Quo Vadis: A Narrative of the Time of Nero by Henryk Sienkiewicz (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

fat, notwithstanding his youth; besides, it was sickly and foul. To Lygia he seemed ominous, but above all repulsive.

After a while he laid down the emerald and ceased to look at her. Then she saw his prominent blue eyes, blinking before the excess of light, glassy, without thought, resembling the eyes of the dead.

“Is that the hostage with whom Vinicius is in love?” asked he, turning to Petronius.

“That is she,” answered Petronius.

“What are her people called?”

“The Lygians.”

“Does Vinicius think her beautiful?”

“Array a rotten olive trunk in the peplus of a woman, and Vinicius will declare it beautiful. But on thy countenance, incomparable judge, I read her sentence already. Thou hast no need to pronounce it! The sentence is true: she is too dry, thin, a mere blossom on a slender stalk; and thou, O divine æsthete, esteemest the stalk in a woman. Thrice and four times art thou right! The face alone does not signify. I have learned much in thy company, but even now I have not a perfect cast of the eye. But I am ready to lay a wager with Tullius Senecio concerning his mistress, that, although at a feast, when all are reclining, it is difficult to judge the whole form, thou hast said in thy mind already, ‘Too narrow in the hips.’”

“Too narrow in the hips,” answered Nero, blinking.

On Petronius’s lips appeared a scarcely perceptible smile; but Tullius Senecio, who till that moment was occupied in conversing with Vestinius, or rather in reviling dreams, while Vestinius believed in them, turned to Petronius, and though he had not the least idea touching that of which they were talking, he said,—“Thou art mistaken! I hold with Cæsar.”

“Very well,” answered Petronius. “I have just maintained that thou hast a glimmer of understanding, but Cæsar insists that thou art an ass pure and simple.”

“Habet!” said Cæsar, laughing, and turning down the thumb, as was done in the Circus, in sign that the gladiator had received a blow and was to be finished.

But Vestinius, thinking that the question was of dreams, exclaimed,—“But I believe in dreams, and Seneca told me on a time that he believes too.”

“Last night I dreamt that I had become a vestal virgin,” said Calvia Crispinilla, bending over the table.

At this Nero clapped his hands, other followed, and in a moment clapping of hands was heard all around,—for Crispinilla had been divorced a number of times, and was known throughout Rome for her fabulous debauchery.

But she, not disconcerted in the least, said,—“Well! They are all old and ugly. Rubria alone has a human semblance, and so there would be two of us, though Rubria gets freckles in summer.”

“But admit, purest Calvia,” said Petronius, “that thou couldst become a vestal only in dreams.”

“But if Cæsar commanded?”

“I should believe that even the most impossible dreams might come true.”

“But they do come true,” said Vestinius. “I understand those who do not believe in the gods, but how is it possible not to believe in dreams?”

“But predictions?” inquired Nero. “It was predicted once to me, that Rome would cease to exist, and that I should rule the whole Orient.”

“Predictions and dreams are connected,” said Vestinius. “Once a certain proconsul, a great disbeliever, sent a slave to the temple of Mopsus with a sealed letter which he would not let any one open; he did this to try if the god could answer the question contained in the letter. The slave slept a night in the temple to have a prophetic dream; he returned then and said: ‘I saw a youth in my dreams; he was as bright as the sun, and spoke only one word, “Black.”’ The proconsul, when he heard this, grew pale, and turning to his guests, disbelievers like himself, said: ‘Do ye know what was in the letter?’” Here Vestinius stopped, and, raising his goblet with wine, began to drink.

“What was in the letter?” asked Senecio.

“In the letter was the question: ‘What is the color of the bull which I am to sacrifice: white or black?’”

But the interest roused by the narrative was interrupted by Vitelius, who, drunk when he came to the feast, burst forth on a sudden and without cause in senseless laughter.

“What is that keg of tallow laughing at?” asked Nero.

“Laughter distinguishes men from animals,” said Petronius, “and he has no other proof that he is not a wild boar.”

Vitelius stopped half-way in his laughter, and smacking his lips, shining from fat and sauces, looked at those present with as much astonishment as if he had never seen them before; then he raised his two hands, which were like cushions, and said in a hoarse voice,—“The ring of a knight has fallen from my finger, and it was inherited from my father.”

“Who was a tailor,” added Nero.

But Vitelius burst forth again in unexpected laughter, and began to search for his ring in the peplus of Calvia Crispinilla.

Hereupon Vestinius fell to imitating the cries of a frightened woman. Nigidia, a friend of Calvia,—a young widow with the face of a child and the eyes of a wanton,—said aloud,—“He is seeking what he has not lost.”

“And which will be useless to him if he finds it,” finished the poet Lucan.

The feast grew more animated. Crowds of slaves bore around successive courses; from great vases filled with snow and garlanded with ivy, smaller vessels with various kinds of wine were brought forth unceasingly. All drank freely. On the guests, roses fell from the ceiling at intervals.

Petronius entreated Nero to dignify the feast with his song before the guests drank too deeply. A chorus of voices supported his words, but Nero refused at first. It was not a question of courage alone, he said, though that failed him always. The gods knew what efforts every success cost him. He did not avoid them, however, for it was needful to do something for art; and besides, if Apollo had gifted him with a certain voice, it was not proper to let divine gifts be wasted. He understood, even, that it was his duty to the State not to let them be wasted. But that day he was really hoarse. In the night he had placed leaden weights on his chest, but that had not helped in any way. He was thinking even to go to Antium, to breathe the sea air.

Lucan implored him in the name of art and humanity. All knew that the divine poet and singer had composed a new hymn to Venus, compared with which Lucretius’s hymn was as the howl of a yearling wolf. Let that feast be a genuine feast. So kind a ruler should not cause such tortures to his subjects. “Be not cruel, O Cæsar!”

“Be not cruel!” repeated all who were sitting near.

Nero spread his hands in sign that he