DEAD LETTERS

DEAD LETTERS
BY
MAURICE BARING

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
1910

The letters in this book are re-printed from the Morning Post, to the Proprietor and Editor of which newspaper the author owes his thanks for the permission to reproduce them here.

DEDICATION
To Lord Lucas

My dear Bron,

I wish to begin this bundle of “Dead Letters,” collected from the Dead Letter Office of the World, with a living letter to you.

These letters are in no wise meant to be either historical documents or historical studies or aids to the understanding of history, or learning of any kind with or without tears. They are the fruits of imagination rather than of research. The word research is not even remotely applicable here, for in my case it means the hazy memories of a distant education indolently received, a few hurried references to Smith’s “Classical Dictionary,” a map of Rome which is in the London Library, and Bouillet’s “Biographie Universelle.” So that if you tell me that my account of the Carthaginian fleet is full of inaccuracies, or that the psychology of my Lesbia conflicts with the historical evidence, I shall be constrained to answer that I do not care. Yet amidst this chaff of fancy there are a few grains of historical truth. By historical truth I mean the recorded impressions (they may be false, of course, and the persons who recorded them may have been liars, in which case it is historical falsehood) of men on events which were contemporary with them. One of the letters is entirely composed of such grains. I will not tell you which one it is until some of our common friends, who are historical experts, have singled it out as being the one letter which oversteps all bounds of historical possibility and probability. (It is not the letter on Heine, part of the substance of which was taken from Memoirs and freely blended with fiction.) Such singling out has already occurred with regard to certain details of the letters as they appeared week by week in the “Morning Post.” But I confess that I have so far suffered more from the credulity than from the scepticism of my readers, and I was tempted at one moment rather to insert the impossible than to make the possible appear probable. For correspondents wrote to me, asking me to give them from my secret store further details with regard to Lady Macbeth’s housekeeping, Lord Bacon’s business affairs, and the table talk of the Emperor Claudius.

On the other hand, a sceptic asked to be supplied with the historical evidence for Guinevere’s extravagance in dress. I am conscious that in some of these letters I may have laid myself open to the charge of irreverence towards certain themes which are hallowed by romance and overshadowed by the wings of the great poets. I plead “Not guilty.” I am sure that you, of all people, will acquit me; for those (such as you) whose enjoyment of the great poets is vital and whose belief in the permanence of Romance is robust are seldom offended at a levity which they have no difficulty in recognizing to be the familiarity, not breeding contempt but begotten of awe, of the True Believer, nor have they any difficulty in distinguishing such laughter from the scoff of the Infidel.

To end on a less pompous note, let me add that if you like this book that is enough for me; and the blame of the rest of the world, although it will ultimately affect my purse—and a purse, as Shakespeare says, is trash—will disturb neither my peace of mind nor my digestion and will therefore not vex me.

On the other hand there is no amount of praise which a man and an author cannot endure with equanimity. Some authors can even stand flattery. I hope, therefore, to earn a certain measure both of your approval and others’; while theirs will be the more profitable, yours will be the more prized.

MAURICE BARING.

Sosnofka, Tambov, Russia.
October 19th, 1909.

“To most people of time past and present, at least history is a pageant, no less and no more. It is a vast procession of human lives, fascinating to us because of the likeness underlying all the differences and because of the differences through which we see the likeness.”

J. W. Allen (The Place of History in Education).

“Il n’y a pas de lettres ennuyeuses.”

The Man in the Iron Mask.

CONTENTS

DEAD LETTERS

FROM THE MYCENAE PAPERS

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus

Mycenae.

Honoured Sir,

I am sorry I was out when you came yesterday. I never thought that you seriously meant to come. I shall be very busy all next week, as Helen and Menelaus are arriving and I must get everything ready. Orestes was quite delighted with the cup and ball. You spoil him.

Yours sincerely,
Clytaemnestra.

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus

Most honoured Aegisthus,

One line to say that I have received your letter and loved it all except the last sentence. Please do not say that kind of thing again as it will quite ruin our friendship, which I thought was going to be so real.

Yours very sincerely,
Clytaemnestra.

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus

Most honoured Aegisthus,

The flowers are beautiful, and it was kind of you to remember my birthday. But your letter is really too naughty....

(The rest of this letter is missing)

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus

Mycenae.

Most honoured Sir,

This is to say that since you persist in misunderstanding me and refuse to listen to what I say, our correspondence must end. It is extraordinary to me that you should wish to debase what might have been so great and so wonderful.

Yours truly,
Clytaemnestra.

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus

Mycenae.

Most honoured Aegisthus,

I was much touched by your letter and I will give you the one more trial you ask for so humbly and so touchingly.

Paris has arrived. I don’t know if you know him. He is the second son of the King of Troy. He made an unfortunate marriage with a girl called Œnone, the daughter of a rather disreputable river-person. They were miserable about it. He is very good-looking—if one admires those kind of looks, which I don’t. He dresses in an absurd way and he looks theatrical. Besides, I hate men with curly hair. He has a few accomplishments. He shoots well and plays on the double flute quite remarkably well for a man who is not a professional; but he is totally uninteresting, and, what is more, impossible. But Helen likes him. Isn’t it extraordinary that she always has liked impossible men? They sit for hours together saying nothing at all. I don’t in the least mind his paying no attention to me—in fact, I am too thankful not to have to talk to him; but I do think it’s bad manners, as I am his hostess.

Helen is certainly looking better this year than she has ever looked; but she still dresses in that affectedly over-simple way, which is a pity. I don’t know how long he is going to stay. I don’t mind his being here, but Helen and he are really most inconsiderate. They use my sitting-room as though it were theirs, and they never seem to think that I may have things to do of my own, and they expect me to go out with them, which ends in their walking on ahead and my being left with Menelaus, whom I am very fond of indeed, but who bores me. He talks of nothing but horses and quoits. It is a great lesson to Queen Hecuba for having brought up her son so badly. Paris was educated entirely by a shepherd, you know, on Mount Ida. The result is his manners are shocking. Helen doesn’t see it. Isn’t it odd? I must say he’s nice with children, and Orestes likes him.

I am your sincere friend,
Clytaemnestra.

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus

Mycenae.

Most honoured Aegisthus,

We are in great trouble. I told you Helen was attracted by Paris. We of course thought nothing of it, because Helen always has flirted with rather vulgar men, and her flirtations were, we thought, the harmless distractions of a woman who has remained, and always will remain, a sentimental girl.

Imagine our surprise and dismay! Paris and Helen have run away together, and they have gone to Troy! Helen left a note behind for Menelaus saying she realized that she had made a mistake, that she hated hypocrisy, and thought it more honest to leave him. She said she would always think of him with affection. Poor Menelaus is distracted, but he is behaving beautifully.

Agamemnon is furious. He is overcome by the disgrace to his family, and he is so cross. We are all very miserable. Agamemnon says that the family honour must be redeemed at all costs, and that they will have to make an expedition against Troy to fetch Helen back. I think this is quite ridiculous. No amount of expeditions and wars can undo what has been done. I am sure you will sympathize with us in our trouble. I must say it is most unfair on my children. I shouldn’t have minded so much if Iphigenia wasn’t grown up.

