilica, when he knows that some great cause
is awaiting his decision. What solemnity in his aspect! what grandeur in
the gown!—How finely the purple of the laticlave is made to harmonize with
the colouring of the cheeks and chin! What beautiful handling about the
fingers with which he grasps his tablets!—As for the head of the stylus,
it is the very eye of the picture.”—“Exquisite indeed,” quoth another;
“but who can look at it, or at any thing else, in the same room with this
little jewel?—Heavens! what a beauty! who can it be? for I never saw her
either at the Circus or the Amphitheatre. What an inimitable modesty!”
The painter heard this last piece of eulogy with an air of some
embarrassment, and at the same time looked very cunningly towards the
person who had uttered it. But the Lady Rubellia tossed her head, and
whispered to me, “Pretty she may be, though I cannot say that style of
dressing the hair is at all adapted for such features; but for modesty!
hem. I asked Agaso two or three days ago who it was, and he told
me—guess!—it is a little Spanish girl, whom that august-looking person,
with the grand laticlave, and the purple cheeks and chin, and the
glittering stylus, thought fit to bring home with him when he was relieved
from the hard duties of the Pro-prætorship. I dare say, he takes care she
shall not be seen either at Circus or Amphitheatre; and, indeed, I think
it is sufficient impudence to shew her likeness in the company of so many
portraits of respectability.”
“My dear lady,” quoth the painter, who overheard somewhat, “for the sake
of all that is sacred, no word of this again! Wait, at least, till the
canvass for the Augurship be over. There are always so many to exaggerate
and misrepresent.”—“Exaggerate, indeed! I think Rupilius ought to be
ashamed of himself; and at his time of life too. I think you said he was
just the same age with my uncle?”—“Yes,” says the painter, “he must be of
that standing; and I think he went to Spain just about the period of your
marriage.”—“Filthy old fellow,” quoth she, very quickly; “and this is the
treasure he has brought home with him! I have a great mind to tell his
wife.”—“Hush, hush,” said Agaso, “this is the very day Rupilius spoke of
bringing her to see his own portrait; and, indeed, I am sure that is the
Senator’s cough. I rely on your prudence.”
And the portly original of the laticlaved portrait walked into the room,
having his gown and every part of his dress arranged as represented in the
picture; although in the living countenance it was easy to discover a few
lines and spots which had been omitted in the copy. By his side moved a
short woman, arrayed in the extremity of costly attire, whose swarthy
complexion did not, in spite of cosmeticism, harmonize very well with the
bright golden ringlets of her Sicambrian peruque; while behind the pair
came a thin damsel, whose lineaments exhibited a sort of faint shadow of
the same visage, the rudiments of which had been so abundantly filled up
in that of the rubicund magistrate. The ex-pro-prætor, after saluting
Agaso, stood still with dignity in the midst of the apartment, while the
fond daughter, rushing close up to his picture, could with difficulty
affix any limits to her expressions of satisfaction:—“O Jupiter! look at
the ring. It is the very ring he wears!—the very images are engraved upon
it; one can see the three Graces. I never saw such a picture—when will it
be brought home?”—“Hush, hush, now, Primula,” quoth the mother. “It is
certainly a likeness; but why will artists, now-a-days, always paint
people older than they are? And besides, it wants something of his
expression. Don’t you think so yourself, sir?” (turning to the painter)
“Rupilius has surely been looking very gloomily when he sat.”
On this the painter, leaving Sextus, advanced to her side, and after a
pause of some moments, spent in contemplating alternately his own work and
the original, said, with a courteous simper, “How much am I indebted to
you, most noble lady, for this visit, and these judicious remarks! I only
wish you had accompanied the senator, for then, without question, his
countenance would have worn the look you desiderate; and I perhaps might
have more easily succeeded in catching it, being aided by your
suggestions. I hope it may yet be amended.”—“How modest he is!” ejaculated
the spouse. “A single sitting will suffice, I am sure. We shall come some
day when you are quite alone, and I will sit by you, and talk to Rupilius
all the while.”—“Delightful!” replied the artist; “how happy shall I be in
such an opportunity of improving both the picture and myself! We must
positively prevail on the senator to give us this one sitting
more.”—“Never ask his consent,” quoth the matron, smiling upon her lord;
“leave the whole matter to me. The picture is for me. And besides, if he
were to refuse, I know how I should be certain to overcome him; for he has
asked me to sit to you myself, and you know if I were to persist in
sitting with my gloomy face, as he has with his, we should soon bring him
to his right reason.”—“_Your_ gloomy face, noble lady!” replied the
artist, strutting back a pace or two. “I am afraid, if that is the charm
by which alone he is to be softened, we must give up all our hopes.”—“I
protest,” says the lady, “I believe you will keep me laughing all the time
I sit. And pray now, what dress do you think I should wear? Prima says, I
ought certainly to be in green; but I was thinking, that perhaps a yellow
byssine would suit me better. But I shall send over half a dozen robes,
and then we can choose whichever seems to be the best. One thing only I am
quite resolved upon, and that is, that I shall have my golden chain, with
the miniature of the Pro-prætor—the Senator, I mean—at the end of
it.”—“Nothing could be in finer taste,” he made answer; “and if my lady
should think of green, or purple, or any dark colour for the gown, the
rings of the chain and the setting of the miniature would have the richest
effect.”—“And do, my dear mother,” interrupted Prima; “and do have on the
sapphire tiara when you sit to Agaso. Or what would you think of having
your own hair simply like this lady here? What a beauty!”—“A smart little
girl, indeed,” quoth the mother. “I think I should know that face. Is she
Roman, Agaso?”—“No, not a Roman,” answered the artist; “nor do I think my
lady can ever have met with her. But perhaps my Lord Rupilius may, for she
is a Spaniard.”
