Part 12

I, for my part, when I heard the name of the visiter, began to understand somewhat of the channel through which my kinsman had been informed about what had passed at the Suburban. I had no leisure, however, to reflect long upon this hint; for I found Sextus waiting for me. “Come,” he said, “I was afraid I must set off without you. My father has been looking on me this morning with such an aspect of displeasure as I rarely before witnessed in him, and if I defer going to the painter about this likeness, he will be altogether enraged at supper-time. I know very well he means the ring, in which it is to be placed, for another present to Rubellia; but notwithstanding, what can I do? Any opposition to him in lesser matters would only tend to bring on some final explanation about the great affair itself, and that, whether it be weakness in me or not, I as yet have no courage to encounter. The man must be expecting me; and I am sure you will accompany me, for I have much need of you to keep up my heart. Xerophrastes, indeed, has been desired to go with me; but he will be no comfort, for I see plainly, from the drift of his harangues, that he is enlisted against me. Dear Caius, I have nobody in the whole world I can trust to but Dromo and yourself.”

He had scarcely said so, when we heard Xerophrastes pacing up and down with solemn strides in the gallery; so I knew not how to excuse myself, although I was very anxious to have staid at home for another purpose. Sextus had taken my gown from the nail; he threw it over my shoulders before I had time to say any thing, and we were soon on our way to his ungrateful destination.

_CHAPTER II._

We had to traverse a considerable part of the city; for this painter was one of those who exercise their art during the public hours of the day in the baths of the Palatine, where, as you have heard, in the wide circuit of the princely residence, abundant accommodation is set forth for all such ingenious persons. We proceeded along the edge of the river, and by the west of the Capitol, following the line of that great Triumphal Way which has been witness of so many glorious pageants; for so, they told me, we should most easily ascend into the Cæsarian courts. But when we had come thither, we found the whole open space, in front of the portico and stairs of Trajan, occupied by a detachment of the Prætorian cohorts, drawn up in splendid array to receive some promised donative; while the music, and the clamours of their mustering, had collected enough of spectators to render the passage onwards in some measure difficult. We were constrained to form part of their attendance, and stood gazing among the multitude. Even Xerophrastes caught some animation from the brilliancy of the spectacle; and the enamoured and perplexed Sextus himself, beating time on my shoulder, seemed to have forgotten, for a moment, the anxieties of his situation.

Some horsemen, however, riding along to keep the ground open in front of the soldiery, compelled us to shift to the eastward, where many chariots were drawn up—and in one of these Rubellia. The lady looked paler than I had before seen her, and had not the air of being in the smallest degree occupied with what was passing. I did not think it necessary to take any notice of her being there to my companions, and was willing, indeed, to keep myself turned away from the place where she sat, in order to avoid our being recognized. Yet there was something in her aspect and attitude, that, as by a sort of fascination, drew my eyes to the spot I wished to avoid. From time to time, therefore, I felt myself constrained to regard the melancholy lady; and by and by, Sextus perceived what it was that attracted my attention:—so I discovered, although he said not a word, from a fervent pressure upon my arm as I stood before him. At that moment there drew near a little ugly old woman, with no covering upon her head but long coarse gray clusters of hair hanging matted and twisted down upon her shoulders, who lifted up a basket of trinkets, and presented it; but Rubellia started on her seat, and, looking in the face of the old creature, manifested signs of no trivial emotion; for her colour returned with a sudden flush, and her eyes recovered all their animation, and it was evident she had something to say which could not regard the gaudy ornaments offered to her view. Whatever it was, however, she did not occupy much time in saying it; for scarcely a minute elapsed before the basket was lowered again, and the old woman began to move towards another part of the crowd; on which Rubellia sunk back in her chariot, and appeared to relapse into pensive abstraction.

Presently a low voice croaking out, “Rings, rings—amulets and rings!” amongst the crowd that stood immediately behind me; and I perceived the same woman pushing her basket between Xerophrastes and Sextus.—“Noble youth,” quoth the hag, leering, “lovely young gentleman—sweet Adonis, my charming lord, do now look into old Pona’s basket—do take a look at Ponula’s rings and amulets—her amulets and rings. Here is one that I could have sold a hundred times, but I was determined to keep it till I should see the prettiest young gentleman in Rome, and I will never go back to Naples without selling it, after this day; for this little amulet must be nobody’s but yours. You will break my heart, my prince, if you buy not my beautiful amulet.”

“And what,” said Sextus, blushing and laughing, “may be the virtues of your amulet?”

