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

IN Antium, meanwhile, Petronius gained new victories almost daily over

courtiers vying with him for the favor of Cæsar. The influence of

Tigellinus had fallen completely. In Rome, when there was occasion to

set aside men who seemed dangerous, to plunder their property or to

settle political cases, to give spectacles astounding by their luxury

and bad taste, or finally to satisty the monstrous whims of Cæsar,

Tigellinus, as adroit, as he was ready for anything, became

indispensable. But in Antium, among palaces reflected in the azure of

the sea, Cæsar led a Hellenic existence. From morning till evening Nero

and his attendants read verses, discoursed on their structure and

finish, were delighted with happy turns of expression, were occupied

with music, the theatre,—in a word, exclusively with that which Grecian

genius had invented, and with which it had beautified life. Under these

conditions Petronius, incomparably more refined than Tigellinus and the

other courtiers,—witty, eloquent, full of subtile feelings and tastes,

—obtained pre-eminence of necessity. Cæsar sought his society, took his

opinion, asked for advice when he composed, and showed a more lively

friendship than at any other time whatever. It seemed to courtiers that

his influence had won a supreme triumph at last, that friendship between

him and Cæsar had entered on a period of certainty which would last for

years. Even those who had shown dislike previously to the exquisite

Epicurean, began now to crowd around him and vie for his favor. More

than one was even sincerely glad in his soul that preponderance had come

to a man who knew really what to think of a given person, who received

with a sceptical smile the flattery of his enemies of yesterday, but

who, either through indolence or culture, was not vengeful, and did not

use his power to the detriment or destruction of others. There were

moments when he might have destroyed even Tigellinus, but he preferred

to ridicule him, and expose his vulgarity and want of refinement. In

Rome the Senate drew breath, for no death sentence had been issued for a

month and a half. It is true that in Antium and the city people told

wonders of the refinement which the profligacy of Cæsar and his favorite

had reached, but every one preferred a refined Cæsar to one brutalized

in the hands of Tigellinus. Tigellinus himself lost his head, and

hesitated whether or not to yield as conquered, for Cæsar had said

repeatedly that in all Rome and in his court there were only two spirits

capable of understanding each other, two real Hellenes,—he and

Petronius.

The amazing dexterity of Petronius confirmed people in the conviction

that his influence would outlive every other. They did not see how

Cæsar could dispense with him,—with whom could he converse touching

poetry, music, and comparative excellence; in whose eyes could he look

to learn whether his creation was indeed perfect? Petronius, with his

habitual indifference, seemed to attach no importance to his position.

As usual, he was remiss, slothful, sceptical, and witty. He produced on

people frequently the impression of a man who made light of them, of

himself, of Cæsar, of the whole world. At moments he ventured to

criticise Cæsar to his face, and when others judged that he was going

too far, or simply preparing his own ruin, he was able to turn the

criticism suddenly in such a way that it came out to his profit; he

roused amazement in those present, and the conviction that there was no

position from which he could not issue in triumph.

About a week after the return of Vinicius from Rome, Cæsar read in a

small circle an extract from his Troyad; when he had finished and the

shouts of rapture had ended, Petronius, interrogated by a glance from

Cæsar, replied,—

“Common verses, fit for the fire.”

The hearts of those present stopped beating from terror. Since the

years of his childhood Nero had never heard such a sentence from any

man. The face of Tigellinus was radiant with delight. But Vinicius

grew pale, thinking that Petronius, who thus far had never been drunk,

was drunk this time.

Nero, however, inquired in a honeyed voice, in which more or less deeply

wounded vanity was quivering,—

“What defect dost thou find in them?”

“Do not believe them,” said Petronius, attacking him, and pointing to

those present; “they understand nothing. Thou hast asked what defect

there is in thy verses. If thou desire truth, I will tell thee. Thy

verses would be worthy of Virgil, of Ovid, even of Homer, but they are

not worthy of thee. Thou art not free to write such. The conflagration

described by thee does not blaze enough; thy fire is not hot enough.

Listen not to Lucan’s flatteries. Had he written those verses, I should

acknowledge him a genius, but thy case is different. And knowest thou

why? Thou art greater than they. From him who is gifted of the gods as

thou art, more is demanded. But thou art slothful,—thou wouldst rather

sleep after dinner than sit to wrinkles. Thou canst create a work such

as the world has not heard of to this day; hence I tell thee to thy

eyes, write better!”

And he said this carelessly, as if bantering and also chiding; but

Cæsar’s eyes were mist-covered from delight.

“The gods have given me a little talent,” said he, “but they have given

me something greater, a true judge and friend, the only man able to

speak the truth to my eyes.”

Then he stretched his fat hand, grown over with reddish hair, to a

golden candelabrum plundered from Delphi, to burn the verses. But

Petronius seized them before the flame touched the paper.

“No, no!” said he; “even thus they belong to mankind. Leave them to

me.”

“In such case let me send them to thee in a cylinder of my own

invention,” answered Nero, embracing Petronius.

“True; thou art right,” said he, after a while. “My conflagration of

Troy does not blaze enough; my fire is not hot enough. But I thought it

sufficient to equal Homer. A certain timidity and low estimate of my

power have fettered me always. Thou hast opened my eyes. But knowest

why it is, as thou sayest? When a sculptor makes the statue of a god,

he seeks a model; but never have I had a model. I never have seen a

burning city; hence there is a lack of truth in my description.”

“Then I will say that only a great artist understands this.”

Nero grew thoughtful, and after a while he said,—“Answer one question,

Petronius. Dost thou regret the burning of Troy?”

“Do I regret? By the lame consort of Venus, not in the least! And I

will tell thee the reason. Troy would not have been consumed if

Prometheus had not given fire to man, and the Greeks made war on Priam.

Æschylus would not have written his Prometheus had there been no fire,

just as Homer would not have written the Iliad had there been no Trojan

war. I think it better to have Prometheus and the Iliad than a small

and shabby city, which was unclean, I think, and wretched, and in which

at best there would be now some procurator annoying thee through

quarrels with the local areopagus.”

“That is what we call speaking with sound reason,” said Nero. “For art

and poetry it is permitted, and it is right, to sacrifice everything.

Happy were the Achæans who furnished Homer with the substance of the

Iliad, and happy Priam who beheld the ruin of his birthplace. As to me,

I have never seen a burning city.”

A time of silence followed, which was broken at last by Tigellinus.

“But I have said to thee, Cæsar, already, command and I will burn

Antium; or dost thou know what? If thou art sorry for these villas and

palaces, give command to burn the ships in Ostia; or I will build a

wooden city on the Alban Hills, into which thou shalt hurl the fire

thyself. Dost thou wish?”

“Am I to gaze on the burning of wooden sheds?” asked Nero, casting a

look of contempt on him. “Thy mind has grown utterly barren,

Tigellinus. And I see, besides, that thou dost set no great value on my

talent or my Troyad, since thou judgest that any sacrifice would be too

great for it.”

Tigellinus was confused; but Nero, as if wishing to change the

conversation, added after a while,—

“Summer is passing. Oh, what a stench there must be in that Rome now!

And still we must return for the summer games.”

“When thou dismissest the Augustians, O Cæsar, permit me to remain with

thee a moment,” said Tigellinus.

An hour later Vinicius,