Agaso turned with a smile to the Senator; but he, scarcely appearing to
look at the picture, answered, with great gravity, “I think I have seen
the countenance before; and perhaps it was in my province. The face is
certainly a pretty one; but nothing so very extraordinary.”—“They may say
what they like,” observed the spouse, drawing herself up; “but there is no
such thing as a really urbane air to be got out of Rome.”
Meantime, in another part of the room, some other picture appeared to be
exciting a scarcely inferior measure of curiosity. On approaching the
party, I perceived that this was a sketch, in chalk only, of the head and
shoulders of an old man; and when I had gained an opportunity of more
nearly surveying it, I recognized without difficulty the features of
Tisias of Antioch. The greater number of those who were looking on it,
seemed also to have been present at his death; for I heard pointed out by
them with exactness the parts in which the resemblance had been most
successfully taken. The beauty of the old man’s lineaments, and the
serenity of his aspect, they all admired; and while they were loud in
praising these, Agaso himself also joined them, saying, “Oh, so you have
found out my old Christian! How did you get hold of him? for I meant it
not to be seen till I had lain on a little of the colour. But is it not a
fine study?—is it not a noble head? I think I shall introduce it in the
picture I am painting for Pliny. The subject is the sacrifice of
Iphigenia. I went to the Amphitheatre,” he continued, “rather late,
without expecting any thing particular; but it immediately struck me that
he might be turned to some account. I made several little sketches of him,
for it was a long time ere it was over; and this is from the one I took
just after he had made his oration. His hands and feet were singularly
fine, I thought. Here,” said he, turning over the leaves of his
tablets—“here you have him in a variety of shapes!—the muscles shewed
powerfully when he knelt;—there, again, you have his fingers as they were
folded on his breast—not much flesh, but the lines good—veins well
expressed.”
But about this time the great bell rung in the tower above the Baths, and
the greater part of the young loungers soon dispersed themselves; some to
fence or wrestle—others to play in the tennis-court—others to ride in the
Hippodrome, in preparation for the bath. So Agaso, being left alone with
Sextus, Rubellia, and myself, had at length leisure to proceed with his
portrait of the youth.
Much did the lady and the painter discourse, and many merry things were
said by them both; but all they said could not entirely remove the
embarrassment fixed on the countenance of Sextus; nor, of a truth, did he
present himself with much advantage before the artist. Rubellia,
nevertheless, sate over against him with looks of no severe criticism; and
I doubt not she would have remained to the end of the sitting, had not one
of her household come with a message, which, as it seemed, rendered
necessary her departure. It struck me, that the messenger answered very
well to Dromo’s description of the fat Calabrian with whom he and Boto had
been drinking; but of this I said nothing to Sextus.
It was near the hour of supper before we were dismissed, and we found
Licinius already about to enter his eating chamber.
_CHAPTER V._
The orator received us with less coldness than I could have expected. I
suppose his knowledge that our morning had been spent in Rubellia’s
company, had in some measure softened his feelings of jealousy towards his
son; and perhaps he had given me credit for advice, to the merit of which
I had no claim. But he remained not long at table after supper was
concluded, being summoned to discourse in private with a client:—so that
Sextus and I were left to spend the evening as it might please ourselves;
for as to Xerophrastes, he had not as yet made his appearance, and we took
it for granted he had remained at the mansion of Fabricius, for the
purpose of consoling with philosophical controversies his bereaved brother
of Ionia.