Then laying her yellow hand upon his shoulder, till she had made him stoop down so that she might get close to his ear, she began to pour out, with much mysterious volubility, all the story of its marvellous potencies; but what she said even I could not know, only I heard the words, “Æthiopian, Æthiopian,” and “Memnon, Memnon,” and something about “not a pretty lady in Rome.” But just as the woman was most earnest in her whisper, and Sextus, apparently at least, in listening, I found my gown plucked from behind, and behold, there was Dromo, with a countenance tremulously agitated, and white as a piece of dead parchment, pointing to his young master and the old hag, and beseeching me to separate them, by motions in nowise to be mistaken. How he had come thither, or what was the cause of this anxiety, I had no time to conjecture, for before I could say a word, he began to bellow out,—“The horses, the horses—make room for the horses;” and immediately those that stood near him began to move a little, and then, the cry being repeated, those that stood farther off mistaking the noise of their feet for the approach of some new squadron, there arose a sort of rushing among the crowd; and, in a twinkling, the voice of Pona was heard grumbling and croaking at a distance from the place to which our party were borne. Close, nevertheless, did the faithful Cretan stick to us; and no sooner was quiet in some measure restored, and the false alarm he had created at an end, than he whispered into my ear, “For the sake of all that is sacred, let not that foul hag speak another word to my young master—I will tell you more anon. Meantime, haste ye, haste ye. Make the best of your speed to the Palatine; it will be much easier for you to push your way thither, than it was for me to reach you.”

My friend being already weary of the heat and the pressure, we were ready to take advantage of an opening pointed out by the Cretan. It so happened, however, that in the same commotion the chariot of Rubellia also had changed its situation; for just as we had escaped, as I thought, and were about to place our feet on the magnificent flight of stairs that leads from the New Way to the Augustan Towers, there came to us a lad of that lady’s household, who told us she was near at hand, and desirous, if it so pleased us, of our company. Aware that we were in sight, how could we disobey? We found the lady in her chariot, but not such as we had seen her before. On the contrary, the liveliness of her aspect seemed now to be restored, and she received us with her usual gaiety of address. “Careless men,” said she, as we drew near; “I suppose I might have sat here till the Greek Kalends, before any one of you would have observed me.”

“Most noble lady,” quoth Xerophrastes, “bear it not indignantly, that amidst all the confusion of men and horses, and trumpets and shoutings, our attention was abstracted from that which was most worthy of notice. My young friends deserve to be excused, since even I, who am not in the habit of being much troubled by such vanities, was so bewildered that I scarcely knew my right hand from my left, in this human chaos.—Pardon, noble Rubellia; we have been unwitting offenders.”

“And was it so?” said the lady, not looking at the Stoic.—“But I did not call for you to hear useless apologies. What new sight is it that attracts you to the Palatine?—or is it only that you are desirous of exhibiting to Valerius the old-established wonders of the place? In either case, I have half a mind to accompany you. In spite of all they tell us about the Golden House, I can scarcely think the Palatine shewed more splendidly than it does now, even in the days of Nero.”

“Indeed,” said I, as we began to mount together the broad slabbed steps which rise up, tier above tier, from the portico on the street, to that which hangs on the brow—“Indeed, it is not easy for me to doubt that Rubellia is in the right.”—For now, on one side, were all the pillars and arches of the Forum stretched out below us, and, on the other, lay the great Circus, topped with its obelisk; while before rose the gray cliffs of the Capitoline, with their domes and proud pinnacles in the glow of noontide—the space between, radiant with arms and banners. Even Xerophrastes did not refrain from some ejaculations.—“Illustrious Rome! how great is thy sublimity!” And then, after a pause, he repeated, in a voice of much majesty, those verses from the Fury of Ajax:

“Oh! might I be where o’er the living deep Lies the broad shadow of the Sounian cliff, Waving with all its glorious garniture, Of rock-sprung foliage: from old Ocean’s side, That I might look on Athens once again!”

Some of the hints which had reached me concerning his nativity recurring to my recollection, I could not help echoing his quotation with another from the Æneid, about the wide tracts ploughed by the Thracians; of which impertinence the sage took no notice.

Nor was admiration diminished when, having gained the top of that massive staircase, or rather, as I should say, hill of marble, we passed beneath the sounding portal, the sole remnant of the original pile of Augustus, and found ourselves within the first of those great imperial quadrangles, by which the whole summit of that once so variously and multitudinously peopled region is now occupied. The light and airy porticoes—the domes—the princely towers—the universal profusion of marble, brass, ivory, flaming gold, lavished on arch, metope, and architrave—all conspired to dazzle the sight, and I stood still to gaze.

“Observe,” said Sextus, “those two equestrian statues of bronze on the left hand. I have heard my father say that they mark the sites of two houses, which, before Augustus began to enclose the whole Palatine in his walls, were inhabited, the one by Cicero, the other by Clodius; these are the only traces of their mansions.”

“What grim-looking figures!” said the lady; “yet, I dare say, they don’t cast half such fierce looks on each other, as the predecessors you mention. I should like to have seen the countenance of old Tully, the morning he went down the hill to deliver his harangue for Milo.”

