Part 22
I suggested that she ought to endeavour to think less of the losses she had endured, and to dwell more cheerfully on the tranquillity which might yet be in store for her. “I should despise you now,” she answered, “if I could think this advice came from your heart. What! you would have me forget him, whose life was my dearest pleasure, and whose death is my greatest pride. Look at this ring,” and she took off a small gold one, and made me remark its motto--_fiel a la muerte_; “he would not have bade me wear this in remembrance of him, if he had not known that he was doomed to perish, if he had not known too that I should be happy afterwards in thinking and dreaming of him.” Then she began to recall minutely every scene and circumstance of our intimacy; inquiring about every study or amusement we had meditated or enjoyed together, whether I had bettered my flute-playing, whether I had studied landscape, whether I had finished Calderon. She wearied herself with talking; and then, leaning her head on the cushions, desired me to take up a book from the table and read to her, that she might hear whether my pronunciation was improved.
I took up the first that presented itself; it was only a manuscript book, containing many scraps and fragments from different authors in her brother’s writing. I laid it down again, and took up the next: it was a Dante which I had given her: I opened it at random and began to read the story of Francesca. When I came to the celebrated lines--
Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria----
“I do not believe a word of it” she said. “I would not lose my recollection for all Mexico.”
I took leave of her soon: for I saw that my presence agitated and wearied her. When I had parted from her before, she had given me a miniature of herself, which she had painted in all the glow of health and spirits, and ardent affections, which then so well became her. Now she gave me another which had been her task or pleasure in sickness and solitude. I do not know why I turn from the first with its fine hues and sparkling lustre, to gaze upon the paleness and languor of the other, with a deeper feeling of melancholy delight.
When I returned from Scotland after the lapse of two months, Leonora was dead. I found the sexton of the village, and desired him to point out to me the spot where she rested. There was a small marble slab over her remains, with the brief inscription, “Leonora.--Addio!” I stood for a few minutes there, and began to moralize and murmur. “It seems only yesterday,” I said, “that she was moving and breathing before me, with all the buoyancy and beauty of her blameless form and her stainless spirit; and now she lies in her purity and her loveliness.”
“She lies in a pretty grave,” said the old sexton, looking with apparent satisfaction on his handiwork.
“She does, indeed, good Nicholas; and her loveliness is but little to the purpose!”
DAMASIPPUS.
DAMASIPPUS. SYRINX. CYANE. GETA. MARSYAS. A MESSENGER.
_Scene_--ROME. _A Cook’s Shop._ _Time_--NIGHT.
DAM. [_entering._] Hilloa! black dweller in darkness! Hilloa! monarch of perfumes and placentæ! How long am I to kick my royal feet before thy damnable dwelling-place, like a half-buried ghost before Charon, or a half-witted Grecian before Troy? Shrivelled imp of Hades, answer me! Was it for me--for me, reptile, the lord of all misrule, the bosom friend of every felon and flagon in Rome, the deepest drinker that ever kissed Chian--saving always the Emperor, whom the Fates and the Furies preserve!--was it for me to stand for an hour, roaring “Syrinx, Syrinx,” louder than ever poet cried Evoe! over his sour verses and sour vinegar, with not a hand of those who live by me to take the bolt from the door and the seal from the bottle? Now, by Pollux----
SYR. Prince of patrons----
DAM. I tell thee, foul fiend, all Rome has been at my heels, hooting and hallooing, sweating and swearing, making a very chaos of greasy caps and grievous imprecations, red flambeaux and faces almost as red, cooks and cobblers, slaves and centurions, money borrowers and money lenders. By Pollux, again I say, Themison is not more weary when he has prescribed for his twentieth patient, nor Palemon, when the last disputant of his hundred has murthered grammar and great Julius together.
SYR. Merciful lord----
DAM. Hecate! We are come to a pretty pass, when a man of my blood may not walk in the dark, and swear in a mask, and kiss a girl in the Capitol, and cudgel a usurer in the Suburra--but fathers, and brothers, and cousins--ay, by the gods of the hearthstone! and mothers and aunts to boot--must start up, like the Argonaut’s harvest, scouring and screaming in all the streets of Rome and all the dialects of its provinces. Marry, hang them! Is there no respect or reverence for my this year’s chariot, or my last year’s fasces? Nay, then, honour may hide in a cloaca, and fashion walk a-foot; patricians shall patronize the tunic, and consulships be sold for an as.
