Chapter C: With the Carthaginian Fleet, 216 B.c (2)

There have been a lot of the “Lysistratists” here--you know, the women who are in favour of senators being all women. Of course, I have nothing against their principles. If a man is a senator why shouldn’t a woman be? Any woman is cleverer than any man. But I do think their methods are silly and so _unwomanly_. One of them took a piece of chalk and wrote “Women and Freedom” on Sejanus’ carpet. And another dressed herself up as a Numidian slave, and shouted “Justice for Women” just as he was in the middle of a serious speech at his banquet. But the sailors like them very much, because they are so graceful, and on board one of the ships of the fleet--I think it was the _Scipio_--one of the chief “Lysistratists,” Camilla, entirely converted one of the men of the “Legio classica”--those kind of half-soldiers, half-sailors, who keep order on board the ships--and he is now a fervent “Lysistratist” himself. The other sailors say this is very curious, as the man in question had such a stern character. But then, you see, Camilla is quite charming. Sejanus is horribly put out about it, and his house has to be guarded day and night by soldiers. It is most inconvenient, because the other day his own daughter Lydia was arrested as she was going into the house. They had mistaken her for a “Lysistratist.”

Last night all the ships were illuminated with oil lamps, and ten thousand Egyptian slaves danced and sang in the gardens. The result was I did not get a wink of sleep, and the worst of it is that these songs and dances go on all day as well as all night. On the beach, too, there is every kind of acrobat, gipsy tumblers, and fortune-tellers. There is a woman here who tells one marvellous things by looking at one’s hand, only Julius, who, like all husbands, is now and then quite unaccountably obstinate about little things, absolutely forbade me to consult her, and so I had to give it up. She told Clodia she would be married three times.

The Persian fleet arrives here to-morrow on a visit. Julius and I are invited to dine at the Emperor’s villa, and Julius has to wear a Persian uniform as a compliment to the Persians. It is made of scarlet silk with orange sleeves, and a long green train fringed with silver; he also has to wear a high tiara of steel and gold covered with jewels, and extraordinary sandals laced up the leg with little bells. He tried it on last night, and I can’t tell you what he looked like. (Julius has grown to look much older since you saw him, and only the soberest togas suit him.) I couldn’t help telling him he looked like a circus-rider, and he was so offended that I have not been able to mention the dinner since. Men are so funny. Julius is ashamed of being thought a clever politician, which he is, and wants to be thought an excellent quoit-player, and he can’t throw a quoit a yard. He stoops and he is flabby, and yet he wants everybody to take him for an athlete!

How different from those nice sailors, who are so modest, and who are pleased because they are sailors, and wouldn’t be anything else for the world.

I must stop now, because the pinnace is “awaiting my pleasure,” and I don’t want to keep my little sailor boy waiting. Farewell. I will write again soon.

_P.S._--Whenever Julius is bad-tempered now I say I wish I had married a sailor, because they are never, never, never rude to their wives. It is true, of course, that they seldom see them, but I did not say that.

_P.P.S._--Later. We dined at the Emperor’s villa last night. It appears that this morning a tiresome incident occurred. A fisherman brought the Emperor some lobsters, and it turned out that one of them was not quite fresh. So the Emperor had the fisherman hurled from the cliff into the sea. He is subject every now and then to these fits of petulance; but I must say he was charming last night, and most agreeable. Of course he is self-conscious and he makes some people feel shy; but I get on with him beautifully. He knows so much about everybody. We fancy he already knew that Metellus has quite given up Clodia, and is now desperately in love with Irene. He was most tactful with me, and never alluded either to Sejanus or to Julius.

MESSALINA

_Letter from Pallas, Librarian to the Emperor Claudius, to a friend_

THE PALATINE, ROME

A slave brought your letter this morning from Antium, and since the Emperor is sending one back to-morrow I take advantage of the opportunity to obey your behest and to give you the news which you ask for.

You demand a full account of my new life, and although it is now only three weeks ago that I arrived, I feel as if many years had passed, so crowded have they been with incident, experience, and even tragedy. I will not anticipate, but will begin at the beginning.

As soon as my appointment was settled I was commanded to come to the Palace and to take up my new duties at once. I arrived early one morning about three weeks ago. I was shown the room I was to occupy, and the library where I was to work--which is magnificent--and briefly instructed in my duties, which are not heavy. I was to have my meals with the Emperor’s Secretaries.

The first day of my arrival I saw no one, but the second morning, just after I had settled down to my work--I have two assistants--a man walked into the library and asked in a hesitating manner for a Greek dictionary.

“I am sorry to trouble you,” he added, apologetically, “but I am a wretched speller.”