Electra has got whooping-cough, but she is going on as well as can be expected. I have no patience with Helen. She always was utterly thoughtless.

Your sincere friend,
Clytaemnestra.

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus

Mycenae.

Most honoured Aegisthus,

There is no end of worry and fuss going on. Odysseus, the King of Ithaca, has arrived here with his wife, Penelope. They discuss the prospects of the expedition from morning till night, and I am left alone with Penelope. She has borrowed my only embroidery frame, and is working some slippers for her husband. They are at least two sizes too small. She talks of nothing but her boy, her dog, her dairy, and her garden, and I can’t tell you how weary I am of it. She made me very angry yesterday by saying that I spoilt Orestes, and that I should be sorry for it some day. She is always throwing up her boy Telemachus to me. Whenever Helen is mentioned she puts on a face as much as to say: “Do not defile me.”

Your sincere friend,
Clytaemnestra.

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus

Mycenae.

Most honoured Aegisthus,

My worst fears have been realized. They are going to make an expedition against Troy on a large scale. Odysseus is at the bottom of it. I cannot say how much I dislike him. All the Kings have volunteered to go, but the Fleet will not be ready for two years, so I am in hopes that something may happen in the meantime to prevent it.

Iphigenia is learning to make bandages, and says she will go to the front to look after the wounded. I am, of course, against this, and think it’s absurd, but unfortunately she can make her father do what she likes. My only consolation is that the war cannot possibly last more than a week. The Trojans have no regular army. They are a handful of untrained farmers, and the town cannot stand a siege. It is all too silly. It is too bad of Helen to have caused all this fuss.

Your sincere friend,
Clytaemnestra.

P.S.—No, of course I haven’t written to Helen. She is as good as dead to me.

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus
(Two years later)

Mycenae.

My dear Aegisthus,

We have at last got some news. The Fleet has arrived at Aulis, and they are waiting for a favourable wind to be able to go on. At present they are becalmed. They are all well. Iphigenia writes that she is enjoying herself immensely. She has the decency to add that she misses me. I have not had a good night’s rest since they have started.

Your most sincere friend,
Clytaemnestra.

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus

My dear friend,

Please come here at once. I am in dreadful trouble. From the last letter I received from Agamemnon I understood there was something wrong and that he was hiding something. To-day I got a letter from Calchas, breaking to me in the most brutal manner an appalling tragedy and a savage, horrible, and impious crime! They have sacrificed my darling Iphigenia—to Artemis, of all goddesses! to get a propitious wind for their horrible Fleet! I am heartbroken. I cannot write another word. Please come directly.

Your friend,
Clytaemnestra.

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus
(Two months later)

I see no reason why you should not come back; I have a right to ask whom I like to stay here. Do come as soon as possible; I am very lonely without you. Now that I no longer communicate with Agamemnon in order to get news I have written to Helen and sent the letter by a very clever silk merchant, who is certain to be able to worm his way into Troy. Come as soon as you get this.

C.

P.S.—Agamemnon still writes, but I do not take the slightest notice of his letters. I trust the Trojans will be victorious. They have at any rate determined to make a fight for it. Our generals are certain to quarrel, Achilles and Agamemnon never get on well. And Achilles’ temper is dreadful.

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus
(Three months later)

I can no longer bear these short visits and these long absences. I have arranged for you to stay here permanently.

I wrote to Agamemnon last month a cold and dignified business letter, in which I pointed out that unless some man came here to look after things, everything would go to pieces. I suggested you. I have now got his answer. He agrees, and thinks it an excellent plan.

Odysseus wrote me, I must say, a most amusing letter. He says everything is at sixes and sevens, and that Priam’s eldest son is far the most capable soldier on either side. He expects to win, but says it will be a far longer business than they thought it would be at first. Come as quickly as you can. Best and most beloved.

Your C.

Helen to Clytaemnestra
(Ten years later)

Troy.

Dearest Clytaemnestra,

Your letters are a great comfort to me when I get them, which is very seldom. Everything is going on just the same. It is now the tenth year of the siege, and I see no reason why it should ever end. I am dreadfully afraid the Greeks will never take Troy.

I can give you no idea of how dull everything is here. We do the same thing and see the same people every day. We know exactly what is going on in the Greek camp, and most of the time is spent in discussing the gossip, which bores me to death. You are quite right in what you say about Paris. I made a fatal mistake. It is all Aphrodite’s fault. He has become too dreadful now. He is still very good-looking, but even compared with Menelaus he is pitiable in every way and every bit as cross. Hector is very nice, but painfully dull. The King and the Queen are both very kind, but as for Cassandra, she is intolerable. She is always prophesying dreadful calamities which never come off. She said, for instance, that I would lose my looks and make a long journey in Egypt. As if I would go to Egypt from here! As to my looks, you know, darling, I never was vain, was I? But I can honestly tell you that, if anything, I have rather improved than otherwise, and among the Trojans’ women, who are absolute frights and have no more idea of dressing than sheep, I look magnificent. Andromache has got quite a nice face, and I really like her; but you should see her figure—it’s like an elephant’s, and her feet are enormous, and her hands red and sore from needlework. She won’t even use a thimble! Cassandra always dresses in deep mourning. Why, we cannot conceive, because none of her relatives have been killed.

There is really only one person in the palace I can talk to—and that is Aeneas, who is one of the commanders. He is quite nice. What I specially like about him is the nice way in which he talks about his parents.

The Greeks are quarrelling more than ever. Achilles won’t fight at all because Agamemnon insisted on taking away Briseis (who is lovely) from him. Wasn’t that exactly like Agamemnon? I hope this won’t make you jealous, darling, but I don’t expect it will, because you have never forgiven Agamemnon, have you?

Everybody tries to be kind to me, and I have nothing to complain of. They all mean well, and in a way this makes it worse. For instance, every morning, when we meet for the midday meal, Priam comes into the room saying to me: “Well, how’s the little runaway to-day?” He has made this joke every day for the last ten years. And then they always talk about the cowardice and incompetence of the Greeks, taking for granted that as I have married into a Trojan family I must have become a Trojan myself. It is most tactless of them not to understand what I must be feeling.

I suppose I am inconsistent, but the pro-Greek party irritate me still more. They are headed by Pandarus, and are simply longing for their own side to be beaten, because they say that I ought to have been given up directly, and that the war was brought about entirely owing to Priam having got into the hands of the Egyptian merchants.

I manage to get some Greek stuffs smuggled into the town, and the merchants tell me vaguely what people are wearing at Mycenae; but one can’t get anything properly made here. Andromache has all her clothes made at home by her women—to save expense. She says that in times of war one ought to sacrifice oneself. Of course, I can’t do this, however much I should like to, as the Trojans expect me to look nice, and would be very angry if I wasn’t properly dressed.

I feel if I could only meet Odysseus we might arrange some plan for getting the Greeks into the town.

How is everything going on at home? There is a very strict censorship about letters, and we are all supposed to show our letters to Antenor before they go. I don’t, of course. I daresay, however, many of your letters have been intercepted, because I have only heard from you five times since the siege began, and not once this year. Kiss the dear children from me.