“I am glad,” said I, “that Sextus has told me this; for in reading those famous philippics in time to come, I shall possess a new key to the bitterness of their phraseology, knowing, as I do, that the two lived just over the way from each other, and that the orator, when his spirits were flagging, could derive a new reinforcement of spleen from merely putting his head out of the window.”—“To hear you,” says Rubellia, “one would think you were studying the art of making philippics—I am afraid, that if it be so, my joining your party may prove to have been but an ill-judged thing; for if any of you be preparing to abuse me, my presence will serve to sharpen your weapons.”—“In that case, however,” interrupted the smiling Xerophrastes, “my noble lady will admit, that the converse also will hold good, and that if praise be in meditation, it will not be the feebler because the subject of the intended panegyric has passed before our eyes.”—“Most courteous of men,” replied the lady, “who talks of the stiffness of the Porch? To-day and yesterday you have paid me as many compliments as might give a lesson to the gayest trifler about these baths. If all,” she continued, (gazing as she spoke, with all her eyes upon Sextus,)—“if all were as profuse, I should be unable to sustain the weight of their civilities.”—“Nay, Oh! generous lady,” quoth the sage again, “it must be remembered, that, as the poet has expressed it, there are two kinds of shame—there is the wicked shame and the good shame. Why should it be doubted, that a modest Verecundity, not unsuitable to their age, has laid her finger on the lips of our young friends? I swear by the Victrix of Ida, that your presence itself is that which occasions their silence;—bear it not ill—bear it not harshly—the young will learn—not every one has seen Corinth.”—“No, truly,” answered the laughing lady; “but I doubt whether they that have been so fortunate, have ever seen any thing half so fine as what now awaits Valerius.”

She pointed to the solemn Doric columns which sustain the portico of the famous Temple of Apollo, whose shade lay far out upon the court before us; and, passing between those brazen horsemen, we soon began to ascend the steps that lead up to the shrine. Nor can I tell you how delightful was the fragrant coolness, which reigned beneath the influence of that massive canopy of marble, to us whose eyes had been so long supporting the meridian blaze. We entered with slow steps within the vestibule of the Temple, and stood there for some space, enjoying in silence the soft breath of air that played around the flowing fountains. Then passing on, the airy hall received us; and I saw the statue of Phœbus presiding, like a pillar of tender light, over the surrounding darkness of the vaulted place; for, to the lofty shrine of the God of day no light of day had access, and there lay only a small creeping flame burning thin upon his altar; but a dim and sweet radiance, like that of the stars in autumn, was diffused all upon the statue, and the altar, and the warlike trophies suspended in the inner recesses, from the sacred tree of silver that stands in the centre; amidst the trembling enamelled leaves and drooping boughs of which hung many lamps, after the shape and fashion of pomegranates: and out of every pomegranate flowed a separate gleam of that soft light, supplied mysteriously through the stem of the silver tree.

There appeared presently from behind the statue, a majestic woman, arrayed in long white garments, and having a fillet of laurel leaves twined above her veil. Venerable and stately was her mien, but haughty, rather than serene, the aspect of her countenance. Without looking towards us, she went up to the altar, and began to busy herself in trimming the sacred fire, which, as I have said, exhibited only a lambent flame. When, with many kneelings and other ceremonies, she had accomplished this service, the priestess turned again, as if to depart; and then first, as it seemed, observing the presence of strangers, she stood still before the altar, and regarding us attentively, began to recognize the Lady Rubellia; whom, forthwith advancing, she saluted courteously, and invited to come with the rest of us into her privacy, behind the shrine of the God.

She led the way, Rubellia and the rest of us in her train, through several folding-doors, and along many narrow passages all inlaid, on roof, wall, and floor, with snow-white alabaster and rich mosaic work; until at length we came to a little airy chamber, where three young maidens were sitting with their embroidering cushions, while one, taller than the rest, whose back was placed towards us, knelt on the floor, touching, with slow fingers, the strings of a Dorian lyre. Hearing the sound of her music as we entered, we stood still in the door-way, and the priestess, willing apparently that our approach should remain unknown, advancing a step or two before us, said, “Sing on—I have trimmed the flame; but remember, I pray you, that the precincts of Phœbus are not those of Pluto, and let not your chant be of such funereal solemnity. We solitaries have little need of depressing numbers.”

“Dear friend,” replied she that had been thus addressed, without changing her attitude, “you must bear with my numbers such as they are; for if you bid me sing only merry strains, I am afraid neither voice nor fingers may be able well to obey you.”

These words were spoken in a low and melancholy voice, which I well recognized. Sextus, also, perceived who spoke; but when he looked at me to signify this, I motioned to keep silence.