I became aware--why exactly I cannot tell, since he was dressed in a loose robe and slippers--that it was the Emperor. He looked at me furtively, fixing his glance on the edge of my toga, so much so that I began to think it must be dirty. He is badly made, his head looks as if it might fall off his shoulders, his features are too big for his face, and his hand shakes. In spite of all this there is about him a mournful dignity--an air of intelligence, melancholy, and authority. I gave him the dictionary and he looked out the word he wanted, but my presence seemed to embarrass him, and he fumbled, and was a long time before he could find what he was seeking. At last he found it and returned me the book with a nervous cough. As he left the room he asked me to dine with him that night. It would be quite informal, he said, only himself and the Empress.

I looked forward to the evening with fear and curiosity, and when at the appointed hour I found myself in the ante-room I was trembling with nervousness. Presently the Emperor entered the room and said the Empress would be down directly. He seemed to be as shy as I was myself. After a prolonged silence he remarked that the month of October, which had just begun, was the pleasantest month in the year. After this he bade me be seated, relapsed into silence, and did not seem to notice my presence. He stared at the ceiling and seemed to be engrossed in his thoughts. Nearly twenty minutes passed in uncomfortable silence, and then the Empress entered with a jingle of chains and bangles. She smiled on me graciously, and we went into the dining room.

I had heard much about the beauty of the Empress, and the accounts were scarcely exaggerated. Her face was childish and flower-like, her hair and complexion dazzlingly fair, her smile radiant, her expression guileless and innocent, and in her brown eyes there danced a bright and delightful mischief.

We reclined, and course after course of rich and spicy dishes were brought. We began with sturgeon and fried eels, followed by roast sucking-pig, wild boar, calf, wild peacock, turkey, and various kinds of game. The Emperor helped himself copiously and partook twice of every course. The Empress toyed with her food and sipped a little boiling water out of a cup. The Emperor did not speak at all, but the Empress kept up a running conversation on the topics of the day--the games, the new port of Ostia, the Emperor’s new improved alphabet, and the progress of the History of Etruria, which he is writing in Greek.

“You will be a great help to him,” she said, talking as if he were not present. “There is nobody at all literary at Court just now, and he loves talking about literature. I am so anxious he should go on with his writing--you must encourage him. I do what I can, but I am not up to his scholarship and science; I am only an ignorant woman.”

Towards the end of dinner, Britain having been mentioned, the Emperor discoursed at length on the native religion of that insignificant island. The people there, he said, held the oak tree in great reverence and sacrificed to a god who had certain affinities with the Etrurian Moon-god; he intended to devote a chapter of his Etrurian history to a comparison between the two religions; and he explained at enormous length, and with a wealth of illustration which revealed untold erudition, their likenesses and differences.

The Empress sat in rapt attention, drinking in every word, and when he had finished she said: “Isn’t he wonderful?” He looked at her and blushed, as pleased as a child at the praise.

When at last the long meal came to an end the Emperor took us to his private study and showed me his books, almost all of which, dealt with history and philosophy. He pulled down many of them from their shelves, and discoursed learnedly about them, but the Empress always brought the conversation back to his own writings, and insisted on his reading out passages of the History of Carthage. (This I had to fetch from the library.)

“You must read us my favourite bit about the death of Hannibal,” she said.

The Emperor complied with her wishes, and read out in an expressionless voice a narrative of the death of the Carthaginian hero, which I confess was not distinguished either by originality of thought or elegance of diction. It was, to tell the truth, tedious and interlarded with many moral reflections of a somewhat trite order on the vanity of human achievement. But during all the time he read, the Empress sat opposite him with an expression of rapt interest, and at the more pathetic passages tears came into her eyes. By the peroration on Hannibal’s character, which said that he was a great man but a victim of ambition, and that in contemplating so great an elevation and so miserable an end man could not fail to be impressed, she was especially moved. When it was finished she made him repeat some verses which he had written about the death of Dido. The Emperor showed reluctance to do this, but she finally persuaded him, saying that people might say what they liked, but that she greatly preferred his verse to that of Vergil. It was more human and more manly. In Vergil, she said, there was always a note of effeminacy. I could not agree with her there, but her admiration for her husband’s work was deeply touching in its sincerity.

“If only he had more time to himself,” she said wistfully, “he would write a magnificent epic--but he is a slave to his duty.”

The Emperor then mentioned that he was starting for Ostia in a few days. The Empress put on a pained expression, and said it was too cruel of him not to take her with him. He explained that he would willingly have done so, but as his time there would be entirely devoted to formal business he was sure she would be more happy at Rome. She then asked him if he had any objection to her organizing a little ceremony for the Festival of Bacchus during his absence. Silius had promised to help her. They had even thought of performing a little play, quite privately, of course, in the gardens, just for a few friends.