Shall I ever see you again? I shall try my best to come home.

Your loving sister,
Helen.

Clytaemnestra to Helen

Mycenae.

Dearest Helen,

Your last letter has reached me. I must implore you to be very careful about what you do. I hope with all my heart that the siege will be over soon; but if it is I don’t think it would be quite wise for you to come back directly. You see everybody here is extremely unreasonable. Instead of understanding that Agamemnon and Odysseus were entirely responsible for this absurd war, Agamemnon has got his friends to put the blame entirely on you, and they have excited the people against you. It’s so like a man, that, isn’t it? I have been very lonely, because all our friends are away. Aegisthus is staying here just to look after the household and the affairs of the city. But he hardly counts, and he is so busy that I hardly ever see him now. There is a strong pro-Trojan party here, too. They say we had absolutely no right to go to war, and that it was simply an expedition of pirates and freebooters, and I must say it is very difficult to disprove it. If there is any talk of the siege ending, please let me know at once. Electra has grown into a fine girl; but she is not as lovely as poor darling Iphigenia.

Your loving sister,
Clytaemnestra.

Penelope to Odysseus

Ithaca.

My darling Husband,

I wish you would write a little more distinctly; we have the greatest difficulty in reading your letters.

When will this horrid siege be over? I think it is disgraceful of you all to be so long about it. To think that when you started you only said that it would last a month! Mind you come back the moment it is over, and come back straight, by Aulis.

The country is looking lovely. I have built a new house for the swineherd, as he complained about the roof letting the rain in. Next year, we must really have a new paling round the garden, as the children get in and steal the apples. We can’t afford it this year. The people have no sense of honesty; they steal everything. Telemachus is very well. He can read and write nicely, but is most backward about his sums. He takes a great interest in the war, and has made up a map on which he marks the position of the troops with little flags.

I am surprised to hear of Achilles’ disgraceful conduct. If I were there I would give him a piece of my mind. I hope Ajax has not had any more of his attacks. Has he tried cinnamon with fomented myrtle leaves? It ought to be taken three times a day after meals. The news from Mycenae is deplorable. Clytaemnestra appears to be quite shameless and callous. Aegisthus is now openly living in the house. All decent people have ceased to go near them. I have had a few visitors, but nobody of any importance.

I am working you a piece of tapestry for your bedroom. I hope to get it finished by the time you come back. I hope that when the city is taken Helen will be severely punished.

We have taught Argus to growl whenever Hector is mentioned. I don’t, of course, allow any one to mention Helen in this house. Telemachus sends you his loving duty. He is writing to you himself, but the letter isn’t finished.

Your devoted wife,
Penelope.

Helen to Clytaemnestra

Sunium.

Dearest Clytaemnestra,

Since I last wrote to you several important things have happened. Hector was killed yesterday by Achilles. I am, of course, very sorry for them all. All Cassandra said was, “I told you so!” She is so heartless. I have at last managed to communicate with Odysseus; we have thought of a very good plan for letting the Greeks into the city. Please do not repeat this. I shall come home at once with Menelaus. He is my husband, after all. I shall come straight to Mycenae. I doubt if I shall have time to write again. I am sending this through Aenida, who is most useful in getting letters brought and sent.

Please have some patterns for me to choose from. I hope to be back in a month.

Your loving sister,
Helen.

Agamemnon to Clytaemnestra

Sunium.

Dear Clytaemnestra,

We have had a very good journey, and I shall reach Mycenae the day after to-morrow in the morning. Please have a hot bath ready for me. I am bringing Cassandra with me. She had better have the room looking north, as she hates the sun. She is very nervous and upset, and you must be kind to her.

Your loving husband,
Agamemnon.

Odysseus to Penelope

The Island of Ogygia.

Dearest Penelope,

We arrived here after a very tiresome voyage. I will not tire you with the details, which are numerous and technical. The net result is that the local physician says I cannot proceed with my journey until I am thoroughly rested. This spot is pleasant, but the only society I have is that of poor dear Calypso. She means well and is most hospitable, but you can imagine how vexed I am by this delay and the intolerable tedium of this enforced repose. Kiss Telemachus from me.

Your loving husband,
Odysseus.

Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus

I am sending this by runner. Come back directly. I expect Agamemnon any moment. The bonfires are already visible. Please bring a good strong net and a sharp axe with you. I will explain when you arrive. I have quite decided that half measures are out of the question.

C.

WITH THE CARTHAGINIAN FLEET, 216 B.C.

Letter from a Carthaginian Civilian to a Friend in Carthage

On Board the Hamilcar Barca,
Sardinia.

My dear Gisco,

It is now five weeks that we have been in this place, and we shall have to stay here until the “battering practice” is over. We have already got through our “rammers’ test.” I do not think it is a bad place myself, and most of the people seem to prefer it to Thule, where they spent the whole summer, except Mago our physician, who cannot endure either the Romans or the Sardinians, and who is longing to get back to the glittering quays and the broad market-places of Carthage. It is true that the Sardinians are a thievish race, and they seldom, if ever, speak the truth; moreover, they trade on the honesty and the good nature of our people, and our unfamiliarity with their various and uncouth jargons. For instance, a favourite plan of theirs is this: many of them gain their living by the catching of lobsters, which they send by Ostia to Rome to supply the banquets of the rich patricians of that city. One such fisherman came to the captain of our vessel with the following complaint: He professed that for many weeks he had toiled and caught a great number of lobsters; these lobsters, he said, he was keeping against the feasts of the Saturnalia at Rome, in a large wicker basket not far from the shore; and that some of our men having gone ashore in one of our swift and brass-prowed boats, had in the darkness of twilight collided with his wicker basket and caused the escape of many hundreds of live lobsters, for which loss he demanded a compensation amounting to two hundred talents. On consulting the Roman Magistrate of the place we learnt that this fisherman made a similar demand from every ship which visited the bay; moreover, that he had caught but one lobster. So although he reduced his demand to the eighth of one talent, it was refused to him.

Another stratagem of the Sardinian native is to demand money for the poultry destroyed by the sailors of our ship. Every family in the village complained that their poultry had been annihilated by our unprincipled mariners, but little credence was lent to the tale, because at the moment when the complaint was made there was only one hen in the village, a dead one that had just perished of old age.

Life on board this vessel is full of variety and interest to the stranger. Long before sunrise one is wakened by the sound of a brazen trumpet. This is followed by much whistling and a deep, but not unmusical, call from some elder sailor, who exhorts and finally persuades those over whom he is put in authority to rise from their narrow couches and to taste the morning air. They then set about to wash the upper part of the ship, an occupation which is pursued more from a disinterested love of cleaning than from any practical purpose, as by evening the ship is as dirty as it was before it was washed. But the men enjoy this work, and indeed the only people who suffer from it are such men as myself who are on board ship by chance, and who are used to sleeping uninterruptedly until some time after the sun has arisen. Some people have been known to sleep unconcernedly through all this noise, but such men are rare.

An hour or two after this process of washing is accomplished, food is served to the officers and men of the ship. The officers rarely partake of more than one olive in the early morning; such is their endurance and their self-denial. This they wash down with a small glass of red native wine, which is singularly pleasant and exhilarating. As soon as this light repast is over the real business of the day begins.

