Quo Vadis: A Narrative of the Time of Nero
“Do not believe them,” said Petronius, attacking him, and pointing to
those present; “they understand nothing. Thou hast asked what defect
there is in thy verses. If thou desire truth, I will tell thee. Thy
verses would be worthy of Virgil, of Ovid, even of Homer, but they are
not worthy of thee. Thou art not free to write such. The conflagration
described by thee does not blaze enough; thy fire is not hot enough.
Listen not to Lucan’s flatteries. Had he written those verses, I should
acknowledge him a genius, but thy case is different. And knowest thou
why? Thou art greater than they. From him who is gifted of the gods as
thou art, more is demanded. But thou art slothful,--thou wouldst rather
sleep after dinner than sit to wrinkles. Thou canst create a work such
as the world has not heard of to this day; hence I tell thee to thy
eyes, write better!”
And he said this carelessly, as if bantering and also chiding; but
Cæsar’s eyes were mist-covered from delight.
“The gods have given me a little talent,” said he, “but they have given
me something greater, a true judge and friend, the only man able to
speak the truth to my eyes.”
Then he stretched his fat hand, grown over with reddish hair, to a
golden candelabrum plundered from Delphi, to burn the verses. But
Petronius seized them before the flame touched the paper.
“No, no!” said he; “even thus they belong to mankind. Leave them to me.”
“In such case let me send them to thee in a cylinder of my own
invention,” answered Nero, embracing Petronius.
“True; thou art right,” said he, after a while. “My conflagration of
Troy does not blaze enough; my fire is not hot enough. But I thought
it sufficient to equal Homer. A certain timidity and low estimate of my
power have fettered me always. Thou hast opened my eyes. But knowest
why it is, as thou sayest? When a sculptor makes the statue of a god, he
seeks a model; but never have I had a model. I never have seen a burning
city; hence there is a lack of truth in my description.”
“Then I will say that only a great artist understands this.”
Nero grew thoughtful, and after a while he said,--“Answer one question,
Petronius. Dost thou regret the burning of Troy?”
“Do I regret? By the lame consort of Venus, not in the least! And I will
tell thee the reason. Troy would not have been consumed if Prometheus
had not given fire to man, and the Greeks made war on Priam. Æschylus
would not have written his Prometheus had there been no fire, just as
Homer would not have written the Iliad had there been no Trojan war. I
think it better to have Prometheus and the Iliad than a small and shabby
city, which was unclean, I think, and wretched, and in which at best
there would be now some procurator annoying thee through quarrels with
the local areopagus.”
“That is what we call speaking with sound reason,” said Nero. “For art
and poetry it is permitted, and it is right, to sacrifice everything.
Happy were the Achæans who furnished Homer with the substance of the
Iliad, and happy Priam who beheld the ruin of his birthplace. As to me,
I have never seen a burning city.”
A time of silence followed, which was broken at last by Tigellinus.
“But I have said to thee, Cæsar, already, command and I will burn
Antium; or dost thou know what? If thou art sorry for these villas and
palaces, give command to burn the ships in Ostia; or I will build a
wooden city on the Alban Hills, into which thou shalt hurl the fire
thyself. Dost thou wish?”
“Am I to gaze on the burning of wooden sheds?” asked Nero, casting a
look of contempt on him. “Thy mind has grown utterly barren, Tigellinus.
And I see, besides, that thou dost set no great value on my talent or
my Troyad, since thou judgest that any sacrifice would be too great for
it.”
Tigellinus was confused; but Nero, as if wishing to change the
conversation, added after a while,--
“Summer is passing. Oh, what a stench there must be in that Rome now!
And still we must return for the summer games.”
“When thou dismissest the Augustians, O Cæsar, permit me to remain with
thee a moment,” said Tigellinus.
An hour later Vinicius, returning with Petronius from Cæsar’s villa,
said,--“I was a trifle alarmed for thee. I judged that while drunk thou
hadst ruined thyself beyond redemption. Remember that thou art playing
with death.”
“That is my arena,” answered Petronius, carelessly; “and the feeling
that I am the best gladiator in it amuses me. See how it ended. My
influence has increased this evening. He will send me his verses in a
cylinder which--dost wish to lay a wager?--will be immensely rich and in
immensely bad taste. I shall command my physician to keep physic in
it. I did this for another reason,--because Tigellinus, seeing how such
things succeed, will wish surely to imitate me, and I imagine what will
happen. The moment he starts a witticism, it will be as if a bear of the
Pyrenees were rope-walking. I shall laugh like Democritus. If I wished
I could destroy Tigellinus perhaps, and become pretorian prefect in his
place, and have Ahenobarbus himself in my hands. But I am indolent; I
prefer my present life and even Cæsar’s verses to trouble.”
“What dexterity to be able to turn even blame into flattery! But are
those verses really so bad? I am no judge in those matters.”
“The verses are not worse than others. Lucan has more talent in one
finger, but in Bronzebeard too there is something. He has, above all, an
immense love for poetry and music. In two days we are to be with him to
hear the music of his hymn to Aphrodite, which he will finish to-day
or to-morrow. We shall be in a small circle,--only I, thou, Tullius
Senecio, and young Nerva. But as to what I said touching Nero’s verses,
that I use them after feasting as Vitelius does flamingo feathers, is
not true. At times they are eloquent. Hecuba’s words are touching.