The Emperor smiled and said he had no objection, only he begged her to see that etiquette was observed and that the guests should not be allowed to take any liberties. “The Empress is so good-natured,” he said, “and people take advantage of her good nature and her high spirits, and the Romans, especially the matrons, are so spiteful.” He had, of course, no objection to a little fun, and he wanted her above all things to enjoy herself.

At that moment Narcissus, the freedman, entered with some papers for the Emperor to sign. The Emperor glanced through them, signed most of them, but paused at one.

“I thought,” he said, and then hesitated and coughed, “that we had settled to pardon them.”

“There was an idea of it at first,” said Narcissus, “but you afterwards, if you remember, agreed that it was necessary to make an example in this case.”

“Yes, yes,” answered the Emperor.

“Are you talking of Verus and Antonius?” the Empress broke in. “You promised me that they would be pardoned.”

“So I did,” said the Emperor, and then, turning to Narcissus, he said: “I think in this case, in view of the rather exceptional circumstances, we might strain a point.”

“But they are quite undeserving,” began Narcissus.

“The Emperor has pardoned them,” broke in the Empress, “he told me so yesterday; let us scratch out their names,” and bending over the Emperor with a kind and lovely smile, she suited the action to the word. The Emperor smiled lovingly at her, and Narcissus withdrew, biting his lips. Soon after that I withdrew also.

The next morning the Emperor started for Ostia. During the week that followed the Empress visited me frequently in the library, and was extremely kind; she took an extraordinary interest in my work, and revealed a wide knowledge of literature. Her criticisms were always acute. She evidently missed the Emperor very much. The more I saw of her the more I admired her beauty, her kindness, and her wit, and the more readily I understood the jealousy she inspired at Rome, a jealousy which found vent in spiteful gossip and malicious scandal.

The Empress, I at once understood, was a creature compact of kindness, gaiety, and impulse; she could not understand nor brook the conventions and the hypocrisy of the world. She was a child of nature, unsophisticated and unspoilt by the artifices of society. This is the one thing the world can never forgive. When she was pleased she showed it. Her spirits were unbounded, and she delighted in every kind of frolic and fun, and was sometimes imprudent in giving rein to her happy disposition and to the charming gaiety of her nature in public. This did her harm and gave her enemies a pretext for inventing the wildest and most absurd calumnies. But when she heard of this she only laughed and said that the malice of her enemies would only recoil on their own heads.

Alas! she was grievously mistaken. Her enemies were far more numerous and more bitter than she supposed; moreover, they resented the influence she exerted over her husband, just because this influence was gentle and good. Here are the bare facts of what happened. The Emperor was still at Ostia. The Empress was celebrating the Festival of Bacchus in the Palatine Gardens according to the Emperor’s wish. The feast lasted several days. Silius and Veltius Valens, who are both skilled at that sort of thing, had arranged an effective amphitheatre, and there were dances, music, and a whole pageant in honour of Bacchus. It was a lovely sight.

On the last day of the festival a procession of Bacchanals, clad in leopard skins and crowned with vine leaves, danced round the altar playing the double flute. One day on the stage in the amphitheatre a wine-press was revealed, and a chorus of wine-harvesters led by the Empress herself trod the grapes. Never had the Empress looked so beautiful as in this Bacchanal’s dress, and she joined in the fun with a wild, irresponsible gaiety and enjoyed herself like a child. During the whole festival, which had lasted a week, she had played a thousand pranks, and on the first day of the merry-makings Silius had dressed up as Bacchus, and the Empress as Ariadne, and they acted a play in which a mock marriage ceremony had been performed--all this in fun, of course.

But there were spies among us, and Narcissus, who was at Ostia, received daily accounts of what was happening. Skilfully he distorted the facts and represented what had been a piece of harmless fun as a scandalous orgy. He said the Empress, clad only in a vine-wreath, had danced before all Rome, and that she had publicly wedded Silius. He added a whole list of infamous details which were the fruits of his jealous fancy; but, worst of all, he accused Silius and the Empress of conspiracy, and said that they had attempted to bribe the Praetorian Guards, that they were plotting to kill Claudius and usurp the Throne. The festival was not over when a slave arrived breathless, and told us what Narcissus had done. The Emperor, he said, was on his way home. The Empress knew she must meet him face to face. She also knew that Narcissus would do everything in his power to prevent it. The courtiers, scenting the Empress’s overthrow, deserted her, and she set out on foot to meet the Emperor. But Narcissus prevented the meeting, and the Empress fled to Lucullus’ Villa, which Valerius Asiaticus had bequeathed to her.

The Emperor arrived in time for dinner. I was summoned to his table. He partook heartily of eight courses almost in silence, but seemed gloomy and depressed. After dinner his spirits rose and he asked whether I considered that Silius and the Empress had really plotted against him. I told him the whole truth, and he expressed great annoyance at Narcissus’ perfidy. He sent a message to say that the Empress was to return at once--to be judged, he added cunningly, for he did not wish Narcissus to know that he knew the truth. But Narcissus divined his peril. He knew that as soon as the Empress returned his doom would be sealed, and he told the tribune on duty that the Emperor had ordered Messalina to be killed.