First of all the men are inspected on deck, and it is carefully noted whether they are in a state of cleanliness and order, and further whether they are sober enough to perform their daily duties. Any man who is found twice running to be in a state of absolute intoxication is drowned, and the ship is thereby disembarrassed of superfluous cargo. The greater part of the forenoon is spent in teaching the young their duties, and in teaching the lads who have lately arrived from Carthage the full duties of a seaman. This task is carried out with patience and persistence by the instructors, who are never known to raise their voice in anger, or to use a harsh word. Indeed the nearest approach to harshness which I observed was when one day I heard one of the elder mariners say to a lad who was slow to perform his duty, “Take care lest I should observe thee to bend.” This is a nautical expression which means, so I am told, “be strenuous in all things.”

At noon the second repast of the day is taken, the food consisting of black bread, herbs, preserved olives, and a small fish which is caught in great quantities in the bay by such as are skilful. When the meal is over the officers retire to a small cabin, where they aid their digestion by playful gambols, such as wrestling and beating each other with their fists, until they are weary. After this they fall into a profound slumber on the benches of the cabin, with the exception of one officer who needs must always remain on deck to observe the weather and the omens, and make note thereof, for the captain of the vessel is inquisitive with regard to such matters.

The younger officers are respectful to their seniors, and address them as “Suffetes”; but this outward form of respect when duty is concerned does not prevent the more youthful of the juniors from expressing the innate exuberance and impertinence which are natural to youth. Moreover, they call each other by familiar names, such as “Sheep,” “Hog,” “Little Hog,” “Little Pig,” “Canary,” “Cat,” “Little Cat.”

Later in the afternoon there is a further inspection on the deck, which takes place to the sound of many trumpets. At sunset, after a still louder blast of the trumpet, the third repast is held. The officers attend this in state, wearing silken togas, jewelled helmets, and golden chains, and during all the meal a hundred slaves make music on silver cymbals, harps, and drums. This they do with great skill, knowing that should they be unskilful in their art, they risk being hurled into the sea. All the officers dine together, with the exception of the Captain, who feeds in a small turret by himself and partakes of especial dainties due to his rank, such as nightingales’ tongues and the livers of peacocks.

At the end of the repast the eldest of the officers fills a golden bowl full of wine and water and drinks to the health of the “Gerusia.” Immediately before he does so the goblet of every officer present is filled with wine and water, but should any one taste of his wine before the Elder of the assembly rises to his feet, he is constrained to empty one after another every goblet at the board and to refill them at his own expense. And this proves a tax both on his moral courage, his physical endurance, and his material resources.

When this ceremony has been accomplished such officers who are skilled in the art make music on the flute or the tom-tom, while others sing plaintive Carthaginian ditties about the dark-eyed lasses they have left behind them. Sometimes others, still more skilful, give a display of dancing. After this has continued for about an hour another deafening blast on the trumpet announces that all must seek their cabins for the night, save those unhappy officers who take it by turn for a space of four hours at a time to observe the features of the landscape, the aspect of the heavens, the position of the stars, and the nature of the omens. According as these omens are favourable, or unfavourable, the nature of the following day’s work is determined.

There are in the ship a particular race of men who are neither soldiers nor sailors; these are called by the Latin name “Legio Classica.” Their duties consist in maintaining discipline amongst the company of the ship and in dealing out retribution when it is necessary; they are well known for the unerring accuracy of their statements, so much so that if any one in the ship makes a statement or relates a tale that bears in it the signs of improbability, he will be ordered to go and tell it to the men of this legion, for it is known that should the statement be untruthful or inaccurate they would be swift to detect it and to laugh the man to scorn.

The monotony of life on board ship, and the rigour of the discipline enforced, are relieved by many pleasant occupations. Thus the officers throw dice on a place of the ship specially appointed for the purpose, which is called the “bridge,” and often in the evening the sailors sing together in soft and tuneful chorus. With regard to the “ramming” and the “battering practice”—both of them most interesting spectacles—I will write to you another time. In the meantime, farewell.

Hanno.

P.S.—The Roman Fleet is expected here to-morrow. It is said they intend to build eight Hamilcar Barcas.

LESBIA ILLA

... Lesbia illa,

Illa Lesbia, quam Catullus unam

Plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes.

Extract from a letter written by Clodia, the wife of Metellus Celer, to her friend Portia in Athens

We arrived at Baiae yesterday evening. I am most thankful the journey is over, because Metellus is a most trying traveller. He started, of course, by making a scene directly he saw my luggage. I had scarcely taken anything, only what was absolutely indispensable, and I got it all into eight boxes; but men never know how much room clothes take up. As it is, I have got nothing to wear at all. But as soon as Metellus saw the litters with my poor luggage in them he lost his temper, and during the whole journey he threw my extravagance at me. Needless to say, he took far more things than I did. Men think because their clothes are cheap and cost nothing, and because a toga lasts them four or five years, we ought to be able to do the same. But it’s no use discussing that with a husband. No husband in the world has ever understood, or ever will understand, how expensive our clothes are.

We found the villa looking very clean and fresh; and it is a great blessing to get away from Rome. I never mean to go back there as long as I live; especially after what has happened. I suppose you have heard all about it, but I want you to know the truth, as everybody in Rome is telling horrible lies about me and giving a wrong complexion to the whole story, especially Lalage, who is a spiteful cat, and is sure to write and tell you all about it.

Well, of course I’ve known Catullus for years. We were almost brought up together. He was always in and out of the house. He used to amuse me; Metellus liked him, and we were both very kind to him. I used to think he was thoroughly nice. He was so sympathetic when my sparrow died, and quite understood what a shock that was, and what a state of despair I was in. By the way, I’ve got a new sparrow now. It’s quite tame. I’ve called it Julius. We used, in fact, to see a great deal of Catullus. We were useful to him, too, because he met a great many clever and important people at our house; and when we first knew him nobody had ever heard of him. It only shows what a mistake it is to be kind to people. After a time he began to give himself airs, and treated the house as if it belonged to him. He complained of the food and the wine. He insisted upon my sending away Balbus, the best slave I have ever had. He made Metellus buy some old Falernian from a cousin of his (that disreputable Rufinus who lost all his money at Capua last year). The fact was, his head was turned. People flattered him (Lalage, of course, told him he was wonderful), and he began really to think he was a real poet, a genius, and I don’t know what, and he became quite insufferable. He began to meddle with my affairs, and to dictate to me about my friends. But it was when I got to know Julius Caesar that the crisis came.

Of course you know as well as I do that nobody could possibly be in love with Julius Caesar. He is quite bald now, and I think—in fact, I always did think—most tiresome. I never could understand what people saw in him. And, oh, what a bore he used to be when he told me about his campaigns, and drew imaginary plans on the table with his finger! But of course I was obliged to be civil to him because of Metellus and my brother Clodius, to whom he has been useful. Directly he began coming to our house—and he came very often, he had to see Metellus on business constantly—Catullus became quite mad. He lost his head, and I had to arrange for them not to meet, which was most annoying and inconvenient, as they both came every day, and sometimes twice a day. I know I ought to have taken steps at once to put an end to all that nonsense. But I was foolishly kind-hearted for a time, and gave way weakly. It was a great mistake.