SYR. Most munificent of revellers----
DAM. And for thee, scum of Ethiopia, for thee to keep thy supporter and thy sovereign lingering thus long before thy threshold, and listening to the cries, and the curses, and the distant murmurs of a mob. May I never fling Venus again, may I never lip Mela’s Falernian, may the black plague poison my pickles, may the green jacket fail in the circus, if ever I danced the client so long--no, not before the Emperor’s gate--no, not under Triphenion’s window, though she be witty, and wicked, and gay, and golden-haired, the fairest and the fondest of the daughters of Corinth! Epona! belike thou hast forgotten me; there is nothing to be remembered in my forehead and my features! Look at me, villain, slave--who am I?
SYR. My most admirable and excellent master, I lick thy foot. Thou art the supreme of sin and song, the chief choice of charioteers, the love of all thy slaves, the envy of all the Senate, priest of pledgings and king of cups, the Mars of midnight, the Cupid of costume, the Jupiter of all joviality!
DAM. Excellent well! I had not deemed thy recollection so good; marry, thou mayest perhaps recollect the far-back landing, and the lorn look, and the chalked sole, and the bored ear; and thou mayest perhaps have some slight vision of thrushes fried to dust, and boars burned to powder, and the inflicted scourge, and the threatened crucifixion. I thought that withered skin of thine had undergone metempsychosis, or that thou hadst found the two springs of Lethe in Vindicta and Vertigo.
SYR. Prince of men, it is not so lightly that I forget my native dust, or the hand that raised me from it. All I have is thine own; take of it to eat or to drink, or to wear or to waste; set thy slipper on my head, and crush my brains beneath thee; give me thy dagger, and let me pledge a health to thee in my best heart’s blood.
DAM. Honest Syrinx, I forgive thee! let there be new peace and old wine between us. Ha! little Cyane, where hast thou hidden thy mirth and mitra? Come hither, little Cyane! What! I warrant me thou wert afraid of me, because my frown was somewhat grim, and my posture somewhat gladiatorial. But mine anger is vanished; I am as cold as the snows of Hæmus, or the pleadings of Pedo. Sit by me, Cyane; we will have music anon.
CYA. Now, by Venus, I had not dreamed we should see you again, Damasippus! Have you been grieving with the jaundice or grappling with the Gauls? Have you hunted Parnassus and the columns, or cultivated philosophy and a beard? Ah! now I bethink me; there were two tormentors who kept your sweet looks from us; soldier and sophist they were, uncle and father. Tisiphone whip them for it! And what hast thou done with them, dear Damasippus: him of the civic crown, with his sword and buckler, his sour look and sagum; who prated to you of cohorts and conquests, warfare and wounds, Syria and Armenia, Ister and Rhine? and him of the Stoic school, with his good morals and grave face, his short breath and long speeches, who only lived for profitless dispute, and endless enthymeme, and meaningless maxim, and senseless syllogism. Mercury! but they were a valuable pair to all the lovers of laughter.
DAM. They were, Cyane, they were; but they were loathsome poisoners of enjoyment, and detestable marrers of mettle. Here is to the quiet of their encampment. Mine uncle--the gods be thanked for that--is with the Prætor in Spain; and my father--the gods be thanked for that too--is with his ancestors in the Flaminian; and I am here, sweet Cyane--the gods be thanked for that, above all--sufficiently merry and reasonably drunk. I thought I should have died before supper. A hundred plagues have haunted me since daybreak. My head was out of order, and my physician out of town; and my mistress broke an appointment, and my curricle broke down; and the theatres were empty, and the courts were full; and merry Marcus was swearing in the sullens, and solemn Saleius was reciting in the baths. Phœbus blight him for it! Λ decree of the Senate would never stop that eternal babbler; it would be easier to silence the Danube. Does he think that man, whose life is fourscore years, has nothing to study and care for here but warrior and amazon, epic and ode, maidens shrieking in sapphics and heroes howling in hexameters?