She complains of the pangs of birth, and Nero was able to find happy
expressions,--for this reason, perhaps, that he gives birth to every
verse in torment. At times I am sorry for him. By Pollux, what a
marvellous mixture! The fifth stave was lacking in Caligula, but still
he never did such strange things.”
“Who can foresee to what the madness of Ahenobarbus will go?” asked
Vinicius.
“No man whatever. Such things may happen yet that the hair will stand
on men’s heads for whole centuries at thought of them. But it is that
precisely which interests me; and though I am bored more than once, like
Jupiter Ammon in the desert, I believe that under another Cæsar I should
be bored a hundred times more. Paul, thy little Jew, is eloquent,--that
I accord to him; and if people like him proclaim that religion, our gods
must defend themselves seriously, lest in time they be led away captive.
It is true that if Cæsar, for example, were a Christian, all would feel
safer. But thy prophet of Tarsus, in applying proofs to me, did not
think, seest thou, that for me this uncertainty becomes the charm of
life. Whoso does not play at dice will not lose property, but still
people play at dice. There is in that a certain delight and destruction
of the present. I have known sons of knights and senators to become
gladiators of their own will. I play with life, thou sayest, and that
is true, but I play because it pleases me; while Christian virtues
would bore me in a day, as do the discourses of Seneca. Because of this,
Paul’s eloquence is exerted in vain. He should understand that people
like me will never accept his religion. With thy disposition thou
mightst either hate the name Christian, or become a Christian
immediately. I recognize, while yawning, the truth of what they say. We
are mad. We are hastening to the precipice, something unknown is coming
toward us out of the future, something is breaking beneath us, something
is dying around us,--agreed! But we shall succeed in dying; meanwhile
we have no wish to burden life, and serve death before it takes us. Life
exists for itself alone, not for death.”
“But I pity thee, Petronius.”
“Do not pity me more than I pity myself. Formerly thou wert glad among
us; while campaigning in Armenia, thou wert longing for Rome.”
“And now I am longing for Rome.”
“True; for thou art in love with a Christian vestal, who sits in the
Trans-Tiber. I neither wonder at this, nor do I blame thee. I wonder
more, that in spite of a religion described by thee as a sea of
happiness, and in spite of a love which is soon to be crowned, sadness
has not left thy face. Pomponia Græcina is eternally pensive; from the
time of thy becoming a Christian thou hast ceased to laugh. Do not try
to persuade me that this religion is cheerful. Thou hast returned from
Rome sadder than ever. If Christians love in this way, by the bright
curls of Bacchus! I shall not imitate them!”
“That is another thing,” answered Vinicius. “I swear to thee, not by the
curls of Bachus, but by the soul of my father, that never in times
past have I experienced even a foretaste of such happiness as I breathe
to-day. But I yearn greatly; and what is stranger, when I am far from
Lygia, I think that danger is threatening her. I know not what danger,
nor whence it may come; but I feel it, as one feels a coming tempest.”
“In two days I will try to obtain for thee permission to leave Antium,
for as long a time as may please thee. Poppæa is somewhat more quiet;
and, as far as I know, no danger from her threatens thee or Lygia.”
“This very day she asked me what I was doing in Rome, though my
departure was secret.”
“Perhaps she gave command to set spies on thee. Now, however, even she
must count with me.”
“Paul told me,” said Vinicius, “that God forewarns sometimes, but does
not permit us to believe in omens; hence I guard myself against this
belief, but I cannot ward it off. I will tell thee what happened, so as
to cast the weight from my heart. Lygia and I were sitting side by side
on a night as calm as this, and planning our future. I cannot tell thee
how happy and calm we were. All at once lions began to roar. That is
common in Rome, but since then I have no rest. It seems to me that
in that roaring there was a threat, an announcement as it were of
misfortune. Thou knowest that I am not frightened easily; that night,
however, something happened which filled all the darkness with terror.
It came so strangely and unexpectedly that I have those sounds in my
ears yet, and unbroken fear in my heart, as if Lygia were asking my
protection from something dreadful,--even from those same lions. I am in
torture. Obtain for me permission to leave Antium, or I shall go without
it. I cannot remain. I repeat to thee, I cannot!”
“Sons of consuls or their wives are not given to lions yet in the
arenas,” said Petronius, laughing. “Any other death may meet thee but
that. Who knows, besides, that they were lions? German bisons roar with
no less gentleness than lions. As to me, I ridicule omens and fates.
Last night was warm and I saw stars falling like rain. Many a man has
an evil foreboding at such a sight; but I thought, ‘If among these is my
star too, I shall not lack society at least!’” Then he was silent, but
added after a moment’s thought,--“If your Christ has risen from the
dead, He may perhaps protect you both from death.”
“He may,” answered Vinicius, looking at the heavens filled with stars.
Chapter XLI
NERO played and sang, in honor of the “Lady of Cyprus,” a hymn the
verses and music of which were composed by himself. That day he was in
voice, and felt that his music really captivated those present. That
feeling added such power to the sounds produced and roused his own
soul so much that he seemed inspired. At last he grew pale from genuine
emotion. This was surely the first time that he had no desire to hear