The crisis came the other day. I had arranged a supper party, really a divine party. Just Pollio, Julius Caesar, Marcus Tullius Cicero, Lavinia, Lalage, and a few others. I didn’t tell Catullus, as I thought he wouldn’t quite do (apart from Julius Caesar being there), as I had invited Bassianus, who is a real professional poet, and writes the most beautiful things about the moonlight, memory, and broken hearts. His verses quite make me cry sometimes. They are far better than Catullus’s, which I confess I can’t read at all. But Metellus says it’s unfair to compare an amateur like Catullus with a real writer like Bassianus.

Somebody told Catullus about the supper, I suspect it was Lalage—she is jealous of me, and Catullus made up to her years ago and then left her. He came to me and made a scene, and said he was coming too. Then he tried to find out who else was coming, and I refused to tell him. He said: “Of course, you have asked Julius Caesar,” and I said: “It’s not your business; I shall ask the people I choose to my own house without consulting you.” Then he said a lot of horribly unfair things about Julius Caesar, and a lot of absurd things about me; only I managed to calm him more or less. All this happened in the afternoon, and he went away really quite repentant and meek. He always was easy to manage if one had time, and I told him Cicero had praised his verses, which soothed him, although it wasn’t true. He never could resist flattery.

The supper began very well. Julius Caesar was, I must say, brilliant. He can be really clever and pleasant sometimes, and he talked to me the whole time, and this made Lalage very angry; she was between Metellus and Bassianus, and she bored them. Then suddenly in the middle of supper, just as I was beginning to feel more or less happy about it all, Catullus walked in, very flushed and excited. I saw at once he had been drinking. He was given a place between Cicero and Lavinia, and opposite me and Julius Caesar; and no sooner had he settled himself on his couch than he began to monopolize the conversation. He talked at the top of his voice. He was rather amusing at first, and Cicero answered him back, and for a time everything went well; but I was dreadfully uneasy, as I felt certain something would happen, and there was a dangerous look in his eye. Besides which he drank off a great bowl of wine and water (with very little water in it), and grew more and more flushed and excited. He didn’t pay any attention to Julius Caesar at all, and talked across to me as though Julius Caesar hadn’t been there. But Julius Caesar didn’t seem to notice that Catullus was being rude, and he turned to me and really was charming. He said, among other things, that the only woman he had ever seen who could compare with me for wearing clothes properly was Cleopatra, but that she was dowdy in comparison with me. He said, too, that I was the only woman he had ever met who had any real grasp of the fiscal question. This made Catullus mad; and he asked Lavinia in a loud whisper, which we all heard, who the gentleman sitting opposite might be who was slightly bald. I was dreadfully uncomfortable, because Julius Caesar can’t bear any allusions to his baldness (it’s so silly, as if it mattered to us), and he turned red in the face.

Then Catullus began to chaff Cicero about his verses, but as Cicero knows him very well it didn’t much matter, he knew he didn’t mean it really. To make a diversion, I proposed that Bassianus should sing us a song. But Catullus broke in and said: “Rather than that I will recite a poem.”

I was very angry, and spoke my mind. I said I thought it was most rash and daring for an amateur to recite before professionals like Cicero and Bassianus. I was really frightened, because Catullus’s verses are either terribly long and serious—I have never been able to listen when he reads them out; in fact, I always used to ask him to read to me when I wanted to add up my bills mentally—or else they are short and quite impossible.

He then turned scarlet, and said something about drawing-room poetasters who wrote stuff fit for women, and, looking at Caesar, he recited a short poem which was dreadful. I didn’t understand it all, but I felt—and I am sure every one else felt—that he meant to be rude. I sent him a small note by a slave, telling him that if he did not know how to behave he had better leave the house. But I looked as if I hadn’t noticed anything, and tried to treat it all as a joke. But every one felt hot and uncomfortable.

I then ignored Catullus altogether, and devoted my whole attention to Julius Caesar. I suppose it was that which really made him lose all his self-control. He entirely forgot himself. He got up and said that, as the company did not like comic verse, he had written a serious poem, which he was quite certain would interest them. He had no wish, he said (and for once in his life he was modest!), to rival such great writers of verse, such masters of music and passion, as were Cicero and Bassianus, but his verse, although it could not rival theirs in art and inspiration, had at least the merit of truth and sincerity. He said (and he almost shouted this) he was a plain man, who expressed in the simplest possible words what were the common experiences of every one, from the Senator to the man in the street. (So vulgar!) He said his verses were about a woman (how could I ever have thought he was a gentleman!) who was far-famed for her beauty, and still better known for her heartlessness. She heightened her wickedness by the supreme coquetry of pretending to be virtuous. She professed virtue and practised vice. (He always was coarse.) He would not name her; he would call her by a name which was colourless, namely, Lesbia. (Of course every one knew he had written verses to me under that name!)

Then, looking me straight in the face, he recited a poem which was quite, quite impossible, with a horrible word in it (at least Lalage said it was horrible). Pollio came to the rescue, and said that Catullus was ill, and dragged him out of the room. And in a way it was true, for he was quite tipsy, and tears were rolling down his cheeks; and I do hate drunken men, but, above all, I hate coarseness.

The next day all Rome knew the poem by heart. And it was a cowardly, blackguard thing to do, and I shall never speak to him again as long as I live, and I shall never, never let him come into my house again. Not being a gentleman he can’t know what one feels about those kind of things. He is thoroughly second-rate and coarse to the core, although he oughtn’t to be. Of course, I really don’t care a bit. Only if Lalage writes and tells you about it, don’t believe a word she says. I hate Catullus. I must stop now.

Your loving
Clodia.

P.S.—Lalage had the impertinence to say that I ought to make allowance for men of genius. As if Catullus was a genius! I asked Cicero (who likes him) if his poetry was really good, and he said that, to be honest, it was a bad imitation of Calvus’s and his own, only that it was very good for an amateur.

P.P.S.—Julius Caesar is coming to stay with us next Saturday, if he can get away. Don’t forget the Persian silk, the palest shade, six and a half yards.

CLEOPATRA AT ROME

Letter from Charmian, at Alexandria, to her friend Chloe, at Baiae, 44 B.C.

It all came so suddenly. I never thought that I should leave Rome without seeing you again and without being able to say farewell. Even now I cannot believe that it is true and that the whole thing is not a dream. I keep on thinking that I shall wake up and find myself once more by the banks of the Tiber, sitting in the shade of the terebinths, listening to the amusing discussions of Atticus, Cicero, and Caesar.

The suddenness with which everything happened was terrible. It all began with the dinner party which Cleopatra had arranged on the eve of the great event which was to happen on the Feast of the Lupercalia, when Caesar was to be offered the Crown. Cleopatra was in the highest spirits. Some months before this Cicero had asked her to get him from Alexandria some manuscripts and some Canopian vases, of which he had need, as such things are rare in your barbarous cities. Cleopatra had promised to do this, and she told him that she had done it. As a matter of fact she had forgotten all about it. He was invited to the dinner, and had sent her a note saying that he would be delighted to come, and reminding her of her promise with regard to the manuscripts and the vases. He had already reminded her two or three times before. As she read the note she was convulsed with laughter, and when I asked her what she would say to Cicero she answered that she would of course tell him what she had already said before, that the vases and the manuscripts were on the way. I asked her if she was going to send for them, and she answered firmly: “No, it is a great mistake to lend books to men of letters. They never give them back, or if they do there are always a lot of thumb marks on them, or notes in the margin, which are worse. I like my books to be clean.”