CYA. Nay now, sweetest soul of mine, you are very rude to the poets. May I never see a solidus again, if I do not love a poet as I love my own soul! They are all so humble, and so obedient, and so starving. Poor Saleius never fingers a denarius, but it comes straight to us at the Jews’ gate. And then he is so happy and so agreeable, and so fond of his liquor and his laurels; and after his second cup, “Cyane,” says he, “did you never hear my Orestes? Never, I’ll be sworn! Woe for thy education, Cyane; thou wert born among savage barbarians, and suckled by tigresses, and cradled in rocks and stones. But it shall be amended. ‘Learning,’ as Ovid sung before me,
“‘Learning and love are good lustrations, And purify all rude sensations,’”
And then he throws himself into an attitude thus, takes off his cup with a tragic smack of the lips, and “Cyane,” quoth he, “thou shalt hear sounds which Hercules might have earned by the repetition of his old labours, which Cleopatra might have bought with the brightest jewel in her crown. Their melody might make a client pause when he throws his first glance on the sportula, or a lawyer when the last drop of his clepsydra is putting him into a passion and a gallop. They might wake a Stoic from his mutterings, or a spendthrift from his debauch, or a lover from his dream, or a Christian from his cloud-worship. Listen; I am to recite them at Carus’s to-morrow, and would fain have thy judgment, Cyane, on my voice and manner. By Phœbus, there is some fascination in both, and I could tell thee of some bright-haired ladies who have thought so. Ha!” Upon which I compose my features into a greedy gaze of admiration, and bid Syrinx hold the bottle, and Marsyas hold his tongue; and so my man of loud verses and cheap drink prologuises.
DAM. Let me bathe my lips in the Chian but once more, and so begin, Cyane: thou art an incomparable mimic; Bathyllus is but dirt by thy side.
CYA. What will you have then, sweet Damasippus? Œdipus, the expounder of riddles, or Ajax, the slaughterer of sheep? Medea, with her brats and dragons, or Orestes, with his rags and snakes? for he has stored me with specimens of all.
DAM. The last, I pray thee, the last; let me hear what Orestes says to his tormentors, that I may know how to answer mine. Marry, the fiends in the fish market are becoming so tumultuous now, that a nobleman knows not wherewithal to reply, unless he ransacks the poets for complimentary language.
CYA. Thus then: “It is necessary that thou shouldst understand, Cyane, how that Orestes is the murderer of his mother--a wicked thing, by Themis, a wicked thing; but justifiable in particular cases. Æmilius argued it so the other day, and saved his client--Publius it was, who had succeeded somewhat too suddenly to an inheritance. Alas, avarice never walks abroad, but she carries aconite fastened to her girdle. But as I said, Orestes has murdered his mother, and he rushes upon the stage with long hair, and short breath, and torn garments, and wandering eyes; and fifty furies are in readiness without, with snaky ringlets and blazing torches, which thou knowest, little Cyane, are the adornments which the furies most conceit. When Serranus played his Megæra, the torches went out; but those things shall be better cared for when I----but I lose time; listen! Orestes begins thus, faltering a little from fear, as is natural:
“‘Dark goddesses, swift-footed, serpent-haired, Red-eyed, black-lipped, hell’s offspring, earth’s annoy, Avaunt, I spit upon ye! King Apollo, Lord of the beaming bow and echoing string, Fair-browed, far-darting, Prince of Poetry, Art thou a juggler? are thine oracles Mere webs for witching flies? Behold! they come! Railing and roasting, scampering and scaring, All hot from hissing Tartarus! Ο God, Pæan, Lycean, God of music, god of day, Delian, Patarean, Help, help! and let me see an End of these calamities as soon as I may.’”
DAM. Ha! ha! May Æsculapius put life into my father’s ashes, if I do not love thee entirely. The poet is under infinite obligations to thee; if thou wouldst only study this trade, the dirty Quirites would run from their bread--by Pollux! I think they would run from their games, to hear thee. And now the answer, pretty Saleius, the response of the Avengers!