We retired, therefore, into the apartment of my young friend; but he could
not read a page without coming upon some verse which made him throw down
the scroll to ruminate on the charms of his Sempronia. When he took up his
lute, his fingers seemed to evoke only the most melancholy sounds. It was
only in the exercise of the foil, that he succeeded in banishing from his
thoughts the troubles of his situation; but both of us having contended
till we were breathless, were soon compelled to sit down, and then the
unhappy boy’s exhausted body seemed to communicate a new debility to his
mind. We sat for the most part in silence, (for I soon found that I could
not say any thing capable of interesting him,) until the shades of evening
had quite darkened the chamber, and then we walked together, not less
silently, in the adjoining open gallery, until the moon had arisen from
above the tall poplars around the Pantheon and Baths of Agrippa, and
diffused her radiance over all the beautiful gardens and noble edifices
that lay beneath us down to the brink of the river. Lassitude of spirit
then, if not expectation of sleep, rendered Sextus desirous of retiring to
his couch; so, having exhorted the youth to wrestle with his grief, and to
call hope to his aid, I at length left him to himself. But as for me, I
had as yet no feeling of weariness, and, besides, I remembered the promise
I had made to Dromo in the morning.
I was very much surprised, indeed, that the Cretan had not as yet come to
me, and made inquiry concerning him of Boto; but hearing that the man was
absent from the house, I thought from this there was the more likelihood
of his being engaged in some scheme, the result of which I should by and
by learn from his own lips. I dismissed my Briton, therefore, and prepared
to read by my watch-light, and while I was considering what I should read,
I remembered the scroll I had received from Tisias, which forthwith I took
from the place in which I had locked it up on the morning of the preceding
day. There fell from out of it, as I unfolded it, a letter sealed, but
without any superscription. This I of course considered as meant only for
the eye of Athanasia; so I kissed the parchment her fingers were destined
to touch, and, before I began to read, restored it to its receptacle.
More than one of you, my young friends, have already heard me speak, on
another occasion, of the impression which that night’s reading made upon
my mind, and been told, from my own lips, what book it was that was
contained in the scroll of Tisias; the rest of you will judge for
yourselves with what astonishment it was that I, who had at the best
expected to unfold some obscure treatise of Asiatic lore, some
semi-barbarous exposition of mystical riddles, found myself engaged in the
perusal of a plain and perspicuous narrative of facts, written evidently
by a man of accomplishment and learning, and in Greek of which the most
elegant penman of these times could have had no occasion to be ashamed. In
a word, it was the Gospel of the holy physician St Luke which had been put
into my hands; and at this day I am still grateful that this was the first
of the Christian books which I had an opportunity of seeing; for such had
been my education, that I am afraid others, not less worthy of the true
faith, might have repelled me by the peculiarities of their composition,
as well as by the acquaintance with many things, to me then entirely
unknown, which they take for granted in the style of their commencement.
Here, however, there was enough only of mystery, the more effectually to
stimulate my curiosity, while the eagerness with which I engaged myself in
its gratification, was abundantly repaid from the beginning, both by the
beauty of the simple narrative itself, and the sublimity of the
conceptions embodied and evolved in its course.
Considering the book which I was reading, as one merely of human origin
and invention, I could not help regarding it with such admiration, that it
appeared to me above all things wonderful, I had never seen it mentioned
by any of the writers of the age, or heard it spoken of by any of those
who, in my presence, since I came to Rome, had talked concerning the faith
and doctrines of the persecuted Christians. But this was not all. At
least, said I to myself, there is something here which deserves to be
inquired into and examined. Of things such as these, if told falsely, it
must needs have been—nay, it must still be, easy to prove the falsehood.
It is impossible that, in the days of Tiberius, any such events should
have occurred in Palestine, without being more or less submitted to the
inspection of Roman eyes. This is no wild tale, handed down from the dark
ages of a barbarous race. Here I have a Roman Centurion described as among
the witnesses of this man’s miraculous power, and acknowledging the
divinity of his benevolence. Here, at least, must have been one spectator
without prejudices, otherwise than against this Prophet of Nazareth. Of a
surety, the legends of Rome herself contain many tales which demand a much
greater measure of indulgence; since the wonders they narrate appear to
have been oftentimes attended with no beneficial consequences, either to
individuals or to the state; whereas here the occasion seems always to
have been such as might justify the interference of supernatural might.
The power of this person seems to have been exerted only for good; and his
precepts are full of such godlike loftiness as neither Socrates, nor
Plato, nor any of those Greek sages, who bowed in reverence to the hoary
wisdom of Egypt and India, would have disdained to admire.
The doubts, suspicions, and distrusts, with which such thoughts were
mingled,—the under-current of reluctance with which I felt myself all
along contending,—were such as you may more easily imagine than I can
describe.
As the narrative went on, however, you will have no difficulty in
supposing that my attention became more and more rivetted, and that,
occupied with the strange events and sublime scenes it unfolds—and
agitated by turns with the pity, the wonder, the terror, and the
admiration that matchless story must ever awaken,—I had forgotten every
thing beyond the page of the volume on which my finger was fixed.
