Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (ebook reader macos TXT) 📕

Claudius in convulsions; there Germanicus suffered,—everywhere those

walls had heard the groans and death-rattle of the dying; and those

people hurrying now to the feast in togas, in colored tunics, in

flowers, and in jewels, may be the condemned of tomorrow; on more than

one face, perhaps, a smile conceals terror, alarm, the uncertainty of

the next day; perhaps feverishness, greed, envy are gnawing at this

moment into the hearts of those crowned demigods, who in appearance are

free of care. Lygia’s frightened thoughts could not keep pace with

Acte’s words; and when that wonderful world attracted her eyes with

increasing force, her heart contracted within her from fear, and in her

soul she struggled with an immense, inexpressible yearning for the

beloved Pomponia Græcina, and the calm house of Aulus, in which love,

and not crime, was the ruling power.

Meanwhile new waves of guests were flowing in from the Vicus Apollinis.

From beyond the gates came the uproar and shouts of clients, escorting

their patrons. The courtyard and the colonnades were swarming with the

multitude of Cæsar’s slaves, of both sexes, small boys, and pretorian

soldiers, who kept guard in the palace. Here and there among dark or

swarthy visages was the black face of a Numidian, in a feathered helmet,

and with large gold rings in his ears. Some were bearing lutes and

citharas, hand lamps of gold, silver, and bronze, and bunches of

flowers, reared artificially despite the late autumn season. Louder and

louder the sound of conversation was mingled with the splashing of the

fountain, the rosy streams of which fell from above on the marble and

were broken, as if in sobs.

Acte had stopped her narration; but Lygia gazed at the throng, as if

searching for some one. All at once her face was covered with a blush,

and from among the columns came forth Vinicius with Petronius. They

went to the great triclinium, beautiful, calm, like white gods, in their

togas. It seemed to Lygia, when she saw those two known and friendly

faces among strange people, and especially when she saw Vinicius, that a

great weight had fallen from her heart. She felt less alone. That

measureless yearning for Pomponia and the house of Aulus, which had

broken out in her a little while before, ceased at once to be painful.

The desire to see Vinicius and to talk with him drowned in her other

voices. In vain did she remember all the evil which she had heard of

the house of Cæsar, the words of Acte, the warnings of Pomponia; in

spite of those words and warnings, she felt all at once that not only

must she be at that feast, but that she wished to be there. At the

thought that soon she would hear that dear and pleasant voice, which had

spoken of love to her and of happiness worthy of the gods, and which was

sounding like a song in her ears yet, delight seized her straightway.

But the next moment she feared that delight. It seemed to her that she

would be false to the pure teaching in which she had been reared, false

to Pomponia, and false to herself. It is one thing to go by constraint,

and another to delight in such a necessity. She felt guilty, unworthy,

and ruined.

Despair swept her away, and she wanted to weep. Had she been alone, she

would have knelt down and beaten her breast, saying, “Mea culpa! mea

culpa!” Acte, taking her hand at that moment, led her through the

interior apartments to the grand triclinium, where the feast was to be.

Darkness was in her eyes, and a roaring in her ears from internal

emotion; the beating of her heart stopped her breath. As in a dream,

she saw thousands of lamps gleaming on the tables and on the walls; as

in a dream, she heard the shout with which the guests greeted Cæsar; as

through a mist, she saw Cæsar himself. The shout deafened her, the

glitter dazzled, the odors intoxicated; and, losing the remnant of her

consciousness, she was barely able to recognize Acte, who seated her at

the table and took a place at her side.

But after a while a low and known voice was heard at the other side,—“A

greeting, most beautiful of maidens on earth and of stars in heaven. A

greeting to thee, divine Callina!”

Lygia, having recovered somewhat, looked up; at her side was Vinicius.

He was without a toga, for convenience and custom had enjoined to cast

aside the toga at feasts. His body was covered with only a sleeveless

scarlet tunic embroidered in silver palms. His bare arms were

ornamented in Eastern fashion with two broad golden bands fastened above

the elbow; below they were carefully stripped of hair. They were

smooth, but too muscular,—real arms of a soldier, they were made for

the sword and the shield. On his head was a garland of roses. With

brows joining above the nose, with splendid eyes and a dark complexion,

he was the impersonation of youth and strength, as it were. To Lygia he

seemed so beautiful that though her first amazement had passed, she was

barely able to answer,—“A greeting, Marcus.”

“Happy,” said he, “are my eyes, which see thee; happy my ears, which

hear thy voice, dearer to me than the sound of lutes or citharas. Were

it commanded me to choose who was to rest here by my side at this feast,

thou, Lygia, or Venus, I would choose thee, divine one!”