CYA. Let me unfasten my mitra, and perform it in costume. There! “Now, Cyane,” he says, “thou must suppose, what doubtless thou hast already suspected, that the goddesses rush in with their shrivelled arms and terrible eyebrows, dancing, in groups of three or four, a dance dreadful to look upon, such a dance as Pomponia’s slave performs when he is whipped, or Paulus’s mistress when she is intoxicated; thus, Cyane, a rapid agitation of the right foot, then a corresponding movement of the left, with vibrations of the arms and contortions of the neck in unison. Presently the chief of them chants these terrible verses in a low and dismal scream:
“‘Ye raven-headed goddesses, Who, in your cloudy bodices, Hover with me around this ball of earth, And ever love to mix Dark drops from your own Styx With every rivulet of living mirth, Fit followers of mortality, Fine teachers of morality, Eternal servants of the Olympian thunder,-- Dwellers in mirky mists, By whose unyielding wrists Strong frames are racked, fine heart-strings rent asunder,-- Come hither, solemn sisters, Rain, rain your boils and blisters, Heart-thrilling ache, swift stripe, and searing cinder, Come hither, oh! come hither, And let him waste and wither, Roaring like twenty bulls, and rotting into tinder!’”
DAM. Ho! ho! ho! Stop, dear girl, or thou wilt murder me indeed; thou art very Saleius from head to foot. Investigate the flagon and proceed: I would bring thee to the Emperor’s hearing, Cyane, had I not some scruples of jealousy in my composition. But thou must be chary of thy parlous wit, for those singing birds are marvellously inflammable; I have known them in their wrath more rude than a Briton and more robust than a rhinoceros. Codrus broke my skull in the first week of my consulship, because I asked him how often he had dined upon his Theseid; and Serranus has written five-and-twenty lampoons upon me, because I told him that Podalirius recommends cold water for a December cup. And I need not tell thee that these male sempstresses of absurdities have at their beck and bidding sword and dagger, plague and pestilence, balista and bowl--ay, by my head, and lightning-flash and thunder-bolt to boot, and the whole armoury of the skies. But go on, sweetest of all the Furies; maledictions from such lips as thine are worth blessings from any others.
CYA. I have done! Never was Sibyl more weary after an hour’s raving. But Damasippus hath noticed none other of his friends. Geta is here, and Parmeno, and little Amphitryon, and tall Antigonus. Come, do throw away a word upon them; it is long since they have looked upon their master.
DAM. Geta, worthy Geta, sovereign reducer of ringlets and princely mower of beards, how fares the world with thee! Well, as I can divine by thy red nose and round external. What! do the gallants still linger to babble truth and falsehood in the shade of thy dominion? Come, let us know what scandal is toward.
GET. I prate scandal! Now Mercury forbid! It is true that idle persons do consort to me often; and as my worshipful master knows, much talk will arise of princes and patricians, and matters with which the like of Geta are little concerned. But do I ever report a syllable? Now Mercury forbid! ’Twas but yesterday that young Nasica was telling of the quarrel between Aurelius and his wife; did you hear? She must go on the arena forsooth; nothing would serve her but helm and sword, glory and fencing. “Why not,” quoth the lady; “was not Julia in training with Capella, and had not Lucia foiled her master after three week’s learning?” Marry, Aurelius was but little moved by authority or precept. He stilled her arguments by oaths, and sold her paraphernalia by auction; carried her into the country on a lean mule, and confined her in what he calls his Tusculan, where he collects together gems he cannot name, and books he cannot read, busts with broken noses and bailiffs who talk philosophy.
DAM. Bravo! and has the lady laid her propensities on the shelf?
GET. No; she has put her baggage on board; she has gone off to sea with that long armed destroyer of tigers, Cleobulus. The amphitheatre never saw a firmer hand or a quicker eye. But do I ever mention the story? Now Mercury forbid! Then there was merry Tiberius--ha, ha! a clever young fellow, and one who stands well with the court; and he was telling how Sulpicia tore the old Prætor’s hair to shreds, because he had never read Homer, and whipped a slave to death because he brought her some perfumes wrapt up in a page of old Horace. A strong woman, and terrible when moved! But do I circulate these tales? Now Mercury forbid!
DAM. Thou art the most silent of babblers, the most veracious of liars, the most honest of knaves! I would trust in thy keeping, dear Geta, all secrets that men strive most to conceal; I would breathe in thine ear my successful amours and my anonymous writings, my own merits and the failings of my friends.
GET. Ah! Damasippus was always witty with his slaves. But I suppose you have not heard of the tumult at Glycerion’s last night. I have heard mention of nought else to-day. Valla has said nothing of the Gauls, and Varus has been silent upon his lawsuit.
