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

PETRONIUS to VINICIUS:

“Thy case is a bad one, carissime. It is clear that Venus has disturbed

thy mind, deprived thee of reason and memory, as well as the power to

think of aught else except love. Read some time thy answer to my

letter, and thou wilt see how indifferent thy mind is to all except

Lygia; how exclusively it is occupied with her, how it returns to her

always, and circles above her, as a falcon above chosen prey. By

Pollux! find her quickly, or that of thee which fire has not turned into

ashes will become an Egyptian sphinx, which, enamored, as ‘tis said, of

pale Isis, grew deaf and indifferent to all things, waiting only for

night, so as to gaze with stony eyes at the loved one.

“Run disguised through the city in the evening, even honor Christian

houses of prayer in thy philosopher’s company. Whatever excites hope

and kills time is praiseworthy. But for my friendship’s sake do this

one thing: Ursus, Lygia’s slave, is a man of uncommon strength very

likely; hire Croton, and go out three together; that will be safer and

wiser. The Christians, since Pomponia and Lygia belong to them, are

surely not such scoundrels as most people imagine. But when a lamb of

their flock is in question they are no triflers, as they have shown by

carrying away Lygia. When thou seest Lygia thou wilt not restrain

thyself, I am sure, and wilt try to bear her away on the spot. But how

wilt thou and Chilonides do it? Croton would take care of himself, even

though ten like Ursus defended the maiden. Be not plundered by Chilo,

but be not sparing of money on Croton. Of all counsels which I can give

this is the best one.

“Here they have ceased to speak of the infant Augusta, or to say that

she perished through witchcraft. Poppæa mentions her at times yet; but

Cæsar’s mind is stuffed with something else. Moreover, if it be true

that the divine Augusta is in a changed state again, the memory of that

child will be blown away without trace. We have been in Naples for some

days, or rather in Baiæ. If thou art capable of any thought, echoes of

our life must strike thy ear, for surely Rome talks of naught else. We

went directly to Baiæ, where at first memories of the mother attacked

us, and reproaches of conscience. But dost thou know to what

Ahenobarbus has gone already? To this, that for him even the murder of

his mother is a mere theme for verses, and a reason for buffoonish

tragic scenes.

“Formerly he felt real reproaches only in so far as he was a coward;

now, when he is convinced that the earth is under his feet as before,

and that no god is taking vengeance, he feigns them only to move people

by his fate. He springs up at night sometimes declaring that the Furies

are hunting him; he rouses us, looks around, assumes the posture of an

actor playing the role of Orestes, and the posture of a bad actor too;

he declaims Greek verses, and looks to see if we are admiring him. We

admire him apparently; and instead of saying to him, Go to sleep, thou

buffoon! we bring ourselves also to the tone of tragedy, and protect the

great artist from the Furies. By Castor! this news at least must have

reached thee, that he has appeared in public at Naples. They drove in

from the city and the surrounding towns all the Greek ruffians, who

filled the arena with such a vile odor of sweat and garlic that I thank

the gods that, instead of sitting in the first rows with the Augustians,

I was behind the scenes with Ahenobarbus. And wilt thou believe it, he

was afraid really! He took my hand and put it to his heart, which was

beating with increased pulsation; his breath was short; and at the

moment when he had to appear he grew as pale as a parchment, and his

forehead was covered with drops of sweat. Still he saw that in every

row of seats were pretorians, armed with clubs, to rouse enthusiasm if

the need came. But there was no need. No herd of monkeys from the

environs of Carthage could howl as did this rabble. I tell thee that

the smell of garlic came to the stage; but Nero bowed, pressed his hand

to his heart, sent kisses from his lips, and shed tears. Then he rushed

in among us, who were waiting behind the scenes, like a drunken man,

crying, ‘What were the triumphs of Julius compared with this triumph of

mine?’ But the rabble was howling yet and applauding, knowing that it

would applaud to itself favors, gifts, banquets, lottery tickets, and a

fresh exhibition by the Imperial buffoon. I do not wonder that they

applauded, for such a sight had not been seen till that evening. And

every moment he repeated: ‘See what the Greeks are! see what the Greeks

are!’ From that evening it has seemed to me that his hatred for Rome is

increasing. Meanwhile special couriers were hurried to Rome announcing

the triumph, and we expect thanks from the Senate one of these days.

Immediately after Nero’s first exhibition, a strange event happened

here. The theatre fell in on a sudden, but just after the audience had

gone. I was there, and did not see even one corpse taken from the

ruins. Many, even among the Greeks, see in this event the anger of the

gods, because the dignity of Cæsar was disgraced; he, on the contrary,

finds in it favor of the gods, who have his song, and those who listen

to it, under their evident protection. Hence there are offerings in all

the temples, and great thanks. For Nero it is a great encouragement to

make the journey to Achæa. A few days since he told me, however, that he

had doubts as to what the Roman people might say; that they might revolt

out of love for him, and fear touching the distribution of grain and

touching the games, which might fail them in case of his prolonged

absence.

“We are going, however, to Beneventum to look at the cobbler

magnificence which Vatinius will exhibit, and thence to Greece, under

the protection of the divine brothers of Helen. As to me, I have noted

one thing, that when a man is among the mad he grows mad himself, and,

what is more, finds a certain charm in mad pranks. Greece and the

journey in a thousand ships; a kind of triumphal advance of Bacchus

among nymphs and bacchantes crowned with myrtle, vine, and honeysuckle;

there will be women in tiger skins harnessed to chariots; flowers,

thyrses, garlands, shouts of ‘Evoe!’ music, poetry, and applauding

Hellas. All this is well; but we cherish besides more daring projects.

We wish to create a species of Oriental Imperium,—an empire of palm-trees, sunshine, poetry, and reality turned into a dream, reality turned

into the delight of life only. We want to forget Rome; to fix the

balancing point of the world somewhere between Greece, Asia, and Egypt;

to live the life not of men but of gods; not to know what commonness is;

to wander in golden galleys under the shadow of purple sails along the

Archipelago; to be Apollo, Osiris, and Baal in one person; to be rosy

with the dawn, golden with the sun, silver with the moon; to command, to

sing, to dream. And wilt thou believe that I, who have still sound

judgment to the value of a sestertium, and sense to the value of an as,

let myself be borne away by these fantasies, and I do this for the

reason that, if they are not possible, they are at least grandiose and

uncommon? Such a fabulous empire would be a thing which, some time or

other, after long ages, would seem a dream to mankind. Except when

Venus takes the form of Lygia, or even of a slave Eunice, or when art

beautifies it, life itself is empty, and many a time it has the face of

a monkey. But Bronzebeard will