And he looked at the maiden as if he wished to sate himself with the

sight of her, to burn her eyes with his eyes. His glance slipped from

her face to her neck and bare arms, fondled her shapely outlines,

admired her, embraced her, devoured her; but besides desire, there was

gleaming in him happiness, admiration, and ecstasy beyond limit.

“I knew that I should see thee in Cæsar’s house,” continued he; “but

still, when I saw thee, such delight shook my whole soul, as if a

happiness entirely unexpected had met me.”

Lygia, having recovered herself and feeling that in that throng and in

that house he was the only being who was near to her, began to converse

with him, and ask about everything which she did not understand and

which filled her with fear. Whence did he know that he would find her

in Cæsar’s house? Why is she there? Why did Cæsar take her from

Pomponia? She is full of fear where she is, and wishes to return to

Pomponia. She would die from alarm and grief were it not for the hope

that Petronius and he will intercede for her before Cæsar.

Vinicius explained that he learned from Aulus himself that she had been

taken. Why she is there, he knows not. Cæsar gives account to no one

of his orders and commands. But let her not fear. He, Vinicius, is

near her and will stay near her. He would rather lose his eyes than not

see her; he would rather lose his life than desert her. She is his

soul, and hence he will guard her as his soul. In his house he will

build to her, as to a divinity, an altar on which he will offer myrrh

and aloes, and in spring saffron and apple-blossoms; and since she has a

dread of Cæsar’s house, he promises that she shall not stay in it.

And though he spoke evasively and at times invented, truth was to be

felt in his voice, because his feelings were real. Genuine pity

possessed him, too, and her words went to his soul so thoroughly that

when she began to thank him and assure him that Pomponia would love him

for his goodness, and that she herself would be grateful to him all her

life, he could not master his emotion, and it seemed to him that he

would never be able in life to resist her prayer. The heart began to

melt in him. Her beauty intoxicated his senses, and he desired her; but

at the same time he felt that she was very dear to him, and that in

truth he might do homage to her, as to a divinity; he felt also

irresistible need of speaking of her beauty and of his own homage. As

the noise at the feast increased, he drew nearer to her, whispered kind,

sweet words flowing from the depth of his soul, words as resonant as

music and intoxicating as wine.

And he intoxicated her. Amid those strange people he seemed to her ever

nearer, ever dearer, altogether true, and devoted with his whole soul.

He pacified her; he promised to rescue her from the house of Cæsar; he

promised not to desert her, and said that he would serve her. Besides,

he had spoken before at Aulus’s only in general about love and the

happiness which it can give; but now he said directly that he loved her,

and that she was dear and most precious to him. Lygia heard such words

from a man’s lips for the first time; and as she heard them it seemed to

her that something was wakening in her as from a sleep, that some

species of happiness was embracing her in which immense delight was

mingled with immense alarm. Her cheeks began to burn, her heart to

beat, her mouth opened as in wonder. She was seized with fear because

she was listening to such things, still she did not wish for any cause

on earth to lose one word. At moments she dropped her eyes; then again

she raised her clear glance to Vinicius, timid and also inquiring, as if

she wished to say to him, “Speak on!” The sound of the music, the odor

of flowers and of Arabian perfumes, began to daze her. In Rome it was

the custom to recline at banquets, but at home Lygia occupied a place

between Pomponia and little Aulus. Now Vinicius was reclining near her,

youthful, immense, in love, burning; and she, feeling the heat that

issued from him, felt both delight and shame. A kind of sweet weakness,

a kind of faintness and forgetfulness seized her; it was as if

drowsiness tortured her.

But her nearness to him began to act on Vinicius also. His nostrils

dilated, like those of an Eastern steed. The beating of his heart with

unusual throb was evident under his scarlet tunic; his breathing grew

short, and the expressions that fell from his lips were broken. For the

first time, too, he was so near her. His thoughts grew disturbed; he

felt a flame in his veins which he tried in vain to quench with wine.

Not wine, but her marvellous face, her bare arms, her maiden breast

heaving under the golden tunic, and her form hidden in the white folds

of the peplus, intoxicated him more and more. Finally, he seized her

arm above the wrist, as he had done once at Aulus’s, and drawing her

toward him whispered, with trembling lips,—“I love thee, Callina,—

divine one.”

“Let me go, Marcus,” said Lygia.

But he continued, his eyes mist-covered, “Love me, my goddess!”

But at that moment was heard the voice of Acte, who was reclining on the

other side of Lygia.

“Cæsar is looking at you both.”

Vinicius was carried away by sudden anger at Cæsar and at Acte. Her

words had broken the charm of his intoxication. To the young man even a

friendly voice would have seemed repulsive at such a moment, but he

judged that Acte wished purposely to interrupt his conversation with

Lygia. So, raising his head and looking over the shoulder of Lygia at

the young freedwoman, he said with malice:

“The hour