DAM. Prithee, now what was the manner of it?
GET. You know Glycerion--the little light-eyed Lesbian. And you know Titus too; and you used to cling as constantly to his side as the lictors to the consul or the duns to Flaminius. Well; he was shivering before her door last night in a thin cloak and sullen mood, with a lute in his hand, and a garland on his head, and perfumes enough on his apparel to convert Tartarus into Ida, and make Atinia herself endurable. A rival comes up; a young fellow in a long robe, masqued, and walking on tiptoes. Swords are drawn--crossed--thrusts given and returned; and Titus discovers that the sober votary of pleasure, the quiet Clodius, the dissipated Hippolytus, is no other than---- Guess now! You may study until a second Virgil rises, until the sun sets at daybreak, until I talk Greek, until my wife talks reason, and you shall never come near the mark. No other, by Jupiter and his transformations, than his studious and stern brother Caius.
DAM. Now, by Pollux, I am glad of it! Caius is a handsome young fellow, and deserves not spoiling by learning, and sobriety.
GET. But the beauty of the jest remains behind. They explain--coalesce--beat the door from its hinges, and find in the citadel Caius’s long-winded and long-bearded tutor, wrinkled Terentius, solacing his tired brain with stewed vegetables, golden smiles, and a goblet of damaged Falernian.
DAM. I will sacrifice a hecatomb. Thus it should ever be.
GET. But do I tell these stories? Do I repeat what may hurt reputation?--Now Mercury forbid! They told me, and it is indeed true, but do I repeat it?--now Mercury forbid!--that Aurunculeia was seen in the Suburra three nights ago in a mantle and hood, hastening to meet Lentulus, the----
DAM. Aurunculeia! Now, by Olympus and all its sojourners, I will drive the foul falsehood down thy black and calumnious throat. Withered imp of iniquity, cunning scatterer of poison, lie there; I put my sword’s point to thy throat, and recommend to thee silence and thy last testament.
SYR. Noble Damasippus!
MARS. Sweet prince, have mercy!
DAM. Mercy is not for him! He shall never smooth a chin or fabricate a lie again. Come hither, Cyane: take off thy scarlet slipper, girl, and beat him till he confesses.
CYA. Good Damasippus, do not be thus moved by a slave!
GET. Slave, quotha? I beg no mercy, I! Mercury forbid! I will speak out, and be gagged for no man. What now, master of the whip and wheel, do you dream that you are in the company of your cattle, where lash and blow are law? I do most cordially hate thee; and I tell thee, moreover, that if thou comest, braving it and bullying it with loud tongue and long rapier, I have here a stout flagon of Saguntum, which has made flaws in heads of stouter manufacture, and----
DAM. Why, thou foul-mouthed blasphemer of greatness!
GET. Thou impotent imitator of buffoons!
DAM. Thou idol of cobblers!
GET. Thou scorn of nobility!
MAR. SYR. CYA. In the name of the gods, Damasippus! Jove! there will be a goodly tumult!
MESSENGER [_without._] What, Syrinx--Syrinx, I say!
SYR. See now, if the Prætor be not here with a force!
MESS. Syrinx, I say--is Damasippus here to-night?
DAM. Well, fellow, who sends for Damasippus?
MESS. Truly, one that must send and find. The Emperor.
DAM. The Emperor! Hang ye, pestilent curs, give me my sandals. Quick!--and my cloak. So! am I steady, Syrinx? Thy venomous wine hath somewhat---- Adieu, Cyane; I will visit ye again ere long. A pest upon the Emperor!
MY FIRST FLAME.
Alderman Greenfat lives, from three to seven P.M., in joyous anticipation of the delights that hour will bring upon its wing. He tastes in fancy the never-cloying richness of the turtle, which if Jupiter had reigned now would have made Jupiter a candidate for civic honours; the invigorating flavour of the punch, which at once heightens the zest of the last and prepares the palate for the following dainty; the turbot, the venison, the champagne, the Burgundy--all are present to his imagination. Delicious! But seven o’clock arrives. What is the consummation? The meat is cold, or the wine is hot; the servants are awkward, or the next neighbour is a bore; repletion--indigestion--satiety--gout--the devil!