It was only the rustling of Dromo’s cloak against the edge of my chair,
that made me aware my privacy was disturbed. His hands seemed to be busied
in tightening his girdle even before he was able to speak, and the first
words he uttered, were—“Come, sir—this is no time for study. I have
acquaintance with some of the soldiers at the Capene Gate, and they will
let us pass through; but they are relieved at the next watch, and then we
shall have no chance.”—“And why,” said I, hastily thrusting the scroll
into my bosom—“why, Dromo, or for what purpose should we desire to pass
through the Capene Gate at the dead hour of night?”—“Come,” said he;
“there is no time for explanation. It is simply because it is the dead
hour of night that we must pass through the gate; for it would do nobody
any good to pass through at any other time. Come—or abandon Sextus to his
fate.”
Thus adjured, I could not oppose any obstacle to his zeal. The chained
porter was lying asleep across the threshold; but Dromo had already found
means to have the door opened, so he leaped lightly over the man, and I
imitated his agility. The Cretan then locked the gate on the outside, by
means of a key which he carried in his bosom; and I followed his rapid
steps without farther question.
This cunning varlet, (who seemed, indeed, to move as if he had a natural
aversion to every open place,) threaded one obscure lane after another,
keeping always, where the moonlight had any access, to the dark side of
the way; a person better skilled than myself might well have been somewhat
puzzled; as for me, I had not the least conception whither I was going.
Close, however, did I adhere to him; and we reached the Capene Port, which
is on the south side of the city, not many bow-shots from the Anio, before
I could have imagined it possible to traverse so great a space.
Here Dromo told me to wait for him a single moment, and stepped down into
a cellar, in which a light was burning; but he staid not long, and when he
returned to me, I observed that his style of walking was more clumsy than
usual, which, indeed, was not to be wondered at, considering that he had
now to carry, not only himself, but two huge skins of wine, intended, as I
at once suspected, for the purpose of facilitating our passage. I told him
my suspicion in a whisper; but he made no answer, except by handing to me
one of his burdens. So laden, we crept on as well as we could to the
portal, beneath the shadow of which two Prætorians were pacing, their
armour ringing audibly upon them amidst the silence of the night.—Silently
did the well-oiled hinges turn, and very silently stooping did we step
beneath the lintel of the Capene Gate, which as silently was again made
fast.
As we advanced among the funereal monuments which line the Appian Way on
either side, Dromo stood still every now and then for a moment, as if to
listen; but whatever he might have heard, or expected to hear, I perceived
nothing, except here and there the howl of a dog, or the lazy hooting of
the night-owl, from the top of some of the old cypresses that rose between
us and the moon.
At last he seemed to catch the sound he had been expecting, for he started
suddenly; and laying his finger on his lip, crept to the parapet.
The ground behind was more desolate of aspect than any part of that which
we had traversed—stoney and hard, with here and there tufts of withered
fern; and immediately below the wall two human figures were visible. The
one was sitting on the ground, wrapped in a dark cloak which entirely
concealed the countenance: the other was a half-naked boy, holding in a
string a little new-shorn lamb, which with one of his hands he continually
caressed. But forthwith the sitter arose, and throwing away the cloak,
displayed the gray tangled tresses of an old woman, and two strong boney
arms, one of which was stretched forth with an impatient gesture towards
the stripling, while the other was pointed upwards to the visible moon.
“Strike,” said she, “strike deeply—beware lest the blood tinge your feet
or your hands;”—and I recognized at once the voice of the same Pona that
had attracted my notice in the morning, at the foot of the Palatine.
The boy drew forth instantly a knife from his bosom, whose glittering
blade was buried in the throat of the yearling, and it was then first that
I perceived a small ditch dug between the boy and the woman, into which,
the lamb’s throat being held over it, the blood was made to drop from the
wound. So surely had the blow been given, that not one bleat escaped from
the animal, and so deeply, that the blood flowed in a strong stream,
dashing audibly upon the bottom of the trench. And while it was dropping,
the old woman muttering a sort of chant to Hecate, as I gathered, showered
from her girdle I know not what of bones or sticks, mingled with leaves
and roots, which afterwards she seemed to be stirring about in the blood
with one of the tall strong stems of the fern that grew there. The
wildness of her gestures was such, that I could not doubt she had herself
some faith in the efficacy of the foul charms to which she had resorted;
nor could I see her stirring that trench of innocent blood, without
remembering the still more ruthless charms, whose practice the poets of
Italy have ascribed to such hoary enchantresses. The dreariness of the
midnight wind, too, as it whistled along the bare and steril soil around
us, and the perpetual variations in the light, by reason of the careering
of those innumerable clouds, and the remembrance of the funereal purposes
for which, as it seemed, all this region was set apart—the whole of this
together produced, I know not how, a certain pressure upon my spirits, and
I confess to you, I felt, kneeling there by the side of my now trembling
Cretan, as if I owed him no great thanks for having brought me that night
beyond the Capene Gate.