That evening I was bidden to supper; and before we had finished the Emperor asked why Messalina had not come.

“Messalina,” said Narcissus, “is no more. She perished by her own hand.”

The Emperor made no comment, but told the slave to fill his goblet. He finished supper in silence.

The next morning the Emperor came into the library. He asked for his own Carthaginian history, and sat by the window, looking at it without reading. Then he beckoned to me, and finding the passage on the death of Hannibal, he pointed to it and tried to say something.

“She”--he began, but two large tears rolled down his cheeks, and he choked. Since then he has never mentioned Messalina; he works, eats, and talks like a man whose spirit is elsewhere, or a person who is walking in his sleep.

Farewell, I can write no more, for I am shattered by this tragedy and the dreadful end of one of the few really good women I have ever seen.

NERO INTERVIEWED ROME, A.D. 64

_Letter from a Greek Traveller to his friend in Athens_

It is fifteen years since I was last at Rome, and although I was prepared to find a change in everything, I had not expected this complete transformation. The Rome I knew, the Rome of the straggly narrow streets and rotting wooden houses, has disappeared, and in its place there is a kind of Corinth on a huge scale, marred of course by the usual want of taste of the Romans, but imposing nevertheless and extraordinarily gay and brilliant. The fault of the whole thing is that it is too big: the houses are too high, the streets too broad, everything is planned on too large a scale. From the artist’s point of view the effect is deplorable; from the point of view of the casual observer it is amusing in the highest degree. The broad streets--a blaze of coloured marble and fresh paint--are now crowded with brilliant shops where you see all that is new from Greece and the East, together with curiosities from the North and the barbarian countries. Everybody seems to be spending money. The shops are crowded from morning till night. The display of gold trinkets, glass vases, carpets, rugs, silks, gold and silver tissues, embroideries, all glittering in the sunlight, dazzles the eye and imposes by the mass and glare of colour and gaudiness.

There is no doubt that the Emperor is extraordinarily popular, and whenever he shows himself in public he is greeted with frantic enthusiasm. Of course there are some mal-contents among the old-fashioned Liberals, but they have no influence whatever and count practically for nothing, for what are their grumblings and their eternal lamentations about the good old times and the Empire going to the dogs, in the scale with the hard solid fact that ever since Nero came to the throne the prosperity of the Empire has increased in every possible respect? For the first time for years the individual has been able to breathe freely, and owing to the splendid reforms which he has carried through in the matter of taxation, an intolerable load of oppression has been lifted from the shoulders of the poor, and I can assure you they are grateful.

A few nights ago I had dinner with Seneca, to meet some of the leading literary lights. He is somewhat aged. Discussing various differences between our people and his, Seneca said that it is all very well for us to talk of our intellectual superiority, our artistic taste, our wit, our sense of proportion, but we had no idea either of liberty of trade on the one side, or liberty of thought on the other. “That kind of liberty,” said Seneca, “always fares better under a King or a Prince of some kind than under jealous democrats. We should never tolerate the religious tyranny of Athens.” I could not help pointing out that what struck me at Rome to-day was that whereas almost everybody had “literary” pretensions, and discussed nothing but eloquence, form, style, and “artistry,” nearly everybody wrote badly with the exception of Petronius Arbiter, whom the literary world does not recognize. The Romans talk a great deal of “art for art’s sake,” and language, instead of being the simple and perfect vesture of thought, is cultivated for its own sake. “This seems to us Greeks,” I said, “the cardinal principle of decadence, and the contrary of our ideal which is that everything should serve to adorn, but all that is dragged in merely for the sake of ornament is bad.” I think Seneca agreed, but the younger literary men present smiled with pitying condescension on me and said patronizingly: “We’ve got beyond all that.”

After that dinner I made up my mind that I had seen enough of the literary set. Seneca was kind enough to get me an audience with the Emperor. I was received yesterday afternoon in the new gold palace which Nero has built for himself. It is a sumptuous building, to our taste vulgar, but not unimposing, and suits its purpose very well, though all his _suite_ complain of the insufficient accommodation and the discomfort of the arrangements. I was taken into a kind of ante-room where a number of Court officials, both civil and military, were waiting, and I was told that the Emperor would probably see me in about a quarter of an hour. They all talked for some time in subdued tones as if they were in a temple; as far as I could see there was no reason for this as the Emperor’s room was at the other end of a long passage, and the doors were shut. At the end of a quarter of an hour a young officer fetched me and ushered me into the Emperor’s presence.