She took immense pains to dress herself that night for the dinner, according to the very latest Greek fashion, that is to say, in the austerest simplicity. She wore a gray silk robe made absolutely plain, and one wild flower in her fair hair. The curious thing is—which I have noticed since we got back to Alexandria—that here she is considered a real beauty, but we had not been back a week before she realized that what suited Rome does not suit Alexandria. So she has entirely changed her style of dress and of demeanour: She has had her hair dyed a dark bronzed red; she wears gold tissue, golden bracelets and chains, and she goes about fanned by Cupids with huge peacock feathers, and wearing a stiff gold train. Of course in Rome or in Greece this would be thought vulgar, but it is quite right here, and she is so clever that she divined this at once.

Well, to go on with the dinner party. It was not quite a success. Caesar, who had been anxious about politics during the last week, and in a frightfully bad temper, was preoccupied and absent-minded. When Cicero arrived he was very civil and did not mention the Greek vases directly, but we all saw he was thinking of nothing else, and he managed to get the conversation first on to Alexandria, then on to the library, and finally he said: “By the way, I can’t quite remember, but I think you were kind enough once to say that you were going to have a manuscript sent me from the library.”

Cleopatra clapped her hands together and said: “Of course! I think they must have arrived this morning. We had a messenger from Alexandria, but the things have not yet been unpacked, as everybody in the house has been busy. But I will let you know to-morrow morning without fail.”

Cicero kissed her hand and told her she was the divinest and most thoughtful of women.

There were quite a lot of people at dinner, and several came afterwards, among others a man called Mark Antony, who is a well-known gambler, and who is still in the Army. Cleopatra had once or twice asked Caesar to bring him, but Caesar had always said that he was not the kind of man she would like, as he was boisterous, uneducated, and rather common. Caesar was perfectly right about this, because Cleopatra would not look at him. He made several attempts to speak to her, and paid her one or two extravagant but badly-turned compliments, and she said to me afterwards that it was astonishing how tiresome these Roman soldiers were. During dinner she made signs to me as though to point out that Antony was drinking a great deal more than was good for him—which he did do, and his conversation and his jokes were in the worst possible taste. Cleopatra herself was at her very best, so modest, so quiet, so delicately witty, so highly distinguished and refined.

They talked of mathematics and astronomy, and Cleopatra astounded Atticus by her knowledge of these sciences. Mark Antony took no part in this conversation. He was frankly bored. From astronomy the talk went on to music, and from music to dancing. Here Mark Antony brightened up and monopolized the whole conversation by describing a dancer from Asia he had seen two or three days before. The play of the muscles on her arms, he said, was quite unparalleled, and she managed to execute a rippling movement which started from her shoulders and went to the tips of her fingers.

In the middle of dinner Caesar received a note. I guessed at once it was from his wife, whose jealousy lately had been something quite frightening. Caesar read the note and was visibly disturbed and irritated. Cleopatra pretended not to notice the incident. The moment dinner was over Caesar said that he would have to go home for a moment in order to despatch a piece of public business, but that he would be back shortly. He was still living, you know, in the public offices in the Via Sacra. Cleopatra did not make the slightest objection to his going; she only said that she hoped he would be back soon, and that as for herself she would be well occupied talking to Cicero, whom she had not seen for some time.

Caesar was just making ready to go, and the flute-players had been sent for, when Casca (who, I think, is the best-looking young man in Rome) walked up to Cleopatra and occupied the empty seat next to her. Caesar suddenly changed his mind, and said he would not go home after all. This was typical of his behaviour during these days: he had been constantly changing his mind about small matters and never seemed able to come to any decision. Besides this, he was always jealous of any one younger than himself, especially of Casca, who has got such thick hair.

Mark Antony tried to lure Cleopatra into conversation with him, paying her still more fulsome and still more crude compliments than before. And she, with perfect civility but with icy determination, ignored the compliments and took no notice of him.

After the flute-players had ceased we all had our fortunes told by an Asiatic soothsayer. He told Cleopatra and myself that we would be very lucky, but that we should beware of figs and the worms inside them. We laughed a great deal at this, because neither Cleopatra nor myself ever eat raw fruit. He told Mark Antony that he would love and be loved by the most wonderful woman in the world; upon which Mark Antony bent on one knee before Cleopatra and did mock homage. You should have seen her face! He did not feel inclined to do it twice, and there is no doubt that he knew he had made a grotesque exhibition of himself; in fact it was rather painful, and we were all sorry for him.

The soothsayer told Caesar that all would be well with him should he follow the advice of those who loved him most. When the soothsayer said this, Caesar looked at Cleopatra with infinite tenderness, and she smiled at him very sweetly. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. The vanity of men is extraordinary! I thought to myself—How can that conceited old politician think that a woman as young, as clever, and as pretty as Cleopatra could possibly care for him, or feel anything else but disgust at his attentions!

The soothsayer then told Cicero’s fortune. He said that his worst enemy was his tongue, but that if he went through life without offending any of the present company he would have a fortunate and successful career. We laughed a great deal at this, as every one in the room happened to be a great friend of his.

Caesar was not satisfied with what the soothsayer had told him, and asked further details; but the soothsayer said that it was unlucky to tell a person’s fortune twice in one evening, upon which Caesar desisted, since he is intensely superstitious.

The guests went away, leaving Caesar and Cleopatra alone. I was in the next room and could hear what they said through the silken curtain. I listened attentively. Caesar began by calling her the sun of his life, and she complained of headache. Then he turned the conversation on to serious topics, and said he was greatly in need of her advice with regard to the events of the next day. Should he or should he not receive the Crown which was to be offered him by Mark Antony in the Forum?

Cleopatra said that if he did not accept it he would be a fool and a coward, and she for her part would never speak to him again. This seemed to satisfy him, and he went away.

The next morning he did not appear at the villa. We heard the noise of cheering, but we first learnt what had happened from one of the slaves who had been in the crowd. He told us that Caesar had refused the Crown. Cleopatra was frightfully put out and really angry, for she had determined that if Caesar accepted the Crown she would make him divorce Calphurnia, and marry him herself. It was her great ambition to be Queen, though nobody knew of this at the time of course, because ever since she had lived in Rome, Cleopatra had been a model not only of Roman economy but of Greek moderation, and her household books had been a lesson to the strictest of Roman matrons. That is all changed now, and I must say it is rather a relief.

To go on with my story: Caesar himself came to see us before supper. He said that he had refused the Crown for the moment because he did not think the occasion was opportune, but that he firmly intended to accept it on a later occasion. “I am only drawing back,” he said, “in order to take a greater leap.” Cleopatra said sarcastically that no doubt he knew best and that he had been right to climb down. He told her, among other things, that a soothsayer—not the same one we had seen—had told him to beware of the Ides of March, when he intended to go to the Senate, and he asked Cleopatra whether she thought it would be wise for him to go.