“Then please yourself,” said the priestess, laying her hand on Athanasia’s shoulders; “but do sing, for I should fain have my maidens to hear something truly of your music.” With that she again applied her fingers to the lyre, and stooping over it, began to play some notes of prelude, less sorrowful than what we had at first heard. “Ay, my dear girl,” says the priestess, “you could not have chosen better. Heavens! how many lordly choirs have I heard singing to that old Delian air. There are a hundred hymns that may be sung to it—give us whichsoever of them pleases your fancy the best.”—“I will try,” replied the maiden, “to sing the words you have heard before. If I remember, you liked them.” Then boldly at once, yet gently, did her voice rush into the current of that ancient strain that you have heard so often; but it was then that I myself for the first time heard it.

The moon, the moon is thine, O night, Not altogether dark art thou; Her trembling crescent sheds its light, Trembling and pale, upon thine ancient brow.

The moon is thine, and round her orb A thousand sweet stars minister, Whose twinkling rays dark wells absorb, And all the wide seas drink them far and near.

They kiss the wide sea, and swift smiles Of gladness o’er the waters creep; Old hoary rocks rejoice, and isles, And there is glory on the slumbering deep

Afar. Along the black hill’s side, Right blithe of heart the wanderers go, While that soft radiance, far and wide, Gleams on the winding streams and woods below.

And gaily for the fragile bark, Through the green waves its path is shorn, When all the murmurs of the dark Cold sea lie calm’d beneath that gliding horn.

Yet hail, ye glittering streaks, that lie The eastern mountain tops upon! Hail, ye deep blushes of the sky, That speak the coming of the bridegroom sun!

Hail to the healing beam of day, That rouses every living thing! The forest gulphs confess thy sway, And upon freshening branches glad birds sing.

And loathsome forms, that crept unseen Beneath the star-light faint and wan, Cower in their brakes the thorns between, Dreading that fervid eye, and its sure scan

Triumphant. Welcome life and light! Sing rocks and mountains, plain and sea; Fearful though lovely was the night; Hail to more perfect beauty—hail to THEE!

“Why stop you, Athanasia?” said the priestess, finding that here she paused,—“why do you rise up, and take your fingers from the lyre, before you sing out the chorus?”—“No more, dear aunt—excuse me—no more. I have already sung all that I can,” replied Athanasia.—“Nay, then,” says she, “if you be fatigued, sing not; but join me, maidens, in the close—perhaps it rises too high for Athanasia.”

And with that the ancient lady herself, joined by the three damsels that had been embroidering, took up the strain, which, indeed, rose higher towards its end

Hail to thee Phœbus, son of Jove, Glorious Apollo, Lord of Light, Hail, lovely in thy Delian grove, And terrible on Delphos’ haunted height!

Hail to thee here beneath the dome, Great Phœbus, of thy Latian shrine; All hail from Cæsar and from Rome; Hail by thy dearest name, God Palatine!

But as they were singing the last verse of all, Rubellia also aided their melody with a rich strong gushing voice, which rose far above all the others; and the silent Athanasia turning round quickly, perceived, not without manifestation of alarm, by how many strangers her song had been overheard. On seeing who we were, she saluted Sextus and myself with modest courtesy, amidst her confusion; and it may be that my companion, as well as myself, blushed at the same moment; for he could not see Athanasia without thinking of Sempronia.

It seemed as if her confusion were not unconnected with some suspicion of having been recognized near the Prætorian guard-house; for, after the first glance, I in vain endeavoured to meet her eye; while on the contrary, to Sextus she directed both looks and words, enough to provoke visibly some not altogether benign movements in our Rubellia. Such, at least, was my interpretation of the fair widow’s aspect, and the tone of impatience in which she, after a minute or two had passed, began to urge the propriety of our proceeding to the part of the imperial edifice in which the painter was expecting us.

The priestess of Apollo hearing her say so, courteously offered to guide us beyond the precincts of the temple, and our whole party were again in motion; but Athanasia remained behind with the three young damsels, and I, who walked last, saw her, ere the portal received me, preparing again to handle the lyre, with fingers visibly trembling, and a pale countenance, not as I thought unstained with some yet more distinct traces of keen emotion. The sight of her agitation fixed my footstep for a moment, and it was then that, on her casting a sudden glance round to the place where I stood, I perceived truly that I had not been mistaken, and that the tears were gathered within her eyelids. It was no more, however, than one glance, for immediately she stooped again, and, dashing her fingers along the chords of the instrument, appeared to bury her thoughts in its harmony. I stood for a moment, and then ashamed of myself, and troubled with her troubles and with my own, I followed the rest into the great library which Augustus placed beneath the protection of the Palatine Apollo. The priestess parted from us at its entrance, after pointing out a low and massive door of bronze on the right hand, within which, as she told me, the remains of the Sybilline prophecies are preserved, unseen by profane eyes, watched over perpetually by the guardians of the place.

_CHAPTER III._