He was seated at a large table covered with documents and parchments of every description, and had evidently been dictating to his secretary, who left the room on the other side as I entered. He is very like his pictures, which, however, do not give one any idea of his short-sighted, dreamy eyes, nor of his intensely good-humoured and humorous expression. He has a kind of way of looking up at one in a half-appealing fashion, as much as to say “For Heaven’s sake don’t think that I take all this business seriously.” His movements are quick but not jerky. He held in his hand a chain of amber beads which he kept on absent-mindedly fingering during the whole interview. His fingers are short, square, and rather fat. He spoke Greek, which he speaks very purely indeed and without any Latin accent. Indeed, he speaks it too well. He asked me whether I was enjoying my visit to Rome, how long it was since I had been here, what I thought of the improvements, and if I had been to the new theatre. I said I had not been to the theatre, but that I was told the games in the Circus were extremely well worth seeing. The Emperor laughed and shrugged his shoulders, and said that it was very civil of me to say so, since I knew quite well that those spectacles, although hugely enjoyed by the ignorant rabble, were singularly tedious to people of taste and education like myself. I bowed as he made this compliment. As for himself, he continued, the games frankly bored him to death, but, of course, it was a State duty for him to attend them. “It is part of my profession,” he said, “but if I had my own way I should witness nothing but Greek plays acted by my own company in my own house.” He asked after several of my relatives whom he had met in Greece, remembering their exact names and occupations. He asked me if I had been writing anything lately, and when I said that I was sick of books and intended henceforth to devote all my leisure to seeing people and studying them, he laughed. “Nothing is so discouraging,” he said, “as trying to improve the literary taste in this city. We are an admirable people; we do a great many things much better than other people--I do not mean only our colonization”--he said smiling--“and our foreign trade, but our portrait painting and our popular farce. But as a general rule directly we touch Art we seem to go altogether wrong, and the result is nauseous. Therefore, if you want to find a Roman who will be thoroughly sympathetic, capable, and intelligent, and decent, choose one who knows nothing about Art and does not want to. With you it is different,” he added, “Athens is a city of artists.” He then changed the subject and referred to the rather bitter criticisms published at Athens about his policy with regard to the Jews, especially that new sect among them who called themselves Christians.

“Of course,” he said, “your sense of proportion is shocked when any extreme measures are adopted, but, believe me, in this case it is necessary. The Jews are everywhere, and everywhere they claim the rights of citizenship. But they do not live as citizens: they retain their peculiar status; they claim the rights of the citizen and exceptional privileges of their own--in fact, their own laws. They wish to have the advantages of nationality without being a nation, without taking part in the functions of the State. We cannot tolerate this. The whole matter has been brought to the fore by the attitude of these so-called Christians, who are, I am obliged to say, extremely difficult to deal with: In the first place because they adopt the policy of passive resistance, against which it is so difficult to act, and in the second place because they are getting the women on their side--and you know what that means. I have no personal objection either to Jews or Christians. What one can’t tolerate is a secret society within the State which advocates and preaches neglect of the citizen’s duty to the State, the worthlessness of patriotism, and the utter non-existence of citizenship.”

I said I quite understood this, but did not his Majesty agree with me in thinking that penal oppressions were rarely successful, and frequently defeated their own object.

The Emperor replied that there was a great deal in what I said, but that he did not consider he was dealing with a national or universal movement, which had any element of duration in it, but with a particular fad which would soon pass out of fashion, as the majority of all sensible people were opposed to it.

“The unfortunate part is,” he said, “the women have got it into their heads that it is a fine thing, and of course the more they see it is opposed to the wishes of all sensible men the more obstinate they will be in sticking to it. The whole matter has been grossly exaggerated both as regards the nature of the movement and the nature of the measures taken against it; but that one cannot help. They have represented me as gloating over the sufferings of innocent victims. That is all stuff and nonsense. Great care has been taken to investigate all the cases which have arisen, so that the innocent should not suffer with the guilty. Besides which, any Jew or Christian who is willing to make a purely formal acknowledgement of the state authorities is entirely exempt from any possibility of persecution. But this is precisely what they often obstinately refuse to do--why, I cannot conceive. There is also a great deal of hysteria in the matter, and a large amount of self-advertisement, but one cannot get over the fact that the movement is a revolutionary one in itself, and can only be dealt with as such. I doubt whether in any country a revolutionary movement which has taken so uncompromising an attitude has ever been dealt with in so merciful a manner. So you see,” the Emperor concluded, “how grossly unfair is the manner in which I have been treated in this matter. However, I suppose I can’t complain: whatever one does it is sure to be wrong.”

He then rose from his table and said that the Empress wished to see me before I went away, and he led me into her apartment, which was next door.