She laughed at the superstition and told him that if he paid attention to such trifles people would begin to say that he was an old woman; in fact they were already saying it, and she was beginning to think it was true. This annoyed him so much that he banged the door, and went away in a huff. We expected him, however, to come to us the next day, as these sort of quarrels had often happened before.

But Caesar did not come the next day, and a week passed without our seeing him. I suggested to Cleopatra she had better write, but she was quite obdurate. The days passed, and it was fully three weeks before we had further news of him. That was on the Ides of March, when a slave rushed into the house and told us that Caesar had been murdered, and that we had better escape as soon as possible, since all friends of his were in danger.

Cleopatra showed great presence of mind. She packed her jewels and nothing else; she stained her face with walnut-juice, and put on a coarse peasant’s garment, bidding myself and Iras do likewise; then, taking plenty of money with us, we went out through the back gate, crossed the river, and quite unobserved reached the Gate of Ostia. There we took a litter and started for Ostia, whence we embarked for Alexandria.

We have now been here a week, and Cleopatra, as I have already told you, is completely changed. But the change as far as we are concerned is for the better, for I can give you no idea of the fun we are having. Please come here as soon as you can. Alexandria is far more amusing than either Rome or Athens, and there is no tiresome Caesar to interfere with us. Farewell.

Charmian.

OVID’S BANISHMENT

Letter from Diogenes, a Sculptor, to a friend in Athens

My work, or rather the business which called me to Rome, is now accomplished, and the Caryatids which I was commissioned to make for the Pantheon of Agrippa are now in their place. But in what a place! Alas, they have been set up so high that their whole effect is lost, and the work might just as well be that of any Roman bungler. The Romans are indeed barbarians. They consider that as long as a thing is big and expensive it is beautiful; they take luxury for comfort, notoriety for fame, eccentricity for genius, and riches for wisdom; or rather they deem that wealth is the only thing which counts in the modern world, and here at Rome this is true. Their attempts at art are in the highest degree ludicrous. Yesterday I visited the studio of Ludius, who is renowned in this city for his decorative work. He paints walls and ceilings, and the Emperor has employed him to decorate his villa at Naples.

His work, which is not devoid of a certain talent, is disciplined by no sense of proportion. It would not be tolerated in Greece for a moment owing to an extravagance and an exaggeration which, so far from displaying any originality, merely form the futile mask of a fundamental banality. The man himself wears his hair yards long like a Persian, and favours a pea-green toga. I could not help saying to him that in Greece artists took pains to dress like everybody but to paint like no one.

Last night I supped with Maecenas at his house on the Esquiline. Let me do justice to my host and give praise where praise is due; here are no jarring notes and no foolish display. Maecenas has exquisite taste; his house is not overcrowded with ornaments nor overwhelmed by useless decoration. By a cunning instinct he has realized that art should be the servant of necessity. Everything in his house has a use and a purpose; but where a vase, a bowl, a cup, a chair, or seat is needed, there you will find a beautiful vase, a beautiful bowl, and so forth.

Maecenas himself is bald, genial, and cultivated; he looks older than he is, and dresses with a very slight affectation of coxcombry; his manner is a triumph of the art which conceals art. He talks to you as though you were the one person in the world he had been anxious to see, and as if the topic you were discussing were the preponderating interest of his life. As I entered his hall I found him pacing up and down in eager conversation with Agrippa, the famous admiral; my ears are sharp, and I just caught a fragment of their conversation, which happened to concern the new drains of Rome. Yet as Maecenas approached me he greeted me with effusion, and turning to Agrippa he said: “Ah, here he is,” as if their whole talk had been of me.

We reclined almost immediately. The fare was delicious, and distinguished by the same supreme simplicity and excellence as the architecture and the ornamentation of his dwelling. There were many celebrities present besides Agrippa—Ludius the painter, most grotesquely clothed, several officials and politicians, Cinna, Grosphus, three minor poets, Horatius Flaccus, Propertius and Crassus; Ovidius Naso, the fashionable writer; Vergilius, the poet, and many young men whose names escape me. Naso is by far the most prominent figure in the Roman literary world at present. He is the arbiter of taste, and sets the criterion of what is to be admired or not. Heaven forbid that I should read his verse, but there is no doubt about the flavour of his conversation, which is more interesting than his work.

The literary world despises Vergilius (the only Roman poet at present living worthy of the name!); on the other hand they admire this Crassus, who writes perfectly unintelligible odes about topics barren of interest. He has invented a novel style of writing, which is called symbolism. It consists of doing this: If you are writing about a tree and the tree seems to you to have the shape of an elephant you call it an elephant. Hence a certain chaos is produced in the mind of the reader, which these young men seem to find delectable. If you mention Vergilius to them they say: “If he only knew how to write. His ideas are good, but he has no sense of form, no ear for melody, and no power of expression.”

This, of course, is ridiculous; for although Vergilius is a writer who has no originality, his style is felicitous, delicate, and lofty, and often musical. In fact he writes really well. With regard to the other poets, they are of little or no account. Horatius Flaccus has a happy knack of translation; Propertius writes amiable, sentimental stuff, and Tibullus babbles of pastures; but they are all of them decadent in that they, none of them, have anything to say. And they either display a false simplicity and a false archaism, or else they are slavishly imitative or hopelessly obscure.

At first the conversation turned on naval matters. It was debated at some length whether the Romans needed a fleet at all, and, if they did, whether it should be a small fleet composed of huge triremes or a large fleet of smaller and swifter vessels. Agrippa, who has the great advantage of practical experience in naval warfare, was in favour of the latter type of vessel. But another sailor, a friend of Cinna’s, who was present, and who was also experienced, said that the day of small vessels was over. The conversation then veered to literary matters.

Ovidius—a little man with twinkling eyes, carefully curled hair, and elaborately elegant clothes—he has his linen washed at Athens—excelled himself in affable courtesy and compliment to Crassus, whom he had never met hitherto. He had always been so anxious, he said, to meet the author of odes that were so interesting, although they were to him a little difficult.

“I’m afraid you must be deeply disappointed,” said Crassus, blushing—he is a shy, overgrown youth with an immense tuft of tangled hair and a desperately earnest face.

“No,” said Ovidius, “I am never disappointed in men of letters. I always think they are the most charming people in the world. It is their works which I find so disappointing. Everybody writes too much,” he continued, “and, what is worse still, everybody writes. Even the dear Emperor writes hexameters; they do not always scan, but they are hexameters for all that. It has even been hinted that he has written a tragedy. Of course it doesn’t matter how much verse a young man writes as long as he burns it all, but our dear Master’s hexameters are preserved by the Empress. She told me herself with pride that she often ‘mends’ his verses for him. And they need mending sadly, because so many stitches in them are dropped. But how delightful it is to have a literary Emperor. He was good enough to ask me to read him a little poetry the other day. I did so. I chose the passage from the ‘Iliad’ where Hector says farewell to Andromache. He said it was very fine but a little old-fashioned. I then recited an ode of Sappho’s, perhaps the loveliest of all of them. He seemed to enjoy it, but said that it was not nearly as good as the original, and that he preferred that kind of song when it was set to music. What the ‘original’ might be to which he alluded I did not ask, as I have always held that a monarch’s business is to have a superficial knowledge of everything but a thorough knowledge of nothing. And therefore I say it is an excellent thing, Vergilius, that our dear Emperor is aware that you and Crassus and myself all write verse. But it would be in the highest degree undesirable that he should know so much about the business as to command you to write verses of society, and myself to write a Georgic.