The Empress Sabina Poppaea is the perfection of grace; she is more like a Greek than a Roman, and speaks Greek better than the Emperor, using the language not only with purity but with elegance. All the stories we were told of her extravagance in dress and of how she powdered her head with gold, are of course absurd. She was dressed with the utmost simplicity and did not wear a single ornament. She was absolutely natural, put one at one’s ease, talking continuously herself on various topics without ever dwelling long on one, till she had said all she had got to say, and then by a gesture delicately shadowed, she gave me the sign that it was time for me to go.

The Emperor said that the Empress Mother would have seen me only she was suffering from one of her bad attacks of indigestion. He told me to be sure to let him know should I visit Rome again, that he hoped himself to be able to spend some months in Greece next year, but he did not think the pressure of affairs would allow him to. Farewell.

_P.S._--Later. The gossips say that the Empress Mother is being poisoned.

MARCUS AURELIUS AT LANUVIUM

_Letter from Celsus to Lucian_

I arrived at Lanuvium last night. The Court are here for the summer; that is to say, the Emperor, the Empress, the Heir Apparent, and the Emperor’s nephew, Ummidius Quadratus, and the Senator who is on duty. As soon as I arrived I was taken by Eclectus, the Chamberlain, to my apartments, which are small, but from which one obtains a beautiful view of the Alban Hills. I was told that I would be expected to come to supper, and that I must take care not to be late, as the Emperor was punctual to a minute, and the water clocks in the villa were purposely an hour fast according to ordinary time.

A few minutes before the hour of supper a slave was sent to fetch me, and I was ushered into a large room, opening on to a portico from whence you have a gorgeous view of the whole country, where the Emperor and his family meet before going into the dining-room.

I had never seen the Emperor before. He is short and looks delicate and a great deal older than he really is. His eyes have a weary expression, and the general impression of the man would be one of great benevolence and dignity were it not marred by a certain stiffness and primness in his demeanour. When he greets you with great affability, you say to yourself, “What a charming man!” Then he stops short, and it is difficult, nay, impossible, to continue the conversation. After a prolonged pause he asks you a question or makes some remark on the weather or the topics of the day. But he does not pursue the subject, and the result is a succession of awkward pauses and a general atmosphere of discomfort.

Whether it be from the reserve which at once strikes you as being the most salient feature of his character, or whether it be from the primness and the slight touch of pedantry which are the result of the peculiar way in which he was brought up, there is a certain lack, not of dignity, indeed, but of impressiveness in the man. He strikes you more as a dignified man than as a dignified monarch. Indeed, were I to meet Marcus Aurelius in the streets of Rome or Athens, dressed as a simple mortal, I should be inclined to take him for a barber who catered for the aristocracy. As it was, when I was first introduced into that ante-room and saw the Emperor for the first time, a wild longing rose in me to say to him, “I will be shaved at half-past eight to-morrow morning.”

The Empress Faustina is quite unlike what I had expected. There is no trace of Imperial or any other kind of dignity about her. She is not very tall; she has a delicate nose, slightly turned up, laughing eyes which will surely remain eternally young, and masses of thick, curly fair hair. I had imagined from the pictures and effigies of her that she was dark; possibly she may have dyed it lately, but I do not think so. She is restless in her movements; she is never still, but is always on the move, and one has the impression that she is longing to, and would if she dared, skip and jump about the room like a child. As it is, her arms, and especially her hands, are never for a moment still, and her eyes shift quickly from one person to another, smiling and laughing. She made one feel that she was trying the whole time to be on her best behaviour, to curb her spirits, and not to overstep the bounds in any way, nor to do anything which would displease the Emperor or offend his sense of etiquette and decorum.

We waited four or five minutes for the Heir Apparent, who was late. The Emperor remarked with some acidity to the Empress that if Commodus could not learn to be punctual he had better have his meals in his own villa with his tutor. The Empress said that the poor boy was given such long lessons and so many of them that he scarcely had time even to dress; that he was overworked and a martyr to discipline.

At that moment the “poor boy” entered the room. For a boy of sixteen he is enormous: very tall, large, and fat. He has dark hair, a low forehead, with a thick and rebellious tuft of hair growing over it, rather coarse features, and thick lips. He must be immensely strong, but although you could not find a greater contrast to his pale, prim, and dapper father, there is a strong family likeness, nevertheless. You see at once that he is a son of Marcus Aurelius. It is as though the gods had wished to play a huge joke, and had made in the son a caricature, on a large scale, of the father. It is as if one saw the caricature of the most delicate ivory statuette made in coarse clay. He was told to salute me, which he did somewhat awkwardly.

The Empress said: “You must excuse him; he is very shy.”

Upon which I saw that he with difficulty suppressed a shout of laughter by stuffing his fist into his mouth, while his whole body was shaking.

The Emperor did not notice this. He led the way into the dining-room, and we all reclined.

At first there was a dead silence, and then Ummidius Quadratus, who seems to me far the most lively member of the family, said that the quails this year were much fatter than he had ever remembered them.

“Is that so?” said the Emperor. “The best quails I ever ate,” he added, “were those we got near the Danube. Unfortunately, my physician does not allow me to touch meat.”

After this, there was a prolonged silence, which was broken by the Empress saying she did not believe in doctors. “Whenever they are at a loss as to what to prescribe, they ask you what you are fond of eating, and tell you to stop eating it.”

Commodus, as if to show his agreement with his mother’s ideas, at that moment put almost an entire quail into his mouth, and choked in the process. His mother hit him on the back, and told him to look up towards the ceiling. A slave brought him some water.

The Emperor frowned, and told him not to eat so fast.

“It is my habit,” he said, “and a habit which you would do well to imitate, to count twenty-six between each mouthful.”

But Commodus, who had turned purple in the face, merely went on choking, and this lasted several minutes.

The Emperor asked me a few questions about Athens, and what was being done and said and written in our city. I answered him as best I could, but he did not seem to take notice of my replies, and went on, as though he were a machine, to other topics and other questions. I spoke of you, and I mentioned your latest book, but he changed the subject as though it were distasteful to him. I suspect that your ideas are too frivolous for him, and may even shock him.

Then Commodus, having recovered from his choking fit, began to talk of a pugilistic match which was to take place in a neighbouring village. He described at great length the champions who were to take part in it, the chances and the odds, and entered into many technical details which were tedious, and indeed quite incomprehensible to me. But the Emperor and the Empress listened with smiling and patronizing approval, and with obvious admiration of their son’s knowledge. The Emperor is extremely conservative, and does all he can to encourage national sports and pastimes. He never misses a single event of importance at the Games, and even when he is in a country retreat like this, he patronizes the local efforts in which his son seems to play so prominent a part.

After this dissertation on pugilism, which seemed to me interminable, had come to an end, Commodus related how he had played a practical joke on one of the freedmen who had been looking on at the sports. It appears that the man, who was old and rather fat, had been on the point of sitting down, and Commodus had pulled the chair from under him and he had come heavily to the ground, much to the amusement of the bystanders.

The Emperor thought this extremely funny, and indeed I was not a little bewildered by the mixture of severity and lenience with which the boy seems to be treated, for when a little later he asked if he might have a new toga to wear during the daytime, as his present one was getting worn out, the Emperor said, in a tone which admitted of no discussion, that it was quite out of the question; that boys should learn to be economical, and, as it was, he was a great deal too extravagant for his age, and already thought too much of such trifles. The Emperor said that his own toga was older than his son’s, and yet he did not complain. It was certainly true that the Emperor seemed the perfection of neatness and tidiness, although it was obvious that his clothes were by no means new.

It was arranged that we should all go on a picnic on the lake next day and that I should be shown the country.

The Empress clapped her hands at the idea, and said there was nothing she enjoyed so much as a picnic. We should take our food with us and cook it ourselves. Commodus should catch us some fish and perhaps kill some game.

Commodus, for his part, looked sulky and sullen when this was mentioned; he evidently had some other plan in his mind. The Emperor said that he also found picnics a very pleasant relaxation; but a dismal expression came over the faces of the Chamberlain and of the few Court attendants who were present.

As I was most anxious to ascertain what was going on in the political world at this moment, I hazarded a remark with regard to the recent disturbances at Lyons which have been caused by the Christians. The Emperor at once became chillingly formal, but did not decline to discuss the matter; in fact, he was evidently anxious that I should be in no doubt with regard to his ideas on the subject. He said that it had become necessary to take extreme measures, that the attitude of these fanatics was intolerable; that they were in the highest degree unpatriotic and were a positive danger to the State. He was, however, not going to tolerate this any longer; he had no patience with stubbornness, and had determined, once and for all, to put his foot down. Conciliatory measures had been tried and had proved a failure. There was not the slightest use in pandering to sentimentalism and hysteria. He said he had just drafted an edict ordering the authorities to take the very severest measures to overcome the obstinacy of the rebels, and that should these prove ineffectual they were to resort to wholesale capital punishment without further discrimination or delay.

The Empress said that the Christians were disgusting, and that such vermin ought to be stamped upon. I said that I could not conceive the attitude of the Christians. Personally I had taken some trouble to ascertain what their doctrines were, and had interviewed several of the leading Christians in Greece and Asia. I agreed that Christianity was the national religion of no one; it was a religion adopted as a protest against the national religion by men who were infected by the spirit of all secret societies; that if the Christians refused to observe public ceremonies and to render homage to those who presided over them they should also, logically, give up wearing the _toga virilis_. But if they wished to share the benefit of civil life they should then pay the necessary honours to those who are charged with administration. But I added that should they do this I could not understand why their religion should not be tolerated on the same footing as other religions, such as that of the Egyptians, since nothing was required of them which was contrary to their principles.