“But, you will say, he is a poet himself, and the Empress mends his verses. It is true she mends his verses, but she also mends his socks, and a sensible monarch no more bothers to write his own verse than he bothers to make his own socks, or else what would be the use of being a monarch? But, again, you will object: if they are written for him, why don’t they scan? The answer is simple. The man who makes them knows his business, and he knows that if they did scan nobody would believe that our dear Master had written them.

“And in having his verse written for him by a professional, and a bad professional—I hope, Horatius, it is not you, by the way—the Emperor displays not only sense but a rare wisdom. For a gentleman should never bother to acquire technical skill. If he loves music let him hire professional flute-players, but do not let him waste his time in practising ineffectual scales; and if he wants poetry let him order of Vergilius an epic, and if he wishes to pose as a literary monarch let him employ our friend Horatius to write him a few verses without sense or scansion—although I am afraid Horatius would find this difficult. You are too correct, Horatius. That is your fault and mine. We write verse so correctly that I sometimes think that in the far distant future, when the barbarians shall have conquered us, we shall be held up as models somewhere in Scythia or Thule by pedagogues to the barbarian children of future generations! Horrible thought! When Rome falls may our language and our literature perish with us. May we be utterly forgotten. My verse at least shall escape the pedagogues, for it is licentious; and yours, Crassus, I fear they will scarcely understand across the centuries. But, O Vergilius, the spirit of your poetry, so noble and so pure, is the very thing to be turned into a bed of Procrustes for little Dacians!”

“You are unfair on the Emperor,” said Vergilius, “he has excellent taste.”

“In poets certainly,” said Ovidius, “but not in poetry.”

The conversation then turned to other topics: the games, the new drains, the theatre of Balbus, the Naumachia, and the debated question whether the Emperor was right in having caused Vedius Pollio’s crystal beakers to be broken because the latter had condemned a slave, who had accidentally dropped one of them, to be thrown into his pond of lampreys and eaten. The sentence would have been carried out had not the Emperor interfered and caused the slave to be released. Horatius said that Vedius Pollio deserved to be eaten by lampreys himself, but Ovidius and Ludius considered the punishment to be out of all proportion to the crime. Agrippa could not understand his minding the goblet being broken, as there were plenty of goblets in the world. Vergilius thought that Pollio’s act was monstrous. Cinna said that the slave was his own. Maecenas considered that although it was a reprehensible act (and such deeds created dangerous precedents) nobody but a collector knew how terribly severe the punishment was.

We sat talking till late in the night. I cannot write any more, but I have just heard a piece of startling news. Ovidius Naso has been banished for life to some barbarous spot near Tauris. The reason of his disgrace is unknown. Hail!

THE CAPREAE REGATTA, A.D. 27

Letter from Sabina to Chloe

Capreae, August.

We arrived late the night before last from Rome, and never have I seen Capreae so crowded. There are hundreds of yachts here, and many from Egypt, Greece, and Asia, and the whole fleet has arrived, and is drawn up ready for inspection. Clothes are, of course, a difficulty, because one is expected to be elegant, and if one wears anything beautiful it is certain to be spoilt when one gets in and out of boats. Clodia looks too absurd in Egyptian silks and gold chains, just as if she were going to the Games, and Lesbia looks sillier still dressed up as a Greek sailor boy. I have tried to steer a middle course between the two extremes, and I have got a plain white peplum with brown sandals; this all looks cool and summer-like, but it is really substantial enough for the fickle, breezy weather.

Yesterday we went with Sejanus to be shown over one of the ships, the Servius Tullius. It was one of the new kind, with three decks and four of what they call turrets. The officers on board were very proud of themselves because in their “battering practice,” which they had just been doing in some outlandish place, they had successfully destroyed the boom (which is a kind of mast sticking out from the ship) of the dummy ship on which they practise. Julius says that these experiments are a waste of money, because each of these dummy ships costs I don’t know how much money. But then Julius is a Little Roman, and I always tell him that if everybody thought as he did, we should have the barbarians in Rome in no time.

The officers have such a hard life on board. They have to get up before sunrise, and if any of them is at all disobedient he is told to climb up the mast and sit in a kind of basket for several hours with nothing to do. As for the sailors, they live in a dark hole with scarcely any light in it and no air at all. I asked one of them whether this didn’t give them a headache, and he said that some clever mathematician had invented a kind of fan which buzzed round and round so as to ventilate their cabin. He said this was a horrible invention, and made such a draught that nobody could sleep. If you live at sea, he told me, you want to be warm in your cabin. You have quite enough fresh air on deck. Julius said this showed how perverse and conservative sailors are. If he was the captain of a ship he would make the sailors sleep on deck in hammocks without any blankets. The sailor said they were all thankful Julius was a politician and not a sailor. And Julius, who has no sense of humour, thought it was meant as a compliment.

There have been heaps of visitors on board all the ships. The captain of the Servius Tullius said it was wonderful what an interest people took in the fleet now, and what intelligent questions they asked, especially the women. I was rather flattered by this, as I have always taken an intelligent interest in naval things, and I had only just said to him (to show I wasn’t ignorant) that my favourite boat was a spinnaker.

To-morrow there are going to be some races. I am going to try to get Lucius Aemilius to take me on board his schooner, the Hirundo. I always think a schooner is a safer boat than a cutter. I don’t really like racing, because nobody will talk to one, and the men are all so rude and absent-minded while the race is going on, and whatever one does one is always in the way and in the wrong place, but I shall get rid of Julius for a whole day, because he is a very bad sailor and nothing would drag him on board a racing yacht.

Capreae is terribly crowded. I was invited upon Sejanus’ yacht, but I think it much more comfortable to live in the most uncomfortable villa than in the most comfortable yacht. There is no privacy in a yacht, and salt water ruins my skin. Our villa, which we have hired for the week, is quite clean, only there is only one bath in it, so that we all have to use it by turn.

Vitellius, the admiral, has put one of the little pinnaces belonging to his ship, the Remus, at our disposal. So we can go backwards and forwards whenever we like. The pinnace is managed by one of the quite young officers—such a nice little boy, and so willing! He doesn’t mind how long I keep him waiting at the pier. It seems extraordinary that such young boys should be able to manage a whole boat full of men, doesn’t it? Ours looks about fifteen years old, but I suppose he is really much older. I asked him to come and dine with us, and Julius was cross about it, and said I was making myself ridiculous by talking to children. But I promise you this boy has much more assurance than many grown-up men. In fact, once or twice I have had to speak severely to him because he was on the point of going too far. As it was, I treated it all as a joke, and told him I was old enough to be his mother.

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.