The Emperor said that the Christians had already made such a thing impossible. “It is not,” he said, “as if we had ever forced a pious man to commit an impious action or to say a shameful thing. He would be quite right in that case to endure any tortures rather than do so. But it is quite a different thing when a man is ordered to celebrate the Sun or to sing a beautiful hymn in honour of Athene. These are merely outward forms of piety, and one cannot have too much piety.”

Here Ummidius Quadratus broke in and said that the Christians argued that it was a matter which concerned their conscience, which was no business of the State, and that they were perfectly ready to fulfil any duties, either civil or military, which had no religious character.

The Empress said she did not know anything about the ideas of the Christians, but she did think it was a disgraceful thing that in the present enlightened age people should be allowed to cover children with flour, to massacre them, and eat them.

I said I did not think the Christians did this. But the Empress said she knew it was true; she had heard it on the best authority; in fact, her maid knew some one who had seen them do it.

Here Ummidius Quadratus observed that some people in the best society had become Christians, and that he had even heard that--and here he mentioned the niece of a well-known patrician whose name I have forgotten--was one of them.

The Emperor drew himself up as though some dreadful solecism had been committed, and told his nephew that he had no right to say so shocking and so monstrous a thing at his table, especially before a stranger and a guest.

I will go on with my letter this evening, for a slave has just told me that we are to start for the picnic at once.

THE CAMELOT JOUSTS

_Guinevere to King Arthur_

CAMELOT, _Monday_.

Dearest Arthur,

I am feeling a little better. Merlin, who came over the other day from Broceliande, advised me to drink a glass of tepid water before breakfast every day and not to eat _brown_ bread. This treatment has really done me good. I will see that everything is ready for the Jousts. They are getting on with the lists, but they have painted the outside paling red instead of green, which is very provoking. I think we must send the Under Seneschal away at Lady Day. He forgets everything.

I have asked Yniol to stay at the castle for the Jousts, and the Lord of Astolat and one of his sons. (We can’t be expected to ask the whole family.) I thought it was no use asking poor little Elaine because she never goes anywhere now and hates the Jousts. Do you think we _must_ ask Merlin this year? We asked him last year and I don’t see that we need ask him _every_ year. He has become so cross and crotchety, and Vivien complained that when he was here last year he behaved disgracefully to her and was quite impossible. Of course, I will do exactly as you like. I have asked Sir Valence, Sir Sagramore, Sir Percevale, Sir Pelleas, and Sir Modred. I won’t have Melissande, she is so peevish and complaining.

Then there is King Mark. Shall I ask him? Without Iseult, of course. He can’t expect us to ask her after all that has happened. I hear the King of Orkney asked them both and that he now expects her to be asked, but nothing shall induce me to receive her. If you think it is impossible to ask him alone we had better leave it, and ask neither of them.

Oh! I quite forgot. There’s Lancelot. Shall we ask him to stay? He’s been so often, so if you would rather not have him we can quite well leave him out this time. I don’t want him to think he’s indispensable to you.

The weather has been fine and the hedges are a mass of primroses. Vivi the cat (I christened her after dear Vivien) caught a mouse yesterday. Do come back quickly.

Your loving
GUINEVERE.

_King Arthur to Guinevere_

CARLEON, _March 20_.

My dearest Guinevere,

I was delighted to hear from you. I am glad you are recovering, but I must beg you to take care of yourself. These east winds are very trying and the March sun most treacherous. We shall arrive two or three days before Whitsuntide. I will let you know the exact day. We have had a most successful and satisfactory time in every way. We rescued six damsels and captured two wizards and one heathen King. The knights behaved admirably.

With regard to the Jousts I do not wish to seem inhospitable, but are you sure there is room for every one you mention? Merlin must, of course, be asked. He would be very much hurt if we left him out.

As to King Mark, we must ask him also with the Queen. They are now completely and officially reconciled, and Tristram is engaged to be married to a Princess in Brittany. Therefore, since King Mark has magnanimously forgiven and forgotten, it would not be seemly for us to cast any insidious slight upon them. To ask neither of them would be a slight, but to ask the King without the Queen would be a deliberate outrage. Besides, apart from our private feelings, the public good must be considered. We cannot afford to risk a war with Tintagel at this moment. I shall, of course, ask Lancelot. He is with me now. I cannot see any possible objection to his coming, and I have the greatest regard for him.

Please wrap up well when you go out. I am, with much love,

Your devoted husband,
ARTHUR.

_Sir Lancelot to Guinevere_

_March 21._

The King has asked me to stay for the Jousts. From what he said about your health I gather you do not want me to come, so I said my old wound would not allow me to take part in the Jousts. Perhaps it is better that I should stay away. People are beginning to talk. Burn.